Bind her quickly; or, by this steel,
Iíll tell, although I truss for company.
Fletcher.
The imperfect light which shone into the window enabled Jeanie to see
that there was scarcely any chance of making her escape in that
direction; for the aperture was high in the wall, and so narrow, that,
could she have climbed up to it, she might well doubt whether it would
have permitted her to pass her body through it. An unsuccessful attempt
to escape would be sure to draw down worse treatment than she now
received, and she, therefore, resolved to watch her opportunity carefully
ere making such a perilous effort. For this purpose she applied herself
to the ruinous clay partition, which divided the hovel in which she now
was from the rest of the waste barn. It was decayed and full of cracks
and chinks, one of which she enlarged with her fingers, cautiously and
without noise, until she could obtain a plain view of the old hag and the
taller ruffian, whom they called Levitt, seated together beside the
decayed fire of charcoal, and apparently engaged in close conference. She
was at first terrified by the sight; for the features of the old woman
had a hideous cast of hardened and inveterate malice and ill-humour, and
those of the man, though naturally less unfavourable, were such as
corresponded well with licentious habits, and a lawless profession.
“But I remembered,” said Jeanie, “my worthy fathers tales of a winter
evening, how he was confined with the blessed martyr, Mr. James Renwick,
who lifted up the fallen standard of the true reformed Kirk of Scotland,
after the worthy and renowned Daniel Cameron, our last blessed
banner-man, had fallen among the swords of the wicked at Airsmoss, and
how the very hearts of the wicked malefactors and murderers, whom they
were confined withal, were melted like wax at the sound of their
doctrine: and I bethought mysell, that the same help that was wií them in
their strait, wad be wií me in mine, an I could but watch the Lordís time
and opportunity for delivering my feet from their snare; and I minded the
Scripture of the blessed Psalmist, whilk he insisteth on, as weel in the
forty-second as in the forty-third psalm--ëWhy art thou cast down, O my
soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet
praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.í”
Strengthened in a mind naturally calm, sedate, and firm, by the influence
of religious confidence, this poor captive was enabled to attend to, and
comprehend, a great part of an interesting conversation which passed
betwixt those into whose hands she had fallen, notwithstanding that their
meaning was partly disguised by the occasional use of cant terms, of
which Jeanie knew not the import, by the low tone in which they spoke,
and by their mode of supplying their broken phrases by shrugs and signs,
as is usual amongst those of their disorderly profession.
The man opened the conversation by saying, “Now, dame, you see I am true
to my friend. I have not forgot that you _planked a chury,_* which helped
me through the bars of the Castle of York, and I came to do your work
without asking questions; for one good turn deserves another.
* Concealed a knife.
But now that Madge, who is as loud as Tom of Lincoln, is somewhat still,
and this same Tyburn Neddie is shaking his heels after the old nag, why,
you must tell me what all this is about, and whatís to be done--for d--n
me if I touch the girl, or let her be touched, and she with Jim Ratís
pass, too.”
“Thou art an honest lad, Frank,” answered the old woman, “but eíen too
good for thy trade; thy tender heart will get thee into trouble. I will
see ye gang up Holborn Hill backward, and aí on the word of some silly
loon that could never hae rapped to ye had ye drawn your knife across his
weasand.”
“You may be balked there, old one,” answered the robber; “I have known
many a pretty lad cut short in his first summer upon the road, because he
was something hasty with his flats and sharps. Besides, a man would fain
live out his two years with a good conscience. So, tell me what all this
is about, and whatís to be done for you that one can do decently?”
“Why, you must know, Frank--but first taste a snap of right Hollands.”
She drew a flask from her pocket, and filled the fellow a large bumper,
which he pronounced to be the right thing.--“You must know, then,
Frank--wunna ye mend your hand?” again offering the flask.
“No, no,--when a woman wants mischief from you, she always begins by
filling you drunk. D--n all Dutch courage. What I do I will do
soberly--Iíll last the longer for that too.”
“Well, then, you must know,” resumed the old woman, without any further
attempts at propitiation, “that this girl is going to London.”
Here Jeanie could only distinguish the word sister.
The robber answered in a louder tone, “Fair enough that; and what the
devil is your business with it?”
“Business enough, I think. If the b--queers the noose, that silly cull
will marry her.”
