wrapped the luxurious form of beauty, or been the scanty covering of want; but whether from the robes of a queen or the rags of a harlot, it gives no clue now to its former condition. Like a sanctified soul, it is ready for a new life.

We will pass the editorial room. Its occupants are busy. There are papers from far and near; letters from widely scattered correspondents; telegraph dispatches, intelligence in every form; and from this mass is to be selected what is of most interest and importance, to make a paper to-day. Let the editors work.

Come into the composing room. We have the foreman's permission-grudgingly given. Do you hear it? "Click! click! click!" What is that? Why, that is the music Progress marches to. Come here, to this case." Look at that multitude of little boxes, filled with pieces of metal. What are they? They are the civilizers — they are THE TYPES.

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But the paper is being made. The types, one by one, have been picked up by nimble fingers, and placed in proper position. Every error has been corrected. Every punctuation point is in its place. The scattered columns are massed together; the 'form," or page, is securely "locked up," and sent to the press room.

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Let us go there. Here is where the wondrous transformation is wrought; here matter becomes the exponent of mind. The "forms" are properly placed. The great press slowly moves; its arms are reaching for their strong embrace.

"Stop the press!"

The giant rests again. There is an error of statement to be corrected, or an objectionable article to be withdrawn. The types are taken out and borne away — corpses of a dead thought.

Look now, again, at that mass of type-dead! inert as the earth you tread on. But see, the white sheet has fallen upon their upturned faces the touch of the Press has baptized them the life that was in them has passed upon paper, and the new creation is pregnant with thought; a thing with a soul, for it can move the souls of men. That sheet, so blank before, is a living power now. A change has passed over it, as marvelous as if, in an instant, the unwritten face of the boy should put on the furrows of age, the lines of care, the impress of manhood's experience, thought and toil.

Thus the paper is born, and goes out into the world. No messenger can overtake it. Its utterance is unalterable now. It may be explained, but not erased. The printed word can no more be recalled than the departed spirit can be wooed back to the cold body which it has left.

Here, now, we have it-the newspaper! Wonderful product of brain and toil! One would think it should be dearly bought and highly prized; and yet it is the cheapest thing in the world. Five cents will buy it. One or two dollars will bring it to your home every week in the year. And yet, strange to say, there are men "too poor to take a newspaper!" They can pay five cents for a glass of beer, or fifteen

cents for a beverage of unknown composition, called a "cocktail;" they can pay fifty cents for a circus ticket, or a dollar for the theatre, yet they are too poor to buy a newspaper! - a newspaper, which is a ticket of admission to that great Globe Theatre, whose dramas are written by God himself, "whose scene-shifter is Time, and whose curtains are rung down by Death!”

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IF there is one lesson which life teaches more plainly than any other, it is the subordination of individual to general interest. Humanity is large; a single life, even the largest, is small. Engrossed with our daily duties, pressed by cares, and weighed down by exacting obligations, we often fancy that our life and labor is a very necessary and important thing. Yet a little reflection will show us that the world easily adjusts itself to its losses and life whirls on the rapid eddies and rushes in strong currents, and the express wagon jostling against the hearse, the black plumes threading the gay and busy crowd, who scarcely note their passage, or think that soon the same offices must be performed for them.

The sea smiles no less brightly in the sunlight because a dark and ghastly wreck lies hidden beneath its shining surface, and so the smile of life is scarcely saddened, or its hues robbed of their brightness, because of the awful shadow of death, which is its constant attendant. Humanity is large; individual life is small.

A BRILLIANT WEDDING.

Such is the caption of the article before us; and then there is a description of the attire and appearance of the bride, as minute in regard to her "points," as an article in Wilkes' Spirit, about the "points" of a favorite of the turf; and a list of the bridesmaids is given, and how they were dressed; and the trappings of the altar, and the dignified grace of the clergyman, the brilliant music, and the flowers, and the delighted and distinguished guests, and the―; yes, there was a bridegroom; and perhaps he loved his wife; and possibly, in spite of all this glare and glitter, she loves him. We hope so. We read of such weddings often- or rather, we see the announcements and omit the reading. And as we see them we wonder wonder whether love thrives best under the glare of such publicitywonder whether the splendor of the ceremony is matched by the trustfulness of feeling and the purity of heart which alone give to marriage vows their sacredness, and assure a future of ever increasing love and devotedness. We wonder whether the country maiden, whose love grows as the violet does

blushing at its own wealth, and shrinking timidly from exposure,—whether she is not happier in the quiet possession of her great treasure, than are the darlings of fortune, whose loves are blazoned to the world. Is the quiet contentment of simple life really preferable to the splendor of fashion and the show of wealth? Is the rose that blossoms in natural beauty sweeter than art's painted flowers? We sometimes think so.

AGRICULTURE.

[The following is a beautiful, quaint and humorous preface to a very practical address delivered at an Agricultural Fair.]

The Fair is the flowering time of the year. It is the Festival of Labor. Here industry exhibits its reward, Mechanism displays its triumphs, and Art receives her crown. All the long year the wondrous alchemy of nature has been patient at its subtle work, perfecting the results which we witness now. Winter snows have fertilized brown tilth and grassy sod; summer suns have led the springing stalk to its full stature, and hardened the milky berry into golden grain and ripened ear; Spring has flung out her blossoms with prodigal profusion, and Autumn, with pride, collects the ripened fruit, grown ruddy in Summer's fiery mould.

This is the season of fruition, and the Fair is a large and generous "Harvest Home," where each, in an honorable spirit of emulation, competes for supremacy in a field where the competition itself is of far greater value than the prize bestowed. Here is the romance of Labor. The best of the field, the first of the flock, the most skillful work of the hands, is exhibited here; and giving an added charm to all, is the social intercourse, so general, free and unrestricted upon every holiday of this kind. Other festivals are local or personal in their significance, and narrow in their scope; this is broad as the ne