AN EPISODE IN AN EDITOR'S LIFE.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume 11, Issue 836, 19 March 1867, Page 3

AN EPISODE IN AN EDITOR'S LIFE.

[From the January number of ' Oiico a Week.'] lam an editor ; airl I must say that, of all professions, that of oil!. >!•.!. l t : Is the most difficult and the most thankless. Still, it has its bright spots, its pleasant reminiscences. Softening of the brain, hysteria, mania, monomania, paralysis, and apoplexy, are thought to await the man or woman whose dire destiny has called him or her to this mode of earning his or her livelihood. Breaking stones on the road is thought to be easy in comparison to it. Statistics are said to inform us (and though a friend of mine maintains that statistics are fallacious, I am a believer in them,) that a great proportion of the unhappy tenants of asylums are literary men, chiefly editors. Still, as I said, the editorial life has its bright spots. And yet, on the whole, the condition of an editor, as Thackeray found to his cost, is a laborious and thankless one. To those who love excitement, it is also somewhat dull and dreary. By a singular fatality the houses in which publishers live, and where consequently the magazines or reviews which are their property are edited, are of the most lugubrious and mysterious kind. It is well-bred darkness, but still it is darkness. If by chance you stumble into one of these houses, although may be it is at the West End, you recoil with that fear which the vague, the shadowy, the unintelligible, always arouse. The tenement is not a shop, or a warehouse, or a cellar, or a club, or a private house, but it partakes a little of the characteristics of all these abodes. The male sex abound there ; and however lively and debonnaire these identical men are up to the moment they enter, as soon as they cross these thresholds they are changed into mournful undertakers' mute, fatigued, hope-less-looking specimens of mortality. The higher one ascends these cavernous places the worse they are. There . are strange echoes up the stairs ; there is a buzz and a murmur of voices, and yet there is an unnatural quiet as if dreadful surgical operations were being performed behind closed doors ; that sort of stillness which on<j feels is liable at any moment to break into violent screams ; and altogether there is a strong savour of Hood's " Haunted House" permeating them from top to bottom. In a back room, on the drawing-room floor of one of these houses, I have spent about six hours a day for the last six years. The carpet has been changed four times, for the marks of my steps pacing up and down, with manuscript in hand, can, alas ! too soon be traced on it. But the chairs have not been changed ; the black horsehair is worn in many parts to white ; the table-cover is dingy ; the dusty of twenty years looks down upon me from the windowcurtains; the panes of the windows are made partly of clouded glass, but whether by ingrained dirt, or an artificial process, I have never yet discovered. A dim religious light pervades the apartment. The close, mephitic odour of manuscript blends itself with that indefinite and ■ oppressive com-

