Year: 1873

The humorist of the Detroit "Free
Press" observes that there is always
one vacant chair in the sanctum of every
daily paper, or it would be vacated fol
the right man. 1t is the position OF
''really-very-good- -but-we-haven
for-it" man. When a young man, wear
ing a very exultant contenance, walks
into the editorial rooms with a bundle
of manuscript under his arm, all the
staff know what is coming. He has
been writing an ode to Spring, or q
poem on the fast-disappearing Indian
race, or five hundred verses on the power
of love 1t is really wonderful how san.
guine he is. He has selected this par
ticular paper as great favor to the pa
per, and he is certain that the pub
fishers won't think of offering him less
than dollar q verse, and that after
they have handed him the money they
will pat him on the back and say go
on, young man there is wealth OF
laurels for you in the future" He walks
around the room a few times to collect
himself, and then goes to the nearest
man. He is referred to the "man in the
other room," and the man in the other
room heaves a sigh as he sees him enter.
Heres a few verses on Spring-time
which dashed off the other day." says
the young man, as he deposits the roll
on the table "you can look them over,
and I will call for the money Saturday"
He goes out, and the recipient of the
roll unrolls it feels his hair raise up as
he sees that some lines have ten ''feet, "
others six, and that pile-driver could
not pound the metre into shape. He
puts it away, and begins to dread Satur-
day. Saturday comes, and with it the
young man, who expects check and a
compliment. He sits down, and there
is long pause. The editor would
rather tackle Bogardus kicker than to
say what he must say, but he finally
gets around to it. every good-season-
able-well written-bat, ah !-ahem
we haven't room for it at present; you'd
better send it to the New York Post.
That young man gets up with an awful
look of contempt and revenge on his
face, siezes the roll, and goes out feeling
that he shall be an enemy to the paper,
editors, reporters, compositors and ap-
prentices forever after. This is only an
illustrative case. There is the woman
who has written nineteen verses on her
dead baby; the old man who has hashed
up a ballad and wants to be brought
out as the author; the young man in
love who has written a poem on his
Hannah, and five or six others. Each
one must be refused in such a manner
as not to wound his feelings, and yet
his feelings will be wounded. If he
hadn't cent in the world, and was in
need of bread, he wouldn't feel half so
bad to be refused cash loan as he
would to be told that his poetry wasn't
first class, and that he'd better turn his
attention to trade. The poets are not
all. There is the man with the Essay
on Sober Second Thought" the man
with two columns on "The Degenera-
ton of American Politics." and the
scores of men with essays on this and
that, which no one but the writer would
read. They must be met, repulsed and
got rid of, and though the editor is as
tender as a lover, the chances are that
within three days he will receive letter
reading something like this:


DEAR SIR: owing to the fact that my article on
the 'Rejuvenation of Mummies' did not appear in
your issue of Wednesday, You can stop my paper.
shall subs orbe to the ARK, which is lively, 60
ahead daily, fully up to the times.


Yours CARO-"