The lover of the moral picturesque may sometimesfind what he seeks in a character， which is， nevertheless，of too negative a description to be seized upon， andrepresented to the imaginative vision by word-painting.
As an instance， I remember an old man who carries ona little trade of gingerbread and apples， at the depot ofone of our rail-roads. While awaiting the departure of thecars， my observation， flitting to and fro among the liveliercharacteristics of the scene， has often settled insensiblyupon this almost hueless object. Thus， unconsciously tomyself， and unsuspected by him， I have studied the oldapple-dealer， until he has become a naturalized citizenof my inner world. How little would he imagine—poor，neglected， friendless， unappreciated， and with little thatdemands appreciation—that the mental eye of an utterstranger has so often reverted to his figure！ Many a nobleform—many a beautiful face—has flitted before me， andvanished like a shadow. It is a strange witchcraft， wherebythis faded and featureless old apple-dealer has gained asettlement in my memory！
He is a small man with gray hair and gray stubblebeard， and is invariably clad in a shabby surtout of snuffcolor，closely buttoned， and half-concealing a pair of graypantaloons； the whole dress， though clean and entire，being evidently flimsy with much wear. His face， thin，withered， furrowed， and with features which even age hasfailed to render impressive， has a frost-bitten aspect. It is amoral frost， which no physical warmth or comfortablenesscould counteract. The summer sunshine may fling itswhite heat upon him， or the good fire of the depot-roommay make him the focus of its blaze， on a winter’s day；but all in vain； for still the old man looks as if he werein a frosty atmosphere， with scarcely warmth enoughto keep life in the region about his heart. It is a patient，long-suffering， quiet， hopeless， shivering aspect. He is notdesperate that， though its etymology implies no more，would be too positive an expression—but merely devoidof hope. As all his past life， probably， offers no spots ofbrightness to his memory， so he takes his present povertyand discomfort as entirely a matter of course； he thinks itthe definition of existence， so far as himself is concerned，to be poor， cold， and uncomfortable. It may be added，that time has not thrown dignity， as a mantle， over the oldman’s figure； there is nothing venerable about him； youpity him without a scruple.
He sits on a bench in the depot-room； and before him，on the floor， are deposited two baskets， of a capacity tocontain his whole stock in trade. Across， from one basketto the other， extends a board， on which is displayed aplate of cakes and gingerbread， some russet and redcheeked apples， and a box containing variegated sticks ofcandy； together with that delectable condiment， knownby children as Gibraltar rock， neatly done up in whitepaper. There is likewise a half-peck measure of crackedwalnuts， and two or three tin half-pints or gills， filled withthe nut kernels， ready for purchasers. Such are the smallcommodities with which our old friend comes daily beforethe world， ministering to its petty needs and little freaksof appetite， and seeking thence the solid subsistence so faras he may subsist of his life.
A slight observer would speak of the old man’s quietude.
But， on closer scrutiny， you discover that there is acontinual unrest within him， which somewhat resemblesthe fluttering action of the nerves， in a corpse from whichlife has recently departed. Though he never exhibits anyviolent action， and， indeed， might appear to be sittingquite still， yet you perceive， when his minuter peculiaritiesbegin to be detected， that he is always making somelittle movement or other. He looks anxiously at hisplate of cakes， or pyramid of apples， and slightly alterstheir arrangement， with an evident idea that a great dealdepends on their being disposed exactly thus and so.
Then， for a moment， he gazes out of the window； thenhe shivers， quietly， and folds his arms across his breast，as if to draw himself closer within himself， and thus keepa flicker of warmth in his lonesome heart. Now he turnsagain to his merchandise of cakes， apples， and candy， anddiscovers that this cake or that apple， or yonder stick ofred and white candy， has， somehow， got out of its properposition. And is there not a walnut-kernel too many， ortoo few， in one of those small tin measures？ Again， thewhole arrangement appears to be settled to his mind；but， in the course of a minute or two， there will assuredlybe something to set right. At times， by an indescribableshadow upon his features—too quiet， however， to benoticed， until you are familiar with his ordinary aspect theexpression of frostbitten， patient despondency becomesvery touching. It seems as if， just at that instant， thesuspicion occurred to him， that， in his chill decline of life，earning scanty bread by selling cakes， apples， and candy， heis a very miserable old fellow.
But， if he think so， it is a mistake. He can never sufferthe extreme of misery， because the tone of his whole beingis too much subdued for him to feel any thing acutely.
Occasionally， one of the passengers， to while away atedious interval， approaches the old man， inspects thearticles upon his board， and even peeps curiously into thetwo baskets. Another， striding to and fro along the room，throws a look at the apples and gingerbread， at every turn.
