nd that was in that delicate mechanism embodying the
triumphs of modern science, which facilitates transmission of thought,
and which, by skillful adaptation, made this one chamber a focus to
which ideas and feeling in every other apartment of that vast
establishment converged, and which enabled one man, without rising from
his chair, to issue his orders to every department, from press-room to
composing-room, from foundation stone to the turrets of that tall pile,
everything being governed by the will and impulse of a single mind.
Indeed, to such an extent is labor-saving carried in the Parisian
printing office that the compositor may never have seen the journalist
whose leaders he has spent half his life in setting up, for copy, proof
and revise glide up or down as if by the agency only of magic, and the
real actors rarely meet.

CHAPTER IX.

ARMAND MARRAST.

The journalist who now occupied the editorial chair was seemingly about
thirty-five years of age, and one whom the ladies would call "a
fine-looking man." His stature was about the average, his shoulders
broad and his form thick-set. His face was long and thin, his forehead
full and capacious, though not high, and was furrowed by thought. His
beard, which, like his hair, was black, encircled his chin, and a
moustache was suffered to adorn his lip. His dress was black and a plain
stock, without a collar, surrounded his throat. His eyes were large,
black, and piercing, and the expression of his countenance was
contemplative and sad.

Such is a hasty limning of the personal outlines of the first journalist
in Paris, the chief editor of the chief organ of the democracy in
Europe, Armand Marrast, of "Le National."

An air of depression, exhaustion and regret was upon his face as he sat
beside the table, with a pen in his hand and paper before him, in a
thoughtful mood, as if planning a leader for his journal, of which but a
single line was written. Whatever were his reflections, they were
evidently far from pleasant; but the single line traced at the head of
the paper indicated the source of his uneasiness. It read:

"Again the House of Orleans triumphs!"

Throwing down his pen, he folded his arms, and began hastily pacing the
chamber.

"Again the House of Orleans triumphs!" he bitterly exclaimed. "Aye,
again and again! It is thus forever, and thus forever seems likely to
continue. Every measure, however imperative, of the opposition,
ignominiously f