oughfare--elms, with
here and there a willow, a sumach or a mountain ash. The walks were
thronged with handsome people--dandies with high hats and flaunting
necknes and swinging canes--beautiful women, each covering a broad
circumference of the pavement, with a cone of crinoline that swayed over
dainty feet. From Grace Church down it was much of the same thing we see
now, with a more ragged sky line. Many of the great buildings, of white
and red sandstone, had then appeared, but the street was largely in the
possession of small shops--oyster houses, bookstores and the like. Not
until I neared the sacred temple of the Tribune did I feel a proper
sense of my own littleness. There was the fountain of all that wisdom
which had been read aloud and heard with reverence in our household
since a time I could but dimly remember. There sat the prophet who had
given us so much--his genial views of life and government, his hopes,
his fears, his mighty wrath at the prospering of cruelty and injustice.

'I would like to see Mr Horace Greeley,' I said, rather timidly, at the
counter.

'Walk right up those stairs and turn to the left,' said a clerk, as he
opened a gate for me.

Ascending, I met a big man coming down, hurriedly, and with heavy steps.
We stood dodging each other a moment with that unfortunate co-ordination
of purpose men sometimes encounter when passing each other. Suddenly the
big man stopped in the middle of the stairway and held both of his hands
above his head.

'In God's name! young man,' said he, 'take your choice.'

He spoke in a high, squeaky voice that cut me with the sharpness of its
irritation. I went on past him and entered an open door near the top of
the stairway.

'Is Mr Horace Greeley in?' I enquired of a young man who sat reading
papers.

'Back soon,' said he, without looking up. 'Take a chair.'

In a little while I heard the same heavy feet ascending the stairway two
steps at a time. Then the man I had met came hurriedly into the room.

'This is Mr Greeley,' said the young man who was reading.

The great editor turned and looked at me through gold-rimmed spectacles.
I gave him my letter out of a trembling hand. He removed it from the
envelope and held it close to his big, kindly, smooth-shaven face. There
was a fringe of silky, silver hair, streaked with yellow, about the
lower part of his head from temple to temple. It also encircled his
throat from under his collar. His cheeks were fall an