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A Traditional Tale of
Lanarkshire
Chapter I
During the persecutions
in Scotland, consequent upon the fruitless attempt to root out
Presbyterianism and establish Episcopacy by force, there lived one Allan
Hamilton, a farmer, at the foot of the Lowther mountains in Lanarkshire.
His house was situated in a remote valley, which, though of small
extent, was beautiful and romantic, being embosomed on all sides by
hills covered to their summits with rich verdure. Around the house was a
considerable piece of arable ground, and behind it a well-stocked
orchard and garden. A few tall trees grew in front, waving their ample
foliage over the roof, while at each side of the door was a little plot
planted with honeysuckle, wallflower, and various odoriferous shrubs.
The owner of this neat mansion was a fortunate man ; for the world had
hitherto gone well with him, and if he had lost his wife—an affliction
which sixteen years had mellowed over-he was blessed with an
affectionate and virtuous daughter. He had two male and as many female
servants to assist him in his farming operations ; and so well had his
industry been rewarded, that he might be considered as one of the most
prosperous husbandmen in that part of the country.
Mary Hamilton, his only child, was, at the time we speak of, nineteen
years of age. She was an extremely handsome girl, and, though living in
so remote a quarter, the whole district of the Lowthers rung with the
fame of her beauty. But this was the least of her qualifications, for
her mind was even fairer than her person; and on her pure spirit the
impress of virtue and affection was stamped in legible characters.
Allan, though a religious man, was not an enthusiast; and, from certain
prudent considerations, had forborne to show any of that ardent zeal for
the faith which distinguished many of his countrymen. He approved
secretly in his heart of the measures adopted by the Covenanters, and
inwardly prayed for their success ; but these matters he kept to his own
mind, reading his Bible with his daughter at home, and not exposing
himself or her to the machinations of the persecuting party.
It was on an August evening that he and his daughter were seated
together in their little parlour. He had performed all his daily
labours, and had permitted his servants to go to some rural meeting
several miles off. Being thus left undisturbed, he enjoyed with her that
quiet rest so grateful after a day spent in toil. The day had been
remarkably beautiful; but towards nightfall, the heavens were overcast
with dark clouds, and the sun had that sultry glare which is so often
the forerunner of a tempest. When this luminary disappeared beneath the
mountains, he left a red and glowing twilight behind him; and over the
firmament a tissue of crimson clouds was extended, mingled here and
there with black vapours. The atmosphere was hot, sickening, and
oppressive, and seemed to teem with some approaching convulsion.
"We shall have a storm to-night," Allan remarked to his daughter. "I
wish that I had not let the servants out; they will be overtaken in it
to a certainty as they cross the moors.”
"There is no fear of them, father,” replied Mary; "they know the road
well; at any rate, the tempest will be over before they think of
stirring from where they are."
Allan did not make any answer, but continued looking through the window
opposite to which he was placed. He could see from it the mountain of
Lowther, the highest in Lanarkshire; its huge shoulders and top were
distinctly visible, standing forth in grand relief from the red clouds
above and behind it. The last rays of the sun, bursting from the rim of
the horizon, still lingered upon the hill, and, casting over its western
side a broad and luminous glare, gave to it the appearance of a
burnished pyramid towering from the earth. This gorgeous vision,
however, did not continue long. In a few minutes the mountain lost its
ruddy tint, and the sky around it became obscurer. Shortly afterwards a
huge sable cloud was observed hovering over its summit. "Look, Mary,"
cried Allan to his daughter, "did you ever see anything grander than
this? Look at yon black cloud that hangs over Lowther." Mary did so, and
saw the same thing as was remarked by her father. The cloud came down
slowly and. majestically, enveloped the summit of the mountain, and
descended for some way upon its sides. At last, when it had fairly
settled, confirming, as it were, its dismal empire, a flash of fire was
seen suddenly to issue from the midst of it. It revealed, for an
instant, the summit of Lowther; then vanishing with meteor-like
rapidity, left everything in the former state of gloom. Mary clung with
alarm to her father. " Hush, my dear," said Allan, pressing her closely
to him, " and you will hear the thunder.” He had scarcely pronounced the
word when a clap was heard, so loud that the summit of the mountain
appeared to be rent in twain. The terrific sound continued some time,
for the neighbouring hills caught it up and re-echoed it to each other,
till it died away in the distance. A succession of flashes and peals
from different quarters succeeded, and, in a short time, a deluge of
rain poured down with the utmost violence.
