“Horace Greeley,” says I.
“Wall,” says he, “I will take up your card.”
I see then that he was a tryin’ to empose upon me. I haint naturally warlike, but I can stand up on my dignity, straight as a cob when I set out. Says I,
“I’ll have you know that I am a member of the Methodist meetin’ house.” Says I, warmly, “I don’t know one card from another, and I’m glad I don’t.” Says I, “I presume there are wimmin here in the village, as old as I be, that set up to play cards till 9 or 10 o’clock at night. But thank fortin’ I haint one of ’em.” Says I, “Young man, I detest card playin’, it ends in gamblin’. Now,” says I firmly, “you jest tell me where Horace is, or I’ll know the reason why!”
He see I wasn’t to be trifled with, any more. He muttered somethin’ about his not bearin’ the blame. But he went up stairs, and we followed tight to his heels, and the minute he opened the door we went in. Horace hadn’t dressed up much, for I spose he didn’t expect us. But if he had been dressed up in pink silk throughout, it wouldn’t have made no difference to my feelin’s as I ketched sight of that noble and benign face, that peaceful innocent mouth, that high forward, with the hair a curlin’ round the sides of it, like thin white clouds curlin’ round the side of a mountain in Ingun summer.
I use that figger of speech, because his face looked on the mountain plan, firm, and grand and decided. And I put in the Ingun summer, because you know jest how a mountain will look standin’ a considerable ways above you on the first of October—kind o’ mellow and peaceful and benign. But you realize all the time, that under all the green and shady growth of its mosses and evergreens, it has been growin’ gradual but stiddy through the centuries. Under all that viel of shinin’ blue gawze, wove out of mist one way, with a warp of sunshine, under all the mellow colerin’ the time of the year has give it, there is a good strong back bone of solid rock in the old mountain, that couldn’t be broke by all the hammers in creation.
That was jest my idee of his face, a mountain in Indgun summer, facin’ the sunrise. Standin’ up so high that it ketches a light on its forward before the world below gets lit up. Firm, solid principles with the edge took off of ’em, and kinder topped off with the experiences, and gradual convictions and discoveries of a noble life. And all softened down by the calmness and quiet of the time of day, and the fall of the year. That was the way Horace Greeley’s face looked to me as I got a full view of it as he set to his desk a writin’.
In the dead of night on my own peaceful goose feather bed at home, I had made a speech all up in my mind for that glorious occasion, when 2 firm and true principled minds should meet—which was Horace’s mind and mine. For though we conflict in some things, the good of the Human Race is as dear as our apples is, in our eyes. But at the first sight of that noble face, my emotions got up and overpowered me so, that I forgot every word of my speech, and all I could say was, in thick tones of feelin’ and principle,
“Horace, I have come.”
His face grew almost black with fear and anger. He sprang up, and waved me back with his right hand and shouted to me,