TALES
OF THE
COVENANTERS
BY
ELLEN JANE GUTHRIE
ELEVENTH EDITION
LONDON
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO
GLASGOW: THOMAS B. MORISON
1920
CONTENTS.
[A Tale of Bothwell Bridge]
[The Laird of Culzean]
[Peden's Stone]
[The Murder of Inchdarnie]
[The Laird of Lag]
[The Sutor's Seat]
INTRODUCTION.
The kings of old have shrine and tomb
In many a minster's haughty gloom;
And green along the ocean's side
The mounds arise where heroes died;
But show me on thy flowery breast.
Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!
The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake.
Resigned the bitter cup to take;
And silently, in fearless faith,
Bowing their noble souls to death.
Where sleep they, Earth?—by no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;
The still, sad glory of their name
Hallows no mountain into fame.
No—not a tree the record bears
Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.
Yet haply all around lie strew'd
The ashes of that multitude.
It may be that each day we tread
Where thus devoted hearts have bled;
And the young flowers our children sow
Take root in holy dust below.
O, that the many rustling leaves,
Which round our home the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie
Would not our inmost Hearts be thrill'd
With notice of their presence fill'd,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?—
But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of these hidden graves.
Yet, what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim love and awe repair.
So let it be!—like him whose clay,
Deep buried by his Maker lay.
They sleep in secret—but their sod,
Unknown to man, is marked of God!
Mrs. Hemans.
Scotland is indeed a land of romance. Her mouldering ruins are linked with legends and historical associations which must ever enhance their interest in the eyes of those who love to gaze on these the
Standing mementos of another age;
and the pages of her history teem with deeds of chivalry and renown that have won for Scotland a mighty name. Thus, while the annals of our country are emblazoned with the deathless names of those mighty heroes who fought and bled in defence of her freedom from spiritual bondage, the nameless mound, or simple cairn of stones, still to be met with on the solitary heath or sequestered dell, marks the spot where rests some humble champion of her religious liberties.
Although three hundred years have passed away—marked in their flight by great and startling events—since the reign of persecution in Scotland, yet the hearts of her peasantry cling with fondness to the remembrance of those hallowed days sealed by the blood of her faithful martyrs. Still is the name of Claverhouse execrated by them, and the story of "John Brown" is related from children to children while seated around the cottage hearth, in illustration of the lawless doings of the Covenanters' foes.
It must strike the mind of every unprejudiced observer, who reads the various histories of that stirring time, that the shocking and barbarous cruelties practised on the defenders of the Covenant by their relentless enemies, will ever remain a stain on the memories of those who countenanced or took an active part in such proceedings. Scarcely is there a churchyard extant in Scotland, laying claim to antiquity, that does not contain one or more stones, the half-obliterated inscriptions of which attest the fact, that underneath lies some poor victim of persecuting zeal.
Having lately visited different parts of Scotland intimately connected with many of the events which took place at that memorable time, I experienced an inexpressible satisfaction in the reception I met with at the different farm-houses in the neighbourhood, and hearing from the lips of their simple inhabitants the story of the cruel wrongs inflicted on the Covenanters in the days of their persecution.
During these pleasant wanderings, I gathered information sufficient to furnish the Tales contained in the present volume, in which the reader will, I trust, find much that is calculated to awaken fresh interest in those benefactors of our country, whose magnanimity and patient endurance were worthy of all praise, and who, for the cause of Christ and his Crown, laid down their lives on the scaffold or amidst the burning faggots.
THE SCOTTISH COVENANTERS.
A TALE OF BOTHWELL BRIDGE.
While staying at ——, in the parish of W——, I discovered that a standard, borne by the Covenanters at Bothwell Bridge, was still to be seen at the farm of Westcroft. Being very desirous of viewing this interesting relic, I set off one fine morning in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of the time-honoured banner. On reaching the village of H——, which lay on my way, I observed a very portly-looking woman standing by the side of the road, apparently enjoying the grateful breeze, as she looked east and then west, evidently in search of something amusing or exciting. Being now somewhat at a loss in what direction to turn my steps, I crossed over to where she was standing, in the expectation of obtaining from her the requisite information, when the following dialogue ensued:—
"Would you be so kind as to tell me the way to Westcroft?"
"That I will. I'll just go wi' you a step or two and show you the farm itsel'. But what are ye wanting at Westcroft, if I may ask the question?"
"I wish to see Mr. Anderson, as I understand he has got a standard that was borne at Bothwell Bridge."
"He has that—he has that; but it's often away frae hame, ta'en to Glasgow and the like, for ye see it's something to say, a body has seen the like o' that."
"From what I have heard, this seems to have been a great part of the country for the Covenanters to take refuge in."
"'Deed an' it was, but for my part I dinna ken much aboot them; my brother, again, was a great antiquarian, and rale ta'en up about these auld affairs."
"Does he live near here?"
"Oh! mam, he's dead;" and after a short pause added, "Now, you see that white house forenent the road?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's Westcroft; and if Willie Anderson be at hame, ye'll get plenty o' cracks about the Covenanters, for he has lots o' bees in his bonnet, him."
After thanking the good humoured dame for her information—upon which she replied I was welcome—I turned up the path leading to Westcroft. In answer to my request to see Mr. Anderson, I was informed he was in the fields; but that Mrs. A. was within, upon which a very intelligent-looking woman came forward, and, on my expressing a wish to see the standard, desired me to come ben, and I should have a sight o' the colours.
Following the mistress of the house, I was speedily ushered into a tidy little room, the walls of which were adorned with pictures, the most striking of which was one entitled "The Guardsman's Farewell," representing a gallant son of Mars in a most gorgeous uniform, on horseback, taking leave of a stout woman, attired in a yellow polka-jacket and a crimson petticoat, who was gazing upwards in the face of the departing soldier, with a look of agony impossible to describe.
"Here are the colours!" and, as she spoke, Mrs. A. produced from a drawer on old piece of linen covered with stains as dark as those exhibited in Holyrood—the surface of which displayed unmistakable bullet-holes, and bearing the following inscription in large red letters:—
"For the parish of Shotts,
For Reformation of Church and State;
According to the Word of God, and
Our Covenants."
Above was the thistle of Scotland, surmounted by a crown and an open Bible.
And this standard was borne at Bothwell Bridge! How my thoughts reverted to that fearful time, when the plains of Scotland resounded with the cries of the wounded and the oppressed; when men, embittered by party spirit and misguided zeal, wrought deeds of cruelty and shame, over which angels well might weep; when fathers were murdered in presence of their wives and children; and the widow slain while weeping over the dead body of her husband!
In thought I was traversing the bloody plains of Bothwell, when——but here I must present the reader with an account of that fearful fight, as related by the Laird of Orfort to his brother, while standing on the spot where was fought the last battle against the enemies of the good old cause:—
"On that moor," said the Laird, who, after a long silence, and without being conscious of it, by a kind of instinct, natural enough to a soldier, had drawn his sword, and was pointing with it. "On that moor the enemy first formed under Monmouth. There, on the right, Clavers led on the Life Guards, breaching fury, and resolute to wipe off the disgrace of the affair of Drumclog. Dalziel formed his men on that knoll. Lord Livingstone led the van of the foemen. We had taken care to have Bothwell Bridge strongly secured by a barricade, and our little battery of cannon was planted on that spot below us, in order to sweep the bridge. And we did rake it. The foemen's blood streamed there. Again and again the troops of the tyrant marched on, and our cannon annihilated their columns. Sir Robert Hamilton was our commander-in-chief. The gallant General Hackston stood on that spot with his brave men. Along the river, and above the bridge, Burley's foot and Captain Nisbet's dragoons were stationed. For one hour we kept the enemy in check; they were defeated in every attempt to cross the Clyde. Livingstone sent another strong column to storm the bridge. I shall never forget the effect of one fire from our battery, where my men stood. We saw the line of the foe advance in all the military glory of brave and beautiful men—the horses pranced—the armour gleamed. In one moment nothing was seen but a shocking mass of mortality. Human limbs and the bodies and limbs of horses were mingled in one huge heap, or blown to a great distance. Another column attempted to cross above the bridge. Some threw themselves into the current. One well-directed fire from Burley's troops threw them into disorder, and drove them back. Meantime, while we were thus warmly engaged, Hamilton was labouring to bring down the different divisions of our main body into action; but in vain he called on Colonel Clelland's troop—in vain he ordered Henderson's to fall in—in vain he called on Colonel Fleming's. Hackston flew from troop to troop—all was confusion; in vain he besought, he entreated, he threatened. Our disputes and fiery misguided zeal, my brother, contracted a deep and deadly guilt that day.
"The Whig turned his arm in fierce hate that day against his own vitals. Our chaplains, Cargil, and King, and Kid, and Douglas interposed again and again. Cargil mounted the pulpit he preached concord; he called aloud for mutual forbearance. 'Behold the banners of the enemy!' cried he, 'hear ye not the fire of the foe, and of our own brethren? Our brothers and fathers are falling beneath the sword! Hasten to their aid! See the flag of the Covenant! See the motto in letters of gold—"Christ's Crown and the Covenant." Hear the voice of your weeping country! Hear the wailings fof the bleeding Kirk! Banish discord; and let us, as a band of brothers, present a bold front to the foeman! Follow me, all ye who love your country and the Covenant! I go to die in the fore-front of the battle!' All the ministers and officers followed him—amidst a flourish of trumpets—but the great body remained to listen to the harangues of the factions. We sent again and again for ammunition. My men were at the last round. Treachery, or a fatal error, had sent a barrel of raisins instead of powder![#] My heart sank within me—while I beheld the despair on the faces of my brave fellows—as I struck out the head of the vessel. Hackston called his officers to him. We throw ourselves around him. 'What must be done?' said he, in an agony of despair. 'Conquer or die,' we said, as if with one voice. 'We have our swords yet.' 'Lead back the men, then, to their places, and let the ensign bear down the blue and scarlet colours. Our God and our country be the word,' Hackston rushed forward. We ran to our respective corps; we cheered our men, but they were languid and dispirited. Their ammunition was nearly expended, and they seemed anxious to husband what remained. They fought only with their carabines. The cannons could no more be loaded. The enemy soon perceived this. We saw a troop of horse approach the bridge. It was that of the Life Guards; I recognised the plume of Clavers. They approached in rapid march. A solid column of infantry followed. I sent a request to Captain Nisbet to join his troops to mine. He was in an instant with us. We charged the Life Guards. Our swords rang on their steel caps.—Many of my brave lads fell on all sides of me. But we hewed down the foe. They began to reel. The whole column was kept stationary on the bridge. Clavers' dreadful voice was heard—more like the yell of a savage than the commanding voice of a soldier. He pushed forward his men, and again we hewed them down. A third mass was pushed up. Our exhausted dragoons fled. Unsupported, I found myself by the brave Nisbet, and Paton, and Hackston. We looked for a moment's space in silence on each other. We galloped in front of our retreating men. We rallied them. We pointed to the General almost alone. We pointed to the white and scarlet colours floating near him. We cried, 'God and our country!' They faced about. We charged Clavers once more. 'Torfoot,' cried Nisbet, 'I dare you to the fore-front of the battle.' We rushed up at full gallop. Our men seeing this, followed also at full speed. We broke the enemy's line, bearing down those files which we encountered. We cut our way through their ranks. But they had now lengthened their front. Superior numbers drove us in. They had gained entire possession of the bridge. Livingstone and Dalziel were actually taking us on the flank. A band had got between us and Burley's infantry. 'My friends,' said Hackston to his officers, 'we are last on the field. We can do no more. We must retreat. Let us attempt, at least, to bring aid to these deluded men behind us. They have brought ruin on themselves and on us. Not Monmouth, but our own divisions have scattered us.' At this moment, one of the Life Guards aimed a blow at Hackston. My sword received it; and a stroke from Nisbet laid the foeman's hand and sword in the dust. He fainted and tumbled from the saddle. We reined our horses, and galloped to our main body. But what a scene presented itself here! These misguided men had their eyes now fully open to their own errors. The enemy were bringing up their whole force against them. I was not long a near spectator of it; for a ball grazed my courser. He plunged and reared, then shot off like an arrow. Several of our officers drew to the same place. On a knoll we faced about; the battle raged below us. We beheld our commander doing everything that a brave soldier could do with factious men against an overpowering foe. Burley and his troops were in close conflict with Clavers' dragoons. We saw him dismount three troopers with his own hand. He could not turn the tide of battle; but he was covering the retreat of these misguided men. Before we could rejoin him, a party threw themselves in our way. Hennoway, one of Clavers' officers, led them on. 'Would to God that this was Grahame himself,' some of my companions ejaculated aloud. 'He falls to my share,' said I, 'whosver the officer be.' I advanced—he met me. I parried several thrusts. He received a cut on the left arm; and the same sword, by the same stroke, shore off one of the horse's ears; it plunged and reared. We closed again. I received a stroke on the left shoulder. My blow fell on his sword arm. He reined his horse around, retreated a few paces, then returned at full gallop. My courser reared instinctively as his approached. I received his stroke on the back of my Ferrar; and, by a back stroke, I gave him a deep cut on the cheek. And, before he could recover a position of defence, my sword fell with a terrible blow on his steel cap. Stunned by the blow, he bent himself forward, and, grasping the mane, he tumbled from the saddle, and his steed galloped over the field. I did not repeat the blow. His left hand presented his sword; his right arm was disabled; his life was given to him. My companions having disposed of their adversaries (and some of them had two a-piece), we paused to see the fate of the battle. Dalziel and Livingstone were riding over the field, like furies, cutting down all in their way. Monmouth was galloping from rank to rank, and calling on his men to give quarter. Clavers, to wipe off the disgrace of Drumclog, was committing fearful havoc. 'Can we not find Clavers?' said Haugh-head. 'No,' said Captain Paton, 'the gallant Colonel takes care to have a solid guard of his rogues around him. I have sought him over the field; but I found him, as I now perceive him, with a mass of his Guards about him.' At this instant we saw our General at some distance, disentangling himself from the men who had tumbled over him in the mélé. His face, and hands, and clothes, were covered with gore. He had been dismounted, and was fighting on foot. We rushed to the spot, and cheered him. Our party drove back the scattered band of Dalziel. 'My friends,' said Sir Robert, as we mounted him on a stray horse, 'the day is lost! But—you, Paton; you, Brownlee of Torfoot; and you, Haugh-head, let not that flag fall into the hands of these incarnate devils. We have lost the battle; but, by the grace of God, neither Dalziel nor Clavers shall say that he took our colours. My ensign has done his duty. He is down. This sword has saved it twice. I leave it to your care: you see its perilous situation.' He pointed with his sword to the spot. We collected some of our scattered troops, and flew to the place. The standard-bearer was down, but he was still fearlessly grasping the flag-staff; while he was borne uprightly by the mass of men who had thrown themselves in fierce contest around it. Its well-known blue scarlet colours, and its motto, Christ's Crown and Covenant, in brilliant gold letters, inspired us with a sacred enthusiasm. We gave a loud cheer to the wounded ensign, and rushed into the combat. The redemption of that flag cost the foe many a gallant man. They fell beneath our broad swords, and with horrible execrations dying on their lips, they gave up their souls to their Judge. Here I met in front that ferocious dragoon of Clavers, named Tom Kalliday, who had more than once, in his raids, plundered my halls, and had snatched the bread from my weeping babes. He had just seized the white staff of the flag. But his tremendous oath of exultation had scarcely passed its polluted threshold, when this Andro Ferrara fell on the guard of his steel, and shivered it to pieces. 'Recreant loon,' said I, 'thou shalt this day remember thy evil deeds.' Another blow on his helmit laid him at his huge length, and made him bite the dust. In the mélé that followed, I lost sight of him. We fought like lions, but with the hearts of Christians. While my gallant companions stemmed the tide of battle, the standard, rent to tatters, fell across my breast. I tore it from the staff, and wrapt it round my body. We cut our way through the enemy, and carried our General off the field.
[#] The natives of Hamilton have preserved, by tradition, the name of the merchant who did this disservice to the Covenanters.
"Having gained a small knoll, we beheld once more the dreadful spectacle below. Thick volumes of smoke and dust rolled in a lazy cloud over the dark bands mingled in deadly affray. It was no longer a battle, but a massacre. In the struggle of my feelings, 'I turned my eyes on the General and Paton. I saw in the face of the latter an indescribable conflict of emotions. His long and shaggy eyebrows were drawn over his eyes. His hand grasped his sword. I cannot yet leave the field,' said the undaunted Paton; 'with the General's permission, I shall try to save some of our wretched men beset by those hell-hounds. Who will go? At Kilsyth I saw service. When deserted by my troops, I cut my way through Montrose's men and reached the spot where Colonels Halket and Strachan were. We left the field together. Fifteen Dragoons attacked us, we cut down thirteen and two fled. Thirteen next assailed us. We left ten on the field, and three fled. Eleven Highlanders next met us. We paused and cheered each other. 'Now, Johnny,' cried Halket to me, 'put forth your metal, else we are gone.' Nine others we sent after their comrades, and two fled.[#] 'Now, who will join this raid?' 'I will be your leader,' said Sir Robert, as we fell into the ranks. We marched on the enemy's flank. 'Yonder is Clavers,' said Paton, while he directed his courser on him. The bloody man was at that moment, nearly alone, hacking to pieces some poor fellows already on their knees disarmed and imploring him by the common feelings of humanity to spare their lives. He had just finished his usual oath against their feelings of humanity, when Paton presented himself. He instantly let go his prey and slunk back into the midst of his troopers. Having formed them, he advanced. We formed and made a furious onset. At our first charge his troop reeled. Clavers was dismounted. But at that moment Dalziel assailed us on the flank and rear. Our men fell around us like grass before the mower. The buglemen sounded a retreat. Once more in the mélé, I fell in with the General and Paton. We were covered with wounds. We directed our flight in the rear of the broken troops, By the direction of the General I had unfurled the standard. It was borne off the field flying at the sword's point. But that honour cost me much. I was assailed by three fierce dragoons, five followed close in the rear. I called to Paton—in a moment he was by my side. I threw the standard to the General, and we rushed on the foe. They fell beneath our swords; but my faithful steed, which had carried me through all my dangers, was mortally wounded. He fell. I was thrown in among the fallen enemy. I fainted. I opened my eyes on misery. I found myself in the presence of Monmouth—a prisoner—with other wretched creatures, awaiting in awful suspense their ultimate destiny." * * *
[#] This chivalrous defence is recorded in the life of Captain Paton.
And this standard had been borne at Bothwell Bridge; borne at early morn by the Covenanters, when hopes of victory animated their souls, urging them on to deeds of daring; and at evening, when the bright rays of the setting sun fell upon the deserted bridge—deserted by all save the dead and the dying—this banner blood-stained and riven, had been borne by some weary, perchance, wounded Covenanter, from the disastrous field, where perished the hopes of the Covenanting party.
I was roused from my momentary fit of abstraction by hearing Mrs. Anderson observe, as if in answer to her own thoughts, "Ay, it's rale dirty! but I was on the point of washing it the other day, when my husband said it was much better to let it remain as it was." Wash the standard stained with the blood of her forefathers! Convert the time-honoured relic into a clean piece of linen which would no longer bear the slightest resemblance to a banner that had been engaged in such honourable service! Surely she was joking. But no. There was no twinkle of merriment in those large grey eyes, which were fixed on mine, as if anticipating a glance of approbation for her thwarted intentions; not the slightest approach to a smile at the corners of the mouth, that had given utterance to the astounding declaration. I repressed a strong desire to laugh, and answered with becoming gravity, that I thought on the whole Mr. Anderson was right; and that it would be better to spare it the cleansing process, upon which she said, "May be ay;" and the venerable banner was replaced in the drawer.
Observing an old sword suspended from a nail on the wall, I inquired of Mrs. Anderson if there was any particular history attached to it? "'Deed there is," she replied, taking it down from the wall and placing it in my hands; that sword was employed in the killing o' two or three Royalists down by M—— yonder in the time o' the persecution. You see, the dragoons were drinking in a public-house that used to stand by the side o' the road near till M——. They were going on the next day to L—— to levy fines frae the Covenanters, a thing they had no business to do. And as they drank, their hearts were opened, and they boasted to the landlord that the wine-stoupa wadna contain the gold they should bring wi' them on their return.
