Washington standard. [volume] (Olympia, Wash. Territory) 1860-1921, 1867-04-27


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walk on. of the rags that fuffered on
the hack of the bcgger Yesterday
+ But there y something more won
deriul still. When we lock at the
+ hundred and fiity-two little boxes.
somewhat shaded by the touch of
inky fingers, that compose the prin-
:er's case 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 fragments there are in the
boxes, how many atoms OF poetry
and eloqucnce the printer can mako
here and there if he has only little
chart to work by, how many facts in
small handfull," how much truth
in chaos. Now he picks up the
scattered elements until he holds in
his hands 1t stanza Of "Gray's Ele-
gy," or q monody on Grimes, "Alt
buttoued down before" Now he
sets "a Puppy Mss'ng," and
now Paradise Lost" he announces
the languishing live, in one SEN
tcnce-transposcs the word and de.
plorcs the days that are few and evil
| in the next.
A poor jest ticks its way slowly
into tho printers hand, like clock
just running down, and q strain of
c!oqucnce marches into liue lettor by
letter. We fancy we can tell the
difference by hearing by the ear, but
perhaps not. The types that told a
wedding yesterday, announce buri-
al to-day-perhaps the same letters.
They are the elements to make a
world of-these types are world,
with something in it rs beautiful as
Spring, as rich as Summer, and as
grand as autumn flowers that frost
cannot wilt. Fruit that shall riperI
for all time. The newspaper has be-
come tho log.book of the age. 1t
tells at what rate the world is rum
ming; we cannot find our reckoning
without it. True the green grocer
may bundle up pound of candles in
our last expressed thoughts, but it is
only coming to base uses, something
that is dcne times innumerable.
We console ourselves by thinking
that one can make of that newspaper
what he cannot make of living oaks
"a bridge for time. that he can fling
over the chasm of the dead years in
the far past. The singer shall not
end his song, nor the soul be elo-
Quent no more. The realm of the
press is enchanted ground. Some
times the editor has the happiness Of
knowing that he has defended tho
right, exposed the wrong, protected.
the weak; that he has cheered some
body's solitary hour, made somebody
happier, kindlcd a smile upon a sad
face, or hope in heavy heart. lie
may meet with that sentiment many
many years after; it may have lost
all charms Of its paternity. but he
feels affection for it. He welcomes
il as a long-absent child. He reads
il as for the first time. and wonders
If Indeed he wrose il, for he has
changed since then ferlraf's he
ecali nS, give uf'crznoc 20 the sensi-
naenf now-Gerhzy~ be woula not II
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