Ashtabula weekly telegraph. [volume] (Ashtabula, Ohio) 1853-1873, 1866-08-18
CHOICE MISCELLANY.
The Printer and His Type.

The following beautiful extract from
the pen Of Bepj1min F. Taylor, the printer
poet: % e'. ~, -'a 7. a.r t,' 70 7.,.Vo
Perhaps there is no department of eq'er'
prise vhosende,ails are less understood by
intelligent people than the orr prescryative,
the sebiee ement ofatTpos. 'o." I-i1ae i
EVERY day. their life long, they are 40
customed toTead the newspaper, to Ind
fanlt with its statements, its arrangements,
its looks; to plume themselves upon the dis
covery of some roguish and acrobatic type
that gets into frolic, and stands upon Its
head or of some waste letter or two In 1t
but Of the process by which the newspa.
per is made, of the myriods OF motions and
thousands of pieces necessary 10 it's compo'
sitiop, they know little, and think less.
They imagine that they discourse of 9
wonder, indeed, when they speak of the
fair white carpet woven for thoughts 70
walk on, Of the rags thai Aut,ered on the
back of the bcggar yesterday.
But there is something more wonderful
still. When we look at the hundred nnd
fifty two little boxes, somewhat shaded with
the touch of inky fingers, that compose the
printers case, noiseless, except the clicking
Of the types as one by one they to Q their
llces in the growing liLe-we think we
have found the marvel OF the art.
We think how many fancies in fragments
there are in the boxes, how many atoms of
pot try and eloqcence the printer can make
here and there, il he only had little chart
to work by, bow many facts iD small
handful, how much truth in chaos.
Now he picks up the scattered elements
until he holds in his h n stanza of Grey's
Elegy or n monody on Grimes, All But
tuned up Before. Now he sets Puppy
Missing. and row Paradise Lost he ar
rays bride in small caps and sonnet in
boppareil be announces the languishing
live, in one sentehce--transposes the words,
and deplores the days that are few and
evil, in the next.
A poor jest ticks its way slowly into the
printers hand, like clock just running
down, snd strain of eloquence marches
into line letter by letter. We fancy W.
can tell the difference by hearing of the ear
but perhaps not.
The types which had noticed a wedding
yesterday, announce burial 20 morrow
perhaps in the self same letters.
They are the elements TO manufacture q
world Of these types are world with
something in it as beautiful as the spring,
as rich as summer, and as grand as nu, umn
flowers Tint frost can never wilt, fruit that
shall rpeu fo7 all time. 4
The newspaper has become the log-book
of The sge it tells at what rate The world
is running we cannot end our reckoning
without it.
Trne, the green grocer may bundle mp a
pound Of candles in our last expressed
thoughts, but it is only coming to base nses
something that is done times ipumerahle.
We console ourselves by thinking that
one can make of that newspaper what be
cannot make of living oaks-s bridge for
time, that he can 1ing it over the chasm
Of the dead years, aud walk safely back
upon the shsdowy sea into the far past :
The singer shall not end his song, nor the
true soul be eloquent 20 more, o.
The realm of the press is enchanted
ground. Sometimes the editor has the
happiness Of knowing that be has stood up
for the right, exposed the wrong. and p'o'
teCted the weak that he has given uttsr.
ance 10 a sentiment which has indeed
cheered somebody's solitary hour, male
somebody happier, kindled smiles upon o
heavy heart. dn
He msy meet with that sentiment after
many years, when it may have lost all
charm Of its paternity, but he feels affection
for it. He welcomes it as long absent
child. He reads it as for the first time
and wonders IT.. indeed he wrote it-for he
has changed since then. Perhaps he could
not give utterance to the sentiment now
perhaps be would not If he cou'd.
1t seems like the voice OF his former self
calling to its parents, and there is some
thing mournful in its tone. He begins to
thiDk-to remember why It was be wrote
it, where his readers then, aud whittier
they have goae-what he wns then. and
how much he has chapged.l 5s9 SO be muses.
until he Guds himself wondering if that
thought of bis viii continue TO float after ho
is dead; aud II he is really looking upon
something that will survive him. And
then comes the sweet consciousness that
there is nothing id the sentence that he
conld wish unVritten--that is better part
Of him-a shred from garment Of immor'
tality he shall leave behind him when he
joins the innumerable caravan, aud takes
bis place in the silent chambers of death
Is AsmAL FooD NEcEssARy?-Mr. curl.
ing, seventeen years agent on tho Devon
estate in ireland, says;
There are $3.50 persons on the estate.
They are energetic, moral and we'll behaved