"Now ye must know, that some one who was na' very friendly to their side of the question, happened to be in the house at that time, and heard their foolish talk; and what does he do, think ye, but rins awa' to some o' the nearest farms and collects several others like himself; for ye see people in these days were na' deterred by fear o' the laws frae just doing as they liket; and they all marched to the public-house, with the wicked intention o' killing the soldiers. Some say an old miller, o' the name o' Baird, who lived near here, and who had been a sore enemy to the Royalists, and had obtained a free pardon frae the Government, when aince he fell into their hands, headed the party. Wi' blackened faces, and guns, and swords, in their hands, they rushed into the room where sat the men. One of them, on perceiving their entrance, caught up a chair to defend hinself, but one o' the Covenanters thrust his sword wi' such force through his body, that it stuck in the wall behind him; while the others were finished wi' the butt-ends of their guns. Eh, sirs, but these were wild times. And this part o' the country was in a very disturbed state about that time; for just before the battle o' Bothwell Bridge, the royal army lay encamped all over the Muirhead up on the hill yonder; for it being a high situation, they had a good view o' all the country round; and whenever they ran out o' provisions, the soldiers just gaed to a' the farm-houses round about, and took away cattle, meal, butter, and everything they could lay their hands on without saying by your leave, or thank ye kindly for what they got. Ye must know that that standard belonged to the Telfords of Muirhead; it was one o' them that carried it to the battle o' Bothwell Bridge, and my husband's mother being one o' that family, he kens plenty aboot the Covenanters. Well, as I was saying, the dragoons went to all places they could think on to procure provisions for themselves, and provender for their horses, and they honoured Mrs. Telford often wi' a visit at these times—for she was well off in this world's gear; and I've heard my husband say—he had it from his mother, and she had it again from hers—that whenever the soldiers found there was more meal than they could conveniently carry away, they thought nothing o' tumbling the lave (remainder) a' doon the hill, not caring one straw how they were to be served that came ahint them. "However," continued Mrs. Anderson with a laugh, "they sometimes were cheated too, when they came to clear the byres and stables o' them that could ill afford to lose their cattle, as ye will hear by the following story o' the then mistress o' this house, who was sorely troubled by visits frae the thieving dragoons, who were sure never to go away empty-handed. Well, one day they came for the purpose o' stealing her cattle, when, just as they were conveying them away, she ran after them, telling them it was as much as their lives were worth, to take away her cows, as she had an order frae one of their officers, threatening with death the person who should touch them; so saying, she displayed an old receipt. The soldiers, as the woman suspected, not being able to read writing, and afraid of incurring the displeasure of their superiors, allowed the receipt to pass unchallenged, and departed, for once, empty-handed. Another time, they came to take her horses; and after they had removed them out of the stable, all except one old horse, which they did not consider worth the trouble of taking, and left them standing at the door, they entered the house, for the purpose of obtaining some refreshment. The mistress of the farm, on being informed of their intentions, managed, on some pretext or other, to slip away, after she had seen them seated round a loaded table, preparing to discuss the good things set before them, and entering the stable, loosened the sole remaining horse, and, mounting him, dashed off at a gallop, the others following in the rear. The dragoons hearing the noise attendant upon the departure of their stolen steeds, rushed out of the house, but too late to recover possession of the coveted horses, which in the most commendable manner followed their leader until they reached a place of safety. The soldiers returned to the camp highly incensed at being done out by a woman, and fully resolved never to venter near Westcroft farm again."
"Wicked people lived in these times," I observed.
"Ay," said Mrs. Anderson, "and good ones too; for I mind well o' my mother telling me, that even in her youth, people were far more strict and better in their conduct, than they were in my young days—ay," she added, with a shake of her head, "there is mony a strange sect started up now; and if a' are right that think they are, we maun be far wrong. But, as I was saying, my mother told me, that when young and able for the walk, she thought nothing of going ten miles to church. And one day she went to the kirk at O——, accompanied by a man and his wife; and while they were walking along the road, the man was standing pretty often, and looking at the crops, when his wife turned round and said—my mother told me she would never forget it—'James, are you not ashamed of yoursel', for casting your e'en at'oure the fields on the Lord's-day?' And for my own part, I mind well as a child, never being allowed to be seen out on a Sunday, binna it was when going to the kirk."
"I suppose you have frequently read the 'Scotch Worthies?'" I inquired.
"That I have, often and many a time," replied Mrs. Anderson, "eh, but these were the noble men—it's hard to say who were the best, they were all so good. There's Mr. Peden, what a bright example he gave to his people! Oh, but they were privileged who could hear the gospel preached by such a man! And eh, sirs, but he was sair, sair persecuted. I mind o' my mother telling me, when a little bit lassie, she had been shown a house near here, where that worthy man had a narrow escape for his life. You see he was coming to preach at an appointed place on the moors, and was spending the evening before-hand wi' a farmer who was a great friend o' the persecuted clergy, and never was known to turn one frae his door, even although certain death was the consequence o' its being found out. Well, just as Mr. Peden was seated at his supper, in the best room, the master o' the farm, frae the kitchen window, saw the red-coats advancing in the direction of the house. 'Wife, wife,' cried he, 'Mr. Peden is lost! Here are the dragoons come to take him. What can we do to save him?' Ye see, Mr. Peden was held in great veneration by them a'. 'Oh,' replied his wife, 'whenever the dragoons are within hearing, just you call out, Jock, put on your smock frock, and go off instantly to B—— for coals, and maybe the soldiers winna stop him.' The man did as he was desired, at the same time throwing the smock into the room where Mr. Peden was sitting. The latter perceiving the great danger he was in, instantly put on the carter's frock, and pulling his cap down over his forehead, put on as lubberly an appearance as possible, in order to look like the character he was assuming; and in this way passed his enemies without in the least exciting their suspicions; and very leisurely yoking the horse to the cart, he set off on his expedition. Thus, while the dragoons were searching the house for Mr. Peden, he was, through the mercy of God, far beyond their reach.
After a few remarks about the wicked deeds that were done in those days, the conversation turned upon the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, which Mrs. Anderson allowed was a cruel doing on the part of the Covenanters, although the Archbishop himself had caused the destruction of many of their body. "Ay," she said, "talking about that, I mind well o' a minister coming in here one night, who had just come frae Fife, and he told us that, in the house where he had been staying, the conversation one evening had turned upon the Covenanters, and the murder o' the Archbishop; and as they were speaking about him, the mistress o' the house went till a drawer, and pulling out two letters frae the King to Archbishop Sharpe, threw them on the table wi' a great air of consequence—for ye must know that she prided herself on her descent frae the Archbishop. The minister read the letters carefully, and having observed the look of importance with which the woman had produced them, he said to her, 'My good woman, I do not see any use in your keeping letters that belonged to that evil man, who did our forefathers such bad service; with your leave I shall put them into the fire.' 'You shall do no such thing!' replied the woman; 'these letters hae been in my possession this mony a day, and it's not very likely I kept them so long to allow them to be burned in the end.' Now for my own part," said Mrs. Anderson, "I think she did perfectly right; for losh pity me! if people were to be condemned for the evil doings o' their ancestors, we might a' hide our heads thegither; and besides, I think it a nice thing to hae these auld relics in one's ain house: there, now, a gentleman was very anxious, a short time ago, for me to send the banner and sword into the Antiquarian Society in Edinburgh; but no, no, says I, I'll just e'en keep them, were it only to show that my forefathers were fighting for the good old cause; but here comes my husband, and he will be able to tell ye plenty about the Covenanters."
Scarcely had Mrs. Anderson finished speaking, when her husband entered. "Here, Willie," she said, addressing him, "I am so glad you have come, for this lady is very anxious to hear some of your stories about the Covenanters."
"Indeed, ma'm," replied Mr. Anderson, taking off his hat on observing me, "it's not much that I know about them, but the little I have came from my forefathers, and you're welcome to it, if you think it would interest you; in the meantime," he added, "I suppose you have seen the standard and sword?"
"Indeed I have; it was the knowledge that you had such things that brought me here to-day."
Mr. Anderson smiled as he observed, that "the standard itself was nothing to look at, being made of such humble materials, but that the silk ones borne by the wealthy farmers and lairds were splendid indeed. Now, for instance, there was Mr. G——, of Green Hill, the standard he had was of the finest yellow silk, with the motto, 'Christ's Crown and Covenant,' engraved in letters of gold; ay, but it was bonnie to see! And I mind well, when the great meetings in connection with the Reform Bill were held throughout the country, that there was one at B——, and the people wished to get all the banners that could be procured, as there was to be a grand procession. Well, as I knew of Mr. G—— having this one, away I went to Green Hill, to see if he would let me have it for the above purpose; and as I was not personally acquainted with him, I got a line from the minister of the parish, testifying that I was trustworthy. Armed with this, I made my request known to Mr. G——, who received me very kindly, saying, that the banner was sadly torn and destroyed, but, if I could manage to get it repaired, I was welcome to it. Accordingly, I brought away the standard, and my wife having got it patched up a little, I took it to B——; and, oh, had you but seen the people's faces, as I laid before them the venerable banner: there was not a dry eye in the whole assembly. Men, women, and children mourned and wept; while gazing on the standard stained with the blood of their forefathers, who nobly fought and died for the cause of the Covenant."
"And who, pray, bore the standard, now in your possession, at Bothwell Bridge?"
"A young man of the name of Telford, who lived up at the Muirhead yonder. My mother was one of that family, and they had many a thing that belonged to the Covenanters; amongst other articles, the musical instruments they made use of when going to battle. My mother kept them until they fell to pieces with age; and the last time I saw the drum, it was holding rowans that the children had gathered; while the bugles which sounded the retreat at Bothwell were devoted to purposes equally peaceful and innocent."
"Can you give me any account of the young man who carried the standard on that occasion?"
"Yes ma'm," replied Mr. Anderson, and after a moment's pause, as if to collect his thoughts, he furnished me with the particulars comprised in the following story:—
On the evening of the 21st of June, 1679, while the royal army lay encamped on Bothwell Moor, a young man might have been observed stealing round the base of the hill, on which the farm of Muirhead was situated, apparently anxious to avoid being seen by any of the hostile army that lay around. He paused every few moments in his progress, as if to assure himself that he remained undetected, and listened eagerly to catch the least sound that gave warning of impending danger. But all was silent. No sound broke in upon the almost Sabbath stillness of the scene, save the voices of the sentinels as they went their solitary rounds.
Young Telford, for it was he, succeeded in gaining the farm-house in safety, and gently raising the latch, was speedily clasped in the arms of his mother, who had started to her feet, apprehensive of danger, on hearing her house entered at that unseasonable hour.
"My son! my son!" exclaimed the delighted woman, "'the Lord be praised, who in his great mercy hath spared you to gladden my eyes once more; but where is Thomas? Why came he not with you?"
"He could not, mother," replied her son, "else had he flown to see you! He stays to guard the banner committed to his care, and as we expect to encounter the foe to-morrow, he charged me to tell you, that never while he lives shall it fall into the hands of the enemy." The mother's eyes glistened at this proof of bravery on the part of her absent son, and gazing fondly in the face of the one now beside her, she inquired with a faltering voice, "and where have you been since last we met? For it seems to me an age since you and Thomas departed to join the ranks of the Covenanters."
"I have but shortly returned from Morayshire," replied her son, "where I sped with the fiery cross through moor and valley, terrifying the inhabitants with the false alarm that the Macdonalds were preparing to descend upon them, in order to prevent them from advancing to aid the royal forces. The peasant was aroused from his slumber, when the unearthly glare streamed in at his cottage window, as onwards I sped. Armed forces who were marching thitherward, swiftly returned to their homes, on hearing the appalling cry! "the Macdonald's are coming!" The bold Highlander turned pale with apprehension as I passed with the fatal symbol of war and desolation, and the fond mother pressed still closer to her bosom, the child who might soon be fatherless, on beholding the fiery track of the herald of woe."
"Oh, Willie!" cried Mrs. Telford, clasping her hands as she spoke.
"Still onwards I sped. Terror was visible on the faces of all, as again the warning voice proclaimed amidst the stillness of night the approach of the Macdonalds. At that dread name, the alarm flew from house to house; signal fires flamed upward from each mountain summit; all thoughts of leaving their country were abandoned, and the King may in vain expect men from thence."
At this moment a low tap at the door interrupted young Telford in the midst of his narration. Without one moment's hesitation, he darted towards the entrance, and presently returned with his arm round the neck of a young girl, whose lovely countenance was almost hid beneath the shepherd's plaid which she had hastily donned to protect her head from the cool breezes of evening.
"Jeanie!" exclaimed Mrs. Telford, warmly embracing the blushing stranger, "how fortunate! just to think you should chance to come when——!"
"It was no chance, mother," interrupted her son, "I durst not venture near Jeanie's house, in case the soldiers might send a bullet after me; so I bade a little boy go to the farm, and tell her that there was one she might wish to see in this house to-night, and, as he could remain but a few minutes, the sooner she came, the better for us both."
"Oh, Willie!" sobbed the weeping girl, "could you but know the cruel state of suspense I have been in these three months back, not knowing where you were, or what might be your fate, you would never, never go away again! Oh! say you winna leave me," she implored, gazing upwards in his face with eager beseeching eyes, while tears coursed rapidly down her cheeks; "say you winna go!"
"Tempt me not, dearest," replied her lover in a voice expressive of the deepest anguish, as he drew her fondly to his bosom, "I cannot—must not remain. To-morrow we may chance to encounter the foe, and I could not endure the thoughts of entering the field, without again obtaining a mother's blessing, and one more glance from those bright eyes; so I stole from the camp, while my brother remained behind to guard the banner. And now I must return, for I may be missed; and I should not like to be long absent at a time like this. Mother, your blessing on me and my absent brother, that we prosper in the fight," so saying, he knelt to receive the desired benediction.
"May the God of battles, in whose hands are the issues of life and death, be unto you both as a rock of defence in the hour of danger, and restore you once more to me, my beloved son," exclaimed his mother, placing her hands on his lowly bent head, and weeping as she spoke; "the Lord knows," she continued, "the bitterness of my heart this night, and yet why should I grudge you in so good a cause? Rise, my son, rise; and may the Power above, who is able and willing to help us in the time of need, guide you in all safety, and strengthen me in the hour of trial."
Young Telford sprang to his feet, and clasping his betrothed in his arms, was about to comfort her with assurances of his speedy return, when he perceived she had fainted.
"My poor Jeanie!" exclaimed Mrs. Telford tenderly, then pointing to the door, she conjured her son to hasten away ere his betrothed recovered her consciousness, and thus spare her the agony of witnessing his departure.
"Ay, far better it should be so, mother," replied her son, "and yet it is hard to leave my Jeanie thus; but tell her I only went to spare her further pain;" so saying, he placed the unconscious girl gently in a chair, imprinted a kiss on her clay-cold forehead, wrung his mother's hand, and was gone.
Scarcely had he disappeared, ere Jeanie Irving, with a deep-drawn sigh of anguish, opened her eyes, and fixing them with a wandering vacant look upon Mrs. Telford, who had placed her upon her own bed, and was now bending over her with almost maternal solicitude depicted upon her benevolent countenance, inquired where she was, and if she had been only dreaming he had seen her Willie.
"'Deed and it was no fancy," replied Mrs. Telford; "Willie was here sure enough, but don't speak any more about him just at present, like a dear, good girl; he will be back to-morrow evening to tell you all about himself, and where he has been; so just remain quiet for a little while, and I will go to Mr. Irving and tell him that you will stay here a day or two, to comfort me in the absence of my sons;" so saying, and without tarrying for an answer, away she ran to execute her mission.
Early on the following morning, Jeanie Irving, whom no reasoning on the part of Mrs. Telford could induce to remain in bed, posted herself at the door of the cottage, eager to obtain the first glimpse of him she loved, should he return according to his promise. In the meantime the royal army had advanced towards Bothwell, where the Covenanting party was stationed, and soon the mighty roar of cannon proclaimed to the startled ears of Jeanie that the fighting had commenced. In her wild eagerness to ascertain the fate of her lover. she was about to rush madly forward in the direction from whence the sounds proceeded, and the almost frantic efforts of Mrs. Telford were scarce sufficient to restrain her from executing her purpose. For a few hours the thunder of the cannon, mingled with the firing of musketry, struck terror to the hearts of the affrighted women, who clung to each other, pale and speechless; while pealed forth the death-knell of many a gallant heart. Then came a lull, even more dreadful in its terrific calmness, for it proclaimed the battle was over—that the fate of their loved ones was decided. And now might be seen riderless horses galloping wildly across the plain, and mounted horsemen spurring their jaded steeds beyond their powers of endurance; while more slowly, and dragging his weary steps along, the wounded Covenanter strove to find safety in flight from the disastrous field. With a scream of delight, Jeanie bounded forward on observing the figure of a young man, evidently making towards them; but, on nearing him, she found to her consternation it was Thomas, and not William Telford, who now approached, staggering under the load of the banner, which, soiled and torn, he laid at his mother's feet.
"Thomas!" screamed Mrs. Telford; "but where is Willie? Oh! wherefore so silent?"
"Speak, I implore you, speak," gasped forth Jeanie Irving, "is he killed? Is he wounded?"
"He is a prisoner!" was the sad reply.
"God be praised it is no worse!" fervently ejaculated the weeping girl; "I shall yet save him, or perish in the attempt."
"And you, Thomas, what of yourself?" demanded Mrs. Telford, observing the ghastly expression of her son's face, while traces of blood were yet apparent on his coat and hands. The young man, without a reply, uncovered his head, and displayed, in so doing, a frightful gash on his forehead. "My son, my son!" groaned forth the afflicted mother, "Oh! this is hard—hard to bear. I thought I had taught myself to say with resignation, 'the Lord's will be done;' but, oh my rebellious heart!"
"'I said I should bring it back to you, mother, if life were spared me to perform my promise, and I have done it," proudly exclaimed her son. "I have brought it in safety; but, alas! from a dishonoured field. Treachery has lost us the day, and ruined our cause for ever. But Willie and I did our duty. While a ray of hope still animated the bosoms of our leaders, we would not quit the field. Willie was mad with rage. He fought like a lion. Every soldier he encountered fell beneath his sword. My care was the banner. Three dragoons attacked me. Encumbered with the standard, I called upon Willie for assistance. He came hewing down all in his way. A musket was upraised to shoot him. I struck it down, and, in so doing, received this wound on my forehead from a cowardly ruffian, who took advantage of my being engaged with another, to inflict the dastardly blow. I fell with the banner beneath me. Then the dragoons, aided by two others, rushed upon Willie, and bore him away. They would have killed him, but for the Duke of Monmouth, who commanded them to spare his life. I struggled to regain my feet; but fainted away through loss of blood. On recovering my senses, I observed a dragoon stealing up to deprive me of my standard; but one blow from the butt-end of my musket despatched him, and, grasping my banner in my hand, I made another effort to rise, and succeeded. Captain Paton advanced. 'My poor fellow,' he said, 'you are sadly wounded; get off the field as swiftly as possible;' so saying, he took some herbs from his pocket, and applying them to the wound, staunched the blood; then, taking me by the arm, he moved onwards a few paces by my side, as though to protect me from further injury—the road in this direction being clear of the Royalists, who were murdering my comrades right and left at the other end of the field. I thanked the noble Captain—whose eyes gleamed with pleasure on observing the uncaptured standard—and proceeded on my way in safety. Having ascended an eminence, I turned to look on the bloody plain. There stood Captain Paton, as I had left him, leaning on his sword, and gazing on the fearful scene around him, apparently overwhelmed with grief. General Hamilton, with a party of officers, was advancing towards him. I looked again. They were slowly quitting the field. And I continued my solitary flight."
Mrs. Telford, at the close of her son's narrative, threw her arms around his neck, and wept aloud. "My poor Thomas," she exclaimed, "grateful should I be to the Lord, who hath spared you to return this day to your home; but, oh! when I think on my noble Willie a captive in the hands of these cruel, blood-thirsty men, my heart feels like to burst with its load of sorrow; and, yet, what can I do to save him?"
