Robert Louis Stevenson, "The Body-Snatcher"

Every night in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour of the George at Debenham - the
undertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and myself. Sometimes there would be more; but
blow high, blow low, come rain or snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his own
particular armchair. Fettes was an old drunken Scotsman, a man of education obviously,
and a man of some property, since he lived in idleness. He had come to Debenham years
ago, while still young, and by a mere continuance of living had grown to be an adopted
townsman. His blue camlet cloak was a local antiquity, like the church-spire. His place in the
parlour at the George, his absence from church, his old, crapulous, disreputable vices,
were all things of course in Debenham. He had some vague Radical opinions and some
fleeting infidelities, which he would now and again set forth and emphasize with tottering
slaps upon the table. He drank rum - five glasses regularly every evening; and for the
greater portion of his nightly visit to the George sat, with his glass in his right hand, in a
state of melancholy alcoholic saturation. We called him the Doctor, for he was supposed to
have some special knowledge of medicine, and had been known upon a pinch, to set a
fracture or reduce a dislocation; but, beyond these slight particulars, we had no knowledge
of his character and antecedents.
One dark winter night - it had struck nine some time before the landlord joined us - there
was a sick man in the George, a great neighbouring proprietor suddenly struck down with
apoplexy on his way to Parliament; and the great man's still greater London doctor had
been telegraphed to his bedside. It was the first time that such a thing had happened in
Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and we were all proportionately moved by
the occurrence.

'He's come,' said the landlord, after he had filled and lighted his pipe.
'He?' said I. 'Who? - not the doctor?'
'Himself,' replied our host.
'What is his name?'
'Dr Macfarlane,' said the landlord.

Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly fuddled, now nodding over, now staring
mazily around him; but at the last word he seemed to awaken, and repeated the name
'Macfarlane' twice, quietly enough the first time, but with sudden emotion at the second.
'Yes,' said the landlord, 'that's his name, Doctor Wolfe Macfarlane.'

Fettes became instantly sober: his eyes awoke, his voice became clear, loud, and steady,
his language forcible and earnest. We were all startled by the transformation, as if a man
had risen from the dead.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'I am afraid I have not been paying much attention to your talk.
Who is this Wolfe Macfarlane?' And then, when he had heard the landlord out, 'It cannot
be, it cannot be,' he added; 'and yet I would like well to see him face to face.'
'Do you know him, Doctor?' asked the undertaker, with a gasp.

'God forbid!' was the reply. 'And yet the name is a strange one; it were too much to fancy
two. Tell me, landlord, is he old?'

'Well,' said the host, 'he's not a young man, to be sure, and his hair is white; but he looks
younger than you.'

'He is older, though; years older. But,' with a slap upon the table, 'it's the rum you see in my
face - rum and sin. This man, perhaps, may have an easy conscience and a good
digestion. Conscience! Hear me speak. You would think I was some good, old, decent
Christian, would you not? But no, not I; I never canted. Voltaire might have canted if he'd
stood in my shoes; but the brains' - with a rattling fillip on his bald head - 'the brains were
clear and active, and I saw and made no deductions'.

'If you know this doctor,' I ventured to remark, after a somewhat awful pause, 'I should
gather that you do not share the landlord's good opinion.'

Fettes paid no regard to me.

'Yes,' he said, with sudden decision, 'I must see him face to face.'
There was another pause, and then a door was closed rather sharply on the first floor, and
a step was heard upon the stair.

'That's the doctor,' cried the landlord. 'Look sharp, and you can catch him.'

It was but two steps from the small parlour to the door of the old George inn; the wide oak
staircase landed almost in the street; there was room for a Turkey rug and nothing more
between the threshold and the last round of the descent; but this little space was every
evening brilliantly lit up, not only by the light upon the stair and the great signal-lamp below
the sign, but by the warm radiance of the bar-room window. The George thus brightly
advertised itself to passers-by in the cold street. Fettes walked steadily to the spot, and we,
who were hanging behind, beheld the two men meet, as one of them had phrased it, face to
face. Dr Macfarlane was alert and vigorous. His white hair set off his pale and placid,
although energetic, countenance. He was richly dressed in the finest of broadcloth and the
whitest of linen, with a great gold watchchain, and studs and spectacles of the same
precious material. He wore a broad-folded tie, white and speckled with lilac, and he carried
on his arm a comfortable driving-coat of fur. There was no doubt but he became his years,
breathing as he did, of wealth and consideration; and it was a surprising contrast to see our
parlour sot - bald, dirty, pimpled, and robed in his old camlet cloak - confront him at the
bottom of the stairs.