“And who cares if he does?” said the man.
“Who cares, ye donnard Neddie! I care; and I will strangle her with my
own hands, rather than she should come to Madgeís preferment.”
“Madgeís preferment! Does your old blind eyes see no farther than that?
If he is as you say, dye think heíll ever marry a moon-calf like Madge?
Ecod, thatís a good one--Marry Madge Wildfire!--Ha! ha! ha!”
“Hark ye, ye crack-rope padder, born beggar, and bred thief!” replied the
hag, “suppose he never marries the wench, is that a reason he should
marry another, and that other to hold my daughterís place, and she
crazed, and I a beggar, and all along of him? But I know that of him will
hang him--I know that of him will hang him, if he had a thousand lives--I
know that of him will hang--hang--hang him!”
She grinned as she repeated and dwelt upon the fatal monosyllable, with
the emphasis of a vindictive fiend.
“Then why donít you hang--hang--hang him?” said Frank, repeating her
words contemptuously. “There would be more sense in that, than in
wreaking yourself here upon two wenches that have done you and your
daughter no ill.”
“No ill?” answered the old woman--“and he to marry this jail-bird, if
ever she gets her foot loose!”
“But as there is no chance of his marrying a bird of your brood, I
cannot, for my soul, see what you have to do with all this,” again
replied the robber, shrugging his shoulders. “Where there is aught to be
got, Iíll go as far as my neighbours, but I hate mischief for mischiefs
sake.”
“And would you go nae length for revenge?” said the hag--“for
revenge--the sweetest morsel to the mouth that over was cooked in hell!”
“The devil may keep it for his own eating, then,” said the robber; “for
hang me if I like the sauce he dresses it with.”
“Revenge!” continued the old woman; “why, it is the best reward the devil
gives us for our time here and hereafter. I have wrought hard for it--I
have suffered for it--and I have sinned for it--and I will have it,--or
there is neither justice in heaven or in hell!”
Levitt had by this time lighted a pipe, and was listening with great
composure to the frantic and vindictive ravings of the old hag. He was
too much, hardened by his course of life to be shocked with them--too
indifferent, and probably too stupid, to catch any part of their
animation or energy. “But, mother,” he said, after a pause, “still I say,
that if revenge is your wish, you should take it on the young fellow
himself.”
“I wish I could,” she said, drawing in her breath, with the eagerness of
a thirsty person while mimicking the action of drinking--“I wish I
could--but no--I cannot--I cannot.”
“And why not?--You would think little of peaching and hanging him for
this Scotch affair.--Rat me, one might have milled the Bank of England,
and less noise about it.”
“I have nursed him at this withered breast,” answered the old woman,
folding her hands on her bosom, as if pressing an infant to it, “and,
though he has proved an adder to me--though he has been the destruction
of me and mine--though he has made me company for the devil, if there be
a devil, and food for hell, if there be such a place, yet I cannot take
his life.--No, I cannot,” she continued, with an appearance of rage
against herself; “I have thought of it--I have tried it--but, Francis
Levitt, I canna gang through wiít--Na, na--he was the first bairn I ever
nurst--ill I had been--and man can never ken what woman feels for the
bairn she has held first to her bosom!”
“To be sure,” said Levitt, “we have no experience; but, mother, they say
you haínít been so kind to other bairns, as you call them, that have come
in your way.--Nay, d--n me, never lay your hand on the whittle, for I am
captain and leader here, and I will have no rebellion.”
The hag, whose first motion had been, upon hearing the question, to grasp
the haft of a large knife, now unclosed her hand, stole it away from the
weapon, and suffered it to fall by her side, while she proceeded with a
sort of smile--“Bairns! ye are joking, lad--wha wad touch bairns? Madge,
puir thing, had a misfortune wií ane--and the tíother”--Here her voice
sunk so much, that Jeanie, though anxiously upon the watch, could not
catch a word she said, until she raised her tone at the conclusion of the
sentence--“So Madge, in her daffiní, threw it into the Norí-lock, I
trow.”
Madge, whose slumbers, like those of most who labour under mental malady,
had been short, and were easily broken, now made herself heard from her
place of repose.
“Indeed, mother, thatís a great lie, for I did nae sic thing.”
