Nebraska advertiser. [volume] (Brownville, Nemaha County, N.T. [Neb.]) 1856-1882, 1859-06-02
Miscellaneous.
The EdifOr.

/
It would require master hand to
sketch, with fidelity, that poor, abused
class, known as editors. As a contempo-
rary truly remarks, he may be the grespon-
sible," the 'foreign," the ''literary," the
"local," the commercial lin either de-
partment he is the subject of laudMion,
abuse, trials and triumphs. He must have
ready pen, remarkable versatility of
knowledge, correct judgments and con-
siderable nerve. If you intrude upon him,
you will find him writing, reading, scis.
soring. He viii talk, but his pen does
not stop; he spatters the ink !; he fumbles
over books he hunts among newspapers;
be grows savage in "leader,'' or he is
learned in review" Politicians want
to buy him; needy artists ask his favor
able notice; inventors have models to
show him; some want to thank him-others
desire to shoot him. He is addressed upon
more subjects than it was ever intended
single mind should comprehend and,
while his journal is called by some sin
fuential," valuable etc., there are
those who bluntly pronounce it "scurri-
lous, and "poor." Swimming upon foods
of excitement, battling, cha6ng, arguing,
consenting, exalting friends and crushing
foes, thinking, working, is the sum and
substance of an EDITORS career. At home,
he writes with his wife at his elbow, and
his child on his knee in the streets, be
weaves out those ideas which, in a few
hours, will startle the men who now iostle
and crowd him; in his sanctum, he makes
ready thunderbolts, moulded with pen,
but more powerful than any ever hurled
from Jove. He delivers lectures; he is
politician; heholds office he is travel
er; he gives verdict upon manuscripts
which are more precious than the apple
of their eye to aspiring authors: he helps
on the opera, he holsters the drama he
pleads for the poor, he snubs the rich he
conciliates, he defines; he arouses nations,
he dethrones kings; he is the guardian Of
liberty, and omnipotent.
Up IN garrets in out of-the-way places
sometimes furnished like parlor, some
times worse than penis his sane
tun1 SanctorGns, the "holy of holies." Are
you partial to frowns? Do you wish to
hear a growl? Disregard the notices of
Editors Room" Private" "No Ad-
mittance, :" and enter the den; you observe
the contracting brow; you do not know
whether you are saluted or insulted; your
tongue proposes to speak, and your legs
incline you to run away head lifts it
self; worn pen and linked fingers point
you seat, which it takes you an instant
to reach, but, ere you have done so, the
monster has his clutches SO deeply in an
idea, that he has forgotten your existence.
There you sit; you try to count the pyra-
mids of newspapers, and wonder if, to be
an editor, is necessary to be a savage
You see books and maps but you would
as soon meddle with the cub Of bear as
anything in which the wild animal before
you has an interest. Delegations of devils,
from the printing Office, come for copy,
and great many things going on which
are strange to you. Other gentry come
in, who glance contemptuouslya at yourself.
They seat themselves, and you hear
nothing but scratch, scratch. with gold
pens, steel pens and goose quills; they
pull at their whiskers; they clear their
throats; they look upat the ceiling; they
help each other when their ideas run a.
ground; they write and rewrite; they ex-
punge and amend; they become cheerful,
if their productions please them and crusty,
if they donot. Now, remember that this
mental toll must go on by day and by night,
when the head is dizzy with sickness, and
the heart weary with sadness, that it en-
! tails study, research, and thought; that
the themes are suggested, and must be
discussed within the hour and you will
understand why you are not wanted in an
editor s sanctum. Presently, however, he
will talk to you; he will cut short your
long speeches; he will bring you directly
to your business; he will dispatch it; and
you will at once discover that necessity, if
not inclination, urges him to resume his
pen. In summer, when the flowers are so
tempting, at midnight, with the glare Of
artificial light pouring upon him, there he
is-a toiling slave. He writes of your
pleasures adds to your Joys. Do you
ever think of his exhausted brain, his
fading life, his premature death! Lit
erature was, perhaps, passion of his
boyhood, and he has pursued the wicked
phantom from year to year, finding, in
the qualification of a refined taste, some
small reward for his painful infatuation-