He is perfectly harmless. You may go into his den without fear. But he has his peculiarities. The sight of a poet makes him wild. He is then very dangerous, and is apt to do bodily harm to all within his reach. He is also wrought up when a man comes in with a little trifle he has just dashed off.
There is one thing that must be said in the editor’s dispraise. His mind is so biased by long thinking in a certain direction, that he dislikes very much to look upon both sides of a question. Therefore, if you value your safety, never approach him with manuscript written on both sides of your paper. Let me say right here, children, that a good deal of sheer nonsense has been written about the editor. He uses his shears only when composing an entirely original article. He usually writes with his pen, but his most cutting articles are the product of his shears.
The editor would make a good public speaker but for his propensity for clipping words. The editor’s hardest task is to dispose of his time. It is a monotonous life, indeed, were it not for the kindness of the few hundred people who call upon him every day, to enliven his dull life with stories of their grievances, of their new enterprises and with antediluvian anecdotes.
When you grow up to be men and women, children, remember this, and spend all the time you can in the sanctum of the editor. He loves company so much, you know, and sometimes he has to sit silent alone for a whole half minute. Is it not too bad? The business of the editor is to entertain itinerant lecturers, book canvassers, exchange fiends, and other philanthropists. He gives his whole day to these. He writes his editorials at night after he has gone to bed.
The editor is never so happy as when he is writing complimentary notices. For ten cents worth of presents he will gladly give ten dollars worth of advertising—all on account of the pleasure it gives him to write, you know, children. He loves to write neat little speeches and bright, witty poems for people without brains, who wish to speak in public. It is so easy to do this that he is sometimes quite miserable when an hour or two passes without an opportunity to do something of the kind.
The editor dines at all the hotels free, he travels free, theaters open wide their doors to him, the tailor clothes him gratis, his butcher and grocer furnish him with food without money and without price. In short, his every want is provided for. He spends his princely salary in building churches and school-houses in foreign lands.
By all means, children, be editors. Of course, it would be better if you could be hod-carriers or dray horses, but, as that is impossible, by all means be editors.
EUGENE FIELD.
One of the most clever of Western humorists is Eugene Field. He is a native of Missouri, having been born in St. Louis, September 2, 1850. His mother died when he was but six years of age, and he was sent, with a younger brother, to Amherst, Massachusetts, and placed under the care of his cousin, Miss French. He was fitted for college by the Rev. James Tufts, of Monson, and entered Williams college in 1868. Upon the death of his father, in 1869, he returned to the West, and has since then made his home on the western side of the Mississippi. He left the State University of Missouri at the close of his junior year, and went to Europe, where he remained for seven months.