"In p'int o' beauty," says my uncle, "Nicholas Top is perfeckly
content with the judgment o' water-side widows, which can't be beat;
but for these five year, Lord help un! he've had no love for the eye
in his very own head."
'Twas said in such chagrin and depth of sadness that I was moved to
melancholy.
"His own eye, lad," he would repeat, "in his very own head!"
My uncle, I confess, had indeed a hint too much of the cunning and
furtive about both gait and glance to escape remark in strange places.
'Twas a pity--and a mystery. That he should hang his head who might
have held it high! At Twist Tickle, to be sure, he would hop hither
and yon in a fashion surprisingly light (and right cheerful); but
abroad 'twas either swagger or slink. Upon occasions 'twas manifest
to all the world that following evil he walked in shame and terror.
These times were periodic, as shall be told: wherein, because of his
simplicity, which was unspoiled--whatever the rascality he was in the
way of practising--he would betray the features of hang-dog villany,
conceiving all the while that he had cleverly masked himself with
virtue.
"Child," says he, in that high gentleness by which he was distinguished,
"take the old man's hand. Never fear t' clasp it, lad! Ye're abroad in
respectable company."