With a cry of joy Andrew Ayton started to his feet, rushed to the
stable, and too impatient to wait for the tardy groom, he saddled his
horse, sprang on its back, and darted off as if on the wings of the
wind. Away he sped on his errand of love. The birds sung sweet above
his head, he felt as blythe as they; he was going to join his Mary--his
darling Mary. On, on, on; mountains, streams, and fields seemed to rush
madly past him, so rapid was his course. All grief for him was at an
end; Mary had forgiven him--Mary still loved him--they should yet be
happy--alas!
Andrew Ayton, while lurking in the peaceful shades of Inchdarnie, was
not made aware of the late fearful event, news of which at that instant
was resounding through the land, convulsing England with horror, and
ringing at the gates of heaven. Andrew Ayton knew not that two days
previously Archbishop Sharpe had been slain--murdered on the lonely
Magus Moor. Wholly ignorant of the affair, and of the pursuit to which
it had given rise, young Ayton dashed onwards full of hope and joy, when
an abrupt turning of the road revealed to his gaze a party of dragoons
riding furiously towards Cupar. Anxious if possible to avoid
encountering so numerous a body, Andrew Ayton quitted the high-road and
galloped briskly through some fields, hoping thereby to escape notice;
when suddenly a horseman detaches himself from the party and darts
across the plain in pursuit of him. A flash, followed by a report, and
the horse which bears young Ayton rears in the air; another and another,
and he himself is mortally wounded. This done, the soldier without
question or challenge of any kind, rejoins his comrades, exulting in the
success of his exploit. The poor young man thus stricken down at the
very moment in which life seemed most desirable, in spite of his
dreadful wounds, managed, although with great difficulty, to preserve
his seat on horseback until he arrived at the nearest house, where he
alighted and begged that he might have a bed, also that his uncle, Sir
John Ayton of Ayton, whose house was in the immediate neighbourhood,
might be apprized of his condition. Deeply grieved on beholding the
fatal injuries he had received. the mistress of the house supported his
fainting form, and conducting him to her bust bedroom, made him as
comfortable as circumstances would permit, until his uncle should
arrive. On receipt of this sad intelligence. Sir John Ayton lost not a
moment in hastening to his nephew's bedside; and so shocked was he at
the appearance he presented, that he ordered a man-servant whom he had
brought with him to start instantly for Cupar, and fetch a surgeon. The
man returned with the intelligence that the dragoons had given positive
orders to the effect that no medical man was to leave Cupar on any
pretext whatever; upon which Sir John Ayton, frantic at the delay,
despatched another messenger to appeal to the dragoons in behalf of the
dying man. In answer to this, a party of soldiers was sent with
instructions to convey him to Cupar. In vain Sir John Ayton protested
against the cruelty, not to say impossibility, of removing a man in his
condition to Cupar, which was distant three miles; in vain he offered
them bail, or to entertain them until surgeons were brought who could
advise them what to do. Deaf to all his entreaties, and utterly
regardless of the consequences, they placed the unfortunate young man on
horseback and hurried him away to Cupar. Four times during the journey
Andrew Ayton fainted through loss of blood, but still no emotions of
pity were excited in the breasts of his conductor. On arriving at their
destination, the magistrates, in consideration of his enfeebled state of
health, permitted him to be conveyed to an inn, instead of a prison. Mr.
and Mrs. Ayton, who had also been made aware of what had happened, set
off instantly for Cupar. On entering the room where her son lay
apparently in the agonies of death, Mrs. Ayton's fortitude gave way, and
she threw herself on his breast, sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Do not grieve, dearest mother," said Andrew Ayton; "my time on earth
has indeed been short, but God has willed it so, and we must not
repine."
"My son! my beloved son!" was all the anguished mother could utter,
while his father stood the image of mute despair.
"And must I then die without seeing Mary Cunninghame?" continued the
dying man, "her whom I was flying to rejoin when the cruel ball
penetrated as it were to my very heart? ..... Oh, it seems hard, hard to
be thus cut off in early youth, when hope shone the brightest, and
happiness seemed within my reach. Mother, mother!" he gasped, "I must
see her once more; methinks I could close my eyes in peace could I but
gaze for one short moment in her sweet face, and tell her we should meet
again."
