2. II.
EDITING.
Before you go for an Editor, young man,
pause and take a big think! Do not rush
into the Editorial harness rashly. Look
around and see if there is not an omnibus
to drive—some soil somewhere to be tilled
—a clerkship on some meat cart to be filled—anything
that is reputable and healthy,
rather than going for an Editor, which is
hard business at best.
We are not a horse, and consequently
have never been called upon to furnish the
motive power for a threshing machine; but
we fancy that the life of the Editor, who is
forced to write, write, write, whether he feels
right or not, is much like that of the steed
in question. If the yeas and neighs could
be obtained we believe the intelligent horse
would decide that the threshing machine is
preferable to the sanctum Editorial.
The Editor's work is never done. He is
drained incessantly, and no wonder that he
dries up prematurely. Other people can
attend banquets, weddings, etc.; visit halls
of dazzling light, get inebriated, break
windows, lick a man occasionally, and enjoy
themselves in a variety of ways; but the
Editor cannot. He must stick tenaciously
to his quill. The press, like a sick baby,
mustn't be left alone for a minute. If the
press is left to run itself even for a day,
some absurd person indignantly orders the
carrier-boy to stop bringing “that infernal
paper. There's nothing in it. I won't
have it in the house!”
The elegant Mantalini, reduced to man-gleturning,
described his life as “a dem'd
horrid grind.” The life of the Editor is
all of that.
But there is a good time coming, we feel
confident, for the Editor. A time when
he will be appreciated. When he will
have a front seat. When he will have pie
every day, and wear store clothes continually.
When the harsh cry of “stop my
paper” will no more grate upon his ears.
Courage, Messieurs the Editors! Still,
sanguine as we are of the coming of this
jolly time, we advise the aspirant for Editorial
honors to pause ere he takes up the
quill as a means of obtaining his bread and
butter. Do not, at least, do so until you
have been jilted several dozen times by
a like number of girls; until you have been
knocked down stairs and soused in a horsepond;
until all the “gushing” feelings
within you have been thoroughly subdued;
until, in short, your hide is of rhinoceros
thickness. Then, O aspirants for the
bubble reputation at the press's mouth,
throw yourselves among the inkpots, dust,
and cobwebs of the printing office, if you
will.
* * * Good my lord, will you see the
Editors well bestowed? Do you hear, let
them be well used, for they are the abstract
and brief chronicles of the time. After
your death you had better have a bad epitaph
than their ill report while you live.
Hamlet, slightly altered.
