er, and was raving for ten days;
and during that time the neighbours advertised the thing in all the
papers in Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. We had ridden
altogether thousands of miles, but it was no use. "No!" continued he,
with a deep groan; "if my child had died of the fever, if he had fallen
in with a bear or panther, and been killed, it would be bitter, bitter
sorrow--he was my last child. But, merciful God--stolen! My son, my
poor child, stolen!"

And the man cried aloud, sprang from his seat, and wrung his hands and
wept like an infant. Even his wife had not shown such utter agony of
grief.

"When I go to work," continued he after a pause, "my little Dougal seems
to stand before me, and my hands fall by my sides, as stiff and heavy as
though they were lead. I look round, but no Dougal is there. When I go
to bed, I put his bed beside mine, and call him, but no one answers.
Sleeping or waking, my poor boy is always before me. Would to God I were
dead! I have cursed and sworn, prayed and supplicated, wept and groaned,
but all--all in vain!"

I have seen many persons suffering from distress of mind, but never did
I meet with one whose sorrow was so violent and overpowering as that of
this backwoodsman. We did our utmost to console him, and to inspire him
with new hope, but he was inconsolable; his eyes were fixed, he had
fallen into a sort of apathy, and I doubt if he even heard what was said
to him. We ourselves were so affected that our words seemed almost to
choke us. Time pressed, however; it was impossible for us to remain any
longer, nor could we have done any good by so doing. We shook the
unfortunate couple by the hand, promised to do all in our power to learn
something of their child's fate, and took our departure.

It was six weeks after the time above referred to, that I found myself
compelled by business to make a journey to Natchez. I had often thought
of poor Clarke's misfortune, and, in conjunction with my friends, had
done all in my power to discover the villain who had robbed him of his
child. Hitherto all our endeavours had been fruitless. The facts were
circulated in every newspaper, were matter of conversation at every
teatable in the country; rewards were offered, researches made, but not
the smallest trace of the boy or his stealer was to be found.

It was a bright January afternoon when I landed at Natchez. In company
with some acquaintances, I was ascending the little h