HUMOURS OF THE PRINTING-HOUSE
The printing-house is notoriously the place for fun. Every shop has its selection of funny men who are ever ready to co-operate with the “devils” in manufacturing mirth. And there are always the “fossils,” who afford many an opportunity for a hearty laugh at them, if not with them. Often have I been amused with, the idiosyncrasies of these typographical gray beards; their chief charm being their colossal assurance as to their invariably being right, and everybody else, who presumes to differ from them, wrong. I recollect one of these ancient typesetters (an old Scotsman) who used to be the butt of countless jokes in the shop where he toiled so patiently. On one occasion he set up an article from my pen, beginning, “Long before the introduction of Pears’ Soap”; and I am bothered if he didn’t turn the last two words into “Pea Soup!” But the real fun of the matter was, that on his mistake being pointed out, he blandly suggested our letting the words appear as he had set them—“it wid dae jist as weel!”
The printer does not seem to be deeply concerned about his future, indeed, he has many a gay dig at that grave subject; as, for instance—
Old Lucifer, both kind and civil.
To every printer lends a devil;
But, balancing accounts each winter,
For every devil takes a printer.
AUTHOR’S MISERIES.
Having corresponded with Miss Rudge, the gifted poetess (authoress of “Floranthe,” “The Lovelock of Montrose,” “Moans of the Heartstrings,” etc.), and exchanged portraits and your own poems with her, you meet at last.
You are disappointed in her appearance and find her about forty years older than her picture; perhaps you, too, have grown rather fat and seedy since yours was taken twenty years ago.
The printer’s “devil,” by the way, is a queer fish, and there is a story about a certain metropolitan imp that fits any of the little sinners to a T. This particular youngster had just received his week’s wages, eleven shillings, when he was heard to soliloquize in these terms—“Let me see. I’ll go the Coliseum to-night, that’s a shilling; supper with bottled beer, that’s eighteenpence; ’baccy for the week, a shilling; beer ditto, two shillings; theatre one night next week, that’s one-and-six, and supper, one-and-six; and I’ll buy that swell walking stick, and that’ll just leave sixpence to take home to mother towards my week’s board.” He must have been a regular bad ’un, that.
Another favourite medium of printing-house fun is found in adapting Gilbert’s famous line and mourning that a “printer’s lot is not a happy one,” or magnifying the annoyances from authors and editors with which printers have to put up. In this connexion we find one printer relieving his troubled soul thus—
Working for forty editors and scores of authors, every one of whom is as sensitive as a sore thumb, and as lively and interesting as a hornet, no wonder that printers die young, and only pachydermatus, grizzly, mulish specimens get their share of life. The writer wishes he could offer himself as an awful example of the perils which environ a man who meddles with cold type. A thoroughly trained printer should have had a stepmother, and then a stepfather, and then have been bound out to a tanner, and then have married a scolding wife, and lived in a smoky house, and have had a family of babies who were afflicted with colic. He should have added to all this discipline a thorough knowledge of science, art, law, language, theology, history and biography. If, in addition, he has a vicious looking countenance and an amiable disposition, he may stand some chance with these authors and editors ; but the probabilities are, after all, that they will worry him to death.
AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
As you are labouring on your great work (in a style, let us add, equal to the subject), Lady Anna Maria Tomnoddy’s compliments arrive, and she requests you will cast your eye over the accompanying manuscript in six volumes, “The Mysteries of Mayfair,” correct the errors, if any, and find a publisher for the same.
N.B.—You have in your bookcase Captain Bangle’s “Buffaloes and Banyan Trees,” in MS.; the Rev. Mr. Growl’s “Sermons to a Congregation at Swansea,” ditto ditto; Miss Piminy’s “Wildflower Coronal, a Wreath of Village Poesy”; and Mr. Clapperton’s six manuscript tragedies; of all of which you are requested to give your opinion.
Then there is a certain freedom about printers’ humour which we don’t find elsewhere, save among editors: but printers, like editors, have ever been privileged individuals, and we are told that when the recording angel observes a printer hold a bit of bent brass rule between his fingers, while he misses it with a hammer, the trustworthy scribe drops into a brown study, and pretends not to hear anything. Nor is it logical to assume that a printer is a saint because he sets up a hymn-book. You might as well regard an editor as a fool because you didn’t exactly agree with what was in his paper.
AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
Perhaps you flatter yourself that you have made an impression on Miss Flannigan (at Worthing), and you find her asleep over your favourite book.
Illustrative of this there is an excellent anecdote told by the late Max O’Rell in his book, A Frenchman in America.
A former proprietor of the New York Times and Post was wont every morning to select a text from the Bible to be printed above the leader. One morning, by some mischance, the text got lost, and Max tells us that the comps might have been heard asking in pretty loud stage whispers, “If anybody knew where that d—— text was?”
