In an instant the bitterness of the campaign was forgotten, though the huzzas of the victors still rent the air.

The President, his late antagonist, with his cabinet and the leading members of the two Houses of Congress, attended his funeral.

As he lay in his coffin he was no longer the arch rebel, leading a combine of buccaneers and insurgents, which the Republican orators and newspapers had depicted him, but the brave old apostle of freedom who had done more than all others to make the issues upon which a militant and triumphant party had risen to power.
The multitude remembered only the old white hat and the sweet old baby face beneath it, heart of gold, and hand wielding the wizard pen; the incarnation of probity and kindness, of steadfast devotion to his duty as he saw it, and to the needs of the whole human family.

A tragedy in truth it was; and yet as his body was lowered into its grave there rose above it, invisible, unnoted, a flower of matchless beauty--the flower of peace and love between the sections of the Union to which his life had been a sacrifice.
The crank convention had builded wiser than it knew.

That the Democratic Party could ever have been brought to the support of Horace Greeley for President of the United States reads even now like a page out of a nonsense book.