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The defeat of General Scott in 1852 emancipated Mr. Greely and the Tribune from the shackles of party and the tyranny of conservatism ; it made him the most free of successful editors, and his paper the ablest and most fearless journal in America. We will close our sketch of his life by a glance at him in his office.
In visiting the Tribune establishment, one should by no means be content with an introduction into the editorial sanctum. He should first descend into subterranean regions where the press-work of the Tribune is executed. A view of the mammoth press, which, with its iron fingers, throws off fifteen thousand impressions an hour, will give him an idea of the business of the establishment. It is a press which has little rest, for the aggregate circulation of the Tribune is over one hundred and seventy thousand copies! Ascend to the first floor, and view the place where the business of the paper is conducted—where
— its immense advertising patronage is received and accounted for-where all bills against the firm of Greeley & McElrath are settled! Mount still higher, and see the printers at their work. If it is day, a busy scene will present itself, yet utter silence pervades the apartments. If it be night, it is still the same-each case is manned, and the work progresses under a new set of workmen, as rapidly as by day. Floor above floor, is occupied by the industrious printers, and the
clerks who each day send off tens of thousands of papers, and one day in each week, more than one hundred thousand. But we have not visited the place where the burning thoughts which are the life of the Tribune, are put upon paper. It is in the highest story but one, fronting on the park. We first enter a long room fronting Spruce street, and extending to Nassau street. Here the sub-editors work. A row of them, each seated at his desk and plying the pen or scissors industriously, attracts our attention. George Ripley, a fine, manly person, with dark hair and darker eyes, sits at one. He is the literary editor of the Tribune, the book critic, and one would hardly suppose from his bland manners that his business, like that of a surgeon, consists in cutting people up! A book lies open before him—he is marking passages for extraction, and to-morrow morning we shall read them in the moist pages of the journal, as we sip our coffee, together with the critic's remarks. Bayard Taylor, perhaps, sits at another desk, just returned from a profitable lecturing tour, and we stop to gaze at the brilliant young traveler. Not far off sits white-haired “Solon"-Solon Robinson, the author of "Hot Corn ”—the agricultural and city item editor of the Tribune. We skip the other editors in this room, and pass into a smaller apartment looking out upon the City Hall. The room is newly carpeted -in one corner, there is an old-fashioned sofa-easy
chairs, three or four, are to be seen, and in one corner at a desk stands a slim, black-haired, brilliant-eyed man, in a pair of exceedingly old and easy shoes.
. His name is Charles A. Dana, and he is editor-inchief when Greeley is out of town, and is usually termed the foreign editor of the Tribune. In another corner of the room a man sits writing at a desk which is just even with his chin, so that while he pushes his pen swiftly over the paper he sits perfectly straight in his chair. He is a short-sighted, and his eyes hug the desk. He is a strange looking mortal. His head is almost bald ; what hair there is, is of a light, sandy color, and is exceedingly fine. He is dressed-well, we may as well speak it right out-abominably. It is Horace Greeley, the chief editor of the Tribune, upon his throne!
It is the poor plow-boy controlling the grandest, the most powerful press in America. He turns to welcome us, and we notice that after all he has a fine face—a gentle look it ever wears. The eyes are not harsh or bold, but mild and honest. And though his manners are not of the Lord Chesterfield stripe, they are those of a man who values trifles less than realities. His thoughts are bold and striking; he has charity for an honest opponent; if we differ from him upon any point, we shall not necessarily lose his esteem, for though a man of fixed opinions, he is not an egotist. Spite of a thousand things which at first prepossessed us against the man, we like him better and better, the more we see of him and hear him talk. Our opinion of his intellectual powers and his moral qualities of course cannot be altered by any personal contact with the man. We have known him as the invisible soul behind the Tribune for years—and now we gaze upon—the Tribune made flesh and blood!
THURLOW WEED BROWN.
One of the most powerful advocates of the temperance cause is the man whose name heads this brief sketch. He is powerful in a somewhat peculiar way, not like Choate or Phillips, with the very highest or. der of eloquence, nor like Sumner, with a chastened, classical eloquence. He is powerful with the people. Upon a vast gathering of sturdy yeomen in one of “God's own temples,” he will make a most profound impression. He overflows with natural eloquence. He knows little of the schools of rhetoric, but he knows the human heart. His own is sensitive as a girl's. No wrong can be perpetrated upon one of his fellow-men without rousing his indignation. He knew in childhood what it was to suffer from intemperance of the nearest friends, and he grew up hating the traffickers in “liquid damnation” as he hated their father, the devil. He utters to the people before him words which burn-sentences which blaze with fire. They are not smooth, are not always elaborated, but they find their way to the hearts of his hearers.
The following extract from his “Temperance Tales and Hearthstone Reveries," presents at one view the