"Mother," said Jeanie Irving, "for such you have been to me, do not despair. A voice whispers in my heart that Willie will soon be free—that he will yet live to bless and comfort us all. Do not give way to grief, but trust in God, who, I feel assured, will grant the wishes of our hearts in this matter."
"The widow—for such Mrs. Telford was—soothed and comforted by the earnest assurances of the kind-hearted and hopeful maiden, embraced her warmly, and blessed her for her dutiful resignation to the will of Providence. But a high and noble purpose had filled the loving heart of the simple Scottish girl; and it was the determination to free her lover that caused her eye to sparkle, and her cheek to burn, with the sweet anticipations of hope, as she dwelt on the triumph of obtaining her lover's pardon, even should she kneel at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth to obtain it. Accordingly, at an early hour on the following morning, when Mrs. Telford and her son were locked in the arms of slumber, Jeanie Irving, acting on a previously adopted resolution, stole gently from her couch and dressed herself hastily; then, kissing Mrs. Telford silently on the forehead, she knelt down and prayed fervently for guidance and protection during her absence; and, snatching a small bundle of necessaries prepared over-night for her journey, and placing a letter—informing Mrs. Telford of the step she was about to take—on the table, she noiselessly opened the door, stood for one moment, while her lips moved as if she was engaged in mental prayer, shut it slowly, and departed. Having been informed by Thomas Telford that the prisoners were to be taken to Edinburgh, thither Jeanie determined to proceed; but on arriving at Linlithgow, she heard no tidings of their having passed that way. Fearful lest some change had been made regarding their destination, Jeanie Irving stood irresolute, not knowing what to do, but, on second thoughts, she proceeded to the house of her aunt, a sister of her mother, who resided in Linlithgow, there to await their coming, lest something might have occurred to delay their progress. Mrs. Johnstone—which was the name of her aunt—received her niece very kindly; but on her expressing her surprise at seeing her enter so unexpectedly, the long-sustained fortitude of Jeanie Irving gave way, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears. Amazed and distressed at the sight of her niece's grief, Mrs. Johnstone soothed and comforted her to the best of her ability, and was rewarded for her kind sympathy by the recital of Jeanie's hopes, fears, and intentions respecting her lover's escape, which she confided to the willing ears of her aunt, when her sorrow allowed her the power of utterance.
"Oh, my dear lassie!" said Mrs. Johnstone, at the close of her niece's narration, "you do not know the difficulty of the course you mean to pursue; you never can succeed. Willie Telford will be so closely guarded that you will not get near him; do not go on, but stay with me at least until we hear something regarding the destination of the unfortunate men."
At this moment a distant murmur of voices was heard, mingled with the trampling of many feet. Nearer came the sounds; louder swelled the tumult, till none could mistake its meaning. Poor Jeanie turned as pale as death; her heart told her the prisoners were approaching. Grasping her aunt by the arm, she staggered towards the window, and what a dismal sight greeted her eager eyes! Onwards came the dragoons—their plumes waving—their horses prancing. Next advanced a body of men, to the number of about five hundred, foot-sore and weary; wounded, and prisoners. Jeanie Irving groaned in agony. The quick glance of affection soon descried the stately form of William Telford. Amidst the motley crowd, he walked erect and proudly, as though he were marching onwards to victory—not to a prison—perchance to death.
The eyes of Jeanie Irving seemed about to start from their sockets on beholding the sad procession; but new horrors awaited her. She beheld some of the sympathising spectators, while advancing with cups of cold water to moisten the lips of the wounded portion of the prisoners, and a morsel of bread to comfort their weary hearts, beaten back with oaths, and contumely by the rude soldiers, who, insensible to all the softer emotions of humanity, seemed determined to make their captives feel the wretchedness of their lot. She saw her beloved William stunned by a blow from the butt-end of a musket, while endeavouring to procure nourishment for a sinking comrade.
On beholding this outrage inflicted on the object of her affections, Jeanie Irving screamed and struggled to free herself from her aunt's grasp, as if for the purpose of springing out into the street, in order to join her lover. Indeed, so excited did she become in her endeavours to carry out her wishes, that her aunt, fearful of the consequences that might ensue, should she be permitted to retain her station at the window, seized her in her arms, and dragged her away from beholding the dismal spectacle. On the disappearance of the melancholy cavalcade, Mrs. Johnstone placed Jeanie Irving on her bed, and would on no account hear of her attempting to rise until she had partaken of some repose; and, indeed, poor Jeanie, overcome as she was with fatigue and anxiety, felt the necessity of obeying her aunt's wishes in this respect. Shortly after lying down she fell into a sleep, apparently broken at first by the agitating thoughts that chased each other through her mind, for she moaned and shivered in such a manner that Mrs. Johnstone grew apprehensive lest the distress under which she laboured might yet throw her into a fever. Gradually, however, she grew calmer, and at length, to her aunt's delight, all the sad events of the day seemed forgotten in a tranquil slumber. On her awaking, refreshed and strengthened from her long repose, Mrs. Johnstone, who now perceived the danger of thwarting her in her intentions of endeavouring to free William Telford, represented the strong necessity there was of her remaining quiet, for a few days longer, as, should she set off instantly on her journey, she might get herself into trouble, and thus by her rashness lose the only chance of saving her lover. This last argument, skillfully introduced by Mrs. Johnstone, had great weight with her impatient niece; and she accordingly remained with her aunt five days, during which period she carefully abstained from alluding to the topic which so entirely engrossed her thoughts. But on the morning of the sixth day she again expressed her intention of proceeding to Edinburgh, in order to learn the destination of the prisoners. This time Mrs. Johnstone threw no obstacles in the way of her niece's departure, but going to a closet she took from thence two bundles, one of which she handed to Jeanie Irving, while the other she retained in her own possession. Jeanie eyed her aunt with astonishment, while that worthy person proceeded very leisurely to donn her bonnet and shawl, and at length ventured to inquire the meaning of such preparations.
"It is just this, my dear lassie," said Mrs. Johnstone in answer to her niece's inquiry, "I am a lone widow with no one here to care for me, or to mind whether I go or stay, so I have determined upon accompanying you to Edinburgh, in order to protect and assist you as far as lies in my power. When you came here and told me your sad story, I resolved upon going with you, and laid my plans accordingly. Two days ago a boy was dispatched to tell your father and Mrs. Telford where you were, and that they need not feel anxious about you, as I should tend and love you as though you were mine own child. Now, don't say one word against this, Jeanie, for my mind is made up on this subject."
Poor Jeanie Irving, quite overcome with this proof of affection and kind interest on the part of her aunt, threw herself into her arms, and sobbed aloud, thanking her through her tears for her promised protection, which she assured her would prove invaluable, as she should require a faithful guide and counsellor to cheer and advise her 'mid all the trials and disappointments she was prepared to encounter. All being thus satisfactorily arranged, Mrs. Johnstone proceeded to settle some little household affairs prior to departing with her niece—such as stopping the clock, locking up closets, throwing water on the fire, and sundry other little arrangements which all careful housekeepers know to be essential before leaving home. The rays of the setting sun were gilding the towers of the ancient fortress of Dunedin, as Mrs. Johnstone and her niece entered the Scottish capital. All was terror and confusion. Dragoons marched along the streets with all the insolence of petty power which subordinates know so well how to assume;—members of the opposite faction stole noiselessly on their way, as if afraid of attracting the notice of the swaggering soldiers, who seemed fully aware of, and to enjoy the terror they inspired; while aged citizens, whose care-worn faces betrayed the anxiety under which they laboured, stood together in groups as if discussing the events of the day. Jeanie, with the natural modesty of her sex, drew the shepherd's plaid still closer around her, to screen her face in some measure from the insolent gaze of the dragoons, some of whom peered underneath the covering as they passed in the hopes of obtaining a glimpse of the carefully-shrouded face.
"Pull it off her, George," said a soldier to his comrade, one of these who failed in their attempts to get a look of Jeanie Irving, "pull it off her, and let us see what she's like; what in the name of wonder makes her hide her face in that manner? Pull it off her, I say."
"No, no, don't do that: let the woman alone," exclaimed another of the party, observing that the one named George was about to obey his friend's instructions; "she is not annoying us; and see that party of men, yonder, watching us with threatening looks, as if eager to take advantage of the slightest provocation on our part, to commence an affray. Come, let us be peaceful." The soldier thus admonished abandoned his purpose, and allowed Jeanie and her aunt to pass on their way unmolested.
"Thank God!" inwardly ejaculated the trembling women on finding themselves freed from the rude grasp of the dragoon, and quickening their steps, they turned into a less noisy and crowded street. But soon a new alarm struck fresh terror to their trembling souls, for the deep roll of a drum was now, distinctly heard. Onwards it came; and Jeanie Irving, trembling in every limb, fearing, she knew not what, grasped her aunt by the arm, as she stood breathless and agitated, waiting the result. Soon a large party of soldiers appeared in sight, one of them bearing a huge drum, which he beat at regular intervals; while another read aloud a proclamation, warning the citizens of Edinburgh, under pain of death, to abstain from visiting the prisoners at present stationed in the Greyfriars Church-yard, save when bringing them provisions, such as should be approved of by the sentinels. Jeanie's heart beat wildly with renewed hope on hearing that the prisoners were merely confined in an open churchyard, and that their friends would be permitted to take them food at stated intervals. It was true that sentinels were stationed there, who would no doubt keep a strict watch over all comers; but what can youth and ingenuity not achieve? Thus full of sanguine anticipations respecting the ultimate success of her scheme, Jeanie Irving accompanied her aunt to the house of a mutual friend, with whom Mrs. Johnstone meant to stay during their sojourn in Edinburgh, which she now devoutly hoped might prove a short one. Mrs. Hamilton received her visitors very graciously; expressed her satisfaction when Mrs. Johnstone informed her that their visit was likely to prove a longer one than she, under present circumstances, could have wished; and steadfastly refused all offers of remuneration, which Mrs. Johnstone was anxious she should receive, to compensate in some measure for the trouble they were likely to occasion her.
"No, no, my dear friend," said Mrs. Hamilton, while she proceeded to make preparations for her evening meal, "don't—if you please, say any more on that subject; it's little I have, but, please God, that little shall always be at the service of the few friends I have now remaining; losh pity me, are you not my cousin, thrice removed on my mother's side, and just to think o' one relation taking money off another? I never heard tell o' such a like thing; no, no, stay wi' me as long as you like, and welcome;" so saying, Mrs. Hamilton proceeded leisurely to put one of her best damask cloths on the table, which she soon covered with plates of bread and butter, some newly-made jelly, etc; in short, the best of everything the house could afford, was brought forth to do honour to her welcome guests. "Now, sit your ways down," said Mrs. Hamilton, after she had completed the arrangements to her own satisfaction, and, taking Mrs. Johnstone by the arm, she seated her at the head of the table, motioning Jeanie to sit beside her, "sit your ways down, and partake of what is before you." Mrs. Johnstone proceeded, greatly to the delight of Mrs. Hamilton, to make an active onslaught on the good things with which the table was abundantly supplied. "That's right, my dear," exclaimed the hospitable widow, her eyes beaming with pleasure, "but, Jeanie Irving, what has come over you, lassie?" she enquired, astonished beyond measure on perceiving that the maiden in question evinced not the slightest disposition to assist her aunt in the arduous undertaking of demolishing the huge pile of bread and butter placed so temptingly within her reach. Jeanie, by way of answer to this anxious inquiry, hastened to assure Mrs. Hamilton that she was indeed making an excellent meal; and wishing to turn the conversation into another channel, she expressed a desire to know whose was the sword hanging on the opposite wall. Mrs. Hamilton's good-natured face lengthened considerably as she replied with a faltering accent, that it had belonged to her husband, who perished at the battle o' Pentland Hills. "Indeed," said Jeanie Irving, greatly interested in hearing that her kind hostess had also been a sufferer from those sad religious differences; "and pray"—here she suddenly stopped short, on observing Mrs. Hamilton raise her apron to her eyes, and apparently wipe away an unbidden tear. After a pause of a few moments, during which time Jeanie Irving remained mute, with her eyes fixed on the sword, Mrs. Hamilton inquired of her friend what it was that had brought her to Edinburgh in these stormy times. In reply to this rather confusing question, Mrs. Johnstone pressed Mrs. Hamilton's foot under the table, at the same time darting a glance in the direction of her niece, who entirely engrossed by her own sad thoughts, did not overhear the question, as if to warn Mrs. Hamilton against alluding to that subject in her presence.
Shortly afterwards the eyelids of Jeanie Irving displayed symptoms of closing, observing which, her thoughtful hostess offered to conduct her to her sleeping apartment; a proposal which poor Jeanie, overcome as she was with a load of anxiety and grief, but too gladly accepted; so, bidding her aunt an affectionate good night, she followed Mrs. Hamilton, who led the way into a small but neat bed-room, &c. After expressing her wishes for the comfort of her guest, left her to repose. On Mrs. Hamilton's return to the parlour, both she and Mrs. Johnstone drew in their seats considerably nearer the hearth, with the evident intention of enjoying a nice, comfortable gossip over the glowing embers; and Mrs. Johnstone, as the reader will be prepared to hear, regaled her friend with a long and circumstantial account of her niece's love-affair, together with the sad circumstances attending it, which had occasioned their sudden visit to the Scottish capital. "Wae's me," exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, at the close of her friend's sad recital; "to think o' a bonnie young creature having gone through sae much sorrow already, and likely to suffer a hantle more ere she's by wi' it! Oh! are'na the ways o' Providence dark and unscrutable to the like o' us, poor blind mortals as we are? Dearie me, Mrs. Johnstone, but I sadly fear your niece winna get much to comfort her here. I fear it's a doomed boat she's embarked in. Willie Telford will never be able to escape from his cruel captors. Oh, but my heart's wae for the poor sweet lassie; and ye say her life's bound up in his?" Mrs. Johnstone replied in the affirmative, adding, "that it would be much better not to damp the bright hopes entertained by Jeanie Irving regarding her lover's escape." "Don't be afraid o' me saying anything that would harm the winsome bit lassie," interrupted Mrs. Hamilton, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, "no, no; I know too well what it is to suffer, ever to add to the distress o' a' fellow-creature. Well do I mind the day when my husband gaed awa to the Pentlands. 'Jeanie,' says he, 'I feel uncommon sad at leaving you this day, my woman,' says he; and says I, 'Why John?' for ye see I didna quite take up his meaning, 'why should ye be so grieved, when ye're going to fight a good fight for the Covenant?' says I. 'Oh,' quo' he, 'I feel as if I never should see you again,' says he; and wi' that I took to the shivering all over. 'If that be your thought,' says I, 'John, do bide wi' me, for I've many a time heard people wiser than me say, it's ill going away frae hame wi' sic gloomy thoughts in one's mind.' 'Ah, na, Jeanie, my woman,' says he, 'may be it's a foolish fancy on my part, an' it wadna do to yield to it;' an wi' that he gaed awa, an' I never set my eyes on him since syne. Was'na that a sad, sad thing! an' many's the time I've blamed mysel' since then for not making him bide at hame, but ye see, it was a' in the cards, an' what will be maun be." Thus having testified her submission to the stern decrees of fate, Mrs. Hamilton turning to Mrs. Johnstone, abruptly demanded of her if she was a believer in dreams?
"Well," said Mrs. Johnstone in reply, "I really do not know what to say on that point, for I have had one or two very strange dreams in my lifetime, which have been fulfilled to the very letter; but whether it was that my mind had been running so much on these matters during the day-time, and that this caused them to form the subjects of my dreams by night; or, that they were sent to me as warnings of what was to happen, I cannot tell; but what makes you ask that question, Mrs. Hamilton?"
"Oh, nothing, but just that I had a most extraordinary dream the night before I heard tell o' my husband's death, which, if you will not laugh at me for relating such a thing, I should like to tell you."
On Mrs. Johnstone assuring her that the opinion she herself entertained on the subject of her own dreams was much too serious for her ever to ridicule those narrated by other people, Mrs. Hamilton commenced as follows:—
"Well, as I told you before, it was the night preceding the day on which I heard tell o' the death of my husband, and I could not well account for it; but the whole o' that day I had been rale douie and dispirited, just as one often feels before hearing bad news o' some sort or other; so much so, that I gaed away early to my bed, in hopes that a good sleep would do me good. For a long time, not one wink o' sleep could I get, do what I could, until at length, in a fit of desperation, I sprang out of bed, and took a turn or two up and down the room, to see if that would cool the fever of my blood. It did so, and shortly after I fell into a deep slumber. Well, Mrs. Johnstone, during that sleep I had the following dream, which even yet impresses me more than I should like to tell. Methought the door of my room suddenly opened, and in stepped a figure all clad in white, and o' a fair and beauteous countenance, which, approaching the side o' my bed, said in a sweet mournful voice, which sounded just like the sighing wind, 'Jeanie Hamilton, you must this instant rise and follow me!' Upon which I replied, 'And wherefore am I to follow you?' 'Ask no questions,' said the beautiful vision, 'but come away.' Well, wi' that I raise out o' my bed, almost as it were in spite o' myself, and away I gaed after the figure, which seemed to me to flee swiftly as a soul, when freed from its mortal coil, would cleave the air in its passage to another world. Onwards we went, until we came to a dark dismal plain; and never did I see anything so dreary as the aspect o' that place! Then my guide stopt, and taking me by the hand, said, 'now I must lead you; our way lies through this moor;' and I thought in my sleep that I trembled all over, as hand in hand with the radiant figure I traversed the desolate-looking plain, which to my horror I perceived to be thickly strewn with dead bodies. Oh, how my heart sickened at that fearful sight! there they lay, the old and the young, all huddled together, sleeping the last long sleep of death. 'Stop, stop,' I said to my guide; 'oh, do let me turn back—I cannot go onwards; what means this? why have you brought me here?' The vision smiled sadly, and without a reply, still motioned me onwards. I could not resist. A mysterious indescribable power, as it were, impelled me to follow, until at length it paused, and pointing to the prostrate form of a man, whom to my horror I discovered to be my husband, lying cold and stiff, with a deep wound on his forehead, said, 'It was to take a last look of him you loved so well that I brought you here,' and with that it disappeared. The cry of anguish which I uttered on hearing this awoke me from my slumber: and oh, Mrs. Johnstone, you cannot think what I suffered from the remembrance of that dream, for, from that moment, I felt convinced that my husband had perished on the battle field. Well, in the course of the following day, when a near neighbour, who had been at the Pentlands, came to apprise me of John Hamilton's death, I told him, so convinced was I of the truth of my dream of the previous night, before ever he had spoken a word, that I knew he had come to tell me o' my husband's death. The man stood staring at me in breathless astonishment, apparently at a loss to comprehend my meaning, until I told him o' the strange dream I had had; and what do you think, Mrs. Johnstone," added Mrs. Hamilton, sinking her voice to a whisper, "my husband had been killed on the previous day, and by a sabre wound on his forehead."
"Bless me," exclaimed Mrs. Johnstone, at the close of her friend's narration, "that is the most singular thing I ever heard; undoubtedly it was a warning sent to prepare you for the sad news you were about to hear."
"That is just my own opinion on the matter," said Mrs. Hamilton, as she proceeded to put a huge piece o' coal on the top of the smouldering embers; after which signal of preparation for departure, the friends retired to rest.
Immediately after partaking of breakfast on the following morning, Jeanie Irving expressed her intention of at once proceeding to the Greyfriars' Church-yard, to see if she could by any means obtain admittance to William Telford. Accordingly, accompanied by her aunt, who would on no account permit her to go forth alone—and carrying in her hand a small basket of provisions, which the kindness of Mrs. Hamilton supplied—she set forth on her mission. The nearer they advanced towards their destination, the more did poor Jeanie Irving's heart sink within her; for the first time since leaving home she dwelt cooly and calmly on the arduous undertaking before her, and realized the real difficulty of the task she had determined to achieve. Mrs. Johnstone perceiving how much her niece was engrossed by her own thoughts, abstained from addressing her until they arrived at the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the gate of which was surrounded by a numerous crowd of men and women clamorous to obtain admission to the prisoners.
