ing. The publisher
of the Tribune stood beside the latter, smoking a pipe; a small man
leaned over the counter at the stranger's elbow, putting in a word here
and there; half a dozen people stood by, listening. Mr Greeley turned to
his publisher in a moment.

'Rhoades,' said he, 'I wish ye'd put these men out. They holler 'n yell,
so I can't hear myself think.

Then there was a general laugh.

I learned to my surprise, when they had gone, that the tall man was
William H. Seward, the other John A. Dix.

Then one of those fevered days came the Prince of Wales--a Godsend, to
allay passion with curiosity.

It was my duty to handle some of 'the latest news by magnetic
telegraph', and help to get the plans and progress of the campaign at
headquarters. The Printer, as they called Mr Greeley, was at his desk
when I came in at noon, never leaving the office but for dinner, until
past midnight, those days. And he made the Tribune a mighty power in the
state. His faith in its efficacy was sublime, and every line went under
his eye before it went to his readers. I remember a night when he called
me to his office about twelve o clock. He was up to his knees in the
rubbish of the day-newspapers that he had read and thrown upon the
floor; his desk was littered with proofs.

'Go an' see the Prince o' Wales,' he said. (That interesting young man
had arrived on the Harriet Lane that morning and ridden up Broadway
between cheering hosts.) 'I've got a sketch of him here an' it's all
twaddle. Tell us something new about him. If he's got a hole in his sock
we ought to know it.'

Mr Dana came in to see him while I was there.

'Look here, Dana,' said the Printer, in a rasping humour. 'By the gods
of war! here's two columns about that performance at the Academy and
only two sticks of the speech of Seward at St Paul. I'll have to get
someone if go an' burn that theatre an' send the bill to me.

In the morning Mayor Wood introduced me to the Duke of Newcastle, who
in turn presented me to the Prince of Wales--then a slim, blue-eyed
youngster of nineteen, as gentle mannered as any I have ever met. It was
my unpleasant duty to keep as near as possible to the royal party in all
the festivities of that week.

The ball, in the Prince's honour, at the Academy of Music, was one of
the great social events of the century. No fair of vanity in the western
hemisphere ever quite equalled it. The fashions of the French Court had
taken the city, as