If， indeed， he have been bereaved of a son—a bold，energetic， vigorous young man， on whom the father’sfeeble nature leaned， as on a staff of strength—in that case，he may have felt a bitterness that could not otherwisehave been generated in his heart. But， methinks， the joy ofpossessing such a son， and the agony of losing him， wouldhave developed the old man’s moral and intellectual natureto a much greater degree than we now find it. Intensegrief appears to be as much out of keeping with his life， asfervid happiness.
To confess the truth， it is not the easiest matter in theworld， to define and individualize a character like thiswhich we are now handling. The portrait must be sogenerally negative， that the most delicate pencil is likely tospoil it by introducing some too positive tint. Every touchmust be kept down or else you destroy the subdued tone，which is absolutely essential to the whole effect. Perhapsmore may be done by contrast， than by direct description.
For this purpose， I make use of another cake-and-candymerchant， who likewise infests the rail-road depot. Thislatter worthy is a very smart and well-dressed boy， of tenyears old or thereabouts， who skips briskly hither andthither， addressing the passengers in a pert voice， yet withsomewhat of good breeding in his tone and pronunciation.
Now he has caught my eye， and skips across the roomwith a pretty pertness， which I should like to correct witha box on the ear. “Any cake， sir？ —any candy？”
No； none for me， my lad. I did but glance at your briskfigure， in order to catch a reflected light， and throw itupon your old rival yonder.
Again， in order to invest my conception of the old manwith a more decided sense of reality， I look at him in thevery moment of intensest bustle， on the arrival of thecars. The shriek of the engine， as it rushes into the carhouse，is the utterance of the steam-fiend， whom manhas subdued by magic spells， and compels to serve as abeast of burden. He has skimmed rivers in his headlongrush， dashed through forests， plunged into the heartsof mountains， and glanced from the city to the desertplace，and again to a far-off city， with a meteoric progress，seen， and out of sight， while his reverberating roar stillfills the ear. The travellers swarm forth from the cars. Allare full of the momentum which they have caught fromtheir mode of conveyance. It seems as if the whole world，both morally and physically， were detached from its oldstandfasts， and set in rapid motion. And， in the midst ofthis terrible activity， there sits the old man of gingerbread，so subdued， so hopeless， so without a stake in life， and yetnot positively miserable—there he sits， the forlorn oldcreature， one chill and sombre day after another， gatheringscanty coppers for his cakes， apples and candy—there sitsthe old apple-dealer， in his threadbare suit of snuff-colorand gray， and his grisly stubble-beard. See！ he folds hislean arms around his lean figure， with that quiet sigh， andthat scarcely perceptible shiver， which are the tokens ofhis inward state. I have him now. He and the steam-fiendare each other’s antipodes； the latter is the type of all thatgo ahead—and the old man， the representative of thatmelancholy class who， by some sad witchcraft， are doomednever to share in the world’s exulting progress. Thus thecontrast between mankind and this desolate brotherbecomes picturesque， and even sublime.
And now farewell， old friend！ Little do you suspect，that a student of human life has made your character thetheme of more than one solitary and thoughtful hour.
Many would say， that you have hardly individuality enoughto be the object of your own self-love. How， then， can astranger’s eye detect any thing in your mind and heart，to study and to wonder at？ Yet could I read but a titheof what is written there， it would be a volume of deeperand more comprehensive import than all that the wisestmortals have given to the world； for the soundless depthsof the human soul， and of eternity， have an openingthrough your breast. God be praised， were it only foryour sake， that the present shapes of human existenceare not cast in iron， nor hewn in everlasting adamant， butmoulded of the vapors that vanish away while the essenceflits upward to the infinite. There is a spiritual essence inthis gray and lean old shape that shall flit upward too. Yes；doubtless there is a region， where the life-long shiver willpass away from his being， and that quiet sigh， which it hastaken him so many years to breathe， will be brought to aclose for good and all.