His long white hair fell upon the collar of his grey coat, and would have given him a patriarchal appearance had the face possessed the dignity of age: but it was a countenance without dignity, a face deeply scored with the lines of evil passions and guilty memories--the face of the vulture, with a touch of the ferret--altogether a most unpleasant face, Mr.Hammond thought.
And yet there was a kind of fascination about that bent and shrunken figure, those feeble movements, and shuffling gait.

John Hammond turned to look after the old man when he had passed him, and stood to watch him as he went slowly up the Fell, plant his crutch stick upon the ground before every footstep, as if it were a third leg, and more serviceable than either of the other two.
Mr.Hammond watched him for two or three minutes, but, as the old man's movements had an automatic regularity, the occupation soon palled, and he turned and walked toward Fellside.

A few yards nearer the grounds he met James Steadman, walking briskly, and smoking his morning pipe.
'You are out early this morning,' said Hammond, by way of civility.
'I am always pretty early, sir.

I like a mouthful of morning air.' 'So do I.By-the-bye, can you tell me anything about a queer-looking old man I passed just now a little higher up the Fell?
Such an old, old man, with long white hair.' 'Yes, sir.

I believe I know him.' 'Who is he?
Does he live in Grasmere ?' Steadman looked puzzled.
'Well, you see, sir, your description might apply to a good many; but if it's the man I think you mean he lives in one of the cottages behind the church.