‘His age, I should think, was about forty five. In person he was strikingly handsome, yet care-worn; his hair was black--his eyes likewise, and a somewhat cynical curl about his small mouth made you hesitate to address him, thinking he was perhaps a person of strong prejudices. His skin was as fair as a girl’s; a fine set of teeth were displayed when he smiled; in short, his appearance was such that I should have taken him, perhaps, for a scholar; for, though his dress was rich it was careless, and there was a sort of method in what he said though the subjects were simple, as I am told is ever found in men of education. At first, he was very taciturn. “You find it a cold air, sir,” said I, breaking the silence. “Yes--yes, sir.” “You’ve ridden far?” “Yes--yes, sir.” “You’re come from the south, eh?” “Yes--yes, sir.” “You’re not from York, I guess?” “Yes--yes, sir.” ‘Well, thinks I, you may be a scholar for aught I know, but hang me! if I think there’s much variety in your talk. ‘I took him on another tack. “You have, at least, sir, come where hearts are warm, and hospitality is proffered cheerfully.” ‘He started at this; a gentle flush tinged his cheek; and he seemed struck with an ingenuous consciousness of his want of courtesy. Turning to me he took my hand in his, and pressing it, replied-- “An honest heart, sir, is its own reward. Small boots it then, that I add _my_ sense of your hospitality to that of your own consciousness. Yet such as I have, I give, and that is but small; for I am one, sir, who cares but for a few, and one who is as little cared for by others. Once I had a heart that--that--yes! that _felt_--in every pulsation _felt_ the beauty that is in morals and in virtue. Nothing lived, but it gave me happiness; nothing died, but it gave me pain--_That time is past_.” ‘There was something so earnest, yet unstudied; so easy, yet solemn, and ‘heart-twinging,’ to use a phrase of Biddy’s, in this, that both she and me began to water about the eyes like two babies. ‘Returning the kind pressure of his hand, I said-- “But you are young, sir--too young to feel that life has no claims upon--” “Too old--too old, sir,” interrupted he with emphasis, “too old for earth, and too wise to do any good in it. Some of the world, sir, live faster than others. Grief can crowd twenty years into ten, and care make the vigor of manhood, the tottering imbecility of four score. Believe it not--believe it not; they err, sir, who measure life by years. Events, events notch it right--these notch the chronicle of human life.” “And yet, sir, ’tis man’s right to be always happy.”