Having, then, described the brain-work department of journalism, I will now come to that which, though not apparently so at first sight, is of equal importance to the success of a paper—the mechanical department. It is the same old story of the belly and the members; unless all move and work together in tolerable harmony, the whole machine must come to a stand-still. Without the hands, the brain which conceives could not execute its plans; without a healthy stomach, head and hands would be paralysed. Under this branch I shall include the compositor's department, the paper and machine department, and the publishing department. In a future paper I may have a word to say about the advertisement department, the heart and lungs of a newspaper, without whose steady and healthy action it would soon cease to exist.
All manuscript is known to the compositor as "copy." When "copy" reaches the editor or sub-editor, if accepted, it is sent up to the chief of the printing department, by whom it is distributed—in cases requiring expedition it is cut up into slips containing only a few lines—to the various members of the chapel. Here I stumble on a word which demands explanation. That a body of printers working together is called a "chapel," may be amongst the things not generally known. The term is derived, as those who have read the life of Caxton and the history of printing will doubtless know, from the fact that the earliest presses were set up in a chapel attached to some religious house or monastery, then the general seats of learning. The word has been transmitted through many generations, and is an exceedingly pictorial one, carrying the mind back to an age happily long vanished. Fancy, however, must not whirl us away too fast or too far. We must not picture to our mullioned windows, fluted shafts, and groined roofs, as constituting the atelier of the modern printer. There is, nevertheless, something highly interesting even in a modern printing office. The long room, the lines of desks or "cases" ranged regularly against the walls, the files of compositors dipping their nimble fingers in the little square type-boxes, the rapidity and precision with which piece after piece of metal is thumbed into the "stick," the consciousness that these men in the white blouses are agents of a tremendous power, and are weaving words which will speak from one end of the world to the other,—all these things impress us strongly as we examine the busy hive. The eldest man of the body receives the honourable title of "father of the chapel;" though it by no means follows that he exercises chief authority over his children.
When the "copy" has been distributed, another question arises: what form of type is to be used for such and such matter—"bourgeois," "minion," "ruby," or "nonpareil?" Important "copy," such as leading articles, reviews, foreign correspondence, or letters on special topics, is, as a rule, printed in "bourgeois;" matters of less moment in "minion;" and so on, down to "nonpareil," though not unfrequently "minion" is "leaded," that is, has leads passed between the lines, to give it greater space, dignity, and effect. So far as the eye is concerned, "bourgeois" is by far the more agreeable, and is generally adopted when the press of matter is not exceedingly heavy. It helps, moreover, to fill out the columns when news is scanty; and with some journals matter of all kinds is sometimes unpleasantly light.
Having decided on the type, the next thing is to "compose" the copy. Here the printer's troubles really begin. Every author does not write a merchant clerk's hand; in fact, it may be fairly assumed that the public, take them for all in all, are not first-rate calligraphists, and authors least so of all. The hieroglyphics, therefore, which the poor compositor has to wade through are something appalling; the Rosetta stone is nothing to it. However, by dint of patience and the use of a pair of experienced eyes, he contrives to embody what he deems the thoughts and opinions of the writer in the tangible bulk of "bourgeois" or "minion." When he has finished setting the matter up, the "proof" (as the printed form is now called) is taken to the "reader," who follows the composition whilst another, denominated the "reader's boy," reads out the MS. to him. All detected errors and requisite alterations are marked by certain technical signs on the margin, and then the proof is handed over to a third person, who re-corrects the corrected proof.
This labour, as we have observed, is purely mechanical. The article, thus printed, has now to be submitted to the editor. Does the simple reader imagine that it passes through the ordeal unscathed? The editor has two things to keep in view,—first, to see that the opinions expressed are in conformity with those of the paper, and, secondly, that the style, to use a facile phrase, is "up to the mark." To the uninitiated the labours of this literary and political Rhadamanthus may appear trifling. He brings to his task, however, a stern sense of responsibility; he sits in heavy judgment over a frail mortal's conceptions and language; he has a profound duty to the public to perform; and therefore he sharpens his pen, nibbles at the feather-end, and every now and then swoops