Chapter IX: An Apparition (6)

It was half-past one o’clock, on as beautiful a 3rd of May as ever burst, in glory and in song, upon the kingdom of Fife, in the year of grace 1679, when Peggy Watson—a girl about fourteen years of age, and daughter to the above-mentioned Andrew—entered her father’s door in a dreadful state of affright. It was some time before the poor girl could be brought to utter any coherent sounds at all; at last, she said that she and Tam Cargill, a neighbour’s boy had been amusing themselves in seeking for birds’ nests on Drumcarrow Craig, when she saw a number of men on horseback gathered round the tall ash tree, at the farm of Magus. By and by, a gentleman’s servant passed them on horseback, and then a fine coach appeared, drawn by six horses. When the coach passed (she said), the men under the tree set off at full gallop after it; and she heard firing, and loud speaking, and saw the coach overtaken, and stopped, and a man dragged out of it, and shot at, and murdered—she was quite sure that he was murdered. Thereupon, Tam Cargill had run off homewards in one direction, and she in another; for she was afraid the dreadful men might look up at Drumcarrow Craig, and murder her and her companion too. This narrative caused a great sensation in the family, and Andrew was at a loss how to understand it; for, although the archbishop’s treachery and cruelty were well known in the country, yet the more immediate object of popular detestation was Mr William Carmichael, sheriff-substitute of Fife, from whose hornings, and finings, and distrainings, and quarterings of a rapacious and sensual soldiery, scarcely any one individual, unconnected with the prelatic faction, had been excepted. Nothing farther occurred till about ten o’clock at night, when all the family had been summoned around a peat-fire, on a sandstone hearth, to family prayers. There were in all ten individuals, comprehending the lad, the lass, six bairns, of whom Peggy was the oldest, with the guidman and the guidwife, worshipping and nursing the youngest bairn at the same time. The dogs, which lay scattered about at their ease and convenience, and which seemed, hitherto, to be enjoying a comfortable repose, suddenly sprang to their legs, and gave tongue vociferously.

“Hide me,” ejaculated a young man, stout and square built, and of a somewhat prepossessing appearance. “O conceal me, honest Andrew Watson, for the pursuer is close at my heels!”

The Bible was immediately laid aside, and the whole family gathered round the strange intruder in the utmost consternation.

“Dear me!” said Andrew Watson, “and what has brought you about our hallen like an ill-doer, at this time o’ the night, and in sic a like manner. I wish ye haena been where ye sudna hae been, Mr George Balfour, my man. Are na the bonny woods o’ Gilston, o’er by there, sufficient to shelter the laird’s son in the hour o’ his difficulty and need?”

“I canna gang hame at ony rate—I have just seen, frae my hiding-hole in the Linns o’ Kenley, a whole band o’ soldiers scouring all over the country, and bearing down upon Gilston direct.”

“But——” Andrew was proceeding, when his well-known neighbour entreated of him to act and not to talk, for a party of dragoons would, in all probability, be at his door in a few seconds. What was to be done? The children screamed at the idea of dragoons; the guidwife wrung her hands, completely nonplussed; whilst Andrew, thinking for a moment, and ejaculating, “The son of the righteous father guilty or not, must not be deserted in his need; he asks shelter and secrecy, and he shall have both till morning, at least.” So saying, he conducted Mr George Balfour privately to a small barn immediately adjoining, and filling an empty sack nearly half-full of straw, he thrust his neighbour into it, bringing the straw up around his person and over his head—there being a sufficiency of holes towards the fastenings at the mouth of the sack, by which respiration could be effected, and even vision partially obtained. Having done this, Andrew placed the sack, head uppermost, in a recumbent position, in the centre of several other sacks filled apparently in a similar manner with grain. “There,” says Andrew, “stand ye there till morning; and gin ye hear the door open, and see armed men enter, beware of your breathing, for even that may betray you.”

