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.  Some kind of comment must be made on the result of the debate, and an able, swift writer scrawls off his column of phrases with furious speed.  Then that article must be put into type; a model of the type must be taken on a sheet of papier-mache, the melted metal must be poured into the paper mould, the resulting curved block must be clamped on to a cylinder of the waiting machine, and all this must be done with strict regard to the value of seconds.  A delay of half a minute might prevent the manager from sending his piles of journals away by the early train, and that would be a calamity too fearful to be dreamed of.  In one great newspaper-office ten machines are all set going together, and an eleventh is kept ready in case of accident.  The ten whizzing cylinders print off the papers, and an impression of a quarter of a million is soon thrown out, folded, and piled ready for distribution.  But imagine what a loss of one minute means!  Truly the agitation of the officials at an awkward pinch is singularly excusable, and many a hard word is levelled at pertinacious talkers who insist on thrusting themselves upon the House at a time when the country is waiting with wild eagerness for momentous tidings.  The long line of carts waits in the street, the speedy ponies rattle off, and soon the immense building is all but still.  Comfortable people who have their journal punctually handed in at a convenient hour in the morning are apt to think lightly of the raging effort, the inconceivably complicated organisation, the colossal expense needed to produce that sheet which is flung away at the close of each day.  A blunder of the most trivial kind might throw everything out of gear; but stern discipline and ubiquitous precaution render the blunder almost an impossibility.  Sometimes you may observe in a paper like the Times one column which bristles with typographical errors.  All the slips are clustered in one place, and the reason is that the few minutes necessary for proper revision could not be spared.  Good workmen are set on at the last