Chapter IX: Part 9

I made a step forwards to him, which roused his fears still higher; for he was clearly possessed with the idea that I was to force him to sit, or to press him against the wall, and thus shatter him to pieces. The one mode of destruction was just as fearful as the other; and, as I took another step nearer him, he raised a yell that made the whole house ring, and, changing his position, with his back still to the wall, he glided swiftly aside, and seemed, by the furtive glance of his terrorstruck eye, to wish to make for the door--which, however, was guarded by his wife. By this time the two young men had started to their feet, so that he was surrounded by foes on every side; and as the utter desperation of his case thus seemed to increase, he became more and more terrified, repeating his screams at shorter intervals, and placing himself with a caution which, in his excited state, had a strange appearance, closer and closer to the wall. The sight was a grievous one to his wife, and far from an agreeable one to myself; but the apprentices--probably from a spirit of retaliation roused by a memory of former inflictions--enjoyed it with a cruel delight. Having thus far roused his terror, I thought it prudent not to stop short in an operation which, at whatever time performed, must necessarily be attended with all the pain he now suffered; and, throwing out a signal to one of the young men to stand by the chair, and to the other to come to my side, I made boldly towards him, and, notwithstanding of his heartrending screams and looks for pity, seized him by one arm, while the other was willingly laid hold of by my assistant.

At this period of the operation, I was rather importunately addressed by Mrs G----, whose feelings--for she was an irritable creature, and distractedly fond of her husband--overcame her.

"For heaven's sake, let him alone!" she cried. "The neighbours will think we are in reality murdering him. His screams go to my heart, and I cannot stand these wild looks. Heaven pity my unfortunate husband!"

"I am only performing my professional duty," I replied, loudly, to make myself heard in the midst of his screams. "You called me to him; and, if you really wish it, I will leave him to his fate. No man of his profession can do any good in the world by working on his legs. The disease is deep-rooted, and can only be overcome by strong remedies. I think I will cure him; and, if you stop us in the operation, the consequences will be entirely attributable to yourself."

I spoke at this length with the view, purposely, of keeping the patient for some time in the high state of terror to which he was roused; because I was satisfied that, in proportion to the height of his apprehension, was the chance of benefit to result from my expedient for curing him. The woman saw the affair in its proper light; and, though still greatly moved by his screams and pitiful looks, she forbore further entreaty or interference. The apprentices, meanwhile, were all alive and ready for action, expressing by their eloquent leers, which I could not repress, their pleasure in thus having an opportunity--such is human nature--of repaying their taskmaster for his severity, as well as of witnessing one of the most curious operations they had ever heard of. All this time the patient continued his screams--having, at intervals, recourse to exclamatory expostulation.

"Cruel fiends!" he cried, "will you dash me to pieces? Will nothing less serve you than to see a poor harmless being, who never injured one of you, reduced to atoms? And you, too, hard-hearted wretch, whose duty it is to protect me, stand there a witness of my destruction! Unheard-of misery, to have the tenement of an immortal soul reduced to particles no bigger than a farthing!"

We proceeded to drag him forwards, in spite of a resistance strengthened by the energy of terror and despair, and heedless of his cries of "Save me, save me! Death, death in any form but being dashed to shivers!" Having brought him to the chair, the back of which was held firmly by the other apprentice, we turned him round so as to make the bottom of it (composed of hard wood) as fair a mark as our eyes could judge. He was now, as he thought, on the brink of utter extermination; and I was afraid that the terror might have the effect on him which I have noticed in criminals at the moment when the fatal drop is to fall, and, by inducing a fit of syncope, destroy all our labours. It was, however, otherwise, though I never saw a patient on the eve of undergoing the amputation of a limb in such a condition of terror and agony. We were bound to disregard all this; and, having made my assistant understand that it was necessary to lift him (for a simple seating, without a fall, I was satisfied, would do no good), we raised him a foot or two, by the application of considerable strength, and let him down upon the bottom of the chair, with a crash. A louder scream than he had yet uttered announced his fancied death-blow.

"I am murdered! it is all over now!" he ejaculated, with a gasp, while his hands were busy groping about, to feel the pieces of broken glass, which must necessarily be scattered in every direction.

This operation, on his part, I wished to encourage, and liberated his arms, to give him greater scope, while we continued to hold him firmly down on the chair, till we satisfied him that he had received, and could receive, no injury, from pressing upon it with all the weight of his attenuated and sickly body. His groping was accompanied by a trembling that shook all his system; and I saw his terrorstruck eye wavering on the pivot of doubt, whether it might be inclined downwards to witness the wreck of his shivered body. Deep, convulsive sobs, the result of the restrained breath, broke from him in strange sounds, mixed with the groans of one who thought himself in the firm grasp of death. At length he ventured to add the testimony of his eyes to that of his hands; and, when he found that there were no pieces of glass lying about the chair and floor, he turned up the panicstruck orbs in my face, with an expression of mixed wonder and terror, that, to any one but myself, acting in a serious medical capacity, would have appeared ludicrous to an extent infringing upon the diaphragm. As we held him firmly down, in spite of his efforts to bound up, the false conviction, so firmly fixed in his brain, was apparently suffering a silent process of qualification; and the difficulty of reconciling the belief within with the actual state of safety without, was drawing him to the favourable condition of doubt, from which we might augur benefit. As the old conviction rose, at intervals, more strongly on him, his hands were again busy to ascertain the actual state of safety of his body; then his eye sought my face for an assurance in favour of the evidence of touch, and he was for a moment reconciled; again the false conception seized him, again he groped, and felt, and looked, and thus was he precipitated into a state of perplexity, from which he could not get himself disentangled, but from which he might ultimately, as I hoped, rise into a natural belief.

