THE TROUBLES OF AN EDITOR.

Thames Star, Volume VI, Issue 1789, 26 September 1874, Page 3

THE TROUBLES OF AN EDITOR.

(fKOMTHE DANBTJBT NEWS.)

The sensations of an editor on first glancing over his paper and detecting errors in it are somewhat different from those experienced by the reader on making like discoveries. The latter is either amused at the blunder or incensed at the carelessness which causes it, and in both cases arrives at the conclusion that the error is avoidable, and that the edito* 1 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 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 have consulted the copy, and so perpetuated the blunders of the compositor, who again may neglect to undo the wrong he has done, although his attention is plainly called to it on the proof. When about to make his 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 do not do that way, you know, and we have come to the conclusion that an editor examining his paper feels very much like a man who is about to pass into eternity He reads along carefully and slowly like a man feeling his way across a piece of doubtful ice. Suddenly his face becomes distorted with a dreadful pain. He doesn't cry out, he doesn't run; the anguish within him is so broad, 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 until -the tears come in his eyes. Then he takes the paper, which he has taken the precaution to kick across the room on discovering th» 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 expectant groan like one who is bey«nd the reach of hope, who feels that the warm sunshine, the kind glance of friendship, the beautiful flowers and songs of the birds are gone for ever.and fcr ever from him. It is a smothered groan, accompanied by a kick out of the legs, ai if the party had at that moment taken an eternal leave of all things earthly. There is still another search with aching eyes and throbbing brain, and then the new paper is smashed down upon the floor, and tke infuriated man bounds up from his chair, and dances round like a madmanHe doesn't call on Tieaven 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 scrutiny that would cheerfully attack a needle in a haystack would fall paralysed before a search for the author of the great wrong. _ He doesn't see anything at all —not a single intelligible 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 belonging to himself.