“Hush, thou hellicat devil,” said her mother--“By Heaven! the other wench
will be waking too.”
“That may be dangerous,” said Frank; and he rose, and followed Meg
Murdockson across the floor.
“Rise,” said the hag to her daughter, “or I sall drive the knife between
the planks into the Bedlam back of thee!”
Apparently she at the same time seconded her threat by pricking her with
the point of a knife, for Madge, with a faint scream, changed her place,
and the door opened.
[Illustration: Jennie in the Outlaws Hut--80]
The old woman held a candle in one hand, and a knife in the other. Levitt
appeared behind her, whether with a view of preventing, or assisting her
in any violence she might meditate, could not be well guessed. Jeanieís
presence of mind stood her friend in this dreadful crisis. She had
resolution enough to maintain the attitude and manner of one who sleeps
profoundly, and to regulate even her breathing, notwithstanding the
agitation of instant terror, so as to correspond with her attitude.
The old woman passed the light across her eyes; and although Jeanieís
fears were so powerfully awakened by this movement, that she often
declared afterwards, that she thought she saw the figures of her destined
murderers through her closed eyelids, she had still the resolution to
maintain the feint, on which her safety perhaps depended.
Levitt looked at her with fixed attention; he then turned the old woman
out of the place, and followed her himself. Having regained the outward
apartment, and seated themselves, Jeanie heard the highwayman say, to her
no small relief, “Sheís as fast as if she were in Bedfordshire.--Now, old
Meg, d--n me if I can understand a glim of this story of yours, or what
good it will do you to hang the one wench and torment the other; but, rat
me, I will be true to my friend, and serve ye the way ye like it. I see
it will be a bad job; but I do think I could get her down to Surfleet on
the Wash, and so on board Tom Moonshineís neat lugger, and keep her out
of the way three or four weeks, if that will please ye--But d--n me if
any one shall harm her, unless they have a mind to choke on a brace of
blue plums.--Itís a cruel, bad job, and I wish you and it, Meg, were both
at the devil.”
“Never mind, hinny Levitt,” said the old woman; “you are a ruffler, and
will have aí your ain gate--She shanna gang to heaven an hour sooner for
me; I carena whether she live or die--itís her sister--ay, her sister!”
“Well, weíll say no more about it; I hear Tom coming in. Weíll couch a
hogshead,* and so better had you.”
* Lay ourselves down to sleep.
They retired to repose accordingly, and all was silent in this asylum of
iniquity.
Jeanie lay for a long time awake. At break of day she heard the two
ruffians leave the barn, after whispering to the old woman for some time.
The sense that she was now guarded by persons of her own sex gave her
some confidence, and irresistible lassitude at length threw her into
slumber.
When the captive awakened, the sun was high in heaven, and the morning
considerably advanced. Madge Wildfire was still in the hovel which had
served them for the night, and immediately bid her good-morning, with her
usual air of insane glee. “And dye ken, lass,” said Madge, “thereís queer
things chanced since ye hae been in the land of Nod. The constables hae
been here, woman, and they met wií my minnie at the door, and they
whirlíd her awa to the Justiceís about the manís wheat.--Dear! thae
English churls think as muckle about a blade of wheat or grass, as a
Scotch laird does about his maukins and his muir-poots. Now, lass, if ye
like, weíll play them a fine jink; we will awa out and take a walk--they
will mak unco wark when they miss us, but we can easily be back by dinner
time, or before dark night at ony rate, and it will be some frolic and
fresh air.--But maybe ye wad like to take some breakfast, and then lie
down again? I ken by mysell, thereís whiles I can sit wií my head in my
hand the haill day, and havena a word to cast at a dog--and other whiles,
that I canna sit still a moment. Thatís when the folk think me warst, but
I am aye canny eneugh--ye needna be feared to walk wií me.”
Had Madge Wildfire been the most raging lunatic, instead of possessing a
doubtful, uncertain, and twilight sort of rationality, varying, probably,
from the influence of the most trivial causes, Jeanie would hardly have
objected to leave a place of captivity, where she had so much to
apprehend. She eagerly assured Madge that she had no occasion for further
sleep, no desire whatever for eating; and, hoping internally that she was
not guilty of sin in doing so, she flattered her keeperís crazy humour
for walking in the woods.
