Chapter IV: Part 4

"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.

The dejected air with which these simple words were uttered did not escape the observation of the stranger, for he quickly resumed, eyeing his companion keenly as he spoke: "But, on the other hand again, youth is prone to be easily dejected. According to the bright and sanguine anticipations of that season of hope, so is there a corresponding amount of depression, should anything occur to mar or lessen the amount of happiness we expected to enjoy in our progress through life. But he is not worthy of the prize who thus faints and succumbs at the outset of his career; no, the youthful warrior, like the Christian of old, must arm him for the fight. He must rise superior to all the crosses and afflictions he is called upon to endure. He must fix his thoughts on the mighty end to be achieved, which will guide him as a beacon through the darkness and difficulties which surround his path; and although the object to be attained may seem far beyond his reach, yet assuredly he will triumph in the end."

Andrew Ayton recognised the justice of the stranger's observations, and being desirous to repose implicit confidence in one who seemed, from the wisdom of his counsels, to be able to direct him as to his future walk in life, he recounted to him the history of his love and subsequent conversion to Protestantism.

"My son," exclaimed the stranger, warmly grasping the hand of his companion, "God has indeed been gracious to you in bringing you thus early in life to a knowledge of what is to be desired above all earthly things, and although the sacrifice of your youthful affections may appear at first a burden hard and grievous to be borne, yet He is faithful who promised we will not be tempted above that we we able to bear. We are all called upon to suffer; and it is the duty of the Christian to say with resignation, 'The Lord's will be done.' None of us are exempted from sorrow and trial, and it is wisely ordained that it should be so, in order that we may be prepared for another and a brighter world."

Here the stranger paused for a moment, and then resumed with inquiry, "perhaps you are not aware, my son, that I am a minister of the suffering Church of Scotland?"

"I deemed, father, that you belonged to the Covenanting body," said young Ayton, "from the air of deep sadness seated on your brow."

"Yes," said the stranger sadly; "every true member of the Presbyterian religion must, in these fearful times, bear on their countenances the tokens of a sorrowing heart within. Oh! my son," continued the aged man, "unite with me in prayer that the destruction which at present menaces our beloved Church may be averted, and that God in the greatness of his strength may visit and relieve his people."

Andrew Ayton, deeply overcome at sight of the old man's sorrow, knelt with him on the sand, and prayed that He who had promised grace to help in every time of need might look down from his throne on high, and strengthen those about to go forth in defence of their Covenants.