or nearly so, as any of the French journals, but when the latter
had liberty to write as they pleased, the contrast between the French
and English press in Paris was ludicrous. In one you had fearless
political writing, wit, and spice. In the other, nothing but selections.

Once, while in Paris, during the days of the republic, I called upon the
editor of one of the prominent French journals. It was a journal which
had again and again paid government fines for the utterance of its
honest sentiments, both under Louis Philippe and the presidency of Louis
Napoleon. Before the revolution it had a very great influence over the
people, and in the days of the so-called republic. The struggle between
it and the government, at that time was continued. Its editor's great
aim was to express as much truth as was possible and escape the
government line, which in the end would suppress the journal.

As I entered the building in which this journal was printed and
published, I felt a kind of awe creeping over me, as if coming into the
presence of a great mind. We entered the editor's office; a little green
baize-covered table by a window, pen and ink, and scissors, indicated
the room. One might indeed tremble in such a place. What greater place
is there in this world than an editor's office, if his journal be one
which sells by tens of thousands and sways a vast number of intelligent
men? A throne-room is nothing in comparison to it. Thrones are
demolished by the journals. Especially in Paris has such been the case.
The liberal press has in past years controlled the French people to a
wonderful extent. Kings and queens have physical power, but here in this
little room was the throne-room of intellect. A door opened out of it
into the printing-room, where the thoughts were stamped upon paper,
afterward to be impressed upon a hundred thousand minds.

The editor sat over his little desk, an earnest, care-worn, yet hopeful
man. His fingers trembled with nervousness, yet his eye was like an
eagle's. He did not stir when we first entered, did not even see us, he
was so deeply absorbed in what lay before him upon his table. I was glad
to watch him for a moment, unobserved. He was no fashionable editor,
made no play of his work. He felt the responsibility of his position,
and endeavored honestly to do his duty. His forehead was high, his eye
black, and his face was very pale. Suddenly he looked up and saw us, and
recognized my friend. It was