“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.