vain,—futile,—no use,—all up for to-night!"
While the poet, headed off in this way by the poverty of his native tongue, sought inspiration by retiring into the world of dreams, went to bed, in short, his more fortunate rival was just entering the village, where he was to make his brief residence at the house of Deacon Rumrill, who, having been a loser by the devouring element, was glad to receive a stray boarder when any such were looking about for quarters.
For some reason or other he was restless that evening, and took out a volume he had brought with him to beguile the earlier hours of the night. It was too late when he arrived to disturb the quiet of Mrs. Hopkins's household; and whatever may have been Clement's impatience, he held it in check, and sat tranquilly until midnight over the pages of the book with which he had prudently provided himself.
"Hope you slept well last night," said the old Deacon, when Mr. Clement came down to breakfast the next morning.
"Very well, thank you,—that is, after I got to bed. But I sat up pretty late reading my favorite Scott. I am apt to forget how the hours pass when I have one of his books in my hand."
The worthy Deacon looked at Mr. Clement with a sudden accession of interest.
"You couldn't find better reading, young man. Scott is my favorite author. A great man. I have got his likeness in a gilt frame hanging up in the other room. I have read him all through three times."
The young man's countenance brightened. He had not expected to find so much taste for elegant literature in an old village deacon.
"What are your favorites among his writings, Deacon? I suppose you have your particular likings, as the rest of us have."
The Deacon was flattered by the question. "Well," he answered, "I can hardly tell you. I like pretty much everything Scott ever wrote. Sometimes I think it is one thing, and sometimes another. Great on Paul's Epistles,—don't you think so?"
The honest fact was, that Clement remembered very little about "Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk,"—a book of Sir Walter's less famous than many of his others; but he signified his polite assent to the Deacon's statement, rather wondering at his choice of a favorite, and smiling at his queer way of talking about the Letters as Epistles.
"I am afraid Scott is not so much read now-a-days as he once was, and as he ought to be," said Mr. Clement. "Such character, such nature and so much grace—"
"That's it,—that's it, young man," the Deacon broke in,—"Natur' and Grace,—Natur' and Grace. Nobody ever knew better what those two words meant than Scott did, and I'm very glad to see you've chosen such good wholesome reading. You can't set up too late, young man, to read Scott. If I had twenty children, they should all begin reading Scott as soon as they were old enough to spell 'sin,'—and that's the first word my little ones learned, next to 'pa' and 'ma.' Nothing like beginning the lessons of life in good season."
"What a grim old satirist!" Clement said to himself. "I wonder if the old man reads other novelists. Do tell me, Deacon, if you have read Thackeray's last story?"
"Thackery's story? Published by the American Tract Society?"
"Not exactly," Clement answered, smiling, and quite delighted to find such an unexpected vein of grave pleasantry about the demure-looking church-dignitary; for the Deacon asked his question without moving a muscle, and took no cognizance whatever of the young man's tone and smile. First-class humorists are, as is well known, remarkable for the immovable solemnity of their features. Clement promised himself not a little amusement from the curiously sedate drollery of the venerable Deacon, who, it was plain from his conversation, had cultivated a literary
