Agreeably to the Yankee habit, under whatever circumstances, the deportment of all these good fellows, old or young, was decorous and thoroughly correct.  They grew only the more sober in their cups; there was no confused babble nor boisterous laughter.  They sucked in the joyous fire of the decanters and kept it smouldering in their inmost recesses, with a bliss known only to the heart which it warmed and comforted.  Their eyes twinkled a little, to be sure; they hemmed vigorously after each glass, and laid a hand upon the pit of the stomach, as if the pleasant titillation there was what constituted the tangible part of their enjoyment.  In that spot, unquestionably, and not in the brain, was the acme of the whole affair.  But the true purpose of their drinking—­and one that will induce men to drink, or do something equivalent, as long as this weary world shall endure—­was the renewed youth and vigor, the brisk, cheerful sense of things present and to come, with which, for about a quarter of an hour, the dram permeated their systems.  And when such quarters of an hour can be obtained in some mode less baneful to the great sum of a man’s life,—­but, nevertheless, with a little spice of impropriety, to give it a wild flavor,—­we temperance people may ring out our bells for victory!

The prettiest object in the saloon was a tiny fountain, which threw up its feathery jet through the counter, and sparkled down again into an oval basin, or lakelet, containing several goldfishes.  There was a bed of bright sand at the bottom, strewn with coral and rock-work; and the fishes went gleaming about, now turning up the sheen of a golden side, and now vanishing into the shadows of the water, like the fanciful thoughts that coquet with a poet in his dream.  Never before, I imagine, did a company of water-drinkers remain so entirely uncontaminated by the bad example around them; nor could I help wondering that it had not occurred to any freakish inebriate to empty a glass of liquor into their lakelet.  What a delightful idea!  Who would not be a fish, if he could inhale jollity with the essential element of his existence!

I had begun to despair of meeting old Moodie, when, all at once, I recognized his hand and arm protruding from behind a screen that was set up for the accommodation of bashful topers.  As a matter of course, he had one of Priscilla’s little purses, and was quietly insinuating it under the notice of a person who stood near.  This was always old Moodie’s way.  You hardly ever saw him advancing towards you, but became aware of his proximity without being able to guess how he had come thither.  He glided about like a spirit, assuming visibility close to your elbow, offering his petty trifles of merchandise, remaining long enough for you to purchase, if so disposed, and then taking himself off, between two breaths, while you happened to be thinking of something else.

By a sort of sympathetic impulse that often controlled me in those more impressible days of my life, I was induced to approach this old man in a mode as undemonstrative as his own.  Thus, when, according to his custom, he was probably just about to vanish, he found me at his elbow.