library consists of 150 volumes.

"Pen, ink, paper, scissors, and envelopes are in unfailing demand. The
cry, 'Mr. Greeley wants writing paper!' creates a commotion in the
counting-room, and Mr. Greeley gets paper quicker than a hungry fisherman
could skin an eel.

"Mr. Greeley can lay Virginia worm fences in ink faster than any other
editor in New York City. He uses a fountain-pen, a present from some
friend. He thinks a great deal of it, but during an experience of three
years has failed to learn the simple principle of suction without getting
his mouth full of ink, and he generally uses it with an empty receiver.
He makes a dash at the ink-bottle every twenty seconds, places the third
finger and thumb of his left hand on his paper, and scratches away at his
worm fence like one possessed. He writes marvellously fast. Frequently
the point of his pen pricks through his sheet, for he writes a heavy
hand, and a snap follows, spreading inky spots over the paper, resembling
a woodcut portraying the sparks from a blacksmith's hammer. Blots like
mashed spiders, or crushed huckleberries, occasionally intervene, but the
old veteran dashes them with sand, leaving a swearing compositor to
scratch off the soil, and dig out the words underneath.

"Mr. Greeley's manuscript, when seen for the first time, resembles an
intricate mass of lunatic hieroglyphics, or the tracks of a spider
suffering from _delirium tremens_. But, by those accustomed to his
writing, a remarkable exactness is observed. The spelling, punctuation,
accented letters, and capitalizing are perfect. The old type-setters of
the office prefer his manuscript above that of any other editor, for the
simple reason that he writes his article as he wishes it to appear, and
rarely, if ever, cuts or slashes a proof-sheet. And this punctuality is,
in a great measure, a feature of his life. He is always in time, and
never waits for anybody. He employs no private secretary, and when he
receives a letter, answers it on the instant. No matter how trivial the
request, the next outward-bound mail will carry away one of his
autographs, if he thinks an answer necessary.

"He knows we have entered his room, yet he continues his writing. The
only sound we hear within the sanctum is the scratch of his pen. He has
the power of concentrating all the strength of his mind on the subject of
his editorial, and will pay no attention to any question, however
important, until he