A tall, shambling, loose-jointed figure; a pinched, shrewd face, sun-browned and wind-dried; small, quick-winking black eyes.

There he stands, the water dripping from his pulpy hat and ragged elbows.
I speak to him, but he returns no answer.

With a dumb show of misery, quite touching, he hands me a soiled piece of parchment, whereon I read what purports to be a melancholy account of shipwreck and disaster, to the particular detriment, loss, and damnification of one Pietro Frugoni, who is, in consequence, sorely in want of the alms of all charitable Christian persons, and who is, in short, the bearer of this veracious document, duly certified and indorsed by an Italian consul in one of our Atlantic cities, of a high-sounding, but to Yankee organs unpronounceable name.
Here commences a struggle.

Every man, the Mohammedans tell us, has two attendant angels,--the good one on his right shoulder, the bad on his left.

"Give," says Benevolence, as with some difficulty I fish up a small coin from the depths of my pocket.