Mr George Balfour had been seen passing Den Head, after the affair of the archbishop, and a herd callant had pointed his route out in the direction of Kinaldy farm-house. Thus instructed, a company of from ten to twelve dragoons surrounded the dwelling-house of Kinaldy about twelve o’clock at night, and, breaking up the door without any ceremony, proceeded immediately to search for the murderer. The children—even to that in the cradle—were all turned out naked; the cows were dislodged from their stakes, and set adrift in the fields; two horses were unstabled; and the dung-hill fowls were sent screaming and cackling from their perches in the byre. By and by, the barn occupied their attention; and having made short work of the door opening, they commenced cutting and thrusting with their broadswords amongst some straw which occupied the further end. One of the band laid his hand upon a sack, and finding that it contained oats, he immediately called for assistance, and carried it out to the adjoining field, emptying it immediately of its contents, and putting their horses to feed at will. Still the object of their pursuit was invisible, and they become more and more infuriated; so, taking the eldest girl, already mentioned, they questioned her, with their pistols at her breast, respecting what she had seen or knew. Fortunately, the girl was really ignorant, as was the whole family, except Andrew, of the hiding-place of him they were in pursuit of; but, terror-stricken as she was, she admitted that she had seen Mr George Balfour, whom she knew, in the house that very evening.

“Come, come,” said the leader of the troop—one of Carmichael’s instruments of oppression—“we will make short work of it, Andrew; either give up him we are in search of, or we will make a bonfire of the hail bigging, and leave you and these naked savages to warm your skins at the flames.” This they would actually have put into execution, had not a horseman arrived at the critical moment with information that Balfour of Burley had been traced to Dura Den, and that their immediate presence was required to surround the retreat on all sides, and capture the main instrument in the bloody transaction. A retreat was thereupon immediately sounded, but not till Andrew Watson had been assured that he, at least, should not escape, but that his property; if not his person, should pay dearly for harbouring a murderer. With great speed was the pass of Dura surrounded, and afterwards searched, even to that cave in the steep face of the rock, part of which is visible, immediately opposite to Yoolfield, even to this hour; but, if even Balfour had taken refuge here, as is, from several circumstances, more than probable, he had received warning in time, and had fled to Lanark, in the west country. So the avengers of blood were too late for their quarry, and were obliged to return to Cupar towards morning, with the report of their total failure in capturing any of the offenders.

In the meantime, Mr. George Balfour, younger of Gilston, escaped from his durance, and, without saying to any one in what direction he meant to retreat, escaped by Kenley Glen, from the old barn of Kinaldy. That he went on board a ship at Elie, and immediately got off to the Continent, was afterwards fully ascertained.

In the meantime, the poor family of Andrew Watson suffered most severely. They were dragged up to the Sheriff-court at Cupar, and, being examined on oath, were compelled to admit the concealment of Mr. George Balfour; they pled, as was true, their ignorance of the precise crime of which he had been guilty; for, although they might suspect the nature of the crime from what the girl had witnessed, and Mr. George himself had expressed, yet, no name had been mentioned by either party, and the accused was entitled to plead the benefit of ignorance on the main point. No matter; their goods were distrained by orders of the infamous Carmichael, and they themselves turned adrift as outlaws, to seek for shelter with the beasts of the field. Such doings in those days were not uncommon, and scarcely dared any one to express disapprobation, for fear of involving themselves in the same fate.

Houseless and homeless did Andrew Watson, his wife, and six children—of whom Peggy, already mentioned, was the eldest—take their way on the 15th day of May (old style), across the moors of Fife, towards Auchtermuchty, where an uncle of Andrew’s kept a small public house, and dealt a little in horse flesh. This uncle was a great favourite of Carmichael’s, and one of the most active informers against the non-conformists, and, in particular, against the murderers of the Archbishop. All this was known to Andrew; but what was to be done; he did not know where to turn himself; and, in the extremity of his condition, was, in a manner, compelled to seek for refuge where he had never hitherto placed any confidence. Wearied and worn out, the whole family arrived at Norman Watson’s about sunset, and found his wife at home, but not himself. Their piteous tale was told, and temporary sustenance rather grudgingly afforded, when Norman arrived himself—his face dreadfully flushed with drink and rage, and in words and with acts anything but friendly—he insisted upon their immediately leaving his threshold. His wife, though somewhat inclined to mercy and hospitality, was manifestly the slave of her husband’s temper, and she offered no resistance.

