Looking at these girls reminds me that I, too, was once young--and where are the friends of my youth? I have found one of 'em, certainly.I saw him ride in the circus the other day on a bareback horse, and even now his name stares at me from yonder board-fence, in green, and blue, and red, and yellow letters.Dashington, the youth with whom I used to read the able orations of Cicero, and who, as a declaimer on exhibition days, used to wipe the rest of us boys pretty handsomely out--well, Dashington is identified with the halibut and cod interest--drives a fish cart, in fact, from a certain town on the coast, back into the interior.Hurbertson, the utterly stupid boy--the lunkhead, who never had his lesson--he's about the ablest lawyer a sister State can boast.Mills is a newspaper man, and is just now editing a Major-General down South.
Singlinson, the sweet-voiced boy, whose face was always washed and who was real good, and who was never rude--HE is in the penitentiary for putting his uncle's autograph to a financial document.Hawkins, the clergyman's son, is an actor, and Williamson, the good little boy who divided his bread and butter with the beggarman, is a failing merchant, and makes money by it.Tom Slink, who used to smoke short-sixes and get acquainted with the little circus boys, is popularly supposed to be the proprietor of a cheap gaming establishment in Boston, where the beautiful but uncertain prop is nightly tossed.Be sure, the Army is represented by many of the friends of my youth, the most of whom have given a good account of themselves.But Chalmerson hasn't done much.No, Chalmerson is rather of a failure.He plays on the guitar and sings love songs.
Not that he is a bad man.A kinder-hearted creature never lived, and they say he hasn't yet got over crying for his little curly haired sister who died ever so long ago.But he knows nothing about business, politics, the world, and those things.He is dull at trade--indeed, it is a common remark that "everybody cheats Chalmerson." He came to the party the other evening, and brought his guitar.They wouldn't have him for a tenor in the opera, certainly, for he is shaky in his upper notes; but if his ****** melodies didn't gush straight from the heart, why were my trained eyes wet? And although some of the girls giggled, and some of the men seemed to pity him I could not help fancying that poor Chalmerson was nearer heaven than any of us all!
1.37.ABOUT EDITORS.
We hear a great deal, and something too much, about the poverty of editors.It is common for editors to parade their poverty and joke about it in their papers.We see these witticisms almost every day of our lives.Sometimes the editor does the "vater vorks business,"as Mr.Samuel Weller called weeping, and makes pathetic appeals to his subscribers.Sometimes he is in earnest when he makes these appeals, but why "on airth" does he stick to a business that will not support him decently? We read of patriotic and lofty-minded individuals who sacrifice health, time, money, and perhaps life, for the good of humanity, the Union, and that sort of thing, but we don't SEE them very often.We must say that we could count up all the lofty patriots in this line that we have ever seen, during our brief but chequered and romantic career, in less than half a day.Aman who clings to a wretchedly paying business, when he can make himself and others near and dear to him fatter and happier by doing something else, is about as near an ass as possible, and not hanker after green grass and corn in the ear.The truth is, editors as a class are very well fed, groomed and harnessed.They have some pains that other folk do not have, and they also have some privileges which the community in general can't possess.While we would not advise the young reader to "go for an editor," we assure him he can do much worse.He mustn't spoil a flourishing blacksmith or popular victualler in ****** an indifferent editor of himself, however.He must be endowed with some fancy and imagination to enchain the public eye.It was Smith, we believe, or some other man with an odd name, who thought Shakespeare lacked the requisite fancy and imagination for a successful editor.
To those persons who can't live by printing papers we would say, in the language of the profligate boarder when dunned for his bill, being told at the same time by the keeper of the house that he couldn't board people for nothing, "Then sell out to somebody who can!" In other words, fly from a business which don't remunerate.
But as we intimated before, there is much gammon in the popular editorial cry of poverty.
Just now we see a touching paragraph floating through the papers to the effect that editors don't live out half their years; that, poor souls! they wear themselves out for the benefit of a cold and unappreciating world.We don't believe it.Gentle reader, don't swallow it.It is a footlight trick to work on your feelings.For ourselves, let us say, that unless we slip up considerably on our calculations, it will be a long time before our fellow-citizens will have the melancholy pleasure of erecting to our memory a towering monument of Parian marble on the Public Square.
1.38.EDITING.
Before you go for an Editor, young man, pause and take a big think!
Do not rush into the editorial harness rashly.Look around and see if there is not an omnibus to drive--some soil somewhere to be tilled--a clerkship on some meat cart to be filled--anything that is reputable and healthy, rather than going for an Editor, which is hard business at best.
We are not a horse, and consequently have never been called upon to furnish the motive power for a threshing-machine; but we fancy that the life of the Editor who is forced to write, write, write, whether he feels right or not, is much like that of the steed in question.
If the yeas and neighs could be obtained, we believe the intelligent horse would decide that the threshing-machine is preferable to the sanctum editorial.
