About thirty years ago, the office of carrier between Edinburgh and a
certain town on the north of the Tay was discharged by a person of the
name of George Skirving. At the time of which we speak he might be about
forty-five years of age, a man of considerable physical strength, and
with as much mental firmness as will be found among the generality of
mankind. His occupation, in travelling during night, required often the
confirming influence of personal courage, to keep him from being
alarmed; and his activity, and exposure to the fresh air of both land
and water, were conducive to bodily health and elasticity of spirits. He
was at once a faithful carrier and a good companion on the road, along
which he was generally respected; and, by attention to business and
economical habits of living, he had been enabled to realize as much
money as might suffice to sustain him, with his wife and three children,
in the event of his being disabled, by accident or ill health, from
following his ordinary employment.
The day in which George Skirving left the northern town for Edinburgh,
was Wednesday of each week; and he started at the hour of seven, both in
winter and summer. On one occasion, in the month of August, he set out
from his quarters at his usual hour; and having crossed the Tay with his
goods, proceeded on his way through Fife. He had with him his dog Wolf,
who usually served him as a companion; his waggons were loaded with
goods, the proceeds of the carriage of which he counted as he trudged
along; and he now and then had recourse to a small flask of spirits
which his wife had, without his knowledge, and contrary to her usual
custom, placed in the breast-pocket of his great-coat. He was thus in
good spirits; and as he applied himself with great moderation--for he
was a sober man--to his inspiring companion, he jocularly blamed Betty
(such was the name of his consort) for defrauding his houses of call on
the road of the custom he used to bestow on them.
"It was kind o' ye, Betty," he said; "but it saves naething; for if I,
wha have travelled this road for sae mony years, were to pass John
Sharpe's, or Widow M'Murdo's, or Andrew Gemmel's, without takin' my
usual allowance, I would be set doun as fey or mad. I maun gae through
a' my usual routine--mak my ca's, order my drams, drink them, and pay
for them, as I hae dune for twenty years. Men are just like clocks--some
gae owre fast, and some owre slow; but the carrier, beyond a', maun keep
to his time aye, and _chap_ at the proper time and place, or idleness
and beggary would soon mak time hang weary on his hands."
He had trudged onwards in his slow pace for a space of about eight
miles, and was at the distance of about three from Cupar, when he was
accosted by a person of the name of James Cowie, an inhabitant of
Dundee, with whom he had for a long time been in habits of intimacy.
"You are weel forward the day, George," said Cowie. "Ye'll be in Cupar
before your time. There's rowth a parcels for ye at John Sharpe's door,
yonder. But, mercy on me!" he continued, starting and looking amazed,
"what's the matter wi' ye, man?"
"Naething," replied George. "I hae been takin' a few draps o' Betty's
cordial, here," pointing to the flask, "and maybe the colour may have
mounted to my face."
"The colour mounted to your face, man!" ejaculated Cowie. "Is it
whiteness--paleness--ye mean by colour? Ye're like a clout, man--a
bleached clout. There's something wrang, rely upon it, George; some o'
that intricate machinery o' our fearfu' systems out o' joint. Is it
possible ye have felt or feel nae change?"
"Nane whatever, Jamie," answered the carrier, somewhat alarmed. "You're
surely joking me; I never felt better i' my life. No, no, Jamie, there's
naething the matter; thank God, I'm in gude health."
"It's weel ye think sae," replied Cowie, with a satirical tone; "but if
I'm no cheated, ye're on the brink o' some fearfu' disease. Get up on
your cart, man; hasten to Cupar, an' speak to Doctor Lowrie. It's a braw
thing to tak diseases in time."
"If a white face is a' ye judge by," said George, attempting to make
light of the matter, "I can remove it by an application to Betty's
cordial."
"Ay, do that," said Cowie ironically, "and add fuel to the flame. If I
werena your friend, I wadna tak this liberty wi' ye. I assure ye again,
an' I hae some judgment o' thae matters, that ye're very ill. That's no
an ordinary paleness: your lips are blue, an' your eyes dull an'
heavy--sure signs o' an oncome. Haste ye to Cupar an' get advice, an' ye
may yet ca' me your best friend."