"Oh send for her!" cried the distracted mother; "lose not one instant in
bringing her hither;" and the messenger, having received the necessary
directions, galloped furiously away.
It was a solemn scene that chamber of death; and beautiful to witness
was the dying youth's resignation to the decree of God, while he strove
with all his accustomed gentleness to soothe his mother's sorrow.
"Oh do not weep thus," he said; "our parting will not be for long.
Consider, dear mother, the shortness of time and the duration of
eternity. It is, indeed, a solemn thing," he continued, "to be standing
thus at the portals of an unknown world, and yet not unknown; God having
in his goodness revealed to us hidden glimpses of that lovely shore----"
At this instant the chamber door flew open, and to the consternation of
all present a young man, in the garb of an officer, rushed into the
room.
With a scream of terror Mrs. Ayton started to her feet. "Intrude not
your presence in the chamber of death," she said, addressing the
dragoon; "what more would you have? you have killed his body, would you
also destroy his soul?"
Heeding her not, the stranger stood for one moment gazing on the
sufferer, with horror depicted on his countenance; then dashing his
helmet on the ground, he threw himself on his knees by the side of the
bed, exclaiming in a voice broken with sobs, "Andrew, Andrew, can you
forgive me? can you forgive your guilty cousin? mine was the hand that
did the deed."
The voice was that of William Auchmutie. Inchdarnie was silent. His
thoughts were far away. The venerable city of St. Andrews rose up
before him. He marked its glittering spires--the waves which dashed on
the rocky shore, and the stately vessels gliding to and fro. Again he
is standing there with his thoughtless young cousin, he who is now
kneeling as a suppliant by his bed-side. Again the words ring in his
ears, "I will kill thee, just for thy having espoused so rascally a
cause;" and he remembers the strange unaccountable feeling which then
passed through his heart as the words were uttered; and now all was
fulfilled. Little more than twelve short months had rolled over their
heads since that sad night; he was lying on a bed of death, and the hand
that had inflicted the fatal wound was that of his cousin.
"Then you won't forgive me?" groaned forth William Auchmutie, fearing
from his cousin's silence that he could not extend pardon to the man who
had inflicted a mortal injury; but he knew not the gentle, loving nature
he had to deal with.
"Forgive thee, William!" said Andrew Ayton, recalled by the question to
what was passing around him; "yes, from the bottom of my soul, and may
He above blot it out of the book of his remembrance, and lay it not to
thy account. But O, William!" he continued, "withdraw thyself, while
there is yet time, from the bloody course thou art pursuing; let this
thou hast done serve as a warning to thee. It may be that the Almighty
has permitted it that the arrow of conviction might pierce thy heart."
Here the dying man paused for a moment, apparently overcome with
emotion, and then continued, grasping his cousin's hand while he spoke,
"My dear cousin, thou art very young, and this scene may soon cease to
be remembered by thee; but when old age comes upon thee, when thy
strength fails thee, and thou art no longer able to pursue thy
accustomed employment, then in the solitude of thy chamber will the evil
deeds of thy youth rise up in judgment against thee, and remorse, like
an avenging angel, sit scowling on thee from amongst the ruins thou hast
made of the talents God committed to thy care."
Overcome with exhaustion and loss of blood, Andrew Ayton sunk back on
his pillow, and William Auchmutie, overwhelmed with despair, staggered
from the chamber. It was now evident that the few remaining hours
Andrew Ayton was to spend on earth were rapidly drawing to a close. He
lay in a sort of stupor, with his eyes fixed on the clock, as if
counting the moments till the arrival of Mary Cunninghame; and the
slightest move caused him to turn his eyes to the door in the
expectation of seeing her for whose presence he longed. At length the
sound of carriage wheels is heard rolling rapidly along the street; they
pause before the inn; footsteps are heard on the stair, the door opens,
and almost as death-like as himself, and supported by his aunt, enters
Mary Cunninghame.