'Macfarlane!' he said somewhat loudly, more like a herald than a friend.
The great doctor pulled up short on the fourth step, as though the familiarity of the address
surprised and somewhat shocked his dignity.

'Toddy Macfarlane!' repeated Fettes.

The London man almost staggered. He stared for the swiftest of seconds at the man before
him, glanced behind him with a sort of scare, and then in a startled whisper, 'Fettes!' he
said, 'you!'

'Ay,' said the other, 'me! Did you think I was dead too? We are not so easy shut of our

'Hush, hush!' exclaimed the doctor. 'Hush, hush! this meeting is so unexpected - I can see
you are unmanned. I hardly knew you, I confess, at first; but I am overjoyed - overjoyed to
have this opportunity. For the present it must be how-d'ye-do and goodbye in one, for my
fly is waiting, and I must not fail the train; but you shall - let me see - yes - you shall give me
your address, and you can count on early news of me. We must do something for you,
Fettes. I fear you are out at elbows; but we must see to that for auld lang syne, as once we
sang at suppers.'

'Money!' cried Fettes; 'money from you! The money that I had from you is lying where I cast
it in the rain.'

Dr Macfarlane had talked himself into some measure of superiority and confidence, but the
uncommon energy of this refusal cast him back into his first confusion.

A horrible, ugly look came and went across his almost venerable countenance. 'My dear
fellow,' he said, 'be it as you please; my last thought is to offend you. I would intrude on
none. I will leave you my address, however----'

'I do not wish it - I do not wish to know the roof that shelters you,' interrupted the other. 'I
heard your name; I feared it might be you; I wished to know if after all, there were a God; I
know now that there is none. Begone!'

He still stood in the middle of the rug, between the stair and the doorway; and the great
London physician, in order to escape, would be forced to step to one side. It was plain that
he hesitated before the thought of this humiliation. White as he was, there was a dangerous
glitter in his spectacles; but while he still paused uncertain, he became aware that the driver
of his fly was peering in from the street at this unusual scene and caught a glimpse at the
same time of our little body from the parlour, huddled by the corner of the bar. The
presence of so many witnesses decided him at once to flee. He crouched together,
brushing on the wainscot, and made a dart like a serpent, striking for the door. But his
tribulation was not yet entirely at an end, for even as he was passing Fettes clutched him
by the arm and these words came in a whisper, and yet painfully distinct, 'Have you seen it

The great rich London doctor cried out aloud with a sharp, throttling cry; he dashed his
questioner across the open space, and, with his hands over his head, fled out of the door
like a detected thief. Before it had occurred to one of us to make a movement, the fly was
already rattling toward the station. The scene was over like a dream, but the dream had left
proofs and traces of its passage. Next day the servant found the find gold spectacles
broken on the threshold, and that very night we were all standing breathless by the
bar-room window, and Fettes at our side, sober, pale, and resolute in look.

'God protect us, Mr Fettes!' said the landlord, coming first into possession of his customary
senses. 'What in the universe is all this? These are strange things you have been saying.'
Fettes turned toward us; he looked us each in succession in the face. 'See if you can hold
your tongues,' said he. 'That man Macfarlane is not safe to cross; those that have done so
already have repented it too late.'

And then, without so much as finishing his third glass, far less waiting for the other two, he
bade us goodbye and went forth, under the lamp of the hotel, into the black night.

We three turned to our places in the parlour, with the big red fire and four clear candles;
and as we recapitulated what had passed the first chill of our surprise soon changed into a
glow of curiosity. We sat late; it was the latest session I have known in the old George. Each
man, before we parted, had his theory that he was bound to prove; and none of us had any
nearer business in this world than to track out the past of our condemned companion, and
surprise the secret that he shared with the great London doctor. It is no great boast, but I
believe I was a better hand at worming out a story than either of my fellows at the George;
and perhaps there is now no other man alive who could narrate to you the following foul
and unnatural events.

In his young days Fettes studied medicine in the schools of Edinburgh. He had talent of a
kind, the talent that picks up swiftly what it hears and readily retails it for its own. He worked
little at home; but he was civil, attentive, and intelligent in the presence of his masters. They
soon picked him out as a lad who listened closely and remembered well; nay, strange as it
seemed to me when I first heard it, he was in those days well favoured, and pleased by his
exterior. There was, at that period, a certain extramural teacher of anatomy, whom I shall
here designate by the letter K. His name was subsequently too well known.