"Where are your smashed glass organs now?" said I. He could reply nothing, but turned up his eye, filled with wonder and doubt, in my face. "You have been labouring under a wretched delusion of the mind. There's no more glass about you than there is about me--and that is my watch-glass. Are you satisfied?"

"Heaven help me! I know not," he replied, in a melancholy tone. "I am perplexed. I cannot conceive why I'm not broken. How is it possible I could have stood the shock? Strange!--wonderful!" And he seemed for a moment lost in the mist of a confused amazement. This was his medicine, and we allowed it to work, by still holding him firm in his position. "It cannot be!" he ejaculated, quickly, as he emerged from his dream of wonder. "It is impossible! I _am_ damaged! Let me up! let me up! and you will see the melancholy wreck."

This request was a fair one, and we removed our restraining hands. In a moment he started up, with a bound, to his feet, casting a fearful look on the bottom of the chair, and clasping the supposed brittle region with his hands, to ascertain whether he was in reality uninjured. The laugh of the apprentices, which I had hitherto restrained by my serious looks, now burst forth, in spite of all their efforts; and, averse as I am to such exhibitions of levity in cases of serious ailments, I could not help now looking upon this powerful ridicule as a necessary and salutary ingredient of the medicine administered to him.

"You are all safe, sir," said I; "not one jot of you injured. I hope to hear no more of your glass. Next time I call, I expect to see you seated at your work, as becomes the decorum of your profession."

I now left him; but I was by no means satisfied that he would not pertinaciously account for his being uninjured, by a recourse to some fallacious reason--such as the strength of the glass--to satisfy his prior conviction; for, before I departed, I saw that his look was as furtive and nervous as before, and his old partiality for the wall was strong within him. My anticipations were too well founded; for I ascertained, next morning, that he was not cured. He had given up work, and betaken himself to bed, where he had gradually relapsed into his old belief--accounting for his entireness by the strength alone of the crystal. I told the woman to call again, and tell me when he ventured up, and I would essay another experiment, which might turn out more successful. Three days passed before I received the announcement that he had again betaken himself to work on his legs. I lost no time in getting two assistants who could work better to my plan than my former coadjutors, and went to the house. It was the dinner-hour of his apprentices, and I had arrived in the opportune moment when the door, which had been bolted all day, to keep me and others out, was still open, after the exit of the workmen. I went, with the assistants, straight in upon him, and got a chair handed to me, precisely as on the former occasion. I soon saw that he was still under the influence of the delusive fiend that had usurped the seat of reason.

"I am determined," said I, resolutely, "to break this brittle appendage. I have made my calculations, and am satisfied that I can smash it and remove it without injury to the vital organs that lie within it. It is, I am satisfied, a mere glass covering, without the slightest connection, in an organic view, with the parts beyond it. Fear not when you hear the crash; for I pledge myself you will thank me for the operation after it is performed."

"No, no!" he vociferated, with screams; "I shall die, inevitably perish, if it is broken. You may as well break my head to pieces with an axe, and say that, because my heart will remain untouched, I will live. Oh, for the love of Heaven, have mercy on me!"

His screams and exclamations produced no effect upon us. We proceeded to take off a part of his garments, and led him, in spite of the most determined and tortuous struggles, to the chair.

"We must break it thoroughly," said I. "Lift him up as high as possible."

My assistant obeyed my directions; and, having raised him as high as our strength would permit, we brought him down with a hard crash, as formerly on the chair, at the very moment that my other assistant dashed, with great force, on the floor a large globular glass bottle, which he had, by my desire, brought with him for the purpose. The crash was tremendous, and rang in the victim's ear like a death-knell.

"Pick me up--pick me up!" cried the patient. "I'm all in atoms. You would not believe me once that I was made in these parts of glass. Ah, you see now the melancholy evidence of the fact!"

We held him steady, and he rolled his eyes from side to side, surveying the broken fragments of his vitrified substance with symptoms of horror. I noticed the hair on his head rise and stand as stiff as porcupine quills, and all his body was shaken by tremors that seemed to reach his heart. After allowing the conviction that the appendage was absolutely broken to take proper root in his mind--

"You are cured," said I. "The glass lies about you, and your body is entire. I was right in my diagnosis. It is proved; the glass was a mere covering--a species of fourth skin over the epidermis; and, being gone, the natural body is freed from the encumbrance. Rise and judge for yourself."

