It is said to be a peculiarity of the _Daily News_ that all the leading articles are manufactured on the premises, if I may venture on a shop phrase in such a connection. I have spoken of the luxury of the Editor’s sanctum, which is a large and noble apartment. The leader-writers are borne to the office in closed carriages, with double or triple windows and india-rubber tires, lest some rude oath, or nasty smell, or even the loud noise of the streets should shock them into hysterics, or at least so unstring their nerves as to render writing impossible for the day. In the sumptuous boudoir-sanctum, lounging, smoking, and sipping, they receive on silver salvers telegrams from all parts of the rolling globe, with innumerable communications and documents, written and printed; and such of these as they are pleased to look at tin Epicurean gods: “For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys.” They lie a good deal beside their nectar; but their bolts are anything but thunderbolts. Thunderbolts! The mere word would make these gasp and shudder. They are not thunderbolts, they are not rockets, they are not even squibs; they are bonbons and genuine _confetti_, not your _confetti_ of the Carnival. “*There* they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights and flaming towns, and sinking ships and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centered in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning, tho the words are strong; Chanted from an ill−used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil.”