LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 17 



pared off a chip, which she carefully folded up in a bit of paper. 

 She said it was good for curing the toothache. The history of this 

 time-beaten stob is sad and terrible. A neighbouring farmer and 

 his wife had gone a tea-drinking one summer afternoon, leaving six 

 children behind. Andrew Mills, the servant-man, fancied he would 

 become heir of the farmer's property if the children were only got 

 out of the way. So he cut all their throats, and his body was hung 

 in chains on this noted stob. The poor children were all buried in 

 one grave in a neighbouring churchyard. The tombstone tells their 

 melancholy fate, and the epitaph ends thus : 



' Here we sleep : we all were slain ; 

 And here we rest, till we rise again.' 



I suspect that the remains of this oaken post have long since 

 mouldered away. I have not been there for these last seventy years, 

 and probably if I went thither, I should not be able to find the site 

 of this formerly notorious gibbet. 



" Here I close my desultory reminiscences of Tudhoe and its neigh- 

 bourhood, penned down hastily at the request of my dear cousin, 

 George Waterton, now a student in divinity at Ushaw College. 



" On my return home from this school, I was once within an ace 

 of closing all accounts here below for ever. About one o'clock in 

 the morning, Monsieur Raquedel, the family chaplain, thought that 

 he heard an unusual noise in the apartment next to his bedroom. 

 He arose, and on opening the door of the chamber whence the 

 noise had proceeded, he saw me in the act of lifting up the sash ; 

 and he was just in time to save me from going out at a window three 

 stories high. I was fast asleep, and as soon as he caught hold of 

 me, I gave a loud shriek. I thought I was on my way to a neigh- 

 bouring wood, in which I knew cf a crow's nest." 



There is one more anecdote of his Tudhoe days which deserves 

 preservation. As Waterton was walking up a lane, he met an old 

 woman, who asked him for charity. He had lately spent his last 

 pocket-money, and had not a single halfpenny left. The only thing 

 that he could give was a fine darning-needle, which he kept in the 

 hem of his jacket, and which was of the greatest value to him ia 



B 



