Rensselaer Republican, Volume 21, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 January 1889 — THE WESTERN EDITOR. [ARTICLE]

THE WESTERN EDITOR.

Slightly Mixed Character of His Labors in the Literary Line. * “As we pen these lines,” wrote the able editor, “our eyes are rivers of tears, and our soul is fraught with poignant woe. A gentle, star that shone more lustrous than all the stars about her, has died out, and is dead forever. Gladys Swivelhurst—Gladys, the beautiful, the young; is dead.” At this juncture the foreman entered the able editor’s room and informed him that a short item was necessary to fill the last column on the second page, and the editor wrote this: “We must have mbhey to carry on our business. Several hundreds of dollars are due us, and if they are not forthcoming immediately the accounts will be placed in the hands of a collector.” Having dashed this off lie continued the article about the dead one: “Her life and death reminds me of the short but beautiful existence of the flower; born under smiling skies, nourished by gentle breezes, only to be cut off by the pitiless wind from the north. It seems like an unhallowed dream—that Gladys is dead, but she is doubly dead, in that, she died so young.” Here he was called to the telephone, and was instructed by the manager of the Brokeslate Coal company to write and print a short reading rfotice for that corporation, and he at once compiled this: “Every man’s house should be his palace, and a palace would be very unaomfortable without warmth. The prudent man will order his coal from Brokeslate Coal company. This cdal is free from dirt, dust, and clinkers. It burns freely and gives great heat. Purchasers will always receive full weight, and having used this coal once will buy no other.” Then the death notice was continued: “It was in the morning of the wedding day;the golden glow of the sunlight, streaming into her chamber, seemed a promise of a life of happiness to come; but ere the shadows of the evening had fallen upon the brown earth the deeper and colder shadows of death dimmed those tender eyes, the damp upon her beautiful brow, and all was over.” Here a messenger boy handed him a note. He read it, and taking another sheet of paper soon sent the following to the printers: “Jatoes Cobbleton tells a good joke on Andy Shellhorn. For several nights the latter had been annoyed by cattie which broke into his yard, causing general havoc. At last, enraged beyond endurance, he bought a gun; and, hearing the* racket in the garden about midnight, he opened the window of his room and blazed away. In the morning he found that he had shot one of his own cows, which had broken from the stable and u andered into the yard. Tho laugh is on Andy.” He again resumed the obituary: “We have watched this young girl grow from childhood to young and glorious w omanhood. We have watched her when she went by like a sunbeam and marveled at her beauty, and to-day we see the bridal robes substituted by the clinging cerements of death and our tears seem drops of blood ebbing from a crushed and anguished heart.” When this was written a repoiter entered the room and handed him a marked copy of a local contemporary, after reading which he rapidly penned -the following: “The scurrilous dish-rag which is published in an obscure alley of this town by a lop-eared leper who spends his evenings trying to wash the tar off his body with benzine says that we received SSO for supporting Gen. Strutover for the office of constable. It is scarcely worth while for us to brand this as an infamous lie, which would make Ananias green with envy, were it not for the fact that there are people who do not know the true character of the moral and physical wreck making the charge. We do brand it as a lie, and therefore as a lie we will cram it down the craven throat of the degenerate coward who uttered it.” The obituary was taken up again: “In this, the dark hour of our sorrow we have the sweet consolation of knowing that the gentle Gladys, too lovely for the harsh blasts and tempests of earth, is n‘ow where the tears never fall, where the sigh is never heard, where the footfalls of death never echo on the jasper streets. We can only hope that in the uncertain future whence, too, have crossed the waters of the river of death, we can meet her there -there where the chorus swells forever and snowy pinions fan the perfumed air.” Another telephone message, and the editor, taking a fresh slip of paper, scribbled this: “Genial Tom Breighton is going about town to-day with a broad smile on account of a handsome boy baby who has taken up his abode at the house. Tom has the congratulations of ye editor.” ~ ' * Then he wrote the final sentences of the death notice: “This is indeed a sweet thought, yet we are stricken with sorrow that in all the weary years to come we can hear her voice no more. But what avail words? We can not speak the thoughts that surge through opr brai.; the tears fall from our eyes on the paper before US and the pen drops from our trembling band. Peace, eternal peace, to the ashed of her who is gone.”