THE GRAVE-DIGGER’S TALE.
It was one cold November morning, on the day of an intended voyage, when Mrs M‘Cosey, my landlady, tapped at my bed-chamber door, informing me that it was “braid day light;” but on reaching the caller air I found, by my watch and the light of the moon, that I had full two hours to spare for such sublunary delights as such a circumstance might create. A traveller, when he has once taken his leave, and rung the changes of “farewell,” “adieu,” “goodbye,” and “God bless you,” on the connubial and domestic harmonies of his last lodgings, will rather hazard his health by an exposure to the “pelting of the pitiless storm,” for a handful of hours, than try an experiment on his landlady’s sincerity a second time, within the short space of the same moon. If casualty should force him to make an abrupt return, enviable must be his feelings if they withstand the cold unfriendly welcome of “Ye’re no awa yet!” delivered by some quivering Abigail, in sylvan equipment, like one of Dian’s foresters, as she slowly and uninvitingly opens the creaking door—a commentary on the forbidding salute. He enters, and the strong caloric now beginning to thaw his sensibilities, he makes for his room, which he forgets is no longer his; when, though he be still in the dark, he has no need of a candle to enable him to discover that some kind remembrancer has already been rummaging his corner cupboard, making lawful seizure and removal (“‘convey’ the wise it call”) of the contents of his tea-caddy, butter-kit, sugar-bowl, and “comforter;” to which he had looked forward, on his return, as a small solace for the disappointment of the morning, affording him the means of knocking up a comfortable “check,” without again distressing the exchequer.
I had therefore determined not to return to Mrs M‘Cosey’s; for “frailty, thy name is woman;” and I felt myself getting into a sad frame of mind, as I involuntarily strolled a considerable distance along the high road, pondering on the best means of walking “out of the air,” as Hamlet says, when, as the moon receded behind a black cloud, my head came full butt against a wall; the concussion making it ring, till I actually imagined I could distinguish something like a tune from my brain. Surely, said I, this is no melody of my making; as I now heard, like two voices trolling a merry stave—
Duncan’s comin’, Donald’s comin’, &c.
Turning round to the direction from whence the sound seemed to proceed, I perceived I was in the neighbourhood of the “Auld Kirk Yard;” where, by the light from his lantern, I could discover the old grave-digger at work—his bald head, with single white and silvery-crisped forelock, making transits over the dark line of the grave, like a white-crested dove, or a sea-gull, flaunting over the yawning gulf.
One stride, and I had cleared the wall of the Auld Kirk Yard.
“You seem merry, old boy!—You are conscious, I presume, that this world has few troubles that can affect you in your present situation—the grave.”
“I was takin’ my medicine to keep my heart up, sir; but I wasna merry: yet I’m content wi’ my station, and am a thocht independent. I court the company o’ nae man alive; I boo to nae man breathin’—I quarrel nane wi’ my neebours;—yet am I sought after by high and low, rich and puir; the king himsel maun come under my rule—this rod of airn;—though I’m grown frail and feckless afore my time: for healthy as my looks be, I’m aye, aye at death’s door; our work, ye see, sir, ’s a’ below the breath; and that’s a sair trade for takin’ the wind oot o’ a body. Then, I hae my trials,—sair visitations, sic as fa’ to the lot o’ nae man on this side the grave but mysel! It’s true, that when the wind gaes round merrily to the east, I get a sma’ share o’ what’s gaun; but just look at that yird, sir,—as bonnie a healthy yird as ane could delight to lie in;—neist, look at that spear,—a fortnight’s rust upon that dibble! Mind, I downa complain;—Live, and let live, say I!
“But what’s the use of talkin’ sae to a life-like, graceless, thochtless, bairn-getting parish?—the feck o’ whom, after having lived on the fat o’ the kintra-side, naething will sair, but they maun gang up to the town to lay their banes amang the gentles, and creesh some hungry yird wi’ their marrow! The fa’ o’ the leaf is come and gane; an’ saving some twa or three consumptions—for whilk the Lord be thankit, as a sma’ fend—tak the parish a’ ower head—frae head to tail—and for ane that gaes out at my gate-end, ye’ll find a score come in at the howdie’s!”