“Itís no aíthegither for that neither,” said poor Madge; “but I am
judging ye will wun the better out oí thae folkís hands; no that they are
aíthegither bad folk neither, but they have queer ways wií them, and I
whiles dinna think it has ever been weel wií my mother and me since we
kept sic-like company.”
With the haste, the joy, the fear, and the hope of a liberated captive,
Jeanie snatched up her little bundle, followed Madge into the free air,
and eagerly looked round her for a human habitation; but none was to be
seen. The ground was partly cultivated, and partly left in its natural
state, according as the fancy of the slovenly agriculturists had decided.
In its natural state it was waste, in some places covered with dwarf
trees and bushes, in others swamp, and elsewhere firm and dry downs or
pasture grounds.
Jeanieís active mind next led her to conjecture which way the high-road
lay, whence she had been forced. If she regained that public road, she
imagined she must soon meet some person, or arrive at some house, where
she might tell her story, and request protection. But, after a glance
around her, she saw with regret that she had no means whatever of
directing her course with any degree of certainty, and that she was still
in dependence upon her crazy companion. “Shall we not walk upon the
high-road?” said she to Madge, in such a tone as a nurse uses to coax a
child. “Itís brawer walking on the road than amang thae wild bushes and
whins.”
Madge, who was walking very fast, stopped at this question, and looked at
Jeanie with a sudden and scrutinising glance, that seemed to indicate
complete acquaintance with her purpose. “Aha, lass!” she exclaimed, “are
ye gaun to guide us that gate?--Yeíll be for making your heels save your
head, I am judging.”
Jeanie hesitated for a moment, on hearing her companion thus express
herself, whether she had not better take the hint, and try to outstrip
and get rid of her. But she knew not in which direction to fly; she was
by no means sure that she would prove the swiftest, and perfectly
conscious that in the event of her being pursued and overtaken, she would
be inferior to the madwoman in strength. She therefore gave up thoughts
for the present of attempting to escape in that manner, and, saying a few
words to allay Madgeís suspicions, she followed in anxious apprehension
the wayward path by which her guide thought proper to lead her. Madge,
infirm of purpose, and easily reconciled to the present scene, whatever
it was, began soon to talk with her usual diffuseness of ideas.
“Itís a dainty thing to be in the woods on a fine morning like this! I
like it far better than the town, for there isna a wheen duddie bairns to
be crying after ane, as if ane were a warldís wonder, just because
ane maybe is a thought bonnier and better put-on than their
neighbours--though, Jeanie, ye suld never be proud oí braw claiths,
or beauty neither--waeís me! theyíre but a snare--I ance thought better
oíthem, and what came oít?”
“Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?” said Jeanie, who began to
imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods and more remote from
the high-road.
“Do I ken the road?--Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for
shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore my
accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them try it
as muckle as they like.”
By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland. The
trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of one of
them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the poet of
Grasmere has described. So soon as she arrived at this spot, Madge
Wildfire, joining her hands above her head with a loud scream that
resembled laughter, flung herself all at once upon the spot, and remained
lying there motionless.
Jeanieís first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her desire
to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor insane being,
who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With an effort, which
in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she stooped down, spoke in
a soothing tone, and endeavoured to raise up the forlorn creature. She
effected this with difficulty, and as she placed her against the tree in
a sitting posture, she observed with surprise, that her complexion,
usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her face was bathed in
tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger, Jeanie was affected by the
situation of her companion; and the rather, that, through the whole train
of her wavering and inconsistent state of mind and line of conduct, she
discerned a general colour of kindness towards herself, for which she
felt gratitude.
“Let me alane!--let me alane!” said the poor young woman, as her paroxysm
of sorrow began to abate--“Let me alane--it does me good to weep. I canna
shed tears but maybe ance or twice a year, and I aye come to wet this
turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and the grass may be
green.”
“But what is the matter with you?” said Jeanie--“Why do you weep so
bitterly?”
“Thereís matter enow,” replied the lunatic,--“mair than ae puir mind can
bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and Iíll tell you aí about it; for I like ye,
Jeanie Deans--aíbody spoke weel about ye when we lived in the Pleasaunts--
And I mind aye the drink oí milk ye gae me yon day, when I had been on
Arthurís Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the ship that
somebody was sailing in.”
