{"id":"01KG8AK8NCEGPYBNMWZVRBXSWY","cid":"bafkreibcv3ho6c6ircwapobzko7bl5sxaedjofmgwqnpqxkwb2nkglubfm","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":7510,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:47:57.725Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1JMR8XVKPA0G8ADAPC4","start_line":7435,"text":"CHAPTER XXX.\r\n\r\nOPENING WITH A POETICAL EULOGY OF THE PRESS AND CONTINUING WITH TALK\r\nINSPIRED BY THE SAME.\r\n\r\n\r\n\"'Praise be unto the press, not Faust's, but Noah's; let us extol and\r\nmagnify the press, the true press of Noah, from which breaketh the true\r\nmorning. Praise be unto the press, not the black press but the red; let\r\nus extol and magnify the press, the red press of Noah, from which cometh\r\ninspiration. Ye pressmen of the Rhineland and the Rhine, join in with\r\nall ye who tread out the glad tidings on isle Madeira or Mitylene.--Who\r\ngiveth redness of eyes by making men long to tarry at the fine\r\nprint?--Praise be unto the press, the rosy press of Noah, which giveth\r\nrosiness of hearts, by making men long to tarry at the rosy wine.--Who\r\nhath babblings and contentions? Who, without cause, inflicteth wounds?\r\nPraise be unto the press, the kindly press of Noah, which knitteth\r\nfriends, which fuseth foes.--Who may be bribed?--Who may be\r\nbound?--Praise be unto the press, the free press of Noah, which will not\r\nlie for tyrants, but make tyrants speak the truth.--Then praise be unto\r\nthe press, the frank old press of Noah; then let us extol and magnify\r\nthe press, the brave old press of Noah; then let us with roses garland\r\nand enwreath the press, the grand old press of Noah, from which flow\r\nstreams of knowledge which give man a bliss no more unreal than his\r\npain.'\"\r\n\r\n\"You deceived me,\" smiled the cosmopolitan, as both now resumed their\r\nseats; \"you roguishly took advantage of my simplicity; you archly played\r\nupon my enthusiasm. But never mind; the offense, if any, was so\r\ncharming, I almost wish you would offend again. As for certain poetic\r\nleft-handers in your panegyric, those I cheerfully concede to the\r\nindefinite privileges of the poet. Upon the whole, it was quite in the\r\nlyric style--a style I always admire on account of that spirit of\r\nSibyllic confidence and assurance which is, perhaps, its prime\r\ningredient. But come,\" glancing at his companion's glass, \"for a lyrist,\r\nyou let the bottle stay with you too long.\"\r\n\r\n\"The lyre and the vine forever!\" cried the other in his rapture, or what\r\nseemed such, heedless of the hint, \"the vine, the vine! is it not the\r\nmost graceful and bounteous of all growths? And, by its being such, is\r\nnot something meant--divinely meant? As I live, a vine, a Catawba vine,\r\nshall be planted on my grave!\"\r\n\r\n\"A genial thought; but your glass there.\"\r\n\r\n\"Oh, oh,\" taking a moderate sip, \"but you, why don't you drink?\"\r\n\r\n\"You have forgotten, my dear Charlie, what I told you of my previous\r\nconvivialities to-day.\"\r\n\r\n\"Oh,\" cried the other, now in manner quite abandoned to the lyric mood,\r\nnot without contrast to the easy sociability of his companion. \"Oh, one\r\ncan't drink too much of good old wine--the genuine, mellow old port.\r\nPooh, pooh! drink away.\"\r\n\r\n\"Then keep me company.\"\r\n\r\n\"Of course,\" with a flourish, taking another sip--\"suppose we have\r\ncigars. Never mind your pipe there; a pipe is best when alone. I say,\r\nwaiter, bring some cigars--your best.\"\r\n\r\nThey were brought in a pretty little bit of western pottery,\r\nrepresenting some kind of Indian utensil, mummy-colored, set down in a\r\nmass of tobacco leaves, whose long, green fans, fancifully grouped,\r\nformed with peeps of red the sides of the receptacle.\r\n\r\nAccompanying it were two accessories, also bits of pottery, but smaller,\r\nboth globes; one in guise of an apple flushed with red and gold to the\r\nlife, and, through a cleft at top, you saw it was hollow. This was for\r\nthe ashes. The other, gray, with wrinkled surface, in the likeness of a\r\nwasp's nest, was the match-box. \"There,\" said the stranger, pushing over\r\nthe cigar-stand, \"help yourself, and I will touch you off,\" taking a\r\nmatch. \"Nothing like tobacco,\" he added, when the fumes of the cigar\r\nbegan to wreathe, glancing from the smoker to the pottery, \"I will have\r\na Virginia tobacco-plant set over my grave beside the Catawba vine.\"\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJMV9MSRGN5AE81C6QV95","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1JMR8XVKPA0G8ADAPC4","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AK8NX4ZHRXEN1C3EN813N","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:47:58.636Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:12.460Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}