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A Tale of Bothwell Bridge The Laird of Culzean Peden's Stone The Murder of Inchdarnie The Laird of Lag The Sutor's Seat

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.

"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."

"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!

"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 , 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 m?l?. 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 m?l? 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.

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.

"Wicked people lived in these times," I observed.

"I suppose you have frequently read the 'Scotch Worthies?'" I inquired.

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."

"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."

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