METAL HOUSE.
A WALK OVER OUR FOUNDRY.
Mr. Typograph, how are you, sir? Glad to see you. How is business with you? Plenty to do, and customers paying up? You are so prompt in paying us, that we have no doubt you have a noble set of customers. You wish to add to your stock our new things? All right, sir. You have a fine office already, but you want to keep up with the times, and give your patrons the best the type-founder can invent? That’s the way, sir. The man on the lookout sees the sun the earliest. Mr. Faithful, show our new things to Mr. Typograph, and take his order.
You say, Mr. Typograph, that you have never gone over a type-foundry? We shall be happy to show you every thing. This way, sir. Here is the metal-house. These piles of dull lead, these casks of sparkling antimony, this copper, and this tin go to form the grand amalgam of which type is made. The worthy and kind-hearted man who is stirring at the kettle, unites, in bonds stronger than matrimony, immense masses of these metals every week. It may appear to you, Mr. Typograph, to be an exceedingly simple thing to throw into the kettle certain amounts of lead and antimony, and copper and tin, and produce type-metal. Not so, good friend. It is not an easy matter to compose a metal that shall be hard, yet not brittle; ductile, yet tough; flowing freely, yet hardening quickly. All these conditions must be met. Break a bar in two, and examine the grain of our metal: is it not beautiful?
PUNCH.
MATRIX.