“Damna famæ majora quam quæ æstimari possint.”[[17]]
[17]. The loss of reputation is greater than can be reckoned.
“I hae lost my Gaelic, sir; but ye speak like a sensible man. The fame o’ the place is just as ye say, there’s ower mony merry pows in’t. But see, there’s a sober pow, wi’ a siller clasp on’t.”
“With all due gravity, may I ask, whose property was that?”
“Hech, man! that’s a skeigh tune for a dry whistle; sae, gin ye please, we’ll tak our morning first.”
So saying, he took his spade, and cutting steps in the side of the grave he was digging, he mounted to the surface; then, walking off a few paces, I saw him strike some dark substance lying on a flat stone; when, to my astonishment, a Flibbertigibbet-looking creature unrolled itself, from a mortcloth, at my feet.
“Hannibal Grub, my ’prentice, sir, at your service.—Hawney, tak the shanker ower to Jenny Nailor’s, an’ bring a dooble-floorer to the gentleman; an’, hear ye, say it’s for the minister’s wife—fourpenny strunt, Grub, mind—nae pinchin’. If ye meet his reverence, honest man, tell him ye’re gaun for oil to the cruizie.”
“That auld wizzened pow is a’ that’s left o’ the Laird o’ Nettleriggs. It was lying face down, when I cam till’t this morning, maist horrifu’ to see; for he maun hae turned in his kist, or been buried back upwards! It was ae blawy, sleety nicht, about this time twal-year, when I was sent for express to speak wi’ the laird. Thinkin’ that he maybe wanted the family lair snodded out, or a new coat o’ paint to the staunchels, I set out without delay. I had four mile o’ gate to gang on a darksome dreary road, an’ I couldna but say that I felt mair eerie than I had ever felt in my ain plantin’, amang honest folk. Sae, wi’ your leave, I’ll just put in ane o’ Jenny’s screws, afore I gae ony farther. Here’s wishing better acquaintance to us, sir.—Is this frae the ‘Broon Coo,’ Grub?”
“Ay!” groaned an unearthly voice, as if the “Broon Cow” herself had spoken.
“Weel, I gaed, an’ I better gaed. ‘The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last;’ the fitfu’ changes o’ the shrouded moon threw flitting shadows across my path;—whiles like a muckle colley, and syne as if I stood on the brink o’ a dreadfu’ precipice, when I wad then stand still, till the moon shone again. The bleachfield dogs sent round their lang, uncanny bodings; the vera cocks crawed,—sic horror had the time; the last leaves o’ hairst were driftin’ an’ clatterin’ amang my feet—whiles hittin’ me like a whup on the face; or tappin’ me on the back, as if ane wad say, ‘Saunders, this is death!’ when I wad then stand stockstill again, my knees fechtin’ an’ thumpin’ at ane anither, and my teeth gaun like a watchman’s rattle; while noos and thans, the wind wad howl and birr, as if the Prince o’ Air himsel were pipin’ to the clouds. I ne’er doubted thae things to be the bodings o’ death; but I thocht sic feydoms might hae been better wared on a muckle better man than me. At length I got to the house-door, as the laird’s messan began to bark.
“‘Look to the door, Peggy!’ quo’ the gudewife.
“‘Ay, mither. Jock, look to the door for your mither, will ye no?’
“‘Look till’t yersel! Can I gang, when I’m greetin’ this way?—Pate—look to the door!’
“‘I’m greetin’ too,’ says Pate.
“‘Peggy Mucklewham, will ye no look to the door, for your deein’ faither’s sake?’
“‘Tuts!’ quo’ Peggy, ‘Can ye not get up yersel—fashin’ folk?’