The man who bore it skulked through the streets of Edinburgh in disguise, while the mob
that applauded at the execution of Burke called loudly for the blood of his employer. But Mr
K---- was then at the top of his vogue; he enjoyed a popularity due partly to his own talent
and address, partly to the incapacity of his rival, the university professor. The students, at
least, swore by his name, and Fettes believed himself, and was believed by others, to have
laid the foundations of success when he had acquired the favour of this meteorically
famous man. Mr K---- was a bon vivant as well as an accomplished teacher; he liked a sly
allusion no less than a careful preparation. In both capacities Fettes enjoyed and deserved
his notice, and by the second year of his attendance he held the half-regular position of
second demonstrator or sub-assistant in his class.

In this capacity, the charge of the theatre and lecture-room devolved in particular upon his
shoulders. He had to answer for the cleanliness of the premises and the conduct of the
other students, and it was a part of his duty to supply, receive, and divide the various
subjects. It was with a view to this last - at that time very delicate - affair that he was lodged
by Mr K---- in the same wynd, and at last in the same building, with the dissecting-rooms.
Here, after a night of turbulent pleasures, his hand still tottering, his sight still misty and
confused, he would be called out of bed in the black hours before the winter dawn by the
unclean and desperate interlopers who supplied the table. He would open the door to these
men, since infamous throughout the land. He would help them with their tragic burthen, pay
them their sordid price, and remain alone, when they were gone, with the unfriendly relics of
humanity. From such a scene he would return to snatch another hour or two of slumber, to
repair the abuses of the night, and refresh himself for the labours of the day.

Few lads could have been more insensible to the impressions of a life thus passed among
the ensigns of mortality. His mind was closed against all general considerations. He was
incapable of interest in the fate and fortunes of another, the slave of his own desires and
low ambitions. Cold, light, and selfish in the last resort, he had that modicum of prudence,
miscalled morality, which keeps a man from inconvenient drunkenness or punishable theft.
He coveted, besides, a measure of consideration from his masters and his fellow-pupils,
and he had no desire to fail conspicuously in the external parts of life. Thus he made it his
pleasure to gain some distinction in his studies, and day after day rendered unimpeachable
eye-service to his employer, Mr K----. For his day of work he indemnified himself by nights
of roaring, blackguardly enjoyment; and when that balance had been struck, the organ that
he called his conscience declared itself content.

The supply of subjects was a continual trouble to him as well as to his master. In that large
and busy class, the raw material of the anatomists kept perpetually running out; and the
business thus rendered necessary was not only unpleasant in itself, but threatened
dangerous consequences to all who were concerned. It was the policy of Mr K---- to ask no
questions in his dealings with the trade. 'They bring the boy, and we pay the price,' he used
to say, dwelling on the alliteration - quid pro quo. And, again, and somewhat profanely, 'Ask
no questions,' he would tell his assistants, 'for conscience sake.'

There was no understanding that the subjects were provided by the crime of murder. Had
that idea been broached to him in words, he would have recoiled in horror; but the lightness
of his speech upon so grave a matter was, in itself, an offence against good manners, and
a temptation to the men with whom he dealt. Fettes, for instance, had often remarked to
himself upon the singular freshness of the bodies. He had been struck again and again by
the hang-dog, abominable looks of the ruffians who came to him before the dawn; and,
putting things together clearly in his private thoughts, he perhaps attributed a meaning too
immoral and too categorical to the unguarded counsels of his master. He understood his
duty, in short, to have three branches: to take what was brought to pay the price, and to
avert the eye from any evidence of crime.

One November morning this policy of silence was put sharply to the test. He had been
awake all night with a racking toothache - pacing his room like a caged beast or throwing
himself in fury on his bed - and had fallen at last into that profound, uneasy slumber that so
often follows on a night of pain, when he was awakened by the third or fourth angry
repetition of the concerted signal. There was a thin, bright moonshine: it was bitter cold,
windy, and frosty; the town had not yet awakened, but an indefinable stir already preluded
the noise and business of the day. The ghouls had come later than usual, and they
seemed more than usually eager to be gone. Fettes, sick with sleep, lighted them upstairs.
He heard their grumbling Irish voices through a dream; and as they stripped the sack from
their sad merchandise he leaned dozing, with his shoulder propped against the wall; he had
to shake himself to find the men their money. As he did so his eyes lighted on the dead
face. He started; he took two steps nearer, with the candle raised.

