opinion in favour of one, you still offend both; for it is a physological quality in quarrels conjugal, that though each considers the other to blame, they will not allow you to think so too; moreover, the chances are, that, in your own private opinion, they are both wrong—a most unpopular verdict to pronounce. I, therefore, complained of fatigue, caught up a book, and went to my own room. That book was the "Bride of Lammermuir."
I had only, a few evenings before, read the "Mysteries of Udolpho," but cannot say that their much-talked-of terrors had the least effect upon my nerves. I was tired, but if their pages gave me sleep, they did not add dreams. But I read the volume of tonight, till the most absolute terror took possession of me. I felt myself cold and pale. I involuntarily drew nearer to the candles with a sense of security. I avoided looking towards the darker parts of the room; and I remember putting out one light, lest they should not last till morning. If I had sat up all night, I could not have gone to bed in the dark. Yet, in spite of the protection of the candle, I started from my sleep twenty times, so vividly were the scenes impressed upon my mind. It haunted me for days and days. It is even now on my memory like a terrific dream.
The "Bride of Lammermuir" is one of the
