THE EDITOR'S STORY.
(A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND.)
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
The Editor dipp'd his pen in the ink;
He smole a smile and he wunk a wink;
He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think.
'Twas a time of dearth
Of news, and the earth
Was rolling and bowling along on its axis
With never a murmur concerning the taxes
And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle
Needing a special or claiming an article;
In fact 'twas a terrible time for the papers,
And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers,
Till the whole world seem'd nothing but gases and vapours.
And the Editor wrote:
But I'm not going to quote,
Far be it from me to set rumours afloat.
Suffice it to say,
The paper next day
Contain'd such a slasher
For Captain McClasher,
The whole town declared it a regular smasher;
And what made it worse he inserted a rubber,
For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber.
Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun,
He had fought many duels and never lost one;
He'd met single handed a hundred wild niggers,
All flashing their sabres and pulling their triggers,
And made them all run whether mogul or fellah:
With the flash of his eye and the bash of his 'brella
He tore up rebellion's wild weeds by the root; and he
Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny.
And then to be told by "a thief of an Editor"
He'd been far too long his proud country's creditor
For pensions unwork'd for and honours unwon,
And that rather than fight he would more likely run;
To be told, who had acted so gallant a part,
He'd more pluck in his heels than he had in his heart!
Why zounds! man—the words used they mostly make Dutch of—
(As warm as the chutney he'd eaten so much of)
And he gave the poor table a terrible blow,
As he said with an aspirate, "Hi——ll let 'em know."
And Alderman Grubber was no less determined,
Though his gown was all silk and its edge was all ermined,
After thirty years' service to one corporation
To be libelled at last with the foul allegation,
He'd been "nicely paid for his work for the nation;
That Town Hall and Workhouse, Exchange and Infirmary,
Were all built on ground that by twistings and turnery,
Had been bought through the nose at a fabulous rate
From the patriot lord of the Grubber estate!"
Why, turtle and turbot, hock, champagne and sherry,
'Twould rile the Archbishop of Canterbury!
The Editor sat in his high-backed chair;
He listen'd a hark, and he looked a stare,
A sort of a mixture of humour and scare,
As he heard a footfall on the foot of the stair:
In a moment he buried his head in some "copy,"
As in walked the Captain as red as a poppy.
"This the Editor's room, sir?" the thunderer shouted,
In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed;
While he nervously twiddled the "gamp" in his hand,
Which so often had scatter'd a mutinous band.
Now the Editor's views were as broad as the ocean
(His heart represented its wildest commotion),
In a moment he took in the whole situation
(And double distilled it in heart palpitation):
Then quickly arose with a dignified air,
And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair;
Saying: "Yes, sir; it is, sir: be seated a minute,
The Editor's in, and I'll soon send him in it."
Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit,
He opened the door and got outside of it.
He skipp'd with a bound o'er
The stairs to the ground floor,
And turning his feet bore
Straight on for the street door;
When—what could astound more—'
The spot he was bound for
Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber,
The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber:
A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking,
The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking.
"Is the Editor in?" said the voice that had thrilled,
A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled!
While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet,
Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.
But an Editor's ever a man of resource,
He is never tied down to one definite course:
He shrank not a shrink nor waver'd a wave,
He blank not a blink nor quaver'd a quave;
But, pointing upstairs as he turn'd to the door,
Said "Editor's room number two second floor."
Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey,
Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day:
Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe,
The captain was pacing the room to and fro
When the Alderman enter'd—but here draw a veil,
There is much to be sad for and much to bewail.
Whoever began it, or ended the fray,
All they found in the room when they swept it next day,
Was a large pile of fragments beyond all identity
(Monument sad to the conflict's intensity).
And the analyst said whom the coroner quested,
The whole of the heap he had carefully tested,
And all he could find in his search analytic
(But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic),
He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple,
Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle.
And the Editor throve, as all editors should
Who devote all their thought to the popular good:
For the paper containing this little affair,
Ran to many editions and sold everywhere.
And the moral is plain, tho' you do your own writing,
There are better plans than to do your own fighting!