Strange Pages from Family Papers | Page 2

had so basely and cruelly wronged her, and, after once more
stigmatizing his barbarity, with deep measured voice she pronounced
these ominous words, embodying a curse which M'Alister Indre little
anticipated would so surely come to pass. "I suffer now," said the
grief-stricken woman, "but you shall suffer always--you have made me
childless, but you and yours shall be heirless for ever--never shall there
be a son to the house of M'Alister."
These words were treated with contempt by M'Alister Indre, who
mocked and laughed at the malicious prattle of a woman's tongue. But
time proved only too truly how persistently the curse of the bereaved
woman clung to the race of her oppressors, and, as Sir Bernard Burke
remarks, it was in the reign of Queen Anne that the hopes of the house
of M'Alister "flourished for the last time, they were blighted for ever."
The closing scene of this prophetic curse was equally tragic and
romantic; for, whilst espousing the cause of the Pretender, the young
and promising heir of the M'Alisters was taken prisoner, and with many
others put to death. Incensed at the wrongs of his exiled monarch, and
full of fiery impulse, he had secretly left his youthful wife, and joined
the army at Perth that was to restore the Pretender to his throne. For
several months the deserted wife fretted under the terrible suspense,
often silently wondering if, after all, her husband--the last hope of the
House of M'Alister--was to fall under the ban of the widow's curse. She
could not dispel from her mind the hitherto disastrous results of those
ill-fated words, and would only too willingly have done anything in her
power to make atonement for the wrong that had been committed in the

past. It was whilst almost frenzied with thoughts of this distracting kind,
that vague rumours reached her ears of a great battle which had been
fought, and ere long this was followed by the news that the Pretender's
forces had been successful, and that he was about to be crowned at
Scone. The shades of evening were fast setting in as, overcome with the
joyous prospect of seeing her husband home again, she withdrew to her
chamber, and, flinging herself on her bed in a state of hysteric delight,
fell asleep. But her slumbers were broken, for at every sound she
started, mentally exclaiming "Can that be my husband?"
At last, the happy moment came when her poor overwrought brain
made sure it heard his footsteps. She listened, yes! they were his! Full
of feverish joy she was longing to see that long absent face, when, as
the door opened, to her horror and dismay, there entered a figure in
martial array without a head. It was enough--he was dead. And with an
agonizing scream she fell down in a swoon; and on becoming
conscious only lived to hear the true narrative of the battle of
Sheriff-Muir, which had brought to pass the Widow's Curse that there
should be no heir to the house of M'Alister.
This story reminds us of one told of Sir Richard Herbert, who, with his
brother, the Earl of Pembroke, pursuing a robber band in Anglesea, had
captured seven brothers, the ringleaders of "many mischiefs and
murders." The Earl of Pembroke determined to make an example of
these marauders, and, to root out so wretched a progeny, ordered them
all to be hanged. Upon this, the mother of the felons came to the Earl of
Pembroke, and upon her knees besought him to pardon two, or at least
one, of her sons, a request which was seconded by the Earl's brother,
Sir Richard. But the Earl, finding the condemned men all equally guilty,
declared he could make no distinction, and ordered them to be hanged
together.
Upon this the mother, falling upon her knees, cursed the Earl, and
prayed that God's mischief might fall upon him in the first battle in
which he was engaged. Curious to relate, on the eve of the battle of
Edgcot Field, having marshalled his men in order to fight, the Earl of
Pembroke was surprised to find his brother, Sir Richard Herbert,

standing in the front of his company, and leaning upon his pole-axe in a
most dejected and pensive mood.
"What," cried the Earl, "doth thy great body" (for Sir Richard was taller
than anyone in the army) "apprehend anything, that thou art so
melancholy? or art thou weary with marching, that thou dost lean thus
upon thy pole-axe?"
"I am not weary with marching," replied Sir Richard, "nor do I
apprehend anything for myself; but I cannot but apprehend on your part
lest the curse of the woman fall upon you."
And the curse of the frantic mother of seven convicts seemed, we are
told, to have