Nor is there the slightest foundation for the supposed editorial prejudice against new or obscure contributors.  On the contrary, every editor is always hungering and thirsting after novelties.  To take the lead in bringing forward a new genius is as fascinating a privilege as that of the physician who boasted to Sir Henry Halford of having been the first man to discover the Asiatic cholera and to communicate it to the public.  It is only stern necessity which compels the magazine to fall back so constantly on the regular old staff of contributors, whose average product has been gauged already; just as every country-lyceum attempts annually to arrange an entirely new list of lecturers, and ends with no bolder experiment than to substitute Chapin and Beecher in place of last year’s Beecher and Chapin.

Of course no editor is infallible, and the best magazine contains an occasional poor article.  Do not blame the unfortunate conductor.  He knows it as well as you do,—­after the deed is done.  The newspapers kindly pass it over, still preparing their accustomed opiate of sweet praises, so much for each contributor, so much for the magazine collectively,—­like a hostess with her tea-making, a spoonful for each person and one for the pot.  But I can tell you that there is an official person who meditates and groans, meanwhile, in the night-watches, to think that in some atrocious moment of good-nature or sleepiness he left the door open and let that ungainly intruder in.  Do you expect him to acknowledge the blunder, when you tax him with it?  Never,—­he feels it too keenly.  He rather stands up stoutly for the surpassing merits of the misshapen thing, as a mother for her deformed child; and as the mother is nevertheless inwardly imploring that there may never be such another born to her, so be sure that it is not by reminding the editor of this calamity that you can allure him into risking a repetition of it.

An editor thus shows himself to be but human; and it is well enough to remember this fact, when you approach him.  He is not a gloomy despot, no Nemesis or Rhadamanthus, but a bland and virtuous man, exceedingly anxious to secure plenty of good subscribers and contributors, and very ready to perform any acts of kindness not inconsistent with this grand design.  Draw near him, therefore, with soft approaches and mild persuasions.  Do not treat him like an enemy, and insist on reading your whole manuscript aloud to him, with appropriate gestures.  His time has some value, if yours has not; and he has therefore educated his eye till it has become microscopic, like a naturalist’s, and can classify nine out of ten specimens by one glance at a scale or a feather.  Fancy an ambitious echinoderm claiming a private interview with Agassiz, to demonstrate by verbal arguments that he is a mollusk!  Besides, do you expect to administer the thing orally to each of the two hundred thousand, more or less, who turn the leaves of the “Atlantic”?  You are writing for the average eye, and must submit to its verdict.  “Do not trouble yourself about the light on your statue; it is the light of the public square which must test its value.”