Western Reserve chronicle. [volume] (Warren, Ohio) 1855-1921, 1858-10-20
The PRINTER AND THE TYPES.
BY B. F. TAYLOR.

/ serva,ive"-the achievement OF the
types.
Every day, their lives long, they are
accustomed to read the newspapers, to
find fault with its statement, its looks
to plume themselves upon the discovery
of some roguish and acrobatic type that
gets into frolic and stands upon its
head; or of some with a waist letter or
two in it-but of the process by which
the newspaper is made, of the myriads
of motions and thousands of pieces ne
cessary to its composition, they know lit
tie and think less.
They imagine the discourse of won
der indeed, when they speak of the fair
white carpet woven for thought to walk
on, of the rags that futtered upon the
backs of the beggar yesterday.
But there is TO us, something more
wonderful still. When we look at the
hundred and fifty-two little boxes, some-
thing shaded with the touch of inky fin.
gers, that compose the.printer's cease"
nOisless, except the clicking of the types
as one by one they take their place in
thegrowing line-we think we have found
the marvel of the art.
Strewn in these little boxes, are thin
parallelograms OF metal, every one good
for something that goes to make up
written language-the visible footprints
of thought upon carpet of rags.
We think how many fancies in frag-
ments there are in the boxes, how many
atoms of poetry and elOquence the
printer can make here and there, if he
only has a little chart to work by,
how many facts in small handfuls, how
much truth and chaos.
Now he picks up the scattered ele-
ments until he holds in his hand stanza
of Gray's Elegy, or monody upon a
Grimes ''all buttoned up before" Now
he 'sets" puppy missing" and now
paradise LOST" he arrays bride in
''small caps!" and sonnet in ''nonpa-
riel," be announces that the languishing
''live," in one sentence, transposes the
word. and deploles the days that are few
and "evil," in the next.
A poor jest tricks its way into the priu-
ter's hand like little clock just running
down, and strain of eloquence marches
into line, letter by letter. We fancy we
can tell the difference by hearing of the
ear, but perhaps not.
The types that told wedding yester-
day, announced a burial tomorrow
perhaps in the self-same letters.
They are elements to make world
Of those types are, world with some
thing in it as beautiful as spring, as rich
as summer, and as grand as autumn;
flowers that frost cannotwilt, fruit that
Shall Hpen lOf Oil liIuc'
The newspaper has become the log
book of the age, it tells at what rate
the world is running. we cannot find our
reckoning without it.
True, the green grocer may bundle up
a pound of candles in our last expressed
thoughts, but it is only coming to base
uses, as its letters have done times in
Vulnerable.
We console ourselves by thinking that
one can make of that newspaper what he
canuo: make of living oak-a bridge for
time, that he can fling it over the chasm
of the dead years and walk safely Uack
upon the shahowy sea into the far Past.
The singer shall not end his song, nor
the true soul be eloquent no more.
The realm of the Press is enchanted
ground. Sometimes the editor has the
happiness of knowing that he has defen-
ded the right, exposed the wrong, pro- \
tected the weak, that he has given utter
ance to sentiment that is not lost, SEN
timent that has cheered somebody's SOL
itary hour, made somebody happier,
kindled smile upon sad face, or hope
on heavy heart.
He may meet with that sentiment
months, years after it may have lost all
traces of its paternity, but he feels an af
feclion for it. He welcomes it as long
absent child. He reads it as for the first
time, and wonders if indeed he wrote it,
for be has changed since then. Perhaps
he could not give utterance to the SEN
timent now, perhaps he would not if he
could.
1t seems Ike the voice of his former
self calling to his present, and there is
mournful in its tone. He be- [
gins TO think, to remember why he wrote ,
i, where were his readers then, and /
whittier they have gone; what he was i
hen, and how much be has changed
So he muses. until he finds himself won
lering if that thought of his will contin
le to float after he is dead, and whether
ne is really looking upon something that
will survive him. And then comes the
sweet consciousness that there is nothing
n the sentence that he could wish un- .
Eritten, that it is better part of him, a