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 order 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

causes of his temperance predilections, his direct and vigorous style, and his warm domestic attachments, as shown in the finest tribute to a mother which we have ever seen:

"Lastly, we are against it for a mother's sake. To her we ascribe the holiest of our temperance teachings, and to her history that deep and sleepless hatred of the rum traffic. A tear will come to your eye as we write of that hallowed name. She sits before us now, and we look with a holy love and a misty eye upon the locks fast silvering with gray. That idol has been shivered at your own hearth-side, but her temperance teachings and fervent prayers for her wayward boy will not, cannot be forgotten by him.

"A vision passes before us. There is a home, in New England, of happiness and comfort, and a lovely matron makes one of the links of the family circle. Again she stands at the altar, and weaves her destiny irrevocably with that of the man of her choice.

"Years pass happily and swiftly by, and the young bride is a happy mother. Fresh blessings are added to the first, but in the mean time a shadow has fallen upon that heart and its home. A tempter has glided into the Eden, and wreathed its coils around the husband and father.

"Other years go by, and ruin is in that home. The mother weeps and prays, and gathers more closely her children around her, as the storm bursts in its fury. Want, neglect, and abuse wring her aching heart. She fades out like the autumn leaf, and with a crushed heart sinks to the rest of death, and is

borne to a pauper's grave; and ten brothers and sisters weep over the last home of one who can no longer shield them from hunger or the cruel blow.

"An officer steps within the abode of poverty and wretchedness, and drags away all to satisfy an execution in favor of the rumseller, who has swallowed the living of that family and placed the mother in her grave. The once high-minded, but now lost and imbruted father, sells the cow and riots the proceeds out at a drunkery, and leaves the children to the charities of friends.

"A girl of fifteen summers toils in a factory until her heart and brain ache, and she turns away to the lone group at the desolate hearth, and sinks hungry to her fitful rest. The coldtongued bell breaks in upon short slumbers, and drives the slight and weary frame again to its bitter task. Saturday night finds her turning homeward with a feverish cheek and a heavy step. A father calls at the office of the superintendent, secures her earnings, and during the Sabbath squanders it all at the grog-shop with his boon companions!

"The factory girl once idolized that father. But hunger, and poverty, and abuse, have taught her to hate him; and as he goes to the groggery in the morning, an involuntary prayer goes up from the child's heart that he will no more return. So accursing are the effects of rum!

"Long and weary days pass away, and yet the factory girl toils, and at night gathers with her brothers and sisters gratefully around a loaf of brown bread. There is a jug of rum on the shelf, and an imbruted father slumbering on the hearth.

"A dark and cheerless pathway opens to the factory girl.