"Mary, my darling Mary!" gasped Andrew Ayton as he clasped her to his
breast, "God is good--he has heard my prayer--we meet again----" His
head fell back on the pillow.
"Help, help!" screamed Mary Cunninghame, "he is fainting--he is dead!"
and fell senseless on the couch beside him........
No uncommon event in Paris--a novice is about to take the veil. But in
this case curiosity is excited to the highest pitch, for the young lady
about to be professed is a native of the cold north, and remarkable for
her extreme beauty. The day appointed for the ceremony at length
arrives, and the Church of St. Genevieve is crowded to the very doors,
every inch of standing room is occupied, and hundreds are obliged to
depart murmuring and dissatisfied. The organ peals forth its grandest
music, but all ears are inattentive; ladies are there attired in the
most costly dresses; but on this occasion their beauty and elegance are
unheeded; all eyes are turned towards the door; every ear is on the
alert to catch the faintest murmur which tells of her approach. Still
she enters not, and murmurs of impatience are beginning to be heard,
when cries of "she comes, she comes!" arrest all other sounds, and a
general movement takes place throughout the stately edifice, as each
individual, heedless of obstructing his neighbour's view, stands on
tip-toe, or mounts the seat, in order to obtain the first glimpse of the
procession. The words, "beautiful, how beautiful!" are uttered by many
as onward comes the youthful novice arrayed in the most costly bridal
attire. Jewels flash from amongst her braided hair; magnificent the veil
which shrouds her slender figure; but conspicuous above all is the deep
air of sadness impressed on her lovely countenance.
The vows are uttered; the bride, not of man, but of heaven, retires, and
many are the sighs which accompany her. When next she enters, she is
arrayed in the dismal garb of a professed nun, and is greeted by those
who kneel around as a sister. And hath she then left all which breathes
of the past behind her? no; she still retains, and oft bedews with her
tears, the little gold heart, now suspended from a black ribbon, placed
by the boyish hands of Andrew Ayton around the neck of sister
Agnes--when Mary Cunninghame.
*THE LAIRD OF LAG.*
One fine morning in April, as I was sauntering along the high-road
leading to Dumfries, I observed a little way on the right-hand a small
burying-ground, jealously protected from intrusion by a high wall and
shaded by trees, whose boughs drooped in a half pensive manner, as if in
sympathy with the memorials of the dead which were scattered around.
Struck with the singularity of the situation, and the fact of there
being no church within view, I turned my footsteps in the direction of
the solitary burying-ground. Fortunately for the gratification of my
curiosity, the old sexton--all sextons are old--was busily employed in
digging a grave. While inspecting the various tombstones, some of which
seemed very ancient, my attention was attracted towards a mass of
ruins--apparently the remains of what had been a family burying-place.
Unable to derive any information from the broken fragments that lay
strewn around, I advanced towards the sexton, in order to have my
curiosity gratified.
The old man raised his head at my approach, and in answer to my inquiry
as to whose resting-place it was that was lying in ruins, whilst those
around seemed in a state of good preservation, replied--pausing in the
midst of his work and wiping his face with a handkerchief--"you must be
a stranger in this part of the country, not to know that that is the
grave of the Laird of Lag."
"The Laird of Lag!" I exclaimed; "what! is he buried here?"
"O yes ma'm," replied the sexton, "the Laird lies here."
"How comes it?" I inquired, smiling at the old man's sagacious look and
still more mysterious shake of the head, "that his grave is in such a
ruined state, whilst those around, bearing dates anterior to Lag's time,
are still in good repair?"
The sexton remained mute for a moment or so, then approaching nearer,
inquired of me in a confidential whisper, "whether I had observed the
violence of the wind in the burying-ground, when elsewhere there reigned
a perfect calm?"
I replied, "I had indeed remarked the circumstance, but supposed it was
owing to the exposed situation in which the burying-ground was placed."
The old man shook his head as he answered, "Oh, no! that cannot be the
reason; for even up amongst these hills, when not a leaf is stirring in
the breeze, the wind there howls and tears along in the most boisterous
manner." Then after a pause he added, "no, no; that's not the true
explanation!"
