EDITORIAL EXPERIENCE ON THE "SKEWTONVILLE ROARER."

Waikato Times, Volume VII, Issue 408, 24 December 1874, Page 5 (Supplement)

EDITO R IAL EXPERIENCE ON THE "SKEWTONVILLE ROARER."

(Danmtuy Nkws.) I've bean oix t!i3 tripa.l. I've beea running a live newspaper over in Skewtonville. The village of Skewtouville is a savage little place where centenarians die in early life, and where coilin makers accumulate fortunes. Last week I was informed that Timothy Johnson, late editor of the • Skewtonville Roarer,' had suddenly deceased, and that the board of directors had chosen me as his successor, at a salary of $30, drinks and shirt collars, per annum, I. was requested to come at once to atte.id Johnson's funeral aad gat up his obituary for the next is.-me. I tied a necktie round my throat, told Polly I was going to opau a few getns of thought for a paper, ■vul started to Skewtonville. Three drunken vuftians, sunki lg Junison weed in c_b pip-3, mat me in .ni tat town, infprmad ma tney were the baird of directors, and escorted me to a house where the late Mr Johnson W lying in state, in a pine ,-offl.i, with his boots on. They told me that was the Skewtonville style of funeral pomp. A melancholy looking fellow said the usual things over the Jor[Me, and assured the crowd that Johnson's 'spirit iad taken its flij-ht,' of which fact I suppose nobody hi I any doubt. Johnson looked as if 113 had been a ,'re it sinner, and I guess he needed all the prayers they give him. The funeral procession started. The other folks walke.l, but out of respect to mv high position I Wd* mounted on a depraved mule. We laid tha late editor * neath the d.ii das,' practically spmking. Tlien I was escorted back to town, and usher.- 1 into a disai il room with a half-inch hale punched through fchs wall, which I presume was a Skewtouville window. I thought I had inadvertantl/ violated s>m3 city ordinance and had baen put in the calaboose, but one of the ruffi ms relieved me with the inform ition that I was in the offie? of the 'Skewtonville Roarer,' a live newsp ipsr, $2 per annum, payable in corn- whisky. I told him he was a go j.I jolcist. <fr the floor lay a copy of the 'Roarer,' and next to it a jug of w.'iuky. I could nob help thinking that they looked like twin brothers. One of the Directors, who said that his name was Stufflastreet, raisad the bottle to his lips, and told me he was the chief proprietor of tha ' Roarer.' If I had sold myself to the d^vil to edit a paper in the infernal regions, I couldn't have felt meaner. He passed the bottle to m?, but I told him I had a brother n imad after Neal Dow aud John Gough, and I could not indulge. The trio q 123 d at me as if I was a wild animil, pulled my hair and poked in my vibs to ascertain if I had a tangible existence, and then they said, 'Make your will.'— 'Make what?' I said, with a horrible chill ere iping over me.' — 'Make your will' he repeated.—' Way,' said I, ftelina my pulsa in alarm, ' I ain't dying, am IT— 1 No,'' he answered ; 4 but an editor's life is uncertain, and it is well enough to provide for accidents.' iSome conception of the danger of my situation flashed upon me, and I commenced to bequeath my worJly effects to Polly. Taen he handed me a Darringer pistol and said,— 1 Write Johnson's obituary.'—' What am I to do with the Derringer?' I demanded.— ' Write the obituary with it,' he said. Then he explained to me that the pen w ; is attached to the pistol, so that if anyone came in while the editor is penning his Billingsgate, and takes exceptions, the editor is prepared to me^t him. I felt my courage oozing away when the howitzer pkn.of journalism was explained to me. Bat I wio;3 Johnson's obituary. The proprietor said Johnson had died of • pistol shot ' ; said he, ' That's the way editors wrap the drapery of their couch about 'em here.' I pronounced Johnson's taking off a 'damnable assassination.' and in the course of the obituary slandered every maiden, and remarked in ganeral terms that with a few exceptions evary man for miles around there was a horse thief and a felon. The proprietor, after interlining a little pr.fanity, said the obituary would do, and told ms to write at the bott >m that ' I was personally responsible for it and could b* found on the street at all hours of the day.' " Why," said I, ' won't I have to be iii the office occasionally V — ' Oh yes,' said he, ' that is jnsfc a figurative expression.' Then I signed my nama to the obituary which contained enough slander to subject me to be butchered a thousand times. Tnen t',3 proprietor bade me follow him. He led the way to the graveyard where we had put Johnson away. 'This.' he observed, 'is the 'Editors' cemetery.' Rsad them boards,' said he. I began— Tim Sniggles, ags 28 ; late editor ' W oarer ' ; bowie knife.' ' Tom Jones, editor 'Roarer'; pistol shot,' &c, until I had read forty of them, and all had died violent deaths, except one. Only one died like a Christian, and the proprietor informed ma that ' he didn't have any editorial ability.' ' Now,' continual the proprietor, backing up against a tombstone, ' we run a live newspaper here. Ye make it hot and lively.' ' Yes,' I rejoined, glancing around the cemetery, 'it may be a live newspaper, but I notice it has several dead editors.' ' Pshaw V I had to give in, ' How long,' I inquired, ' does the average editor live here ? ' ' Two or three weeks,' was his reply. I was thinking* of my gontle Polly, who 'might never again bahold me wioh the bloom of health on my j cheek. Then dropping one huge tear to the mem- j ory of a'l ' tksm dead editors,' I walked back gloomily. At ihe office I was handed a dictionary with the remark—.' We use this altogether. Webster don't exprcrjs our ideas.' The 'dictionary' had'nta decent word in it. The office was well fortified. The broom was half pitchfork and we poky d the fire with a Spanish stiletto. At midnight I arose from my couch, took soma chalk and w;-ote on the floor, ' My darling Snuffle street, au revoir ! "Here's my resignation. Take your newspaper into the cemetery and employ Steve Loweiy's ghost to run it.' Five minutes later a solitary fugitive might have been seen going through the darkness and gloom in the direction of Oshkosh. That was this individual fleeing from the. sweets of 'independent journalism' to the bosom of his family, and I propose to stay in that bosom for a considerable length of time, and Skewtonville journals can seek elsewhere for an editorial ' corpse.'