The Story of Clara Douglas by Walter Logan

"The maid that loves, / Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, / And puts her trust in miracles for safety. " -- _Old Play._

I am a peripatetic genius -- a wanderer by profession -- a sort of Salathiel Secundus, "doomed for a term," like the ghost of Hamlet's papa, "to walk the earth," whether I will or not. Here, however, the simile stops; for his aforesaid ghostship could traverse, if he chose, amid climes far away, while the circuit of my peregrinations is, has for sometime been, and must, for some short time more, necessarily be confined to the northern extremity of "our tight little island" -- _vulgo vocato_ -- Scotland. In my day I have seen many strange sights, and met with many strange faces -- made several hairbreadth 'scapes, and undergone innumerable perils by flood and field. On the wings of the wind -- that is, on the top of a stage-coach -- I have passed through many known and unknown towns and villages; have visited, on foot and on horseback, for my own special edification and amusement, various ancient ruins, foaming cataracts, interesting rocks, and dismal-looking caves, celebrated in Scottish story. But better far than that, and dearer to my soul, my foot has trod the floors of, I may say, all the haberdashers' shops north of the Tweed: in short, most patient reader, I am a travelling bagman.