I never
forgot that look. I saw it but once again, when, a child of
six or seven years, I was lifted to a footstool beside his coffin
to gaze upon his face for the last time. It wore the same
expression that it did in prayer; paler, but no longer care-worn;
so peaceful, so noble! They left me standing there a long time,
and I could not take my eyes away. I had never thought my
father's face a beautiful one until then, but I believe it must
have been so, always.
I know that he was a studious man, fond of what was called "solid
reading." He delighted in problems of navigation (he was for many
years the master of a merchant-vessel sailing to various European
ports), in astronomical calculations and historical computations.
A rhyming genius in the town, who undertook to hit off the
peculiarities of well-known residents, characterized my father as
"Philosophic Ben,
Who, pointing to the stars, cries, Land ahead!"
His reserved, abstracted manner,--though his gravity concealed a
fund of rare humor,--kept us children somewhat aloof from him;
but my mother's temperament formed a complete contrast to his.
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