thousand words. Imagine the area of paper covered
by the reporters! But such a speech would rarely
come in late at night, and the men can usually handle
an important oration by an eminent speaker in a way
that is leisurely by comparison. The slips are
distributed with lightning rapidity; each man puts
his little batch into type, the fragments are placed
in their queer frame, and presently the readers are
poring over the long, damp, and odorous proof-sheets.
There is no very great hurry in the early part of
the evening; but, as the small hours wear away, the
strain is feverish in its poignancy. There is
no noise, no confusion; each man knows his office,
and fulfils it deftly. But such great issues
are involved, that the nervousness of managers, printers,
sub-editors—every one—may easily
be understood. Suppose that a very important
division is to be taken in Parliament; the minutes
roll by, and the news is still delayed. Some
kind of comment must be made on the result of the
debate, and an able, swift writer scrawls off his
column of phrases with furious speed. Then that
article must be put into type; a model of the type
must be taken on a sheet of papier-mache, the melted
metal must be poured into the paper mould, the resulting
curved block must be clamped on to a cylinder of the
waiting machine, and all this must be done with strict
regard to the value of seconds. A delay of half
a minute might prevent the manager from sending his
piles of journals away by the early train, and that
would be a calamity too fearful to be dreamed of.
In one great newspaper-office ten machines are all
set going together, and an eleventh is kept ready
in case of accident. The ten whizzing cylinders
print off the papers, and an impression of a quarter
of a million is soon thrown out, folded, and piled
ready for distribution. But imagine what a loss
of one minute means! Truly the agitation of the
officials at an awkward pinch is singularly excusable,
and many a hard word is levelled at pertinacious talkers
who insist on thrusting themselves upon the House
at a time when the country is waiting with wild eagerness
for momentous tidings. The long line of carts
waits in the street, the speedy ponies rattle off,
and soon the immense building is all but still.
Comfortable people who have their journal punctually
handed in at a convenient hour in the morning are apt
to think lightly of the raging effort, the inconceivably
complicated organisation, the colossal expense needed
to produce that sheet which is flung away at the close
of each day. A blunder of the most trivial kind
might throw everything out of gear; but stern discipline
and ubiquitous precaution render the blunder almost
an impossibility. Sometimes you may observe in
a paper like the Times one column which bristles
with typographical errors. All the slips are
clustered in one place, and the reason is that the
few minutes necessary for proper revision could not
be spared. Good workmen are set on at the last