pound of smoke and gas which is known as | the London smell. If I open my windows I look upon a black balcony where rot the fossil remains of some antediluvian plants. They are furry in texture, and spiky and brittle-looking in form. They may be rudimentary geraniums. The views from these windows is of the backs of other houses or warehouses, I think, for no opposite windows break the monotony of the bare, bald walls. It is utter desolation. The court is paved ; but through the interstices of the flags some churchyard-looking weeds grow, coloured faintly to a blue greenness, There is a broken pump in the corner, which occasionally i3 inspired by some evil spirit to leak, and then it drops, drops, drops, with uncertaiu yet sharpened splashes on the stones. That noise is horrible to me, and on the days I hear it my temper, I fear, is not all that it ought to be. Such is the mise-en-scene, and the occupation carried on in this delectable spot is as follows: — > I arrive at nine o'clock. On one table are the letters which the first post has already brought, on another the" manuscripts. I sit in an arm-chair, before my desk, at a third. On an average I read and answer daily about three dozen letters ; I read every day several manuscripts. What some of these letters, what most of these manuscripts are, words are powerless to describe. There is a belief common to the British mind that the editor of a magazine, besides accepting or rejecting- articles offered for his magazine, can distribute patronage and shower pecuniary aid on all who apply to him. He is supposed to be at once and together a Croesus, a Lord Mayor, and a minister of grace and justice. (N.B. How completely Spanish and illusory is that lastnamed combination of qualities !) Some of the letters, though unutterably silly, are touching from the tru3fc and confidence in ! blindness and sympathy which they reveal. Great sorrow, like great happiness, often teaches an Arcadian simplicity. But these are the minority. The majority are written by persons who3e alpha and omega is their own puerile personality. And the manuscripts ! To a Kochefoucauld, how much would their mere outsides betray ! Desultory, untidy, careless persons send unstitched manuscripts, without addresses, or with false ones. Defiant of spelling, or subversive of grammar, with neither beginning, middle, or end, the melancholy spectacle, the pathetic record of their contents, would make angels weep. There are undoubtedly exceptions. It has occasionally happened that an author who has afterwards found a world-wide acceptance, began his first timorous steps in, the field of public favour by Sending a story to my periodical. But do the public or the authors ever remember the patient labourer who toils through reams of badly-written foolscap or cream-liu'd, to find the few pearls amidst all those shapeless oysters? I have always thought that Mrs. Hernans' poem of the Diver would find an answering chord in the breasts of many editors. One bitter cold morning, a few days before Christmas, in the year — , I sat as usual at my desk. Among the heap of manuscript was one, written on the softest cream-laid French white paper, in a childish lady's hand, on lines which had been carefully erased afterwards. It was a little story of no great literary merit, but there was an aroma of youth and of sweetness in every line. There was a promise in it ; it was like the light in the sky before the sun has risen on a fine day — an omen, a portent of sunshine and warmth, but no more. I put it down as if I had touched the petal of a rose. There was a tiny scented note beside it — of course full of italics: — ■ Street. Dublin, Deo. — , 186—, Dear Mr Editor,— l send you a little story. I am only sixteen, and papa and mamma do not know anything about it, but please tell me if it be worth anything. I want it to be printed ; I want to be paid for it. It is not for myself, though, but I want the money to give my dear little brother a nice little birthday present. — I am, dear Mi- Editor, yours, &c, Emily , Then came the address and signature. The writing of the note was less neat and regular than the manuscript. But there was the same fragrance of dainty youth about it. I held it a long time in my hand. lam an old man ; at all events middle aged ; perhaps something more ; my beard is grey, my hair is grey too. I have no doubt that to the jeunesse doree whom I occasionally meet I wear tbe look of Dickens's patriarch, but ray heavt is younger than my appearance. Little distillations came, or seemed to come, from the paper I held. Had I been a Foster or a Plome I might perhaps have divined the writer ; bur, certes, it was with no common feeling of interest that I sat down and wrote my answer to the note. I returned the manuscript, but I wrote gently and tenderly. I gave it as my hope and my opinion that, with a little more care and study, the youthful writer would achieve a success. I even promised to print that identical manuscript if it were a little revised.and corrected, and I pointed out how it might be made available. I opened the window of my den after I had written my note. The weeds piercing through the ilags below had a less dreary look than they had ever had before ; a gleam of sunshine shone on them, and their fr6sty verdure borrowed something of Picciola brightness from it. I posted my letter and the manuscript to the address named, and went home, wondering if ever I should hear from the writer again. With that, however, all thoughts of the manuscript parsed away. The author was too timid to reply. * # * * On Christmas Eve I was asked as usual to dine with an old friend of mine at St. John's Wood. He was a married man, with a pleasant comely wife, and several small children, male and female. We dined en petite comite. " The children are not coming down to dinner," said my hostess, "for they are going to give us a surprise afterwards." I bowed and was delighted, both at the anticipation of pleasure to come and of privation for the first time of considerable annoyance. I need not say I was then a bachelor. When we went up-stairs after dinner we found the folding-doors which divided the front from the back room closed. They were opened after a while. The Christmas hymn was sung, and a German tree of the most brilliant splendour was revealed ; on its branches were hung gifts worked and eaibroidered by the children for their parents, and for the friends of their parents. The three little girls and the governess had done it all.

