Angelo.—­We must not make a scarecrow of the law,
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
Their perch, and not their terror.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

The events of the preceding evening caused quite a sensation in the village.  We shall better understand the various opinions and feelings of the inhabitants by stepping, at about eleven o’clock the following morning, into the shop, or, as it was called in those days, and would generally be called now, the “store” of Truman and Jenkins.  This was an establishment at the foot of the hill, where it hung out its sign, in company with several others of the same character, which professed to supply all the wants of the community.  Here everything was to be had from a gallon of molasses to a skein of thread, or a quintal of codfish, to a pound of nails.  On one side, as you entered, were ranges of shelves, protected by a counter, on which were exposed rolls of flannels of divers colors, and calico and broadcloth, and other “dry goods,” while a showcase on the counter contained combs, and tooth-brushes, and soaps, and perfumery, and a variety of other small articles.  The back of the store was used as a receptacle for hogsheads of molasses, and puncheons of rum and wine, and barrels of whisky and sugar.  Overhead and on the posts were hung pails, and rakes, and iron chains, and a thousand things necessary to the complete enjoyment of civilization.  On the other side was a small counting-room partitioned off, with a door, the upper part of which was glass, for the convenience of looking into the shop, in order to be ready to attend to the wants of such customers as might come in.  This little room, scarcely eight feet square, contained a small close stove, around which were gathered some half a dozen persons.

“I say, squire,” exclaimed Tom Gladding, a tall, awkward, good-natured looking fellow, with legs sprawling out, and heels on the top of the stove, addressing himself to a man in a black suit, rather better dressed than the others, “what do you think of this here rusty old Father Holden cut up last night at Conference?”

Squire Miller, as one in authority, and who might be called to adjudicate upon the case, and for other reasons of his own, was not disposed to commit himself, he, therefore, cautiously replied, more Novo Anglicano, by asking another question, “Were you there, Mr. Gladding?”

“No,” said Tom, laughing; “the old folks used to make me go so regular, when I was a boy, I guess I’ve done my part.  So after a while I give it up.”

“It is a pity you ever gave it up,” said the squire.  “You might get a great deal of good from it.”

“There’s two opinions about that,” said Tom.  “You see, squire, as long as mother was alive, I always went with her regular, ‘cause it kind o’ comforted her, though somehow or other I never took to it.  So when she died I sort o’ slacked off ’till now it’s ’een amost two year since I been in.”