The sentinels apparently took advantage of their situation to annoy and insult the trembling petitioners, many of whom they bade go about their business, after having deprived them of the provisions they carried; others, again, they permitted to enter, but not until they had taken from them the greater portion of the food and clothing they had brought to comfort and assist their friends. With a trembling heart and faltering steps, Jeanie Irving was advancing towards the sentinels, when a sweet feminine voice whispered in her ear, "For God's sake! leave that worthy woman behind, and take me with you; three going in at once would excite suspicion, and there is one in that church-yard I must see to-day, yet I lack courage to venture in alone." Jeanie Irving turned and looked on the speaker, whom, although clad in the meanest attire, and having her face concealed beneath a coarse woollen shawl, she perceived by her graceful bearing to be some person of consequence, and being of a kind sympathising nature, she at once acceded to the wishes of the stranger, and turning to her aunt, explained the necessity there was of her remaining without until she returned. Mrs. Johnstone, who had also arrived at her own conclusions regarding the individual who was addressing her niece, expressed her willingness to comply with her request; accordingly, Jeanie Irving, whose arm was instantly grasped by the trembling hand of her new acquaintance, continued her way towards the gate. Fortunately, the sentinel who stood nearest the shrinking maidens proved to be less strict than the others, and allowed them to enter the church-yard without interruption. With eager eyes did Jeanie Irving and her companion scan each group of men as they passed, in order to discover the faces of those so fondly loved. Apparently the stranger soon discovered him she sought, for suddenly disengaging her arm from that of Jeanie's, she bade God bless her! for her kindness, and darted towards an elegant young man, evidently of high birth, who stood a little way apart from the others. Jeanie Irving paused for a few seconds to witness the rapturous greeting exchanged between the pair, and again continued her wistful search.
In the meantime, William Telford was standing in a remote corner of the church-yard engaged in earnest conversation with three others, when the trembling shrinking form of a young girl advancing towards them caught his eye. One glance was sufficient; and Jeanie Irving was that instant clasped in the arms of her lover.
"Jeanie," gasped forth William Telford, as again and again he kissed the cold lips of her who lay speechless on his shoulder. He could say no more. Both were overcome with an excess of joy almost painful in its intensity, but hearts and eyes were busy during the time that speech was denied them.
Those individuals who were standing near them, respecting the feelings of the lovers, withdrew a little aside, in order that they might enjoy uninterrupted intercourse.
"Willie!" at length Jeanie Irving found voice to say. "is it only a dream, or am I indeed gazing once more on your dear face, which has never for one moment been absent from me? it has haunted my thoughts by day, and my dreams by night; but oh, Willie," she continued, "I must and will get you from hence; my heart will break in twain should you remain much longer in this damp unwholesome place; but how can it be managed?"
"Think not of such a thing, my dearest girl," replied William Telford; "any efforts on your part would only entail destruction on your own head, and add fresh misery to that I am called upon to endure."
Perceiving an expression of intense anguish pass across the face of the disappointed maiden, as he attempted to dissuade her from her purpose, William Telford forbore saying any more on the subject, but turned the conversation into another channel, by demanding of Jeanie Irving how she had been since last he saw her, and whether his mother and brother were well. To these inquires on the part of her lover, Jeanie replied, by giving him a detailed account of all that had happened since his departure; dwelling on the grief she experienced on beholding the sad procession pass along the streets of Linlithgow, and how she longed to spring from the window to embrace him again, and, if need be, share his imprisonment. To all of which proofs of love on the part of her he idolised, William Telford could only reply, by straining her still closer to his bosom, and imprinting a dozen kisses on her forehead and lips.
"My poor Willie, how thin and pale you are!" said Jeanie Irving, gazing tenderly in her lover's face, while tears ran down her cheeks as she spoke, "but sit your ways down and partake of what I have brought you, for it is easy to see from your appearance that many suns have risen and set since you have eaten a good meal;" so saying, she uncovered her basket, and making William Telford seat himself on a neighbouring mound, supplied him with eatables from her store. "And now," she said after her lover had finished his repast, "you must in your turn inform me how you and your companions have been treated since you came to this horrid place."
"Like brute beasts," was the indignant reply, "and not like men possessing immortal souls. Night after night have we been forced to lie in the open air without a covering of any kind to protect us from the rain or the unwholesome dews of evening. And should any of us chance to raise our heads, in order to change our position, or to look about us, we are fired at immediately. Only last night there was a poor fellow shot beside me for merely raising his head, forgetful for a moment of the savages who were near him watching with lynx eyes his slightest movement."
"Oh, Jeanie," continued her lover, "many and many a time have I lain down cold and supperless, with nought in the world to comfort me but thoughts of you; when the calm cold stars shone above my head like so many bright spirits watching over and pitying us in our loneliness and misery. Oft have I for hours gazed and gazed, while my companions around me were locked in slumber, wishing myself an inhabitant of the brighter world beyond. But now, dearest Jeanie, the sight of your sweet face has in a great measure restored me to myself, and I would fain live for your sake."
"And you shall live," passionately exclaimed the enthusiastic girl; "I will throw myself at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth, nor rise from that posture until he has granted my request."
"You would never be allowed to see him," sadly replied her lover; "there are those around the Duke's person who would jealously exclude any of our party from the presence of his Grace. He is a noble fellow," continued William Telford, "and were every one like him, we should not have been pining here like so many cattle in a pen."
"Promise me, Willie," suddenly interrupted Jeanie Irving, "that should I contrive means of escape from this horrid place, you will take advantage of them."
William Telford paused one moment ere he replied, but at length he said, placing his hand in hers, "For your sake, clearest, and that of my widowed mother, I will; but oh, take care, Jeanie, both for your own sake and mine, what you do; consider how precious you are to me; plunge not yourself into difficulties on my account; it may be that our captors may relent, and and I may yet be free."
"Trust them not," replied Jeanie Irving, "they resemble the tiger, which once having tasted blood, thirsteth for more; no, no, my Willie," she continued, "a woman's wit must save you here; so trust to me for speedy deliverance—but in the meantime I must be going, for I left my kind aunt at the gate, who will necessarily feel anxious should I not return soon."
"Why came she not in with you?" inquired her lover.
Whereupon, Jeanie Irving recounted to him the singular adventure she had met with at the gate, and asked of him who the handsome young man was the stranger had flown to, on entering the church-yard, but William Telford could afford her no information on the subject.
After a warm embrace, and an assurance on the part of Jeanie Irving that she should, without fail, return on the morrow, the lovers parted, and hastening past the sentinels, who did not seek to detain her, Jeanie rejoined her aunt, who was awaiting her return with the utmost impatience. On the following morning. Mrs. Johnstone and her niece again set off for the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the latter with a heart lightened of half its former load of grief, and indulging in sweet anticipations respecting the approaching interview. On nearing the gate, they observed groups of people standing conversing together, evidently discussing some important piece of news, many of them with smiles of satisfaction on their faces, while the sentinels walked their rounds with gloomy dissatisfied countenances, as if something had occurred to make them more than usually sullen. Mrs. Johnstone having inquired of a bystander the reason of the prevailing excitement, was informed that, on the previous evening, young Lord C—— had escaped from the church-yard, disguised as a female, and that the sentinels were dreadfully annoyed at the occurrence, as they had received particular directions regarding his safety. The thoughts of Jeanie Irving instantly reverted to the interesting couple of the preceding day; and she fervently thanked the Almighty that she had in some measure been instrumental in the young man's escape, while the idea, instantly occurred to her, that in a similar manner might William Telford be conveyed from thence. This time, on advancing to the gate to seek admittance, the sentinels gathered round them, uncovered the basket, helped themselves pretty largely to a portion of its contents, and examined both women closely in order to as certain that they carried no disguises about with them after which precautions they permitted them to pass. Jeanie Irving immediately made her lover acquainted with the escape of Lord C——, and informed him as to her intentions, of taking him from thence in a similar disguise. Sick and enfeebled from his close confinement in the damp church-yard, William Telford listened eagerly to Jeanie's proposals, and it was finally agreed upon between them that she should watch well her opportunity when the attention of the sentinels was otherwise occupied, to steal in with a bundle of women's clothes, array her lover in the feminine garb, and embrace a favourable moment to lead him forth. In pursuance of this arrangement, each morning beheld Jeanie Irving stationed near the gate watching with eager eyes the least symptom of abated vigilance on the part of the sentinels to venture in. During the space of five days no suitable opportunity presented itself, but on the morning of the sixth the sentinels being attracted from their posts by a street broil, Jeanie darted past them with the rapidity of lightning, and flew towards her beloved William, bearing the precious burthen. Withdrawing a little apart from his companions, young Telford was speedily arrayed in his disguise, and many of those who witnessed the proceeding bade God bless and prosper him in his attempt. All being now in readiness, Jeanie Irving, whose nerves were strung up to the highest degree of tension, took the arm of her lover and advanced toward the outer gate. Oh, what a moment was this! They had passed two of the sentinels in safety, but just as they arrived within reach of the other, whose back was at that moment turned towards them, he wheeled suddenly round, and staring Jeanie full in the face, advanced towards her, exclaiming, "So, ho, my pretty maiden, you would fain retreat without paying toll; come now, don't be in such haste, but just tarry a moment, and let us become better acquainted." So saying, the soldier put his arm around her waist and attempted to snatch a kiss. At sight of this indignity offered to the woman he loved, the blood rushed to William Telford's brow, and darting on the brutal fellow, he dealt him such a blow on the head as felled him to the ground.
"What, ho, treachery, treachery!" shouted the other sentinels, suddenly apprized of the real state of affairs, and darting upon William Telford, they tore off his disguise, and dragged him back to the church-yard, kicking and swearing at him the while. Pale and speechless, with horror at the failure of her scheme, Jeanie Irving attempted to rejoin her lover, but was rudely pushed back by the infuriated sentinels, who threatened that, if she ever dared to show her face there again, they should tear her limb from limb. In an agony of feeling impossible to describe, Jeanie Irving dragged her fainting steps to her temporary home, and scarcely had she crossed the threshold ere her trembling limbs gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. With a cry of grief, Mrs. Johnstone flew to her side, and raising her tenderly in her arms, with the assistance of Mrs. Hamilton, conveyed her to her bed, and strove by every means in her power to soothe and comfort her in her distress. But the fearful excitement the poor girl had undergone during the last few weeks proved to have been too much for her delicate nature to sustain; reason forsook her throne, and for weeks her life trembled in the balance. We must now leave Jeanie Irving stretched on her bed of sickness, and return once more to her unfortunate lover, whose situation was rendered even more wretched than before on account of the brutal treatment of his captors, who incensed beyond measure at his attempted escape, strove by every possible means to embitter his already unbearable lot.
About this time a bond, by permission of the king, was presented for the prisoners to sign, certifying that they should under no pretext whatever take up arms in future against His Majesty; and those who appended their names to this document were instantly to be set free. Many of the poor men pining for their homes, and weary of their long confinement, signed it readily, in order to obtain their freedom.
Yet a numerous body, amongst whom was William Telford, refused to sign the paper, and, indeed, many of them were denied the opportunity of doing so. Then an order arrived from King Charles, to the effect, that thirteen of the ringleaders of the rebellion, and who approved of the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, were to be placed in prison for a time, and then executed. Twelve had been already selected from amongst the prisoners, and either accidentally or designedly, the fatal paper was placed in the hands of young Telford; he took it with an untrembling hand, and with the fear of death before his eyes, wrote, that he could not on his conscience declare that he esteemed himself wrong in taking up arms in the cause of the Covenant, or, that he considered the killing of the perjured prelate, Archbishop Sharpe, a murder; and this done, he was marched off with his companions. The determination of these devoted men to suffer death in support of their opinions created a great sensation among the more moderate portion of their party; and immediately on their arrival at the prison, they were awaited upon by several of their clergymen, who impressed upon them the folly, not to say criminality, of sacrificing their lives, when, by merely signing the required bond, they might long be spared to comfort their weeping friends. Eleven of them, persuaded by their ministers, appended their names to the document, but the remaining two, one of whom was William Telford—whose pride would not allow him to retract his opinions—remained firm in their determination to suffer death rather than yield the required submission.
These two prisoners were supported in their inflexible resolution by their companions, who while visiting them in prison, expressed their sorrow and repentance at having signed the bond, stating that since then, they had neither known peace nor happiness as their inhuman adversaries treated them, in consequence of their having done so, with the utmost cruelty and contempt, styling them turn-coats, and doing all in their power to render them wretched at the thoughts of what they had done.
Shortly afterwards, the companion of William Telford was publicly executed, while he himself, from some unknown cause, was led back to his old quarters in the Greyfriars' Church-yard.
Months rolled on, and as the winter advanced the prisoners began to experience the bad effects of their long exposure in the open air; indeed, so sick and enfeebled did they become, that the public authorities at once saw the necessity of adopting means for their removal. A memorial to that effect was despatched to the King, who gave orders that a ship should immediately be provided to transport the prisoners to Barbadoes, where they were to be sold as slaves; yet so little were His Majesty's orders obeyed in this respect, that it was the fifteenth of November ere the captain declared the ship in readiness to receive them. In order to get the prisoners removed to the ship without the knowledge of their friends, they were conveyed away at an early hour in the morning, and on their arrival on deck they were instantly stowed away under the hatches, which were carefully chained and locked, in order to prevent their escape. Twelve days was the ship detained in Leith Roads, and during that time the poor men were treated with the greatest inhumanity.
The narrow space in which they were enclosed was scarcely of size sufficient to contain a hundred men, and yet nearly thrice that number were thrust in by their unfeeling jailors; men, regardless alike of the safety and misery of those entrusted to their care. Several of the poor fellows were so dreadfully ill, that their more robust companions were obliged to stand upright, in order to afford their sick companions room to stretch their tortured limbs. The prayers and entreaties addressed to the captain by the almost stifled prisoners that some of their party might be allowed to go upon deck, were for a long time unheeded, until at length he was obliged, from the continued indisposition of the men, to accede to their request. Accordingly, about fifty of the strongest were removed to upper deck, where they soon recovered from the sad effects of their late confinement. The weather hitherto had been favourable for their voyage, but soon a succession of fearful storms arose, and the ship seemed entirely at the mercy of the waves. On the tenth of December the crew found themselves lying off Orkney, a coast dreaded by sailors, on account of the stormy sea surrounding it. Perceiving for the first time the full extent of their danger, the captain, as the ship was already within reach of the shore, ordered the sailors to cast anchor, which being done, they awaited with impatience the abating of the storm. But towards evening the hurricane increased in intensity, and about ten o'clock at night the sea, lashed into fury by the terrific violence of the wind, forced the ill-fated ship from its anchor, and dashed it in twain on the rocks. Hearing the dreadful crash, the wretched prisoners, fearing shipwreck, implored to be put on shore, wherever the captain pleased, but their request was denied; and the sailors in terror and dismay tore down the mast, and laying it between the vessel and the rocks, prepared to save themselves from impending shipwreck. "My God," exclaimed William Telford, who was one of those placed upon deck, horrified on seeing that the crew made no attempts to open the hatches, which, chained and locked, confined the suffering inmates in a living tomb, "are you going to leave your prisoners thus?" At this instant a huge wave dashed over the ship, and overwhelming several of the men exposed to its fury in its fearful embrace, consigned them to a watery grave. "Men, fiends!" reiterated young Telford, making frantic efforts to break open the hatches as he spoke, "there will be a fearful reckoning to pay for this night's work." With shouts of derisive laughter, the sailors crossed the prostrate mast, and reached the shore in safety. Some of the poor fellows who imitated their example were thrown back by them into the sea, but about forty, in spite of all efforts made to destroy them, wore successful in their attempt.
Perceiving the imminent danger in remaining where he was, William Telford, having abandoned all hopes of freeing the prisoners, prepared to follow his companions along the mast. On his reaching the beach, one of the sailors strove to prevent his landing, but greatly his superior in strength and agility, young Telford seized the ruffian by the throat, and dashed him senseless on the ground. And now was accomplished one of the most fearful tragedies ever recorded in history. The storm at this moment seemed to have reached the climax of its fury; the thunder rolled, and the blue lightning danced around the sinking vessel, while foam crested waves rose mountains high, and then dashed with terrific violence over her yielding spars. But louder than the crash of the pealing thunder—far above the roaring of the mighty billows was heard the death-wail of the wretched prisoners, as they sunk beneath the heaving tallows; there to remain until that dread day when the murdered and their murderers shall stand before the great white throne—when the sea, at the command of its Creator, shall yield up the dead which have slept for ages in its mighty depths.
Months have elapsed since the fearful event we have just narrated took place, and Jeanie Irving is once more seated by her father's fireside, still pale and exhausted from the effects of her late severe illness. She has heard of the fatal shipwreck—she knows that her lover is no more, and has learned to say with resignation, "Not my will, but thine be done!" It is Sunday evening, and the grey-haired father is seated at the table with the Bible before him, from which he reads aloud words of joy and consolation. It is the fourteenth chapter of John, and Jeanie, her eyes filled with tears, is listening with breathless attention to the beautiful words of inspiration, when a low tap at the door arrests their attention. No answer is vouchsafed in return to the invitation to enter, but a quick step is heard in the passage, it approaches nearer, the door opens, and Jeanie Irving falls fainting into the arms of William Telford.
Now, added Mr. Anderson, at the conclusion of his story, you must not imagine, although I have dwelt at a considerable length on the sufferings causelessly inflicted on the Covenanters, that I altogether take their part, far from it; as I think in some instances they were much to blame. For instance, when they assembled together for the purpose of having divine worship, instead of going quietly and respectably with only their Bibles in their hands as beseemeth Christians, there they were armed with swords and guns, only too ready to use them should occasion require, that was entirely going against the doctrine of St. Paul, who says, "For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh. (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds.") Why, if we were to assemble in that way now-a-days, singing psalms of defiance in the glens, with fire-arms beside us, wouldn't the present government be down upon us in no time? and quite right too, say I; for I am quite of opinion they were as much to blame as the royalists, and if they could, would have been quite as cruel. Look, for instance, at the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, although there can be no doubt he was a cruel, relentless foe to their cause, yet they should have respected his grey hairs, and spared him at the request of his daughter. And, again, I do not believe all the stories told in the Scotch Worthies, such as that one of Peden and some of his friends being saved while on the moors, just at the moment the dragoons were coming down upon them, by his praying that a mist might surround them to the discomfiture of their enemies, and that instantly, on his ceasing to pray, they were enveloped in a fog. I do not mean to say that a mist did not conceal them from their enemies, but that it was chance, and not a miracle, as they pretended. For many a time, when on the heights myself, have I been overtaken by these fogs, which come down so suddenly that there is no escaping from them, and very disagreeable things they are when one is far removed from a house of any kind, and there is not light sufficient to guide one on one's way.
"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Anderson, addressing her husband, "but for all that ye say, Mr. Peden was a great prophet;" then turning towards me, she continued. "when I was a little girl I resided for some time wi' a farmer who lived on the celebrated farm of Wellwood, near Airdsmoss, and used to hear a great deal about Mr. Peden. You must know that he is buried at Cumnock. He was first interred in the Laird of Affleck's aisle (Auchenleck), a mile distant, but was lifted, as he predicted, by soldiers, and conveyed to the foot of Cumnock gallows, which stands near the village. That spot soon came to be used as the public burying-grouud, and, in my younger days, was a very pretty rustic graveyard. But it is said that before his death, Peden stated that after his second burial a thorn bush should grow at his head, and an ash tree at his feet; and when the branches of each met, there should be a bloody battle in Shankson wood (about a mile distant), where the blood would be up to the horse's bridles. The thorn did grow, and is there yet, I believe, and many slips have been taken from it by strangers, but the ash is said to have been pulled up ere it was large enough to touch the thorn, so the battle never took place. And I mind weel o' a strange epitaph that was on an ancient tomb-stone beside Peden's grave, which, if I remember rightly, was something like this:—'Here lies David Dun and Simon Paterson, who was shot in this place for their adherence to the word of God and the covenanting work of reformation, 1685,' (the black year.) There was also another stone, just in front of Peden's grave, but I forget the precise words; they ran, however, nearly as follows:—
'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to thee
For what and how I here did dee,
For always in my station.