'God Almighty!' he cried. 'That is Jane Galbraith!'
The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer the door.
'I know her, I tell you,' he continued. 'She was alive and hearty yesterday. It's impossible
she can be dead; it's impossible you should have got this body fairly.'
'Sure, sir, you're mistaken entirely,' said one of the men.

But the other looked Fettes darkly in the eyes, and demanded the money on the spot.
It was impossible to misconceive the threat or to exaggerate the danger. The lad's heart
failed him. He stammered some excuses, counted out the sum, and saw his hateful visitors
depart. No sooner were they gone than he hastened to confirm his doubts. By a dozen
unquestionable marks he identified the girl he had jested with the day before. He saw, with
horror, marks upon her body that might well betoken violence. A panic seized him, and he
took refuge in his room. There he reflected at length over the discovery that he had made;
considered soberly the bearing of Mr K----'s instructions and the danger to himself of
interference in so serious a business, and at last, in sore perplexity, determined to wait for
the advice of his immediate superior, the class assistant.

This was a young doctor, Wolfe Macfarlane, a high favourite among all the reckless
students, clever, dissipated, and unscrupulous to the last degree. He had travelled and
studied abroad. His manners were agreeable and a little forward. He was an authority on
the stage, skilful on the ice or the links with skate or golf-club; he dressed with nice
audacity, and, to put the finishing touch upon his glory, he kept a gig and a strong
trotting-horse. With Fettes he was on terms of intimacy; indeed their relative positions
called for some community of life; and when subjects were scarce the pair would drive far
into the country in Macfarlane's gig, visit and desecrate some lonely graveyard, and return
before dawn with their booty to the door of the dissecting-room.

On that particular morning Macfarlane arrived somewhat earlier than his wont. Fettes heard
him, and met him on the stairs, told him his story, and showed him the cause of his alarm.
Macfarlane examined the marks on her body.
'Yes', he said with a nod, 'it looks fishy.'
'Well, what should I do?' asked Fettes.
'Do?' repeated the other. 'Do you want to do anything? Least said soonest mended, I
should say.''
'Someone else might recognize her,' objected Fettes. 'She was as well known as the Castle
'We'll hope not,' said Macfarlane, 'and if anybody does - well, you didn't, don't you see, and
there's an end. The fact is, this has been going on too long. Stir up the mud, and you'll get
K---- into the most unholy trouble; you'll be in a shocking box yourself. So will I, if you come
to that. I should like to know how any one of us would look, or what the devil we should have
to say for ourselves, in any Christian witness-box. For me, you know there's one thing
certain - that, practically speaking, all our subjects have been murdered.'

'Macfarlane!' cried Fettes.
'Come now!' sneered the other. 'As if you hadn't suspected it yourself!'
'Suspecting is one thing----'
'And proof another. Yes, I know; and I'm as sorry as you are this should have come here,'
tapping the body with his cane. 'The next best thing for me is not to recognize it; and,' he
added coolly, 'I don't. You may, if you please. I don't dictate, but I think a man of the world
would do as I do; and I may add, I fancy that is what K---- would look for at our hands. The
question is, Why did he choose us two for his assistants? And I answer, because he didn't
want old wives.'

This was the tone of all others to affect the mind of a lad like Fettes. He agreed to imitate
Macfarlane. The body of the unfortunate girl was duly dissected, and no one remarked or
appeared to recognize her.

One afternoon, when his day's work was over, Fettes dropped into a popular tavern and
found Macfarlane sitting with a stranger. This was a small man, very pale and dark, with
coal-black eyes. The cut of his features gave a promise of intellect and refinement which
was but feebly realized in his manners, for he proved, upon a nearer acquaintance, coarse,
vulgar, and stupid. He exercised, however, a very remarkable control over Macfarlane;
issued orders like the Great Bashaw; became inflamed at the least discussion or delay, and
commented rudely on the servility with which he was obeyed. This most offensive person
took a fancy to Fettes on the spot, plied him with drinks, and honoured him with unusual
confidences on his past career. If a tenth part of what he confessed were true, he was a
very loathsome rogue; and the lad's vanity was tickled by the attention of so experienced a

'I'm a pretty bad fellow myself,' the stranger remarked, 'but Macfarlane is the boy - Toddy
Macfarlane I call him. Toddy, order your friend another glass.' Or it might be, 'Toddy, you
jump up and shut the door.' 'Toddy hates me,' he said again. 'Oh, yes, Toddy, you do!'
'Don't you call me that confounded name,' growled Macfarlane.

