O then concede the humid eye CONFESSIONS OF A COMPOSITOR. For twenty-five years I have been a man of types. For once let me be heard in my own name, to disburden myself of some few notions, querulous they may be, but very candid, which it would really be a relief to me to express. Is it too much that I ask? I that have silently and patiently toiled to set up the reputation of so many authors-I that have pointed so many facetious paragraphs -I that have stopped so many absurdities-I that have so long been at the head of a great colonial compartment -I that am Hyphen's priest to unite so many couples of "wedded words"-I that am the fellow-craftsman of Dr. Franklin, and armour-bearer to any knight of the pen that pleases have I not a right to the welcomings of my readers if I speak for myself? My readers? Yes, certainly, mine. For how could any one ever have been a reader of the works of the great authors in my connexion, had not my labours come between those of the thoughtseller and the thought-buyer? Among that great class of men who unravel what is doubtful, fix what is transitory, and impart to all what was monopolized, I humbly rank myself. The fount I bear rule over is, I dare swear, as rich and romantic as that Grecian one, which my last poetical elève called Helicon-(the reviewer, bye the bye, whom I sent after him, said Helicon was no more a fountain, than Primrose hill is a flower bed.) Men of my craft are paramount now-a-days, because they are indispensable. If we were to strike, (upon the principle I have seen suggested of TUTOS ȧVTITUTOS) greater consternation would ensue than was brought about last year by the refractory workmen in the yards of those "wandering giant-masons," Messrs. Grissell and Peto. Society would be unhinged. Clubs and circulating libraries would be ruined. England would not know what to do with itself, All over Europe the balance of power would be disturbed; for what does it now rest upon in this leaden age, but the cases of the great typothetary class.* In truth we are the body that ought to be toasted as the source of all legitimate (i. e. blue-book) power. Just consider the process. A little lead and antimony are poured into the "matrix”-then a shake-then time to cool-then out it comes a type. Tumble it into a box, and when some dozens of boxes are full, give them to me; reach me my stool, put my coat on the peg, and then you see me ready (till dinner-time) to go on wielding weapons to which thunder-bolts, aerolites, bullets, dollars, postagestamps, are nothing; and thus furnished I commence a grand and practical exposition of "the philosophy of forms." Presently there come knocking at my "thinkingshop," jostling in all inky, like bees leg-deep in pollen, all manner of schemers, rhymers, book-worms, maw-worms, anti-corn-law-worms, critics, examiners, orators, "constant readers," "vindexes," "lovers of truth," circular-mongers, blue-stockings, silver-fork-ists, invalids from the Spas, mandarin-slayers from the East India and China Service, * A friend at Eton suggests that the most potent man in Europe, Prince Metternich, was in this way the "plumbeus auster" against Napoleon. But I believe it was the "mala ambitio,” much more than the diplomatic press. Laputians from the Reform Club, meal-tub-plotters from Exeter Hall, Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars Black, white, and grey, with all their trumpery, all seeking for somebody to let the world know what they know, what they think, and what they want. With a noble and truly liberal impartiality I give them all my patronage. I set free the frail things "bound in by inky blots and rotten parchment bonds." With an unerring hand, guided by that yuxη STOXASTIKη, which I am told is so Platonic a gift that it must needs be mine, I hit upon what every one in his turn wants for the expression of his feelings. With an eye in a fine frenzy rolling over my various compartments, I hasten to give to all their imaginings, a "local habitation and a form." What indeed is human thought worth, till it comes under my hands? What would become of all the world's theories, arguments, and sentiments, were it not for me, and such as me? Doubtless they would perish like snow-flakes upon the water. They would be lost as irretrievably as the MS. plays of poor Massinger, which the sibiline kitchen-maid took wantonly to singe Mr. -'s fowls with. Up and down the earth float the best and the worst of notions, till I take them in hand; and thenceforth they are as indomitable as the pert little cocks with bits of lead at the bottom, which say to bigotted children "knock us down if you can." Oh the majestic triumph of art and universalism, when the Eton Bureau has a better chance of immortality than ever Horace had! On this topic I could say much, from the fulness of my heart: but I have said enough to assert the credit of my profession. I now proceed to give to the literary neophytes, who fill and read this brave little magazine, a frank statement of some tricks, against which I have to warn them, and some complaints which I have to urge on their notice. Whoever wishes (and who does not ?) to be an author, must learn a business-like habit of counting in books. To a certain extent I believe you are good hands at this. I am told by my young friend, Mr. Cacus Oldcopy, (whose acquaintance with me began in a negotiation with my former employer about printing his school verses) that Eton boys were as sharp as possible in counting lines; as they consider the Arabics on the margin, the only safe-guards for the liberties of the "sayer-by-heart." You are quite right, I must say; stick to the matter-of-fact view; do not be cheated into more than your right number by any such nonsense, as the fear of interrupting an argument or a simile; pout, and sulk, and sneer, and grumble, and do whatever you can to resist any encroachments your masters' enthusiasm or tyranny may dictate. But the danger I wish to point out to you, comes from another quarter; all I advise is, that you apply the numerical principle just as rigidly the other way, when you have to deal with designing printers. Mark my words. Paper is dear-government taxes it-the printers (not the compositors,) are in league with the paper mills. Now your thoughts of course are abundant, only wanting room; and your wish will be to sell your books cheap, or at all events to pocket something yourselves, instead of merely profiting the trade. (N. B.-I am putting publishers, (particularly Mr. Ingalton,) out of the question, having a great respect for them, especially Tegg and Priestly, who always show a noble disdain of the paper men.) Well, you must jealously stipulate for so many letters to a line, so many lines to a page. Print close; I do not mean with a small type, or in double columns, but without wood-cuts, or borders; with narrow margins, and the words and lines very near each other. Do all you can to find accommodation for your ideas. Never allow the revolutionary dash (—) which tough old Cobbett said was the ruin of real English prose, to stretch out the line, and waste good available space; not that I quite agree with Cobbett, but I prefer old-fashioned stops on a sounder view, that of economy. Always bear in mind, if you write post octavos of poetry, like Mr. Wordsworth, that sonnets are grossly extravagant, and pindaric odes as luxurious indulgences as ever they were. If you take to ballads, do not be so foolish as to go by alternate uneven lines, but throw the two into one, e. g. Earl March looked on his dying child, and smit with grief to view her, The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, shall be restored to woo her. In didactic dramatic poems, perhaps the Alexandrine will be reasonable enough. In this, the French have forestalled my proposal, so has a German translator of Shakspeare, the latter you may well imitate in committing reprisals upon Schiller: for you must not be above this material view; it is the leading principle of the age, and why should you be ashamed of it? "Stipare Platona menandro," i. e. to cram well, is the motto of all true book-makers. I take it, that this opinion of mine in some way guided Mr. Julius Hare, a person (or I should perhaps say an individual,”*) whom I have no other grounds for praising, in his "firy" zeal for the more concise form of the preterite, e. g. "furnisht." He would indeed have been a shining light of typography, I may say a very * Vidi "Guesses at Truth," in verb. |