Adhering to the work of reformation,
I was in on time of prayer
By Douglas (Colonel) shot;
O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'
Now ye see," she continued, "there are no less than three poor men, there may be more for all that I mind o', lying in Cumnock burying-ground who were shot by the royalists, and I think, Willie," she said, again addressing her husband, "seeing that your own forefathers all fought in the good cause, you need'na say just sae much in favour o' their adversaries."
"Dear me," said Mr. Anderson, in reply to this rebuke, "I am not denying that there were many cruel actions done in these sad times, but I am just saying that I don't believe all the stories told in the Scots' Worthies: do you imagine for one moment that I can credit that one about open, open to the Duke o' Drumlanrig? No, nor any other sensible person."
"What one was that?" I inquired.
"Oh, just some idle tale not worth repeating——"
"Here it is; let the lady read it," interrupted Mrs. Anderson, taking as she spoke a book from the shelf, which, after cleansing off a vast accumulation of dust she handed to me, saying as she did so, "maybe it is true, and maybe it is no, but the like o' us canna pretend to ken onything about it."
After a little research, in which I was aided by Mrs. Anderson's directions, I at length came to the following:—"Concerning the death of the Duke of Drumlanrig alias Queensbury, we have this curious relation—that a young man, perfectly well acquainted with the Duke, (probably one of those he had formerly banished,) being now a sailor, and in foreign countries, while the ship was upon the coast of Naples or Sicily, near one of the burning mountains, one day espied a coach and six all in black going towards the mount with great velocity; when it passed them they were so near that they could perceive the dimensions and features of one that sat in it.
"The young man said to the others, 'If I could believe my own eyes, or if ever I saw one like another, I would say, that is the Duke.' In an instant they heard an audible voice echo from the mount, 'Open to the Duke of Drumlanrig!' upon which the coach, now near the mount, evanished.
"The young man took pen and paper, and marked down the month, day, and hour of the apparition; and upon his return, found it exactly answer the day and hour the Duke died."
THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN.
"I think," said Mrs. Anderson, as she carefully restored the Scots' Worthies to its late position on the book-shelf, "that whoever got the disposal of the souls and bodies of these persecutors after their death seems to have treated them wi' a' the respect becoming their high station in this world, for it was always coaches and six, and coaches and four that came for them. You see, it was a coach and six that came for the Duke o' Drumlanrig, and there was the Laird of Culzean, a wickeder old fellow never lived, and just the same kind o' thing occurred at the time o' his death."
"Tush, nonsense, wife," interrupted Mr. Anderson.
"But it's no nonsense," rejoined the dame, "for my forefathers lived a long time near Culzean Castle, and many and many a time have they told me when a child of what was seen the night the Laird died; and as the lady seems to wish to hear all she can about these things, I'll just give her the account given me by my grandfather, who was as decent an old man as ever lived, though I say it that shouldna' say it."
Having expressed the pleasure I should feel in listening to her story, Mrs. Anderson put away her sewing, and, resting her arms comfortably on her knees, related the following wild tale, which, illustrating as it does the strange superstitions of the times in which these men lived, I here render as nearly as possible in the words of the narrator:—
The old Castle of Culzean, standing as it does on a rock rising two or three hundred feet above the level of the sea, is probably one of the finest marine seats in the kingdom. At the foot of the rock on which the castle stands, there are some romantic caves, more familiarly known as the "Fairy coves of Culzean." Many and many a night have I played about there, when the setting sun caused the dancing waves to glitter like gold, as they rippled over the pebbled beach towards the entrance to the caves. It was said that King Robert Bruce and his followers took refuge there, after landing from Arran, until all was in readiness for their enterprise. They are also particularly mentioned by Burns in his well-known "Hallowe'en." But still, for all that they were so beautiful, there were few o' the country people that cared to venture near them after it was dark, on account of the many strange things that were said to have been done there during the time of the wicked Laird of Culzean. Ay, but it was he that was the cruel man! It would make the very hairs on your head stand on end could ye but hear tell of all the cruelties he practised towards the Covenanters, while permitted to remain on earth. Oh, dearie me, how people in these days could dare to ask the Almighty's blessing on their dark deeds beats my comprehension altogether; but now to begin wi' my tale:—In the parish of Kirkmichael there lived an aged widow, called Mrs. M'Adam, who had an only son named Gilbert; and a nice quiet young man he was, and greatly beloved of his mother, for she was a lone woman, and had no one in the world to look to but him; and well did he repay her affection, poor lad, for there was nothing he thought too good for his mother. When these dreadful religious disturbances broke out, like many other young men who were at all given to think seriously about their spiritual welfare, Gilbert M'Adam was a Covenanter; but he did not join the body, as numbers did, merely for diversion, or from a hatred to the higher authorities, but simply from a sincere belief in the soundness of their doctrine and sympathy for their wrongs. His mother was also o' that way o' thinking, and, being a godly living person, she was greatly respected in the neighbourhood where she resided. Well, one wild stormy night, as Mrs. M'Adam and her son were seated by the side of the kitchen fire, the door opened and in entered their minister, a most worthy man, who had been forced, like many others, to leave his church, and wander up and down the country, teaching and ministering to the spiritual wants of his people whenever an opportunity presented itself. Greeting them with the blessing of peace, Mr. Weir—I think that was the minister's name—proceeded to encumber himself of his dripping cloak, while Gilbert flew to place a chair for him near the blazing hearth, and Mrs. M'Adam proceeded to put on the table the best her store afforded, to succour her esteemed guest. After having partaken of the eatables set before him, Mr. Weir informed his kind entertainers that he intended holding a prayer meeting on the following morning, in a retired glen near Kirkmichael, where he expected a numerous attendance, as the inhabitants of the surrounding districts had been apprized of his intention, and expressed great joy at the intelligence, as they had lately been like sheep without a shepherd. In reply to some anxious inquiries on the part of Mrs. M'Adam, regarding the aspect of affairs throughout the country. Mr. Weir informed her that as yet the hand of the smiter was not stayed, but rather on the contrary, as their persecutors seemed more than ever zealous in their bloody work; and that, in the course of his wanderings in Dumfriesshire, many cruel murders had come under his knowledge, two of which, from the melancholy circumstances attending them, had made an indelible impression on his mind. At the request of Mrs. M'Adam, Mr. Weir related the following:—
"Late one evening, during the month of last February, while an aged woman of the name of Martin, who resides in the parish of Barr, was sitting by her hearth conversing with her son David, and a young man named Edward Kyan, who had but recently come from Galloway, a party of dragoons, under the command of Lieutenant Douglas, surrounded the house. Kyan, on being made aware of their approach, leaped through a side window, and took refuge behind the wall of the cottage. But his retreat being discovered by the soldiers, they dragged him forth into an adjoining yard. After being asked where he lived, without any further questions, or even being allowed to prepare for eternity, the said lieutenant shot him through the head, and then discharging his other pistol, shot him again as he lay on the ground quivering in the agonies of death. Not contented with this, one of the dragoons, pretending he was still alive, shot him again. After having glutted their vengeance on this unfortunate youth—whose only crime was that of concealing himself—the dragoons rushed into the house, and, bringing forth David Martin, tore off his coat, and placed him beside the mangled body of his friend. One of the soldiers more compassionate than the others, and moved at the sight of the mother's tears, besought his officer to spare him another day, and stepped in between the kneeling man and his executioners, who stood with their pieces levelled, awaiting the signal of destruction. After much entreaty, the lieutenant was prevailed upon to spare his life; but so great was the terror of the poor man, that he lost his reason, and is now a helpless bed-ridden maniac. And now," continued Mr. Weir, "the other sad affair I am about to relate—the particulars of which came under my own observation—will serve, in some measure, to enlighten you as to the manner in which these cruel men perform their bloody work:—
"In the course of the same month, I went with a friend, in whose house I was then staying, to attend communion service in a secluded part of the parish of Irongray. The morning was cold and damp, and a dull leaden mist overshadowed the landscape, as if nature had donned her saddest garments on this melancholy occasion—still the meeting was numerously attended. It was indeed an impressive sight to witness these poor people—many of whom seemed overcome with fatigue from the distance they had travelled—assembled on this sequestered heath, to hear the word of God, and partake of his blessed ordinance.
"The service had just commenced, when the sentinels stationed on the heights gave notice that a party of dragoons were approaching.
"On receipt of this warning, the meeting instantly dispersed. Some fled towards the banks of the Cairn, and others towards the moor of Lochen-Kit, in the parish of Uir. Here the six poor men who suffered on this occasion were captured by their pursuers. Four of them were shot dead on the spot. The other two, whose names were Alexander M'Cubbin, of the parish of Glencairn, and Edward Gordon, from Galloway, were taken by the captain to the bridge of Orr, where the Laird of Lag was busily employed in carrying on the work of persecution. Immediately on their arrival, Lag wished to pass sentence of death upon them, because they refused to swear; but the captain insisted that, as four of them had been summarily despatched, an assize should be called to judge and condemn them. Lag swore fiercely that he should call no assizes, still the captain got the matter deferred till another day. On the following morning they were conveyed to the parish of Irongray, by Lag and his party, and hanged on an oak tree near the church of Irongray, at the foot of which they lie interred. When about to suffer death, an acquaintance of M'Cubin's inquired of him if he had any message to send to his wife, upon which he answered, that he commended her and his two children to the care of a merciful God; and, having bestowed his forgiveness on the person employed to hang him, he, with his companion, suffered death with much cheerfulness.
"Immediately on the departure of the soldiers, the bodies of these martyrs received Christian burial, and a simple stone was erected on the solitary heath to mark the spot where they fell."[#]
[#] Epitaph upon a stone in a moor near Lochon-Kit, on the grave of John Gordon, William Stuart, William Heron, and John Wallace, shot by Captain Bruce:—
"Behold here in this Wilderness we lie,
Four Witnesses of hellish cruelty.
Our eyes and blood could not their ire assuage
But when we're dead they did against us rage,
That match the like we think ye scarcely can;
Except the Turks, or Duke de Alva's men."
Epitaph on the grave-stone lying on Edward Gordon, and Alexander M'Cubin, executed at the Church of Irongray, at the command of the laird of Lag and Captain Bruce:—
"As Lag and bloody Bruce command,
We were hung up by hellish hand,
And thus their furious rage to stay,
We died at Kirk of Irongray.
Here now in peace sweet rest we take,
Once murder'd for religion's sake."
"Puir murdered things," sobbed forth Mrs. M'Adam at the close of the minister's narration, raising her handkerchief to her eyes as she spoke. "Oh dear, dear! is'na it sad to think that religion, whilk ought to make men sae peaceful and godly in their lives, should, in many cases, just hae the contrary effect. See now at the present time, a' men are set by the ears, and what is it all about?—a mere trifle—just a difference o' opinion. How true are the words of Him that knew all things, 'I am come not to bring peace on earth, but a sword!'"
"Yes," was the reply, "but I am afraid religion is often made a cloak to cover bitter feelings engendered by party strife. No one possessing the meek Christian feeling of brotherly love and charity towards all men, could thus wantonly imbrue his hands in the blood of a fellow-creature."
"'Deed no, Mr. Weir, you say very true; they are no' the richt sort o' Christians who delight in bloodshed and warfare; a wheen apostates are they; wolves in sheep's clothing, whom we are expressly warned against——"
Here Gilbert, who knew from experience that whenever his mother got upon these topics she could continue, without pausing to draw her breath, until pretty near midnight, suggested to her the propriety of Mr. Weir retiring early to rest, as he would need to rise betimes in the following morning. The worthy minister, homeless and ill-provided for as he was, accepted with gratitude the humble accommodation offered to him by the poor but hospitable widow, and shortly afterwards withdrew to his sleeping apartment. By the early hour of six o'clock, Mr. Weir, accompanied by Mrs. M'Adam and her son, was on his way to the place of meeting. The morning was fine, and a numerous concourse of people, many of whom had come from a great distance, were assembled to hear their beloved Clergyman. The incense of praise had been offered up, and Mr. Weir was about to commence his sermon, when a party of soldiers appeared in sight. These proved to be a body of militia, under the command of Sir Archibald Kennedy of Culzean, then scouring the country in search of prey. Mr. Weir on perceiving their approach, closed his Bible, and exhorting his hearers to remain quietly in their seats, went forward to meet the hostile band.
"Why come ye thus to interrupt us in our devotions?" he inquired, when the rapid advance of the soldiers brought them within hearing.
"You shall soon see that, you old canting hypocrite," thundered forth Sir Archibald Kennedy in his fiercest tones. "I'll teach you to come here with your psalm-singing, dismal faced companions. Come, be off with you, or I will this instant send a brace of bullets through that thick head-piece of yours!"
"Not at thy command, thou man of Belial," said Mr. Weir, "shall I abandon my post in the hour of danger! These are the souls the Lord hath committed to my charge, and woe be unto me or any other of my brethren who shall neglect their sacred trust——"
"Cease your prating, you old dotard: soldiers, do your duty;" so saying, the fiery leader wheeled his horse round, and stood with his back purposely placed towards Mr. Weir, who, seizing him by the arm, exclaimed, "Do unto me even as ye list, but let these go their way. Oh, slay them not!"
"Men, do your duty!" was the only answer vouchsafed to this request; and Sir Archibald Kennedy, as if to set an example to his followers, drew his sword from its scabbard, and advanced towards the Covenanters, who, in accordance with their minister's wishes, had remained quietly seated, awaiting the issue in breathless suspense.
"Fly, my children, fly!" cried Mr. Weir, perceiving that offensive measures were about to be taken by the soldiers. "Oh God! it is too late," he exclaimed, as the blood-thirsty men rushed eagerly on the helpless group; and covering his face with his hands, to shut out the bloody scene about to ensue, he remained for a few moments motionless as a statue, while his lips moved, as though he was engaged in prayer.
In the meantime, Gilbert M'Adam, armed with a stout walking-stick, prepared to defend his aged mother, who clung to his arm in an agony of terror; but just as he raised it to ward off a blow from the butt-end of a musket, it was stricken from his grasp, and he was left at the mercy of his foe. Fortunately for his safety, a man stationed near him that instant darted on the soldier, and wrenched the gun out of his hand, which went off in the struggle, wounding a woman standing near the combatants. Perceiving the folly of attempting self-defence, Gilbert M'Adam seized his mother in his arms, and, making his way out of the affray, ran hastily towards a hill, situated a little way off. He had gained the foot of the eminence, when the clatter of a horse's feet behind them causing the young man to turn round, a pistol bullet, discharged by the advancing horseman, entered his brain, and Gilbert M'Adam fell dead at his mother's feet. With a loud laugh of insolent triumph, Sir Archibald Kennedy—for it was he who fired the deadly shot—was about to return to the scene of action, when, with a scream that in its agony resembled nothing earthly, the frenzied mother, with a strength almost supernatural, seized the horse's bridle, and compelled him to remain stationary, while she burst forth thus:—
"Hence to your stronghold, you cruel bird of prey! Back to your proud towers, ye accursed of the Lord! but think not, in the pride of your heart, that this day's work will pass unavenged, for a day of retribution awaits you. In the silence of the night, when the meanest hind in the land is locked in slumber, shall a mother's curse ring in your ears till ye madden at the thought. From this day henceforward life shall be a burden to you: then—then, when the hour of death approaches, shall your horrors be redoubled ten-fold. No priest will be able to quench the ceaseless flames which burn in your bosom, and no words of affection soothe your dying pillow; for the torments of a lost soul will be yours, and in your last moments let the thoughts of this day's work add another drop to your cup of misery."
"Having given vent to these terrible maledictions, Mrs M'Adam withdrew her hand from the horse's bridle, and motioning Sir Archbald Kennedy to begone, threw himself sobbing and screaming on the corpse of her son."
Having given vent to these terrible maledictions, Mrs. M'Adam withdrew her hand from the horse's bridle, and motioning Sir Archibald Kennedy to begone, threw herself sobbing and screaming on the corpse of her son. It was noticed by many then present that Sir Archibald looked scared and discomposed on his return to join his men; and that, contrary to his general mode of acting, he contented himself with taking a few prisoners, and rode off at a much slower and more thoughtful pace, than was his wont. Well, the persecuting work went on with unabated zeal, and Sir Archibald Kennedy, or, as he was more commonly styled, the Laird o' Culzean, was a noted man among them all. Wherever blood was to be shed, there was the Laird, grim and dark, wi' the marks o' an evil conscience on his face. (Some people said that the older he got, the more crimes he committed, just to drown his remorse for some cruel deeds he had done in his youth; but if that was the case, it was a queer way he took to do it, for as the old proverb has it, "every single stick adds to a burden.") Although the Laird was, to all outward appearances, as bold and daring like as ever, yet the servants about the house said it was a very different thing wi' him when alone; for many and many a time in the long winter nights, did they see him pacing up and down his hall, as if he would fain, by the loudness of his step, drown the voice of conscience within; and often, when the wind rose louder than usual, and moaned and shrieked through the passages, he would start hastily from his seat and demand in a furious tone what woman it was who dared to scream so within the walls o' Culzean Castle. These are the kind o' things his servants told about him, so my grandfather said; but whether they were true or false, I canna pretend to say. Well, time rolled on, and the decree was sent forth that the wicked Laird o' Culzean must prepare to meet his Maker—a summons which the now aged persecutor seemed in no way anxious to obey, for them that were near him declared that he threatened to knock off the doctors' heads, because they couldna promise him that he should get better. The people who went about his room at that time, recalled to mind the curse of the bereaved widow, for, somehow or another, the story had got about, and many wondered when it came to the push, how the Laird would meet his end. Sir Archibald, as Mrs. M'Adam prophesied, seemed in his last moments to derive comfort from nothing. In vain the physicians exercised their skill to the utmost; in vain the attendant clergymen whispered words of consolation and hope, he scorned them all, and drove them from the room because they could not quench the flames which burned in his breast. (You see the widow's curse was beginning to work.) As the hour of death approached his agony was fearful. The drops of perspiration stood like beads on his brow; and his eyes which seemed like to start from their sockets wi' mortal agony, were fixed wi' a horrible stare on the foot o' his bed. Some who were present at that time said they were convinced that something, not meant for other e'en to see, was standing there, for every now and again he pointed wi' his finger and laughed; but the laugh was like that o' ane in despair. At length he died, and the night o' his death was one of the most fearful that ever occurred in the memory of man. The wind roared round the castle wi' a force that threathened to lay it in ruins; while the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed in a manner awful to witness. The servants always maintained that the powers of darkness were let loose that night; for at the moment the Laird died, such shrieks of laughter, mingled with wild screams of agony, rang through the whole house, that overwhelmed with fear, they fell on their knees and prayed for protection against the horrors which surrounded them. Then came the day of his funeral; and, by all accounts, sair, sair work they had to get the hearse from the door. First there were four white horses put to the bier; but no sooner were they yoked-to, than one of them fell dead on the spot, and the others kicked and plunged so, they had to be taken out. Then four black ones were put in their place; but still they wadna go, until the coffin was taken from the hearse, and the priest muttered some prayers over it. Then, when they had proceeded a few steps wi' their burden, a dreadful tempest of thunder arose to the terror and amazement of all present—many of whom talked of returning; but the storm having now ceased, they were dissuaded from doing so. However, on nearing the place of interment, it again burst forth in such a fearful manner that the flashes of fire seemed to run along the coffin. Owing to the extreme lightness of the bier after this terrific outburst of the elements, it was conjectured, either that the body had been consumed by the lightning, or that it had been taken away by the master whom the Laird served so well while on earth, from among their hands, ere ever they got to the church-yard.
But now I must tell you o' what took place on the night o' the Laird's death, to the great horror of a ship's crew who chanced to be at sea. Just as they were sailing past the coves of Culzean, the fearful tempest, I mentioned before, arose, and the ship was tossed by the waves in such a manner, that the sailors gave themselves up for lost. Well, in the very midst of this awful turmoil o' the elements, when even the mightiest vessel was in danger of perishing, the man at the helm cried aloud, "a boat, a boat!"
"Nonsense," replied the Captain, "what boat could live in a night like this?"
Just as they were speaking, a fearful flash of lightning lit up the darkness, thereby permitting the terror-stricken crew to perceive a coach and four coming along the sea. Again the blue lightning flew down the mast, while onward pranced the horses, whose black plumes waved, as the ghastly-looking driver urged them onwards. The hair of each individual sailor stood on end as he gazed on the appalling sight; when, just as they were passing the side of the vessel, the Captain hailed the spectral-looking coachman with, "From whence to were?"