“O man!” exclaimed Andrew Watson, whilst he gathered up his weary limbs, and beckoned to his wife to nurse her child ere they departed—“O Norman, but ye are a hard-hearted man, and totally destitute of natural feelings! But the Lord will provide, in his own good way, for me and mine; whilst you, wha persecuted his chosen flock, shall be reduced, ay, to want and beggary.” This last expression touched old Norman even to frenzy; and he even lifted up the handle of a horse whip, which he had in his hand, to strike down his nephew with.

“Come on, man!—come on!” said Andrew. “Strike down and murder your brothers bairn, and send _her_ there husbandless and _them_ there fatherless, into the woods of Falkland; but ye canna strike down the uplifted arm of Him who now sees you, and who one day will reward the sinner according to his deeds. But shall e’en mak ye free of us.” And thus saying, he left the house, followed by a sobbing wife, and five weeping and screaming children. They wandered forth, in the dusk of a beautiful evening, into the woods of Falkland, and, sitting down under the shelter of a large oak tree, Andrew Watson proceeded to give out from memory, the 121st Psalm, which was sung by the whole family, with the exception of the child at the breast. It is impossible to conceive a more appropriate exercise in such a locality than this. The twin Lomonts rose to a considerable height above them. The moon had just taken possession of the southern sky, and looked mildly and benevolently down upon their sylvan resting-place. The sun had set in glory, and his beams yet lingered on the nor’-western sky. The air was warm, and the grass was dry, soft, and matted—the “_tenaci gramine_” of Horace. Before proceeding to conclude with prayer, and in consideration that they would not see to read a chapter from the small pocket Bible which had been spared to them, Andrew gave the following commentary on the psalm which had just been sung:—

‘I to the hills will lift mine eyes,’

Yes, there they lift their heads before us, the beautiful work of God—the twin Lomonts of His own creation!

‘From whence doth come mine aid.’

“O Lord of Hosts! do thou descend here as thou didst on Sinai and Horeb, and aid thy poor, wandering, houseless servants; for the aid and protection of man I have not; and unless thou leavest thy heavens and comest down, I and the wife of my bosom, and my poor little ones, must perish.”

Hereupon the voice of lamentation was heard; but it was suddenly repressed by Andrew springing to his feet, and repeating with great emphasis:—

“‘My safety cometh from the Lord,
Who Heaven and Earth hath made.
The moon by night thee shall not smite,
Nor yet the sun by day.’

“So we will e’en go to rest in the confidence of the fulfilment of His gracious promise.”

And, having prayed fervently, and placed the younger ones in each other’s arms, they laid themselves down and fell asleep. They must have slept long and soundly, for the sun was more than an hour risen, when a staghound was seen licking the face of Andrew Watson as he and his family lay in the woods of Falkland: in fact, Lord Crawfurd had left, that morning, his residence at Struthers, in the parish of Ceres, and had pursued a fallow deer, with “hound and horn,” into Falkland forest. The hounds had been taken off the scent by the unusual finding of a covey, as it were, of human beings beneath a tree, and sleeping in the open air; so this naturally excited observation, and his lordship himself, with several attendants, immediately rode up to the spot. The Earls of Crawfurd, from time immemorial, were distinguished not less by their high and noble descent, than by their princely bearing and kindly feeling; besides, they had all along aided the Reformation from its opening, and supported Presbytery against the inroads of Prelacy. The mournful story was told and listened to. A horseman was called upon, and dismissed on a secret errand, and the family were directed to make the best of their way to Struthers—the Fife residence of his lordship. An ample breakfast with the housekeeper awaited their arrival; and they were told after breakfast, that as his lordship’s _hen-wife_ had died suddenly—a few days before—and no new appointment had been made, Andrew Watson should possess the lodge, which she formerly occupied at the gate. And whilst he looked after the gate, and a few black-faced sheep which were kept, for table use, in an adjoining park, his wife should take the management of the poultry.

Thus ended the trials of Andrew Watson, who lived to see his uncle bankrupt, turned out of house and hold, and carried to his grave, with scarcely a mourning attendant, in consequence of his own acts. Truly,

“The ways of God are righteous altogether.”

