380 The Fiend of the Ferry. [APRIL, 



turned the corner of the lane, and we followed ; but we had no sooner 

 done so, then we beheld, coming towards us, the identical traveller who, 

 but a few minutes before, had passed us on the road, as he directed us 

 to the ferry. His return excited no surprise; but the tone of his voice 

 when he addressed us, by saying " You are going wrong I told you 

 to keep the road round the ruined wall " awakened a new and rather 

 startling sensation. The note was hollow and heavy. It was that of a 

 bull-frog with a cold a muffled drum, determined to be melancholy 

 a speaking trumpet, troubled with an asthma a funeral bell in a fit a 

 bass-viol imitating Sir Anthony Absolute. Its modulations reminded 

 one of the creaking of a dungeon-door. He spoke as if he had a thun- 

 derbolt sticking in his throat, that occasioned a sort of supernatural 

 hoarseness. We have heard comic songs and cabbages cried in the 

 most eccentric of tones we have communed with hackney-coachmen, 

 and heard the notes of watchmen at all hours of the night : but these 

 they were merely the roarings of a nightingale, or the hoarseness of 

 a cricket, compared to the full, deep, internal and sepulchral sound 

 that issued from the mouth of our travelling finger-post, as, with 

 an eye darting reproach, and a lip mingling something like scorn with 

 its civility, he said " You are going wrong I told you to keep the 

 road round the ruined wall !" 



As he paused a minute to explain the way to one of our party, I had 

 an opportunity of observing him. He looked like a romance in one 

 volume. He was above the middle size, rather thin, and with nothing 

 remarkable in his dress but a wide slouched hat, and a pair of boots 

 that seemed to have been made for a satyr. His face, however, as well 

 as I could judge of its character through the dark shadow flung across 

 it by the overhanging-brim of the hat, betrayed one of those expressions 

 which, to use a phrase no less convenient than original, are " more 

 easily conceived than described." It was compounded from a whole 

 library of horrors. He had taken his nose from the " Monk," and his 

 eyes from " Melmoth." The Minerva press was in his mouth, and 

 Mrs. Radcliffe frowned fiercely from his vaulted brows. " The Italians" 

 slept in the hollow of one cheek, and " The Robbers" in that of the 

 other. He was a composition of Middleton and Michael Angelo the 

 spear of Satan, and the broomstick of Hecate. 



Having re-directed us, he hurried off in a contrary direction to that 

 prescribed for us, and was quickly relieved, by a turn of the road, from 

 our gaze. Our boisterous mirth had received a check ; we stood looking 

 at each other and began to collect opinions. Every one agreed that 

 the stranger had slipped from a bracket at Abbotsford, and that he was 

 certainly the property of Sir Walter Scott. However, we tried to 

 forget him, and again set forth in search of the mysterious ferry. This 

 was even now not very easy to find ; for we were so startled by the 

 face and manner of the stranger that we had once more forgotten his 

 directions. 



To put an end to our doubts and difficulties, we applied to a pretty 

 little country-faced girl, whom we saw at a shop- window, tore-direct our 

 erring steps. This she did with so much grace and good-nature, that, in- 

 stead of proceeding, we staid to make a whole catalogue of inquiries. A 

 pretty maid in a village is equal to a beauty in town ; the charms that 

 would escape observation in a crowd, coming singly upon us, amidst 

 the sweetness and simplicity of nature, seem to partake of the character 