Perhaps the wit of the compositor is most amusing when it appeals to the eye. That is, when he gives rein to his fancy, and uses his types for suggesting witty ideas. Here is a very happy illustration of this kind of fun—
“TThhee ccoommppoossiittoorr wwhhoo sseett tthhiiss ppaarr. hhaass hhaadd eexxaaccttllyy aa ggllaassss aanndd aa hhaallff ttoooo mmuucchh aanndd tthhiiss iiss pprreecciisseellyy wwhhaatt hhee ffeeeellss lliikkee.”
Yes, that compositor may only have had “a glass and a-half too much,” but the typo who is supposed to have set up the appended advertisement has manifestly indulged to even a greater extent—
£ DOGSH LOSHT!
Reward Five Shtrayed or Shtolen,
Bandy Coloured Liver Legged Dog
Had on Collar Marked “Rover,”
Answers to name of C.B., Esq.
Whoever bringsh 5£ receive dogsh reward. No
furtherdogsh will be offered.
AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
As you are conducting Lady Gotobed to her carriage from Lady Highjink’s “noble party,” and fancying yourself a man of fashion, you hear the servants in the hall saying one to another, “that’s him—that’s Poonch!”
American printers are much given to these diverting devices, and in the following instance we have a number of papers vieing with one another in extracting fun from the technical terms for the various signs and punctuations—
“If brevity is the soul of wit, how is this for a funny ¶?—‘Wheeling Journal.’ It is without a ‖.—‘New York Enterprise.’ Did you expect anybody to “ ” that?—‘Philadelphia Sunday Mirror.’ Those are the worst jokes of the .—‘Washington Critic.’ My * * *, you’re pointed as a †, aren’t you?—‘Burlington Enterprise.’ We
the opportunity to say these are ,cal ? ? ? you fellows pro£.—‘Gold.’ Well, they afford a $ous sort of amusement at best and —— our spirits greatly.—‘New York “L.” R. Journal.’”
Here is another of the same, as they say about the Psalms of David—
“A company of printers from Constantinople have joined the Turkish army. They ought to be good at a — at the enemy in the :ized region of Bulgaria. It is surprising that they should be so foolish * their lives where shot and shell may put an untimely . to their existence. Let them
the first opportunity 2 , way from that § where the murderous work of †† is un‖ed, and may the ☞ of Providence guide them to a latitude where they may live with a greater ° of safety.”
The man who likes a joke.
The man who doesn’t.
The printer can also make fun with a few brackets and other typographical oddments, as shown above.
AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
Old Gentleman. Miss Wiggets. Two Authors.
Old Gentleman. I am sorry to see you occupied, my dear Miss Wiggets, with that trivial paper Punch. A railway is not a place, in my opinion, for jokes. I never joke—never.
Miss W. So I should think, sir.
Old Gentleman. And besides, are you aware who are the conductors of that paper, and that they are Chartists, Deists, Atheists, Anarchists, and Socialists, to a man? I have it from the best authority, that they meet together once a week in a tavern in Saint Giles’s, where they concoct their infamous print. The chief part of their income is derived from threatening letters which they send to the nobility and gentry. The principal writer is a returned convict. Two have been tried at the Old Bailey; and their artist—as for their artist....
Guard. Swin-dun! Sta-tion! [Exeunt two Authors.
In taking leave of this very entertaining subject one cannot do better than quote a printer’s “little joke,” which is at once mirth-provoking, and eminently suited as a “tail-piece” for this paper—
“Full many a man, who now doth cheat the printer,
Will waste his voice upon the heated air,
And vainly sigh for cooling breeze of winter
When he is punished for his sins down there.”
☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟
AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
The printer’s boy is sitting in the hall; the editor has written to say that your last contributions are not up to the mark, and that you must be more funny, if you please. Mr. Snip, the tailor, has called again that morning; you have a splitting headache, from a transaction over-night, and as you are writing an exceedingly light and humorous article, your dear Anna-Maria wishes to know how you dare dine at Greenwich, and with whom you dined?
I suppose she found the bill in your coat-pocket. How changed Anna-Maria is from what she was when you married her! and how uncommonly ill-tempered she has grown!
Mr. Tims and a Good-natured Friend.
G.-N. F. Have you read the Macadamiser, Tims?
T. Hem! no. Do people read the Macadamiser?
G.-N. F. He, he! I say, Tims, there’s a most unjustifiable attack upon you in it. Look here. (He kindly takes out the “Macadamiser.”)
T. (reads). “This person is before us again. He is ignorant, vulgar, and a Cockney. He is one of that most contemptible race of men, a professional buffoon. He is,” etc., etc. (Tims reads ad libitum.) Thank you, my dear fellow; it was uncommonly good-natured of you to bring the critique.