As he finished these words, Cowie turned to proceed onwards towards
Newport.
"Ye've either said owre little or owre muckle, James," replied George,
after a slight pause, and resigning his carelessness.
"I hae just said the truth, George," added Cowie; "but I maun be in
Dundee by one o'clock, an' canna wait. I'll say naething to Mrs.
Skirving to alarm her; but, for God's sake, tak my advice, an' consult
Doctor Lowrie."
He proceeded on his journey, leaving Skirving in doubt and perplexity.
At first he was considerably affected by Cowie's speech and manner,
because he knew him to be a serious man, and averse to all manner of
joking. It was possible, he admitted, that a disease might be lurking
secretly in his vitals, unknown to himself, but discernible to another;
and the circumstance of his wife having put the flask of cordial in his
coat-pocket, seemed to indicate that she had observed something wrong
before he set out, and had been afraid to communicate it to him, in case
it might alarm him. His spirits sank, as this confirmation of Cowie's
statement came to his mind; he put his right hand to his left wrist, to
feel the state of the pulse, and, as might have been expected,
discovered (for he overlooked the effects of his fear) that it was much
quicker than it used to be when he was in perfect health.
Having been taken thus by surprise, he remained in a state of
considerable depression for some time; but when he came to think of the
inadequate grounds of his alarm, he began to rally; and his mind,
rebounding, as it were, on the cessation of the depressing reverie,
threw off the fear, and he recovered so far his natural courage as to
laugh at the strange fancy that had taken possession of him.
"I was a fule," he said to himself. "What though my face be pale, and my
eyes heavy, and my pulse a little quicker than usual, am I to dee for a'
that? Cowie has probably had his _morning_; and truly his appearance,
now when I think of it, didna assort ill wi' that supposition. Johnny
Sharpe and he are auld cronies, and they couldna part without some wet
pledge o' their auld friendship. I'll wad my best horse on the point.
Ha! ha! what a fule I was!" He accompanied these words by again feeling
his pulse. The fear was greatly off, the pulsations had become more
regular; and this confirmation enabled him to laugh off the effects the
extraordinary announcements had made upon him.
He proceeded onwards to Cupar, and stopped at John Sharpe's inn. The
landlord was at the door. George looked at him narrowly, as he saluted
him in the ordinary form. He thought the innkeeper looked also very
narrowly at him, as he answered his salutation; but he was afraid to
broach the question of his sickly appearance, and hurried away to get
the goods packed that stood at the inn door. Having finished his work,
during which he thought he saw the landlord looking strangely at him, he
called for the quantity of spirits he was usually in the habit of
getting, and, as he filled out the glass, asked quickly if James Cowie
had been there that morning. The landlord answered that he had; but
added, of his own accord, that he did not remain in the house so long as
to give time for even drinking to each other. This answer produced a
greater effect upon George than he was even then aware of; and it is not
unlikely that this, and the impression that the landlord looked at him
_strangely_, produced the very paleness that Cowie had mentioned. Be
that as it may, he took up the glass of spirits and laid it down again,
without almost tasting it; and his reason for this departure from his
ordinary course, was, that he had already partaken sufficiently of his
wife's cordial; and he had some strange misgivings about drinking ardent
spirits, in case, after all, it might turn out that there was hanging
about him some disease. The moment he laid down the full glass, the
landlord said to him, looking in an inquiring and sympathetic manner
into his face--
"George, I haena seen you do that for ten years. Are you well enough?"
"What! what! eh, what!" stammered out the carrier confusedly; "do you
think I'm ill, John?"
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the inn bell rang, and the
landlord was called away, and, being otherwise occupied, did not return.