'Hear him! Did you ever see the lads play knife? He would like to do that all over my body,'
remarked the stranger.

'We medicals have a better way than that,' said Fettes. 'When we dislike a dead friend of
ours, we dissect him.'

Macfarlane looked up sharply, as though this jest was scarcely to his mind.
The afternoon passed. Gray, for that was the stranger's name, invited Fettes to join them at
dinner, ordered a feast so sumptuous that the tavern was thrown in commotion, and when
all was done commanded Macfarlane to settle the bill. It was late before they separated; the
man Gray was incapably drunk. Macfarlane, sobered by his fury, chewed the cud of the
money he had been forced to squander and the slights he had been obliged to swallow.
Fettes, with various liquors singing in his head, returned home with devious footsteps and a
mind entirely in abeyance. Next day Macfarlane was absent from the class, and Fettes
smiled to himself as he imagined him still squiring the intolerable Gray from tavern to
tavern. As soon as the hour of liberty had struck he posted from place to place in quest of
his last night's companions. He could find them, however, nowhere; so returned early to his
rooms, went early to bed, and slept the sleep of the just.

At four in the morning he was awakened by the well-known signal. Descending to the door,
he was filled with astonishment to find Macfarlane with his gig, and in the gig one of those
long and ghastly packages with which he was so well acquainted.

'What?' he cried. 'Have you been out alone? How did you manage?'
But Macfarlane silenced him roughly, bidding him turn to business. When they had got the
body upstairs and laid it on the table, Macfarlane made at first as if he were going away.
Then he paused and seemed to hesitate; and then, 'You had better look at the face,' said
he, in tones of some constraint. 'You had better,' he repeated, as Fettes only stared at him
in wonder.

'But where, and how, and when did you come by it?' cried the other.
'Look at the face,' was the only answer.

Fettes was staggered; strange doubts assailed him. He looked from the young doctor to the
body, and then back again. At last, with a start, he did as he was bidden. He had almost
expected the sight that met his eyes, and yet the shock was cruel. To see, fixed in the
rigidity of death and naked on that coarse layer of sack-cloth, the man whom he had left
well-clad and full of meat and sin upon the threshold of a tavern, awoke, even in the
thoughtless Fettes, some of the terrors of the conscience. It was a cras tibi which re-echoed
in his soul, that two whom he had known should have come to lie upon these icy tables. Yet
these were only secondary thoughts. His first concern regarded Wolfe. Unprepared for a
challenge so momentous, he knew not how to look his comrade in the face. He durst not
meet his eye, and he had neither words nor voice at his command.

It was Macfarlane himself who made the first advance. He came up quietly behind and laid
his hand gently but firmly on the other's shoulder.

'Richardson,' said he, 'may have the head.'

Now Richardson was a student who had long been anxious for that portion of the human
subject to dissect. There was no answer, and the murderer resumed: 'Talking of business,
you must pay me; your accounts, you see, must tally.'

Fettes found a voice, the ghost of his own: 'Pay you!' he cried, 'Pay you for that?'
'Why, yes, of course you must. By all means and on every possible account, you must,'
returned the other. 'I dare not give it for nothing, you dare not take it for nothing; it would
compromise us both. This is another case like Jane Galbraith's. The more things are wrong
the more we must act as if all were right. Where does old K---- keep his money?'
'There,' answered Fettes hoarsely, pointing to a cupboard in the corner.

'Give me the key, then,' said the other, calmly, holding out his hand.

There was an instant's hesitation, and the die was cast. Macfarlane could not suppress a
nervous twitch, the infinitesimal mark of an immense relief, as he felt the key between his
fingers. He opened the cupboard, brought out pen and ink and a paper-book that stood in
one compartment, and separated from the funds in a drawer a sum suitable to the occasion.
'Now, look here,' he said, 'there is the payment made - first proof of your good faith: first
step to your security. You have now to clinch it by a second. Enter the payment in your
book, and then you for your part may defy the devil.'

