THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 949, 10 July 1877, Page 3

THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

[from the press.] It is not every man’s luck to go to Corinth, neither does it fall to the lot of every man to edit a paper. I did it once for a week. I don’t want to again. I have many reasons for this. On the occasion to which I refer a man called in the second day I was in charge about some agricultural paragraph he differed with, and opened proceedings by stating he had called round to break the editor’s blooming jaw. His remark was nearly to that effect, only more prononee (smack this word in italics, please, and if you have got an accent for the e adjust it there. Most of us like to fix a good word properly). I observed that the editor was touring in the Kaiapoi district, and afterwards preserved that policy of silence which prudence dictated. There are times when a policy of silence is best. Any married man will tell you so. Even an unmarried party will bear testimony to the truth of this, assuming that he has a sister eleven a fond step-mother. There are other reasons against being an editor. Editors either have too much to write about, or else nothing at all. When they suffer from an embarrus do ricliesses (more italics, and display it a bit if you can) editors must necessarily come nearly being rent asunder by the variety of their emotional vibrations. One leader will commence—“We deeply regret to hear,” and an hour after the necessities of the inkslinger’s profession will require the editor to start a paragraph with—“We are delighted to learn.” It may be after writing the above he will devote a quarter of an hour to language unrit for publication over a press telegram, and just when he has used his vocabulary right up, and torn more wool from his thatch than he can well spare with justice to his wife’s proclivities, in comes a man with a local of a happy sort. Then the inkslinger calms himself, and, wreathing his face in smiles, commences ordinary satisfaction we announce.” He has just about straightened this out when in comes an obituary. Then the man has to harrow up his soul and, metaphorically rending his seedy old coat, his pen gobbles up the ink in stating that it is with pain he learns, &c., and he w T eeps out his soul over a man he hardly ever spoke to in his life, and who the chances are was a howling fraud. These things make an editor’s life one of varied and continual throements. Scarcely anight passes without an incessant turmoil boiling up maelstroms of varied emotions in his soul — emotions of such a heavic character that it becomes a matter of wonder—at least it became so to me—that more people do not request him to have a drink. There are other little disayrementx (excuse me once more) in connection with editing, even judging from my short experience. Eent asunder, so to apeak, by vibrations similar to those described above, about 12 o’clock or from that to two the ink-slinger is having an exhausted pause, when to him enters a friend who tells him that he had something to tell him of importance to the paper, but has forgotten it. He recollects, however, to remind him of an article in the “ Wanaka Buster,” in which the arguments of the exhausted one are scattered to the winds. Friend remains for two hours, mixes up all the exchanges, absently puts editor’s tobacco pouch in his pocket, and says he’ll look in to-morrow. He then strolls away. Editor then looks through correspondence. Letter from J. T. Smith, who took 3rd prize in a ploughing match, saying he was reported as being J. F. Smith and wants it corrected. Letter from promoter of a muffinstruggle, local enclosed without advertisement, and commencing “ It may interest our readers to know.” This induces the inquiry, are editors responsible for the 100,000,000 lies that annually appear in our journals with a similar introduction. However all men are liars. Let us not inquire too closely into things. Close analyses are horribly discouraging. By pursuing analyses a man loses credulity, faith, and even charity itself. Letter from a firm supporter of paper, chiefly remarkable for bad spelling, and for the subject being conspicuously uninteresting to the general reader. Advertisement of marriage (Home papers please copy of course) utterly unintelligible, and editor gives mortal offence to all parties concerned by a mistake in tin spelling of the bride’s grandfather, who was a captain in the onety-oncth. Then the inkslinger discovers that the paper is crowded, and something must be left out. Leaves out the wrong report, offends 195 subscribers, and gets jarrop from the manager next day. There are times when matter is short, and under these circumstances 1 learn from an American paper that the editor goes away and writes up

the dog belonging to his best subscriber. How I wish I could have pursued this line of action, because I know a bit about dogs, and, to tell you the truth, I have to write something about them now. I want to run you out in a few terse and well-wrought phrases, to give you my impressions of the recent coursing match. You 'wished ray unbiassed opinion on this matter, and I will proceed to give it. More than this I cannot undertake, because, like the majority of those engaged in this exciting pursuit last Monday, I know nothing whatever about it. The following is my experience. I left per walking stick for the park with a friend, and a hole in my left boot. I was late for the first event, which I regret very very much, because it was a failure, and nothing is really so pleasing to a well-balanced mind as a failure by 'any of our friends. Mr Rochefoucaidd has made the same observation before, but he scarcely put things as nicely as I do. He is more blunt like; besides he never wrote plain English. When I got on the ground I found a number of crowds scattered about the park, all more or less* unintentionally doing the best to spoil what sport might have been obtained. I saw one gentleman well known to acclimatising fame planted on a hill in the centre of the ground. His pose was real good, but as he stood exactly where the hare might be expected to make for, he might have been better placed with another friend of mine I discovered sitting perished with cold on a rail, and looking more like a black shag than I could have supposed possible for any human being. We walked solemnly after the slipper, and in our excitement crowded him all we knew, and when he made a mistake observed one to another how much better we could have done it. Impartial criticism of this kind is a prevailing characteristic of a Christchurch public. 1 never dwelt in a place where there are so many people that criticise so much and know so little on any subject you like to name. The beaters worked a lot, and shewed an infinity of that zeal Talleyrand objected to on principle. The dogs were not good enough for the hares, and though I adore sport, as you well know, I must confess tilings dragged a bit. It was cold, very cold, and I regret now that I so recently quoted Mr Keats in reference to the influence of the thermometer on hares and owls,because his lines would have worked in so sweetly apropos here. However, as I wish to bo brief and extenuate nought and that, I shall proceed to condense, an accomplishment, even my short editing experience made me thoroughly familar with. I walked for three hours over wet ground, so wet indeed that I regret now I did not swim. I saw some good running, and observed one dog that from experience evidently knew the habits of hares. I saw some very cold people, and lost the heel of a boot much valued by the friend to whom it belonged. I met a number of really nice influential citizens evidently wondering what upon earth brought them there; but I can confidently assert that the most popular man upon the ground was old Starboard, who carried as you might say perdu (I do like these expressions) in his pocket a spiritual bottle. When it became known that he had such a glass specimen concealed about his person the number of people that came around him wanting his opinion on drainage, education, and the Eastern question, was indeed immense. I felt myself that, much as I liked Starboard, he had never appeared to so much advantage before. It came on to rain subsequently, and, owing to a certain inconsistency in tick-pur-chased fabrics over which purchasers, alas, have no control, I got wet through, returned home, had some tepid dry hash, received a correspondence of eight bills, went to bed while my clothes dried, and felt thankful for a day’s sport.