San Andreas independent., 1858-05-22

thereis no department of enterprise whose
details are less understood by intelligent
people, than the "art preventative" the
achievement of the types.
Every day, their lives long, the people
are accustomed to read the newspapers,
to find fault with its statements, its ar
rangements, its looks; to plume them
selves upon the discovery of some roguish
and acrobatic type that gets in frolic
and stands upon its head or with some
word with superfuous letter or two in
1t; but of the process by which the news
paper is made, or the myriads of motions
and the thousands of pieces necessary to
It's composition They imagine they dis
course of a wonder indeed, when they
talk of fair white carpet woven for
thought to work on, of the rags that yes
terday futtered on the back of the beg
gar. But there is to us something in it
more wonderful still When we look at
the hundred and fifty-two little boxes,
that compose the printers "case," and
watch him at his noiseless work-noise-
less, except the clicking of the types, as,
one by one they take their places in the
growing line, we think we have the mar
vel of the art. Strewn in those little
boxes are thin parallellograms of metal,
every one good for single letter, COM
ma, hyphen, a something that goes to
make up written language-the visible
footprints of thought upon the carpet of
rags. We think how many fragments
there are in the boxes; how many atoms
of poetry and eloquence the printer can
pick up here and there, if he has only a
little chart to work by; how many facts
in small handfuls, how much truth in
chaos. Now he picks up the scattered
alements, until he holds in his hand a
stanza of "Gray's Elegy," or monody
upon Old Grimes, all buttoned down be-
fore" Now he sets up "Puppy Miss
ing" and then Paradise Lost" He
arrays bride in small caps" and a
sonnet in nonpareil;" he announces in
one sentence that the languishing will
live; transposes the word, and deplores
the days that are few and evil in the next
A poor old jest ticks it's way into the
printers hand, like little clock Just
running down and a strain of eloquence
marches into line letter by letter. We
fancy we can tell the difference by the
hearing of the ear, but perhaps not. The
types that told of wedding yesterday
announce burial tomorrow perhaps in
the self-same letters.
They are the elements to make world
of-those types area world with some
thing in it as beautiful as spring. as rich
as summer and as grand as autumn
fruit that shall ripen for all time. The
newspaper has become the log book of the
age it tells us at what rate the world is
running; we cannot find our reckoning
without it. True, the verdant grocer
may bundle up pound of candles in our
last expressed thoughts, but it has come
to chase uses as its bcttcrs have done,
times innumerable We console our
selves by thinking that one can make of
that newspaper, what he cannot make of
ribs of living oak-a bridge for Time );
that he can fling it over the chasm of the
dead years, and walk safely back upon
the shadowy sea, into the far Past that
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 ut
terance to sentiment, that he has cheer
ed somebody's solitary hour, made some
body happier, kindled a smile upon sad
face, or hope in heavy heart.