a moss grown roof, with a large limb from a lightning-rent tree lying almost balanced over the eaves, and threatening to fall at the touch of the first wind-storm that swept over.  Half of the vines that clambered about the portico were dead, and the rest, untrained, twined themselves in wild disorder, or fell groveling to the earth.  One of the pillars of the portico was broken, as were, also, two of the steps that went up to it.  The windows of the house were closed, but the door stood open, and, as the stage went past, my eyes rested, for a moment, upon an old man seated in the hall.  He was not near enough to the door for me to get a view of his face; but the white flowing hair left me in no doubt as to his identity.  It was Judge Hammond.

The “Sickle and Sheaf” was yet the stage-house of Cedarville, and there, a few minutes afterward, I found myself.  The hand of change had been here also.  The first object that attracted my attention was the sign-post, which at my earlier arrival, some eight or nine years before, stood up in its new white garment of paint, as straight as a plummet-line, bearing proudly aloft the golden sheaf and gleaming sickle.  Now, the post, dingy and shattered and worn from the frequent contact of wheels, and gnawing of restless horses, leaned from its trim perpendicular at an angle of many degrees, as if ashamed of the faded, weather-worn, lying symbol it bore aloft in the sunshine.  Around the post was a filthy mud-pool, in which a hog lay grunting out its sense of enjoyment.  Two or three old empty whisky barrels lumbered up the dirty porch, on which a coarse, bloated, vulgar-looking man sat leaning against the wall—­his chair tipped back on its hind legs—­squinting at me from one eye, as I left the stage and came forward toward the house.

“Ah! is this you?” said he, as I came near to him, speaking thickly, and getting up with a heavy motion.  I now recognized the altered person of Simon Slade.  On looking at him closer, I saw that the eye which I had thought only shut was in fact destroyed.  How vividly, now, uprose in imagination the scenes I had witnessed during my last night in his bar-room; the night when a brutal mob, whom he had inebriated with liquor, came near murdering him.

“Glad to see you once more, my boy!  Glad to see you!  I—­I—­I’m not just—­you see.  How are you?  How are you?”

And he shook my hand with a drunken show of cordiality.

I felt shocked and disgusted.  Wretched man! down the crumbling sides of the pit he had digged for other feet, he was himself sliding, while not enough strength remained even to struggle with his fate.

I tried for a few minutes to talk with him; but his mind was altogether beclouded, and his questions and answers incoherent; so I left him, and entered the bar-room.

“Can I get accommodations here for a couple of days?” I inquired of a stupid, sleepy-looking man, who was sitting in a chair behind the bar.