XIX.—THE TRIALS OF THE REV. SAMUEL AUSTIN.

Amongst the oldest recollections which I have, is my attendance, along with my mother, at the dispensation of the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, in the parish of Penpont, Dumfriesshire. Mr Keyden officiated at that time as parish minister, and was known through all the adjoining parishes, and, in particular, in my native parish of Closeburn, as a most able, eloquent, and popular preacher. Consequently, whenever the occasion came round, as it did regularly about the middle of June—

“The roads war filled frae side to side
Wi’ mony a weary body,
In droves that day.”

Morton boated the Nith at the Boat-pool, and poured _in_ her hundreds; Closeburn took the water at the nearest, with stilts, horses, and carts; Kier was completely deserted. Penpont emptied her wooded and sequestered glens of all that could wield a staff, or kilt a petticoat; even the more remote Keir Glencairn, and Dunsmore, sent their contributions of sacrament hunters. There they all congregated on the green slope of the manse, looking towards the sunny south. The Scaur sent her ample waters dancing and sparkling on the saugh tree, and the willows saw themselves reflected from her pools; whilst the stony banks murmured under the gentle salute of the stream. The tent stood with its back to the south, and the scorching sun; whilst a forest of faces fronted in an opposite direction. The whole scene was at once so imposing and picturesque, that it has established itself indelibly in my brain. A bald-headed little person, with spectacles, mounts the tent stair or ladder from behind; he takes off and thumbs his eye-glasses; whilst his soul is complacently abroad over the communion-tables, covered with napery—bleached white as the driven snow, on the very green where it is now spread. It was on one of these occasions that I heard Mr Keyden, in his _after_ address to the communicants, express himself in nearly the following terms:—

“My friends and fellow-communicants, the ground which you now occupy is hallowed—it is holy. On this very spot did your forefathers meet, to hear the good, the pious, the persecuted Mr Samuel Austin—him whom the lawless hands of wicked men banished, with all he held dear, to the cave, and the moss, and the mountain. O Creehope! that now re-echoest to thy peaceful waters, what a tale thou couldst unfold of Austin’s nightly watchings, and prayer, and praises. O Queensberry, that rearest thy proud and double front to the very breast of heaven, have not thy long heath and deep morasses hid the servants of God when the pursuer was near at hand! O water! pure and peaceful water of Scaur, that now stealest along as if unwilling to disturb our present doings and meditation, thou didst hear him groan—thou didst mark his tears, and those of his deeply afflicted wife and family, on the day when his trial had come, and was not over; but now the servant of the Lord hath gone home to the house of his father. He and his are now around the throne, reaping, and greatly enjoying the reward of all their sufferings—the noble, the everlasting recompence of reward. He whom Lag pursued, and Douglas hunted, and Johnstone cursed with words of wicked and self-condemning import, is now following the Lamb whithersoever he goeth—yes, my friends, far and away, beyond that white cloud, which now comes betwixt heaven’s sun and us; far and away in the unfathomed depths of eternity—unmeasured fields of immensity—there dwell—there dwell—he and his. They are clothed in white, because they are worthy; and they cease not, night nor day, giving glory to Him that sits upon the throne. Go ye, my dear brethren, and do likewise; serve your God like him, through ill as well as good report, in adversity as well as prosperity, and the like reward will be yours.” My youthful feelings were naturally excited by this very, very powerful address, in consequence of which, on my way homewards, I laid my mother under contribution to the whole extent of her traditional information on the subject. This information has been, since that period, considerably increased by a perusal of a MS. diary lent me by the late worthy minister of Keir, Mr James Keyden, whose father—the minister of Penpont, already referred to—had found it, along with some other papers, in an old barrel in the manse garret. I cannot speak positively, but my impression is (and the present minister of Penpont, Mr Smith, will correct me if I am wrong), that this little roll of torn and soiled papers is lodged in the hands of the presbytery clerk, and may still be verified by actual inspection. From these diaries, the following narrative, true in all its leading facts, is composed.

