THE sultry glare of noon was already giving place to the cool of a cloudless evening, and the lulled ocean was washing against
the Pier with a low murmur, suggestive to poetical minds of the kindred ideas of motion and lotion, when two travelers might
have been seen, by such as chose to look that way, approaching the secluded town of Whitby by one of those headlong paths,
dignified by the name of road, which serve as entrances into the place, and which were originally constructed, it is supposed, on
the somewhat fantastic model of pipes running into a water-butt. The elder of the two was a sallow and careworn man; his
features were adorned with what had been often at a distance mistaken for a moustache, and were shaded by a beaver hat, of
doubtful age, and of appearance which, if not respectable, was at least venerable. The younger, in whom the sagacious reader
already recognizes the hero of my tale, possessed a form which, once seen, could scarcely be forgotten: a slight tendency to
obesity proved but a trifling drawback to the manly grace of its contour, and though the strict laws of beauty might perhaps
have required a somewhat longer pair of legs to make up the proportion of his figure, and that his eyes should match rather
more exactly than they chanced to do, yet to those
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