The two inmates did not hear this noise without alarm. The rain beat
loudly upon the windows, while, every now and then, fearful peals of
thunder burst overhead. Without, no object was visible: darkness alone
prevailed, varied at intervals with fierce glares of lightning.
Thereafter gusts of wind began to sweep with tumult through the glen;
and the stream which flowed past the house was evidently swollen, from
the increased noise of its current rushing impetuously on.
The tempest continued to rage with unabated violence, when a knock was
heard at the door. Allan opened it, expecting to find his domestics ;
but to his astonishment and dismay he beheld the Rev. Thomas Hervey, one
of the most famous preachers of the Covenant.
He was a venerable old
man, and seemed overcome with fatigue and want, for he was pale and
drooping, while his thin garments were drenched with rain. Now, though
Allan Hamilton would yield to no man in benevolence, he never, on any
occasion, felt so disposed, as at present, to outrage his own feelings,
and cast aside the godlike virtue of charity. Mr Hervey, like many other
good men, was proscribed by the ruling powers; and persecution then ran
so high, that to grant him a night’s lodging amounted to a capital
crime. Many persons had already been shot for affording this slight
charity to the outlawed Covenanters : Allan himself had been an
unwilling witness of this dreadful fact. It was not, therefore, with his
usual alacrity that he welcomed in the way-worn stranger. On the
contrary, he held the door half-shut, and in a tone of embarrassment
asked him what he wanted.
"I see, Mr Hamilton," said the minister, calmly, "that you do not wish I
should cross your threshold. You ask me what I want. Is that Christian?
What can any one want in a night like this, but lodgment and protection?
If you grant it to me, I shall pray for you and yours; if you refuse it,
I can only shake the dust off my feet and depart, albeit it be to
death."
"Mr Hervey,” said Allan, "you know your situation, and you know mine. I
would be loth to treat the meanest thing that breathes as I have now
treated you; but you are an outlawed man, and a lodging for one night
under my roof is as much as my life is worth. Was it not last month I
saw one of my nearest neighbours cruelly slain for doing a less
thing,—even for giving a morsel of bread to one of your brethren? Mr
Hervey, I repeat it, and with sorrow, that you know my situation, and
that for the sake of my poor daughter and myself I have no alternative.”
"Yes, I know your situation,” answered the preacher, drawing himself up
indignantly. "You are one of those faint-hearted believers who, for the
sake of ease and temporal gain, have deserted that glorious cause for
which your fathers have struggled. You are one of those who can stand by
coolly and see others fight the good fight ; and when they have
overcome, you will doubtless enjoy the blessed fruits of their
combating. You held back in the time of need : you have abetted prelacy
and persecution, in so far as you have not set your shoulder to the
wheel of the Covenant. Now, when a humble forwarder of that holy cause
craves from you an hour of shelter, you stand with your door well-nigh
closed, and refuse him admittance. I leave God to judge of your
iniquity, and I quit your inhospitable and unchristian mansion.”
He was moving off when Mary Hamilton, who had listened with a beating ;
heart to this colloquy, rushed forward and caught him by the arm. Her
beautiful eyes were wet with tears, and she looked at her parent with an
expression in which entreaty and upbraiding were mingled together. " You
will not turn out this poor old man, father? Indeed you will not. You
were only jesting. Come in, Mr Hervey; my father did did not mean what
he said;”—and she led him in by the hand, pushing gently back Allan, who
still stood by the door. "Now, Mr Hervey, sit down there and dry
yourself; and, father, shut the door.”
"Thank you, my fair maiden,” said the minister. "The Lord, for this good
deed, will aid you in your distresses. You have shown that the old may
be taught by the young; and I pray that this lesson of charity, which
you have given to your father, may not turn out to your scaith or his."
Allan said nothing; he felt that the part he had acted was hardly a
generous one, although perhaps justified by the stern necessity of the
times. His heart was naturally benevolent, and in the consciousness of
self-reproach every dread of danger was obliterated.
