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machine moves with a groan, the little wheels fly round and round, the rollers again catch up the sheet, whose reverse or clean side is exposed to the embrace of the big cylinder, and lo, the newspaper comes forth complete and ready for the breakfast table!

But how has it to get to the breakfast table? Ay, there's another rub. Just visit the publishing office of a widely circulating daily journal. The hour is 5 o'clock in the morning. You might almost imagine yourself at Billingsgate or Covent Garden Market, so great in the crowd. Carts loiter about in the thoroughfares close by, conspicuous amongst them being those of Mr. W. Smith of the Strand, the prince of newsmongers, of whose ubiquitous nature we have proof at nearly every railway station in England. These carts are laden with the sheets wet from the press, and are hurried off to the various termini, ― to the Great Western, the North Western, the Great Northern, the Great Eastern, the South Western, the South Eastern, &c, ― to catch the first trains, by which they are whirled away into the country, to be devoured by mid-day hundreds of miles away. Independent of these vehicular arrangements, there is a strong escort of boys and men, waiting the execution of their humbler but by no means small orders. These push and fight and hustle one another, like rentiers at the Bank of England on a dividend day, in order to get first served. As soon as each has got his bundle, off he trudges, losing no time, for you, reader, are impatient for your paper. To every quarter of London and its outskirts the news-agent―and Legion is his name―dashes off, for no quarter of the metropolis can afford to be behind its neighbour in a knowledge of the events of yesterday, and the views and opinions of Mr. Editor upon them.

Here let us pause for a moment to take a survey of another phase which is really worthy of special motion.

The mechanical marvels of the press, if we reflect for an instant, will appear perfectly astounding. Use has somewhat discounted the marvel, it is true; but marvel, nevertheless, it is. We have become so habituated to receive our newspaper day after day with unerring punctuality, that we have ceased to look upon this fact as per se something astounding. Why, however, mayn't there be a breakdown, or a stoppage of some kind or other, that should deprive the news-gourmand of his morning meal? Who ever heard of the suspension, even for a day, of the issue of a first-class paper? It may be late at your table―an extra demand or your news-agent may be to blame for that; but have you ever been without it one whole four-and-twenty hours? Yet you rarely think of this regularity as anything extraordinary; in fact, no more than you doubt the probability of the sun's rising to-morrow, or the order of nature being undeviatingly maintained. I, however, view this punctuality in another light; and I can see the anxiety and the worry, the steadiness and application, the mind and thought, brought into play to guard against unforeseen contingencies and to ensure this wonderful precision and regularity.

Let us advance another step and ask ourselves another question. What is it that has been achieved? Look at these broad pages― forty-eight, sixty, seventy-two, nay, ninety-six columns of close-printed type. Is it no miracle to have put together these innumerable pieces and formed them into intelligible words and sentences within a dozen hours or so? The mechanical labour alone is marvellous. But come to special instances. The Emperor of the French, on the 5th of November last, entered the Salle des Maréchaux at the Tuileries just as the clock struck one. A large concourse of senators and deputies, and the diplomatic corps in uniform, and grandes dames en grande toilette, had assembled to hear, what is courteously called, the speech from the throne. By half-past three or four, that speech, a considerably long one, thoroughly and efficiently translated, was published in second editions in London, and selling about the streets. On Wednesday, the 26th of the same month, Richard Cobden and John Bright addressed a body of constituents at Rochdale. The proceedings did not commence till eight o'clock, yet one journal had the whole of it the next morning, consisting of nearly seven columns containing upwards of 125,000 words. But even this expedition is surpassed during the Session of Parliament. Both Houses—that is, Lords and Commons—have frequently long debates on the same night. The papers, nevertheless, contain full and elaborate reports of every word by breakfast time. Sometimes our diligent and assiduous representatives of the people do not rise until half-past three, or nearly four. This, however, makes no alteration in the completeness of the reports, or the punctuality of the morning journal. With the dawn comes forth the mighty sheet, and in its columns is an account of the latest proceedings―even to the very last minute, in the House.

One of these days, I may say something about advertisements and the advertising system, not forgetting the law by which those unpaid advertisements are inserted as decoy ducks or to fill out the page.