The Highland weekly news. [volume] (Hillsborough [Hillsboro], Highland County, Ohio) 1853-1886, 1857-11-12
The Printer and the Types.

ny B. T.. TAYLOR, OF THE CHICAGO JOURNAL.
Perhaps there is no department of en-
tcrpriso whose details are less ssundewtood
by intelligent people, than the art pre-
scrvatiyc yc'-thc achievement of the types
Every day, their lives long, they arc
accustomed to read the newspaper, to
find fault with It's statements, It's arrange
mcnt, its looks to plume themselves
upon the discovery Of some roguish and
acrobatic type that gets in trolic and
stands upon it's head; or Of some word
with q waste letter or two in it but Of
the process by which the newspaper is
made of the myriads Of motions and
thousands of pieces necessary to it's COM
position, they know little, and think
| less.
They imagine they discourse ofaw won
der, indeed, when they speak of the fair
whito carpet woven for thought to walk
on, of the rags that duttorcd upon the
back Of the bcggar, yesterday
But there is to ua, something more
Wonderful still When we look at the
hundred and ffty-two little boxes,
something shaded with the touch Of iuky
fingers, that compose the printer case,
and watch him at his noisoless work
noisolcss, except tho clicking Of the
types as one by one they take their
places in the growing line, we think we
have found the marvel Of the art,
Strown i'm those little boxes, are thin
parollelograms Of metal, every one good
/ for a single letter, a comma, hyphen
a something that goes to make up writ
ten languagc-thc visible footprints oi
thought upon carpets Of rags,
We think how many faucies in frag
mcnts, there are in the boxes how
many atoms Of poetry and cloquence tho
printer can pick up here and there if he
only has a little chart to work by; how
many facts in small handfulls; how mucl
truth in chaos.
Now he picks up the scattered clc
ments, until he holds in his hand a stan
~ of Gray's EIegy, or monody upor
Grimes, call buttoned down before.
| Now he 'scts up a puppy missing,
land now Paradise lost; he, arrays ;
bride i'm small caps and a sonnet il
| nOnparcil : he announces that the Ian
Iguishing will live i'm one sentence
IuUnsposcs the word, and deplorcs the
days that are few and evil, in the next
| A poor old Jest ticks its way into the
Iprintcr's hand like a little clock jus
running down; aud a strain Of cloqucnco
marches into line, letter by letter. W.
fancy we can tell the difference by thu
hearing of the ear, but perhaps not.
The types that told a wedding ycstcr
, day, announce a burial to-morrow-per
haps in the self-same letters
They are the elements to make
world of-thoso types are; world wit
p something in it as beautiful as Spring
as rich as summer, and as grand as au
tumn; flowers that fyosts cannot wilt
fluit that shall ripcu for all time.
The newspaper has become a log-booI
Of the age it tells us at what rate tn
world is running; We cannot Gnd GU
reckoning without it.
True, the grcen-grocer may bundl
up pound of candles i'm our last cE
pressed thoughts but it is only comm
. to base uses, as its betters have don
, times innumcrable.
We console ourscf by thinking tha
one can make of that newspaper wha
he cannot make Of ribs Of living oak
bridge for time That he can fling
S over the chasm Of the dead years, an
walk safely back upon the shldowy sc
a, into the far Past. That the singer shaI
Z not end his song, nor the true soul b
t eloquent no more
S The realm OF the Press is ouchantc
s ground. Sometimes tho editor has Oh
] happiness Of knowing that he has de
e Gcndcd the right, exposed the wrong
e protected the weak tha, he has give
/: Iutterance to q sentiment that is no. lost
" sentiment that has chcered somebody
f solitary hour made somebody happie
C kindled a smile upon a sad face, or
t hope in a heavy heart
}, He may meet with that sentimoT
r months, years after 10 may have lost a
C traces of its paternity, but he feels a
n affection for it, lie welcomes it as
e long absent child. He reads it as fC
n the first time, and wonders if indeed,
d wrote it, for he has changed since thor
S Perhaps he could not give uttcranCo
n the sentiment now; perhaps he wou
e not, if he could.
e IL seems like the voice of his form
IS self, calling to his present, and the
f is something mournfuI in its tone
f. He begins to think to remember
y remember when he wrote it, and VIII,
d who were his readers them and whith
. they have gone what he was then, al
20 how, and how much, he has change
a So he muses. till he finds himselfwond
;; ing if that thought Of his viii continI
le to float on after he is dead, and wheth
N he is really looking upon something tn
ID shall survive him. And then comes Il
IA sweet consciousness that there is nothil
D. i'm the sentiment he could wish unwr
st ten that it is the better part of hin
,k shred from the garment Of the immC
ar tality he shall leave behind him, win
}, he joins the 'innumerablo caravan, al
or takes his place in the silent halls
Id0oth