Samuel Austin was a native of Closeburn, and born, apparently, about the year 1600. His father was a shepherd on the farm of Auchincairn; and the son was educated in a great measure by an uncle, who had seen a little service, having served as a soldier till the civil wars made him glad to retire on a small allowance, which the Government of the time had made to him. This person happened to be not only a soldier but a saint—that is, one who, in the language of the day, sought his God frequently and earnestly in prayer and supplication at a throne of mercy. He had, besides, been well-educated for the times in which he lived, and took special care that his young name-son, Samuel, should be benefited by his superior information, as well as by his genuine and ever-fervent piety. He would walk out with the boy of a summer evening; and, having caught his attention, and gained his good-will by short and striking narratives of his own adventures “by flood and field,” he would take him to the top of that immense heap of stones from which the farm manifestly has its appellation, and, pointing to the magnificent prospect around, raise the young spirit from earth to heaven—from the visible to the invisible—from the external work to the internal agent. He would then talk of God’s visible church on earth, of the Reformation and the reformers; of the burnings and slayings, and torturings for conscience’ sake; and of the efforts which had more recently been made to maintain beloved Presbytery in Scotland in particular. All this was accompanied by Bible and historical readings. It was then that young Samuel Austin grew up under his uncle’s tuition, without ever having entered a school door. When the boy was verging towards the man, he became every day more and more attached to the cause of liberty and Presbytery; and, at his uncle’s expense, was educated (according to the limited and imperfect usage of the times) for the church. When only twenty years of age, his learning and piety gained him an unanimous call from the adjoining parish of Penpont, where, at the period to which my narrative more particularly refers, he had laboured successfully and most acceptably for many years. In the meantime, his good friend, his uncle, had died, as also his parents; whilst a blind girl, his only sister, had come to live with him at the manse. About twelve months after his settlement, he married. For many years after Samuel Austin became minister of Penpont, all seems to have gone on well. I find his settlement noticed in the diary referred to in the following terms:—“16th September, 16—. This day I have been solemnly inducted into the pastoral charge of many souls. Lord, what am I or my father’s house, that thou shouldst honour me thus!”

Though re-instated on his throne, principally, by the Scottish Presbyterians, through the agency and address of the famous General Monk, and notwithstanding his having more than once sworn to the famous National League and Covenant, yet no sooner was Charles the Second, of infamous and treacherous memory, fairly established on the throne, than, yielding to the interested suggestions of intriguing and selfish counsellors, and to those of the arch-traitor Sharp, in particular, did this monarch set about establishing Prelacy in Scotland as well as in England, under the agency of Middleton and Lauderdale. By them, Sharp, Fairful, Wishart, Sydserff, Mitchel, Hamilton, Wallace, Fletcher, Haliburton, Forbes, Paterson, M’Kenzie, and Leighton, were ordered to be consecrated, and sent down to Scotland, with the titles of Bishop and Archbishop, to take their seats as an Estate in the Scottish Parliament and to forbid all induction into benefices, unless by the imposition of the prelates’ hands. This was immediately and extensively remonstrated against by Synods and Presbyteries, as well as by lay and clerical individuals, throughout Scotland in general, but more particularly throughout the countries south of the Forth and Clyde. It was throwing up, in spirit at least, all that their ancestors had been contending for, even unto the death by _fire_, for more than 150 years, and was, at the same time, submitting to an illegal and arbitrary adjustment of star-chambers and councils. With Presbytery was there all along entwined and commingled political freedom and equal law; and the Covenanters of the year 1662 saw full well, that if they sacrificed the one, they must likewise surrender the other. It was about this time, that, on account of Mr Austin’s neglect of obtaining conformation or induction of the then Bishop of Galloway, within whose diocese Penpont lay, he received a summons ordering him to appear incontinently before Bishop Hamilton (brother to Lord Belhaven), to answer for his contumacious neglect. As Mr Austin had originally been inducted and ordained, according to the rules of the Presbyterian Church, he did not feel himself at liberty to obey the bishop’s mandate.

Some time after this, the family of Mr Austin were placed in circumstances of a very trying nature. William Austin, an only son, and now a probationer of great promise and talents, had long been threatened with that fatal complaint which smiles whilst it drinks dry the well-springs of life. And sore and seriously did the alarmed and affectionate mother plead with her husband to satisfy the bishop, submit to a renewed presentation from Douglas of Queensberry, the lay patron, and thus reclaim his manse and stipend undisturbed and undisputed. But Samuel Austin was not to be diverted from his line of conceived duty, even by the most tender ties of the heart.

