THE LINDSAYS OF REDKNOCK HAUGH. BY MARY DOIG, AUTHOR OF ROSALIA VANDERWERF,' ETC. CHAPTER IV. Stillness reigns, Until the man of God, worthy the name, T is Sabbath, the last Sabbath on which Mr Ogilvie is to preach from the pulpit which he has so long occupied, for a decree has gone forth that all ministers who refuse to submit to receive admission from the bishop before the 1st of November shall be banished from their churches, manses, and parishes. It is therefore with much sadness that the Lindsays take their way to the church. From the distant farm of Muir Dyke, a cart may be seen approaching, in which is seated the patriarchal - looking old farmer, Saunders Galbraith, his white hair floating in the breeze, his son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren around him. The old man has long been an elder in that church, but though he has acted as such for the last time there, he is not utterly cast down, for he knows that his God is not confined to temples made with hands. From the village comes John Aikenside, also an elder, a tall, hard-favoured old man, who is loud in his denunciations against all who shall enter that door after it has been shut against his minister, and against all the godly of the flock; and he seems almost to expect the roof to fall on the hireling who shall succeed him,' who entereth not by the door, but climbeth up some other way.' There is a deep solemnity over the congregation as the minister rises and reads the psalm, which is sung to one of the most plaintive of tunes, and as the sermon proceeds, many a rough hand wipes tears from eyes but little used to weeping. Then, when all is over, the kirkyard, where the people wait to get one last shake of the minister's hand, is a scene of bitter sorrow. Ere long the curate is installed in the church, where he preaches to many empty seats. He is a large, unwieldy, weak, and pompous man, and at first seems fitted to call forth hatred rather than love. By-and-by, however, he makes it evident that he is by no means lacking in a persecuting spirit, and the fines which are imposed on those who refuse to attend the parish church make the more worldly of the parishioners glad to obey the commands laid upon them. There are not a few, however, who will not be induced to acknowledge the existing establishment as the Kirk of Scotland, nor its curates as their ministers. Meanwhile Mr Ogilvie does not forget his people, but comes from time to time in the darkness of night to Redknock Haugh, where It is an August morning, a Sabbath stillness rests on the earth, its stillness broken only by the deep hum of the wild bee and the gladsome song of the lark, as he rises from his grassy bed soaring and singing, as Mr Ogilvie and Lindsay together take their way to the appointed place where the sacrament is to be dispensed. A great congregation has already assembled in this wilderness of purple heather, and never have the people so felt the majesty of the 68th Psalm as when the outed minister reads'O God, what time Thou didst go forth Before Thy people's face, And when through the great wilderness and in the assembled multitude there is not one voice which does not help to swell the song of praise. From the other side of the Firth of Forth, Stobow, farmer of Ashes, and his wife have come with their infant for baptism, and ere the communion services begin, Lilias is received into the Church-the church in the wilderness. Then as the minister breaks the bread in the name of his Master, for whose sake he has left all things, many feel that this purple moor is for them the very gate of heaven; and when the 103d Psalm rises to the tune of Coleshill, as it has done so often since in our Scottish Zion, like transient sunshine on a bleak or commonplace landscape, many a plain face is lighted up with a passing look of beauty, a glimpse, perchance, of what such faces may be when mortality is swallowed up of life,-while on some, beautiful even by nature, the radiance of the heavenly crown seems already reflected. 'Who doth redeem thy life, that thou To death may'st not go down,' the worshippers are singing, when a company of troopers appear, led to the spot by Spence of Moss-bog, and surely one has not taken a random shot, for Lindsay falls, dyeing the robe of the newly-baptised child with his lifeblood. A shriek of agony rends the air, and his wife tries to raise him in her arms, but she calls his name in vain, for he has already gone to receive the martyr's crown. CHAPTER VI. 