Another person who singularly interested me at this epoch was a person with whom I had never exchanged a word, whose voice I had never heard, but whose face was as familiar to me as every day could make it.  For each morning as I went to school, and each afternoon as I returned, I saw this face peering out of a window in the second story of a shambling yellow house situated in Washington Street, not far from the corner of State.  Whether some malign disease had fixed him to the chair he sat on, or whether he had lost the use of his legs, or, possible, had none (the upper part of him was that of a man in admirable health), presented a problem which, with that curious insouciance of youth I made no attempt to solve.  It was an established fact, however, that he never went out of that house.  I cannot vouch so confidently for the cobwebby legend which wove itself about him.  It was to this effect:  He had formerly been the master of a large merchantman running between New York and Calcutta; while still in his prime he had abruptly retired from the quarter-deck, and seated himself at that window—­where the outlook must have been the reverse of exhilarating, for not ten persons passed in the course of the day, and the hurried jingle of the bells on Parry’s bakery-cart was the only sound that ever shattered the silence.  Whether it was an amatory or a financial disappointment that turned him into a hermit was left to ingenious conjecture.  But there he sat, year in and year out, with his cheek so close to the window that the nearest pane became permanently blurred with his breath; for after his demise the blurr remained.

In this Arcadian era it was possible, in provincial places, for an undertaker to assume the dimensions of a personage.  There was a sexton in Portsmouth—­his name escapes me, but his attributes do not—­whose impressiveness made him own brother to the massive architecture of the Stone Church.  On every solemn occasion he was the striking figure, even to the eclipsing of the involuntary object of the ceremony.  His occasions, happily, were not exclusively solemn; he added to his other public services that of furnishing ice-cream for the evening parties.  I always thought—­perhaps it was the working of an unchastened imagination—­that he managed to throw into his ice-creams a peculiar chill not attained by either Dunyon or Peduzzi—­arcades ambo—­the rival confectioners.

Perhaps I should not say rival, for Mr. Dunyon kept a species of restaurant, while Mr. Peduzzi restricted himself to preparing confections to be discussed elsewhere than on his premises.  Both gentlemen achieved great popularity in their respective lines, but neither offered to the juvenile population quite the charm of those prim, white-capped old ladies who presided over certain snuffy little shops, occurring unexpectedly in silent side-streets where the football of commerce seemed an incongruous thing.  These shops were never intended in nature.  They had an impromptu