Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, Va. [W. Va.]) 1852-1859, 1858-04-15
THE EDITORS TRIALG
BY KATE NEVILLE.

How often we think, when reading the news,
An Editor always could please if he choose;
But such paper as this, why, all must agree,
That thing of less interest they never did see.
But, Sir Critic, reflect, yOL make noise on,
That one mans meat is another mans poison.
And lest you persist in your steady dcnials,
Wen give you a few of an editors trinls:-
First, pretty young lady, sprightly and fair,
With paper in hand, waltzes up to a chair,
And hastily glancing DER all that she saw,
She thrusts it aside with niuttered "Pshaw!"
No marriages here
/ think it is queer,
When there's ever many
They don't publish any.
Here's poetry, Aud battles,
Sketches, And seiges,
And tales, And lawsuits,
Without ending, Are pending;
But no pic-nics, or concerts, or parties for me
Such trash upon paper l never did see.
Then nice young man, with cane and nous
Who certainly thinks he is cutting dash,
Looks over the list of plays and sorees,
As if vainly trying his fancy to please,
In theatres, In races,
Circuses, And chases,
Operas, In hanquets,
Balls, And calls;
And finally wonders what editors mean
BY printing paper not fit to be seen.
Sentimental young lady next picks up the paper,
And reads by the light of din burning taper,
And wonders, If lines addressed to Miss BeO,
Were not written to her by some clever young
fellow,
Who's pretty, and witty, and learned and wise;
But she stops in alarm at the dark hazel eyes,"
For hers arc blue,
What pity, tits truer
And now, Mr.. Editor,
'Tis all blamed on you.
/ What speeches. And lawinG.
What sermons, And jawlng,
! And news, And cawing,
BY dispatch, To match.
| But no sketches OF tales that can see;
! What kind of must the Editor be?
Next a grave politician, who with dignity gIows,
Adjusts his gold spectacles over his nose,
Takes huge pinch OF snuff before lie proceeds,
Then opens the paper and lesurely reads,
OF breaches, or Senate,
And speeches, OF House,
And foreign Ofrailways,
Reports, And courts,
And says as he reads the last column of war,
What strange kind of people these Editors are,
These rhymes and these love-stniies TO print;
If 'twoud do any good, would give them
hint
Now a prim old maid the paper espies,
And, holding it carefully off from her eyes,
And, frequently lnuttering, La and ''DO tell
She manages, some way, to read very-weIl,
The marriages, The robberles,
Accidents, And murders,
Suicides, all in
Deaths, breath,
And, finishing, wonders what sort ofa blunder
Tie whole Of the community is under,
To support paper whose print is 50 small
She wonders how some people read it at all.
Next an angry contributor eager for fame,
Rushes into the sanctum, to loudly complain
I'm ruined, Sir, ruined-my success Sir, is DER;
tE. 81 f.,fN
Look here at this Sonnet addressed to my Lady,
You've made it a Bonnet and Dress for a Baby.'
Don't talk of my writing, and say It was that,
You're an Editor, Sir, but no gent-thatis fiat. "
The farmer complains that his crops are neglec-
ted
While so much time is spent guessing who'll be
elected,
The minister says it should be more sedate,
And not so much wasted in matters Of State.