took for death, while the more understanding knew it to be a swoon produced by the supernatural influence of the people whose precincts he had violated.  After the ceremony of a seeming funeral, the form of the Rev. Robert Kirke appeared to a relation, and commanded him to go to Grahame of Duchray, ancestor of the present General Graham Stirling.  “Say to Duchray, who is my cousin as well as your own, that I am not dead, but a captive in Fairyland, and only one chance remains for my liberation.  When the posthumous child, of which my wife has been delivered since my disappearance, shall be brought to baptism, I will appear in the room, when, if Duchray shall throw over my head the knife or dirk which he holds in his hand, I may be restored to society; but if this opportunity is neglected, I am lost for ever.”  Duchray was apprised of what was to be done.  The ceremony took place, and the apparition of Mr. Kirke was visibly seen while they were seated at table; but Grahame of Duchray, in his astonishment, failed to perform the ceremony enjoined, and it is to be feared that Mr. Kirke still “drees his weird in Fairyland,” the Elfin state declaring to him, as the Ocean to poor Falconer, who perished at sea after having written his popular poem of “The Shipwreck”—­

“Thou hast proclaimed our power—­be thou our prey!”

Upon this subject the reader may consult a very entertaining little volume, called “Sketches of Perthshire,"[37] by the Rev. Dr. Grahame of Aberfoyle.  The terrible visitation of fairy vengeance which has lighted upon Mr. Kirke has not intimidated his successor, an excellent man and good antiquary, from affording us some curious information on fairy superstition.  He tells us that these capricious elves are chiefly dangerous on a Friday, when, as the day of the Crucifixion, evil spirits have most power, and mentions their displeasure at any one who assumes their accustomed livery of green, a colour fatal to several families in Scotland, to the whole race of the gallant Grahames in particular; insomuch that we have heard that in battle a Grahame is generally shot through the green check of his plaid; moreover, that a veteran sportsman of the name, having come by a bad fall, he thought it sufficient to account for it, that he had a piece of green whip-cord to complete the lash of his hunting-whip.  I remember, also, that my late amiable friend, James Grahame, author of “The Sabbath,” would not break through this ancient prejudice of his clan, but had his library table covered with blue or black cloth, rather than use the fated colour commonly employed on such occasions.

[Footnote 37:  Edinburgh, 1812.]

To return from the Perthshire fairies, I may quote a story of a nature somewhat similar to that of Mas Robert Kirke.  The life of the excellent person who told it was, for the benefit of her friends and the poor, protracted to an unusual duration; so I conceive that this adventure, which took place in her childhood, might happen before the middle of last century.  She was residing with some relations near the small seaport town of North Berwick, when the place and its vicinity were alarmed by the following story:—­