And the answer was, "From h—ll to Culzean's burial!"
"Well done," said Mr. Anderson, at the close of this harrowing narration; "this is indeed a most probable story, and quite in keeping with 'open, open to the Duke of Drumlanrig.' Surely," he added more seriously, "you do not believe any such nonsense?"
"Never you mind whether I do or not," replied Mrs. Anderson, evidently enjoying her husband's look of astonishment; "but just go your ways to that small drawer on the left there, and bring me the little box tied round wi' red tape, which you will find in the farthest back corner."
Mr. Anderson, in obedience to his wife's request, proceeded to the drawer, and in a few seconds placed in her hands the wished-for article.
After fumbling for a short space of time amongst its varied contents, Mrs. Anderson succeeded in fishing out, from its mysterious depths, a sheet of paper carefully folded up, which she opened and placed in my hands, saying, "there now, that was written by a friend of mine while studying at the College of Edinburgh." Glancing my eyes over the verses, I perceived that they bore immediate reference to the legend Mrs. A. had just been narrating, and so wrote them down, as an appropriate finish to the Legend of Culzean:—
THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN.
Around Culzean Castle the wild winds did howl,
And the trees bent like leaves to the blast;
Whilst the heavens looked black with an angry scowl,
The wild clouds were careering on fast.
Dark, dark was that night, and yet darker the hour
When Culzean's lord did yield up his breath;
You'd have thought that the fiends of hell had power
To preside o'er the wizard's death!
The thunder roll'd loud, while the lightning flashed,
And by tempest the Castle was shook;
Wild shrieks of despair echo'd loud in the blast,
And from fear none dared upward to look.
The dying man toss'd, and oft did he turn,
But for him was no rest or sleep;
Fierce flames of remorse in his breast did burn,
And his curses were loud and deep.
When reverend fathers sought to cheer,
And smooth down the way to heaven,
He mocked them all with a taunt and jeer;
They from the room were driven.
He died—though for him the black banner wav'd
And nodded the sable plume;
By no rich nor poor was a blessing craved
For him who that night met his doom.
* * * * *
The wild winds rag'd and the lightnings flashed,
While the sea ran mountains high;
And the good ship's crew all stood aghast
As they gaz'd on the stormy sky.
"Haste haste, my men," the bold Captain cried,
"Haste, haste! make no delay!
We'll bravely steer through the foaming tide,
And trust in God our stay."
The death lights do burn this night in Culzean,
The old lord is dead at last;
And the powers of darkness are there I ween.
Careering on the blast!
With a crash the thunder o'er them peal'd,
And its harsh and sullen roar;
Though to fear the sailors hearts were steel'd,
Caus'd them tremble more and more.
"A boat! a boat!" the steersman cried,
"I see by the flashes bright."
"NO BOAT," the Captain quick replied,
"Could live on this awful night!"
Then the heavens burst, and a flood of light
Lit up all with its ghastly glare;
And the ship's crew gaz'd on a fearful sight,
For a funeral train was there!
Four coal-black horses drew each coach,
And they pranced upon the sea;
As each driver caus'd them swift approach,
What a ghastly look had he!
Soon as they reach'd the vessel's side,
That awful train funereal,
"FROM WHENCE—to where?" the Captain cried
"From H—ll to Culzean's burial!"
PEDEN'S STONE.
Having been informed that a stone, familiarly known throughout the country as "Peden's Stone," from the fact that that prime favourite of the Scottish peasantry used there to delight his hearers with his eloquence, was still to be seen on the moor, I determined upon paying a visit to this sequestered spot. It was on a lovely morning in the month of September that I started on my expedition. The sun was shining brightly, and the air was of that exhilarating nature which blends the softness of summer with the least possible tinge of autumn coolness. The Robin red-breast, sole remaining songster of the grove, poured its gushing notes of melody from hedge-row and tree, while, with each motion of the breeze, the now yellow leaves fell trembling on my path.
The reapers, in many places, were yet busy in the fields—the harvest being generally late in this part of Scotland—and their merry bursts of laughter sounded gaily from amid the fields of waving corn. My way again lay through H—— village, near the entrance of which, on precisely the same spot as formerly, stood the previously mentioned pleasant-looking dame, but not alone. Two little olive branches clung for protection to the parent stem, in a manner beautiful to witness. I could not resist a smile as my quondam acquaintance came forward with outstretched hand, exclaiming, while a broad laugh sat upon her honest features, "Losh me, isn't it funny we twa should always foregather on the same bit?"
"Indeed it is!" was the reply.
"And you are still gaun about here?"
"Yes; and picking up all the information I can get about the Covenanters."
"Oh, mam!" was the pathetic response, "had my brother only been living!—but that's by; eh sirs me, but that makes an unco difference wi' us a'! And where may ye be gaun the day?"
"To visit Peden's Stone; likewise to call on a Mr. Brown, who, I understand, is able to give me some information regarding it."
"Peden's Stone," re-echoed Mrs. Black—such she afterwards informed me was her designation—"a weel, mam, it's just up by there, an' a solitary bit it is. Many a one has gone to visit Peden's Stone. There's my daughter; a few weeks ago she was spending the day with some friends that live near there, and they took her away to see it. On her return home, she says to me, 'Oh, mother! just to think o' my being twenty years old, and never to have been at Peden's Stone afore.' 'Hoots, lassie!' says I, 'I'm a hantle mair than that, and I have never seen it! ha, ha, ha!' And so you're going to Sandy Brown's to get information; weel I'll no say but he'll be able to tell you something canny, for folks say that he speaks like ony minister. Aweel, aweel, I mind the day when I could have told you lots o' stories mysel'; but that's a' by! And you're rale ta'en up about the Covenanters, are you?" demanded the loquacious dame, and, without waiting for an answer, away she went on. "Ay, weel, so was I at ae time o' my life; for when I was at the sewing-school in Strathaven, I was rale anxious to see Loudon hill—may be you'll ken Loudon hill, where the battle o' Drumclog was fought? Ay, I thought sae; it's a queer-looking place, I fancy, and I was many a time going to see it, but I never could win, and the time just gaed by. Losh me, but there was a curious story told about that hill—a most ex-tre-orner thing indeed; for, when I was at the sewing-school, many and many a time ha'e I heard tell o' a heap o' siller being buried there; and when any person went to dig it up, an awful voice ahint them cried—'Clog's in a low!' and on their turning round to see what was wrong, the sight o' a great bull rushing at them gar'd them rin, and the hole instantly closed, so that they couldna win at it again. But maybe you'll think that's a lee; and I wadna say but it is."
"Is it true," I inquired, "that your brother, who lives near here, has a sword that belonged to Captain Paton?"
"He has that, he has that! but stop noo, I'm foolish to say sae"—here Mrs. Black put her finger into her mouth and appeared to reflect a little—"Did you say Captain Paton?"
"Yes."
"Weel, I'm no sae sure about that; but I ken brawly he has an 'Andrew Ferrara' that belonged to some o' thae fechting folk. However, ye should just gang and ask him about it, he'll be blythe to see ye, and I'll show ye a heap o' curiosities, for he is rale ta'en up about auld-fashioned things. And ye can just say I sent ye."
Thanking Mrs. Black for her instructions, I proceeded towards the house indicated, and Mr. Graham being within, I was ushered into a room, where a huge sword lay upon the table. From its appearance, I should have judged it rather to be a relic of the forty-five than of the days of persecution. Mr. Graham, in answer to my inquiries, stated that it was said to have been one of Captain Paton's swords, but that he could not give me any true account of it, as it had formerly belonged to his brother, and at his death came into the hands of its present possessor. Amongst other curiosities, Mr. G. produced two coins of the reign of David the First, which had been found with a great many more at the foot of a hill, about a mile or two on the moor at the back of his house. The tradition told concerning them in the neighbourhood is, that a man, whose Christian name was Tom, while returning at that remote period of time from a marriage party, missed his footing, and fell over a quarry which lay in his path, and was killed on the spot, the money falling out of his pocket during his too rapid descent. In consequence of this sad disaster, the spot is known as "Tam's leap" to this day.
While speaking about the persecuting times Mr. Graham informed me that a particular part of the moor was known by the name of the "Headless Cross," and that the circumstance which gave rise to its singular designation was this:—A persecutor of that name, who had rendered himself particularly obnoxious to the Covenanting party, on account of his many cruelties, took refuge from their anger in this part of the moor. The Covenanters, having been apprised of his whereabouts, set off instantly in pursuit of their intended victim. On arriving at the place where they expected to find their enemy, their astonishment may be conceived on seeing him without his head! It appeared that the unfortunate man had fallen into the hands of another hostile party, who, depriving him of his head, rendered him in truth a "Headless Cross." A large stone, likewise on the moor, familiarly known as "Pack Stone," was said to have been thrown down there by the celebrated wizard, Michael Scott, when in4 company with his Satanic majesty. These worthies, it is believed, were employed in carrying stones suitable for the erection of a bridge over the Firth of Forth. During this benevolent employment, a dispute took place between them—words ran high; and Michael Scott, in a fit of rage, threw down the stone then borne on his back, declaring that not one foot further should he carry it. How the quarrel ended is not related; but the stone, which is of an immense size, still remains in confirmation of the truth of this legend. The most probable version of the story is, that there the wearied pedlar used to rest with his pack while journeying between Glasgow and Edinburgh, as the wheel tracts of the old Glasgow Road are still visible near the spot.
After a minute inspection of Mr. Graham's little museum, I set off to visit Mr. Brown. The farm towards which I directed my steps was prettily situated near a "gleaming wood," the trees of which, now clad in autumn's russet brown, peacefully waved over the cottage roof, before the grateful breeze, as it sped along the moor on its trackless way; while a few plants of Indian cress, trained up against the wall evinced a greater predilection for neatness than is generally to be seen in the farm-houses of Scotland. A cleanly-dressed, pleasant-looking woman—whom I afterwards ascertained to be Mrs. Brown—was standing near the entrance; and on my inquiring if Mr. Brown was within, she invited me to take a seat, as he was in the fields, and should be in presently. Availing myself of the kind invitation, I entered, and taking possession of the proffered chair, I amused myself with inspecting the cottage interior, until the arrival of Mr. Brown. It presented the nicest little picture of a moorland farm I had ever seen. Rows of nicely-cleaned dishes, bright pewter plates, and spotless chairs, all indicated the careful housewife.
In a few minutes Mr. Brown entered; and on my informing him of the nature of my visit, he said, with a smile, that he did know a little regarding these times, and should only be too happy were it in his power to give me any information that might chance to be of service. This was encouraging, so I at once began the conversation by remarking, "that this seemed to have been a great part of the country for the Covenanters in former times." Upon which he replied that it was, more particularly the west end of the parish, where Peden and Cargill used to preach, adding, "I suppose you have seen Peden's Stone?" On my informing him that I was then on my way to visit it, he said it was not above a mile distant.
On my inquiring if there had been many conventicles held about there, Mr. Brown informed me of several, more particularly mentioning one held near Bathgate, where a Mr. Riddel officiated. There was a large assemblage present, and just as they were in the middle of their devotions the cry arose that the dragoons were upon them. The soldiers, however, not making their appearance, the Covenanters thought it had been a false alarm, and continued their religious exercises in fancied security. Scarcely had a few minutes elapsed ere a large party of red-coats, under the command of Lieutenant Inglis, then stationed at Mid-Calder, galloped swiftly up to the place of meeting. On perceiving their approach, many of the Covenanters fled through a moss where no horse could follow. But not to be outwitted, the soldiers remained on the opposite side, and fired promiscuously amongst the helpless group, thereby wounding many. One of their bullets pierced the head of an heritor in the parish of Bathgate, named John Davie, and killed him on the spot. Then they carried a great many men and women as prisoners, with an immense quantity of booty, back with them to Mid-Calder, the same as if they had been attacking a foreign enemy, and not men born on British soil.
"Oh, dear me! but the Covenanters were hardly used in these times—were they not, mam?" inquired Mrs. Brown, appealing directly to me, "for you see, a very great number of those who suffered were poor bits o' innocent creatures who had neither the power nor the inclination to do harm to any one. And the power with which Dalziel, Claverhouse, and many others of these cruel men were invested was really dreadful. No person was safe while in their hands. There are men who think that some of the Covenanters were too strict in their opinions, still, as I have often read, it was then that Scotland earned for herself a distinguished name; for at the King's return, every parish had a minister, every village had a school, every family almost had a Bible, and all children of age could read. Now, that was just as it should be."
"I fancy you will have heard all about the murder of Kennoway and Stuart, two of the lifeguard's-men, at Swine Abbey, just down by yonder?" inquired Mr. Brown, at the conclusion of his wife's remarks.
I replied "that I had heard it slightly mentioned, and should be very glad to hear a more lengthened account of the affair," upon which he commenced thus:—
"About Stuart very little or nothing is known, but Kennoway was universally detested on account of his horrid cruelties and shameless exactions from poor people who could but ill afford to pay his unjust demands. Kennoway had displayed great activity under General Dalziel at Pentland, and he it was who captured that zealous preacher Hugh M'Kail, who was executed at the cross of Edinburgh in the twenty-sixth year of his age. He likewise surprised numerous conventicles, and treated the Covenanters with great barbarity. On one occasion he attacked a party of unarmed people who were quietly hearing sermon in a field near East-Calder, and shot one through the leg, beating and robbing several others. At the meeting which took place near Bathgate, his was the hand that shot John Davie; in short, so zealous did he show himself in the cause of persecution that the government showed him great favour, and gave him several commissions to execute. Each day he scoured the country in search of prey, and those unfortunate enough to fell into his hands were treated with such brutality that several people went into Edinburgh to complain to the General of his cruelty. On receipt of a letter from his superior officer threatening him with punishment for his illegal acts, he forced an aged man, whom he had abused most shamefully, under pain of death, to sign a paper, stating that Thomas Kennoway had never injured him in any way whatever. Being greatly addicted to liquor, he would remain for days at the public-house, called Swine Abbey, indulging his evil propensity until all the money he had was spent. On one occasion having imbibed more than he had money to pay for, and the landlord pressing him for a settlement, he went out to the road, along which an old man was coming with a heavy load of oats on his back. Kennoway at once seized on the bag, and threatening the bearer with all manner of punishments if he dared to look after his property, returned to Swine Abbey, and discharged his bill with part of the proceeds, reserving the remainder for the further indulgence of his favourite vice. In the month of November he went into Edinburgh, from whence he returned bearing with him a roll which contained the names of one hundred and fifty persons he was commissioned to apprehend. On alighting at Livingstone he encountered his ill-fated companion, Stuart, to whom he displayed the roll, boasting that in a few days he should be as rich as any laird in the country. On their way to Swine Abbey, he pointed out to Stuart the lands he meant to possess. Arriving there, they commenced drinking, and continued doing so until pretty near the end of the month, when they were killed one night as they were leaving the house. Some thought they had been slain in self-defence, but it was generally supposed that, roused to madness by the continued persecutions of Kennoway, a party of people in the neighbourhood had planned his destruction. So violent were many of the blows exchanged on this occasion that the stone above the door was almost cleft in twain. I have heard it said," continued Mr. Brown, "that one or two persons suspected of having had a hand in the murder were openly rebuked by others of the Covenanting body, for thus having sent a man laden with such crimes into the presence of his Maker without one moment's warning, when long years of penitence would scarce suffice to atone for the evil he had wrought."
"It was a cruel deed," I said in reply to Mr. Brown's inquiry as to what I thought of the affair, "and one of those blameable acts on the part of some of the Covenanters which made their enemies say that a suitable opportunity would have found them only too ready to shed blood."
"Oh, no," was the reply; "that would never have been the case! The thoughts of the Covenanters did not dwell much on the shedding of blood; but rather on the restoration of their rights. No doubt, as there are good and bad in every class, so the Covenanters were not exempted from the rest in this respect; but had amongst them men who thought it no sin to pour forth the blood of the wicked. But still, as a whole, they were a harmless suffering body of Christians."
"Don't you think, mam," said Mrs. Brown, "that some of the clergy did not conduct themselves altogether with the meek Christian spirit becoming their high vocation? for I have often heard it said that, had they evinced a more forbearing disposition towards those—whose only fault consisted in their preferring to hear their own ministers—things would not have gone so hard with the Covenanters. Now, for instance, take Mr. Honeyman, who was at that time curate in Livingstone; what kind of example did he set those who were neither so learned, nor pretended to be so good as himself? one which no real Christian would ever seek to follow."
"Did you ever hear," inquired her husband, "an account of the manner in which he treated some of his parishioners who came to him for assistance in the time of their distress?"
Replying in the negative, Mr. Brown related the following:—"Mr. Honeyman, the then curate in Livingstone, was in truth a terrible scourge to those of his hearers who did not attend his meetings as he could have wished. Whenever any of his flock came under his displeasure, away went an order to Bathgate, and out came, in return, a troop of dragoons, who apprehended all marked down in the curate's black book, as it was styled. The parishes of Livingstone, Calder, Carnwath, and several others, were diligently ransacked by these men; and many remarkable instances occurred in which the Lord heard the prayers of the oppressed, and delivered them from their persecutors. I have heard tell of one young man who escaped from among their hands, for whose apprehension Honeyman had offered a large sum of money. Well, amongst others upon whom Mr. Honeyman sent down the soldiers, the Russels of Fallhouse—whose descendants are still living there—were particularly mentioned in the black book as being worthy of stripes. Fortunately, their horses contented the fierce Highlanders, and they themselves were uninjured. In great distress at the loss of their valuable cattle, the Russels came to Mr. Honeyman, who was their minister—indeed one of them was an elder in his congregation—and besought his interference in their behalf. At first, Mr. Honeyman abused and threatened them most dreadfully for their not appearing at courts, or taking the oath, thereby setting such a bad example to others. The suppliants bore this tirade with great patience; but insisted that he should use his influence for the recovery of their property. After a little while he appeared to yield, and wrote a letter to the commander of the forces stationed at Lanark, which, he gave to them, desiring that they should themselves deliver it. Overjoyed at having succeeded so well with their minister, the Russels set off immediately for Lanark; but, on arriving at Carluke, they chanced to encounter some acquaintances, and adjourned with them to a public-house, in order to procure some refreshment. Having informed their friends of the nature of their errand, these men, being rather suspicious as to the good intentions of Mr. Honeyman, advised the Russels, before proceeding farther, to open the letter. They did so, and found to their consternation, that instead of containing what they expected, namely, an order for the restoration of their horses, it was an injunction to the General to hold the bearers fast, as being two notorious rebels, from whom all that was taken was too little. In a mighty rage against their perfidious minister, and yet thankful to Providence that they had escaped his snare, the Russels speedily returned home, nor did they ever again enter Curate Honeyman's church, except on compulsion."
"Eh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown at the conclusion of this amusing anecdote, "wasna that an unco like thing for any minister to do, more especially one living in a Christian country; but 'deed these werena' Christian times, so that they may serve as some excuse for the man!"
"By all accounts, the district about Linlithgow seems to have been a great part of the country for conventicles," said I, addressing Mr. Brown, who replied—"Ay, but Linlithgow itself hadna much to boast of in these days; that was indeed a sad falling away!"
"How?" I inquired; "what occurred to distinguish Linlithgow from the other parts of Scotland?"
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, staring at me in amazement, "have you never heard of the disgraceful ceremony of the burning of the Solemn League and Covenant which took place within its walls on the 29th of May, 1661, it being the anniversary of King Charles the Second's birth-day?"
"Never," I replied; upon which Mrs. Brown at once proceeded to the book-shelf, and taking from thence a little old book, she placed it in my hands, saying, "there now, mam; read the two last pages of this work, and see if you can approve of that proceeding."
