moment, and an attempt is made to set up the final scraps of matter with as few errors as possible; but little mistakes will creep in, and people who do not know the startling exigencies of the printer’s trade are apt to express scornful wonder.  Very comic have been the errors made during the recent furious and prolonged debates, for the frantic conflicts in the House were extended far into the small hours.  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 peaceful way, has to perform daily a mental feat almost equal in complexity to that of the warrior.  Public