The next few seconds were for Fettes an agony of thought; but in balancing his terrors it
was the most immediate that triumphed. Any future difficulty seemed almost welcome if he
could avoid a present quarrel with Macfarlane. He set down the candle which he had been
carrying all the time, and with a steady hand entered the date, the nature, and the amount
of the transaction.

'And now,' said Macfarlane, 'it's only fair that you should pocket the lucre. I've had my share
already. By-the-by, when a man of the world falls into a bit of luck, has a few shillings extra
in his pocket - I'm ashamed to speak of it, but there's a rule of conduct in the case. No
treating, no purchase of expensive class-books, no squaring of old debts; borrow, don't
'Macfarlane,' began Fettes, still somewhat hoarsely, 'I have put my neck in a halter to oblige

'To oblige me?' cried Wolfe. 'Oh, come! You did, as near as I can see the matter, what you
downright had to do in self-defence. Suppose I got into trouble, where would you be? This
second little matter flows clearly from the first. Mr Gray is the continuation of Miss Galbraith.
You can't begin and then stop. If you begin, you must keep on beginning; that's the truth.
No rest for the wicked.'

A horrible sense of blackness and the treachery of fate seized hold upon the soul of the
unhappy student.

'My God!' he cried, 'but what have I done? and when did I begin? To be made a class
assistant - in the name of reason, where's the harm in that? Service wanted the position;
Service might have got it. Would he have been where I am now?'

'My dear fellow,' said Macfarlane, 'what a boy you are! What harm has come to you? What
harm can come to you if you hold your tongue? Why, man, do you know what this life is?
There are two squads of us - the lions and the lambs. If you're a lamb, you'll come to lie
upon these tables like Gray or Jane Galbraith; if you're a lion, you'll live and drive a horse
like me, like K----, like all the world with any wit or courage. You're staggered at the first. But
look at K----! My dear fellow, you're clever, you have pluck. I like you, and K---- likes you.
You were born to lead the hunt; and I tell you, on my honour and my experience of life,
three days from now you'll laugh at all these scarecrows like a high-school boy at a farce.'

And with that Macfarlane took his departure and drove off up the wynd in his gig to get
under cover before daylight. Fettes was thus left alone with his regrets. He saw the
miserable peril in which he stood involved. He saw, with inexpressible dismay, that there
was no limit to his weakness, and that, from concession to concession, he had fallen from
the arbiter of Macfarlane's destiny to his paid and helpless accomplice. He would have
given the world to have been a little braver at the time, but it did not occur to him that he
might still be brave. The secret of Jane Galbraith and the cursed entry in the day-book
closed his mouth.
Hours passed; the class began to arrive; the members of the unhappy Gray were dealt out
to one and to another, and received without remark. Richardson was made happy with the
head; and before the hour of freedom rang Fettes trembled with exultation to perceive how
far they had already gone toward safety.

For two days he continued to watch, with increasing joy, the dreadful process of disguise.
On the third day Macfarlane made his appearance. He had been ill, he said; but he made
up for lost time by the energy with which he directed the students. To Richardson in
particular he extended the most valuable assistance and advice, and that student,
encouraged by the praise of the demonstrator, burned high with ambitious hopes, and saw
the medal already in his grasp.

Before the week was out Macfarlane's prophecy had been fulfilled. Fettes had outlived his
terrors and had forgotten his baseness. He began to plume himself upon his courage, and
had so arranged the story in his mind that he could look back on these events with an
unhealthy pride. Of his accomplice he saw but little. They met, of course, in the business of
the class; they received their orders together from Mr K----. At times they had a word or two
in private, and Macfarlane was from first to last particularly kind and jovial. But it was plain
that he avoided any reference to their common secret; and even when Fettes whispered to
him that he had cast in his lot with the lions and forsworn the lambs, he only signed to him
smilingly to hold his peace.

At length an occasion arose which threw the pair once more into a closer union. Mr K----
was again short of subjects; pupils were eager, and it was a part of this teacher's
pretensions to be always well supplied. At the same time there came the news of a burial in
the rustic graveyard of Glencorse. Time has little changed the place in question. It stood
then, as now, upon a crossroad, out of call of human habitations, and buried fathom deep
in the foliage of six cedar trees. The cries of the sheep upon the neighbouring hills, the
streamlets upon either hand, one loudly singing among pebbles, the other dripping furtively
from pond to pond, the stir of the wind in mountainous old flowering chestnuts, and once in
seven days the voice of the bell and the old tunes of the precentor, were the only sounds
that disturbed the silence around the rural church.