The book was entitled, "A Cloud of Witnesses for the Royal Prerogatives of Jesus Christ." And turning over to the part indicated, the following description of the affair mentioned by Mr. Brown met my gaze. It was headed, "A Dismal Account of the form of Burning the Solemn League and National Covenant with God and one another, at Linlithgow, May 29th, 1661, being the Birth-day of King Charles the Second," and ran as follows:—
"Divine service being ended, the streets were so filled with bonfires on every side, that it was not without hazard to go along them. The magistrates about four o'clock in the afternoon went to the Earl of Linlithgow's lodging, inviting his Lordship to honour them with his presence at the solemnity of the day. So he came with the magistrates, accompanied by many gentleman, to the market-place, where a table was covered with confections. Then the curate met them, and prayed, and sang a psalm, and so eating some of the confections, they threw the rest among the people; the fountain all that time running French and Spanish wine of divers colours, and continued running for three or four hours. The Earl, the magistrates, and gentlemen, did drink the King and Queen their good health, and all royal healths, not forgetting His Majesty's Commissioner his health, Lord Middleton, and breaking several baskets full of glasses. At the market-place was erected an arch standing upon four pillars, on the one side whereof was placed a statue in form of an old hag mare, having the Covenant in her bands, with this superscription, 'A Glorious Reformation;' on the other side was placed a statue in form of a whiggie mare, having the Remonstrance in her hands, with this superscription, 'No Association with Malignants;' within the arch, on the right hand, was drawn a Committee of Estates, with this superscription, 'An Act for delivering up the King;' upon the left hand was drawn the Commission of the Kirk, with this superscription, 'A Commission of the Kirk, and Committee of Estates, and Act of the West Kirk of Edinburgh;' and upon the top of the arch stood the devil as an angel of light, with this superscription, 'Stand to the Cause;' and on the top of the arch hung a tablet with this—
'From Covenantors, with their uplifted hands;
From Remonstrators, with their associate bands;
From such Committees as govern this nation;
From Kirk Commissions, and from their possession.
Good Lord deliver us.'
"On the pillar of the arch, beneath the Covenants, were drawn kirk-stools, rocks, and reels; upon the pillar, beneath the Remonstrance, were drawn brechams, cogs, and spoons; on the back of the arch was drawn a picture of rebellion in a religious habit, with turned up eyes and with a fanatic gesture, and in its right hand holding Lex Rex, that infamous book maintaining defensive arms, and in the left hand holding that pitiful pamphlet, 'The Causes of God's Wrath,' and about its waste lying all the Acts of Parliament, Committee of Estates, and Acts of General Assemblies, and Commissions of the Kirk, their Protestations and Declarations during these twenty-two years' rebellion,' and above with this superscription, 'Rebellion is as the Sin of Witchcraft.' Then, at the drinking of the King's health, fire was put to the frame, which gave many fine reports, and soon burnt all to ashes; which being consumed, there suddenly appeared a table supported by two angels, carrying this superscription—
'Great Britain's Monarch on this day was born,
And to his kingdom happily restored;
His Queen's arrived, the matter now is known.
Let us rejoice, this day is from the Lord:
Flee hence all traitors that did mar our peace;
Flee hence all schismatics who our church did rent;
Flee hence Covenanting, Remonstrating race;
Let us rejoice that God this day hath sent.'
"Then the magistrates accompanied the noble Earl to his palace, where the said Earl had a bonfire very magnificent. Then the Earl and magistrates, and all the rest, did drink the King and Queen and all royal healths; then the magistrates made procession through the burgh, and saluted every man of account, and so they spent the day rejoicing in their labour."
"Surely," I said, after having perused the above account, "the people of Linlithgow were anything but friends to the cause of the Covenant."
"That they were not," replied Mrs. Brown; "but is it not an extraordinary thing that, some years afterwards, Linlithgow should lose its liberties as a burgh, entirely on account of some of the poor prisoners, while passing through the town on their way from Bothwell to Edinburgh, having been treated with some degree of kindness by the more tender-hearted portion of its inhabitants."
"That was indeed very cruel."
"It was that, mam," replied Mr. Brown, "and just shows the terrible degree of animosity entertained by the government towards the Covenanting party and all inclined to be friendly to it, which is not a thing to be admired."
"Ay, you see," replied her husband, "the Presbyterians made themselves enemies among the great of the land, and there's no doubt but that they were represented to King Charles, who was himself an easy tempered man, as being much more unmanageable and rebellious than they really were, so that he fancied the more severe his measures were, the sooner would all things be put to rights."
After a few general observations, the conversation turned upon Peden, who seems to have retained a strong hold on the affections of the Scottish peasantry. It is universally allowed by them that he possessed, to an uncommon degree, the spirit of prophecy, and many anecdotes are still current of his wonderful foreknowledge of things, either occurring at a considerable distance at the time he was prophecying concerning them, or which were to take place at some future period. As an instance of his extraordinary gift:—In the year 1684, he spent a few days in the house of one John Slowan, who resided in the parish of Conert, in the county of Antrim. One evening while seated by the fire-side conversing with some friends, he suddenly started to his feet, exclaiming—"Go hide yourself, Sandy, for Colonel —— is coming to this house to apprehend you; and I advise every one here to do the same, and that speedily, for they will be here within the hour." Which accordingly came to pass. After the soldiers had made a most diligent search without and within the house, actually passing in their eagerness the very bush where he was lying praying, and want off without their prey, Mr. Peden came in and said, "And this gentleman giving poor Sandy such a fright; for this night's work God will give him such a blow within a a very few days that all the physicians on earth shall not be able to cure." Which also took place, for Colonel —— soon afterwards died in great misery.
Likewise, on the 22d of June, 1679, that day so fatal to the Covenanting party, Mr. Peden was at a place near the borders, distant about sixty miles from Bothwell Bridge. While there, some one came to inform him that vast crowds of people were collected in the hopes of his preaching, it being the Lord's-day, upon which he gave utterance to these remarkable words:—"Let the people go to their prayers; for me, I neither can nor will preach any this day; for our friends are fallen and fled before the enemy at Hamilton, and they are hashing and hagging them down, and their blood is running down like water."
Peden is likewise regarded by his humble admirers as having been peculiarly favoured by the Master whom he so zealously served on earth; and they relate, with sparkling eyes, how the Lord was pleased, at his earnest entreaties, to fill the lagging sails of a boat, which was destined to convey him and several of his companions from Ireland to the then bloody shores of Scotland, with a favourable breeze, whereby they arrived at their destination in safety; while, on his cry to the Lord that the cloak of his almighty power might once more be thrown around him, and those who were then listening to the voice of his petition, when about to fall into the hands of the dragoons, who were rapidly advancing towards them, a thick mist descended on the face of the mountains, and effectually shielded them from their enemies.
Having received from Mr. Brown the necessary directions for finding my way to Peden's Stone, I once more resumed my walk. After leaving the high-road, my way lay along a wide extent of moor, whose only inhabitants were the curlews and pee-wits which flew around my head in rapid circles, uttering their wild and solitary cries. I experienced an indescribable feeling of nameless horror, although it was broad day-light, on arriving at a post stuck in the centre of four cross roads which marked—a suicide's grave. There is something revolting in the idea, that there lies a human being, one like ourselves, who, by the commission of an act, perhaps executed while labouring under a temporary fit of insanity, is put as it were without the pale of humanity. The wretched woman thus consigned to a nameless, dishonoured grave, was the wife of a smith who resided a few miles distant from the spot where she was interred. For a few days before the sad occurrence, which took place some thirty or forty years ago, she was observed by those around her to be rather drooping in spirits, but on the morning of her perpetrating the rash act, she seemed restored to her former cheerfulness, and set about putting the house in order. Towards the middle of the day, one of her children came running into its father's workshop, exclaiming, "Oh, father! come and look at mother, she's standing on the kirn." The smith immediately ran to ascertain the truth of the child's statement, and to his unspeakable horror found his wife hanging suspended by the neck, with her feet resting on the churn. Immediately in the vicinity of her lonely grave, there resided a doctor, who, for the benefit of science, caused her bones to be dug up and conveyed under the cloud of night to his residence, in the garden of which they lay bleaching for days. This circumstance was of itself quite sufficient to excite the superstitious fear of the country people, and immediately that place was invested with "shadows wild and quaint." Indeed, the woman from whom I had the above account, assured me most solemnly that while residing in that neighbourhood, she had frequently observed strange lights dancing about in the woods, when the more natural light of day had departed. Hurrying past the spot with a nervous shudder, I proceeded as swiftly as possible across the moor. The day, as is often the case at this advanced period of the year, had changed considerably since the morning; dark clouds now scudded along the face of the sky, and wild gusts of wind careered over the heath. Not one human being appeared in sight, save a solitary figure clad in the now almost obsolete scarlet mantle of Scotland, who, considerably in advance of me, walked briskly onwards, looking peculiarly witch-like as the voluminous folds of her cloak swayed backwards and forwards in the wind. Had it been Hallowe'en, I should certainly have mistaken her for one of those merry old ladies, who, wearied of the monotony of walking, cleave the air on broomsticks in a manner wonderful to behold; but as that (to children) enchanting day had not yet arrived, I concluded that it was some aged dame either returning from her market-making in H—— village, or bound, like myself, on a pilgrimage to Peden's Stone. The rapid pace at which she was walking soon carried her beyond the range of my vision, and I pursued my way lost in conjecture as to who or what she might be.
Nothing more than an incident of this kind serves to illustrate the startling difference between town and country. Hundreds of such beings might pass and re-pass along the crowded streets of a great city unnoticed and uncared for, and yet one such individual, seen on a quiet country road or solitary heath, often affords matter for speculation and amusement during an entire day. Having now arrived at the farm-house to which I was specially directed as being near the spot where stood the memorable stone, I requested of a female, then busily engaged in farming operations, that I might be shown the precise locality of this venerable relic. Being kindly invited to take a seat until a guide could be procured to conduct me thither, I entered, and certainly was not a little astonished at the unwonted aspect of the interior. The roof of the kitchen consisted entirely of huge beams of wood placed across each other while the chimney, also built of wood, reminded one forcibly of those now seldom seen, save in the ruined halls of bygone generations, so capacious were its dimensions; and on one side of the grate, which was sufficiently distant from the chimney to prevent the catastrophe of ignition, was placed the settle, one reads of in Scottish story. It was indeed a veritable "inglenook." As if in answer to the look of astonishment with which I was regarding the enormous chimney, the female who had followed my footsteps said, with an air of complacency, "Ay, it's no every day ye'll see sic a hoose as this; it's rale auld-fashioned!" Shortly afterwards the young woman who was to act as my conductor on this occasion made her appearance, and we set off on our expedition. Having pointed out to me the locality where lay the object of my search, she returned to the farm, while I pursued my way along the side of Benharr Burn, on the banks of which stood Peden's Stone. It was indeed a solitary spot, and one well suited for the secret meetings of the persecuted Covenanters. No sound broke in upon the almost oppressive silence that reigned around, save the rippling of the water, which washed the base of the huge piece of rock on which formerly stood the mighty preacher. Surrounding heights concealed this sequestered dell from the observation of those seemingly intent on their destruction, and there would the sentinels be stationed who were to apprise those engaged in this forbidden mode of worship of the approach of their foes. There is something in the aspect of this little ravine which must speak forcibly to the imaginations and feelings of those who love to contemplate aught that is connected with a vanished time. The cold grey stone on which I was now gazing seemed to me a link uniting the remote past and the present, over the mighty gulf that intervened. Nearly two hundred years have passed away since this green turf was pressed by the foot of one who stood foremost amongst the champions of the Covenant. Here, as we are told—it might have been on a lovely summer's morn, when even to breathe the free air of heaven seemed happiness too exquisite for sinful man to enjoy—when the blue vault of heaven formed a glorious canopy over their pastor's head, and all nature breathed sweet harmony around; or it might be in the more sober season of autumn, when the deepening russet of the surrounding moor, the falling leaf, and the stillness of the atmosphere—so often perceptible in that season which harbingers the coming winter—seemed more in unison with the gloom which pervaded the Covenanters' souls, there assembled a mighty crowd to listen to the truths which fell from the lips of Peden. And what spot more suited to their holy purpose! On all sides were they surrounded by scenes famous for their connection with the stirring events of that stormy period. Directly opposite, the mighty Grampians towered majestically in the distance, amid whose solitudes, according to the traditions of the times, the Covenanters, while listening to an impassioned discourse of the zealous Wellwood, were protected from their enemies' bullets by a man of lofty stature, who stood in the air with his drawn sword extended over the heads of the panic-stricken hearers of the Word of God; while, stretching away on their right hand, the blue range of the Pentlands, so linked with the misfortunes of the devoted party of the Covenant, stood out in bold relief against the sky; and on their left lay the disastrous plain of Bothwell. The whole scene was pictured as though in a mirror before me. Here stood the dauntless preacher of the Word, his grey hairs floating on the breeze, his eye bright with sacred enthusiasm, and his hand, which clasped the sacred Scriptures, raised aloft to heaven as though invoking the presence of Him who hath promised to bless the assemblies of His servants, while the surrounding heights were peopled by a dense mass of human beings, hushed into breathless silence, save when aroused to passionate bursts of sorrow, as the speaker brought home to their hearts the sufferings of those who fought and bled in defence of the Church of Scotland. While indulging thus in reminiscences of the past, I was somewhat startled by the pressure of a hand on my shoulder, and, turning suddenly round, to my no small astonishment I found myself confronted by the wearer of the scarlet mantle, who, coming from what direction I knew not, proceeded to inquire, while she peered up in my face with two small penetrating eyes, "Whether I had come any great distance that morning?"
Having satisfied her curiosity upon that point, I proceeded to make some reflections on the subject of Peden, evidently to the great delight of the antiquated-looking stranger, for, seizing me by the arm, she exclaimed, with kindling eyes—
"O, mam, it does my old heart good to meet with one in these degenerate days who professes an interest in the old Covenanting stock; for, alas! new-fangled notions are rapidly taking possession of people's minds, old customs are abolished, a love for those sacred rites, so revered by our forefathers, is entertained now but by few, and (a deep sigh) times are changed in Scotland.
"What!" I said, "do you not esteem it an unspeakable blessing that in these days each one is permitted, nay, invited, to enter the house of God, there to worship Him without incurring the risk of imprisonment, ay, even death for doing so?"
The old woman shook her head as she replied, "To say truly, liberty is indeed granted to all who choose to accept of the gracious invitation to hear the Word of God, but few, few there are who avail themselves of the gracious privilege afforded them. Look at your mighty cities; see the multitudes there who never enter a church-door. And of those who do attend, note the very few attracted thither by sentiments of real devotion. No, no; the old spirit of religion is fast dying out of Scotland, and when it becomes extinct, then may we weep for our country. Far different was it thirty years ago," continued the old woman. "Oh, well do I mind one bonnie summer's morning, when the sky was without a cloud, and the caller air cam' blithely over the heather, while the lark was singing sae cheerily aboon our heads, as if it too was joining in the hymn of praise, at that instant ascending from the lips of three thousand people then assembled on this very spot to hear a sermon preached in remembrance of Peden. Oh, that was indeed a glorious sight, and one never to be forgotten. There was the minister, the saut tears trickling down his cheeks as he spoke of him in honour of whose memory they were that day gathered together—of his zeal, and his love for the mighty cause he had espoused; and there were the hearers, so absorbed in listening to his pious exhortations, that a pin might have been heard to fall in that vast assemblage." Here the old woman paused for an instant, and then continued: "Ay, ay, there was mair religion in one's thoughts when seated on the bonnie hill-side, or aneath the shade o' a nodding beach, imbibing the pure gospel truths as given them by some persecuted servant of God, than when seated between four walls of stone and lime, the perishable work o' men's hands."
Here I broke in upon the stranger's half-muttered observations by inquiring of her "if she belonged to that part of the country?"
"Oh, no!" she replied, "I come from Fifeshire, (I no longer wondered at her resemblance to a broomstick lady,) but am at present on a visit to some friends who reside near here."
"Indeed," I said; "yours was a noted part of the country in the time of the Covenanters; no wonder you still retain a strong predilection for aught that savours of the Covenant. And, pray, to what district of Fifeshire do you belong?"
"To the parish of Kinlassie," was the reply.
"Then you will know Inchdarnie?"
"Do I not," replied the old woman, her eyes sparkling with pleasure; "that name recalls to my remembrance all that was pleasing in the time gone by. It is linked with the sweet days of childhood, and the faces of those long vanished from my sight; ay, many and many a day have I roamed along the winding banks of the Lochty, and listened to the songs of the birds in the woods of Inchdarnie; oh, it is a bonnie, bonnie spot!"
"Was there not," I inquired, "a young gentleman of the name of Ayton, who was implicated in the murder of Archbishop Sharpe——?"
"He knew nought of it," interrupted the stranger. "Andrew Ayton was as innocent of that deed, or of any circumstance connected with it, as the babe unborn; no, no," she continued; "poor young man! he hadna the weight of blood on his soul when he gaed to his long account; oh but his was a cruel death!"
"In what light is the memory of Archbishop Sharpe regarded in Fifeshire?" I inquired.
"As that of a Judas; as that of one who was a traitor to the very cause he swore to protect."
"Then you approve of his death?"
"No," said the stranger, "I winna say that; for it is a fearful thing to shed blood. And although he merited but small mercy at the hands of those he would fain have crushed and trampled under foot as one would a poisonous reptile, yet they should have spared his grey hairs and left him to his God; but ye mauna think," she continued, "that those who suffered on account of his death had in reality anything to do with the perpetration of the crime; no. The stone which is still to be seen on Magus Moor covers the bodies of four murdered men, whose souls will yet cry aloud for vengeance on their murderers, for they were indeed innocent. My great-grandfather," pursued the old woman, "was one of the number, and until very lately I had in my possession a letter which effectually cleared his memory of the stain of having shed the blood of the treacherous prelate. Have you ever seen the stone?" she abruptly demanded after a moment's pause.
"No."
"Then you'll not know the epitaph inscribed thereon?"
I answered in the negative, upon which she recited the following:—
"'Cause we at Bothwell did appear,
Perjurious oaths refused to swear;
'Cause we Christ's cause would not condemn,
We were sentenc'd to death by men
Who rag'd against us in such fury,
Our dead bodies they did not bury,
But upon poles did hing us high,
Triumphs of Babel's victory.
Our lives we fear'd not to the death,
But constant prov'd to the last breath."
"And you say these men are buried in Magus Moor?" I inquired, while noting the inscription down in my pocket-book.
"They lie in an adjacent field," replied the old woman; "and many's the time I have stood by the stone when the winter's wind was howling along the heath in such a wild key that I could almost have fancied the spirits of the dead were murmuring around me, and conversing——"
"Probably with the murdered Archbishop!" I ventured to remark.
"May be," said the lady in the scarlet mantle, quite seriously; "there is no saying what takes place in the unseen world!"
I then inquired "if she was at all acquainted with any stories relating to the persecuting period?"
"That I am," said the old woman in reply, then passing her hand thoughtfully across her brow, she exclaimed sadly, "No, no, I daurna trust to my memory—that too has deserted me. Come to Fifeshire," she added after a moment's pause, "and you will gather much information about young Inchdarnie, that may chance to prove interesting!" On a subsequent occasion, I acted on the old woman's suggestion, and the following story is the result of my gleanings.
THE MURDER OF INCHDARNIE.
It was evening, and the rays of the setting sun were gilding the lofty spires of the ancient city of St. Andrews, causing the windows of the venerable university to glance like diamonds in the golden light; while the huge waves, gradually decreasing as they rolled along, broke with a gentle murmur on the shore, creating a harmony in unison with the pensive beauty of the hour. Apparently enjoying this interval of calm repose, a young man—whose extreme youthfulness of features contrasted strangely with the dejection seated on his brow—might have been observed seated in a musing attitude amongst the rocks on the seashore. The eyes of this solitary being were fixed with a melancholy earnest gaze alternately on the setting sun, which, having completed its appointed journey, descended rapidly into the empurpled west, and on the swiftly gliding vessels as they passed proudly on their way, their white sails flapping in the evening breeze. This dreaming youth—for he numbered only seventeen years of age—was Andrew Ayton, younger of Inchdarnie, then studying at the ancient university of St. Andrews. He was a young man possessed of graceful and winning manners—upright and honourable in his conduct; while his constant attention to his studies, and fervent, unobtrusive piety, endeared him alike to his instructors and to his fellow-students. His thoughts, at the moment of his being introduced to the reader, seemed not of that gentle kind which one might have expected from the soft serenity of the surrounding scene, for alternately his face flushed, and then waxed pale as death, according to the nature of the images presented to his mind.