These words, with the slow progress of his own mental workings, and, above all, the sound and sight of the glass, wrought wonders. He rose deliberately from his seat--examined himself--looked around him--turned and re-turned--looked at me and my assistants--at his wife, who had come in wondering at the noise and strange appearance of the glass--and at the broken evidence, at once of his disorder and his cure.

"This is most wonderful!" he at last ejaculated. "Margaret, woman, look at that! Where is your scepticism now, your laughs, and your jeers, and your vain efforts to shake my belief? This may teach you sobriety of thought, and inspire you with confidence in my opinions. I was never deceived in my life. Man never found me wrong: and here is my last victory over the foolish prejudices of all my neighbours."

Saying this, he took a part of the glass, and turned it round in his hand.

"Perfect, pure, brittle glass," he continued. "A pier-glass might have been made of it."

"I would rather say a _convex_ mirror, Mr G----," said I, laughing, contrary to my professional gravity.

"But, doctor," said he, "why were you so hard of belief? It was long ere you would believe me. I have conquered you too; but, I must confess, you have conquered my disease."

"Yes; I have mastered it at last," said I; "it will never trouble you again. Would you have the goodness to allow me to take a part of the fragments home with me, to put in my museum."

"Most certainly," he replied; "but it's natural that I should have the liberty of retaining a considerable part, to evidence for my sincerity, and to exhibit as a great natural curiosity to the world."

This matter was easily arranged. The patient mended from that day. The joy of the relief he had experienced shot its rays through his heart and system, quickened his blood, and roused his lethargic nerves. His daydreams vanished, and his nervous fears were replaced by a healthy, firm confidence. He was, last time I saw him, a very healthy person, saw through the glass clearly, and laughed heartily at my ingenuity in overcoming his complaint.

WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER.

When the glass, the laugh, and the social "crack" go round the convivial table, there are few who may not have heard the words, "_We'll have another!_" It is an oft-repeated phrase, and it seems a simple one; yet, simple as it appears, it has a magical and fatal influence. The lover of sociality yieldeth to the friendly temptation it conveys, nor dreameth that it is a whisper from which scandal catcheth its thousand echoes--that it is a phrase which has blasted reputation--withered affection's heart--darkened the fairest prospects--ruined credit--conducted to the prison-house, and led to the grave. When our readers again hear the words, let them think of our present story.

Adam Brown was the eldest son of a poor widow, who kept a small shop in a village near the banks of the Teviot. From infancy, Adam was a mild, retiring boy, and he was seldom seen to join in the sports of his schoolmates. On the winter evenings, he would sit poring over a book by the fire, while his mother would say, "Dinna stir up the fire, bairn; ye dinna mind that coals are dear; and I'm sure ye'll hurt yoursel wi' pore, porin owre yer books--for they're never oot o' yor hand." In the summer, too, Adam would steal away from the noise of the village to some favourite shady nook by the river-side; and there, on the gowany brae, he would, with a standard author in his hand, "crack wi' kings," or "hold high converse with the mighty dead." He was about thirteen when his father died; and the Rev. Mr Douglas, the minister of the parish, visiting the afflicted widow, she said, "She had had a sair bereavement; yet she had reason to be thankfu that she had ae comfort left, for her poor Adam was a great consolation to her; every nicht he had read a chapter to his younger brothers; and oh, sir," she added, "it wad mak your heart melt to have heard my bairn pray for his widowed mother." Mr Douglas became interested in the boy, and finding him apt to learn, he placed him for another year at the parish school, at his own expense. Adam's progress was all that his patron could desire. He became a frequent visiter at the manse, and was allowed the use of the minister's library. Mr Douglas had a daughter, who was nearly of the same age as his young _protege_. Mary Douglas was not what could be called beautiful, but she was a gentle and interesting girl. She and Adam read and studied together. She delighted in a flower-garden, and he was wont to dress it; and he would often wander miles, and consider himself happy when he obtained a strange root to plant in it.

Adam was now sixteen. It was his misfortune, as it has been the ruin of many, to be _without an aim_. His mother declared that she was at a loss what to make him; "but," added she, "he is a guid scholar, that is ae thing--and CAN DO is easy carried about." Mr Douglas himself became anxious about Adam's prospects: he evinced a dislike to be apprenticed to any mechanical profession, and he was too old to remain longer a burden upon his mother. At the suggestion of Mr Douglas, therefore, when about seventeen, he opened a school in a neighbouring village. Some said that he was too young; others that he was too simple--that he allowed the children to have all their own way; and a few even hinted that he went too much back and forward to the manse in the adjoining parish, to pay attention to his school. However these things might be, certain it is the school did not succeed; and, after struggling with it for two years, he resolved to try his fortune in London.

