Year: 1866

The following beautiful extract is from the pen Of
/ BEN. F. Taylor, the printer poet:


Perhaps there is department of enterprise whose
details less understood by intelligent people than
the "art preservative"-the achievement of types.
Every day, their life long, they accustomed to
read the paper to find fault with its statements,
its arrangements, its looks to plume themselves up
the discovery of roguish aud acrobatie type
that gets into a rolic and tlnds upon its head of
waste letter in it-but of the process by
which the newspaper is made, of the myriads OF mo-
tions and thousands Of pieces necessary to its eompo
sition they know little and think less.


They imagine they discourse of a wonder, indeed,
when they speak OF the fair white carpet for
thought 70 walk on of the rags that huttered the
back OF the beggar yesterday.


But there is something more wonderful still. When
we lcok at the hundred and htty-two little boxes,
somewhat shaded with the touch OF nky fingers. that
compose the printers noiseess, except the
clicking Of the types, one by they take their
places in growing iine-we think we have found the
marvel of the art


We think how many faucies in fragments there
in the boxes how many atoms of poetry and eloqueuce
tie printer make here and there, If he only had
little chart 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 hand a stanza of 'Greys Elegy " or
monody upon Grimes All Buttoned mp Before" Now
he sets" a puppy missing ana now Paradise
Lost . he arrays bride in small caps, aui SON
net in "uanparen; = he announces the langul shing
"lye,' in sentence transposes the words and de-
pores the days that are lew and eYll, IN the next.


A poor lest ticks its way slowly into the printers
hand, like clock just running down, aud a strain Of
eloquence marches into line Letter by letter. We fan
tell the difference by nearing OF the ear, but
perhaps not.


The types that told wedding yesterday, announces
burial to- omorrow-perhaps the self same letters


They are the elements to make world of-those
types are a world with something in it beautiful as
spring, rich summer, and as grand as autumn


flowers that wilt, fruit that stall ripen
for all time.


The newspaper has become the og-book of the age.
it tells what the world is running cannot
find reckoning without it.


True, the green grocer may bundle up a pound OF
candles in last expressed thoughts but Is only
coming 10 base something that Is done times in
Vulnerable.


We console ourselves by thinking that
make of that wspaper what he cannot make of Iv-
ing oaks-a bridge for time that hc can fling
the chasm Of the dead years and Mak safely back up
the shadowy into the far past. The singer
shall end his song, the true soul be eloquent
no more.


The realm of the press is enchanted ground. 5,
times the editor has the happiness OF Knowing that he
the weak that he had given utterance to sentiment
that has cheered somebody's solitary hour, made
somebody happier kindlet a smile upon sad face or
hope heavy heart.


I'VE NAV meet with that sentiment many years after


nav have lost all charm Of its paternity but he feels
affections for it. He welcomes II as long absent
child. He reads il for the first time, and wonders
it, indeed. he wrote it, for he has changed since then.
Perhaps he could not give utieranee To the sentiment
now perhaps he would not ii he could.


Ii like the voice OF his former self calling to
its parents and there is something mournful in its
tone. lie begins to thInk-to remember why he wrote
it, where his readers then, aud how much he has
charged. So he muses., until he finds himself Won
derng ii that thought of his will continue float at
ter he is dead and whether he really looking upon
something that will survive him. Aud then the
sweet consciousness that there is nothing in the
that he could wish unwritten-that II Is better
part of him-a shred from garment OF immortality
he shall leave behind him when he joins the ''iunuulet-
able caravan and takes his place IN the silent halls
OF death.