"O dearest Robert," said the woman, "you will destroy your poor head; and Margaret your sister, whom you used to love so much, will break her heart. Do lie down, dearest, and take a little rest. Your head is fearfully gashed, and if the bandages loose a second time, you will bleed to death. Do, dearest Robert, for your poor old mother, to whom you were always so kind and dutiful a son till now—for your poor old mother's sake, do lie down."
The song ceased for a moment, and the tears came bursting from my eyes as the tune changed, and he again sang:—
"O mither dear, make ye my bed, For my heart it's flichterin' sair; An' oh, gin I've vexed ye, mither dear, I'll never vex ye mair. I've staid ar'out the lang dark nicht, I' the sleet an' the plashy rain; But, mither dear, make ye my bed, An' I'll ne'er gang out again."
"Dearest, dearest Robert," continued the poor, heart-broken woman, "do lie down; for your poor old mother's sake, do lie down."
"No, no," he exclaimed, in a hurried voice, "not just now, mother, not just now. Here is my friend, Mr. Lindsay, come to see me—my true friend, Mr. Lindsay, the sailor, who has sailed all round and round the world; and I have much, much to ask him. A chair, Margaret, for Mr. Lindsay. I must be a preacher like John Knox, you know—like the great John Knox, the reformer of a nation—and
Mr. Lindsay knows all about him. A chair, Margaret, for Mr. Lindsay."
I am not ashamed to say it was with tears, and in a voice faltering with emotion, that I apologized to the poor woman for my intrusion at such a time. Were it otherwise, I might well conclude my heart had grown hard as a piece of the nether millstone.
"I had known Robert at College," I said—"had loved and respected him; and had now come to pay him a visit, after an absence of several months, wholly unprepared for finding him in his present condition." And it would seem that my tears pled for me, and proved to the poor afflicted woman and her daughter, by far the most efficient part of my apology.
"All my friends have left me now, Mr. Lindsay," said the unfortunate poet—"they have all left me now; they love this present world. We were all going down, down, down; there was the roll of a river behind us; it came bursting over the high rocks, roaring, rolling, foaming down upon us; and though the fog was thick and dark below—far below, in the place to which we were going—I could see the red fire shining through—the red, hot, unquenchable fire; and we were all going down, down, down. Mother, mother, tell Mr. Lindsay I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow. Careless creature that I am—life is short, and I have lost much time; but I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow, and shall come forth a preacher of the word."
The thunder which had hitherto been muttering at a distance—each peal, however, nearer and louder than the preceding one—now began to roll overhead, and the lightning, as it passed the window, to illumine every object within. The hapless poet stretched out his thin wasted arm, as if addressing a congregation from the pulpit: