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Chapter 28: day and night in the Tribune office.

  • The streets before daybreak—--waking the newsboys
  • -- morning scene in the press-room -- the compositor's room-the four Phalanxes -- the Tribune Directory -- a lull in the Tribune office -- a glance at the paper -- the advertisements -- telegraphic marvels -- Marine Intelligence -- New publications -- letters from the people -- editorial articles -- the editorial rooms -- the sanctum sanctorum -- Solon Robinson -- Bayard Taylor -- William Henry Fry -- George Ripley -- Charles A. Dana -- F. J. Ottarson -- George M. Snow -- enter Horace Greeley -- his preliminary botheration -- the composing-room in the evening -- the editors at work -- Mr. Greeley's manner of writing -- midnight -- three o'clock in the morning -- the carriers.

We are in the streets, walking from the regions where money is spent towards those narrow and crooked places wherein it is earned. The day is about to dawn, but the street lights are still burning, and the greater part of the million people who live within sight of the City Hall's illuminated dial, are lying horizontal and unconscious, in the morning's last slumber. The streets are neither silent nor deserted—the streets of New York never are. The earliest milkmen have begun their morning crow, squeak, whoop, and yell. The first omnibus has not yet come down town, but the butcher's carts, heaped with horrid flesh, with men sitting upon it reeking with a night's carnage, are rattling along Broadway at the furious pace for which the butcher's carts of all nations are noted. The earliest workmen are abroad, dinner-kettle in hand; carriers with their bundles of newspapers slung across their backs by a strap, are emerging from Nassau street, and making their way across the Park—towards all the ferries—up Broadway—up Chatham street—to wherever their district of distribution begins. The hotels have just opened their doors and lighted up their offices; and drowsy waiters are perambulating the interminable passages, knocking up passengers for the early trains, and waking up everybody else. In unnumbered kitchens the breakfast fire is kindling, but not yet, in any except the market restaurants, is a cup of coffee attainable. The very groggeries—strange to see—are closed. Apparently, the

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