Virginia free press. (Charlestown, Va. [W. Va.]) 1832-1916, 1867-05-02
MISCELLANY:
The Printer and His Types.

The following beautiful extract is from the
pen of benjamin F. Taylor, the printer-poet;
Perhaps there is no department Of enterprise
whose details are less understood, By Intelligent
people, than the "srt preservative' the achieve
ment of types. Every day their life long they
are accustomed to read the newspaper, and find
fault with its statements, its arrangements, It's
looks to plume themselves upon the dlscov-
cry of some roguish and acrobatic type that
gets into frolic 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 the thousand Of
pieces necessary TO its composition, they know
little and think much less. They immagine
they discourse Of a wonder. indeed, when they
speak of the fair white carpet, woven for
thought to walk on, Of the rags that tiuttered
on the back Of the beggar yesterday:
But there is something more wonderful still.
When we look at the hundred and ffty-two
little boxes, somewhat shaded by the touch OF
inky fingufes, that coinposeth printers "case,'
noiseles, except the clicking Of the types, as
one by one they take their places in the grow
line-we think we have found the marvel OF
the art. We think how many fancies in frag-
mcnts there are in the boxes, how many atoms
Of poetry and eloquence the printer can make
here and there, il he only had little chart to
work by, how many facts in small handful,
how much truth in chaos. Now he picks up
the scattered elements until he holds in his
hands stanza of "Grays Elegy," or monody
on Grimes, "All Buttoncd up Before" Now
he sets Puppy Missing" and now Paradise
Lost )" he arrays bride in "small caps" and
sonnet in "nonparisl :" he announces the Ian
gushing live, in one sentence-transposes the
word and deplores the days that are few and
evil in the next.
A poor Jest ticks its way slowly into the
printer hand, like clock just thinning down,
and strain Of eloquence marches into line let
ter by letter. We fancy we can tell the differ
ence by hearing by the ear, but perhaps not.
The types that told wedding yesterday an
norince burial to-morrow--perhsps the same
letters. They are the elements to make
world of-these types are world with some
thing in il as beautiful as Spring, as rich as
Summer. and as grand as Autumn flowers that
frost cannot wilt. Fruit that shall fipen for
all time. The newspaper has become the log
book of the sgc II tells at what rate the
world is running we cannot find our reckon
ing" without it. True the green grocer may
bundle up pound of candles in our last ex-
pressed thoughts, but it is only coming to base
uses, something that is done times innumera-
BILE.
We console ourselves by thinking that one
can make Of that newspaper what he cannot
make of living oaks-a brige for time, that he
can fling over the chastn Of the dead years into
the far past. The singer shall not end his song,
nor the sotl be eloquent no more. The realm
of the press is enchanted ground. Sometimes
the editor has the happiness Of knowing that
he has defended the right, exposed the wrong.
protected the weak that he has cheeredsome-
body's solitary hour, made somebody happier,
kindled smile upon sad face, or hope in
a heavy heart. lie may meet with that senti-
ment many years after it may have lost all
charms Of its paternity, but he feels affection
for il. He 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 ttterance to
the sentiment now-perhaps he would not il
he could. It seems ike the voice Of his former
self calling TO his patents, and there is some
thing muurnful ii his tone.
He begin: 10 think-to remember why he
wrote it, who were his readers then, and how
much he has changed. SO he muses., until he
wonders if that thought Of bis will continue TO
float after he is dead and whether he is looks
ing upon something that will survive hifr.-
And then comes the sweet consciousness tna'
there is nothing in the sentence that be could
wish unwritten-that is better part OF him
a shred from the garment Of immortality he
shall leave behind him when he joins the "in-
numerablc caravan, - and takes bis place in the
silent halls of death.
Sonaow.-Sorrow sobers US and makes the