Weekly hawk-eye and telegraph. [volume] (Burlington, Iowa) 1855-1857, 1855-12-05

TIE proprictors Of the Chicago Evening Jour.
nd gave supper on ,lie esrniag Of the a9sh uli,
Than srisins DAY in lllsnois, 10 the lastics and
rcn.ies.en erapics4ti ii that oise and = feu in-
rited guests. The bill flare which Is given Is
. rather attractive one, and the ,oasis, speeches
and sopr. indicate that the right spirit prevailed
and Tint they had a good time Mr. Dempstcr
was prcscn, and sang
"A man'.a nan for a that"
After the first sentiment of the evening was
given:
TnY CosrosIroRs OF rHg JOURNAL OsficE.--.
We have every ,iay proof that the good conf
posi,or is the scholar OF the press. While it was
PAusr that invented, it WAS FnasktiS who per
performed.
Mr.. Benjamin r. TAYLOR, pne Of the Editors
OF the journal, responded in pretty speech the
conclusion OF which We givehcloU; ssss
And who Is this man We cali Composite. -
That stick he holds, lisa wand OF wonder 10 wave
into line the thought equipped for duty The
Compostor is the Adutant OF Thought, and this
cxulains the mystery of the wonderful word that
can kindle a hope as no song can---that word
.sc with hand. inland warmth in u, for the
Editor and Composi,of are Engineers together
Engineers indeed When the little Corsican
bombarded Catliz at the distance of Ave miles, it
was deemed the yery triumph of engineering
But what is that paltry range to this, whereby
| We boabardthc ages veto hey ifs
There Mt the case he stands and marshals
into line the forces armed for truth, clothed IN
| Immortality and English. And what can be no.
bier than that equipment Of a thought in sterling
! Saxon--Saxon with the ring Of shield therein,
and that commissioning il when VIC are dead, TO
| move grandly onto tile latest syllable of record.
| ed time Oh! this is TO win victory from
death, for this has no dying in it k&.
The Compassion torsooth is ealieda laborcr,
ana the Office he performs is toll Oh, i. is not
| work, but a sublime right he isperiorming, when
he thus sights the engine that is TO ding word
ed truth in grander curve than missile eer before
| described-fing 1t into tile bosom of an age I'M
| born. He throws of his coat indeed: We but
wonder The rather that he does not put his shoes
from OIL his feet, for the place whereon he stands
| is holy ground. fEg gE4EE2
| The click of the type in the priuter's stick
| seems TO me the clink of hammers closing rir-
cts up, for the great fray tomorrow and to-mor-
| row. gstE gF
| The clank of the steam press seems to me the
first audible football of commissioned thonght in
its sublime outgengs into Time; in its unrhallcng
| cd march along its corridors down the echoing
/ world. F65 "a sgls{ t 84sE @l5IHa,
This, of a surety, is to have two immortali-
| ties; one of them falls ike the mantle of the
! prophet upon the earth we are leaving, and the
! other wrapped about US, sweeps with the rustic
| of an Angels wing, the threshold of the tomb.
And that old, creaking, Ramn,age' press with
| grooming lever and plantiye scrcw.---can we
| wonder that thought, the thing that wears the
| pinions ofthc morning, should stand impatient
| by? More levers were heightened, more wheels
adjusted; water had been caught up from the
|. running river and tortured into energy and
strength in cells of iron, and it dartcd along the
brace of bars that clampcd space divided world
| and wovc as in loom, the dim, blue distance
into a narrow selvedge for the world. Why
| should it not bear upon its cloudy wing, the mer-
chandise mind, to Stations far on in the years
that are to come, and so, tonight, from the Steam
Press the talking leaves are falling, like forest
! coronals in wintry weather. u --.--.t....-.
| Mr.. 7. went on to specify more particularly, the
| Compositor's otiicc-work: that he is a weaver of
| the garb Of Thought; how delicate the thread OF
! fancy he nterweaves, how firm the fabric of the
! argument, how fast the colors OF the truth
Barbaric looms have nothing half so glorious, and
the tints of Tyre grow dim beside its beauty.
| The Composition was an architect--a Bridge
| Builder Have you not sometimes watched the
Rainbow that signet ring Of God, set for seal
! on the scroll! of tcmpcsts, as it fades slowly out,
! Bow, it spans on iral abutments the rainy world,
until at last, the colored arch falls into gray and
| gloom. Now Time and Humanity would be like
| that crumbling Bow, without the Conn o'itor
and the Press. But here comes our architect,
and the broken arches in the bridge OF time are
built anew, and the pale nations OF the past,
move in caravan sublime, along the mcnded way,
cloqucncc is no longer dumb, philosophy still
lives and the radiant hand Of Hisory's Muse is
pointing to her page. To fling spiders web
! above Niagara's brink was magnificent concep-
ton, but what was that TO this bridging OF Times
abyss, this walking OF true thought upon the wa
| tiers.
| "a little song was uttered somewhere long
| ago; 1t wandered through the twilight ieebier
than star: it died upon the car; 1T was like the
music of Caryl, pleasant but mournlul 10 me
| soul" But the Conposttor takes 1t mp where u
| was lying there in the silence hike "a wounded
bird. and he equips it anew with wings, and he
sends it forth from the Arh, that had preserved
! 1t, and 1t flies on mo the future with the oife
! branch oil peace, and around The world WIN mel
| ods hi5c the dawning of spring morning.
! That 1dea OF taxing The rags That the bcggaf
| grew weary OF wearing, AMI n'aNlng OF them
! fair white carpet Tor roya! Thought TO wax on
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