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mighty sweep of intelligence, an amazing fervency of hero-worship, and an unequaled splendor of illustration.
It was delivered with a vehemence of affection that made the speaker's frail frame tremble, as though the spirit it encased were struggling to escape its tenement.
And still the editor slept.
Not a word of the sermon did he seem to hear, unless it was the last word; for, at the very last, he roused his drowsy powers, and as Mr. Harris sat down, Horace Greeley woke up. Refreshed by his slumbers, he looks about him, and, hearing the premonitory tinkle of the collection, he thrusts his hand into his pocket, draws forth a small silver coin, which he drops into the box, where it shines among the copper like a “good deed in a naughty world.”
The service over, he lingers not a moment, and I catch my last glimpse of him as he posts down Broadway toward the Tribune office, the white coat-tails streaming behind him, his head thrust forward into the future, his body borne along by the force of to-morrow's leading article.
His appearance is decidedly that of a man of progress, and of progress against the wind, for his hat cannot quite keep up with his head.
As he threads his way through the well-dressed throng, gentlemen tell ladies who he is, and both turn and gaze after him, till the ghostly garment is lost behind the many-colored clouds of silk and cashmere.
Thus wrote the enthusiastic, lion-loving youth.
The scene now changes, and the time is put four or five years forward.
Mr. Greeley, in the winter season, is ‘at home’ on Saturday evenings to all callers.
A gentleman attended one of the
Saturday evenings last winter, took notes of what he saw and heard, which he has since kindly written out for insertion here:
In point of pretension, Horace Greeley's house in Nineteenth street is about midway between the palaces of the Fifth Avenue and the hovels of the Five Points.
It is one of a row of rather small houses, two and a half stories high, built of brick, and painted brown; the rent of which, I was told, is likely to be about seven hundred dollars a year.
It was a chilly, disagreeable evening.
I went early, hoping to have a little talk with the editor before other company should arrive.
I rang the bell, and looked through the pane at the side of the door.
The white coat was not upon its accustomed peg, and the old hat stuffed with newspapers was not in
