called so many hard names that my publishers could not print it fast enough
to meet the demands of the curious. Besides, what would we do without the
newspaper? With, the iron rake of the telegraph it draws the whole world to
our door every morning. The sermon that the minister preached to five
hundred people on Sabbath the newspaper next day preaches to fifty
thousand. It takes the verses which the poet chimed in his small room of
ten feet by six, and rings them into the ears of the continent. The
cylinder of the printing-press is to be one of the wheels of the Lord's
chariot. The good newspapers will overcome the bad ones, and the
honey-bees will outnumber the hornets. Instead of the three or four
religious newspapers that once lived on gruel and pap, sitting down once a
week on some good man's door-step to rest, thankful if not kicked off, now
many of the denominations have stalwart journals that swing their scythe
through the sins of the world, and are avant couriers of the Lord's
coming."

As Dr. Butterfield concluded this sentence his face shone like a harvest
moon. We had all dropped our knives, and were looking at him. The Young
Hyson tea was having its mollifying effect on the whole company. Mr.
Givemfits had made way with his fourth cup (they were small cups, the set
we use for company), and he was entirely soothed and moderated in his
opinions about everything, and actually clapped his hands at Dr.
Butterfield's peroration. Even Miss Stinger was in a glow, for she had
drank large quantities of the fragrant beverage while piping hot, and in
her delight she took Givemfits' arm, and asked him if he ever meant to get
married. Miss Smiley smiled. Then Dr. Butterfield lifted his cup, and
proposed a toast which we all drank standing: "The mission of the
printing-press! The salubrity of the climate! The prospects ahead! The
wonders of Oolong and Young Hyson!"