God who made the mountain!" was the Covenanter's reply. And when in their field-preachings, to use Gilfillan's words, "a dark shadow of clouds gathered over the landscape, and when, like a grim spectre, the storm appeared above their heads, and

'Lightning, like a wild bright beast,
Leaped from his thunder lair,'

every heart in the assembly felt that the God who was speaking was on their side, that that thunder echoed the deep protest of their consciences, and that that lightning was writing in its own burning hieroglyphics the wrongs of their country and their faith!"

Were they mistaken in this? Shall we censure or affect to pity them, for recognising behind visible things the working of an invisible Power ?-for connecting with the events and phenomena of nature the movements of nature's God? Shall we not rather blame the atheism which severs God from the works of His hands ?—which, after gathering its fossils, and culling its plants, and analysing its specimens, and separating its gases, sits down amidst the elements of a creation, and, with a grin of unbelieving self-complacency on its countenance, says, "Here is law, but where is God ?" There may have been fanaticism in the Covenanters, but their fanaticism is at least better than the godlessness by which it is now so flippantly rebuked.

Right or wrong in this belief, it is manifest that men who entertained it could not be easily vanquished. Such convictions, whether well or ill founded, tend to make men invincible. If earthly power was on the side of their oppressors, Omnipotence was on their side. If their enemies, having sold themselves to the devil, might expect his help, holy angels without number kept watch over them. If perils beset them on every hand, from every quarter might come the most unexpected

deliverances. The earth would help them; the clouds would become their pavilion; the winds would warn them of coming danger; and the stars in their courses would fight against their foes. Why should they dread the wrath of the king, when there was one who said, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further!" and without whose permission not a hair of their heads could fall? Thus they scorned compromise, and boldly took a step from which there could be no retreat. Grand was it, partaking of the morally sublime, when on the morning of June 22nd, 1680, twenty horsemen, headed by Richard Cameron, one of the most popular ministers, whose name they afterwards bore, entered the town of Sanquhar, and read, and nailed to the market-cross, a declaration setting forth that the king had forfeited his right to the crown, and declaring war against him. You call it a rash act, but it was, at least, courageous. It was nailing their colours to the mast. And the men who could thus throw down the gage of battle to a king and his armies, whatever may be thought of their wisdom, have, by their heroism, established some claim to admiration. "A rash act!" you say. But not so rash after all. It was an anticipation of what the whole kingdom did before long. Scotland, and England too, endorsed the deed at the glorious Revolution. The best sons of Italy are copying it now. And grateful for the results which have followed in our own case, we can but say God speed them in their gallant struggle! "Rash," you say, "for how could they cope with the armies of the king ?" Ay, how could they? Why, they never expected to do so. They knew that their material forces were not equal to his. But then, they had faith in the principle which they promulgated. They knew that that principle, once boldly affirmed, would lay hold of men's minds until it wrought the downfall of what they called "the bloody house." They had counted the cost. They knew that they

had forfeited life. But they were prepared to sacrifice that for their country's good. Not rash, then. No. Let us gratefully acknowledge it. It was the right thing to do. England, for centuries past, has reaped-you and I this night are reaping-communities of free Englishmen in all parts of the world are reaping-ay, and successive generations will yet rise up to reap, the benefits of that act of heroism.

One would almost wish to bury in oblivion the cruelties which followed. The heart sickens at the bare recital of the harrowing tale. In accordance with a measure which Sharp had concocted, and was busily pushing forward at the time of his death, the country was placed under martial law. Any officer, down to the sergeant, was empowered to execute summarily those who refused to take the oaths which he proffered. "Trial had long been abandoned. Accusation, even, had now ceased. If a countryman were descried running or walking quickly across the moors, or found reading in the fields, it was enough-he must be a Bible-reading fanatic, and was shot." Blood flowed freely. With an ingenuity which would have done credit to an Inquisitor, superfluous cruelties were heaped upon the dying, and all manner of indignities offered to the dead. Victims were struck with canes as they ascended the scaffold. Old Donald Cargill, taken prisoner at Ayr, was brought to Edinburgh for execution, his feet tied beneath the horse's belly, so tightly, that the blood sprang, and afterwards put to death in the act of prayer. Cameron fell in a skirmish at Aird's Moss; after praying, "Lord, spare the green, and take the ripe!" and saying to his brother by his side, "This is the day I have longed for, and the death I have prayed for; this is the day I shall get the crown!" His head and hands were cut off to grace the victor's triumph; his body buried where it fell. Sad as his fate was, it was thought almost an enviable one, by some who sur

vived him. Old Peden-sitting on his lonely grave at the scene of the skirmish, where the wild winds sighed his requiem, and the moor-fowls chanted his dirge,raised his streaming eyes to heaven and exclaimed, “O, to be wi' Richie!"-so terribly had the persecution worn the saints of the Most High. Hackston was wounded and taken prisoner in the same engagement, brought to Edinburgh on a horse with his face backward; Cameron's head, and hands elevated as if in prayer, borne on a halbert before him. At his execution, his arms were cut out of their sockets. He was drawn by a pulley to the top of the scaffold, and let fall three times with all his weight on its lower part. His heart was cut out while he was yet alive, held upon the point of a spear as the heart of a traitor, and then cast into the fire.

“They were Christians;—and they cut the heart from out the living

man,

And waved it as a flag is waved upon the battle's van;

And burned it as a beast is burned, some idol to appease ;
And cast the human ashes round, like incense on the breeze:

And they did it in the name of God!

Where were His lightnings then,

That came not with consuming fire

To light the everlasting pyre,

Of these blaspheming men?

"Look round on Scotland's ruined fanes-on shattered arch and wall, On roofless aisle and broken font-on column, tomb, and stall, Laid waste within the sunniest spots of this our happy land,—

As waste as lieth Nineveh, upon the desert strand.

The lightning of a nation's wrath has smote them with decay;
The faith their reeking alters fed,

With life-blood of the saints, is fled.

In heaven the martyrs have their bed

The Covenant lives for aye."

Amid these terrible tragedies, scenes of the most touching

pathos and heroism were constantly occurring, on some of which, did your time permit, I should like to linger for a little.

The story of John Brown's martyrdom has been often told, but will bear repeating. It is one which covers with glory the Covenanting cause, and the name of Claverhouse with indelible disgrace. They must blot it out of Scotland's history, who would alter the verdict which the nation has pronounced on that bold, bad man. John Brown was chargeable with no crime, save that of non-attendance at the parish church, and occasionally meeting for prayer and fellowship with some friends of kindred spirit. Early in the morning, after conducting their family devotions, he had gone to cut peat at a moss, a little distance off, and was there found by Claverhouse and his dragoons. They brought him down to his own door-he walking before them, it is said, more like a conqueror than a captive. As they approached the house, his wife, Isabel Weir-leading one child by the hand, carrying another in her arms, and soon to give birth to a third, came out to take her part in the tragedy of the day. Refusing to take the oaths and pray for the king, he was told to go to his knees and prepare for death. He was a stammerer, but he prayed with such fervour and fluency for his wife and children, born and unborn, that the stout hearts of the dragoons were melted, and their eyes suffused with tears. Fearful of the consequences, it may be, Claverhouse three times interrupted. him with blasphemous exclamations. Rising from his knees, he reminded his wife how, when he first proposed marriage, he had told her that this day would come, and asked, if she were willing to part with him. "Heartily willing," said she. "This is all I desire," he said; "I have nothing more now to do, but to die." He kissed her and the children, and said, "May all purchased and