'I marked a rainbow in the north.' -KEBLE. Years have passed, and in the house of Redknock Haugh Mrs Lindsay is sitting quietly at work. In her face there is an expression that tells plainly that life for her has not been a summer's day, nor is it the past alone which casts its deep shadow over her; but she is also much disturbed by present fears, for Ralph has determined to take arms and join the company which has been gathering from the south and west, resolved to fight for Scotland's Covenanted rights; nor would she say a word to deter him from so doing, for she thinks it is but right that her son should follow his father's steps, even should it lead to his father's death. It is a mild November day, with a sky of dark steel colour, a sudden gleam of sunshine breaks out, and a rainbow of wondrous beauty spans the darkness of the north, beneath whose arch a flock of gulls appear, their snowy breasts glittering with unearthly whiteness. Mrs Lindsay allows her work to fall from her hands, and as she gazes on the fair bow in the clouds, she thinks of how the ark of old floated on the waste of waters, and the bow of promise seems to say to her that, although Scotland be doomed to a deluge, not of water, but of blood, yet the Kirk must ride safely through it, guided by Him who says to the floods, Hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther.' She is, however, roused from her reverie by the sound of voices under the old tree, now leafless, but the seed - pods of which have caught the light of that transient gleam, and shine like tassels of gold. The same light is on the fair hair of her son Ralph, who is discussing with Hab how many of those on the estate of Redknock Haugh are likely to join the present rising. She looks from the window, and as she does so, her thoughts go back to the time when she saw the two infants carried in the arms of Jean Futheringham. Ere long, they are joined by Richie, the young shepherd, who says little, but whose melancholy grey eyes-that make one think of the misty hills where he tends his flocksay plainly, that for the crown rights of Sion's King he would willingly die, unworthy as he thinks himself of a martyr's death; while his yellow collie dog, which sits gazing up in his face, declares, with his look of wondrous affection, that he at least will gladly follow his master wherever he goes. It is arranged that Hab is to remain at Redknock Haugh, for Ralph fears to leave his mother unprotected, since robbery, or even murder, if committed by the King's troops, has ceased to be a crime punished by law, if the houses robbed belonged to any one connected with the Covenanting cause. The army of Covenanters is now at Lanark, from whence, on account of pressing letters from Edinburgh, they intend to march to that city through the Lothians, expecting to obtain many recruits in these counties. It is a day of incessant rain as they take their way through the moors to Bathgate, where they hope to find shelter for the night; and it is at that town that the West Lothian recruits are to join the army-Ralph Lindsay among the rest. As the darkness falls, the wind rises to a hurricane, and it is found no easy matter for the men to keep together, or to make their way through the swampy moors to their destination. Arrived at Bathgate, they seek in vain for shelter, and, with the enemy behind, they find it impossible to retrace their steps. After prayer and consultation by the leaders of the army, it is resolved that, in spite of the wildness and darkness of the night, they must proceed to Edinburgh, hoping that they may be met by a large body of friends from that city ere the enemy overtake them. As they again proceed through the moors, the darkness is so intense that it is impossible to keep each other in sight, and the wind rages so wildly that voices are drowned in its roaring, horses sink to their saddles in clay, and those who are worn out by long marching on foot, finding that they have got separated from the company, sink wearily down to wait for the morning light. Every stream, too, is swollen to a roaring river, so that the soldiers of that sorely diminished army, when they reach New Bridge, near Edinburgh, hungry, wet, and weary, have but little the appearance of fighting men. At last, however, the stragglers come up, and once more the army numbers nearly a thousand men. They are within five miles of Edinburgh when they learn, to their consternation, that that city, as well as Leith, is in arms against them. Much lacking in officers, they know not well where to turn; they, however, resolve, in the first place, to march to Colinton. On the following day they began to turn the north-east end of the Pentland Hills. It was evidently the mind of Wallace, their skilful general, that the best course now to follow was to put the Pentlands between the Royal troops and his followers, and under their covert quietly to disperse for their homes. They had reached as far as Rullion Green, and for greater safety Wallace had brought them together, and encamped on the higher ground, when