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 enough that I was a republican, from
America, and unlike some Americans, abated not a jot of my radicalism
when in foreign countries.

I looked around the room when the first words were spoken, and saw
everywhere files of newspapers, old copy and that which was about to be
given to the printers. It was very much like an editorial apartment in
an American printing office, though in some respects it was different.
It was a gloomy apartment, and it seemed to me that the writings of the
editor must partake somewhat of the character of the room.

We went into the printing-office, where a hundred hands were setting the
"thought-tracks." It seemed as if everyone in the building, from
editor-in-chief down to the devil, was solemn with the thought of his
high and noble avocation. There was a half sadness on every
countenance, for the future was full of gloom. I was struck with the
fact that the office did not seem to me to be a _French_ office. There
was a gravity, a solemnity, not often seen in Paris. The usual