While my friend and his : wife ena- :: bracing and thanking 1 the children,- 1 had time to notice the governess. She watfvery: young, almost a : child herself. Admass : : of bright hair was gathered up in great waves at each side of her- head, and fastened in a loose thick loop behind. The bright curls were so arranged as to reveal the ear. The ear and cHeek were, I should rather say they are, like those paiuted by Leighton in his " Painter's Honeymoon." Need I say more of .their ravishing loveliness ? But the pretty blue eyes looked as if they had cried a good deal; and there had been recent tearsj for the eyelids were somewhat swollen. She was not sad at present, however, for she played on the piano for the children and for me, their old godfather, to dance to, and she joined with us in a game of blind man's buff. When the children retired, she retired also, " What a charming person," I said. 11 She is most excellent," said my friend. "Although she is so young, JMiss- 1 - — is the bread provider of her family. Her father and mother have, according to the cant phrase, seen better days ; in fact, they are people of good birth, and once had a good fortune. They have a son and daughter; the son is a fine fellow also. Both the son and the daughter give the greater part of their earnings to their parents; but the son has not been very fortunate. My littlegoverness, she is only seventeen (my children are so young they do not require a prim regulni' governess, for they only study with her three hours a day), does more with her salary, mediocre as it is, than her brother can do with his hard work. He is clerk in a bank." ■ " And she helps him als6,. I suppose ?" " I dare say she doesj but I have never I inquired, for she is full of reticence and reserve on those points. I only know she would sit up all night, and work like a horse all day, to help both her parents arid her brother. She is going home to-morrow; but he, I fear, cannot afford the expense of the journey. T,he parents live now in Scotland." " Could we not help him ?" I said, bashfully. My friend smiled. Both brother and sister spent Christmas at home. . : My good fortune threw me a good deal after this with my friends' governess. Must I say that from that Christmas Eve I was never heart-whole ? The following Easter we were engaged, and before the Christmas Eve which followed we were married. What an aim and a hope my life had now acquired ! We have a little suburban house, and' I leave ray wire every inoi'ulng to p"tt¥§ite my; editorial labours, and return every; evening,; forgetting my work and my worries, know.-" ing that the sweetest hearfc and the'- fairest face I have ever known await me in, my modest but happy home. I have never heard again from the author of the manuscript which had so much interested me ; and, truth to tell, had never thought of her since that Christmas Eve. Two or three yeat'3 have passed since then, and we have two babies. Such babies ! I will not ■ rhapsodise; but if rosy flesh, and round contours, and lovely limbs can be called beauty, my girl and my boy would win the ! prizes in any show of babies in the world. Their mother is always playing with them. She often puts her delicate slender white hand under my baby girl's foot, and the baby makes believe to stand on it. What a picture it is ! the pink toes and the dent in the round little ancle, and the pearly instep, harmonise yet contrast so gloriously with the taper fingers, and the blue-veined white of that flower-like hand. It is like the rosebud laid on a white camelia. She then holds up the little babygirl to me, and I kiss it before I go. My two-year-old boy toddles after me and gives me his chubby little fist to hold till I get to the door. And so we live. I could not help, as I sat at my labours a few days I ago, recalling the picture of womanly beauty and loveliness I had left at home. How I ' wished all womanhood could be typified " thus ! As I walked up and down the room reading a scratchy scrawly manuscript, and fumbling over it in desperation, for the tiresome person who had sent it had, by some ingenious carelessness, mulcted it of its last pnge, my thoughts flew far and wide, and by some association I cannot attempt to explain, the pretty manuscript from the youthful writer who had sent me no more was recalled to me. Unconsciously the manuscript I held faded from my mind, and the other was present with me. I wondered what had become of her — had she written any. more?— where and how was she ? Every moment I became more and more possessed with this memory. I was so happy myself that I felt for all who seemed to have care and struggle in their lives. I looked out the address to which I had written before, and wrote to the unknown . a few lines. I said that time had passed-— five years almost, — that the youthful inexperience which had prevented the paper she had sent from being accepted must now be corrected, and that I should be glad and willing to see anything else she had written, if she had written anything since then. Within a few days I had an answer. The writing was in a feigned hand, quite unlike, the round hesitating girlish hand I had remembered. The words, however, were as sweet and innocent as the first had been. '. " It is so good of you," ran the note, "to remember me, but I do not write any more. lam so happy. I have such a dear, kind, good, noble husband, [Oh, these womanly exaggerations, I thought, ag I sat iu my editorial chair,] and such darling babies. I wrote, for I wanted to help my dear ones, but they have been better helped by others than I could ever have hoped to help them. God has given them a better friend than I could be. If you seek to know me you shall do so. If when you go home you see a woman with a rose in her hand, hold out yours ; you will know me." I smiled at the romantic fervour of this reply, and a faint desire arose that my wife and the writer of that letter should know each other, and then I went on with my stupefying avocations. As I went home I confess Hooked about for a woman with arose in her hand, but as might naturally be supposed, heithfervfa cabs nor omnibuses did such an apparition: manifest itself. As I entered my own doors I gave an impatient shrug at the idea of having been made the subject of a foolish jest, , But i whom did I see standing just within the

threihold of toy own home? — my darling, faith her fair, child-like face, and bright hair : love, and joy, and youth crowning her with a triple crown, and in her hand a rose I "Dear husband," she said, as I kissed her, "I think I loved you from the moment I had your kind, indulgent, thoughtful note. I had written that absurd little story, for I sadly wanted a little money to pay for Gerald's return home at Christmas, to be with papa and mamma, and I had a foolish notion I could write." " And you were disappointed, my pet ; what a savage I must have seemed." •*No ; I felt how foolish I had been, and I oried heartily, but I thought you good and kind all the same. And Gerald got home, too, and we had a happy Christmas after all." I kissed her. "But are you never going to write a story for my magazine again P " "I do not know," she said, archly; meanwhile, you can write ours if you like."

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