Man Abroad by Anonymous

I lost no time, on arriving in my native planet, in carrying into execution a plan on the attractions of which I had often dwelt in the early days of my journalistic experience, and which I had scarcely dared hope ever to realize. In fact, after I had attained a very fair standing in the profession, I had relegated this scheme to a place among the air-castles of my youth; satisfied with the realization of a more moderate ambition, which sought to teach the public, day by day, in plain but independent terms, the dangers and the duties of the hour, through the columns of a daily journal. When I found myself in a position to do this, I cared not that others who shared this opportunity with me failed to appreciate it. I reflected that their indifference was no affair of mine, and that the thing of importance, to me, at least, was to make the best use of my time. I envied not the popular preacher who addressed a thousand or two of people once or twice a week, for I addressed tens of thousands of readers daily. Nor did I envy the author whose book is read by thousands, and who writes perhaps one book a year.

But when I found that so long as I was only a salaried employee, I was, after all, not independent, but the slave of a proprietor, I also discovered that I was writing his opinions and not my own. It was all very well so long as his opinions and mine agreed, but when they were not in harmony, mine were not expressed and his were. So I longed again to realize the wild project of my youth to which I have referred.