I could listen no longer, but raised the latch and went in. The evening was gloomy, and the apartment ill lighted; but I could see the singer, a spectral-looking figure, sitting on a bed in the corner, with the bedclothes wrapped round his shoulders, and a napkin deeply stained with blood on his head. An elderly female, who stood beside him, was striving to soothe him, and busied from time to time in adjusting the clothes, which were ever and anon falling off, as hie nodded his head in time to the music. A young girl of great beauty sat weeping at the bed-foot.

"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:--

"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 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 tomorrow, 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 over-head, 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:—

"There was the flashing of lightning," he said, "and the rolling of thunder; and the trumpet waxed louder and louder. And around the summit of the mountain were the foldings of thick clouds, and the shadow fell brown and dark over the wide expanse of the desert. And the wild beasts lay trembling in their dens. But, lo! where the sun breaks through the opening of the cloud, there is the glitter of tents—the glitter of ten thousand tents that rise over the sandy waste, thick as waves of the sea. And there is the voice of the dance, and of the revel, and the winding of horns, and the clash of cymbals. Oh, sit nearer me, dearest mother, for the room is growing dark, dark; and, oh, my poor head!

Do, dearest mother, put your cool hand on my brow, and do hold it fast ere it part. How fearfully--oh, how fearfully it aches!—and oh, how it thunders!" He sunk backward on the pillow, apparently exhausted "Gone, gone, gone," he muttered; "my mind gone for ever. But God’s will be done."

I rose to leave the room; for I could restrain my feelings no longer.

"Stay, Mr Lindsay," said the poet, in a feeble voice; "I hear the rain dashing on the pavement; you must not go till it abates. Would that you could pray beside me!--but, no--you are not like the dissolute companions who have now all left me, but you are not yet fitted for that; and, alas! I cannot pray for myself. Mother, mother, see that there be prayers at my lykewake: for—

They will come all to my lykewake, mother, won’t they?... yes, all, though they have left me now. Yes, and they will come far to see my grave. I was poor, very poor, you know and they looked down upon me; and I was no son or cousin of theirs, and so they could do nothing for me. Oh, but they might have looked less coldly! But they will all come to my grave, mother; they will come all to my grave; and they will say—’ Would he were living now to know how kind we are!’ But they will look as coldly as ever on the living poet beside them—yes, till they have broken his heart; and then they will go to his grave too. O dearest mother, do lay your cool hand on my brow."

He lay silent and exhausted, and, in a few minutes, I could hope, from the hardness of his breathing, that he had fallen asleep.

"How long," I inquired of his sister, in a low whisper, "has Mr Ferguson been so unwell, and what has injured his head?’