about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, the report came that the Royal forces were approaching, and that, instead of turning the spur of the Pentlands, they were coming through the glen from Currie, in order to cut off the flight of the Covenanters if they took to the hills. But the skill of Wallace had put his army on the safe side of the glen. The Royal cavalry were soon seen advancing on its north side. They tried to cross, but the glen was too deep. A detachment of about fifty now O God, why hast Thou cast us off? Against thy pasture sheep why doth Thy congregation, Which Thou has purchased of old; The rod of Thine inheritance, Thy feet lift, do not tarry, Do Thou, O God, arise and plead Do not forget the voice of those That are Thine enemies; That do against Thee rise. Wallace now ordered about the same number of men to meet them, and prevent their crossing. For a short time there was a sharp contest, and at last the enemy ran. Wallace sent a party of infantry to where they had retreated, but they withdrew and crossed the glen, and waited the coming up of the main part of the army. It speedily appeared-a body of more than three thousand wellequipped men. Dalziel drew them up in order of battle, 'thinking,' Wallace said, to provoke us to quit our ground, and to fight them on even ground.' Ralph's heart beat as he saw them from the high grounds of Rullion Green, and he almost wished that the order had been given to advance; but he forgot that they were four times his numbers, and that he would have to go down into the glen, and then climb up the opposite side before they could be reached. Happily, Wallace knew better, and remained where he was. Twice in succession Dalziel tried to dislodge them by sending a party of horse, but twice over the detachment sent was driven back. When a third and larger squadron was sent, Learmonth, the Covenanting officer, retired to his post on the hill. In these three contests several hours had been passed, and, in all, the Covenanters had had the advantage, and the November day was now far spent when Dalziel brought forward the whole of his left wing upon the right! of the Covenanters posted on the lower ridges of Rullion Green. Here Wallace had only thirty horse, and Ralph was among them. He eagerly waited the advance of the Royal cavalry, that he at once saw were far more numerous and better armed than his friends around him. He did his best; but soon overpowering numbers carried the day, and with a sore heart he saw himself compelled to retire, leaving some of his companions dead on the field. From where he retired he saw the Royal troops advance on the left wing. The resistance was spirited, but as the sun set, here, too, the far greater Royalist force entirely broke the Covenanters, and compelled them to flee. The flight became general. Many lie dead on the field, or are taken prisoners-the rest escape to the hills, favoured by the darkness of the night, some of these only to meet a more cruel fate at the hands of those with whom they sought shelter. Ralph leaves his horse dead on the field of battle, escaping himself but slightly wounded, and at midnight reaches a barn, where, after sleepless nights of riding through rain and wind, he sinks to rest. GRANDFATHER'S HOLIDAY TALK: HE PREACHES A LITTLE TO THE OLD FOLKS AS WELL AS THE YOUNG. BY REV. IRENAEUS PRIME, EDITOR OF NEW YORK OBSERVER. RANDPA, I should think you | ing. 'No, grandpa; but it looks as if you are working, and that makes people tired. You are always writing, writing, writing.' 'Not always, dear; I am not writing now, and I am always ready to stop when you come to see me.' It was her holiday recess, and the sweet child, with her gentle, loving ways, her soft brown curls, and bright, laughing eyes, had come to spend the glad days at the old homestead. The winter day was melting into even Out of doors it was rough and cold. Within, the cheerfulness of home, and books and children's plays, made it summer. In the library grandpa was writing in his studychair. The blazing wood-fire on the open hearth and the pots of flowers between the heavy curtains of the front windows gave brightness and fragrance to the room, which a little art converted, for the season, into a study for the old man and a playhouse for the children. The child climbed into his lap, took the pen out of his hand, and began to make pot-hooks on his paper-laughing, while he looked on with dismay. Grandpa, how long have you been writing in this way? Ever since I was a little dot you have been writing, writing, every time I come. Did you always write just so?' 'I will tell you, my dear, but I will thank you to stop spoiling my paper; besides, if I am to talk to you, I want you to attend, and do nothing else.' 