It was on a keen, frosty Saturday morning, in the month of January, whilst all the surrounding hills were covered with snow, and the pools, ponds, and lochs with ice, that the family of the manse were convened in the little parlour, and engaged in family worship, which was, as had been usual for some time, conducted by the young probationer, William; for although the fatal disease had not yet impaired his faculties, or very greatly reduced his strength, its presence was still manifest by the hectic spot in the cheek and the nightly fever. William had been selected as the future choice of a neighbouring congregation, should they be permitted to make their own selection; but the state of his health had made it manifest to all that his Master had not so determined. Whilst William was upon his knees (after having sung the psalm and read the chapter), pouring forth, in extempore and fervent expression, the feelings of himself and of his fellow-worshippers to the common and true God, through the one common and only Saviour, the door was rudely assailed, and ultimately forced open, and in came the harsh and bearded countenance of the afterwards notorious General Dalziell of Binns,[1] accompanied by a band of well accoutred dragoons.

“What have we here?” exclaimed the exasperated and really astonished intruder—giving, at the same time, the person engaged in prayer a rude push with his bootless foot[2]—“what have we got here?” addressing himself to one of the troop of the name of Johnston. “Why, here we have the whole batch—man, mistress, and maid—seeking Cromwell’s corkskrew. Come, have done with your canting and grunting, young one—up and be doing, thou old hoary traitor—clear up these blinkers, bonny Betty Blossom, for I have a message, in which ye are all somewhat concerned, from his Majesty, King Charles, God bless him! and his curse be on all his enemies. What! not grunt or growl an amen! Old Sam, I say, I have a polite message here from his Majesty’s Lord Chancellor, at the instance of my Lord Hamilton, Bishop of Galloway, to warn, denounce, and declare you a runnigate traitor, unless you shall, within eight days from and after this date, bestir your stumps, and wait upon his Lordship, in his palace at Whithorn; and there, and in that presence, receive and accept of ordination as an Episcopal curate from his Lordship—having first obtained a presentation to this living from the true and undisputed patron, my Lord Douglas of Queensberry.”

“_That_,” ejaculated, instantly and firmly, the resolute and determined servant of God—“_That_ no power on earth nor under the earth—no force of arms nor menace of look—no Laird of Binns nor Bishop of Galloway—shall ever compel poor Samuel Austin, the honoured pastor of a Presbyterian people, _to do_.”

“Then,” replied General Dalziell, making use of an oath which it would be fearful, as well as impious, to repeat, “off you shall budge, this very day, hour, and instant, and betake yourselves—man, woman, and boy, rag-tag and bobtail—from this here snug, comfortable manse, to that there wide and roomy and northern county of Angus, far and away beyond the river Tay—ay, and until my Lord Chancellor’s farther pleasure be known respecting you.”

“O spare us!—O spare us!” exclaimed, or rather screamed, Mrs Austin, running up to the fearful, long-bearded man, and clasping him round the knees, weeping and wailing most dismally—“O spare us this once, and all shall be done as you wish it. Yes—yes, Sam, my dear Samuel Austin, you must just say the word—just say you will see about it—you will think about it—you will ask the Lord’s advice about it—and maybe these terrible men will leave us (the blind, ye see, sir, and the sick, and the old and infirm) to finish our days—whar the feck o’ them hae been spent—and to lay our banes in the auld kirkyard o’er by yonder.”

“Get up, woman, wi’ your yammering and blarney! D’ye think the King’s officer does not know, and will not execute—ay, and to the letter—his duty. Get up! and mak that auld hardened traitor say the one half that ye hae done, and we shall soon rid you of our presence.”