"Well, then," I said, "but what has your theory of the high wind to do
with the ruined state of Lag's grave?"
"Everything," he replied; "and if you will just have a little patience
I'll explain it to you; but you must excuse my homely way of speaking,
for I'm not good at the story-telling." Then sticking his spade into
the ground and seating himself on a neighbouring stone, he supported his
arm on the handle of his spade, in the attitude of one about to make
some mysterious communication, and began as follows:--
It was in the winter time that Lag's grave was destroyed; and the night
on which the occurrence took place was wild and stormy enough, but
nothing to the like of me, who have seen many a fearful night in my
young days, when--but let that pass, as it has nothing to do with my
story. Well, as I was saying, it was rather a stormy evening, and the
wind had an eerie sound as it moaned in the chimney and caused the
window-frame to rattle in an odd sort of way; and my wife observed to
me, just as I was on the point of falling asleep, "Oh, John, but this is
an awful night for ony puir body to be out in!"
"Nonsense, wife," I replied; "I trust they may never be out in worse
weather; it's a mere capful of wind, as the sailors say."
"May the Lord forgive ye, John, for you livity (levity);" so saying she
gave me a push with her elbow, as a kind of rebuke for my light way of
speaking.
Well, mim, I was awoke about the middle of the night by my wife giving
me a pull of the arm, whilst she exclaimed in a voice almost inaudible
through fear, "Oh! John, hear till that in the auld grave-yard; isn't
that awful? what can it mean?"
I listened for a moment, and never in the whole course of my life had I
heard such strange sounds--they were like nothing earthly. Up I got and
ran to the window, which commands a view of this place, and suoh a sight
as I then saw! May the Lord forgive me for the thought, but I was
convinced all the devils were let loose that night. It was perfectly
dark, and the trees were shaking and groaning in the blast, in a manner
awful to hear; and every now and then a glimmering light appeared, as if
some one was carrying a light in the grave-yard. You must know there's
an idle story in the country, that Lag walks about in the night-time
with a lighted taper in his hand, but I don't believe the like of that.
Well, as I told you before, every now and again that strange light,
which I took to be a "will-o'-the-wisp," appeared dancing about, and the
flashes of lightning were bright and frequent; whilst strange wild
sounds seemed borne on the blast, that shook the cottage to its
foundation. Overcome with fright and amazement, I went back to my bed;
but not much sleep did I get that night--neither did my wife; and mighty
glad were we when the bright rays of the morning sun streamed through
the window shutter. The first thing I did was to come here, in case any
damage had been done in the course of the night; and sure enough, when I
arrived, I found everything as I had left it on the preceding day,
except Lag's burial-place, which was thrown to the ground, and the
stones lying about just as you see them. Ever since that fearful night,
the wind has never ceased blowing in this place; but, even in the
calmest summer's day it howls and rushes along, as if rejoicing over the
ruin it had made of the wicked persecutor's grave.
There was a pause after the sexton had finished his wild tale; the old
man apparently was overcome at the remembrance of the horrors of that
night, and I more than half-puzzled to account for the strange
circumstance, supported by the evidence which the wreck around me
attested in favour of the sexton's recital, at length inquired, after
expressing the pleasure his narration had afforded me, "Why there was no
church attached to the burying-ground, and what was its designation?"
To which he replied, "That the old parish church of Dunscore formerly
stood here, but the heritors of the parish had found fault with its
situation, it being too far removed from the more distant parts of
Dunscore parish; consequently, it had been taken down, and a new church
erected in a more convenient position."
I again demanded if he was acquainted with any old legends told in
connection with the Laird of Lag, thinking there must be a good many
extant which treated of his wild doings.
The sexton shook his head, and replied, No, ma'm, I cannot say that I do
know anything of him in particular, not having paid much attention to
the idle stories told in the parish; but, as I seemed fond of these kind
of tales, he recommended me to visit an old woman, named Mrs. Walker,
who was about ninety years of age, and who might be able to afford me
some information on that subject.
