Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1874-05-30
NO. 100.
THE TRIALS OF AN EDITOR.

The Danbury News thus discourses
The sensations of an editor on glancing
over his paper and detecting errors in it
are somewhat different from those expert
enced by the reader on making like dis
coveries. The latter is either amused at
the blunder or incensed at the carelessness
which caused it, and in both arrives at the
conclusion that the trouble is avoidable
and that the editor is to blame for not
avoiding it. He never saw an editor take
his first glance over copy Of the first
edition. Perhaps the edition is worked
off when this opportunity is afforded the
weary man. He has either trusted the
proofs to some one else or read them him
self, but the feeling of dread is just as
great in the latter as in the former case.
The proof-readers may not consult the
copy and so perpetuate the blunders OF
the compositor, and perhaps the compost
tor may neglect to undo the wrong he has
done, although his attention is plainly
called to it on the proof
When about to take this preparatory
survey the editor does not take cigar in
his mouth and elevate his heels to the
desk, as is the popular tradition. Dying
men don't do that way, you know, and we
have come to the conclusion that an editor
examining his paper feels very much like
Il man about to pass into eternity. He
reads along carefully and slowly like
man feeling his way across a piece of
doubtful ice. Suddenly his face becomes
distorted with an awful pain. He doesn't
cry out, he doesn't rant. The anguish
within him is so broad and deep, and
intense, that he dares not trust it to
words. He Just reaches up and takes a
handful of his own hair, and tugs at it
until the tears come in his eyes. Then he
picks up the paper he has taken the pre-
caution to kick across the room on dis
covering the error, and resumes the tor
turing search for errors and agony. and
not an agreeable and instructive persual.
Suddenly he groans-not like an expect
ant groan from one who hopes for help to
reach him through it, but the groan of one
who is beyond the reachl lof hope, who feels
that the warm sunshine, the kind glance
of friendship, the beautiful song of birds
are gone forever and forever. 1t is u
smothered groan, accompanied by kick
out of the leg, as if the party had in that
moment taken an eternal leave of all
things earthly.
There is still another search with ach-
ing eyes and throbbing brain, and then
the paper is smashed down on the floor,
and the infuriated man bounds up from
his chair, and catches both hands into his
hair. and dances round like mad man.
He dosn't call heaven and earth to wit
ness what he is going to do, and to blight
him ifi he should not do it, He doesn't
dash into the composing-room and scorch
the men with his wrath. Even this slight
relief is denied him. The paper is worked
off, and the scrutiny that would cheerfully
attract needle in haystack, would fall
paralyzed before search for the author
Of the great wrong. He dosn't say any
thing at all-not single ineligible word
escapes his lips as he holds his hair, and
prances about in the ring of solitude Of
his room And when he is done. he sits
down and groans, and afterward puts on
his hat and rushes forth into the street
rushes anywhere to get away from the face
of man, to get away from himself and
everything belonging to himself.