and has taken a bribe, even the bribe of an
archbishoprick, as the reward of his
perjury." As he spoke a movement among
the people, and a clatter as of horses' hoofs,
warned us that the cavalcade was drawing
near. We stood together at the shop door
of a mercer's, who seemed to be acquainted
with Mr. Cargill. "These are sore times,"
said the mercer, "for the people of God."
"Aye, sore indeed, my friend," replied Mr.
Cargill, "and worse to follow. But behold
the traitor." And it was even so. On a
prancing horse rode James Sharpe,
Archbishop of St. Andrews, a portly man of
middle age, with a pleasant smile on his
face, and an oily manner like that of a
courtier. On either side of him rode a
dozen or more of earls, and lords, and
knights in gay trappings, followed by a
long line of mounted gentlemen. Not a
cheer was raised to do them honour, as they
rode through the street, and not a cap was
taken off to do them reverence. The people
looked on curious but stern, and as if
wondering what the end of these things should be.
Mr. Cargill said nothing more, but seemed
to rejoice inwardly, as I judged from the
dour satisfaction expressed in his face, that
the people had no huzzas to throw away on
such as this archbishop, and that all his
pomp affected them not. Fifteen years
later these things came back into my mind
when the haughty prelate met the fate of
the persecutor, and was stricken dead in
the street.

Having concluded rather than completed
my studies, I took my place in my father's
counting office in 1666; and resolved, God
aiding me, to devote my best energies to
his service. His health was not strong,
and there were six children younger than
myself to be educated and provided for.
He had a consciousness that his days would
not be many in the land; and it was a
comfort to him, he often said, that I was so
steadfast to my work, so steadfast also to
the faith in which he had nurtured me, and
that I was otherwise so well qualified to be
the head of the family, when he should
have departed to his rest. He lived for
seven years after this time, ailing, but
cheerful, and expired in 1673, leaving me,
at the age of twenty-seven, to regret the
loss of a friend as well as a father, and a true
Christian gentleman. The business of which
I became the head was fairly prosperous,
and promised to provide means enough, if
prudently managed, for the well-placing in
life of my brothers and sisters, and for the
sustenance in comfort of my beloved mother.
It also seemed after a year or two of close
application, that the business was sufficiently
profitable to justify me in taking to
myself a wife, which I did at the age of
thirty, with the consent and approbation of
my mother and family, and all the friends
of our house. My wife's name was Grace
Rutherford. She was the daughter of an
advocate in Edinburgh; a man in very
good repute, and highly esteemed in his
profession. She was five years younger
than myself. I had been betrothed to her
for six years, not only with my father's
consent but with his blessing, though he
had cautioned delay, on the ground of my
present want of worldly substance. To
this delay, strong in the faith of Grace's
affection, I willingly but sorrowfully
consented. Our hands were joined together
in holy wedlock by Mr. Cargill; and from
that happy day until this, I never had the
smallest cause to regret that I took such a
partner to my bosom. If any regret is
mingled with her name, it is that I have
been separated from her by the arm
of oppression, and from the three bonnie
bairns that the Lord has given me with her.
Nevertheless, even in this blackest hour of
my fortune I know that I shall behold her
again, if not on this side of Eternity on that
other side, where sorrow finds no abiding
place.

Had it not been for the persecution
suffered by the Presbyterians, my life at this
time would have been as happy as any man
has reason to expect. I was hale of body
and mind. I was prosperous in worldly
affairs. I was tenderly beloved at home,
and much respected by my fellow-citizens
abroad. But being a man of note in
Glasgow—one not slow to speak my mind when
the truth was in question—and being
known even beyond the bounds of my
native city as a friend of the Covenant, I
early experienced the wrath of the prelatists.
The second parliament of Charles
the Second had decreed heavy fines against
all who withdrew themselves from attendance
at the parish churches, and still
heavier fines against those who withdrew
their wives and children, their servants, or
others over whom they had authority.
Under this law, I was amerced in sums
amounting, at sundry times, to more than
the annual profits of my trade. My enemies
hoped to reduce me into beggary for
my faith. But the Lord withstood them,
and it seemed to me as if His finger were
in it, for the more I was fined the more I
prospered. Three times I was amerced for