After thanking the old man, and expressing my regret at having
interrupted his labours, I turned to depart, when he called me back, for
the purpose of attracting my attention to the fact that nothing but
nettles and the rank weeds were growing around Lag's grave; and, said
he, with emphasis, "Nothing in the shape of flowers ever would grow
there, do what I could." After expressing my surprise at this singular
occurrence, I bade him good morning, and directed my steps towards the
habitation of Mrs. Walker. I found the old woman very comfortably
seated in her arm-chair, by the kitchen fire, watching a piece of bread
undergoing the process of toasting. This, and the fact of a brown delf
tea-pot standing upon the hob, satisfied me that Mrs. Walker was about
to regale herself with a comforting cup of tea.
Before proceeding further, I shall relate rather an amusing circumstance
told in connection with a Mr. G----, who came to this part of the
country for the express purpose of making good his claim to be one of
the descendants of the Laird of Lag. Being very desirous of collecting
all the information he could concerning his progenitor, he called upon
all the old people whom he thought likely to assist him in his
endeavours. Amongst others, he honoured Mrs. Walker with a visit.
After having made a few inquiries concerning the object of his call, he
abruptly demanded of her, "Well, Mrs. Walker, and what do you think of
Lag?" "Oh, dear sirs!" she replied, "I never saw him!" "I am quite
aware of that; but what have you heard of him?" "Nae gude, sir--nae
gude!"
On entering the kitchen, I accosted Mrs. Walker, and informed her that,
as I was desirous of hearing some of the wild tales that were told about
the Laird of Lag, and understanding she was acquainted with many of the
stories told in connection with that famous persecutor, I had taken the
liberty of calling upon her, hoping she might be induced to relate one
or two of the many with which her memory was stored. The old dame
smiled complacently, at the same time observing, "That she was now an
aged woman, entering upon her ninetieth year, consequently her memory
was rather failing, and many of the tales she had heard regarding Lag in
her youth had faded from her remembrance, like a vanished dream; but,"
she added, "if you will only wait until I have had my cup of tea,
something may come across my mind that may chance to interest you."
Cordially agreeing to the old dame's proposition, and refusing a cup of
the exhilarating beverage, I amused myself with gazing at the numerous
prints adorning the walls, which had evidently been chosen more with an
eye to gaudy colouring than artistic merit.
Mrs. Walker, after having finished her meal, replaced the tea-pot near
the fire, and arranging her dress--as is often the custom with
story-tellers--commenced the following account of the Laird of Lag:--
"Well, ma'am, you see, Sir Robert Grierson, commonly called the Laird of
Lag--more briefly Lag--was a noted persecutor, and dreaded by all who
espoused the side of the Kirk and Covenant. A bad cruel man was he, and
many were the bloody deeds he did in his day. Some said he wasn't so
bad as people said, and others, again maintained he was worse; but let
that pass, he did enough to win himself a bad name, and he got it, as
was but justice. Well, Sir Robert married a daughter of the second Earl
of Queensberry, who rejoiced in the appellation of the 'Deil o'
Drumlanrig;' and what good could be expected from Sir Robert after
forming a connection like that? If the laird was bad, his father-in-law
was counted worse, as along with other bad qualities, he was a mad
gamester, and it was not very long ere he made Sir Robert as noted as
himself in that respect. Many were the nights they spent over the
'devil's books,' as they are justly called. In the end, the Laird was
cleared out of all his property, except Rockhall, which, being strictly
entailed, could not be touched."
