Year: 1874

The sensation of an editor, says th'
Danbury News, on first glancing ovel


his paper and detecting errors in it, are
somewhat different from those expert


enced by the reader on making like dis


covery. The latter is either amused n


the blunder or incensed at the careless.


ness which causes it, and in both cases


arrives at the conclusion that the trouble
is avoidable, and that the editor is Il


blame for not avoiding it. He never saw


an editor take his first glance over ;


copy of the edition. Perhaps the edi


tion is worked off when the opportunity


is afforded to the weary man. He hai


either trusted the proofs to some one


else, or read them himself, but the feel


ing of dread is just as great in the latter


as in the former case. The proof-readei


may not consult the copy, and so per-


petuate the blunders of the compositor


and perhaps the compositor may neg


lect to undo the wrong he has done, al.
though his attention is plainly called to


it in the proof.


When about to make this preparatory
survey the editor does not take a 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 aleng carefully
and slowly like a man feeling his way
across piece of doubtful ice. Sudden
ly 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
simply reaches up and takes a handful
of his own hair, and tugs at it and tears
come in his eyes. Then he picks up
the paper, which he has taken the pre-
caution to kick across the room on dis
covering the error, and resumes the tor
turing 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 expectant
groan like 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
flowers and the song of the birds are
gone forever and forever from him. 1t
is 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 infuriated man bounds up
from his chair, and catches both hands
in his hair, and dances around like a
mad man. lie 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 paperis worked of,
and the scrutiny that would cheerfully
attack a needle in haystack would
fall paralyzed before a search for the
author of the great wrong. He doesn't
say anything at all--not single intel
ligible 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 again and
groans, and afterward puts on his hat
and rushes forth into the street-rushes
to get away from the face of
man, to get away from himself and ev-
belonging to himself.