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Updated: May 18, 2025
"Here, let me have one of the sheets." "But how did it get in then?" "This is not the revised sheet. In the first place I do not sign my articles 'Jack Sheldon, do I?" "I never knew that you did." "And in the next a very careless compositor set this up. It is badly spaced, has many errors and is ungrammatical." "Yes, I can see that but I don't know anything about the spacing."
Rousseau tells a story of a painter's servant, who resolved to be the rival or the conqueror of his master. He abandoned his livery to live by his pencil; but instead of the Louvre, he stopped at a sign-post. Mere learning is only a compiler, and does with the pen what the compositor does with the type: each sets up a book with the hand.
"You see," said he, "we use the e oftenest, so that is the largest and is right in the middle. And here is the a near it, but a little smaller. A man has to learn where they are." Then they watched the compositor setting type in the metal "stick" with the sliding end.
Her successful career thus far inflamed the ambition which formed so powerful an element in her mental organization, and a longing desire for fame took possession of her soul. Early and late she toiled; one article was scarcely in the hands of the compositor ere she was engaged upon another. She lived, as it were, in a perpetual brain fever, and her physical frame suffered proportionably.
My first real venture was the "Long Islander," in my own beautiful town of Huntington, in 1839. I was about twenty years old. I had been teaching country school for two or three years in various parts of Suffolk and Queens counties, but liked printing; had been at it while a lad, learn'd the trade of compositor, and was encouraged to start a paper in the region where I was born.
I ran back to the office, told them I had dropped the manuscript in the street, but asked them not to say anything to you about it. But the sheets were all there, you always number them so clearly, and 'handsome August, the compositor, promised he wouldn't tell on me. I knew if the foreman heard of it, he'd put me out, for he had a grudge against me. So nobody knew anything about it.
Nowadays an author knows that there is a beast of burden, the worker, to whom, for the sum of a few shillings a day, he can entrust the printing of his books; but he hardly cares to know what a printing office is like. If the compositor suffers from lead-poisoning, and if the child who sees to the machine dies of anæmia, are there not other poor wretches to replace them?
Soon after Gluck and his one compositor carried out the forms to be machined. Little Sampson, arriving with a gay air on his lips, met them at the door. On the Friday, Raphael sat in the editorial chair, utterly dispirited, a battered wreck. The Committee had just left him.
"Denis Quirk is white," a compositor remarked emphatically to Tim O'Neill. "White!" replied Tim. "He is snow-white. He is the biggest and the whitest thing in Grey Town outside Miss O'Connor." "Where shall I put the old gown?" sighed Molly Healy as she surveyed a trunk already packed to overflowing. "I took it out to make place for the shoes, and now I must take out the shawl to make place for it.
"Oh! sit down, man. I am complimenting you. Haven't you a place as office boy, compositor, or something for a needy friend?" "I don't see what you're so funny about, doctor," Miss M'Gann expostulated. "Spoiling the Philistines, you see," Dresser added, making an effort to chime in with Sommers's irony. They talked late.
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