Here Mrs. Walker paused for a moment, drew a deep breath, and then
inquired, "If I had ever seen the account given of Lag in the 'People's
Edition of the Scots' Worthies?'" Upon my answering in the negative,
she immediately rose from her seat, and proceeded towards another
apartment, when she presently returned with one or two numbers of this
much-relished work, and once more seating herself in her comfortable
chair, she donned her spectacles, and read aloud the following:--
"Sir Robert Grierson of Lag was another prime hero for the promoting of
Satan's kingdom. We think that it was some time after Bothwell that he
was made sheriff or sheriff-depute of Dumfries. But to relate all the
fining, spoiling, oppression, and murders committed by this worthy of
Satan, or champion of his kingdom, were beyond our intention. Besides
L1200 of fines exacted in Galloway and Nithsdale shires, he was
accessory to the murdering, under colour of their iniquitous laws, of
Margaret M'Lachlan, aged sixty-three years, and Margaret Wilson, a young
woman, whom they drowned at two stakes within the sea-mark at the water
of Baldnook. For his cold-blood murders, he caused hang Gordon and Mr.
Cubin on a growing tree near Irongray, and left them hanging there,
1686.
"The same year he apprehended Mr. Bell of Whiteside, D. Halliday of
Mayfield, and three more, and without giving them time to pray, shot
them dead on the spot. Mr. Bell, whom Sir Robert Grierson knew,
earnestly entreated but a quarter of an hour to prepare for eternity;
but this was refused.
"The reply was, 'What the devil, have you not had time to prepare since
Bothwell?' (Here Mrs. Walker shook her head.) He was, therefore,
instantly shot with the rest; and so far did this persecuting renegado
push his revenge, that he even denied interment to their lifeless
dust![#] Shortly after this, Lord Kenmuir happening to meet Lag with
Claverhouse in Kirkcudbright, called him to account for his cruelty to
Mr. Bell, and more especially for his inhumanity in refusing burial to
his remains. Sir Robert answered with an oath, 'Take him, if you will,
and salt him in your beef barrel.' The insulted nobleman immediately
drew his sword, and must have ran him through the body, had not
Claverhouse interposed. And surely such a death had been too honourable
for such a villain.
[#] This epitaph engraved upon the tombstone in the churchyard of Anwith
lying on the corpse of John Bell of Whiteside, who was most barbarously
shot to death at the command of Douglass of Morton and Grierson of Lag,
in the parish of Tongland, in Galloway, anno 1685.
"This monument shall tell posterity
That blessed Bell of Whiteside here doth ly;
Who by command of bloody Lag was shot,
A murther strange, which should not be forgot.
Douglass of Morton did him quarters give,
Yet cruel Lag would not let him survive,
This martyr sought some time to recommend.
The tyrant said, 'What devil? ye've pray'd eneugh,
Those long seven years on mountain and in clough,
So instantly caused him and other four
Be shot to death upon Kirkconnel Muir.
So this did end the lives of these brave saints,
For their adhering to the Covenants."
"The same summer, Annandale having apprehended G. Short and D. Halliday,
and having bound them, after quarters granted, the monster Lag came up,
and as they lay on the ground, under the cloud of night, caused shoot
them immediately, leaving their bodies thus all blood and gore; nay,
such was their audacious impiety, that he, with the rest of his boon
companions and persecutors would, over their drunken bowls, feign
themselves divils and those whom they supposed in hell, and then whip
one another as a jest upon that place of torment. When he could serve
his master this way no longer, he wallowed in all manner of atheism,
drunkenness, and swearing, for which he was excommunicated by the church
after the Revolution; and yet by the then powers was made Justice of the
Peace, some time before 1714, a disgrace to any civilised nation, not to
mention a Presbyterian profession. Death's pangs at last arresting him,
and all other refuges failing him, under the views of his former wicked
life, in imitation of his master Charles, he feigned himself of the
popish profession, because a popish priest made him believe for money he
could pardon his sins, and even when in purgatory for them he could
bring him to heaven. He died December 23, 1733, and there is little
doubt went down to Tophet with a lie in his mouth, and so remains in
spite of all the priest could mutter over him, as the author of his
elegy in his master's name well expresses it:--
"For when I heard that he was dead,
A legion of my den did lead
Him to my place of residence,
And there he'll stay and not go hence.
This Lag will know and all the rest,
Who of my lodging are possesst;
On earth no more they can serve me,
But still I'll have their company," etc.
"This is what is said of him in the 'Scots' Worthies,'" said Mrs.
