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