fifty or five hundred men are all
labouring for dear life; every one is at high pressure, from the
silent leader-writer to the fussy swift-footed messenger. In that one
building is concentrated a great estate, which yields a revenue that
exceeds that of some principalities; it is a large nerve-centre, and
myriads of fibres connect it with every part of the globe; or, say, it
is like some miraculous eye, which sees in all directions and is
indifferent to distance. Go into one quiet, soft-carpeted room, and
certain small glittering machines flash in the bright light. "Click,
click--click, click!"--long strips of tape are softly unwound and fall
in slack twisted piles. One of those machines is printing off a long
letter from Berlin, another is registering news from Vienna, and by a
third news from Paris comes as easily and rapidly as from Shoreditch;
subdued men take the tapes, expand and make fluent the curt, halting
phrases of the foreign correspondents, and pass the messages swiftly
away to the printers. From America, Australia, India, China, the items
of news pour in, and are scrutinised by severe sub-editors; and those
experts calculate to a fraction of an inch what space can be
judiciously spared for each item. If Parliament is sitting, the relays
of messengers arrive with batches of manuscript; and, when an
important debate is proceeding, the steady influx of hundreds of
scribbled sheets is enormous. A four hours' speech from such an orator
as Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Chamberlain contains, say, thirty 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. So