Some of the consequences of tavern-keeping.

Nearly five years glided away before business again called me to Cedarville.  I knew little of what passed there in the interval, except that Simon Slade had actually been indicted for manslaughter, in causing the death of Morgan’s child.  He did not stand a trial, however, Judge Lyman having used his influence, successfully, in getting the indictment quashed.  The judge, some people said, interested himself in Slade more than was just seemly—­especially, as he had, on several occasions, in the discharge of his official duties, displayed what seemed an over-righteous indignation against individuals arraigned for petty offences.  The impression made upon me by Judge Lyman had not been favorable.  He seemed a cold, selfish, scheming man of the world.  That he was an unscrupulous politician, was plain to me, in a single evening’s observation of his sayings and doings among the common herd of a village bar-room.

As the stage rolled, with a gay flourish of our driver’s bugle, into the village, I noted here and there familiar objects, and marked the varied evidences of change.  Our way was past the elegant residence and grounds of Judge Hammond, the most beautiful and highly cultivated in Cedarville.  At least, such it was regarded at the time of my previous visit.  But, the moment my eyes rested upon the dwelling and its various surroundings, I perceived an altered aspect.  Was it the simple work of time? or, had familiarity with other and more elegantly arranged suburban homes, marred this in my eyes by involuntary contrast?  Or had the hand of cultivation really been stayed, and the marring fingers of neglect suffered undisturbed to trace on every thing disfiguring characters?

Such questions were in my thoughts, when I saw a man in the large portico of the dwelling, the ample columns of which, capped in rich Corinthian, gave the edifice the aspect of a Grecian temple.  He stood leaning against one of the columns—­his hat off, and his long gray hair thrown back and resting lightly on his neck and shoulders.  His head was bent down upon his breast, and he seemed in deep abstraction.  Just as the coach swept by, he looked up, and in the changed features I recognized Judge Hammond.  His complexion was still florid, but his face had grown thin, and his eyes were sunken.  Trouble was written in every lineament.  Trouble?  How inadequately does the word express my meaning!  Ah! at a single glance, what a volume of suffering was opened to the gazer’s eye.  Not lightly had the foot of time rested there, as if treading on odorous flowers, but heavily, and with iron-shod heel.  This I saw at a glance; and then, only the image of the man was present to my inner vision, for the swiftly rolling stage-coach had borne me onward past the altered home of the wealthiest denizen of Cedarville.  In a few minutes our driver reined up before the “Sickle and Sheaf,” and as I stepped to the ground, a rotund, coarse, red-faced man, whom I failed to recognize as Simon Slade until he spoke, grasped my hand, and pronounced my name.  I could not but contrast, in thought, his appearance with what it was when I first saw him, some six years previously; nor help saying to myself: