Tales of the Covenanters

by Ellen Emma Guthrie

"The saints be between us and harm! for it is not good to speak of things above our comprehension, but still——" Here the old woman paused as though in doubt as to whether she should proceed or not. At length her love for relating aught pertaining to the marvellous overcame all prudential resolves, and she commenced thus:—"You must know that once upon a time it pleased the blessed Mary to appear in a vision by night to St. Regulus, a holy man of Achaia, and inform him that he must instantly set sail for this then benighted country—bearing with him the arm-bone, three fingers, and three toes of the most holy apostle St. Andrew—where work should be given him to do. Delighted beyond measure at having been the instrument chosen by his most blessed patroness to execute so mighty a mission, St. Regulus set sail with some chosen companions in obedience to the celestial mandate. For some days," continued the narrator, "they were wafted on their way by a favouring breeze, but during the latter part of their voyage the foul fiend (jealous no doubt of the devout saint and his precious relics) caused such a hurricane to sweep over the deep that all on board speedily gave themselves up for lost, with the exception of St. Regulus, who again in the watches of the night, was visited by our holy mother, who addressed him in the most comforting terms, and assured him of her gracious protection, adding as she touched the three fingers of the martyred St. Andrew, which glowed at the contact with a lambent flame, 'I have much labour for these to accomplish.' Overcome with joy at this renewed proof of his favour with heaven, St. Regulus lost no time in making his companions aware of his second visitation, who immediately thereupon regained their ancient courage and faith in their leader's mission. After being tossed for many days by the winds and the waves, the ship at length struck on these shores, then named Otholania, but all on board were saved. The then King, on being made acquainted with the arrival of these holy men with their precious relics, instantly gave orders for their being received with all possible honours. Indeed he afterwards bestowed his own palace, which then occupied the present site of the priory, on St. Regulus, and built the church which still bears the name of the saint. Perhaps you are not aware," she continued, "that at that remote period of time all round here was one vast forest, abounding with boars, noted for their immense size and uncommon ferocity. Well, one night as the blessed St. Regulus (Holy Mary protect us!) was walking in the garden which surrounded the house, praising the saints with a joyful voice for their watchful care in bringing him through so many dangers into so safe and comfortable a haven, all of a sudden he was started by observing two large fiery eyes gleaming on him from among the trees. Unable to seek for safety in flight, and no one being within call, the reverend father gave himself up for lost, when, just as the boar was about to spring forth on him, there rose up from his very feet (so the tradition says) this miraculous yew with branches growing down to the ground, so that the saint, recovering his presence of mind, was enabled to ascend the tree, where he remained seated in safety, while an armed warrior, hitherto invisible, darted forth as it were from the root of the tree, at once finished the enraged animal by a stroke from his spear, and then disappeared ere ever St. Regulus had time to recover his astonishment; so sudden had been the whole proceeding. On that same night the blessed Mary again visited the reverend father in a dream, and warned him that that tree must be consecrated and dedicated to the most holy St. Andrew, who had himself appeared in his defence and slain the boar, adding that the yew was possessed of the most miraculous qualities; and that by applying a small piece of one of its branches to any wound or bruise, the sufferer, after having fasted two days and two nights, and given to the Church a portion of his worldly goods, should immediately be cured; but that whenever aught but holy vows had been breathed beneath its hallowed shade, its virtue should depart. St. Regulus, as legends tell, rose in an ecstacy of delight, and lost no time in proceeding at the head of a splendid procession to the tree, which was at once consecrated and dedicated to St. Andrew, who thereupon testified his gratitude by causing the yew to perform the most miraculous cures; indeed to such celebrity did it afterwards attain that pious pilgrims traversed sea and land to obtain evidence of its virtues, having heard in far distant countries that the good and pious King Hergustus had himself been cured, through its wonderful properties, of a malady hitherto deemed incurable. Well, centuries after the blessed St. Regulus had received his heavenly crown, the prior of the holy establishment founded here by order of the departed saint, was one night aroused from slumber by a terrible cry proceeding from the garden. Lost in amazement, he listened for a few seconds in order to hear if it would be repeated, but no, all continued silent; and fancying himself the sport of some evil dream, he returned to his pallet, from whence he was summoned at the dawn of morning by a loud knocking at the door of his chamber. In answer to his invitation, a pious brother entered, apparently overcome with horror, for he remained motionless and unable to speak. The heart of the prior misgave him, and he eagerly demanded what had happened. Father Anselmo said nought, but pointed with his finger to the garden. Fearing he knew not what, the prior rushed forth, in his anxiety oblivious of the fact that the wind was cold and his shaven head defenceless. Holy Mary! and what a sight greeted the eyes of the aged prior! There lay his own nephew, a youth of great promise, and hitherto deemed possessed of superior sanctity, cold and stiff, his hand clasping that of a young and beauteous lady who had shared his fate under the boughs of the sainted yew. The pious men, who then crowded round the sorrow-stricken prior, informed him that when found they were standing upright, and seemed as though they had been struck by a bolt from heaven, as all around the ground was blackened and scorched. Since that sad day," said the old woman with a sigh, "all sacred virtue has departed from the tree; but it is still affirmed and believed that some terrible doom awaits those who dare to murmur vows of earthly love within its consecrated precincts."

"Truly a gloomy enough tale," said young Ayton at the conclusion of the legend, the bare narration of which had chased all colour from the cheeks of the old woman, who again made the sign of the cross, as if in atonement for having yielded to the temptation of relating so horrible a story. Both remained silent for a little while, each being busy with his and her own individual thoughts, until at length the silence was broken by young Ayton's inquiring, in a low tone of voice, "if Miss Cunninghame seemed sorry on leaving the priory?"

"Oh, yes! the poor sweet creature," said the garrulous dame, "she was indeed overwhelmed with sorrow; and just before setting off she came hither and wept, and sobbed most bitterly for longer than I can remember, and always kept exclaiming, 'Farewell happiness! Farewell to all trust and confidence in mankind.' Then she would take something that hung from her neck—probably some sainted relic—kiss it passionately, and then weep more bitterly than before. (This was when she thought no one was observing her.) On her return she seemed crushed-like and broken, but still calm and collected, until entering the carriage, when she again gave way to tears. All this time Mrs. Cunninghame endeavoured to soothe and comfort her to the best of her ability, and whispered words of consolation, but in vain; she seemed deaf to them all. Never while I live shall I forget the look of agony with which she gazed on the house; it was like that of one who should never more behold it."

Here the feelings of Andrew Ayton overcome him; he could listen no longer, and dashing away the tears which almost blinded him, he fled from the spot, greatly to the astonishment of his informer, who gazed after him as if in doubt whether he would return or not. At length she exclaimed, "Holy Mary! could it be that——"

Here she paused for a moment as if lost in thought. Whatever was the result of her cogitations to this day remains a mystery, for on recovering in some measure from her surprise, she simply shrugged her shoulders, and muttering an ave, proceeded leisurely to lock the gate, and with many a weary sigh retraced her steps to the house.

Early on the following morning young Ayton quitted St. Andrews and repaired to Inchdarnie, there to await the coming of Mr. Blackader, who arrived on the day appointed in company with Mr. Denoon. On the ensuing morning (Sunday) they set out for Divan, distant about eight miles, where a great concourse of people were assembled to greet one of whom they had heard so much. Greatly to the astonishment of Mr. Blackader, on arriving at the place of meeting he perceived a large pile of arms lying ready in case of necessity. On demanding the reason for such unusual preparation, he was informed that Prelate Sharpe—at the mention of whose name a groan of execration passed through the assembly—had ordered out a band of militia to apprehend any minister who had the temerity to venture within his bounds. The service then commenced, and while Mr. Blackader was dispensing the holy communion, there arose a cry that the militia were upon them, upon which Balfour of Burly placed himself at the head of a small party of horse, and went forth to obtain a view of the soldiers, who, apprehensive of the Covenanters being armed, kept themselves aloof with the intention of capturing some of the people on the dismissal of the congregation. When the service was finished, and the hearers dispersed, with the exception of the body-guard headed by Inchdarnie, who remained to protect Mr. Blackader, a new alarm was raised that the soldiers were again advancing upon them. On receipt of this intelligence, the Laird of Kinkel and Balfour of Burly, with some few horsemen, rode up the face of the hill where the militia were pouring down in the expectation of making an easy prey of those remaining. The alarm having reached the ears of the young men, who, fancying all danger at an end, were quietly wending their way homewards, they instantly returned and joined themselves to the party commanded by Andrew Ayton, who earnestly entreated Mr. Blackader to be allowed to pursue the soldiers, who had immediately taken to flight on perceiving the preparations made to receive them, which, had he agreed to, the Covenanters must have gained a complete victory, as the militiamen had resolved, if overtaken by their enemies, to throw down their arms and surrender at discretion. But Mr. Blackader strongly opposed all hostile measures, and at length dissuaded them from it. "My friends," said he, "your part is chiefly to defend yourselves from hazard, and not to pursue: your enemies have fled—let their flight sheath your weapons and disarm your passions. I may add, without offence, that men in your case are more formidable to see at a distance than to engage hand in hand. But since you are in a warlike and defensive posture, remain so, at least till your brethren be all dismissed. Conduct them through their enemies, and be their safeguard until they get beyond their reach; but, except in case of violence, offer injury to none." On receiving assurance that the soldiers had fled towards Cupar, the armed Covenanters quietly retired to their homes, with the exception of nine, who remained to conduct Mr. Blackader, to his sleeping quarters, at an inn situated in the parish of Portmoak. Here the three friends parted. Mr. Blackader returned to Edinburgh, Mr. Denoon, after an affectionate farewell with his young friend, set off for Morayshire, and Andrew Ayton, sore distressed at having lost his kind preceptor, once more retraced his steps to Inchdarnie. His parents soon afterwards returned from Perthshire, where they had been visiting some relations; and grieved as they were at the step their son had taken, they forbore addressing him on the subject, being convinced that he had done so from a sincere belief in its rectitude. He was, as his amiable dispositions merited, fondly beloved by them, and in return he strove by every means in his power to testify his filial love and reverence towards the authors of his being. But their domestic happiness was soon to be invaded. The names of those present at so celebrated a conventicle as that recently held at Divan could not, nor was it wished that they should, long remain a secret; and young Ayton was specially mentioned as having been foremost among the hearers on that day. Since then he had made the most strenuous efforts to bring other holy men to Fifeshire, firmly persuaded of the incalculable benefits it would confer on the people in whom he took so deep an interest; consequently he must be punished. One evening on his return from his accustomed ramble in the romantic woods of Inchdarnie, a packet was placed in his hands. He opened it; it contained one of those letters of intercommuning then so fearfully common throughout Scotland. He must therefore fly; the doors of his father's house must henceforward be closed against him—the light of his mother's countenance openly withdrawn from him for ever; for according to these terrible missives, not only the individuals mentioned therein, but those of their relations who showed them the least kindness, or sheltered them when oppressed, were treated with equal severity. In one letter alone, as we read in a book written on these times, "above ninety clergymen, gentlemen, and even ladies of distinction, were interdicted from the common intercourse of social life. All who received them or supplied them with sustenance, intelligence, or relief—who conversed or held communication with them—were made equally criminal." In order to procure evidence of the guilt of those they wished to criminate, all persons were forced, under the highest penalties, to inform against offenders, and made to swear upon oath whatever they knew regarding them. If they refused to do so, they were subject, at the pleasure of the counsel, to fines, incarceration, or banishment to the American plantations. Immediately on receipt of this letter, Andrew Ayton determined upon setting out for Morayshire, where he thought he should be safe from pursuit. In an agony of grief his mother clasped him in her arms, and besought him, for her sake, not to expose himself to needless danger. This be faithfully promised, and after a sad farewell, set out on his journey.

The friends with whom Inchdarnie resided during his sojourn in Morayshire lived near Pluscardine, a ruined priory founded by Alexander the Second in the year 1230. It was dedicated to the honour of St. Andrew, and named Valles St. Andrea. Amongst its sacred ruins did young Ayton love to wander, when the moon's bright beams sparkled like diamonds on the bosom of the river Lossie, which seemed like some silver mirror, so still, so placid were its waters. One lovely morning, while rambling along the soft green walks which surrounded the ancient gardens attached to the priory, he was startled by hearing a footstep behind him. He turned hastily, and perceived Mr. Denoon advancing towards him. Overcome with joy on again beholding his reverend friend, Inchdarnie eagerly advanced to meet him, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, and his hand extended to grasp the one outstretched to meet it. After an interchange of warm and affectionate greetings, Mr. Denoon informed Andrew Ayton that he had been apprized of his arrival in Morayshire while visiting in Elgin, and had lost no time in coming to see him, as he had longed much to converse with him again on the subject that lay nearest his heart; whereupon he gave Inchdarnie a long and circumstantial account of all that he had done and laboured to do since his arrival in Morayshire. How he had frequently preached, both in rooms and on open moors, greatly to the delight of the poor people, who had assembled in crowds to hear him; and that everywhere much sympathy had been expressed and felt on behalf of those of their brethren who had been called upon to suffer for their adherence to the Covenant; and prayers were daily offered up that the Lord might strengthen their hearts and hands, adding, "that both in Cromarty and Morayshire many of the inhabitants evinced a fellow-feeling for the persecuted Covenanters, and that he trusted they would not be backward when the time came for their testifying their faith and determination to do that which was right."

In answer to an inquiry on the part of Mr. Denoon as to how things had fared with himself since last they met, Andrew Ayton informed him regarding the letter of intercommuning which had forced him to visit Morayshire much sooner than he otherwise would have done, being desirous of remaining in Fifeshire some little time longer, in order that he might, if possible, labour in conjunction with others in behalf of those who desired to have the pure gospel preached unto them.

"You are now," said Mr. Denoon with a sigh, "called upon to share in the trials and sorrows of those who have as it were cast the world behind them. But fear not; there is One who will guide thy bark upon the waters, and still the waves which threaten to engulph thee. Cast, therefore, thy care upon Him, and should thy path through life be compassed with thorns, yet thy reward hereafter will be great."

As they walked to and fro amongst the venerable ruins, Mr. Denoon attracted the attention of his youthful companion towards the beautiful and elaborate carving with which the walls of the interior were adorned. "See," said he, "that exquisite tracery on yonder cornice; mark that curiously-defined cross; how strange that such things should still exist, when those who grudged not the time and labour bestowed on perishable works such as these have long been mouldering in the dust. What changes are produced by the flight of years! At no very distant period," he continued, "this priory was inhabited by a body of monks, who, according to their constitution, were obliged to lead a lonely and austere life. For some time they religiously adhered to the rules of their order, until at length grown weary of so restricting themselves, they gave way to riotous excesses, and from being an independent house, Pluscardine was degraded to a cell dependent on the Abbey of Dunfermline. Years rolled on, and the tide of Reformation resistlessly rushed over the hills and valleys of Scotland. All gave way before it. The walls of the monasteries and cathedrals then existing in our country were razed to the ground, the monks fled to less hostile shores, and now"—here Mr. Denoon paused for a moment, as if overwhelmed by painful thoughts—"this green turf once pressed by the sandalled foot, is trod by the feet of those who are at this moment trembling for the safety of that Church our fathers strove to establish in our land."