In the year 1831, I had occasion to be several days in Durham. It occurred to me, one day, whilst I was sauntering about the cathedral, that the house, where probably still lived the father of the poor unfortunate Mrs, or rather _Lady_ M----, might be in the neighbourhood. I made inquiry; and, without much difficulty, found it out. From what I learned in the neighbourhood, the poor woman had never taken up her husband's title. Her father, on hearing of her husband's tragical end, had relented, and taken her home, to keep his house, and comfort him in his old age. I asked for her father, and was shown into a neat parlour, where the old man sat, comfortably pillowed, but terribly pained with gout and a complication of diseases. I introduced myself as an acquaintance of Mrs Fitzwilliam, who was immediately sent for, and entered the parlour. She did not know me, nor was it wonderful; for, as I went to the country next day after the night adventure, I had no opportunity of calling upon her. Indeed, I should scarcely have known her either--her dress and manner were so much more imposing than they had been at our first and only interview. However, upon my referring to the circumstances, she immediately took me by the hand, burst into tears, and, presenting me to her father, who was almost blind, "Papa," said she, "this is the gentleman who saved my life." I had the old man's blessing. A bottle of home-made wine was called for, and discussed, and I was pressed to come back to dinner; which, however, I politely refused, for I did not know how far my enthusiastic temperament might have gone, in the case of a truly beautiful woman, whom I had saved from death, and whose gratitude led her to think very favourably of me. I have not heard of her lately; but mean to write to my brother-in-law, who lives in Durham, about her, and to ascertain whether she is still living or dead; whether she is yet unmarried, or has again ventured to face the blacksmith. Such was one of my moonlight adventures; which, if you are so disposed, you are at liberty to denominate a "matter of moonshine." But my enthusiasm has not been limited to moonbeams. I am the mountain child, and wedded even up to this hour to the mountain-land, with all its wild, striking, and expanding associations. To meet a fair maiden in a _fair_ is pleasant, as also to replenish her lap with sweet-meats and trinkets. To get a "canny hour at een, your arms about your deary," is snug, comfortable, and something more. Burns prefers "rigs of barley," and the "green rush bushes," as a courting parlour; whilst, "Last night, in my late rambles, All in the Isle of Sky, I met a lovely creature Up in the mountains high."