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PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT.

THE favorable reception of the collection of periodical papers from the London Times has induced the publication of the present series from the London Quarterly Review. They will be found to be independent essays, treating in a graphic, entertaining style, with wit, anecdote, descriptive power, and no little philosophy, topics of general and permanent interest. Much of the best literature of the day is to be found in the leading Quarterly Reviews, and of that literature the papers which follow are no unfavorable specimens. It is the intention of the Publishers to continue this selection in future volumes, as well from the Quarterly as from other similar publications of the higher order.

New York, May, 1852.

PAPERS

FROM THE

LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW.

THE PRINTER'S DEVIL.

And noo, ma freends,"—some fifty years ago, said an old Highland preacher, suddenly lowering a voice which for nearly an hour had been giving fervid utterance to a series of supplications for the welfare, temporal as well as spiritual, of his flock,—“ And noo, ma freends,"—the good man repeated, as, wiping his bedewed brow, he looked down upon a congregation who with outstretched chins sat listening in respectful astonishment to this new proof that their pastor's subject, unlike his body, was still unexhausted ; " And noo, ma freends,”—he once more exclaimed, with a look of parental benevolence it would be utterly impossible to describe—“ Let us praigh for the puir Deil! There's naebody praighs for the puir Deil!

To our literary congregation, we beg leave to repeat very nearly the same two exclamations, for, deeply as we all stand indebted to the British

it

may truly

press,

be said “ There's naebody thinks of its puir deils,” nor of the many kindred spirits, “ black, white, and grey," who, above ground as well as below, inhabit the great printing-houses of the land we live in. We shall, therefore, at once proceed to one of these establishments, and by our sovereign power summon its motley inmates before

us, that they may rapidly glide before our readers in review.

In a raw December morning, just before the gas-lights are extinguished, and just before sunrise, the streets of London form a twilight picture which it is interesting to contemplate, inasmuch as there exists perhaps no moment in the twenty-four hours in which they present a more guiltless aspect; for at this hour luxury has retired to such rest as belongs to it—vice has not yet risen. Although the rows of houses are still in shade, and although their stacks of chimneys appear fantastically delineated upon the grey sky, yet the picture, chiaro-oscuro, is not altogether without its lights. The wet streets, in whatever direction they radiate, shine almost as brightly as the gilt printing over the barred shops. At the corners of the streets, the gin-palaces, as they are passed, appear splendidly illuminated with gas, showing an elevated row of lettered and numbered yellow casks, which in daylight stand on their ends unnoticed. The fashionable streets are all completely deserted, save by a solitary policeman, who, distinguished by his warm great-coat and shining belt, is seen standing at a crossing drinking the cup of hot salop or coffee he has just purchased of an old barrow-woman, who, with her smoking kettle, is quietly seated at his side, while the cab and hackney-coach horses, with their heads droop

A RAW DECEMBER MORNING.

9

6 far

ing, appear as motionless as the brass charger at Charing-Cross.

An Irish labourer with an empty hod over his shoulder, a man carrying a saw, a tradesman with his nite apron tucked

up for walking, a few men, and wide between,” in fustian jackets, with their hands in their pockets to keep them warm, are the only perceptible atoms of an enormous mass of a million and a half of people—all the rest being as completely buried from view as if they were lying in their graves.

But as our vehicle proceeds, every minute imparts life to the scene, until, by the time Blackfriars bridge is crossed, the light of day illumines the figures of hundreds of workmen, who, unconnected with each other, are, in various directions, steadily proceeding to their tasks.

Among them, from their dress, gait, and general appearance, it is not difficult here and there to distinguish that several are printers; and as we have now reached the gate of one of the principal buildings to which they are marching, we must alight from our

cab,” that we may by a slight sketch delineate its interior for our readers.

The printing establishment of Messrs. Clowes, on the Surrey side of the Thames, (for they have a branch office at Charing-Cross,) is situated between Blackfriars and Waterloo Bridges. Their buildings extend in length from Princes-street to Duke-street, and in breadth about half the distance. The entrance is by rather a steep declivity into a little low court, on arriving at which, the small counting-house is close on the left; the great steam-presses, type and stereotype-foundry, and paper-warehouse, on the right; and the apartments for compositors, readers, &c., in front.

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