“Weel, I then got entrance—the sneck being cannily lifted, an’ the bairns makin’ a breenge into a hidin’ corner, until, by the light o’ the fire, they kent my face.
“‘Ou, it’s auld Saunders, as sure as death. Ay, man, my faither’s real ill—he’s just gaspin’, and that’s a’! Hear till that—that’s him whistlin’! Hae ye no brought Towzie wi’ ye? Man, Pate and me wad hae’n sic grand fun chasin’ the mawkins, when my mither’s at the kirk the morn.’
“‘Are ye sorry to lose your faither, bairnies?’ quo’ I.
“‘Ou, ay,’ quo’ Pate, ‘but I dinna like to look at him, he maks sic awfu’ faces, man; but I hae been thrang greetin’, sin’ four o’clock even on—twice as muckle’s Jock!’
“A lang deep groan now was heard from out o’ the spence, whaur the laird was lying; and the bairnies, in a fricht, ran screeching to anither apartment, leaving the youngest wean by the fireside, rowed in ane o’ the auld man’s black coats.
“‘Gude save us, lammie!’ quo’ I, ‘is there naebody tending your puir auld faither? Whaur’s uncle, lammie? and aunty? and your minnie, lammie?’ I mind weel the bit bairnie’s answer—‘Unkey a’ doon—aunty a’ doon—daddy a’ doon!’
“Mrs Mucklewham was a stout buirdly quean, like a house-end; and the laird was just a bit han’fu’ o’ a cratur—a bit saxteen-to-the-dizzen body. They were a pair o’ whom it was said, by the kintra-side, that they had married afore they had courted. The laird was an auld man when he brought hame a woman thirty years younger than himsel;—auld folk are twice bairns, and he was beginning to need nursing. It’s wonderfu’ to think how little a matter hinders gentlebred folk frae getting on in the warld! A’ that Jenny Screameger wantit o’ the complete leddy was the bit dirty penny siller; an’ sae they were joined thegither, without its ever being mentioned in the contract, or understood, that they bound and obliged themselves to hae a heartliking for ane anither!
“She had been keepit by the gudeman geyan short by the tether; sae as her hale life was made just a dull round till her—o’ rising and lying down—eating, drinking, and sleeping—feeding the pigs, milking the cow—flyting the servant—and skelping the weans a’ round;—unless when she dreamed o’ burials, or saw a spale at the candle—or heard o’ a murder committed in the neighbourhood—or a marriage made or broken aff—or a criminal to suffer on the gallows; till at her advanced time o’ life it was grown just as neccessar’ that food should be gotten for her mind’s maintenance, as it was for her body’s.
“‘This is a sair time for ye, Mrs Mucklewhaum,’ quo’ I, as she cam ben frae her bedroom gauntin’.
“‘Hey! ho! hy! Saunders—I haena closed an ee thae twa lang nichts! But I hear there’s something gaun to be dune noo—Hey! ho! hy!’
“I stappit ben wi’ her to the laird’s room; and I saw in his face he was bespoken. Everything was laid out in the room, comfortable and in apple-pie order, befitting the occasion. The straughtin’ board, on whilk his death’s ee was fixed, stood up against the wa’; here lay a bowt o’ tippeny knittin’ for binding his limbs, and as mony black preens as wad hae stockit a shop; there hung his dead shirt, o’ new hamespun claith, providently airing afore the fire.
“‘Gin ye be thrang, Saunders, ye needna wait on the gudeman—ye ken his length—and gie him a deep biel,’ quo’ the gudewife; when just as I laid my hand upon his brow, he fixed his ee upon me like a hawk; an’ after anither kirkyard groan—the like I never heard from mortal man—he seemed reviving, an’ new strength to be filling his limbs, as he rose up on his elbow, on the bed, and laid his other hand on mine—sic an icy hand as I never felt abune grund!—thus speaking to me in his seeming agony:
“‘Saunders, do not pray for me; I have been long a dead man; lay your hand upon my bosom, and you will feel the flames of hell ascending to my soul!’ I laid my hand upon his heart, and I declare, sir, I thocht the flesh wad hae cindered aff the finger-banes! The heat was just awfu’!
