man who has lived for the people and suffered for the people, and been laughed at when he suffered and because he suffered. _This_ was the man whose blood was hungered for. And yet the most moderate, kind, considerate of all the papers, the last week, was his paper. And I believe he, even had he fallen into the hands of his enemies, would have said, "Forgive them, they know not what they do." Indulge me in one more personality. I said that the dwelling of a friend was pillaged by the mob, under the impression that Mr. Greeley lived there. What was this dwelling? Who was this friend? The dwelling was one the like of which is rare in any city, a dwelling of happiness and peace, a home of the tenderest domestic affections, a house of large friendliness and hospitality, a refuge and abiding-place for the unfortunate and the outcast. There was no display of wealth there--there was no wealth to display; yet the house was full of things which no wealth could buy. It was crowded with mementos. The pieces of furniture in the rooms had family histories connected with them; chairs and tables were precious from association with noble and rare people who had gone. Pictures on the walls, busts in the parlor, engravings, photographs, books, spoke of the gratitude or love of some dear giver. One room was sacred to the memory of a noble boy, an only son, who had died some years before. There was his bust in marble, there were his books, there were the prints he liked, the little bits of art he was fond of, and all the dear things that seemed to bring him back. The whole house was a shrine and a sanctuary.