After waiting for him a considerable time, Skirving became impatient,
and, making another effort to shake off his fears, applied the whip to
his horses, and proceeded on his journey. For a time his mind was so
much confused that he could not contemplate the whole import of the
extraordinary coincidence he had just witnessed; but as he proceeded and
came to a quieter part of the road, his thoughts reverted to the
statements of James Cowie--who, he was now satisfied, had been quite
sober--to the looks and extraordinary question of John Sharpe, and to
the intention of his wife in providing him with the cordial. As he
pondered on this strange accumulation of according facts, he again felt
his pulse, which had again risen to the height it had attained during
the prior paroxysm. The affair had now assumed a new aspect. It was
impossible that this concurrence of circumstances could be fortuitous.
He was now much afraid that he was ill--very ill indeed; perhaps under
the incipient symptoms of typhus or brain fever, or small-pox, or some
other dreadful disease. As these thoughts rose in his mind, he grew
faint, and would have sat down; but he felt a reluctance to stop his
carts, and a feeling of shame struggled against his conviction, and kept
him walking.
This state of nervous excitement remained, in spite of many efforts he
made to throw off his fears. Yet he was bound to admit that he felt no
symptoms of pain or sickness. By and by the feeling of alarm began again
to decay, and by the time he got eight or ten miles farther on his road,
he had conjured up a good many sustaining ideas and arguments, whereby
he at least contrived to increase the quantum of _doubt_ of his being
really ill. He rallied a little again; but the temporary elevation was
destined to be succeeded by another depression, which, in its turn, gave
place to another accession of relief; and thus he was kept in a painful
alternation of changing fancies, until he was within a mile and a half
of the next place of call--a little house at some distance from the
Plasterers' Inn.
He had hitherto been progressing at a very slow rate, and was in the act
of raising his hand to apply the whip to his horses, when he saw before
him Archibald Willison, a sort of itinerant cloth merchant, a native of
Dundee, with whom he was on terms of intimacy. They had met often on the
road, and had gossiped together over a little refreshment at the inns
where the carrier stopped. At this particular time, George Skirving
would rather have avoided his old friend; for he was under a depression
of spirits, and felt also a disinclination or fear, he could not account
for, to submit his face and appearance to the lynx eye of the travelling
merchant. He had, however, no choice.
"Ah, George," cried Archie, "it's lang since I saw ye. How are
ye? What!"--starting as if surprised--"have ye been lyin',
man--confined--sick?--what, in God's name, has been the matter wi' ye?
Some sad complaint, surely, to produce so mighty a change!"
This address seemed to George just the very confirmation he now
required to make him perfectly satisfied of his danger. It was too much
for him to hear and suffer. Staggering back, he leant upon the side of
his cart, and drew breath with difficulty, attempting in vain to give
his friend some reply.
"It's wrang in ye, man," continued Archie, as he saw the carrier
labouring to find words to reply to him--"it's wrang in ye, George, to
be here in that state o' body. How did Betty permit it? Wha wad
guarantee your no lyin' doun an' deein' by the road-side? I'm sure I
wadna undertake the suretyship."
"I have not been a day confined, Archie," said George, as he slightly
recovered from the shock caused by the announcement. "I have not been
ill; and left home this morning in my usual health."
"Good God!" ejaculated Archie, "is that possible? Then is it sae muckle
the waur. I thought it had been a' owre wi' ye--that ye had been ill,
an' partly recovered; but now I see the disease is only comin' yet. How
deadly pale ye are, man; an' what a strange colour there is on your
lips, round the sockets o' your een, an' the edges o' your nostrils!"
"I hae been told that the day already, Archie," said George; "I fear
there's some truth in't. Yet I feel nae pain; I'm only weak an'
nervous."
"Ah, ye ken little about fevers o' the putrid kind--typhus, an' the
like," continued the other,--"when ye think they show themselves by
ordinary symptoms. I had a cousin who died o' typhus last week; an' he
looked, when he took it, just as ye look, an' spoke just as ye speak.