Walker, as she placed the numbers on a table beside her, "and it's not
much in his favour as you will perceive. I suppose," she continued,
"you will have heard of many other cruelties he committed--such as
putting the poor Covenanters into barrels stuck round in the inside with
knives, dagger-points, etc., then causing the barrels to be rolled down
a steep hill, so that the persons inside were all cut to pieces in the
descent; and shooting and stabbing others, so that his name became a
by-word in the country."
Answering in the affirmative, I then inquired of her "if there had been
any picture taken of the Laird?"
"Oh! yes," she replied, "there was one at Rockhall, but it was stolen
from thence by some person in the time of one of the late baronets."
"Did you ever hear any description of his personal appearance?"
"Well," she replied, "I have heard it said that he was a fair man with
long yellow hair which hung in ringlets down to his shoulders, but I
cannot believe that any fair person ever possessed such a black soul as
he must have had. However, he might have been a bonnie man for all
that."
Begging pardon for the interruption, I prayed her to continue, which she
did as follows:--
"Well ma'm, as I told you before, my memory is not so good as it was,
and there are many things told of the Laird of Lag that I have quite
forgotten; yet one thing I still remember, and that is the account of
what took place at the time of his burial. My Thomas told me his
grandfather remembered that day well, and such a one he never saw. It
was in the winter time and bitterly cold; yet notwithstanding, there was
a storm of thunder and lightning the like of which never occurred in the
memory of man. As Lag died in Dumfries, horses were brought from the
Kings' Arms Inn in order to bring his body to Dunscore. I suppose you
have seen his grave?"
"Yes," I replied, "and very sorry I am to see it all in ruins!"
"Ay," she, said, "Lag is in a sad state!"
After this sage remark, Mrs. Walker continued: "As I was saying, horses
were brought from the inn at Dumfries, for the purpose of driving the
hearse to the burial-ground; but when they were yoked, and the driver
endeavoured to set them in motion, not one foot would they stir. All
this time the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed in an awful
manner. Half-blinded by the vivid flashes that played around, and
smarting under the furious strokes of the driver's whip, the poor horses
trembled in every limb; yet no power on earth was capable of causing
them to proceed with their burden. Well, Sir Thomas of Closeburn was
there, and he swore a great oath that he would drive Lag to his grave,
although the devil was in him. So, unyoking the horses from his own
carriage, he fastened them to the hearse, and mounting himself on the
driver's seat, prepared to urge them forward. At this moment, a large
black rook, that had been seated on one of the housetops, apparently
watching the whole proceedings with the deepest interest, flew down from
its elevated situation, and, with a loud caw, seated itself on the top
of the hearse. Strange to say, whenever it placed itself there, the
horses set off at a gallop; and the roads being rough and heavy with the
recent rains, the hearse was jolted about in a fearful manner; still the
rook kept its seat, and cawed every now and again. Whenever it did so
the horses went faster and faster, until at length on arriving at the
churchyard, they fell down dead, from sheer exhaustion. Then the
strange bird rose up from its seat, and, with a loud scream and a flap
of its wings, flew away and was soon out of sight. The people about
maintain to this day that it was the devil who had come in person to
superintend the funeral of his colleague. At the time I speak of there
were copies of an elegy on the Laird of Lag--a verse of which I read to
you from the 'Scots' Worthies'--distributed throughout the country; and
as no one knew the composer, it was universally believed that the devil
himself wrote it, as a lament for having lost so good a servant as Lag
had been to him while on earth. All the copies that could be procured
were bought up by by Sir Robert's granddaughter, who could not bear that
her grandfather's memory should be held in such detestation, and I doubt
if there is a copy now in existence."
"How far is Lag Tower from here?" I inquired, after thanking her for the
tale.
"About four miles," replied Mrs. Walker, "and an easy road it is to find
out. You go past the Free Church Manse, and turn up the Barjarg Road:
then go through Glen Midge, and you will soon see the old tower. It is
a wild place, and well worth visiting."
