  [Read at the Twenty-sixth Annual Convention of the New York Press Association, at Jamestown, N.Y., June 7, 1882.] If one who, midst alternate joy and care, Has occupied an editorial chair, Has solved some mysteries that its methods take, And learned how easy papers are to make, Has undergone from friends much mental aid, And wondered where on earth they learned his trade, Has heard from them how papers should be run, How things they never have to do, are done, Has wrestled, in a match he could not shirk, With the world, flesh, and—lad of general work— But now, grown poor, has left for some time-space, The hard, but weirdly fascinating place— If such an one may use, not seeming free, The editorial and fraternal "We," And, speaking to this band without offense, May use his us-ship in the present tense, Then, let us, with your kind permission, sing A note or two about The Sanctum King. But first the question, who this king of fame? Whence comes his power, and what may be his name? With modesty peculiar to the race, No editor pretends to fill that place; For editors, be rulers as they will, Are greatly ruled by their surroundings still; All men and things, to some extent, control The journalist's intent and nervous soul. Influences press round him, in a host; So what we seek, is, That which rules him most; What of all men and things that 'gainst him press, Bears most upon his failure or success? Upon this ground, what man, or beast, or thing, Can claim the title of The Sanctum King? "WITH THE WORLD, FLESH, AND—LAD OF GENERAL WORK." Is it the Pen? O Pen! we hear thy praise, Wherever Mind has walked its devious ways! Thought has been born, in every land and age Where thy thin lips have kissed the virgin page! 'Twas thee Dan Chaucer used, in time agone, To goad the Canterbury pilgrims on; From thee Ben Jonson filled with gold the air, And made his name a jewel rich and "rare;" Of thee The Shakespeare, in his soul sublime, Forged for himself a sceptre, for all time; With thee bold Milton groped, his eyes thick sealed, And wrote his name on Heaven's own battle-field; Thee, Robert Burns, voice of the heart's best song, Fashioned into a bagpipe sweet and strong; Thee, Thomas Moore—his soul to music set— Made to an Irish harp that echoes yet; With thee Longfellow struck a home-made lyre, And wrote "America," in lines of fire! Through thy sharp, quivering point, words have been given, Out of the flaming lexicons of Heaven! O Pen! When in the old-time school-house, we Strove, 'neath our teacher's rod, to master thee, And, twisting down upon some sad old desk, With doleful air and attitude grotesque, And with protruding tongue and beating heart, Took our first lessons in the graphic art, And that old copy on the paper poured, Saying, "The Pen is mightier than the Sword," And then, from sudden and dynamic stroke, The pen we leaned on, into fragments broke, Some angel told our inexperienced youth, That, after all, that copy told the truth! O Pen! What if thy paper purses hold Some coin that never came from wisdom's mould! What if thou writest countless reams on reams Of manuscript, to trouble printers' dreams! What if thy cheap and easy-wielded prongs, Indite each year a hundred thousand songs, In ink of various copiousness and shade— On every subject Earth and Heaven have made! What if thou shovest 'neath the printer's nose, Cords of mis-spelled, unpunctuated prose! What if, picked from the wing of senseless goose, Thou'rt still by that loud biped oft in use! Thou'rt sometimes plucked from Wisdom's glittering wing; And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King! Is it The Pencil? Sad would be the lot Of any sanctum where this help were not! Turn, Faber, in thy half-forgotten grave, And see the branches of thy bay-tree wave! See Dickens, still by glory's wreaths untouched, Pencil 'twixt first and second fingers clutched, Transcribing, in his nervous, dashing way, The parliamentary rubbish of the day! Him on his rapid homeward journey see; An omnibus for office, and his knee Extemporized into a desk, whereon He writes what lesser men have said and done! See Thackeray, through English streets and vales, Make notes and sketches for his wondrous tales, See Bryant, sage apostle of the wood, And quiet champion of the true and good, Echo of every breeze's soft-blown breath, Sweetest of all apologists of Death, Leave the surroundings of the heath and field, The pencil of the journalist to wield! See Prentice, thorny genius, using it For the electric charges of his wit; See Saxe from mountain eyries take his flight, His wings with editorial radiance bright; See Whittier—angels spare him long to men!— Whose pencil served apprentice to his pen; See Taylor, travelling many a useful mile, Grasp a reporter's pencil all the while; See Holland—sweetly noble household name— Lean on the pencil, on his way to fame; See, bending the reporter's page above, Artemus Ward—light laughter's dearest love! See thousands of the loftiest of the land, First learn to write an editorial hand! And, Pencil, with such aids as thou canst find, Thou'rt courted, feared, and watched, by all mankind; They seek thy love; they wither 'neath thy hate; With anxious hearts thy verdicts they await. That statesman, who unflinching can withstand His foeman's broadsides, with brave self-command, That lawyer, who can bully at the bar Judge, witness, jury—no odds who they are— That doctor, who has sallied forth thro' storms, To fight with Death, in all his moods and forms, That general, who, when battle-banners wave, Can spur his foaming charger toward the grave, All these, when interviewers near them glide, Sometimes, like startled children, run and hide. Yes, Pencil, thou art potent in thy sting! And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King. Rise up, John Guttenberg, from lands
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