“O Samuel—Samuel!” said the poor woman, rushing from the knees of the captain to those of her husband, and ultimately, as she proceeded, taking him around the neck, and looking into his firm and unchanged countenance in the most imploring manner—“O Samuel! my own dear and kind husband! the father of my dear and dying boy! the brother of that helpless blind creature sitting greeting in the corner there! O Samuel Austin, look at me! Don’t look away that gate; look in my face again, whar ye said ye have often looked with pleasure. O look at me! look at me! at your own Betty Sheils, _kindly_, and just say one word—one single short word—yes! O say yes! at least do not say no; or we are ruined, harried, driven, in frost and snow, at mid-winter, into the mountains and the forests!”

“No more of this mummery!” exclaimed Dalziell. “Either promise, my old boy, to do as your wiser half would have you, or, by all the broad acres of Binns, ye do not lodge another night under the rooftree of Penpont Manse—that’s all.”

Hereupon the poor blind woman, who had all along been sobbing aloud came rushing forward; and, catching hold of her brother’s hand, bathed it in tears shed from beamless sockets, but remained silent. This was indeed a trying hour to this good and affectionate man; and, for a moment, his purpose seemed shaken, and he looked around him, and towards his son, who had hitherto remained a silent but interested spectator of what was going on.

“O Willie, Willie!” at last exclaimed the poor heart-broken saint—“O Willie! my son! my only child! what wouldst _thou_ have thy father do?”

“I would have him,” responded the boy (as he was called in the family)—“I would have him do his duty, and leave the rest to God.”

“Thou art right—thou art right, my child! Come to my arms! I did but for an instant wish the cup to pass from me; but thou art more than thy father’s child. Thou hast saved thine own soul, and mine besides; and now, ye men of war, and of rapine, and of blood, come on; I am prepared”—(looking to his son)—“we are prepared; do your worst. God, who fed Elijah in the wilderness, will not permit the old, the blind, alas! my child, I fear I may add the _dying_, to perish houseless and helpless. We will rid ye of our presence this very day, and repair, with all possible despatch, whithersoever the Lord willeth.”

Hereupon the poor mother fell down in a faint, and dropped into the arms of her blind sister-in-law.

“Johnston,” said General Dalziell, “see these traitors unkenneled before noonday’s sunset, lock the kirk and the manse doors, and bring me the keys. March, my lads! We will be late for breakfast.”

So saying, the troop, with the exception of two, galloped off for Drumlanrig, the seat of the Douglasses of Queensberry.

The following Sabbath was clear, cold, and frosty, and the ground where the people met was dry, and free from snow. The crowd was immense; many stood all day; some brought stools and benches; and an old fallen ash-tree was completely occupied by human beings. The manse-family, with some of the better classes, were accommodated under the tent; whilst the young Laird of Closeburn (for which he was afterwards severely fined) sat in the tent behind the speaker. In the papers of this good man already mentioned, I find the following reflections written manifestly on the eve of the Communion Sabbath:—“The Lord has been very good and very gracious this day. Five hundred Presbyterian believers partook this day of the bread of life. There was no hand to help—no voice to rouse but mine, and that of my poor dying child. My text—‘I will not leave you comfortless,’ John xiv. 18—afforded me great openings of the spirit, and His blessed spirit was indeed upon me this day in this great work; but my poor boy has laboured too hard in preaching and in prayer.”