These words recalled to Jeanieís recollection, that, in fact, she had
been one morning much frightened by meeting a crazy young woman near her
fatherís house at an early hour, and that, as she appeared to be
harmless, her apprehension had been changed into pity, and she had
relieved the unhappy wanderer with some food, which she devoured with the
haste of a famished person. The incident, trifling in itself, was at
present of great importance, if it should be found to have made a
favourable and permanent impression in her favour on the mind of the
object of her charity.
“Yes,” said Madge, “Iíll tell ye aí about it, for ye are a decent manís
daughter--Douce Davie Deans, ye ken--and maybe yeíll can teach me to find
out the narrow way, and the straight path, for I have been burning bricks
in Egypt, and walking through the weary wilderness of Sinai, for lang and
mony a day. But whenever I think about mine errors, I am like to cover my
lips for shame.”--Here she looked up and smiled.--“Itís a strange thing
now--I hae spoke mair gude words to you in ten minutes, than I wad speak
to my mother in as mony years--itís no that I dinna think on them--and
whiles they are just at my tongueís end, but then comes the devil, and
brushes my lips with his black wing, and lays his broad black loof on my
mouth--for a black loof it is, Jeanie--and sweeps away aí my gude
thoughts, and dits up my gude words, and pits a wheen fule sangs and idle
vanities in their place.”
“Try, Madge,” said Jeanie,--“try to settle your mind and make your breast
clean, and youíll find your heart easier.--Just resist the devil, and he
will flee from you--and mind that, as my worthy father tells me, there is
nae devil sae deceitfuí as our ain wandering thoughts.”
“And thatís true too, lass,” said Madge, starting up; “and Iíll gang a
gate where the devil daurna follow me; and itís a gate that you will like
dearly to gang--but Iíll keep a fast haud oí your arm, for fear Apollyon
should stride across the path, as he did in the Pilgrimís Progress.”
Accordingly she got up, and, taking Jeanie by the arm, began to walk
forward at a great pace; and soon, to her companionís no small joy, came
into a marked path, with the meanders of which she seemed perfectly
acquainted. Jeanie endeavoured to bring her back to the confessional, but
the fancy was gone by. In fact, the mind of this deranged being resembled
nothing so much as a quantity of dry leaves, which may for a few minutes
remain still, but are instantly discomposed and put in motion by the
first casual breath of air. She had now got John Bunyanís parable into
her head, to the exclusion of everything else, and on she went with great
volubility.
“Did ye never read the Pilgrimís Progress? And you shall be the woman,
Christiana, and I will be the maiden, Mercy--for ye ken Mercy was of the
fairer countenance, and the more alluring than her companion--and if I
had my little messan dog here, it would be Great-heart, their guide, ye
ken, for he was eíen as bauld, that he wad bark at ony thing twenty times
his size; and that was eíen the death of him, for he bit Corporal
MacAlpineís heels ae morning when they were hauling me to the
guard-house, and Corporal MacAlpine killed the bit faithfuí thing wií his
Lochaber axe--deil pike the Highland banes oí him.”
“O fie! Madge,” said Jeanie, “ye should not speak such words.”
“Itís very true,” said Madge, shaking her head; “but then I maunna think
oí my puir bit doggie, Snap, when I saw it lying dying in the gutter. But
itís just as weel, for it suffered baith cauld and hunger when it was
living, and in the grave there is rest for aí things--rest for the
doggie, and my puir bairn, and me.”
“Your bairn?” said Jeanie, conceiving that by speaking on such a topic,
supposing it to be a real one, she could not fail to bring her companion
to a more composed temper.
She was mistaken, however, for Madge coloured, and replied with some
anger, “_My_ bairn? ay, to be sure, my bairn. Whatfor shouldna I hae a
bairn and lose a bairn too, as weel as your bonnie tittie, the Lily of
St. Leonardís?”
The answer struck Jeanie with some alarm, and she was anxious to soothe
the irritation she had unwittingly given occasion to. “I am very sorry
for your misfortune.”