“‘I was made life-renter of a sum which at my decease descends to the younger branches of my father’s family; and my life has been miserable to myself—a burden to others—and my death the desire of my kindred!’
“‘He’s raving, Saunders—he’s clean raving! An’ I canna persuade him he’s a deein’ man,’ quo’ Mrs Mucklewham, as she stapped forrit wi’ a red bottle, to gie him a quatenin’ dram.
“‘Haud, haud!’ quo’ I, ‘he’ll do without it,’ as the laird, raising his voice, began again to speak:
“‘I had but one friend in the world,—the highwayman that robbed me, and then laid my skull open with the butt-end of his whip;—would to God he had made me a beggar, and saved my soul! I had no worse wish to bestow on him than that he might be a life-renter for his poor relations. Saunders, look on the face of that unfeeling woman—more horrible to me than death itself;—look on my deserted death-bed, and my chamber decorated like a charnel house? Horrible as the sensation of death is, as his iron gropings are stealing round my heart, there is yet to me a sight more hideous, and which I thank God I shall be spared witnessing—when the dead shall bury the dead!’
“Mrs Mucklewham broke frae my weak hand—wrenched open his locked teeth, and emptied the hale contents down his throat—grunds an’ a’—o’ his ‘quatenin’ draught;’ I felt myself a’ ug, as I saw his teeth gnash thegither, an’ his lips close in quateness for ever.
“I gaed out wi’ the mortclaith; I saw the gathering; I was present when the bread an’ dram service were waiting for the grace:—‘Try ye’t, John,’ quo’ ane. ‘Begin yersel; ye’re dead sweer,’ quo’ anither; when I heard ane break down an’ auld prayer into twa blessin’s. Some were crackin’ about the rise o’ oats; some about the fa’ o’ hay. His bit callans were there in rowth o’ claith; auld elbows of coats mak gude breekknees for bairns. I saw the coffin carried out to the hearse without ane admiring its bonnie gilding—quite sair and melancholy to see! I saw the bedral bodies, wi’ their light-coloured gravats, an’ rusty black cowls, stuffing their wide pouches—maist pitifu’, I thought, to behold. Then I saw the house-servants, wha had drunk deepest o’ the cup o’ woe; till sae mista’en were their notions o’ sorrow, that they were just by the conception o’ the mind o’ man. Then there was sic a clanjamphry o’ beggars; some praising the laird for virtues that they wha kenned him kent they were failings in him; an’ ithers were cracking o’ familiarities wi’ him, that might hae been painful to his nearest o’ kin to hear: there was but sma’ grief when they first gathered; but when they learned there was nae awmous for them, I trow ony tears that were shed at the burial were o’ their drappin’.
“There was the witless idewit Jock Murra, mair mournfu’ to see than a’ that was sad there; when just as the hearse began to move on, he liltit up a rantin’ sang—
Mony an awmous I’ve got.
I lookit round me when the company began to move on frae the house wi’ the hearse; but as I shall answer, sir, there wasna ae face that lookit sad but might as well hae smiled; the vera look o’t, in a Christian land, broucht the saut tears gushing frae my ain auld dry withered ee!
“In compliance with the friends’ request, as it was a lang road to come back, his will had been read afore the interment; when sae muckle was left to ae hospit an’ sae muckle to anither, as if the only gude he had ever done was reserved for the day o’ his burial; or like ane wha delays his letter till after the mail shuts, and then pays thrice the sum to overtake the coach. It was the certainty o’ thae things that made it the maist mournfu’ plantin’ I e’er made; an’ I threw the yird on him, as he was let down by stranger hands (for the friends excused themselves frae gaun ony farther, after they had heard his will), and happit him up, wi’ a heavier heart than on the morning when I took my ain wifie frae my side, an’ laid her in the clay.—You’ll excuse me, sir; here’s ‘success to trade!’”—“The Auld Kirk Yard.”
