bound for Trinity or St. George's, or the Brick Chapel, where Dr. Spring discourses of ‘First Things’ to First Things. It is possible now, and safe, for the admiring stranger, your affectionate brother, to stand in the middle of the street, and to discover that it is perfectly straight, from the rising ground above the Park to where the tall, white spire of Grace Church, so strikingly terminates the beautiful promenade—a feat which no man hath been able to accomplish on a week-day these thirty years. The sun upon this cloudless morning brilliantly lights up the scene, and covers all things with glory. I am among the church-goers, and I saunter down-town-wards. I make my observations on the passing throng, and marvel chiefly that, among so many countenances, so few should wear an expression of intelligence, so few even of bodily health, and wonder if, after all, the nineteenth century is really and truly so great a century as it thinks it is. But there is walking just before me a man whose contour, walk and attire, are strikingly different from those of every other person in the crowd,—a tall man, slightly made, with a stoop and shamble. I know not why it is, but I immediately take that man to be somebody, a Western member of Congress, perhaps, and I am not at all surprised when I hear it whispered, “That's Horace Greeley.” I prick up my ears, and resolve to follow him wherever he goes. Horatius, let me assure you, is a person in whose mind there lingers none of childhood's reverence for the institution of Sunday clothes. Do not conclude from this circumstance that he is one of those superfine gentlemen who, in their magnanimous endeavor to differ from the profane vulgar, contrive to be as shabbily dressed on Sundays, when others dress in their best, as they are elegantly attired on Saturdays, when people in general are shabbiest. Horatius is no such person. No fine gentleman could be brought on any terms to appear in Broadway in the rig he wore on this occasion. My eye was first caught by his boots, which were coarse, large and heavy, such as dangle from the ceiling of a country store, such as “stalk a-field” when ploughmen go forth to plough. This particular pair can never, in the whole course of their existence, have added one farthing to the colossal fortune of Day and Martin. They were spattered with mud, and so were the trowsers that, curtailed of
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