Tak the advice o' a friend, George. Dinna stop at Widow M'Murdo's; ye
can get nae advice there; hurry on to Edinburgh, and apply immediately,
on your arrival, to a doctor o' repute. I assure ye a' his skill will be
required."
After some conversation, all tending to the same effect, Willison parted
from him, continuing his route to Cupar. All the doubt that had existed
in the mind of the victim was now removed, and a settled conviction took
hold of him that he was on the very eve of falling into some terrible
illness. A train of gloomy fancies took possession of his mind, and he
pictured himself lying extended on a bed of sickness, with the angel of
death hanging over him, and an awakened conscience within, wringing him
with its agonizing tortures. The nature of the disease which impended
over him--the putrid typhus--was fixed, and put beyond doubt; and all
the cases he had known of individuals who had died of that disease were
brought before the eye of his imagination, to feed the appetite for
horrors, which now began to crave food. He endeavoured to analyze his
sensations, and discovered, what he never felt before, a hard,
fluttering palpitation at his heart, a difficulty of breathing,
weakness, trembling of the limbs, and other clear indications of the
oncoming attack of a fatal disease.
Moving slowly forward, under the load of these thoughts, he arrived at
Widow M'Murdo's, where he fed his horses. He was silent and gloomy; and
the fear under which he laboured produced a _real_ appearance of
illness, which soon struck the eye of the kind dame.
"What ails ye?" asked she kindly; and ran and brought out her bottle of
cordial, to administer to him that universal medicine. But her question
was enough. Moody and miserable, he paid little attention to her
kindness, and departed for Kirkcaldy. Under the same load of despondency
and apprehension, he arrived at Andrew Gemmel's, where it was his
practice to remain all night. He exhibited the appearance of a person
labouring under some grievous misfortune; and deputing the feeding of
his horses to the ostler, he seemed to be careless whether justice was
done to them or not. The landlord noticed the change that had taken
place upon him. "What ails ye, George?" was asked repeatedly; and the
death-like import of the question prevented him from giving any
satisfactory answer. Long before his usual period, he retired to his
bed, where he passed a night of fevered dreams, restlessness, and
misery.
In the morning, he was still under the operation of his apprehension,
and was unable to take any breakfast. The ostler managed for him all the
details of his business, and he departed in the same gloomy mood for
Pettycur. Sauntering along at a slow pace, he met, half-way between the
two towns, Duncan Paterson, a Dundee weaver, an old acquaintance, by
whom he was hailed in the ordinary form of salutation. But he wished to
proceed without standing to speak to his old friend; for he was so
sorely depressed, and was so much afraid of another fearful announcement
about his sickly appearance, that he could not bear an interview. This
strange conduct seemed to rouse the curiosity of his friend, who,
running up to him, held forth his hand, crying out--
"Ha! George, man!--this is no like you, to pass auld friends. What ails
ye, man?"
"I dinna feel altogether weel," answered the carrier in a mournful tone.
"I saw that, man, lang before ye cam up," replied the other; "and it was
just because ye were looking so grievously ill, that I was determined to
speak to ye. When were ye seized?"
"I was weel when I left the north, yesterday morning; but I hadna been
lang on the road, when I began to gie tokens o' illness," replied the
carrier mournfully, and with a drooping head.
"If I had met you in that waefu' state," said the other, "with that
death-like face and unnatural-like look, I wadna have allowed ye to
proceed a mile farther; but now since ye're sae far on the road, it's
just as weel that ye hurry on to Edinburgh, whaur ye'll get the best
advice. What symptoms do ye feel?"
"I'm heavy and dull," replied George; "my pulse rises and fa's, my heart
throbs, and my legs hae been shakin' under me, as if I were palsied."
"Ah, George, George! these are a' clear signs o' typhus, man," replied
Paterson. "My mother died o't. I watched, wi' filial care and affection,
a' her maist minute symptoms. They were just yours. I'm vexed for ye;
but maybe the hand o' a skilfu' doctor may avert the usual fatal issue."
"Was yer mither lang ill?" asked George in a low tone.
