The Faa's Revenge or the Laird of Clennel

Brown October was drawing to a close -- the breeze had acquired a degree of sharpness too strong to be merely termed bracing -- and the fire, as the saying is, was becoming the best flower in the garden, for the hardiest and the latest plants had either shed their leaves, or their flowers had shrivelled at the breath of approaching winter -- when a stranger drew his seat towards the parlour fire of the Three-Half-Moons Inn, in Rothbury. He had sat for the space of half-an-hour when a party entered, who, like himself (as appeared from their conversation), were strangers, or rather visitors of the scenery, curiosities, and antiquities in the vicinity. One of them having ordered the waiter to bring each of them a glass of brandy and warm water, without appearing to notice the presence of the first mentioned stranger, after a few remarks on the objects of interest in the neighbourhood, the following conversation took place amongst them: --

"Why," said one, "but even Rothbury here, secluded as it is from the world, and shut out from the daily intercourse of men, is a noted place. It was here that the ancient and famous northern bard, and unrivalled ballad writer, Bernard Rumney, was born, bred, and died. Here, too, was born Dr Brown, who, like Young and Home, united the characters of divine and dramatist, and was the author of '_Barbarossa_,' '_The Cure of Saul_,' and other works of which posterity and his country are proud. The immediate neighbourhood, also, was the birthplace of the inspired boy, the heaven-taught mathematician, George Coughran, who knew no rival, and who bade fair to eclipse the glory of Newton, but whom death struck down ere he had reached the years of manhood."