The Resurrection Man - to use a by-name of the period - was not to be deterred by any of
the sanctities of customary piety. It was part of his trade to despise and desecrate the
scrolls and trumpets of old tombs, the paths worn by the feet of worshippers and mourners,
and the offerings and the inscriptions of bereaved affection. To rustic neighbourhoods,
where love is more than commonly tenacious, and where some bonds of blood or fellowship
unite the entire society of a parish, the body-snatcher, far from being repelled by natural
respect, was attracted by the ease and safety of the task. To bodies that had been laid in
earth, in joyful expectation of a far different awakening, there came that hasty, lamp-lit,
terror-haunted resurrection of the spade and mattock. The coffin was forced, the
cerements torn, and the melancholy relics, clad in sackcloth, after being rattled for hours on
moonless by-ways, were at length exposed to uttermost indignities before a class of gaping

Somewhat as two vultures may swoop upon a dying lamb, Fettes and Macfarlane were to
be let loose upon a grave in that green and quiet resting-place. The wife of a farmer, a
woman who had lived for sixty years, and been known for nothing but good butter and a
godly conversation, was to be rooted from her grave at midnight and carried, dead and
naked, to that far-away city that she had always honoured with her Sunday best; the place
beside her family was to be empty till the crack of doom; her innocent and almost venerable
members to be exposed to that last curiosity of the anatomist.

Late one afternoon the pair set forth, well wrapped in cloaks and furnished with a
formidable bottle. It rained without remission - a cold, dense, lashing rain. Now and again
there blew a puff of wind, but these sheets of falling water kept it down. Bottle and all, it was
a sad and silent drive as far as Penicuik, where they were to spend the evening. They
stopped once, to hide their implements in a thick bush not far from the churchyard, and
once again at the Fisher's Tryst, to have a toast before the kitchen fire and vary their nips
of whisky with a glass of ale. When they reached their journey's end the gig was housed,
the horse was fed and comforted, and the two young doctors in a private room sat down to
the best dinner and the best wine the house afforded. The lights, the fire, the beating rain
upon the window, the cold, incongruous work that lay before them, added zest to their
enjoyment of the meal. With every glass their cordiality increased. Soon Macfarlane handed
a little pile of gold to his companion.

'A compliment,' he said. 'Between friends these little d----d accommodations ought to fly like
Fettes pocketed the money, and applauded the sentiment to the echo. 'You are a
philosopher,' he cried. 'I was an ass till I knew you. You and K---- between you, by the Lord
Harry! but you'll make a man of me.'

'Of course we shall,' applauded Macfarlane. 'A man? I tell you, it required a man to back me
up the other morning. There are some big, brawling, forty-year-old cowards who would
have turned sick at the look of the d----d thing; but not you - you kept your head. I watched
'Well, and why not?' Fettes thus vaunted himself. 'It was no affair of mine. There was
nothing to gain on the one side but disturbance, and on the other I could count on your
gratitude, don't you see?' And he slapped his pocket till the gold pieces rang.

Macfarlane somehow felt a certain touch of alarm at these unpleasant words. He may have
regretted that he had taught his young companion so successfully, but he had no time to
interfere, for the other noisily continued in this boastful strain:

'The great thing is not to be afraid. Now, between you and me, I don't want to hang - that's
practical; but for all cant, Macfarlane, I was born with a contempt. Hell, God, Devil, right,
wrong, sin, crime, and all the old gallery of curiosities - they may frighten boys, but men of
the world, like you and me, despise them. Here's to the memory of Gray!'

It was by this time growing somewhat late. The gig, according to order, was brought round
to the door with both lamps brightly shining, and the young men had to pay their bill and
take the road. They announced that they were bound for Peebles, and drove in that
direction till they were clear of the last houses of the town; then, extinguishing the lamps,
returned upon their course, and followed a by-road toward Glencorse. There was no sound
but that of their own passage, and the incessant, strident pouring of the rain. It was pitch
dark; here and there a white gate or a white stone in the wall guided them for a short space
across the night; but for the most part it was at a foot pace, and almost groping, that they
picked their way through that resonant blackness to their solemn and isolated destination.
In the sunken woods that traverse the neighbourhood of the burying-ground the last
glimmer failed them, and it became necessary to kindle a match and reillumine one of the
lanterns of the gig. Thus, under the dripping trees, and environed by huge and moving
shadows, they reached the scene of their unhallowed labours.

