The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1874-02-20
An Editors Agony.

The sensations of an editor, says the
Danbury NeWS, on first glancing over
his paper and detecting errors in it are
somewhat different from those expe-
rienced by the reader on making like dis
coveries. The latter is either amused
at the blunder or incensed at the care
lessness which causes it, and in both
cases arrives at the conclusion that the
trouble is avoidable, and that the edi-
tor is to blame for not avoiding it. He
never saw an editor take his first glance
over a copy of the edition. Perhaps
the edition is worked off when the OPP
portunity is afforded to the weary man.
He has either trusted the proofs to some
one else, or read them himself, but the
feeling of dread is just as great in the
latter as i'll the former case. The proof
reader may not consult the copy, and
so perpetuate the plumbers of the COM
positor and perhaps the compositor
NAV neglect to undo the wrong he has
done, although his attention is plainly
called to it in the proof. When about
to make 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 man who is about to pass into
eternity. He reads along carefully and
slowly like man feeling his way across
a doubtful ice. Suddenly his face be-
comes 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 simply reaches up
and takes q handful of his own hair,
and tugs at it until the tears come in
his eyes. Then he picks up the paper,
which he has taken the precaution to
kick across the room on discovering the
error, and resumes the torturing search !;
for after all it is but search for errors
and agony, and not an agreeable and
instructive perusal. Suddenly he groans
not an expectant groan like from one
who hopes for help to reach him
through it, but the groan of one who
is beyond the reach of hope, who feels
that the warm sunshine, the kind
glance of friendship, the beautiful flow
ers and the song of the birds are gone
forever and forever from him. 1t is n
smothered groan, accompanied by a
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 aching eyes and
throbbing brain, and then the paper is
smashed down on the floor, and the in
furiated man bounds up from his chair,
and catches both hands into his hair,
and dances around like mad man. He
doesn't call upon heaven and earth to
witness what he is going to do, and to
blight him if 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 scru-
tiny that would cheerfully attack nee
die in haystack, would fall paralyzed
before search for the author of the
great wrong. He doesn't say anything
at all-not single Ineligible word es-
capes his ashen lips, as he holds his
hair, and Frances about in the dingy
solitude of his room. And when he is
done, he sits down again and groans,
and afterward puts on his hat and rush
es forth into the street-rushes any
where to get away from the face of man,
to get away from himself and every
thing belonging to himself.