The editor is a member of that race of animals called mankind. He is
invariably a kind man.
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.