Cedar Falls gazette. [volume] (Cedar Falls, Iowa) 1860-1895, 1867-04-05
The Printer. and his Type.

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The Printer. and his Type.
The following beautiful extract ID
from the pen of BENZ. F. Taylor, the
printer poet.
Perhaps there is no department of en-.
terprlse whose details are less under.
stood by Intelligent people than the cart
preservatlve 1.-THE achievment of types.
Every day, their life long, they are
accustomed to read the newspaper, to
find fault with its statements, its ar
rangement, its looks; to plume them
selves upon the discovery of some
roguish and acrobatic type that gets up
Qp q froiic and stands upon its head. or
OF some waste letter or two in it-but OF
the process by which the newspaper is
made, OF the myriads of motions and
thousands of pieces necessary to its
composition, they know little and think
| less.
They imagine they discourse of a
wonder, indeed, when they speak of
the fair white carpet woven for Thought
to walk on, ofthe rags that fluttered on
the back of the beggar yesterday.
But there is something more wonder
ful still. When we look at the hun
dred and fifty-two little boxes. some-
what shaded with inky fingers-that
compose tho printers " case 'j-noisless
except the clicking of the types. as one
by one they take their places in the
growing line, We think we have found
the marvel of art.
We think how many fancies in frag-
ments there are in the boxes, how
many atoms Of poetry and eloquence
the printer can make here and there, if
he only had little chart to go by, how
many facts in small handfull,n how
much truth in chaos.
Now he picks up the scattered ele-
ments until he holds in his hand a
stanza OF nGray's Elegy;;u ora monody
FORE" Now he "sets - a !" puppy mis-
sing" and now paradise IIost:n ar
rays q bride in small caps, - and a SON
net in ''nonpareil;n ~ he announces the
languishing live,n i'm one sentence
and transposes the word, deplores the
days that are few and "evii," in the
next.
A poor jest ticks its way slowly into
the printers hand, like a clock lust
running down, and a strain of elo-
quenee marches into line, letter by let
ter. We fancy we can tell the differ
ence by hearing of the ear, but perhaps
not.
The type that told wedding yester-
day, announces a burial tomorrow.
perhaps the self same letters.
They are elements to make world.
those type are a world with something
in 1t as beautiful as spring, as summer.
and as grand as autumn flowers that
frost cannot wilt, fruit that shall ripen
for all time.
The newspaper has become the book
OF the age 1t tells as at what rate the
world is running; we cannot find our
" reckoning" without it.
True, the grOcerer may bundle up
pound of candles in our last expressed
thoughts, but it is only coming to ba-
ser uses, something that is done times
. We console ourselves by thinking
that one can make of that newspaper
what he cannot make OF living oak
o bridge for time, that he can fling it |
over the chasm of dead years, and walk |
back over 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 de-
Tended the right, exposed the wrong
protected the weak that he has given
utterance to q sentiment that has cheer |
ed somebody's solitary hour, made
happier, kindled smile up
on sad face, or hope on a heavy heart.
He may meet with that sentiment
many years after; 1t may have lost all
charms of its paternity, but he feels af-
fection for it, he welcomes 1t as long
absent child. He reads it as for the
first time, and wonders liz indeed. he
wrote it, for he has changed since then,
perhaps he could not give utterance to
the sentiment now-perhaps he would
not If he could.
! Itseems like the voice Of his former
self callingto his parents, there is some
thing mournful in its tone. ne begins
to think-to remember why he wrote
it, and where We're his readers then,
and whittier they have gone-~what he
was then, and how much he has
changed. So he muses., till he finds
himself wondering if that thought of
his, will float after he is dead, and
whether he is really looking upon
something that will survive him.
And then comes the sweet concious.
ness that there Is nothing in the sem
tence that he could wish unwritten-
that it 10 q better part of him--a shred
from garment of immortality he shall
leave behind him when he Joins the
" innumerable caravan, and les his
place in the silent halls Of death.
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