SLOTTED BRASS CORNERS.
Here are specimens of our new slotted brass corners, so handsome and useful to the skilled printer. See how accurately the slotted pieces fit in one another, so that you cannot detect the joint. Are they not effective? Our brass is carefully rolled by the best manufacturers in the country, and is sent to us in strips or in sheets. That wicked-looking shears yonder cuts up the thinner brass with as much unction as Commissioner Yeh’s executioner slices off heads: the thick brass goes under a circular steam-saw.
STEREOTYPE BLOCK.
Now, sir, while we are up here, we will peep into the printers’ furnishing-room. Isn’t this a beautiful stereotype-block? Doesn’t it do your eyes good to look at such perfect workmanship? And these brass galleys, and mahogany galleys and composing sticks, are they not admirable? Our effort in this department, as in all others, is to do our work well. All our miscellaneous wood-work is done here,—stands, racks, drawers, stereotype and packing boxes, &c. Some curious work has been designed and executed for the Smithsonian Institution, as well as brass ciphering-frames for the blind.
Ah, we forgot to show you our large-type room. On our way to the electrotype department, we will glance in it. The types you see here cool too slowly to be cast in a machine, so we continue to pour them. Look over the drawers, and see the multitude of patterns. Some men fancy one style, and some another. So we try to meet all tastes. Feel how solid the type is. You can’t squeeze the life out of that type on a power-press. No, indeed. It is made for wear.
Now, Mr. Typograph, we enter the grimed and murky electrotype-room. Electrotyping, you are aware, is simply stereotyping in copper. Its advantages over stereotyping are, sharpness of outline in plates from wood-cuts, and great durability. Plates for books of large circulation are always electrotyped, as well as cuts, engravings, binders’ stamps, &c. The thing to be electrotyped, after being carefully and almost imperceptibly glazed with plumbago, is laid upon a press, and a prepared mould is placed over it, and an exact impression taken. This is well dusted with plumbago, and then deposited in the electric bath. Nature immediately takes up her part of the work, and a brilliant coating of copper is deposited upon the mould. When sufficiently thick, it is taken out of the battery, and, as you may notice, presents on the wrong side the appearance of a printed sheet of copper. This sheet is then filled up on the back to the requisite degree of thickness, and fastened to a block, ready to be used with type on a common printing-press. Plumbago, you remark, does not improve the countenances of the operatives? True; but a little soap and water, vigorously applied, proves the title of these intelligent workmen to rank among white folk.
To you, Mr. Typograph, our composing-rooms present nothing new, except, perhaps, in its vast number of job founts, due to the fact that we now mainly confine our work in this department to all kinds of jobbing; and yet in ten years we have set up in these rooms and stereotyped more than eight hundred considerable works,—most of them consisting of a single volume, but some of from two to twelve volumes each,—besides a multitude of smaller books, tracts, &c. Among the rest we may mention two Quarto Bibles, (one of them, now published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., the grandest ever got up in America,) Lippincott’s two great Gazetteers, Dr. Kane’s Explorations, The North American Sylva, Thiers’ Napoleon, and Macaulay’s England: Allibone’s magnificent Dictionary of Authors and Books among the number.
After the pages have been set and carefully read, they are sent down to the casting-room. In the electrotype-room, every thing is as black as the brow of a coal-heaver: in the casting-room, all is as white as the neck of a belle. Take care, sir, or your coat will commit a larceny of our plaster. The form of type is laid on this stone, and nicely oiled: and then a mixture of plaster and water—doesn’t it look like a good wife’s buckwheat batter?—is poured over it, and gently rolled in. In a short time the plaster sets, and the mould is removed by screws as tenderly as a nurse handles a baby. It is then dried in this hot-tempered oven, and, after the moisture is all evaporated, it is laid in a pan and fastened tightly, as you see, and plunged into this terrible bath of a thousand pounds of molten type-metal. Phew! you exclaim, what warm work! Yes, sir; but from that fiery sea of lead soon emerges the pan, and its hissing heat is gradually overcome by the water in the trough into which the pan is lowered. Now, caster, break it out. There, Mr. Typograph, is the plate, fixed,—immovable,—stereotyped. The mould is ruined; but the plate is comparatively immortalized. It is rough yet, and, like an uncouth boy, needs polishing.