"Oh, my unhappy country!" at length he exclaimed aloud in impassioned anguish, "how long are thy saints called upon to endure the miseries heaped upon them? How long must they continue to fall beneath the oppressor's rod——?"
At this moment a loud derisive burst of laughter grated harshly on his ear, interrupting him in the midst of his reverie. Starting hastily from his seat—his face covered with blushes in being thus detected in his solitary musings—young Ayton turning an inquiring eye in all directions in order to spy out the mocking intruder. For some little time his endeavours proved fruitless, and he was on the point of giving up the search, when a head cautiously protruded from behind a jutting piece of rock disclosed to view the laughing face of his cousin, William Auchmutie, who, perceiving himself detected, came forward and addressed young Ayton thus:—
"Come, come, my gentle coz; art not done dreaming yet, that thou starest so strangely on me, thy well beloved and right trusty cousin, as if forsooth I had indeed come with the intention of shedding some of the precious blood thou wert raving about, as I chanced, so opportunely, to stumble upon thy secret lurking-place? for I am certainly of opinion that another instant had seen thee plunge thyself in the boiling waters, in order to obtain an effectual remedy for thy hapless state of mind. Why, what new crotchet is this that has taken such forcible possession of thy most worshipful brain, that thou seemest so utterly prostrated in soul and body? Art thou rehearsing some bloody ode to excite the commiseration of thy lady-love? or has she turned a deaf ear to thy tenderly-urged suit? Speak, most valiant sir, and——"
"A truce to thy nonsense, William," interrupted his less volatile cousin; "thou knowest right well the reason for my clouded brow—look on this unhappy land——"
Here William Auchmutie gave utterance to a loud laugh, at the same time exclaiming, "and what hast thou got to do with this unhappy country? Dost thou imagine that thy single arm can in any way stay the course of bloodshed, or turn aside the inevitable shafts of fate? Pooh, pooh; give up thy day-dreaming—join in the sports of other young men, and leave thy countrymen to fight it out as they best can."
"Thou talkest foolishly, William," said young Ayton mildly, "can any one possessed of the least spark of religious feeling stand by a careless and unmoved spectator of the fearful scenes daily enacted around him? Look at the sufferings of the poor Covenanters; see how nobly they stand up in defence of their rights and liberties; behold them, as it were, with one voice, one heart, declaring their mighty purpose of suffering death rather than yield submission to the cruel laws imposed upon them. Oh, how I admire and venerate such noble heroism! Trusting in a strength not their own, the brave defenders of a national Covenant go forth from their homes rejoicing in the race set before them, and committing their weeping wives and helpless babes to the care of One who has promised to be a father to the fatherless, and a husband to the widow; relying, I say, on His gracious promise, these soldiers of the cross go forth to fight beneath the banners of the Covenant, and woe be to the man who shall despise them, or the cause for which they fight!"
"Andrew," exclaimed his cousin, scornfully, "thou an what I have long suspected thee to be—a heretic! No true churchman would ever espouse the side of these canting hypocrites, men whom, for my own part, I utterly despise. I have spent too many years in merry England not to have arrived at pretty correct notions regarding the Puritans, and should feel delighted beyond measure were the whole race exterminated from the face of the earth."
"I speak not of the English Puritans," replied young Ayton; "with Cromwell and his party I have little or no sympathy; it is of the poor simple peasantry of Scotland, than whom a more peaceable and orderly class of men does not exist, and yet they are represented by some knaves in office as being all that is vile and despicable, for whom hanging is too good. It is of such wanton cruelties as are now being perpetrated that I complain, outrages which must yet bring a fearful retaliation on the heads of those who so mercilessly use the lash of power——"
"Lash of power," re-echoed William Auchmutie in a deriding tone, "I would it were in my hands for a few short hours, then I would show thee the esteem in which I hold all such rebellious hypocrites. What business have they, I should like to know, with laws and regulations of their own! Anything which the King proposes for their benefit is only too good for the like of them; a set of cropped-eared malignants, whose long dismal faces would sour all the cream in the country——"
"Hold!" cried young Ayton warmly; "use not such intemperate language in my presence; if thou canst not respect the privileges of dear old Scotland, which if not the country of thy birth, is entitled to thy esteem as being the land of thy forefathers, decry them not for love of me. William Auchmutie," continued his cousin, "thou wert born and reared for some few years in England, during which time thou hast imbibed notions and adopted opinions at variance with the more simple manners and customs of our northern clime; but for me—I glory in the land of my birth. Every breeze that is wafted over her heath-clad hills breathes but of freedom and renown. As I gaze on the wild emblem of my country, surrounded by its glorious motto, and reflect, that in defence of that country heroes and patriots died, my heart swells and throbs within me exulting in the thought. Wallace, that mighty chieftain of old, who perished in defence of our civil liberties, has left a glorious example for us to follow. He rose as a giant in his strength, and, under the guidance and protection of a far mightier arm, burst asunder the iron shackles of slavery, which till then had crushed the souls and weighed down the heads of his wretched countrymen. In like manner shall the present defenders of the Covenant, trusting in the righteousness and justice of their cause, trample once more on the tyrant's chains."
"Whom term ye a tyrant?" demanded William Auchmutie haughtily.
"Charles the Second," replied his cousin firmly.
"And wherefore?"
"On account of his base desertion of a party whom he had sworn to protect and maintain to the best of his ability; and for the cruel and heartless measures he has adopted for their destruction. Oh, William," pursued his cousin eagerly, "do not defend such iniquitous proceedings as are now taking place at the instigation of the government! What has Charles' conduct been throughout but one mass of treachery and deceit? Look how the poor Presbyterians rejoiced at his return to the throne of his fathers; who more than they were eager to testify their love and loyalty, trusting as they did in his specious promises; and how were they repaid? by foul treachery and calumny!"
"Thou ravest, Andrew," was the cold reply; and after a short pause, during which each seemed engrossed with his own thoughts, William Auchmutie continued: "And I, as thou sayest, not having been born on Scottish soil, cannot boast of that mighty love for her glorious institutions—since thou must needs have them termed such—which seems to animate thy bosom; no, I was born in a more kindly, liberal land, and feel that, to me, the fertile plains of glorious old England are fairer and dearer than the barren hills of gloomy, fanatical Scotland. But hark ye, Andrew," added his cousin, laughing gaily, "a truce to this nonsense; it was not to argue on the merits of either country or cause that I sought out thy tragedy face, O most wise philosopher! but to acquaint thee with the glorious news that my father hath at length consented to my becoming a soldier, and next year I am to don the buff-coat, the lengthy rapier, the steel helmet, and the waving plume of a Scottish cavalier! Ha, there's for you!" exclaimed the exulting youth, tossing his cap up in the air and catching it on the point of his foot as it fell; "oh, won't I make my good sword rattle on the backs of these sour-faced loons, till they bellow, like so many pigs in the shambles, for quarter, but none shall be given them, no; and if I chance to encounter thy worthy self some of these odd mornings, cousin Andrew," pursued the thoughtless boy, "I shall kill thee just for thy having espoused so rascally a cause."
As William Auchmutie gave utterance to these heedless words, a strange, unaccountable feeling took possession of young Ayton's soul, while a cold shiver passed through his frame, and he remained motionless and unable to speak. His emotion was not lost upon his companion, who instantly exclaimed—
"Good gracious, Andrew, what is the matter with thee? thou lookest as scared as though I had spoken in good earnest."
Young Ayton smiled faintly, and muttered some few words by way of a reply, but they were unheard and unheeded by his thoughtless cousin, who at that instant was threading his way up among the rocks, humming some popular cavalier song.
Andrew Ayton remained stationary a while, gazing after the retreating figure of William Auchmutie, until rousing himself, as with a mighty effort, from his momentary fit of abstraction, he murmured, half aloud, "and now for a bitter task;" then pulling his cap still lower over his forehead, he strode off rapidly in a contrary direction to that pursued by his cousin. After proceeding a short distance along the sea-shore, he struck into a narrow path amongst the rocks, which led towards a fine old avenue surrounded by aged elms, whose dusky foliage lent an air of sadness to the scene, in keeping with the impressive silence which reigned around.
The house approached by this avenue was an ancient, venerable-looking edifice, which, during the time of the haughty Cardinal Beaton, had been the residence of one of the popish dignitaries then holding office in the cathedral of St. Andrews. There was an air of monastic seclusion about the mansion which accorded well with the gloomy nature of the approach. The walls were overgrown with ivy, whose luxuriant growth almost concealed from view the windows designed to impart light to its inhabitants, while the dreamy murmurs of a fountain stationed near the entrance attuned the heart of the listener to melancholy yet pleasing reflection. Andrew Ayton stood still a while beneath the shade of one of the lofty elms, to gaze unseen on this picture of peaceful seclusion, until finding his thoughts too painful for long indulgence, he walked hastily onwards, and opening a wicker-gate which stood at some little distance from the mansion, was admitted into the old-fashioned garden belonging to the place, where a youthful maiden was seated, working embroidery, under the umbrageous boughs of one of the apple-trees with which the garden abounded. At sight of the intruder the young girl uttered a cry of joy, and bounded eagerly forward, exclaiming—
"Why so late, Andrew, why so late? Here have I been seated all alone for hours in this dreary old garden, which, with its quaint devices, reminds me so forcibly of the one attached to the convent where I resided in France, only"—but here, for the first time, observing the sad, troubled expression of young Ayton's face, she paused in her description to inquire what ailed him, adding, "I am sure you study far too closely at that nasty university; aunt says so too, but she has been noticing how wretchedly out of spirits you have been for some time past, and wonders what can be the reason of it; do tell me, Andrew," she implored, placing her hand confidingly in his, while two of the loveliest eyes in the world were fixed on his face with a look of tender entreaty impossible to withstand. Andrew Ayton smiled faintly, and pleading some slight excuse for his apparent depression of spirits, passed his hand caressingly over her luxuriant black tresses, which hung in massy folds over her swan-like neck, while he led her towards a seat placed beneath an old yew-tree, whose mournful hue harmonised well with the nature of the communication he was about to make.
"Oh, not there, not there!" exclaimed the young maiden shudderingly, dragging young Ayton away from the tree as she spoke.
"Wherefore?" was the inquiry.
"O, it is so gloomy, and there is a strange tradition told in connection with it which makes me shudder whenever I look on it."
"And pray what is the tradition?" inquired Andrew Ayton, endeavouring by every means in his power to delay the moment of explanation.
"I know not the circumstances which gave rise to the prediction," replied the maiden, "but it bodes approaching death to one or both of those who beneath its venerable boughs breathe of aught save of that pertaining to holy things."
"Why, then, have a seat placed there at all?" said young Ayton, smiling at the strange superstition.
"It has been there from time immemorial," was the reply, "and no one would be found hardy enough to attempt its removal." Then evidently with a wish to change the subject, she said, in a livelier tone, "but come hither, you lagging knight, and see what I have been doing for you in your absence." So saying, she led him by the hand towards the tree where she had herself been seated, and holding up for his admiration the piece of embroidery she had just finished on his entrance, representing a Venetian lady singing her evening hymn to the Virgin, said laughingly, "I have worked this at the request of my worthy aunt, who desires that you will immediately hang it up in your chamber at the university, in order that, by feasting your eyes on this holy subject, and your mind with the thoughts it must give rise to, you may be preserved from the fatal errors of Protestantism."
The lips of her lover—for that Andrew Ayton was such the reader must by this time have discovered—became ashen white during this playful sally of the merry-hearted girl, and, seizing her by the hand, he constrained her to seat herself by his side, while he exclaimed, in a voice rendered husky by intense emotion—
"Mary Cunninghame, is it not true that we have loved each other since the days of our childhood?"
"Yes," was the faint reply of the startled maiden, who sat with her eyes rivetted on the pale face of the inquirer, awaiting the issue of this strange address, in speechless anxiety.
"Ere ever you went to France," continued her lover, "when we roamed hand in hand through the bonnie woods of Craigeholm, seeking for wild flowers with which to adorn thy curling tresses, I sighed for the day which I hoped would see us united. I thought of it—dreamed of it. When you left me to go to France, then was I miserable indeed. My only happiness consisted in re-visiting the old familiar haunts of my happier hours. And yet they seemed changed to me, for the angel presence which diffused a charm around these hallowed spots was gone; and I fled with an aching heart from those scenes which reminded me so forcibly of you. Every trifle bestowed by you on me in these halcyon days was treasured up by me as a gem of the most priceless value. They were watered by my tears—they were the confidants of my sorrows; and look, Mary, I have worn this even till now." So saying, young Ayton took from off his neck a narrow piece of blue ribbon, to which was attached a small amber cross. Mary Cunninghame gazed on this small token of affection with eyes suffused with tears, and, unable to speak, motioned her lover to proceed with his disclosure, which he did as follows:—
"Such being my constancy during your absence, you will in some measure be able to guess the intensity of my happiness on your return. You were restored to me more beautiful than ever—my wildest dreams had never dared to picture aught so fair; and oh, what pleased me more than all, was the knowledge you were still unchanged towards me. I read your affection in one glance of those sweet truthful eyes, and I was overwhelmed with joy. As you may remember, shortly alter your return I came hither, and you—from a desire to be near me, and to enliven with your bright smiles the hours not devoted to study—accepted your aunt's invitation to stay with her during the absence of your parents in England. You came, and expressed your surprise at the change which had taken place in me in the space of the few months we had been separated; then, Mary, was the commencement of the struggle between duty and my love for you. Formerly I was a sincere believer in the doctrines of the Romish Church, and would have repelled the charge with indignation had any one ventured to assert that I should yet be a Protestant. But now things are altered. I chanced one day, during my leisure hours, to take up a pamphlet entitled, 'The Sufferings of God's Children,' and opening it carelessly, I read one or two pages, without reflecting on what I was reading; suddenly a passage struck me with overwhelming force, and becoming then deeply interested, I went on and on, and the farther I proceeded, the more I was convinced of the truth of the statements therein contained. I read of the dreadful cruelties inflicted on the hapless members of the Church of Scotland; how her children are driven to the wilds and fastnesses of their native country, there to worship, in silence and in solitude, the God of their fathers. I wept over the numberless atrocities that have been committed, and I arose from the perusal of the book with the firm resolution of inquiring farther into the doctrines of the Protestant Church, persuaded, as I then was, that they must be of a truly elevating and comforting character thus to render their holders superior to all attempts made to torn them from their revered yet simple faith. Mary," continued young Ayton, "from that day I have been an altered being. At first I was torn with doubts and apprehensions as to the line of conduct I should pursue, knowing, as I did, the love you entertained for the Romish religion; but a voice kept always whispering in mine ear—search, search, and I did search until I found peace and consolation in the blessed light of Protestantism. Mary, I am now a Protestant; are we to part?"
With a sharp cry as though an adder had stung her, Mary Cunninghame darted from her lover's side, her lips quivering with emotion, and her face white as marble, so overcome was she by the shock she had received on hearing this communication.
"Oh!" she wildly exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart as though to still its beatings, "tell me anything—anything but that. Say you are a beggar; convince me, if you will, that you are no longer worthy of my affection, my esteem, yet I should regard you as I have ever done, but oh! not that you have abandoned the only true Church. Tell me," she continued, the rapidity of her utterance attesting the intense excitement under which she laboured, "that it is false—that you have wilfully, cruelly deceived me, and I shall bless you for the words—speak!"
"Mary," said her lover, calmly and sorrowfully. "I have indeed told you the truth: I am now a convert to Protestantism; and God alone knows the agony I have endured while telling you this, knowing, for I see it in your eyes, that we must part. But Mary, ever fondly-beloved Mary, we are both young; let us therefore pray to God that he may grant us time, and a portion of his Holy Spirit, to do that required of us. You"—here he paused for a moment overcome with emotion—"will be courted by the rich and the great of your own faith, and may soon find one to console you for the lover lost, while I——"
"You!" scornfully interrupted Mary Cunninghame, her eyes flashing with indignation as she spoke, "will, I suppose, comfort yourself in a similar manner; the recreant in religion will soon prove a recreant in love; but learn this, fair sir, that from this day henceforward, Mary Cunninghame ceases to regard Andrew Ayton in any other light than that of a base apostate, and will tear him from her heart as easily as she now tramples under foot what hitherto she had valued above anything in her possession." So saying, the indignant girl hastily withdrew from its hiding-place a ribbon similar to that worn by her lover, to which was attached a small gold heart, a present from him in younger and happier days, and dashed it with violence on the ground.
The lips of Andrew Ayton trembled with agitation during this proceeding on the part of her he loved so fondly, and more than once he was on the point of throwing himself at her feet and surrendering all save his hopes of her, but a higher power restrained him, and he muttered half audibly, "far better thus; if she deems me so faithless she will forget me all the sooner. Poor Mary, she knows not what I suffer; God grant me strength to bear the burden imposed on me." Then turning to Mary Cunninghame, who, more than half repenting of what she had done, stood gazing on the beloved and till that day cherished ornament, as it lay bruised upon the ground, addressed her thus:—"God bless you, my darling Mary, and grant you a lighter heart than I bear away with me this night; and oh! if in his great goodness and mercy he sees fit to turn you from that Church to which you now so fondly cling, send for me, should you feel your heart in any degree softened towards one whose only grief at this moment is his losing you;" so saying, he darted towards her, and seizing her hand ere ever she was made aware of his intention, he pressed it again and again to his lips, gazed for a moment wildly in her face—and tore himself away. For days after this occurrence, Andrew Ayton remained shut up in his chamber, permitting no one to intrude on his privacy save William Auchmutie, who came to take leave of him before quitting St. Andrews. This latter personage was as gay and lively as ever, but not even his brilliant sallies of wit could extract from his cousin the faintest shadow of a smile, so that he soon withdrew in indignation at his failure. Young Ayton was indeed almost broken-hearted at what had taken place. He felt as many others do when similarly situated, that he never knew the real extent of his love for Mary Cunninghame until she was lost to him for ever. The circumstance of her having so carefully preserved the little golden heart he had placed round her neck on the morning of her departure for France, affected him deeply, and the look of indignant grief with which she tore it from its sanctuary during their last interview, was indelibly engraven on his imagination. His only resort now was the sea-shore, where he would sit for hours gazing with vacant eyes on the mighty waves as they dashed with violence against the rock on which the ancient castle of St. Andrews is situated.
One day, while indulging in his wonted reverie, he observed an aged man coming swiftly down amongst the rocks who, when he had seated himself on a neighbouring stone, fixed his eyes with a melancholy gaze on the brilliant sunbeams as they danced on the heaving waters. There was something in the appearance of the stranger at once striking and commanding. In figure he was tall and slender, while a slight stoop at the shoulders indicated a tendency to constitutional delicacy, in some measure counteracted by the bronzed hue of his cheek, which betokened constant exposure to the elements; while the vigorous strides with which he had descended the tortuous path leading to the shore, proved his capabilities for undergoing great and enduring fatigue. Andrew Ayton felt as if attracted by some invisible power towards the venerable stranger, and he gazed on him with a feeling of awe and reverence for which he was in some measure unable to account. After the lapse of a few moments spent thus in meditation, the stranger turned his mild yet penetrating eye full on the face of his companion, and pointing with the stick which he held in his hand towards the glittering sunbeams, addressed him thus:—
"Young man, these sparkling messengers resemble the hopes and joyful aspirations of youth, gladdening with their presence the dull waters of life. The spring-time of existence beneath their bright influence is indeed as a beautiful dream, but ah! how different the awakening. The youthful traveller goes forth into the world eager to run the race and win the goal. All nature seems to rejoice with him in his sweet anticipations regarding the future. The blue sky smiles above him—the green earth teems with glowing beauties around him—the song of the birds is more thrilling and tender; all serves as it were, to feed the fond delusions of youth. But soon there comes a change. Dark threatening clouds obscure the bright sunbeams. The aspect of the heavens is changed; fierce storms arise, the smooth waters swell into mighty billows, and man awakes from the dreams of his youthful hours to arm him for the combat—is it not so?"
"Yes, father," said young Ayton with a deep-drawn sigh, for he felt the full force of the simile.