Mountain Democrat. [volume] (Placerville, El Dorado Co., Cal.) 1854-1860, 1858-05-22
The HewSpapN.

Perhaps there iS no department OF enterprise
whose details are less understood by intelligent
people, than the art preservative-the achiev-
ment Of the types.
Every day their lives long they are accus-
toned to read the newspaper, find fault with
its statements, its arrangements, its looks; to
plume themselves upon the discovery ofsomc
roguishNnd acrobatic type that gets in frolic
and stands upon its head or of some word
with a waste letter or two in it; but by the
process by which newspaper is made; Of the
myriads Of motions and the thousands of pie
ccs necessary to its composition, they know
little and think less.
They imagine they discourse of wonder,
indeed, when they talk of the fine white car
pet woven for thought to walk on, Of the rags
that fluttcred on the back Of the bcggar yes
terday. But there is to US something more
wonderful still. When we look at the hun
drcd 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 III the growing line, we think We have
found the marvel Of art.
Strewn in their little boxes are thin paral-
kilograms of metal, every one good for single
letter, comma, hyphen, q something that
goes to make up written languagc-the visible
footprints Of thought upon carpets Of rags.
We think how many iancies in fragments
there in the boxes; how many atoms Of poe
try and cloqucnce the printer can pick up
here, there, il he only has little chart 10
work by; how many facts in small handlulls /;
how much truth in chaos.
Now he picks up the scattered elements,
until he holds in his hand stanza of Gray 5
Elegy, or mOnody upon Grimes, "All but
toned down before" Now he "SetS up" q
puppy missing, and now Paradise Lost; he
arrays bride in "Small caps, and sonnet
in nonpariel;" he announces that the Ian
gushing will live" in one sentence; trans
poses the word, and deplores the days that
are few and evil, in the next.
A poor old jest ticks its way into the prin-
ter'S hand, like a little clock just running
down; and strain of eloquence marches in
to 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 burial tomorrow
perhaps in the selfsame letters. They are el-
ments to make world of-those types are q
world with something in it rs beautiful Us
Spring, us rich as Summer, and as grand as
Autumn; flowers that frost cannot wilt; fruit
that shall ripen for all time
The newspaper has become the log-boOk Of
the age; it tells at what rate the morld is run.
ming who can find our reckoning" with.
out itg True, the grocer may bundle up q
pound Of candles in our last expressed
thoughts, but it is only coming to "base uses,
as its bctters have done, times innumerable
We console ourselves by thinking that ont
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 wall
safely upon the shadowy sea Of the'Gar pat
That the singer shall not end his song, mo-
the true soul be eloquent no more. The reallI
Of the Press is enchanted ground. Some
times the editor has the happiness OfknOwinl
that he has defended the right, exposed thu
wrong, protected the weak; that he has giveI
uttcrance to sentiment that has cheereC
somebody's solitary hour; made somebody
happier, kindlcd smile upon sad face, or
hope III heavy heart. -
He may meet with that sentiment months
years after; il may have lost all traces Of it
paternity, but he feels an affection for it, IL
reads it as for the first time, and wonders
indeed he wrote it, for he has changed sine
then. Perhaps hc could not give uttcrance II
the sentiment now; perhaps he would not
he could. 1t seems like the voice Of his for
mer self calling to his present, and there i
something mourntul in It's tone He begins t.
think, to remember; remember when h
wrote it and why; who were his readers then
and whittier they have gone; what was h
then; and how much he has changed. So h
muses. till he finds himself wondering if tina
thought Of his will continue to float after h.
is dead, and whether he is really looking up
on something that shall survive him. Ant
then comes the sweet consciousness that thcr
is nothing in the sentiment he could wish ha,
been unwrittcn; that it is the better part O
him; shred from the garment of the immor
tality he shall leave behind him, when he Join
the innumerable caravan" and takes hi
place in tho silent hall Of DEATH Warerl!
Magazine.