He was to sail from Leith, and his trunk had been sent to Hawick to be forwarded by the carrier. Adam was to leave his mother's house early on the following morning; and on the evening preceding his departure he paid his farewell visit to the manse. Mr Douglas received him with his wonted kindness; he gave him one or two letters of recommendation, and much wholesome advice, although the good man was nearly as ignorant of what is called the world as the youth who was about to enter it. Adam sat long, and said little; for his heart was full, and his spirit heavy. He had never said to Mary Douglas, in plain words, that he loved her--he had never dared to do so; and he now sat with his eyes anxiously bent upon her, trembling to bid her farewell. She too was silent. At length he rose to depart; he held out his hand to Mr Douglas; the latter shook it affectionately, adding, "Farewell, Adam! May Heaven protect you against the numerous temptations of the great city!" He turned towards Mary--he hesitated--his hands dropped by his side. "Could I speak wi' you a moment?" said he, and his tongue faltered as he spoke. With a tear glistening in her eyes, she looked towards her father, who nodded his consent, and she arose and accompanied Adam to the door. They walked towards the flower-garden--he had taken her hand in his--he pressed it, but he spoke not, and she offered not to withdraw it. He seemed struggling to speak; and at length, in a tone of earnest fondness--and he shook as he spoke--he said, "Will you not forget me, Mary?"

A half-smothered sob was her reply, and a tear fell on his hand.

"Say you will not," he added, yet more earnestly.

"O Adam!" returned she, "how can you say _forget_!--Never--never!"

"Enough--enough!" he continued, and they wept together.

It was scarce daybreak when Adam rose to take his departure, and to bid his mother and his brethren farewell. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as she placed his breakfast before him, "is this the last meal that my bairn's to eat in my house?" He ate but little; and she continued, weeping as she spoke, "Eat, hinny, eat; ye have a lang road before ye. And, O Adam! aboon everything earthly, mind that ye write to me every week; never think o' the postage--for, though it should tak my last farthing, I maun hear frae ye."

He took his staff in his hand, and prepared to depart. He embraced his younger brothers, and tears were their only and mutual adieu. His parent sobbed aloud. "Fareweel, mother!" said he, in a voice half-choked with anguish--"fareweel!"

"God bless my bairn!" she exclaimed, wringing his hand, and she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and wept as though her heart would burst. In agony, he tore himself from her embrace, and hurried from the house; and during the first miles of his journey, at every rising ground, he turned anxiously round, to obtain another lingering look of the place of his nativity; and, in the fulness and bitterness of his feelings, he pronounced the names of his mother, and his brethren, and of Mary Douglas, in the same breath.

We need not describe his passage to London, nor tell how he stood gazing wonderstruck, like a graven image of amazement, as the vessel winded up the Thames, through the long forests of masts, from which waved the flags of every nation.

It was about mid-day, early in the month of April, when the smack drew up off Hermitage Stairs, and Adam was aroused from his reverie of astonishment, by a waterman who had come upon deck, and who, pulling him by the buttonhole, said, "Boat, master? boat!" Adam did not exactly understand the question, but, seeing the other passengers getting their luggage into the boats, he followed their example. On landing, he was surrounded by a group of porters, several of whom took hold of his trunk, all inquiring, at the same moment, where he wished it taken to. This was a question he could not answer. It was one he had never thought of before. He looked confused, and replied, "I watna."

"_Watna!_" said one of the Cockney burden-bearers--"_Watna!_--there an't such a street in all London."

Adam was in the midst of London, and he knew not a living soul among its million of inhabitants. He knew not where to go; but, recollecting that one of the gentlemen to whom Mr Douglas had recommended him was a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill, he inquired--

"Does ony o' ye ken a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill?"

"Vy, I can't say as how I know him," replied a porter; "but, if you wish your luggage taken there, I will find him for you in a twinkling."

"And what wad ye be asking to carry the bit box there?" said Adam, in a moment betokening an equal proportion of simplicity and caution.

"Hasking?" replied the other--"vy, I'm blessed if you get any one to carry it for less than four shillings."

"I canna afford four shillings," said Adam; "and I'll be obleeged to ye if ye'll gie me a lift on to my shouther wi't, and I'll carry it mysel."

They uttered some low jests against his country, and left him to get his trunk upon his shoulders as he best might. Adam said truly that he could not afford four shillings; for, after paying his passage, he had not thirty shillings left in the world.

It is time, however, that we should describe Adam more particularly to our readers. He was dressed in a coarse grey coat; with trousers of the same colour, a striped waistcoat; a half-worn broad-brimmed hat, and thick shoes, studded with nails, which clattered as he went. Thus arrayed, and with his trunk upon his shoulders, Adam went tramping and clattering along East Smithfield, over Tower-hill, and along the Minories, inquiring at every turning--"If any one could direct him to Mr Davison's, the merchant in Cornhill?" There was many a laugh, and many a joke, at poor Adam's expense, as he went trudging along, and more than once the trunk fell to the ground, as he came in contact with the crowds who were hurrying past him. He had been directed out of his way; but at length he arrived at the place he sought. He placed his burden on the ground--he rang the bell--and again and again he rang, but no one answered. His letter was addressed to Mr Davison's counting-house--it was past business hours, and the office was locked up for the day. Adam was now tired, disappointed, and perplexed. He wist not what to do. He informed several "decent-looking people," as he said, "that he was a stranger, and he would be obleeged to them if they could recommend him to a lodging." He was shown several, but the rent per week terrified Adam. He was sinking under his burden, when, near the corner of Newgate Street, he inquired of an old Irish orange-woman, if "she could inform him where he would be likely to obtain a lodging at the rate of eighteen-pence or two shillings a-week?

