The similarity in some respects of the offence of smuggling, to the illegal pursuit which forms the subject of the preceding Tale—written two years ago—must be the author's excuse for the recurrence of similar sentiments and expressions.
Jan. 1823.
THE
SMUGGLER.
It was the latter end of the month of November, when Mary Waldron, having carefully put her two children to bed, sat down with an aching head and a heavy heart, to wait for the return of her husband.
He had sailed from Folkestone in a stiff half-decked vessel, in company with eight or ten of his sea-faring companions, and then told his wife that she might expect him back on the day following. But that day and another had passed away, and he was still absent.
The night was dark and tempestuous. The wind howled mournfully round the house; the rain beat hard against the windows; and whenever the storm seemed lulled for a moment, the continued roar of the waves, as they broke on the shingly beach, came heavily on her ear. She tried to occupy herself in mending one of her husband's fishing jackets; but her hands and the jacket were constantly in her lap, and it was with difficulty that from time to time she was able in some degree to rouse herself.