Thus, when, according
to his custom, he was probably just about to vanish, he found me at
his elbow.
"Ah!" said he, with more emphasis than was usual with him. "It is Mr.
Coverdale!"
"Yes, Mr. Moodie, your old acquaintance," answered I. "It is some
time now since we ate luncheon together at Blithedale, and a good
deal longer since our little talk together at the street corner."
"That was a good while ago," said the old man.
And he seemed inclined to say not a word more. His existence looked
so colorless and torpid,--so very faintly shadowed on the canvas of
reality,--that I was half afraid lest he should altogether disappear,
even while my eyes were fixed full upon his figure. He was certainly
the wretchedest old ghost in the world, with his crazy hat, the dingy
handkerchief about his throat, his suit of threadbare gray, and
especially that patch over his right eye, behind which he always
seemed to be hiding himself. There was one method, however, of
bringing him out into somewhat stronger relief. A glass of brandy
would effect it. Perhaps the gentler influence of a bottle of claret
might do the same. Nor could I think it a matter for the recording
angel to write down against me, if--with my painful consciousness of
the frost in this old man's blood, and the positive ice that had
congealed about his heart--I should thaw him out, were it only for an
hour, with the summer warmth of a little wine. What else could
possibly be done for him? How else could he be imbued with energy
enough to hope for a happier state hereafter? How else be inspired
to say his prayers? For there are states of our spiritual system
when the throb of the soul's life is too faint and weak to render us
capable of religious aspiration.
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