"Sure, and it's I who can, jewel," replied she; "and an iligant room it is, with a bed his Holiness might rest his blessed bones on, and never a one slapes in it at all but my own boy Barney; and, barring when Barney's in dhrink--and that's not above twice a-week--you'll make mighty plaisant sort of company together."

Adam was glad to have the prospect of a resting-place of any sort before him at last, and with a lighter heart and a freer step he followed the old orange-woman. She conducted him to Green Dragon Court, and desiring him to follow her up a long, dark, dirty stair, ushered him into a small, miserable-looking garret, dimly lighted by a broken skylight, while the entire furniture consisted of four wooden posts without curtains, which she termed a bed, a mutilated chair, and a low wooden stool. "Now, darlint," said she, observing Adam fatigued, "here is a room fit for a prince; and sure you won't be thinking half-a-crown too much for it?"

"Weel," said Adam, for he was ready to lie down anywhere, "we'll no quarrel about a sixpence."

The orange-woman left him, having vainly recommended him "to christen his new tenement with a drop of the cratur." Adam threw himself upon the bed, and, in a few minutes, his spirit wandered in its dreams amidst the "bonny woods and braes" of Teviotdale. Early on the following day he proceeded to the counting-house of Mr Davison, who received him with a hurried sort of civility--glanced over the letter of introduction--expressed a hope that Mr Douglas was well--said he would be happy to serve him--but he was engaged at present, and, if Mr Brown would call again, if he should hear of anything, he would let him know. Adam thanked him, and, with his best bow (which was a very awkward one), withdrew. The clerks in the outer office tittered, as poor Adam, with his heavy hobnailed shoes, tramped through the midst of them. He delivered the other letter of introduction, and the gentleman to whom it was addressed received him much in the same manner as Mr Davison had done, and his clerks also smiled at Adam's grey coat, and gave a very peculiar look at his clattering shoes, and then at each other. Day after day he repeated his visits to the counting-houses of these gentlemen--sometimes they were too much engaged to see him, at others they simply informed him that they were sorry they had heard of nothing to suit him, and continued writing, without noticing him again; while Adam, with a heavy heart, would stand behind their desk, brushing the crown of his brown broad-brimmed hat with his sleeve. At length the clerks in the outer office merely informed him their master had heard of nothing for him. Adam saw it was in vain--three weeks had passed, and the thirty shillings which he had brought to London were reduced to ten.

He was wandering disconsolately down Chancery Lane, with his hands thrust in his pockets, when his attention was attracted to a shop, the windows and door of which were covered with written placards, and on these placards were the words, "_Wanted, a Book-keeper_"--"_Wanted, by a Literary Gentleman, an Amanuensis_"--in short, there seemed no sort of a situation for which there was not a person wanted, and each concluded with "_inquire within_." Adam's heart and his eyes overflowed with joy. There were at least half-a-dozen places which would suit him exactly--he was only at a loss now which to choose upon--and he thought also that Mr Douglas' friends had used him most unkindly in saying they could hear of no situation for him, when here scores were advertised in the streets. At length he fixed upon one. He entered the shop. A sharp, Jewish-looking little man was writing at a desk--he received the visiter with a gracious smile.

"If ye please, sir," said Adam, "will ye be so good as inform me where the gentleman lives that wants the book-keeper?"

"With pleasure," said the master of the register office; "but you must give me five shillings, and I will enter your name."

"Five shillings!" repeated Adam, and a new light began to dawn upon him. "Five shillings, sir, is a deal o' money and, to tell ye the truth, I can very ill afford it; but, as I am much in want o' a situation, maybe ye wad tak half-a-crown."

"Can't book you for that," said the other, "but give me your half-crown, and you may have the gentleman's address."

He directed him to a merchant in Thames Street. Adam quickly found the house; and, entering with his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and scraping the hob-nails along the floor--"Sir," said he, "I'm the person Mr Daniells o' Chancery Lane has sent to you as a book-keeper."

"Mr Daniells--Mr Daniells?" said the merchant; "don't know any such person--have not wanted a book-keeper these six months."

"Sir," said Adam, "are ye no Mr Robertson o' 54 Thames Street?"

"I am," replied the merchant; "but," added he, "I see how it is. Pray, young man, what did you give this Mr Daniells to recommend you to the situation?"

"Half-a-crown, sir," returned Adam.

"Well," said the other, "you have more money than wit. Good-morning, sir, and take care of another Mr Daniells."

Poor Adam was dumfoundered; and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he said London was a den o' thieves. I might tell you how his last shilling was expended--how he lived upon bread and water--how he fell into arrears with the orange-woman for the rent of his garret--how she persecuted him--how he was puzzled to understand the meaning of the generous words, "_Money Lent_;"--how the orange-woman, in order to obtain her rent, taught him the mystery of the _three golden balls_--and how the shirts which his mother had made him from a web of her own spinning, and his books, and all that he had, save the clothes upon his back, were pledged--and how, when all was gone, the old landlady turned him to the door, houseless, friendless, penniless, with no companion but despair. We might have dwelt upon these things, but must proceed with his history.

Adam, after enduring privations which would make humanity shudder, obtained the situation of assistant-porter in a merchant's office. The employment was humble, but he received it joyfully. He was steady and industrious, and it was not long until he was appointed warehouseman; and his employer, finding that, in addition to his good qualities, he had received a superior education, made him one of his confidential clerks. He had held the situation about two years. The rust, as his brother clerks said, was now pretty well rubbed off Scotch Adam. His hodden-grey was laid aside for the dashing green, his hobnailed shoes for fashionable pumps, and his broad-brimmed hat for a narrow-crowned beaver; his speech, too, had caught a sprinkling of the southern accent; but, in other respects, he was the same inoffensive, steady, and serious being as when he left his mother's cottage.

His companions were wont to "roast" Adam, as they termed it, on what they called his Methodism. They had often urged him to accompany them to the theatre; but, for two years, he had stubbornly withstood their temptations. The stage was to Adam what the tree of knowledge was to his first namesake and progenitor. He had been counselled against it, he had read against it, he had heard sermons against it; but had never been within the walls of a theatre. _The_ Siddons, and her brother John Kemble, then in the zenith of their fame, were filling not only London, but Europe, with their names. One evening they were to perform together--Adam had often heard of them--he admired Shakspere--his curiosity was excited--he yielded to the solicitations of his companions, and accompanied them to Covent Garden. The curtain was drawn up. The performance began. Adam's soul was riveted, his senses distracted. The Siddons swept before him like a vision of immortality--Kemble seemed to draw a soul from the tomb of the Caesars; and, as the curtain fell, and the loud music pealed, Adam felt as if a new existence and a new world had opened before him, and his head reeled with wonder and delight.

When the performances were concluded, his companions proposed to have a single bottle in an adjoining tavern; Adam offered some opposition, but was prevailed upon to accompany them. Several of the players entered--they were convivial spirits, abounding with wit, anecdote, and song. The scene was new, but not unpleasant to Adam. He took no note of time. He was unused to drink, and little affected him. The first bottle was finished. "WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER," said one of his companions. It was the first time Adam had heard the fatal words, and he offered no opposition. He drank again--he began to expatiate on divers subjects--he discovered he was an orator. "Well done, Mr Brown," cried one of his companions, "there's hope of you yet; _we'll have another_, my boy--three's band!" A third bottle was brought; Adam was called upon for a song. He could sing, and sing well too; and, taking his glass in his hand, he began--

"'Stop, stop, we'll hae anither gill,
Ne'er mind a lang-tongued beldame's yatter
They're fools wha'd leave a glass o' yill
For ony wife's infernal clatter.

"'There's Bet, when I gang hame the night,
Will set the hail stair-head a ringin--
Let a' the neebors hear her flyte,
Ca' me a brute, and stap my singin.
She'll yelp about the bairns' rags--
Ca' me a drucken gude-for-naethin!
She'll curse my throat and drouthy bags,
And at me thraw their duddy claethin!'

"Chorus, gentlemen--chorus!" cried Adam, and continued--

"'The fient a supper I'll get there--
A _dish o' tongue_ is a' she'll gie me!
She'll shake her nieve and rug her hair,
And wonder how she e'er gaed wi' me!
She vows to leave me, and I say,
"Gang, gang! for dearsake!--that's a blessin!"
She rins to get her claes away,
But--_o' the kist the key's amissin_!

"'The younkers a' set up a skirl.
They shriek and cry, "Oh dinna, mither!"
I slip to bed, and fash the quarrel
Neither ae way nor anither.
Bet creeps beside me, unco dour.
I clap her back, and say, "My dawtie!"
Quo' she, "Weel, weel, my passion's owre;
But dinna gang a-drinkin, Watty."'"

"Bravo, Scotchy!" shouted one. "Your health and song, Mr Brown," cried another. Adam's head began to swim--the lights danced before his eyes--he fell from his chair. One of his friends called a hackney-coach; and, half insensible of where he was, he was conveyed to his lodgings. It was afternoon on the following day before he appeared at the counting-house, and his eyes were red, and he had the languid look of one who had spent a night in revelry. That night he was again prevailed upon to accompany his brother clerks to the club-room, "just," as they expressed it, "to have one bottle to put all right." That night he again heard the words--"_We'll have another_," and again he yielded to their seduction.

But we will not follow him through the steps and through the snares by which he departed from virtue, and became entangled in vice. He became an almost nightly frequenter of the tavern, the theatre, or both, and his habits opened up temptations to grosser viciousness. Still he kept up a correspondence with Mary Douglas, the gentle object of his young affections, and, for a time, her endeared remembrance haunted him like a protecting angel, whispering in his ear, and saving him from depravity. But his religious principles were already forgotten; and, when that cord was snapped asunder, the fibre of affection that twined around his heart did not long hold him in the path of virtue. As the influence of company grew upon him, her remembrance lost its power, and Adam Brown plunged headlong into all the pleasures and temptations of the metropolis.

Still he was attentive to business--he still retained the confidence of his employer--his salary was liberal--he still sent thirty pounds a-year to his mother; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart, though he was changed--fatally changed. He had been about four years in his situation, when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his native village. It was on a summer afternoon, when a chaise from Jedburgh drove up to the door of the only public-house in the village. A fashionably-dressed young man alighted, and, in an affected voice, desired the landlord to send a _porter_ with his luggage to Mrs Brown's. "A porter, sir?" said the innkeeper--"there's naething o' the kind in the toun; but I'll get twa callants to tak it alang."

He hastened to his mother's. "Ah! how d'ye do?" said he, slightly shaking the hands of his younger brothers; but a tear gathered in his eye as his mother kissed his cheek. She, good soul, when the first surprise was over, said "she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine gentleman." He proceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the change in his appearance and his manner; yet she loved him not the less: but her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young friend, and grieved over them.

He had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand, and they set out for London together. For a few weeks after their arrival, he spent his evenings at their own fireside, and they were blessed in the society of each other. But it was not long until company again spread its seductive snares around him. Again he listened to the words--"_We'll have another_"--again he yielded to their temptation, and again the _force of habit_ made him its slave. Night followed night, and he was irritable and unhappy, unless in the midst of his boon companions. Poor Mary felt the bitterness and anguish of a deserted wife; but she upbraided him not--she spoke not of her sorrows. Health forsook her cheeks, and gladness had fled from her spirit; yet as she nightly sat hour after hour waiting his return, as he entered, she welcomed him with a smile, which not unfrequently was met with an imprecation or a frown. They had been married about two years. Mary was a mother, and oft at midnight she would sit weeping over the cradle of her child, mourning in secret for its thoughtless father.

It was her birth-day, her father had come to London to visit them; she had not told him of her sorrows, and she had invited a few friends to dine with them. They had assembled; but Adam was still absent. He had been unkind to her; but this was an unkindness she did not expect from him. They were yet waiting, when a police-officer entered. His errand was soon told. Adam Brown had become a gambler, as well as a drunkard--he had been guilty of fraud and embezzlement--his guilt had been discovered, and the police were in quest of him. Mr Douglas wrung his hands and groaned. Mary bore the dreadful blow with more than human fortitude. She uttered no scream--she shed no tears; for a moment she sat motionless--speechless. It was the dumbness of agony. With her child at her breast, and in the midst of her guests, she flung herself at her father's feet. "Father!" she exclaimed, "for my sake!--for my helpless child's sake--save! oh, save my poor husband!"

"For your sake, what I can do I will do, dearest," groaned the old man.

A coach was ordered to the door, and the miserable wife and her father hastened to the office of her husband's employer.

When Adam Brown received intelligence that his guilt was discovered from a companion, he was carousing with others in a low gambling-house. Horror seized him, and he hurried from the room; but he returned in a few minutes. "_We'll have another_!" he exclaimed, in atone of frenzy; and another was brought. He half-filled a glass--he raised it to his lips--he dashed into it a deadly poison, and, ere they could stay his hand, the fatal draught was swallowed. He had purchased a quantity of arsenic when he rushed from the house.

His fellow-gamblers were thronging around him, when his injured wife and her grey-haired father entered the room. "Away, tormentors!" he exclaimed, as his glazed eyes fell upon them, and he dashed his hand before his face.

"My husband! my dear husband!" cried Mary, flinging her arms around his neck; "look on me--speak to me! All is well!"

He gazed on her face--he grasped her hand. "Mary--my injured Mary!" he exclaimed, convulsively, "can _you_ forgive me--_you_--_you_? O God! I was once innocent! Forgive me, dearest!--for our child's sake, curse not its guilty father!"

"Husband!--Adam!" she cried, wringing his hand--"come with me, love, come--leave this horrid place--you have nothing to fear--your debt is paid."

"Paid!" he exclaimed, wildly. "Ha! ha! Paid!"

They were his last words. Convulsions came upon him; the film of death passed over his eyes, and his troubled spirit fled.

She clung round his neck--she yet cried, "Speak to me!"--she refused to believe that he was dead, and her reason seemed to have fled with his spirit.

She was taken from his body and conveyed home. The agony of grief subsided into a stupor approaching imbecility. She was unconscious of all around; and within three weeks from the death of her husband, the broken spirit of Mary Douglas found rest, and her father returned in sorrow with her helpless orphan to Teviotdale.

THE SCOTTISH VETERAN.

It was upon one of those clear, chill, but not unpleasant days, that so often occur towards the latter end of November, that an aged female, and one much younger, in all the bloom of maiden beauty, overcast by a tender shade of melancholy, that gave tenfold interest to her lovely countenance, and mellowed the lustre of her dark hazel eyes, were seen sitting at the door of a cottage on the banks of one of the tributaries of the silver Tweed. The full round orb of the sun was sinking slowly behind a huge bank of clouds, tinged by his departing rays, that lingered as if regretting his short career, and loth to depart. The deep shades of twilight closed quickly upon the scene; but the females sat engaged at their work, as if it had been an eve of autumn. Margaret Blair, the more aged of the two, sat gazing in one direction with unwearied assiduity, only occasionally looking at the progress she made at the stocking she was busy knitting; and Jeanie Aitken, the younger, bent her steadfast gaze at intervals in the same direction, towards the road that skirted the foot of the neighbouring hills. Heavy clouds began to rise in the east; the wind had changed towards that quarter, and howled mournfully along the waste.

"Jeanie, my dear," said Margaret, "Jamie has gotten a fine day to travel in. Do you see no appearance o' him yet? Your young een are far clearer than mine. These heavy clouds mak me fear for the nicht. I am sure he might hae been here lang before this time, if his heart yearned as mickle to see me as mine does to see him. I trust that naething has happened to him on the road. Many a danger has he passed through in the wars. It would be an awfu thing were ony misfortune to happen him when he is sae near hame. God has preserved him in the battlefield; and oh, I trust and pray He will still be his guide! Do you no see ony signs o' him yet? The nicht will soon be on, and I fear it will be a stormy ane."

A deep sigh escaped from Jeanie as she answered, "Oh no; I see no one on the road. Dear mother, retire into the house--you must be very cold--I will watch yet a little. I hope he will soon be here, and then we will be so happy when we meet." The tears that filled her eyes, and the trembling accents in which she spoke, betrayed a heart ill at ease.

It was at this period I arrived at the cottage, in hopes of seeing my old schoolfellow; for a letter had been received a few days before, in which he informed his mother and Jean that he would be with them this day, as he had received his discharge.

Jeanie and James had long loved each other; they were cousins, and had been brought up together; but he had enlisted in anger, and forsaken her. With all his faults, she had never ceased to love him; and, from the day he went off to join his regiment, for six long years they had never heard of him. About three months after the battle of Victoria, the carrier to the town of Dunse brought them two letters as he passed--one for Margaret Blair, the other for Jeanie Aitken. They were from James. I was shown both the letters, which will unfold the previous history of my friends, and the feelings of the reformed son better than I can, and introduce the Veteran in a more favourable light than I have as yet been enabled to do.

"_Victoria._

"DEAREST MOTHER,--My folly has at length fallen upon my own
head, and heavy is the load I will bear until I receive an
answer to this, containing your forgiveness for my wicked
neglect of your counsels, and despising the instructions of my
worthy father--the result of all which has been my giving
myself so much to evil company, and deserting you in your old
age. But, dear mother, I am now an altered man. On the dark and
cheerless guard, at the dead hour of the night, my conscience
often awoke, and rendered me almost desperate--when sinking
under fatigue, hunger, and thirst, on the long and toilsome
march, it has given a keener edge to my sufferings; still I
warred against the better feelings that arose in my breast--for
I was still wayward and proud; but now, lingering under my
wounds, I humble myself in the dust, before that God I so long
neglected, who alone speaks peace to my humbled spirit! Be not
alarmed at the mention of my wounds. I am now out of danger,
and will be enabled to join my regiment in a few weeks--would
it were to join your peaceful fireside. But, though I am
unworthy to obtain yet for a time this my earnest prayer, I
feel assured I shall yet be spared to comfort your declining
years. And that every blessing may be yours until then, is the
prayer of your now repentant and loving son,

"JAMES BLAIR.

"P.S.--Is cousin Jeanie still unmarried? Does she reside still
near you? I hope she is still unchanged, unreasonable that I
am. If she is, give her the letter; if not, burn it. The scenes
and feelings I enjoyed before I left your roof are dearer and
stronger here in Spain than I can express, or you imagine. I do
not request you to write soon--it would be unjust and unkind to
doubt it for a moment. Again, I am your now altered and dutiful
son until death.

"J. B."

The letter to Jeanie was received with a trembling hand, and placed in her bosom, that felt it impart a buoyancy to her feelings, she had been long a stranger to. As soon as she had finished reading the letter to Margaret, she retired to a beautiful knowe that overtopped the burn, and seated herself among the long yellow broom, where the most pleasant of her days had passed with her James. There they had herded together; there they had first plighted their young loves; and there James had left her in anger, without hope of ever returning to her again. On this loved spot, every moment she could spare had been passed, musing upon her absent lover, or praying for his safety and return; and now, with a feeling of pleasure she had been long a stranger to, she drew the letter from her bosom, and broke it open, while joy and grief filled her heart by turns.

"_Victoria._