Whilst pursuing my way along the path which led to the ancient residence
of the Laird of Lag, a sudden turning in the road revealed to my gaze
the form of an aged man, who pursued, with praiseworthy assiduity, his
laborious employment of stone-breaking. There was something at once
pleasing and impressive in the physiognomy of the venerable labourer.
From beneath the Kilmarnock bonnet which surmounted his grey hairs, his
blue eyes sparkled with yet unsubdued fire and animation; while the
ruddy glow on his weather-beaten cheek, and the vigorous strokes with
which his hammer descended on the stony pile before him, betokened
energy of character and a total absence of those ailments so often
attendant on the footsteps of age.
Being now somewhat at a loss how to arrive at the object of my wishes,
the road at this point branching off in different directions, I inquired
of the labourer whither I should direct my steps, so as to avoid losing
my way amongst the surrounding morasses. The old man, thus accosted,
paused in his labour, and replied to my inquiry, in the usual Scotch
fashion, by putting another, "And so you are going to visit the old Toor
o' Lag?" I answered in the affirmative. "Ay ay! well it's a queer
solitary place." "From all accounts, the Laird must have been a very
extraordinary man," I observed. "You may well say so," said the old
stone-breaker, as ceasing from his arduous task, he stood with one hand
on the handle of his implement, while with the other he uncovered his
head, to allow the cool breezes to refresh his heated temples, "he was
just a most ex-tre-or-nary man, if all be true that is said about him."
"Are you inclined to doubt the truth of those stories told concerning
him in Dumfriesshire?"
"No," was the reply, accompanied by a sagacious shake of the head, "I
cannot say that I do. Many of them may be enlarged on, for, as one
knows, a story always gathers in the telling; but still in the main they
are true enough, and certainly reflect little honour on him about whom
they are told. A-well-a-day!" he continued, "these were indeed sad
times when men, left to their own inventions, played such a cruel and
unworthy part; the persecutors were, in general, a cold-blooded,
relentless sect, and at the head o' the tribe you may put the Laird of
Lag, for none of the others, in my opinion, were fit to hold a candle to
him for pure malice and steadfastness of purpose in the shedding of
blood. There was Claverhouse, evil spirit as he was, it is well known
he felt some compunction of consciences for having murdered that godly
person, John Brown, and seldom or never refused his intended victim a
few moments to commend his departing spirit to Him who save it; but, as
related of Sir Robert Grierson, he laughed to scorn the tearful
entreaties of the captured Covenanter, and turning a deaf ear to all the
poor man's agonised appeals for only one moment to make his peace with
God, or to implore a blessing on his country, sent him straight to that
bourne from whence no traveller returns."
There was a pause for a few moments, which was at length broken by the
old man.
"This was a great part of the country for the Laird's exploits: the
militia, with him at their head, were constantly riding up and down
Dumfriesshire and Galloway, and woe to the unlucky wight who fell into
their hands: guilty or not guilty, it was all one--shot or hanged he
must be. The Laird sent forth the iniquitous decree, 'Soldiers, do your
duty! Prisoner, prepare for death! not one word!' Bang, bang! he is
dead; and away rides Sir Robert, priding himself in no small degree on
his strict adherence to the laws of vengeance, and taking no pains to
conceal his exultation at the summary punishment he had inflicted on one
of the canting rebels, as he was pleased, in common with his
fellow-labourers in the vineyard of iniquity, to designate the hapless
body of men he had sworn to exterminate."
"Have you read much about the Covenanters?" I inquired of the labourer,
whose eyes burned like coals of living fire while dwelling on the
misfortunes of those whose cause he evidently espoused with no small
amount of zeal.
"Every book that I can lay my hands on, from the 'Scots' Worthies' down
to 'Helen of the Glen,' and not only once, but over and over again,
until I could repeat the most of them off by heart. Next to the lives
of these good and holy men, whose names are an honour and glory to
Scotland," pursued the labourer, "James Renwick's sermons is the book
most prized by me--ay! there are no preachers like him now-a-days! What
would I not have given to have been with him on some bonnie hill-side
when he was holding forth to the faithful few privileged to hear him!
Have you ever read his sermons?" he inquired.