Typo: A Monthly Newspaper and Literary Review, Volume 3
Marrying an Editor
Marrying an Editor.
Yes, I'm Mrs Peter Snow, an editor's wife. I well remember the day when Mr Snow asked me to become his wife. I confess I liked Mr Snow, and thinking it would be a fine thing to be the wife of an editor, I said « Yes, » as prettily as I knew how, and I became Mrs Snow. I have seen ten years of married life, and I find my husband to be an amiable good-natured man. He always spends his evenings at home, and is in that respect a model man; but he always brings a pile of exchanges, which is only limited by the length of his arms, and reads while I patch the knees and elbows of his pantaloons and coat. After we had a Quaker meeting of an hour's length I broke the stillness by asking:
« Mr Snow, did you order that coal I spoke to you about? »
« What did you say, my dear? » he asks, after a minute's silence.
« Did you order that coal I spoke to you about? »
« Indeed, my dear, I am sorry, but I forgot all about it. It shall come to-morrow. »
Another hour's silence, which is relieved by the baby's crying, and rather liking a noise of that sort I made no effort to quiet him.
« My dear, » says Mr Snow, after he has cried a minute or so, « you had better give the baby some catnip tea to quiet him; he troubles me. »
The baby is still. Another hour passes without a breath of noise. Becoming tired, I take a lamp and retire for the night, leaving Mr Snow so engaged with his papers that he does not see me leave the room. Toward midnight he comes to bed, and just as he has fallen asleep the baby takes a notion to cry again. I rise as quietly as possibly and try to still him. Then another baby begins to scream at the top of his lungs. There is no other course but to awake Mr Snow, so I say:
« Mr Snow! Mr Snow! »
The third! time he starts up and cries, « What, Tom! more copy? »
As though I was Tom, the little imp running about the office! I replied tartly:
« No, I don't want any more copy—I have had enough of that to last me my lifetime! I want you to see what Tommy is crying about. »
Mr Snow makes a desperate attempt to arouse himself; as Tommy stops to take a breath he falls asleep again, leaving me to pace the room in as much vexation as I can comfortably contain. The next morning at breakfast, when I give Mr Snow an account of his last night's troubles, he says:
« Indeed, my dear, I am very sorry the children trouble you. »
This is always the way. If I complain it is, « Indeed, I am very sorry. »
But should the very same thing occur the subsequent night directly before his eyes, very likely he would not see or know anything about it, unless it happened to interrupt his train of ideas. Then he would propose catnip tea, but before I can get it into the infant's stomach he would be far away into the realms of thought, leaving me not a little vexed at his stupidity.
He knows the name of every paper published in England or the United States, but he cannot for the life of him tell the names of his children. He knows precisely the year of every American journal, but he does not know the age of his own baby. He knows how every contributor looks, but I do not believe he can tell whether my eyes are black or blue.
They say Mr Snow is getting rich. All I know is, he gives me money to clothe our boys, and that, too, without complaint of poverty. I hope the world is right in opinion, and when I am satisfied it is I shall advise him to resign his editorial honors and spend a few months in becoming acquainted with his wife and children. The little ones will feel flattered in making the acquaintance of so literary a man.