New Orleans Daily Crescent

Every calling has its troubles—every individual his own peculiar cares, perplexities and annoyances. We doubt very much, however, whether any calling is so annoying, so surrounded with little plagues and persecutions, small in themselves, but great in the aggregate, as our own; or whether any individual of any other profession is called upon to encase himself in such a threefold coat of mail, made of patience, endurance, and much forbearance. It would seem as though the eternal, never ending work of the brain was a sufficient cause for irascibility in itself without the addition of any extraneous elements of annoyance. Such, however, is not the general verdict, and newspaper editors are called upon to exercise all the patience of Job, all the fortitude of Prometheus, and all the endurance of much-suffering Ulysses; being requited therefor by the cold compliments of friends and the bitter hostility of enemies. Editors are a class of people supposed by the profanum vulgus to possess bodies of iron and minds that shall always shine with the translucent and transparent light of diamonds. They are to endure a life more laborious and a labor more galling than that of galley slaves for the return of bread and butter. They are to rack their own brains that thereby the brains of others may be brightened, and sacrifice their own health for the gratification of their readers' amusement.

The supposition is, perhaps, legitimate, as the work is in some degree optional. It is, nevertheless, erroneous. Editors are mortal, like other men, and therefore liable to err; human, and therefore liable to suffer. That they do suffer from the calling to which they are tied, wherein "the sword wears out the sheath," is evident from the constant change the profession undergoes; the many who come in strong, resolute and hale, and go out weak, dispirited and exhausted, or drop by the way side, to be forgotten forever. The event is chronicled, a moment discussed, and then passed by for some fresher, more lively and animating subject. The discussion and oblivion are legitimate, and no bill of exception can be filed thereto. We object, however, most decidedly and positively to the popular opinion that it is work alone that makes the average of editorial life about the same as that of factory operatives and paint grinders. It is not the work, but the annoyances that attend it; not the toil, but the tribulations by which it is environed, that gives death so many trophies among the slaves of newspaperdom.

If the intellectual mill was allowed to run in its own regular, legitimate manner, for a proper end and object, this result might, in some degree, be remedied. The popular will has, however, decided otherwise—the voice of the people is the voice of God—and what has been hitherto will doubtless continue to be hereafter, until the last copy, of the last edition, of the last paper printed before the end of time.

Men will continue to loaf into editorial rooms, when the doors are not locked—and the weather is altogether too hot for that now—and indulge in conversations as long as the Iliad, as varied as the Odyssey, and as wild as the Dunciad, and the next day, over the breakfast table, wonder that there is not more variety, more originality, more spice and animation in the columns of their favorite!

Men will make their own private interests or gratifications superior to all other considerations, if possible, and hang like fixtures to the button-hole of the being by whom those interests may be advanced—for getting that his interests are all the time suffering and the next day hold him responsible for the short comings they themselves have caused. Some men there are, who act as though they thought that an editor's brain was like a corn mill, that would grind out a given quantity, of equal quality, in any given number of hours.

Some of these annoyances are inevitable—of such we complain not; we accept the proper and just penalties of our position; the greater part, however, might be adjourned to a more fitting season, if not indefinitely, and all parties profit thereby.

We are willing to endure that which is necessary, even at the cost of time and convenience; but we do most earnestly protest against being made the recipient of every man's peculiar views, upon the why's and wherefore's of the coming election—or as to the probabilities of when and where and how a plan is to be devised, whereby direct communication with the man in the moon is to be opened. Out of doors—at the street corner—our button hole is at the service of any and all; we are willing then and there to be "all things unto all men," if by so acting we can advance their interests. Indoors, bread and butter—reputation—past, present, and to come, depends upon our brains, and the manner and style in which we mill them out.

"I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient."