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The distinguished Editor does not notice us as we enter the room, nor would he apprehend that he was intruded upon were we to remain all day and not make ourselves known. If we are strangers, and it is apparent that we "drop in" out of mere idle curiosity, when he has nodded his head to us, in response to our interruption, he resumes his labors, and we may as well "clear out," first as last, for we shall receive no further attention from him. Those unacquainted with his business might well consider this "hard usage," but the reasonable reader (whom we are presumed to have in our company) will recognise this course of conduct, as a rule. His daily visiters may be reckoned by the hundred, and were he to play "the agreeable" to each and every one, the sum total of his day's work would count an insignificant footing. On the other hand-if we happen to be "particular friends," politically, he will give us due attention, and we shall get posted up on the "state of things," and very likely receive some excellent practical advice, touching our future public events.

Mr. Greeley has been through life emphatically a great worker. Otherwise, it is plain, he could never have accomplished the immense amount of work he has done. A near friend of his, at the time when he first independently ventured into newspaperdom, has assured us that he closely applied himself from fifteen to eighteen hours per day. Since he has become firmly established, he has in a degree, relaxed his efforts, but we know of no harder working editor, at this day—and that is saying a good deal for Mr. Greeley's industry and perseverance.

Mr. Greeley is a quick composer and a rapid writer. Printers pronounce his manuscript decidedly worse than that of any other editor in the land, which is setting it at a very low notch indeed. In putting it in type, they declare they take it for what it ought to be, rather than what it seems to be. Lines on paper are of no use to him; he persists that the pen should be a free agent, and, to be consistent, lets it take pretty much its own course. The fac simile of Byron's chirography in the large edition of this writer's works is really reasonable, compared with Greeley's ordinary manuscript.

We have, perhaps, deviated somewhat from the object of our visit; but, as we have described, we claim to belong exclusively to Greeley and his sanctum sanctorum. This last is a perfectly plain, unpretending room, and the only article in it having anything the air of luxuriousness is a good oldfashioned lounge, upon which, it is said, he sometimes takes a snooze. We are told that this remarkable man has the very convenient faculty of working as long as there is anything to be done, and then sitting down in a chair, or reclining upon his lounge, and finding refreshing rest in sleep. Truly, a rare and a comfortable habit, and admirably adapted to the necessities of such a man.

But, having exhausted our knowledge and "said our say " of the room and its occupant, remembering that we treat of one, with whom the corner-stone of all rhetorical virtues is to stop when you are done, let us take ourselves off-casting back a lingering glance at the form of our friend, at his work, with brain, and quill, and nose converged and concentrate—and

sending up our earnest aspirations that he may live to stand at his old desk, and drive his powerful and faithful pen for the Truth and Right, and so "leave him alone in his glory."

In the year 1830 and 1831, he worked as an apprentice in a printing office in Erie, Pa., for fifty dollars a year; out of that sum he saved enough to buy his father a yoke of steers -$25 or $30-clothed himself, and laid by what paid his expenses to New York. His father at that time was very poor, living on a small piece of rugged hemlock land, near the line of Crawford co., Pa., and Chatauque county, N. Y. The whole of the worldly gear of Horace, when he started for the city to make his fortune, might be summed up in a short schedule a suit of blue cotton jeans, two brown shirts, chip hat, and brogans, and less than five dollars in money.

And now, at this moment, he is wielding an influence greater perhaps than any other man in America. He is the editor-in-chief of the New York Tribune. Mr. Greeley is a model worker, temperate, economical, industrious, and a ready writer. He will make a mark upon the world, and be numbered among the leading spirits of the NINETEENTH CEN- ́

TURY.

MOSES GRANT.

MOSES GRANT has obtained a world-wide celebrity, by his untiring efforts to ameliorate the condition of the unfortunate children of poverty and sorrow. The widow and the orphan have reason to rise up and call him blessed. The drunkard and the prisoner have abundant cause to remember him gratefully, for his labor of love. Although advanced in years, he has the vigor, forecast, and decision of the prime of life. Between the hours of eight and one, in the morning, he may be found every working-day in his office, serving the poor. Groups of men, women, and children, of every complexion, from every country, may be seen at his office every forenoon, soliciting aid and advice. The dusky African, the mercurial Celt, the solid Englishman, the chattering Frenchman, the lymphatic German, and the exiled Hungarian. One sits on a bench at the window, eating a bowl of soup-another stoops down to fit a pair of shoes to his feet-another strips the rags from his back and puts on a warm jacket. Look at the procession passing through the gate. Here is a boy with a bag of rice, there is a girl with a loaf of bread, yonder is a woman with a basket of provisions. See that red-faced young man, his home is in the country, but he last night fell among

thieves, between Broad and Beacon streets, and he has just borrowed a sum sufficient to take him to his parents. That modest woman, so plainly yet so neatly dressed, suffered uncomplainingly, until pinching hunger compelled her to solicit charity her immediate wants are supplied, and employ ment will be procured for her. The man with a slouched hat and seedy coat has signed the pledge, and left his brandy bottle among the curiosities in the Deacon's temperance There comes the porter with a stack of letters and papers from the post-office-the former will be answered and the latter examined, before the rising of to-morrow's sun.

museum.

It is now noon. The sad faced, broken-hearted, and downtrodden procession, has passed away from the beautiful residence, and the owner and occupant of the mansion hurries down to his place of business, from that to the bank, and then home again, in time to dine. After dinner he calls for his carriage, and takes a poor boy to the Farm School-dropping in at South Boston to see the juvenile offenders, and calling, on his return, to see a sick woman, and administer such consolation and assistance as he can render. Her lips are white as the wild white rose, but she calls for blessings to descend upon kind friends, whose visits are better than medicine to her aching frame and breaking heart.

The subject of this sketch is never idle. Now presiding at a Mass Meeting on the Common, or in Faneuil Hall, or in Tremont Temple-then making a speech to the convicts in Charlestown Prison, or visiting the paupers at Deer Island— or attending to his official business at the Board of Aldermen

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