JOURNALISM IN HONOLULU.

Evening Star, Issue 3619, 28 September 1874, Page 3

JOURNALISM IN HONOLULU.

Journalists must have a rosy time of it in Honolulu. They evidently live long, and possibly die happy. Mr H. M. Whitney, whose name appears, according to the American fashion, immediately under the leader-heading ©f the * Hawaiian Gazette ’ as that of the publisher and editor of that paper, informs its readers that, on the 24th of June last, he was “ completely overwhelmed and struck dumb with astonishment.” Something had occurred the like of which had never happened before during nearly a quarter of a century in which be had been connected with the Press, and which, in fact, could take place, he says, “ but once in a lifetime.’ It touched him so to the quick that he felt bound to unburden his feelings to a sympathising public. Mid-summer eve, it appears, is the anniversary of an epoch in his domestic life, and he almost breaks into poetry as he dilates npon it. “On the evening of that day,” he writes, “ the 25th anniversary of an event that has scattered numberless joys along the path of our journey through life—as we returned home from the weekly lecture, we were filled with jamazement at finding our residence briliantly lit up, and literally swai-ming like a bee-hive. Only as we entered the door did we, for the first time, realise that we had been made the victim of a stupendous ‘ surprise.’ Not only did bright eyes, happy faces, and cheerful voices meet us at every turn, but beautiful presents were displayed, and a table was spread, as with a magician’s wand, with all that the most dainty could ask for.” Not only did the employes of the ‘Gazette’ office contribute their silver offerings, but nine young ladies of “ Mrs W.’s Sunday school class ” clubbed their pocket money to purchase a pitcher for the joy-scatterer of the Whitney household. But- there is one drop of bitterness in what Dr. Johnson would call the exuberating chalice of the journalist’s felicity Nothing could be more gratifying than this demonstration of affection to Henry M. Whitney as a man; but alas ! it reflects upon his vigilance and omniscience as an editor. He is amazed and mortified by the reflection that no whisper of the impending event “ reached our ears, ever ready to glean every passing item of news.” He penitently confesses that for onoejie was “ caught napping.” To paraphrase a line from the “ Critic,” The husband soften’d, but the editor Was fix’d.