THE FAIRY BRIDE:
A TRADITIONARY TALE.
A short time before the rising of the Presbyterians, which terminated in the rout at Pentland, a young gentleman of the name of Elliot had been called by business to Edinburgh. On his way homeward, he resolved to pay a visit to an old friend named Scott, whose residence was either upon the banks of the Tweed or some of its larger tributaries,—for on this point the tradition is not very distinct. Elliot stopped at a small house of entertainment not far from Scott’s mansion, in order to give his parting directions to a servant he was despatching home with some commissions.
The signs of the times had not altogether escaped the notice of our hero. The people were quiet, but reserved, and their looks expressed anything but satisfaction. In Edinburgh there were musterings and inspections of troops, and expresses to and from London were hourly departing and arriving. As Elliot travelled along, he had more than once encountered small parties of military reconnoitring the country, or hastening to some post which had been assigned them. Fewer labourers were to be seen in the fields than was usual at the season. The cottars lounged before their doors, and gazed after the passing warriors with an air of sullen apathy. There was no violence or disturbance on the part of the people,—there had as yet been no arrestments,—but it was evident to the most careless that hostile suspicion was rapidly taking the place of that inactive dislike which had previously existed between the governors and the governed.
It was natural that in such a condition of the national temper, affairs of state should form the chief subject of gossip around the fireside of a country inn. Elliot was not surprised, therefore, while sitting at the long deal table, giving directions to his servant, to hear the name of his friend frequent in the mouths of the peasantry. It was a matter of course that at such a period the motions and inclinations of a wealthy and active landholder of old family should be jealously watched. But it struck him that Scott’s name was always uttered in a low, hesitating tone, as if the speakers were labouring under a high degree of awe. He continued, therefore, some time after he had dismissed his attendant, sitting as if lost in thought, but anxiously listening to the desultory conversation dropping around him, like the few shots of a distant skirmish. The allusions of the peasants were chiefly directed to his friend’s wife. She was beautiful and kind, but there was an unearthly light in her dark eye. Then there was a dark allusion to a marriage on the hillside,—far from human habitation,—to the terror of the clergyman who officiated, at meeting so lovely a creature in so lonely a place. The Episcopalian predilections of the family of Scott were not passed unnoticed. And it seemed universally admitted that the house had been given over to the glamour and fascination of some unearthly being. The power of a leader so connected, in the impending strife, was the subject of dark forebodings.
Rather amused to find his old crony become a person of such consequence, Elliot discharged his reckoning, mounted his steed, and on reaching Scott’s residence, was warmly and cheerfully welcomed. He was immediately introduced to the lady, whom he regarded with a degree of attention which he would have been ashamed to confess to himself was in some degree owing to the conversation he had lately overheard. She was a figure of a fairy size, delicately proportioned, with not one feature or point of her form to which objection could be urged. Her rich brown hair clustered down her neck, and lay in massive curls upon her bosom. Her complexion was delicate in the extreme, and the rich blood mantled in her face at every word. Her eyes were a rich brownish hazel, and emitted an almost preternatural light, but there was nothing ungentle in their expression. The honeymoon had not elapsed, and she stood before the admiring traveller in all the beauty of a bride—the most beautiful state of woman’s existence, when, to the unfolding delicate beauty of girlhood is superadded the flush of a fuller consciousness of existence, the warmth of affection which dare now utter itself unchecked, the first half-serious, half-playful assumption of matronly dignity. After a brief interchange of compliment with her guest, she left the apartment, either because “the house affairs did call her thence,” or because she wished to leave the friends to the indulgence of an unrestrained confidential conversation.
“A perfect fairy queen,” said Elliot, as the door closed behind her.
