In a lonely part of the bleak and rocky coast of Scotland, there dwelt
a being, who was designated by the few who knew and feared him, the
Warlock Fisher. He was, in truth, a singular and a fearful old man.
For years he had followed his dangerous occupation alone; adventuring
forth in weather which appalled the stoutest of the stout hearts that
occasionally exchanged a word with him, in passing to and fro in their
mutual employment. Of his name, birth, or descent, nothing was known;
but the fecundity of conjecture had supplied an unfailing stock of
_materiel_ on these points. Some said he was the devil incarnate;
others said he was a Dutchman, or some other "far-away foreigner," who
had fled to these comparative solitudes for shelter, from the
retribution due to some grievous crime; and all agreed, that he was
neither a Scot nor a true man. In outward form, however, he was still
"a model of a man," tall, and well-made; though in years, his natural
strength was far from being abated. His matted black hair, hanging in
elf-locks about his ears and shoulders, together with the perpetual
sullenness which seemed native in the expression of features neither
regular nor pleasing, gave him an appearance unendurably disgusting.
He lived alone, in a hovel of his own construction, partially scooped
out of a rock--was never known to have suffered a visitor within its
walls--to have spoken a kind word, or done a kind action. Once,
indeed, he performed an act which, in a less ominous being, would have
been lauded as the extreme of heroism. In a dreadfully stormy morning,
a fishing-boat was seen in great distress, making for the shore--there
were a father and two sons in it. The danger became imminent, as they
neared the rocky promontory of the fisher--and the boat upset. Women
and boys were screaming and gesticulating from the beach, in all the
wild and useless energy of despair, but assistance was nowhere to be