James Parton, The life of Horace Greeley

[426] son. True, the newly-revealed garments are no more ornamental than those I had already seen. It is clear that Beman's artistic hand bore no part in the production of that crumpled shirt, nor in the getting — up of that overlapping collar, nor in the frantic tie of that disconsolate neckerchief. But the eye of the stranger rests not upon these things; they are remembered afterwards; the stranger is taken up in the contemplation of that countenance, upon which Benignity's self has alighted, and sits enthroned on whitest ivory. Such a face, so fair, so good! No picture has caught its expression, at once youthful and venerable, at once feminine and manly. A smile, like that which plays over a baby's face when it dreams, rests ever on his countenance, and lends to it an indescribable charm. It is expressive of inward serenity, kindliness of nature, and blamelessness of life.

The congregation assembles, and the room becomes half full. The gentleman in the white coat continues to read. The preacher arrives, the “Rev. T. L. Harris,” a slender, pale, dark-haired, black-eyed man, with the youthful look of seventeen. He glances at the extremely Independent Christian with the newspaper, as he brushes by, but receives no nod of recognition in return. He gains his place on the platform, stands up to begin, the people fumbling for their hymn-books. Horatius gives no sign; the Times possesses him wholly. Will he read all through the service, and disconcert the young minister? No. At the first word from the preacher's lips, he drops the paper upon the bench, and addresses himself to—what do you think? Meditation? Finding the hymn? Looking about at the congregation? None of these. Leaning his white head upon his fair, slender hand, and his elbow upon the back of the pew, he closes his eyes, and instantaneously goes to sleep! Not Wellington, nor Napoleon, nor Ney, nor Julius Caesar, ever, after the longest fight, was sooner in the land of dreams. To all appearance— mind, I do not say it was so, but to all appearance—he was asleep before the hymn had been read to the end. Overtasked nature will assert and have her rights, and the weary wanderer find repose at last. Horatius neither stands at the singing, nor during the prayer does he assume any of the singular attitudes which are said to be those of devotion, nor does he pay the slightest attention to the sermon, though it was a truly extraordinary performance, displaying a