“So you have already heard that silly story?” answered his host. “Well! I have no right to complain, for I have only myself to thank for it.”
Elliot requested that he would explain his meaning, and he in compliance narrated his “whole course of wooing.”
“I was detained abroad, as you well know, for some years after his Majesty’s restoration, partly on account of the dilapidated state of my fortunes, and partly because I wished to prosecute the career of arms I had commenced. It is now about nine months since I returned to my native country. It was a gloomy day as I approached home. You remember the footpath which strikes across the hill behind the house, from the bed of the stream which mingles, about a mile below us, with that on whose banks we now are. Where it separates from the public road, I gave my horse to the servant, intending to pursue the by-path alone, resolved that no one should watch my emotions when I again beheld the home of my fathers. I was looking after the lad, when I heard the tread of horses close behind me. On turning, I saw a tall, elderly gentleman, of commanding aspect, and by his side a young lady upon a slender milk-white palfrey. I need not describe her; you have seen her to-day. I was struck with the delicacy of her features, the sweet smile upon her lips, and the living fire that sparkled from her eyes. I gazed after her until a turning of the road concealed her from my view.
“It was in vain that I inquired among my relations and acquaintances. No person was known in the neighbourhood such as I described her. The impression she left upon me, vivid though it was at the moment, had died away, when one day, as I was walking near the turn of the road where I had lost her, she again rode past me with the same companion. The sweet smile, the glance of the eye, were heightened this time by a blush of recognition. The pair were soon lost to me round the elbow of the road. I hurried on, but they had disappeared. The straggling trees which obscured the view, ceased at a bridge which stood a couple of gun-shots before me. Ere I could reach it, I caught a glimpse of the companions. They were at the edge of the stream, a little way above the bridge—their horses were drinking. I pressed onward, but before I had cleared the intervening trees and reached the bridge, they had once more disappeared. There was a small break in the water immediately beneath the place where they had stood. For a moment, I thought that I must have mistaken its whiteness for the white palfrey, but the glance I had got of them was too clear to have been an illusion. Yet no road led in that direction. I examined the banks on both sides of the river, but that on which I saw them was too hard to receive a hoof-print, and the opposite bank was loose shingle, which refused to retain it when made. The exceeding beauty of the maiden, the mysterious nature of her disappearance, the irritable humour into which I had worked myself by conjectures and an unavailing search, riveted her impression upon my memory. I traversed the country telling my story, and making incessant inquiry. In vain! No one knew of such a person. The peasants began to look strangely on me, and whisper in each other’s ears, that I had been deluded by some Nixy. And many were the old prophecies regarding my family remembered—or manufactured—for the occasion.
“Five months passed away in vain pursuit. My pertinacity was beginning to relax, when one evening, returning from a visit to our friend Whitelee, I heard a clashing of swords on the road before me. Two fellows ran off as I rode hastily up, leaving a gentleman, who had vigorously defended himself against their joint assault. ‘Are you hurt, sir?’ was my first inquiry. ‘I fear I am,’ replied the stranger, whom I immediately recognised as the companion of the mysterious beauty. ‘Can I assist you?’ He looked earnestly at me, and with an expression of hesitation on his countenance. ‘Henry Scott, you are a man of honour.’ He paused, but immediately resumed, ‘I have no choice, and I dare trust a soldier. Lend me your arm, sir. My dwelling is not far from here.’ I accompanied him, he leaning heavily upon me, for the exertion of the combat had shaken his frame, and the loss of blood weakened him. We followed the direction he indicated for nearly half an hour round the trackless base of a hill, until we came in sight of one of those old gray towers which stud our ravines. ‘There,’ said my companion, pointing to the ruin. I recognised it immediately; it stood not far distant from the place where he and his fair fellow-traveller had disappeared, and had often been examined by me, but always in vain.
