[Ned Brace was a real personage, Judge Edmund Bacon, born in Virginia, 1776, lived in Edgefield, South Carolina, and died there in 1826. He was of very social, hospitable nature, a practical joker, and, as Dr. Maxcy called him, “a perfect Garrick” in his conversation. He was a lawyer of great ability, and when very young and a student at Augusta he was appointed to deliver an address of welcome to Washington on his Southern tour. If the following anecdotes are not true, they might well have been, as Judge Longstreet says.]
This being the Sabbath, at the usual hour Ned went to Church, and selected for his morning service one of those Churches in which the pews are free, and in which the hymn is given out and sung by the congregation, a half recitative.
Ned entered the Church, in as fast a walk as he could possibly assume; proceeded about half down the aisle, and popped himself down in his seat as quick as if he had been shot. The more thoughtless of the congregation began to titter, and the graver peeped up slily, but solemnly at him.
The pastor rose, and, before giving out the hymn, observed that singing was a part of the service, in which he thought the whole congregation ought to join. Thus saying, he gave out the first lines of the hymn. As soon as the tune was raised, Ned struck in, with one of the loudest, hoarsest, and most discordant voices that ever annoyed a solemn assembly.
“I would observe,” said the preacher, before giving out the next two lines, “that there are some people who have not the gift of singing; such, of course, are not expected to sing.”
Ned took the hint and sang no more; but his entrance into church, and his entrance into the hymn, had already dispersed the solemnity of three fifths of the congregation.
As soon as the pastor commenced his sermon, Ned opened his eyes, threw back his head, dropt his under jaw, and surrendered himself to the most intense interest. The preacher was an indifferent one; and by as much as he became dull and insipid, by so much did Ned become absorbed in his discourse. And yet it was impossible for the nicest observer to detect anything in his looks or manner, short of the most solemn devotion. The effect which his conduct had upon the congregation, and their subsequent remarks, must be left to the imagination of the reader. I give but one remark: “Bless that good man who came in the church so quick,” said a venerable matron as she left the church door, “how he was affected by the sarment.”
Ned went to church no more on that day. About four o’clock in the afternoon, while he was standing at the tavern door, a funeral procession passed by, at the foot of which, and singly, walked one of the smallest men I ever saw. As soon as he came opposite the door, Ned stepped out and joined him with great solemnity. The contrast between the two was ludicrously striking, and the little man’s looks and uneasiness plainly showed that he felt it. However, he soon became reconciled to it. They proceeded but a little way before Ned inquired of his companion who was dead.
“Mr. Noah Bills,” said the little man.
“Nan?” said Ned, raising his hand to his ear in token of deafness, and bending his head to the speaker.