that terrible night. The young men being unarmed, and not able either to defend themselves, or to rescue their father, fled for their lives. Meantime, a party of soldiers rushed into the chamber of the old chieftain, and shot him through the head. Macdonald fell dead into the arms of his wife, and she was so overwhelmed with fear and horror, that next day she died also. A little boy, only eight years old, threw himself at Campbell's feet, and begged for mercy; but one of the hard-hearted officers who was standing by, stabbed him in a moment. Thirty-eight were murdered in the same way,—many of them in their beds. The plan was to kill all the men under seventy years of age who lived in the valley; but the soldiers who were appointed to guard the passes, did not arrive in time; and thus some happily escaped.

When Campbell had ended his dreadful massacre, he ordered all the houses to be burnt, and all the cattle and goats to be seized; and then the poor widows, and the fatherless children, were driven out, and left to wander in that dark winter's night, over ground covered with snow, shivering with cold, and almost dead with terror, until they could reach some inhabited spot, many miles distant from the once happy, but now desolate valley of Glencoe.

But how did William act? how did he feel, when he heard of this dreadful massacre? No doubt, he little thought, when he signed the order at the request of Breadalbane, what the consequences would be. He was not indeed actually guilty himself of that dreadful slaughter; but he was certainly responsible for it, as he had given the command for the execution. And now it was his duty to do what he could to repair the evil;-to punish the treacherous perpetrators of the cruel deed, and to compensate in some degree, if possible, to the suffering survivors, for the sad loss they had sustained. But William did nothing of the kind. He indeed dismissed Lord Stair, the Scotch minister; but he did not punish the cruel Campbell, nor any who had taken part in the murder. William was a stern man; he was a great military commander, and he acted, on this occasion, more like a fierce soldier, delighting in vengeance, than like a Christian king, who, though he is sometimes obliged to exercise severity, yet always strives to exercise it with justice, and to season it with mercy. No wonder that, from this time, William's government became very unpopular in Scotland; and that the number of those who desired the restoration of the Stuart family increased.-Those persons were now

called Jacobites, from the name of James or Jacobus, whose cause they supported.

There is not much more to interest you in the reign of William III. I should tell you however, that Louis XIV, the friend of James II, made another effort to restore him to the throne. He attempted an invasion of England, and prepared a fleet for the purpose; but he was defeated by the English, and their allies the Dutch, in the battle of La Hogue, in 1692. James spent the remainder of his life at St. Germain's, near Paris, where he died, thirteen years after his dethronement.

During William's reign, an act was passed in Parliament, which it is important for you to remember. It was called the Bill of Rights, because it secured and confirmed the rights and liberties of the people. It declared, amongst other things, that the pretended power of suspending or executing laws, or of levying money for the use of the crown, by the king, without the consent of the Parliament, is illegal; that it is the right of the subject to petition the king; that excessive fines ought not to be imposed, nor cruel punishments inflicted; and that Parliaments ought to be held frequently.

William lost his excellent wife, Queen Mary, about three years before his own death. She died of the small-pox, which in those days

proved fatal to a great many persons; for the art of vaccination was not then known. The king himself lost his life from an accident. He was thrown from his horse, when riding from Kensington to Hampton Court; and died from the effects of the fall a few weeks after.

And now, before we begin the reign of William's successor, Queen Anne, I wish to make a few remarks, which I could not well do before, without interrupting the course of our narrative. I wish that we should go back once more to the besieged city of Londonderry, and ask the suffering inhabitants there, if they can teach us any lessons from their own example and experience. I think they will say, that they can; and perhaps we can guess, without much difficulty, what those lessons will be.

One of them will surely be on patient endurance. We have often had examples, in our history, of active courage, and of readiness to suffer cruel and violent death for the sake of truth and of duty. But the case of the besieged sufferers in Londonderry is, in some respects, different from these. The soldiers there had indeed active duties to perform, in which much courage and bravery were required. But then, there were a large number besides who could not be engaged in this way; the women, and children, and aged people, for in

stance, and it is of them that I am particularly speaking here. Now in times of calamity, it often requires more stedfastness of purpose, more resolute endurance, to be passive, than to be active. There is an excitement, an impulse, given in action, which prevents reflection, and enables people to go through difficulties which would overpower them perhaps in calmer moments. But it is not so with those who have to sit still in suspense, dreadful suspense, knowing the danger, and awaiting the result. Think how the poor passive sufferers at Londonderry must have felt, as hour after hour they sat in their desolate houses, listening to the firing, and the shouts, and the cries of the wounded; or watching from their windows the horrors around, as far as they were able to discern them. And then, from time to time, came the sad intelligence that some one dear to them had fallen ;-the father of the family perhaps, or a son, or a brother; some fatal bullet had reached him, some fatal wound had been given, and he was dead.

Now cannot you picture to yourselves a Christian family in such affliction as this, just as you did when we were talking of an affliction of a different kind,-the great Plague of London? How would such a family act? What would they do? We know that there