“Sorry! what wad ye be sorry for?” answered Madge. “The bairn was a
blessing--that is, Jeanie, it wad hae been a blessing if it hadna been
for my mother; but my motherís a queer woman.--Ye see, there was an auld
carle wií a bit land, and a gude clat oí siller besides, just the very
picture of old Mr. Feeblemind or Mr. Ready-to-halt, that Great-heart
delivered from Slaygood the giant, when he was rifling him and about to
pick his bones, for Slaygood was of the nature of the flesh-eaters--and
Great-heart killed Giant Despair too--but I am doubting Giant Despairís
come alive again, for aí the story book--I find him busy at my heart
whiles.”
“Weel, and so the auld carle,” said Jeanie, for she was painfully
interested in getting to the truth of Madgeís history, which she could
not but suspect was in some extraordinary way linked and entwined with
the fate of her sister. She was also desirous, if possible, to engage her
companion in some narrative which might be carried on in a lower tone of
voice, for she was in great apprehension lest the elevated notes of
Madgeís conversation should direct her mother or the robbers in search of
them.
“And so the auld carle,” said Madge, repeating her words--“I wish ye had
seen him stoiting about, aff ae leg on to the other, wií a kind oí
dot-and-go-one sort oí motion, as if ilk ane oí his twa legs had belanged
to sindry folk--but Gentle George could take him aff brawly--Eh, as I
used to laugh to see George gang hip-hop like him!--I dinna ken, I think
I laughed heartier then than what I do now, though maybe no just sae
muckle.”
“And who was Gentle George?” said Jeanie, endeavouring to bring her back
to her story.
“O, he was Geordie Robertson, ye ken, when he was in Edinburgh; but
thatís no his right name neither--His name is--But what is your business
wií his name?” said she, as if upon sudden recollection, “What have ye to
do asking for folkís names?--Have ye a mind I should scour my knife
between your ribs, as my mother says?”
As this was spoken with a menacing tone and gesture, Jeanie hastened to
protest her total innocence of purpose in the accidental question which
she had asked, and Madge Wildfire went on somewhat pacified.
“Never ask folkís names, Jeanie--itís no civil--I hae seen half-a-dozen
oí folk in my motherís at ance, and neíer ane aí them caíd the ither by
his name; and Daddie Ratton says, it is the most uncivil thing may be,
because the bailie bodies are aye asking fashions questions, when ye saw
sic a man, or sic a man; and if ye dinna ken their names, ye ken there
can be nae mair speerd about it.”
“In what strange school,” thought Jeanie to herself, “has this poor
creature been bred up, where such remote precautions are taken against
the pursuits of justice? What would my father or Reuben Butler think if I
were to tell them there are sic folk in the world? And to abuse the
simplicity of this demented creature! Oh, that I were but safe at hame
amang mine ain leal and true people! and Iíll bless God, while I have
breath, that placed me amongst those who live in His fear, and under the
shadow of His wing.”
She was interrupted by the insane laugh of Madge Wildfire, as she saw a
magpie hop across the path.
“See there!--that was the gate my auld joe used to cross the country, but
no just sae lightly--he hadna wings to help his auld legs, I trow; but I
behoved to have married him for aí that, Jeanie, or my mother wad hae
been the dead oí me. But then came in the story of my poor bairn, and my
mother thought he wad be deaved wií itís skirling, and she pat it away in
below the bit bourock of turf yonder, just to be out oí the gate; and I
think she buried my best wits with it, for I have never been just mysell
since. And only think, Jeanie, after my mother had been at aí these
pains, the auld doited body Johnny Drottle turned up his nose, and wadna
hae aught to say to me! But itís little I care for him, for I have led a
merry life ever since, and neíer a braw gentleman looks at me but ye wad
think he was gaun to drop off his horse for mere love of me. I have keníd
some oí them put their hand in their pocket, and gie me as muckle as
sixpence at a time, just for my weel-faured face.”
This speech gave Jeanie a dark insight into Madgeís history. She had been
courted by a wealthy suitor, whose addresses her mother had favoured,
notwithstanding the objection of old age and deformity. She had been
seduced by some profligate, and, to conceal her shame and promote the
advantageous match she had planned, her mother had not hesitated to
destroy the offspring of their intrigue. That the consequence should be
the total derangement of amind which was constitutionally unsettled by
giddiness and vanity, was extremely natural; and such was, in fact, the
history of Madge Wildfireís insanity.