“Turning an angle of the building, we approached a heap of debris, which in one part encumbered its base. Putting aside some tangled briers which clustered around, he showed me a narrow entry between the ruins and the wall. Passing up to this, he stopped before a door, and gave three gentle knocks; it opened, and we were admitted into a rude, narrow vault. It was tenanted, as I had anticipated, by his fair companion. As soon as her alarm at seeing her father return exhausted, bleeding, and in company with a stranger, was stilled, and the old man’s wound dressed, he turned to explain to me the circumstances in which I found him. His story was brief. He was of good family; had killed a cadet of a noble house, and was obliged to save himself from its resentment by hiding in ruins and holes of the earth. In all his wanderings his gentle daughter had never quitted his side.
“I need not weary you with the further details of our growing acquaintance. It is the common story of a young man and a young woman thrown frequently into each other’s company in a lonely place. But, oh! tame though it may appear to others, the mere memory of the three months of my life which followed is ecstasy! I saw her daily—in that unfrequented spot there was small danger of intrusion, and she dared range the hillside freely. We walked, and sat, and talked together in the birchen wood beneath the tower, and we felt our love unfold itself as their leaves spread out to the advancing summer. There was no check in the tranquil progress of our affections—no jealousies, for there was none to be jealous of. Unmarked, it overpowered us both. It swelled upon us, like the tide of a breathless summer day, purely and noiselessly.
“A few weeks ago her father took me aside, and prefacing that he had marked with pleasure our growing attachment, asked me if I had sufficient confidence in my own constancy to pledge myself to be for life an affectionate and watchful guardian of his child? He went on to say, that means of escaping from the country had been provided, and offers of promotion in the Spanish service made to him. Your own heart will suggest my answer; and I left him, charged to return after nightfall with a clergyman. Our good curate is too much attached to the family to refuse me anything. To him I revealed my story. At midnight he united me to Ellen, and scarcely was the ceremony over, when Sir James tore himself away, leaving his weeping child almost insensible in my arms.
“Two gentlemen, who accompanied Sir James to the coast, were witnesses of the marriage. It was therefore unnecessary to let any of the household into the secret. You may guess their astonishment, therefore, when, having seen the curate and me ride up the solitary glen alone under cloud of night, they saw us return in the course of a few hours with a lady, who was introduced to them as their mistress. Great has been their questioning, and great has been the delight of our jolly priest to mystify them with dark hints of ruined towers, hillsides opening, and such like. The story of the Nixy has been revived, too, and Ellen is looked on by many with a superstitious awe. I rather enjoyed the joke at first, but now begin to fear, from the deep root the folly seems to have taken, that it may one day bear evil fruits for my delicate girl.”
His augury of evil was well-founded, but the blight fell upon his own heart. As soon as he heard of the rising in the west, he joined the royal forces at the head of his tenantry. During his absence, and while the storm of civil war was raging over the land, his cherished one was seized with the pangs of premature labour. She lay in the same grave with her child, before her husband could reach his home. The remembrance of what she had undergone, her loneliness amid the tempests of winter, her isolation from all friends, had so shaken her frame that the first attack of illness snapped the thread of life. Her sufferings were comparatively short. But the widower! He sought to efface the remembrance of his loss in active service. Wherever insubordination showed itself, he prayed for employment. The Presbyterians learned at last to consider him as the embodied personification of persecution. The story of his mysterious marriage got wind. He was regarded as one allied to, and acting under, the influence of unholy powers. He knew it, and, in the bitterness of his heart, he rejoiced to be marked out by their fear and terror, as one who had nothing in common with them. His own misery, and this outcast feeling, made him aspire to be ranked in their minds as a destroying spirit. The young, gallant, and kind-hearted soldier became the most relentless persecutor of the followers of the Covenant. Even yet does his memory, and that of his Fairy Bride, live in popular tradition like a thunderstorm, gloomy and desolating, yet not without lambent flashes of more than earthly beauty.—Edinburgh Literary Journal.