New York Tribune

A SINGULAR STORY.

From a Retired Physician's Letter in the London Telegraph

About forty years ago, I was called upon to consult respecting the case of a certain John Crawford, who lived in one of the side streets of Crawford-st., Marylebone. Subsequently I attended this patient for a month or more, he being a sufferer from a bronchial malady, which from my first introduction to him was regarded as hopeless. This Crawford was a Scripture reader in the employment of a missionary society and, it is unnecessary to add, was a man of small means. With him were his wife, daughter and son, a lad of fifteen or sixteen, with a countenance indicating firmness and tenacity of will. In my attendance at the bedside of my patient this boy was usually present, listening with close attention and evident interest to our talk. Crawford was very communicative respecting a pedigree and three or four large parchments, which he seldom omitted to bring forth while I remained with him. At that time the Earldom of Crawford and Balcarres was in abeyance. It was one of the dormant peerages of Scotland which not infrequently give work to the House of Lords: and a claimant to the title and estates was reported to be even then gathering documentary evidence wherewith to enforce his plea. I advised Crawford to relinquish these parchments, if, as he repeatedly told us, Lord Lindsay was buying up all such writings. But the invariable reply was, "I am John Crawford, of Balcarres, with as good a right to this peerage as any man living. If I were not so poor and so incapacitated by illness, I should myself prosecute the claim. Though I cannot do this, I shall, for the sake of this boy here (pointing to his son) retain these documents, whatever price may be offered for them." The claim had not then been brought before the House of Lords, nor was it publicly heard of till some time after the death of this John Crawford. One remarkable expression, which fixed itself up in my memory from the earnestness with which it was repeated by Crawford, was: "Let him die whenever he may, he will not rest in his grave." The boy, who heard these words again and again, and who, as I have said, was an attentive and interested listener, is now, if he be in existence, a man of fifty-and-fifty. I have not the smallest knowledge of his career, having entirely lost sight of him when his father died. But the circumstances are as vividly impressed on my memory as if they were fresh and recent. Of course I am only theorizing when I say that the lad was, by appearance of physiognomy, just one of those determined plodders common enough in a Northern race, who, setting themselves to a difficult end, rarely fail to reach it. He may be at this time a prosperous merchant, but this be only vague speculation, it is more to the point to say that those parchments are probably still in existence somewhere, and that, if they can be discovered and authenticated, they may possibly aid in solving this painful mystery.