The first attention of him and Mary was directed to their guest. His
garments having been thoroughly dried, food was placed before him, of
which he partook, after returning thanks to God in a lengthened grace,
for so disposing towards him the hearts of His creatures. When he had
finished the repast, he raised his face slightly towards heaven, closed
his eyes, and clasping his hands together, fervently implored the
blessings of Providence on the father of that mansion and his child.
When he had done this, he took a small Bible from his pocket, and read
some of the most affecting passages of the Old Testament, descanting
upon them as he went along: how God fed Elijah in the wilderness; how he
conducted the Israelites through their forty years of sojourn; how
Daniel, by faith, remained unhurt in the lion’s den ; and how Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego, walked through the fiery furnace, and not even
their garments were touched by the flames. Allan and Mary listened with
the most intense interest to the old man, whose voice became stronger,
whose form seemed to dilate, and whose eyes were lit up with a sort of
prophetic rapture, as he threw his spirit into those mysteries of Holy
Writ.
After having concluded this part of his devotions, and before retiring
to rest, he proposed that evening prayer should be offered up. Each
accordingly knelt down, and he commenced in a strain of ardent and
impassioned language. He deplored the afflicted state of God’s kirk;
prayed that the hearts of those who still clung to it might be confirmed
and made steadfast ; that confidence might be given to the wavering ;
that those who from fear or worldly considerations had held off from the
good cause, might be taught to see the error of their ways; and that all
backsliders might be reclaimed, and become goodly members of the broken
and distressed Covenant. "O Lord!” continued he, "Thou who hast watched
over us in all time- who from Thy throne in the highest heaven hast
vouchsafed to hearken to the prayer of Thy servants, Thou will not now
abandon us in our need. We have worshipped Thee from the depths of the
valley, and the rocks and hills of the desert have heard our voices
calling upon Thy name. ‘Where is your temple, ye outcast remnant?’ cry
the scorners. We answer, O Lord, that we have no temple, but such as
Thou hast created; and yet from that tabernacle of the wilderness hast
thou heard us, though storms walked around. We have trod the valley of
the shadow of death, and yet Thou hast been a light in our path; we have
been chased like wild beasts through the land, yet Thy spirit hath not
deserted us ; armed men have encompassed us on all sides, threatening to
destroy, yet our hearts have not failed; neither has the prison nor the
torture had power to make us abjure Thy most holy laws."
During the whole of his supplication, which he had poured forth with
singular enthusiasm, the storm continued without, and distant peals of
thunder were occasionally heard. This convulsion of the elements did
not, however, distract his thoughts; on the contrary, it rendered them
more ardent; and in apostrophising the tempest he frequently rose to a
pitch of wild sublimity. Mary listened with deep awe. Her feelings,
constitutionally warm and religious, were aroused, and she sobbed with
emotion. Allan Hamilton, though not by nature a man of imagination, was
also strongly affected; he breathed hard, and occasionally a
half-suppressed groan came from his breast. He could not help feeling
deep remorse for the lukewarmness he had shown to the great cause then
at stake.
The night, though fearfully tempestuous, did not prevent slumber from
falling on the eyes of all. Each slept soundly, and the old minister,
perhaps, more so than any. Many months had elapsed since he had
stretched himself on such a couch as that which Mary Hamilton had
prepared for him; for he was a dweller in the desert, and had often lain
upon the heath, with no other shelter than his plaid afforded. His
slumbers, therefore, were delicious; but they were not long, for no
sooner had the morning light begun to peep through the window of his
chamber than he was up and at his devotions. Allan, though an early
riser, was still in bed, and not a little astonished when he heard his
door open, and saw the old man walk softly up to his side.
"Hush! Allan Hamilton, do not awaken the dear maiden, your daughter, in
the next room. I have come to thank you and to bid you farewell. The
morning sun is up, and I may not tarry longer here, consistent with my
own safety or yours. There are spies through all the country; but
peradventure I have escaped their observation. I am going a few miles
off near the Clyde, to meet sundry of my flock who are to assemble
there. May God bless you, and send better times to this afflicted land!" |
