During the summer of 1840, when I was a college student at Princeton, I went with a friend to the office of the Log Cabin, a Whig campaign newspaper then published in Nassau Street, New York.  It was during the famous Tippecanoe campaign, which resulted in the election of General Harrison.  I was introduced to a singular looking man in rustic dress.  He was writing an editorial.  His face had a peculiar infantile smoothness, and his long flaxen hair fell down over his shoulders.  I little dreamed then that that uncouth man in tow trousers was yet to be the foremost editor in America, and a candidate, unwisely, for President of the United States.  Horace Greeley, for it was he, who sat before me, has been often described as a man with the “face of an angel, and the walk of a clod-hopper.”  Ten years later I became well acquainted with him, and from that time a most cordial friendship existed until his dying day.  He visited me as a speaker at our State convention in Trenton, N.Y.  I had him at my house at supper when my mother asked him if he would take coffee.  His droll reply was:  “I hope to drink coffee, madame, in heaven, but I cannot stand it in this world.”  After supper I informed my guest that it was customary for my good mother and myself (for I was not yet married), to have family worship immediately at the close of that meal and asked him whether he would not join us.  He cordially replied that he would be most happy to do so, and it is quite probable that I may be one of the few,—­perhaps the only—­clergyman in this land who ever had Horace Greeley kneeling beside him in prayer.  He attired himself in the famous old white coat, and shambled along with my mother to the place of meeting.  He quite captivated her with a most pathetic account of his idolized boy “Pickie,” who had died a short time before.  Mr. Greeley was one of the most simple-hearted, great men whom I have ever met; without a spark of ordinary vanity he was intensely affectionate in his sympathies and loved a genuine kind word that came from the heart.  He relished more a quiet talk with an old friend in his home at Chappaqua than all the glare of public notoriety.  “Come up,” he often said to me, “and spend a Saturday at the farm.  The good boys do come and see me up there sometimes.”  Probably no man lived a purer life than Horace Greeley.  He was the most devoted of husbands to one of the most eccentric of wives.  His defenses of the spiritual sanctity of marriage in reply to Dale Owen are among the most powerful productions of his ever powerful pen.  It were well that they should be reproduced now at a time when the laxity of wedlock and the wicked facilities for divorce are working such peril to our domestic life.