"Nine days," answered Paterson. "By the seventh she was spotted like a
leopard, on the eighth she went mad, and the ninth put an end to her
sufferings."
"Ay, ay," muttered George, with a deep sigh.
"But the power o' medicine's great," rejoined Paterson. "Lose nae time,
after ye arrive in Edinburgh, in applying to a doctor. Mind my words."
And Paterson, casting upon him a look suited to the parting statement,
left the carrier, and proceeded on his way. The victim, now completely
immerged in melancholy, progressed slowly onwards to Pettycur. His
downcast appearance attracted there the attention of the people who
assisted him in the discharge of his business. The question, "What ails
ye, George?" was repeated, and answered by silence and a sorrowful look.
In the boat in which he crossed the Forth, his unusual sadness was also
noticed by the captain and crew, with whom he was intimately acquainted.
As he sat in the fore-part of the vessel, silent and gloomy, they
repeated the dreadful question--"What ails ye, George?"--that had been
so often before put to him. To some he said he felt unwell, to others he
replied by a melancholy stare, and relapsed again into his melancholy.
When he arrived at Leith, he was assisted, according to custom, by
porters, in getting his goods disembarked. The men were not long in
noticing the great change that had taken place upon his spirits. "What
ails ye, George?" was the uniform question; and every time it was put it
went to his heart, for it showed more and more, as he thought, his
sick-like appearance, which seemed to escape the eyes of no one. The men
assisted him more assiduously than they had ever done before; and having
got everything ready, he proceeded up Leith Walk. The toll-man noticed
also his dejected appearance, and the same question was put by him. He
proceeded to his quarters, and, committing his carts to a man that was
in the habit of assisting him, he went into the house and threw himself
into a chair. "What ails ye, George?" exclaimed Widow Gilmour, as she
saw him exhibiting these indications of illness. He said he felt unwell,
and, rising, went away up to his bedroom, where he retired to bed.
The torture of mind to which he had been exposed for a day and a night,
and a part of another day, with the want of food, and the exercise of
his trade, had operated so powerfully on his body, that he was now in
reality in a fever. The landlady felt his pulse, and, becoming alarmed,
sent for a doctor, a young man, who immediately bled him to a much
greater extent than was necessary; but the statements of George himself,
and the fevered appearance he presented, convinced the young doctor
that nothing but copious bleeding would overcome the disease. The
application of the lancet stamped the whole affair with the character of
reality; and the sick man, still overcome by gloomy anticipations, was
soon in the very height of a dangerous fever. Two days afterwards, his
wife was sent for; but the poor man got gradually worse, and,
notwithstanding all the efforts of the doctor, was soon pronounced to be
in a state of imminent danger. One day James Cowie called at the house,
and inquired, in a flurried manner, how George Skirving was.
"He is sae ill that I hae very little hope o' him," said Mrs. Skirving.
"Good God!" replied the man, "is it possible? I have murdered him." And
he groaned in distress.
"What do ye mean, James?"
"Six o' us wagered, three against three, and twa to ane," he proceeded,
"that our side wadna put your husband to his bed. We met him in Fife at
different places o' the road, and terrified him, by describing his
looks, into an opinion that he was unwell. I'm come to make amends. What
is the L10 to me when the life o' a fellow-creature is at jeopardy?"
It was too late. We need say no more. The communication was made to the
sick man; but he was too far gone to recover, and died in a few days
afterwards. This is a true tale, and requires little more explanation.
It may have been gathered from our narrative, that Cowie, Willison, and
Paterson were the only persons who were in the plot. John Sharpe, Widow
M'Murdo, Andrew Gemmel, and the others who merely noticed his dejection,
were entirely ignorant of the cruel purpose.
* * * * *
[Footnote A: One version of the story says that Mr. M---- picked up the
tramp at Cammerton, in Fife; but I adhere to my authority.]
[Footnote B: Places for melting plate.]
[Footnote C: This strange tale is given from materials supplied by the
Surgeon with whom I was brought up.]