The Yazoo City Weekly Whig

The Printer. —"I pity the printer," said Uncle Toby.

"He's a poor creature," rejoined Trim.

"How so?" said my uncle.

"Because, in the first place," continued the corporal, looking full upon my uncle, "because he must endeavor to please everybody. In the negligence of a moment, perhaps a small paragraph pops upon him; he hastily throws it to the compositors, it is inserted; and he is ruined to all intents and purposes."

"Too much the case, Trim," said my uncle with a deep sigh. "Too much the case."

"And please your honor," continued Trim, "this is not the whole."

"Go on, Trim," said my uncle feelingly.

"The printer, sometimes," pursued the corporal, "hits upon a piece which pleases him highly; and he thinks it cannot but go down with his subscribers. But, alas, sir, who can calculate the human mind? He inserts it and it is all over with him. They forgive others, but they cannot forgive the printer. He has a host to print for, and every one sets up for a critic. The pretty Miss exclaims, Why don't you give us more poetry, marriages and bon mots? away with those stale pieces." The politician claps his specs over in search of violent invectives; he finds none, takes them off, folds them up, sticks them in his pocket and declares the paper is good for nothing but to burn.

So it goes. Every one thinks it ought to be printed of himself as he is a subscriber; and yet after all this complaining, sir would you believe it, sir there are some subscribers who do not hesitate to cheat the printer out of his due! Our army swore terribly in Flanders, but we never did anything so bad as that!"

"Never!" said my uncle Toby, with the most sentimental concern.