San Andreas independent., 1858-08-07
The Newspaper.

Perhaps there is no department of en-
terprise whose details are less understood
by intelligent people, than the art preserv-
ative-the achievemement of the types.
Every day their lives long they are ac-
customed to read the newspaper, find fault
with its statements, its arrangements, its
looks; to plume themselves upon the dis
covery of some roguish and acrobatlc type
that gets in frolic and stands upon its
head; or of some word with waste letter
or two in it; but of the process by which
newspaper is made; of the myriads of
motions and the thousands of pieces nec-
essary to its composition, they know but
very little and think less.
They imagine they discourse of won
der, indeed, when they talk of the fine
white carpet woven for thought to walk
on, of the rags that futtered on the back
of the beggar yesterday. But there is
something to us more wonderful still
When we look at the one hundred and
fifty little boxes, somewhat shaded with
the touch of inky fingers, that compose
the printers 'case," and watch him at
his noiseless work; noiseless except the
clicking of the types, as one by one, they
take their place in the growing line, we
think we have found the marvel of art.
Strewn in their little boxes are thin
paralelograms of metal, every one good
for single letter, coma, hyphen, a
something that goes to make up a written
language visible footprint 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 pick up here, and there, if he only
has little chart to work by; how many
facts in small hand-fulls; how many
truths in chaos.
Now he picks up the scattered ele-
ments, until he holds in his hand stanza
of Gray's Elegy, or monody upon Old
Grimes, "All buttoned down before y
Now he "sets up" puppy missing, and
now Paradise Lost; he arrays bride in
''small caps'' and sonnet in "nonpareil;"
and he announces that the languishing
will olive" in one sentence .transposes
the word, and deplores the days that are
few and "evil," in the next.
A poor old jest ticks its way into the
printers hand, like little clock just run
down and strain of eloquence march
ing in line, letter by letter. We fancy
we can tell the difference by the hearing
of the ear, but perhaps not. The types
that told wedding yesterday, announces
a burial tomorrow; perhaps in the self
same letters. They are elements to make
a world of-those types are; world with
something In it as beautiful as Spring,
as rich as Summer, and as grand as Au-
tumn flowers that frost cannot wilt i;
fruit that shall ripen for all time.
The newspaper has become the log
book of the age; it tells at what rate the
world is running, g,-who can find our
reckoning" without it ? True, the grocer
may bundle up pound of candles in our
last expressed thoughts, but it is only
coming to 'base uses," as its betters have
done, times innumerable. We console
ourselves by thinking that one can make
of that Newspaper what he cannot make
of ribs of living oak-a bridge of time.
That he can fling it over dead years, and
walk safely upon the shadowy sea of 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 enchant-
ed ground. Sometimes the editor has
the happiness of knowing that he defend
ed the right, exposed the wrong, protect
ed the weak; that he has given utterance
to sentiment that has cheered some
body's solitary hour; made somebody
happier, kindled smile upon a sad face,
or hope in a heavy heart.
He may meet with that sentiment,
months or years after; it may have lost all
traces of its paternity, but he feels an
affection for it. He reads it as for the
first time, and wonders indeed if he wrote
it, for he has changed since then. Per-
haps he could not give utterance to that
sentiment now; perhaps he would not if
he could. 1t seems like the voice of his
former self calling to his present, and
there is something mournful in its tone.
He begins to think, to remember re-
member when he wrote it, and why /;
who were his readers then and how
much he has changed. So he muses. till
he finds himself wondering if that thought
of his will continue to float after he is
dead, and whether he is really looking af-
ter something that shall survive him
And then comes the sweet consciousness
that there is nothing in the sentiment
that he could wish had been unwritten !;
that it is the better part of him a shred
from the garment of the Immortality he
shall leave behind him, when he joins the
innumerable caravan, and takes his place
in the silent hall of death.
sg As accidental burning is almost of
daily occurrence, we copy the following
simple cure for it: "The Gazette Ned