Mysteries and Miseries of the Life of a City Editor.
A great deal has been written, to show that the literary business is a very disagreeable business; and that branch of it coming under the "Editorial" head is about as comfortable as the bed of Procustes would be to an invalid. It may doubtless look and sound well, to see one's name in print, going the rounds, especially at the head of the editorial columns, from ten to fifty thousand eyes and tongues scanning and pronouncing it every day, or week—hundreds and thousands of the fair sex wondering whether he is a young or an old man, a married man or a bachelor; while the pious and devout are contemplating the serious of his emanations, and conjecturing whether he be a Methodist, Puseyite, or Catholic, a Presbyterian, Unitarian or Baptist; and the politicians scanning his views, to discover whether he leans toward the Locofocos, Free-Soilers, or Whigs—all being necessarily much mystified, inasmuch as the neutral writer, or editor, is obliged to study, and most vigilantly to act, the part of a cunning diplomatist—stroke every body's hair with the grain!
The Tribulations of Incivility.
"A gentleman by the name of Collins stopping with you?"
"Collins?" was the response.
"Yes, Collins, or Collings, I ain't sure which," said the hardy-looking, bronzed seaman, to the gaily-dressed, flippant-mannered, be-whiskered man of vast importance, presiding over the affairs of one of our "first-class hotels."
"Very indefinite inquiry, then," said the hotel manager.
"Well, I brought this small package from Bremen for a gentleman who came out passenger with us some time ago; he left it in Bremen—wanted me to fetch it out when the ship returned—here it is."
"What do you want to leave it here for? We know nothing about the man, sir."