'So I will, and I am sorry I did not before.' "The first piece that I ever wrote for the New York Observer was printed in that paper April 7, 1838. From that time to this, about forty-four years, with a brief interval, I have been writing every week, and almost every day, for the Observer. It is curious to see how much one writes in such steady work. Suppose a minister writes sixty pages every week in making his sermons (less than ten pages a day, and he can easily write ten pages in an hour or two), he will write three thousand pages in a year, thirty thousand in ten years, or a hundred and twenty thousand in forty. I have written, on an average, more than five columns each week for forty years, or ten thousand columns in all; at least one hundred volumes of four hundred pages each.' 'Oh grandpa, I don't keep up with you; I get it all mixed.' 'Yes, dear; but you wonder now more than ever that I do not get tired of it. You see those great books standing in a row; those are the bound volumes of the New York Observer. Every word that I have written in it is there, all printed out; and every word to be answered for before God! How many of the words I would like now to recall! If for every idle or foolish word we speak we must give account, how much more for every one we write and print! When I look at those forty volumes with broad leaves, and think of a whole life-work set down in order-all written out-I think of that other Book of Remembrance which is kept in another world, where all our thoughts, words, and actions are written down, and kept for ever.' Mine, dear grandpa, are mine all written down?' It means, my precious child, that we are always in the sight and hearing of our Heavenly Father, who remembers us with tenderness and love; helps us when we are young or old; listens to us when we pray to Him or talk to one another; pities us when we are in trouble; and loves us more, more-more than I love you, my darling. When we do wrong, when we are impatient and fretful, when we say naughty words that grieve others, or do what we ought not to do, God is grieved, and He cannot forget our sin. If it were written and printed in the New York Observer, it would not be more sure of being remembered. That is what His "book of remembrance" means.' Grandpa, I try to be good, but I do get tired sometimes; don't you? I wish you would say you do.' Well, my dear, what is it that we live for? You are too young to reason much about it, and I know what you mean by getting tired. Yes, I am sad and discouraged, and almost despairing at times, because so little comes after trying to do so much. With my work, it is "line upon line," that's all-just writing one line and then another, from one year's beginning to its end; but I can tell you what we live for, or ought to. Child as you are, you can understand it; and if you live to be as old as your grandfather, you will have nothing else worth living for than what I am about to tell you. 'You see that beautiful painting? That is a copy of Murillo's "Virgin." Dou you suppose he was ever tired of painting? One of the greatest of modern sculptors told me that he had got beyond working for money: his Art was his Life. To do good and to give pleasure to others in going good-that is what every one ought to live for. If it be painting a picture, or cutting a marble, or making a shoe, or building a house, or buying and selling to get gain-whatever we do, it should be done with our might, to please God in the good we give and do. You will learn to play on instruments of music. If you play to show how smart you are, your playing will never please God, and never please yourself; for, others playing better than you will make you envious and unhappy. But, if you try to please your parents and friends, not to speak of your old grandpa [here a little kiss came in], if you would make home brighter and sweeter, you will do good, and have the blessedness of giving, even in childhood. In this be a child always-a good child. Jesus took a little child and set him in the midst of His disciples, to reprove them when they were wanting to know who should be the greatest. To be good and to do good, that is the first and last thing for a child to learn, and it is a lesson to be learned afresh each day from infancy to second childhood. That's a long sermon for the holidays, is it not, my dear child?' 'No, grandpa, dear, it is not long, and I understand every word of it. To-morrow will be New-Year's Day, and I mean to try and remember it all the year through.' 'Good for you, darling; now kiss me good night, and I will take a new sheet in place of this one you have spoiled, and write the little sermon all out for the young and the old who read my next week's letter, the first one in the New Year. LEARN to say no, and it will be of more use to you than to be able to read Latin.