The Jeffersonian. [volume] (Stroudsburg, Pa.) 1853-1911, 1866-06-14
The Printer and his Type.

thO Peu VI HSnJ' T. a. ioi, INV Pi i"'c
poet:
Perhaps there is no department Of en-
terprise whose details are less understood
by intelligent people than the cart preserv
ative"-the achievement Of types.
Every day, their life long, they are ac
customed to read the newspaper, to fnt
fault with its statements, its arrangements
its looks to plume themselves upon th'
discovery of some roguish and acrobatic
| type that gets into frolic and stands upon
its head Or of some waste letters or two il
it-but of the process by which the news
paper is made, Of the myriads of motions
and thousands Of pieces necessary to it;
composition, they know little and think
less.
They imagine they discourse of won.
der, indeed, when they speak of the fail
white carpet woven or thought to walk
on, of the rags that 1uttered on the back
Of the beggar yesterday.
But there is something more wonder
full still When we look at the hundred
and fifty-two little boxes, somewhat shad-
cd with the touch of inky fingers, that
compose the printers "case = noise
less, except the clicking Of the types, as
they take their places in growing line
we think we have found the marvel of the
art
We think how many fancies in frag-
ments there are in the boxes, how many
atoms Of poetry and eloqueuce the prin-
ter can make here and there, if he only
had a little chart to work by, how many
facts in a small "handfuh,' how much
truth in chaos.
Now he picks up the scattered elements
until he holds in his head stanza Of
"Grey's Elegy y or a ,mondly upon
Grimes "All Buttoned up before" Now
he "sets' a "puppy missing" and now
paradise LOST" he arrays bride IN
''small caps" and a sonnet in "nonpa
reil;" he announces the gushing olive, !"
in one sentence-traDsposes 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 jnstrunning
down, and strain of elequence 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 announces burial to morrow-per-
haps the self same letters.
They are the 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 rs autumn flow
ers that frost cannot wilt, fruit that shall
ripen for ali time.
The newspaper has become the log
book of the age, it tells at what rate the
world running; we cannot find our ''reck
oning" without it.
True, the green grocer may bundle up
a pouEd of candles in our last expressed
thoughts, but it is only coming to base
uses, something that is done times innu
merable.
We console ourselves by thinking that
one can make of that newspaper what he
cannot make of living oaks-a bridge for
lime, that he can fling it over the chasm
Of the dead years and walk safely back
upon the shadowy 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 defend
cd the right, exposed the wrong, protec-
led the weak that he had given utter
luce to a sentiment that cheered some
body's solitary hour, made somebody hap
pier, kindled smile upon sad face, or
hope on a heavy heart.
lie may meet with that sentiment many
years after it may loose all charm of its
but he feel affections for it
lie welcomes it as long absent child
He reads it as for the first time, and
wonders if, indeed, he wrote it, for he has
changed since then. Perhaps he could
not give utterance to the sentiment now
he would not if he could.
1t seems ike the voice of his former
self calling to its parents, and there is
mournful in its tone. He be-
gins to think-to remember why he wrote
It, where were his readers then and with
er they have gone-what he was then, and
how much be has changed. So he muses.,
until he finds himself wondering if that
thought of his will continues to float after
be is dead, and whether he is really look
ing upon something that will survive him.
And then comes the sweet consciousness
hat there is nothing in the sentence that
be could wish unwritten-that it is bet
.er part Of him-a shred from garment
Of immortality lie shall leave behind him
when he joins the "innumerable caravan,
and takes his place in the silent halls of
leath.
"Ihere, John, that's twice you've come
home and forgotten that lard"
''La, mother, it was so greasy that 1t