Abel and get him to
discourse of his world--the world of nature and of the spirit.
It was, all felt, a good thing to have a Mr. Abel in Georgetown.
That it was indeed good for me I quickly discovered. I had
certainly not expected to meet in such a place with any person to
share my tastes--that love of poetry which has been the chief
passion and delight of my life; but such a one I had found in Mr.
Abel. It surprised me that he, suckled on the literature of
Spain, and a reader of only ten or twelve years of English
literature, possessed a knowledge of our modern poetry as
intimate as my own, and a love of it equally great. This feeling
brought us together and made us two--the nervous olive-skinned
Hispano-American of the tropics and the phlegmatic blue-eyed
Saxon of the cold north--one in spirit and more than brothers.
Many were the daylight hours we spent together and "tired the sun
with talking"; many, past counting, the precious evenings in that
restful house of his where I was an almost daily guest. I had
not looked for such happiness; nor, he often said, had he. A
result of this intimacy was that the vague idea concerning his
hidden past, that some unusual experience had profoundly affected
him and perhaps changed the whole course of his life, did not
diminish, but, on the contrary, became accentuated, and was often
in my mind.
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