— Spurgeon. THAT instrument will make no music that hath but some strings in tune. If, when God strikes on the strings of joy or gladness, we answer pleasantly; but when He touches upon that of sorrow or humiliation, we see it not; we are broken instruments that make no melody unto God. A well-tuned heart must have all its string, all its affections, ready to answer every touch of God's finger. He will make everything beautiful in its time. Sweet harmony cometh out of some discords.-Owen. THE MARTYR GRAVES OF THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. BY REV. J. H. THOMSON, HIGHTAE, BY LOCKERBIE CHAPTER II. IRONGRAY. RONGRAY CHURCHYARD is about five miles to the northwest of Dumfries. We left Dumfries, and crossed the Nith by the new bridge to Maxwelton. The street that first met us to the right of the crossing was College Street, so named from Lincluden College, to which the street or road leads. A mile and a-half's walk brought us to Lincluden. It is beautifully situated on a tongue of land formed by a bend of the Cluden at its junction with the Nith. What was once the choir is nearly all that remains of the college, and it is roofless, and the stone-work of the windows has all but disappeared. The frame alone remains. On the north wall of the choir is the spot where the body of Lady Margaret, daughter of Robert III. and Countess of Douglas, was interred. But the tomb has been opened, and its architectural magnificence has long ago disappeared. A recumbent statue of Lady Margaret was placed over the tomb. When Pennant, in his tour in Scotland in 1769, visited the college, the statue was still in existence, although mutilated; and so little respect was then paid to the deceased, that he says he saw her bones' lying 'scattered about in an indecent manner by some wretches who broke open the repository in search of treasure.' The inscription over the tomb has recently been deepened, but it might have been made deeper still. 6 In keeping, however, with the neglect into which the whole building has fallen for many a day, visitors, eager to give their unknown and ephemeral existences a local connection with something likely to be more enduring than themselves, have carved their names all over the wall above the tomb. Since our first visit any addition to this state of matters is at an end, for, on visiting the tomb in December last (1881), we found the proprietor had caused the floor of the building to be cleaned out, and an iron gate has been put upon its entrance, and visitors can now only see the tomb through the grating from the outside. The abbey stands on a kind of plateau above the river, and the view from it is worth the trouble of the walk, independent of the attraction of the ruin itself. Close by the abbey there is a fir-covered mound or hillock, from the summit of which the view is still finer. From the abbey we retraced our steps, passing by Lincluden House, and gained the road which leads to Irongray. Irongray Churchyard is about five miles to the north west of Dumfries. For the latter half of the way the road keeps close to the Cluden Water. Irongray Church is of modern structure. The one object of interest in its churchyard is the gravestone erected by Sir Walter Scott over the mortal remains of Helen Walker, the prototype of one of the finest of the novelist's creations-Jeanie Deans. It is easily found, near the north gable of the church. The graves we were in search of were not in the churchyard. We had five minutes' walk until we came to them, in a field about a hundred yards off the road, at the east end of what looks like a long tumulus. It is planted over with fir-trees. We counted at least forty. The graves were enclosed in 1832, when a new grave-stone was put alongside the old one, and the inscription transferred to it. The inscription is HERE LYES EDWARD GO AS LAGG AND BLOODIE WE WERE HUNG UP BY AND THUS THER FURIO HERE NOW IN PEACE The stones have been enclosed within a railing. They lie upon the ground, while behind them, and facing the spectator, is an upright slab of stone, with an inscription detailing the circumstances that led to its erection, and the name of the preacher, at the close of whose sermon a collection was made to defray the expenses incurred. The monument is said to be designed to express the respect cherished by the present generation for the memory and principles of the martyrs whose ashes repose on this spot.' The inscrip tion, however, is occasionally misspelt, and the two heads, supposed to represent the martyrs, are grotesque in appearance and somewhat defaced Its writer has forgotten that Edward Gordon and Alexander M'Cubine were hanged, and not burned, and that hence it is their mortal remains, and not their ashes, that repose beneath the stone. He says a great deal more about the collection, |