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Typo: A Monthly Newspaper and Literary Review, Volume 4
[poetry section]
Confessio Amantis.
When do I love you most, sweet books of mine?
In strenuous morns, when o'er your leaves I pore
Austerely bent to win austerest lore,
Forgetting how the dewy meadows shine,
Or afternoons when honeysuckles twine
About the seat, and to some dreamy shore
Of old Romance, where lovers evermore
Keep blissful hours, I follow at your sign.
Yea, ye are precious then, but most to me
Ere lamplight dawneth, when low croons the Are
To whispering twilight in my little room,
And eyes read not, but sitting silently
I feel your great hearts throbbing deep in quire,
And hear you breathing round me in the gloom.
Richard Le Gallienne.
&
Of all the types in a printer's hand
Commend me to the Amperzand,
For he's the gentleman (seems to me)
Of the typographical companie.
Oh my nice little Amperzand,
My graceful, swanlike Amperzand.
Nothing that Cadmus ever planned
Equals my elegant Amperzand!
Many a letter your writers hate,
Ugly Q. with his tail so straight,
X, that makes you cross as a bear,
And Z, that helps you with zounds to swear.
But not my nice little Arnperzand
My easily dashed-off Amperzand,
Any odd shape folks understand,
To mean my Protean Amperzand!
Nothing for him that's starch or stiff;
Never he's used in scold or tiff;
State epistles, so dull and grand,
Mustn't contain the shortened and.
No, my nice little Amperzand, [bland;
You are good for those who are jolly and
In days when letters were dried with sand
Old frumps wouldn't use my Amperzand!
But he is dear in old friendship's call,
Or when love is laughing through lady-scrawl,
Come & dine, & have bachelor's fare.
Come. & I'll keep you a round & square.
Yes, my nice little Amperzand
Never must into a word expand:
Gentle sign of affection stand,
My kind, familiar Amperzand.
—From an old volume of Punch.
"Forever."
Forever; 'tis a single word!
Our rude forefathers deemed it two:
Can you imagine so absurd
A view?
Forever I "What abysms of woe
The word reveals, what frenzy, what
Despair! For ever (printed so)
Did not.
It looks, ah me! how trite and tame!
It fails to sadden or appal,
Or solace—it is not the same
At all.
O thou to whom it first occurred
To solder the disjoin'd, and dower
Thy native language with a word
Of power,
We bless thee! whether far or near
Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair
Thy kingly brow, is neither here Nor there.
But in men's hearts shall be thy throne,
While the great pulse of England beats;
Thou coiner of a word unknown
To Keats.
And nevermore must printer do
As men did longago; but run
« For » into « ever, » bidding two
Be one.
Forever! passion-fraught, it throws
O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour:
It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose
It's grammar.
Forever! 'Tis a single word!
And yet our fathers deemed it two:
Nor am I confident they err'd Are you?
—C. S. Calverley's Fly Leaves.
Ballata
A Compositor Bewaileth Her Case.
It was a type-setter,
A gentle, modest maid.
And every word she said
One, a reporter, listening, wrote of her:
« I've tried in vain to read this manuscript;
Its like I never saw.
It looks as though a spider had been dipped
In ink, and set to draw
A map; or with her claw
The office cat had written
Instructions to her kitten,
With musical Persian words for mew and purr.
« There are some letters that look cuneiform,
And others seem Chinese.
The punctuation-points are in a swarm,
Like angry, hiving bees—
Whereof I have decrease Of pay, which is by the em,
Since I lose time by them
Who thus to write illegibly prefer.
« They write of peculations in high places,
And frauds which have occurred;
We type-setters, perplexed before our cases,
Are puzzled at each word;
To indignation stirred,
I scruple not to state:
Those authors peculate
Who write as ill as you, and you, do, sir!
« That journalist my gratitude engages,
Whose writing clear and plain
Is found on one side only of his pages;
For I need not explain
That all the time I gain
So much the more I earn
Who doth me this good turn
A rightful favor kindly doth confer.
« If you take pity of my sad complaint,
I will henceforth avoid
Misprints sufficient to provoke a saint,
By which you are annoyed;
Perfection unalloyed
Shall be my type-setting—
This is no little thing,
To promise that no errors shall occur!
« And if in haste—for such things have been done—
Your pen should chance to lapse
From full conformity with Worcester's Un-
Abridged; or if, perhaps
(For Homer had his naps),
A verb being singular,
With plural noun should war,
I will hide your failing from the proof-reader.
« For author and compositor being come
The reign of amity,
Of syntax the desired millennium,
And of orthography—
The reading world shall see
The apotheosis solemn,
Complete in every column,
Of the ideal, the perfect newspaper!»
It was a type-setter,
A gentle, modest maid,
And every word she said
One, a reporter, listening, wrote of her.
—Press and Printer.
E. Cavazza.