Suppose, instead of listening to a personal description of this good old gentleman, we take a look at him with our own eyes.  There is no danger of disturbing him, no matter how busy he may be.  The inner retreat is very small, and as neat as though an old maid lived in it.  The furniture looks as good as new, but is subdued to a tone of sober maturity, and chimes in so well with the general effect that one scarcely notices it.  The polished table is mounted in dark morocco; behind the horsehair-covered arm-chair is a gray marble mantel-piece, overshadowing an open grate with polished bars and fire-utensils in the English style.  During the winter months a lump of cannel-coal is always burning there; but the flame, even on the coldest days, is too much on its good behavior to give out very decided heat.  Over the mantel-piece hangs a crayon copy of Correggio’s Reading Magdalen,—­the only touch of sentiment in the whole room, and that, perhaps, accidental.

The concrete nature of the President’s surroundings is at first perplexing, in view of our theory about his character.  But it is evident that the world could never provide him with furniture corresponding to the texture of his mind; and hence he would instinctively lay hold of that which was most commonplace and non-committal.  If he could realize nothing outside himself, he might at least remove whatever would distract him from inward contemplation.  There is, however, one article in this little room which we must not omit to notice.  It is a looking-glass; and it hangs, of all places in the world, right over Mr. MacGentle’s standing-desk, in the embrasure of the window.  As often as he looks up he beholds the reflection of his cultured and sad-lined physiognomy, with a glimpse of dusky wall beyond.  Is he a vain man?  His worst enemy, had he one, would not call him that.  Nevertheless, Mr. MacGentle finds a pathetic comfort in this small mirror.  No one, not even he, could tell wherefore; but we fancy it to be like that an exile feels, seeing a picture of his birthplace, or hearing a strain of his native music.  The mirror shows him something more real, to his sense, than is anything outside of it!

Well, there stands the old gentleman, writing at this desk in the window.  All men, they say, bear more or less resemblance to some animal; Mr. MacGentle, rather tall and slender, with his slight stoop, and his black broadcloth frock-coat buttoned closely about his waist, brings to mind a cultivated, grandfatherly greyhound, upon his hind legs.  He has thick white hair, with a gentle curl in it, growing all over his finely moulded head.  He is close-shaven; his mouth and nose are formed with great delicacy; his eyes, now somewhat faded, yet show an occasional reminiscence of youthful fire.  The eyebrows are habitually lifted,—­a result, possibly, of the growing infirmity of Mr. MacGentle’s vision; but it produces an expression of half-plaintive resignation, which is rendered pathetic by the wrinkles across his forehead and the dejected lines about his delicate mouth.