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Colonist, Volume II, Issue 182, 19 July 1859, Page 3

" sub." I could grow eloquent, I dare to believe," in dilating upon Mm. I should be certain to class bini with the great powers of the earth, or the "unnamed demigods," as Kossuth has it. When I imagine,his first look at that " statement" on a heavy Parliament night, I feel moved, but will repress such sympathy lest I make this narrative pathetic. I have referred to his cherished hope, his love's young dream, his secret gem. This printed form destroys it— 'Twas odour fled, As soon as shed. The editor has bespoken so much for his communications, that room-to-night would be impossible for the treasure trove of the of the poor sub. Perhaps, it is the report of a parliamentary committee exclusively obtained : perhaps a remarkable event, which would set every one gossiping, which has turned up in the Indian, Australian, or American files. No matter, it must wait; for, even if the editor had been less exacting, the parliamentary debate would have pushed it aside. Those columns of debate march on through the night in." serried masses: ■' thousands of pigmies fall in, standing compactly together, and silently everything retreats before them. The sub-editor's rarely has gone long ago ; now markets, lists of the prices of shares, news of all kinds, are trodden off; soon the two leaders will follow and at last all in the paper that is not hard, solid speeches is a "thin line" of news at the edge, protected by one leader as an outwork. But the true newspaper child, after the first sigh is over, sets cleverly to work to baffle his enemy. The lazy or incompetent hand is content with inditing a line regretting that " the great pressure upon our space obliges us this morning to omit many articles of intelligence, " but the thoroughly efficient one has a desperate struggle with any such relief. He sets his colleagues to work to re-write, to condense, to give the essence or the quintessence—any alternative is better than downright omission. The Paris Moniteur arrives by special parcel after midnight: trains from the north bring sheaves of news from Leeds, Liverpool and Manchester. Let them come ; there are three or four pens will deal with them, and the public will be no great losers. _ The reporter's room is gradually gathering to itself the whole interest of the scene. The cabs come up more frequently: the gentlemen who rush from the steps to their room are more hurritd than ever in the few phrases they exchange. Words rush from their mouths with astounding velocity. Each one has a myrmidon—a printer's devil, if you like to call him so—at his elbow, and every five minutes the young imp darts to the printingroom with the precious manuscript in his outstretched hand. Between twelve and three o'clock iv the morning the pressure upon the reporters is occasionally tremendous. Before the latter hour the editor has heard intelligence which will suffice for the completion of his great article. One or two of his contributors have been to the House, and he will use their descriptive sketches to-night if he can ;- if not, he will import the substance of their communications into his own performance. The creation of this one article is a fine achievement of intellectual energy.

I am in a still and darkened room : at a table, bestrewn with books,pamphlets, letters,and litter, Bits a tall noble-looking man, writing under the light of a shaded lamp. There is something towering and lofty in his preseuce. There are men who remind you of eagles, they seem ever ready to rise to a higher air, and he is of them. As I enter I hear the scratch of his pen. If I stand at his side I see his hand moving as swiftly as the eye can follow. No shorthand writer in Mr. Gumey's staff can write faster than that, and yet the thoughts, the style, the mere knowledge which is carried off on those strips of paper, the ink still wet, would make man a laboured review in an orthodox quarterly seem a very tame production indeed. He used to say that with him the process of composition was completed before he sat down to write. The whole essay, with the sentences in lawful succession, with the component paragraphs, and even the commas and semicolons, lay out before him ere he touched the pen. He thought it into existence while he was looking in the fire, or walking backwards and forwards with his hands in his pockets. His chief difficulty was in making his fingers keep pace with his thought. At such a rate we may stippose the article was soon accomplished and the proof of it revised. He now rings his bell, and orders his cab, and while the messenger is away, steps to the sub-editor's sanctum, and after a word or two, by way of general review of the night's proceedings, bids his faithful colleague "good night." As his cab rolls off, the reporters who have come up with the last " turns " are finishing their task, and so precious are the moments that the head printer himself is down at their elbows, and will snatch away a line at a time if they will let him. At length, their room, too, is vacant: the last pair have donned their great-coats and lit their cigars, and, as they turn Borne corner, the sharp sound of their walkingsticks on the pavement is lost to the ear.

The subeditor is usually the " last man." The young dramatic critic, who comes in to write a notice of a new farce, played, perhaps, at the end of a night's performances, or the musical critic, after a grand revival at Oovent Garden—hoth are liable to be dreadfully late, but the sub editor is later than they. Even his assistauts depart before him. Often he catches the noise of the •' mallet" concluding the printer's operations, and the mysterious groanings of the machine as it is aroused for the climax of the toil. He knows the night so well that he can tell the exact half-hour by the lull or swell of its voices. A grave and careful bachelor has arrived in an adjoining house some hours ago, and if the wires bring mighty or contemptible news, he is at hand (poor wretch !) to be roused, but the sub lingers still. In the summer-time the daybreak steals upon him, and he knows the touch of the wind which

Whispers to the fields of corn ** Bow down and hail the coming morn." The printers, with the exception of two or thre who are relieved at a later hour, have gone thei various ways ; and, though the errors they hay overlooked should haunt them as spectres, th readers are sleeping the untroubled sleep of th" good. The sub editor departs at last, and boy hasten into his room to clear away the wreckof the night. The machine-man, who loves hias a bride, and admires her with the fresh ness of the youthful heart, is surrounded by hi ■aides-de-camp, and the paper is brought into being. The first sheet is rigidly scanned, but time is up—we are late (newspapers are always late—always aiming at an ideal never to be reached) —the machine-man shouts to let the steam play. Away go roller, strap, and " table," and layer after layer soon form a pile large enough for the early trains. The publisher will be here presently, and in his track come the flying carts of the news agents and the swarm of young London whose wants he will have to supply. I leave in their midst, shouting louder than they, and pray him a safe deliverance and hia paper a miraculous circulation.