ours. One excited orator,
in closing a debate, dropped into poetry, and remarked that a certain
catastrophe came "like a bolt from the blue"; a daily journal of vast
circulation described the event as coming "like a bolt from the
flue"--which was a very sad instance of bathos. The amazing thing is
that such blunders should be so rare as to be memorable.

What a strange population who toil thus at night for our pleasure and
instruction, and who reverse the order of ordinary people's lives!
They are worth knowing, these swift, dexterous, laborious people.
First of all comes the great personage--the editor. In old days simple
persons imagined the conductor of the _Times_ perched upon a majestic
throne, whence he hurled his bolts in the most light-hearted manner.
We know better now; yet it must be owned that the editor of a great
journal is a very important personage indeed. The true editor is born
to his function; if he has not the gift, no amount of drilling will
ever make him efficient. Many of the outside public still picture the
editor as wielding his pen valiantly, and stabbing enemies or
heartening friends with his own hands. As a matter of fact, the
editor's function is not to write; the best of the profession never
touch a pen, excepting to write a brief note of instruction or to send
a private letter. The editor is the brain of the journal; and, in the
case of a daily paper, his business is not so much to instruct the
public as to find out what the public want to say, and say it for them
in the clearest and most forcible way possible. Imagine a general
commanding amid the din of a great battle. He must remember the number
of his forces, the exact disposition of every battalion, the peculiar
capabilities of his principal subordinates, and he must also note
every yard of the ground. He hears that a battalion has been repulsed
with heavy slaughter at a point one mile away, and the officer in
command cannot repeat his assault without reinforcements. He must
instantly decide as to whether the foiled battalion is merely to hold
its ground or to advance once more. Orderlies reach him from all
points of the compass; he must note where the enemy's fire slackens or
gains power; he must be ready to use the field-telegraph with
unhesitating decision, for a minute's hesitation may lose the battle
and ruin his force. In short, the general plays a vast game which
makes the complications of chess seem simple. The editor, in his