They were both experienced in such affairs, and powerful with the spade; and they had
scarce been twenty minutes at their task before they were rewarded by a dull rattle on the
coffin lid. At the same moment Macfarlane, having hurt his hand upon a stone, flung it
carelessly above his head. The grave, in which they now stood almost to the shoulders,
was close to the edge of the plateau of the graveyard; and the gig lamp had been propped,
the better to illuminate their labours, against a tree, and on the immediate verge of the
steep bank descending to the stream. Chance had taken a sure aim with the stone. Then
came a clang of broken glass; night fell upon them; sounds alternately dull and ringing
announced the bounding of the lantern down the bank, and its occasional collision with the
trees. A stone or two, which it had dislodged in its descent, rattled behind it into the
profundities of the glen; and then silence, like night, resumed its sway; and they might bend
their hearing to its utmost pitch, but naught was to be heard except the rain, now marching
to the wind, now steadily falling over miles of open country.

They were so nearly at an end of their abhorred task that they judged it wisest to complete
it in the dark. The coffin was exhumed and broken open; the body inserted in the dripping
sack and carried between them to the gig; one mounted to keep it in its place, and the
other, taking the horse by the mouth, groped along by wall and bush until they reached the
wider road by the Fisher's Tryst. Here was a faint, diffused radiancy, which they hailed like
daylight; by that they pushed the horse to a good pace and began to rattle along merrily in
the direction of the town.

They had both been wetted to the skin during their operations, and now, as the gig jumped
among the deep ruts, the thing that stood propped between them fell now upon one and
now upon the other. At every repetition of the horrid contact each instinctively repelled it
with greater haste; and the process, natural although it was, began to tell upon the nerves
of the companions. Macfarlane made some ill-favoured jest about the farmer's wife, but it
came hollowly from his lips, and was allowed to drop in silence. Still their unnatural burthen
bumped from side to side; and now the head would be laid, as if in confidence, upon their
shoulders, and now the drenching sackcloth would flap icily about their faces. A creeping
chill began to possess the soul of Fettes. He peered at the bundle, and it seemed somehow
larger than at first. All over the countryside, and from every degree of distance, the farm
dogs accompanied their passage with tragic ululations; and it grew and grew upon his mind
that some unnatural miracle had been accomplished, that some nameless change had
befallen the dead body, and that it was in fear of their unholy burden that the dogs were

'For God's sake,' said he, making a great effort to arrive at speech, 'for God's sake, let's
have a light!'

Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same direction; for though he made no reply, he
stopped the horse, passed the reins to his companion, got down, and proceeded to kindle
the remaining lamp. They had by that time got no further than the cross-road down to
Auchendinny. The rain still poured as though the deluge were returning, and it was no easy
matter to make a light in such a world of wet and darkness. When at last the flickering blue
flame had been transferred to the wick and began to expand and clarify, and shed a wide
circle of misty brightness round the gig, it became possible for the two young men to see
each other and the thing they had along with them. The rain had moulded the rough
sacking to the outlines of the body underneath; the head was distinct from the trunk, the
shoulders plainly modelled; something at once spectral and human riveted their eyes upon
the ghastly comrade of their drive.

For some time Macfarlane stood motionless, holding up the lamp. A nameless dread was
swathed, like a wet sheet, about the body, and tightened the white skin upon the face of
Fettes; a fear that was meaningless, a horror of what could not be, kept mounting to his
brain. Another beat of the watch, and he had spoken. But his comrade forestalled him.
'That is not a woman,' said Macfarlane, in a hushed voice.

'It was a woman when we put her in,' whispered Fettes.
'Hold that lamp,' said the other. 'I must see her face.'

And as Fettes took the lamp his companion untied the fastenings of the sack and drew
down the cover from the head. The light fell very clear upon the dark, well-moulded
features and smooth-shaven cheeks of a too familiar countenance, often beheld in dreams
of both of these young men. A wild yell rang up into the night; each leaped from his own
side into the roadway; the lamp fell, broke, and was extinguished; and the horse, terrified by
this unusual commotion, bounded and went off toward Edinburgh at a gallop, bearing along
with it, sole occupant of the gig, the body of the dead and long-dissected Gray.
Robert Burns

James Child
Traditional Ballad

Kate Finley

Thomas Hardy
Withered Arm

Robert Stephen Hawker
The Botathen Ghost

Washington Irving
The Legend of Sleepy Hallow