The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1873-03-28
The Printer and His Types.


The following beautiful extract is from
the pen of Benjamin +. Taylor, the
prlnter-poet
Perhaps there is no department of
enterprise whose details are less under
stood by intelligent people than the cart
preservative"-thea achievement of types.
Every day their life long, they are ac-
customed to read the newspaper, and
find fault with it's statements, its ar
rangements, its looks to plume them
selves upon the discovery 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 thou
sands of pieces necessary TO its compo-
sition. they know little and think less.
They imagine they discourse of won
der indeed when they speak of the fair
white carpet, woven for thought to walk
on of the rags that huttered on the back
of the beggar Yesterday But there il
something more wonderful still. When
we look at the hundred and 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
take their places in the growing line
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 poetry and eloquence
the printer can make here and there, if
he only had little chart to work by;
how many facts in a small handful -
how much truth in chaos. Now he picks
up the scattered elements until he holds
in his hands a stanza of Gray's Elegy, ="
or a monody upon Grimes All Button
ed up Before. " Now he sets puppy
missing" and now Paradise Lost" he
arrays bride in " small caps, and a
sonnet in nonpareil He announces
the languishing 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
printers hand, like clock just running
down, and strain of eloquence marches
into the line, letter by letter. We fancy
we can tell the difference by hearing by
the ear, but perhaps not. The types
that told wedding yesterday announce
burial to-morrow-perhaps the same
letters. They are the elements to make
world of-those types are world with
something III it as beautiful as spring,
as rich as summer, and as grand as
autumn flowers that frost cannot wilt
fruit that shall ripen for all time. The
newspaper has become the log book of
the age. 1t tells at what rate the world
is running we cannot find our "reckon.
ing" without it. True, the green grocer
may bundle up a pound of candles in
our last expressed thoughts, but it is
only coming to base uses, something
that is done 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 and walk safely back
upon the shadowy sea into the far past.
The singer shall not end his song nor
the soul 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 given utterance TO a
sentiment that has cheered somebody Z
solitary hour, made somebody happier,
klndled smile upon a sad face, or a
hope in heavy heart. He may meet
with that sentiment many years after
it may have lost all charms of its pater.
nifty, but he feels affection for it. He
welcomes it as a long absent child He
reads it as for the first time, and won.
ders if indeed he wrote it, for indeed
he has changed since then. Perhaps
he could not give utterance to the senti
ment now-pcrhaps he would not if he
could. 1t seems like the voice of his
former self calling to his parents, anG
there is something mournful in his tone
He begins to think-to remember why
he wrote it, who were his readers then
and whittier they had gone-what he wa!
then, and how much he has changed
So he muses., until he finds himself won
.dering if that thought of his will con
tinue to float after he is dead, anC
whether he is looking upon something
that will survive him. And then comes
the sweet consciousness that there i
nothing in the sentence that he coul,
wish unwritten-that it is better par
of him-a shred from garment of i'm
mortality he shall leave behind him whel
he Joins the innumerable caravan,
and takes his place in the silent halls o