 | The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe |  |
THE EDITOR'S SANCTUM.
Scene,—a third story in a dismal court,
Where weary printers just at eight resort;
A dingy door that with a rattle shuts;
Heaps of “exchanges,” much adorned with “cuts;”
Pens, paste, and paper on the table strewed;
Books, to be read when they have been reviewed;
Pamphlets and tracts so very dull indeed
That only they who wrote them e'er will read;
Nine letters, touching themes of every sort,
And one with money,—just a shilling short,—
Lie scattered round upon a common level.
Persons,—the Editor; Enter, now, the Devil:—
“Please, Sir, since this 'ere article was wrote,
There's later news perhaps you'd like to quote:
The Rebels storming with prodigious force,
‘Sumter has fallen!’” “Set it up, of course.”
“And, Sir, that murder's done—there's only left
One larceny.” “Pray don't omit the theft.”
“And, Sir, about the mob—the matter's fat”—
“The mob?—that's wrong—pray just distribute that.”
Exit the imp of Faust, and enter now
A fierce subscriber with a scowling brow,
“Sir, curse your paper!—send the thing to”—Well,
The place he names were impolite to tell;
Enough to know the hero of the Press
Cries: “Thomas, change the gentleman's address!
We'll send the paper, if the post will let it,
Where the subscriber will be sure to get it!”
Where weary printers just at eight resort;
A dingy door that with a rattle shuts;
Heaps of “exchanges,” much adorned with “cuts;”
Pens, paste, and paper on the table strewed;
Books, to be read when they have been reviewed;
Pamphlets and tracts so very dull indeed
That only they who wrote them e'er will read;
Nine letters, touching themes of every sort,
And one with money,—just a shilling short,—
Lie scattered round upon a common level.
Persons,—the Editor; Enter, now, the Devil:—
“Please, Sir, since this 'ere article was wrote,
There's later news perhaps you'd like to quote:
The Rebels storming with prodigious force,
‘Sumter has fallen!’” “Set it up, of course.”
“And, Sir, that murder's done—there's only left
One larceny.” “Pray don't omit the theft.”
“And, Sir, about the mob—the matter's fat”—
“The mob?—that's wrong—pray just distribute that.”
Exit the imp of Faust, and enter now
A fierce subscriber with a scowling brow,
“Sir, curse your paper!—send the thing to”—Well,
The place he names were impolite to tell;
Enough to know the hero of the Press
Cries: “Thomas, change the gentleman's address!
We'll send the paper, if the post will let it,
Where the subscriber will be sure to get it!”
Who would not be an editor?—To write
The magic “we” of such enormous might;
To be so great beyond the common span
It takes the plural to express the man;
And yet, alas, it happens oftentimes
A unit serves to number all his dimes!
But don't despise him; there may chance to be
An earthquake lurking in his simple “we”!
In the close precints of a dusty room
That owes few losses to the lazy broom,
There sits the man; you do not know his name,
Brown, Jones, or Johnson,—it is all the same,—
Scribbling away at what perchance may seem
An idler's musing, or a dreamer's dream;
His pen runs rambling, like a straying steed;
The “we” he writes seems very “wee” indeed;
But mark the change; behold the wondrous power
Wrought by the Press in one eventful hour;
To-night, 't is harmless as a maiden's rhymes;
To-morrow, thunder in the “London Times!”
The ministry dissolves that held for years;
Her Grace, the Duchess, is dissolved in tears;
The Rothschilds quail; the church, the army, quakes;
The very kingdom to its centre shakes;
The Corn Laws fall; the price of bread comes down,—
Thanks to the “we” of Johnson, Jones, or Brown!
The magic “we” of such enormous might;
To be so great beyond the common span
It takes the plural to express the man;
And yet, alas, it happens oftentimes
A unit serves to number all his dimes!
But don't despise him; there may chance to be
An earthquake lurking in his simple “we”!
In the close precints of a dusty room
That owes few losses to the lazy broom,
There sits the man; you do not know his name,
Brown, Jones, or Johnson,—it is all the same,—
Scribbling away at what perchance may seem
An idler's musing, or a dreamer's dream;
220
The “we” he writes seems very “wee” indeed;
But mark the change; behold the wondrous power
Wrought by the Press in one eventful hour;
To-night, 't is harmless as a maiden's rhymes;
To-morrow, thunder in the “London Times!”
The ministry dissolves that held for years;
Her Grace, the Duchess, is dissolved in tears;
The Rothschilds quail; the church, the army, quakes;
The very kingdom to its centre shakes;
The Corn Laws fall; the price of bread comes down,—
Thanks to the “we” of Johnson, Jones, or Brown!
| The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe | |