to our youth. I should recommend you,
as a young man of principle, to burn the vollum. At least I hope you
will not leave it about anywhere unless it is carefully tied up. I have
written upon the paper round it to warn off all the young persons of my
household from meddling with it."

True enough, Mr. Clement saw in strong black letters on the back of the
paper wrapping his unfortunate "Ivanhoe,"--

"DANGEROUS READING FOR CHRISTIAN YOUTH.

"TOUCH NOT THE UNCLEAN THING."

"I thought you said you had Scott's picture hung up in your parlor,
Deacon Rumrill," he said, a little amused with the worthy man's fear and
precautions.

"It is the great Scott's likeness that I have in my parlor," he said; "I
will show it to you if you will come with me."

Mr. Clement followed the Deacon into that sacred apartment.

"That is the portrait of the great Scott," he said, pointing to an
engraving of a heavy-looking person whose phrenological developments were
a somewhat striking contrast to those of the distinguished Sir Walter.

"I will take good care that none of your young people see this volume,"
Mr. Clement said; "I trust you read it yourself, however, and found
something to please you in it. I am sure you are safe from being harmed
by any such book. Did n't you have to finish it, Deacon, after you had
once begun?"

"Well, I--I--perused a consid'able portion of the work," the Deacon
answered, in a way that led Mr. Clement to think he had not stopped much
short of Finis. "Anything new in the city?"

"Nothing except what you've all had,--Confederate States establishing an
army and all that,--not very new either. What has been going on here
lately, Deacon?"--

"Well, Mr. Lindsay, not a great deal. My new barn is pretty nigh done.
I've got as fine a litter of pigs as ever you see. I don't know whether
you're a judge of pigs or no. The Hazard gal's come back, spilt, pooty
much, I guess. Been to one o' them fashionable schools,--I 've heerd
that she 's learnt to dance. I've heerd say that that Hopkins boy's
round the Posey gal, come to think, she's the one you went with some when
you was here,--I 'm gettin' kind o' forgetful. Old Doctor Hurlbut's
pretty low,--ninety-four year old,--born in '67,--folks ain't ginerally
very spry after they're ninety, but he held out wonderful."

"How's Mr. Bradshaw?"

"Well, the young squire, he's off travellin' somewhere in the West, or to
Washin'ton, or somewhere els