Year: 1874

The sensations of an editor on first CLAN


cling over his paper and detecting errors il


it are somewhat different from those expe


rienced by the reader ON making like


discoveries. The latter is either amused al
the blunder or incensed at the carelessness
| which causes it, and in both cases arrives al


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 edition.


Perhaps the edition is worked off when this


opportunity is offered 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 in


the former case. The proof-reader may


not consult the copy and so perpetuate the


blunders of the compositor, and perhaps


the eompositor may neglect to undo the


wrong he has done, although his attention


is plainly called to it on 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 piece of doubtful ice. Sud-
denly his face becomes distorted with a
dreadful 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 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 a search for errors and agony,
and not an agreeable and instructive
perusal. Suddenly he groans-not an ex-
pectant groan like from one who hopes for
help to reach him through it, but groan
of one who is beyond the reach of hope,
who feels that the warm sunshine, the kind
glance of friendship, the beautiful flowers
and the songs of the birds are gone forever
and forever from him. It is a smothered
groan, accompanied by kick out of the
legs, 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
infuriated man bounds up from his chair,
and catches both hands into his hair, and
dances around like a nadman. He doesn't
call on 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 groom and scorci1 the men with
his wrath. Even this slight relief is denied
him. The paper is worked off, and the
scrutiny that would cheerfully attack
needle in haystack would fall paralyzed
before search for the author of the great
wrong. He doesn't see anything at all
not a single ineligible word escapes his
ashen lips, as he holds his hair, and prances
about in the dingy solitude of his room.
And when he is done, he sits down and
groans, and afterwards 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 belong
ing to himself.-Daub@ry Meas. a