On Monday morning, the manse of Penpont was surrounded by carts and waggons, and the plenishing of the minister was conveyed to several places of safety in the parish, awaiting the return, if ever they should arrive, of better times. The weather was exceedingly stormy; and, to attempt an immediate journey through the Lauder Hills, towards the north, was altogether impossible. Yet whosoever should harbour this ousted family, under existing circumstances, would do so at their own peril, as well as that of the proscribed individuals. When the cart, borrowed from a kind neighbour, set out with the aged, the blind, and the sick, there was one universal wailing heard from the surrounding parishioners; nor did the procession separate, till they had reached the _then_ very small village of Thornhill, where the poor, expatriated family had agreed to spend the first night in a small public-house, till some ulterior measure could be resolved upon. Poor William was immediately put to bed, for he was sadly exhausted by the previous preaching and travel, as well as by that mental anxiety which cuts through the body, as the sword does the scabbard. To remove him in this state seemed impossible; and yet, to remain with him was dangerous in the extreme; for Dalziell, accustomed to the massacre of Turks and Russians, cared no more for life, or for sickness, than for matters of the most ordinary interest! Accordingly, on the second day, a detachment of soldiers was sent from Drumlanrig, with orders to convey Samuel Austin, dead or alive, to his destined place of banishment, beyond the Tay, to which place many of the non-conforming ministers of the south of Scotland had already been removed. It was a sad, sad parting for a father, who thought that he would never more see his son alive, and for a son, who loved and valued his father’s benediction over his last moments so highly; but there was no remedy; and Mr Austin was marched off for Leadhills about ten o’clock in the morning, accompanied by three rank and file well armed men. To paint the separation is impossible; even the hard-hearted soldiers, inured as they were to all Dalziell’s cruelties, were moved; but it was but an involuntary and momentary feeling, which soon gave way to the recollection of their strict and military order. Away they marched onwards, slowly and with difficulty, by Carron Bridge and Durrisdeer. At Durrisdeer they halted for refreshment; and under some faint hope of some means or other occurring to favour his escape, Austin supplied the soldiers with a handsome sum to drink his health with, and he even affected to become jovial on the occasion, and ultimately won that most dangerous of all designations—“a good fellow.” One of the soldiers became ultimately obstinate and quarrelsome, and swore that he would march no farther that night. In vain did his companions remonstrate with him—he swore he would shoot the first man that laid hold of him, and fell suddenly fast asleep in his chair. The other two, though considerably touched, were still determined to march up the Well Path, and to reach Elwand foot that night. The Well Path is a narrow ravine, which runs through the range of mountains which separate Nithsdale from Clydesdale. The hills on either hand are high, and almost perpendicular, and the pass beneath is rough and winding; in snow, in particular, very difficult to keep, and very dangerous to miss. Away, however, they marched; and, with great difficulty, contrived to get to about the middle of the pass. By this time the day, or rather evening, had darkened down, and the yird drift had become choaking and perplexing. The path was covered over, and smoothed in with snow, and beneath was a precipice of some hundreds of feet, a tumble over which would probably be fatal. Austin was well acquainted with the pass, but so were _not_ the soldiers; and, having now reached the famous well from which the path derives its name, they halted, and Austin drew out from his pocket a bottle pretty well filled with brandy, which he had secretly provided against accident at the inn. The men, in succession, drew pretty copiously from this source of refreshment, till, at last, fearing that they might fall fast asleep in the snow, and thus perish, Mr Austin urged them to proceed. To this they still had reason and prudence left to assent, and immediately pushed, recklessly and speedily, through the snow; but, having pushed in a wrong direction, they instantly disappeared, the one catching hold of the other, and both tumbling down the abyss.

It was about four o’clock in the morning, when the mother and blind aunt were standing at the bedside of the dying lad. He had become very rapidly worse since his father’s departure, and had occasionally been delirious; calling aloud for his father—his dear father, without whom he was unable to live. There was a small lamp or cruise burning on a chest-lid by his bedside, and his mother sat at his head with a cup of cold water, whilst the blind woman was rubbing his legs, which now, alas! had begun to swell. The tempest howled without, and an unfeeling landlord snored loudly and fitfully from a bed in the adjoining chamber. All at once, William Austin became more composed, and began to repeat various texts and psalms—discoursing from them—as his mother said, _most beautifully_, and, ever and anon, declaring that this was the last night he would ever see. All at once he paused—and, looking fearfully wild, and forcing himself up from his pillow, he exclaimed—

“My father—my father—my dear, persecuted father!”

His mother and aunt, whose faces were turned to his, imagined that he had begun suddenly to rave, and tried to press him down on his pillow, when the well-known voice of Samuel Austin was _indeed_ heard declaring—

“It is I—it is I, indeed!—your earthly, and real father, whom the Lord has delivered, for this special purpose, from his enemies, that he might see and bless his beloved boy, once more, ere he depart;” but, alas—alas! laying hold of his son’s hand, and finding it cold, and, at the same time, marking the fatal signal in the throat, “My boy—my boy is gone—he is gone to his God! Let us pray.”

And, hereupon, he uttered the most composed and comforting prayer, thanking his Maker for the loan—the pleasing loan; and expressing his gratitude for the removal from the evil to come, which had just taken place. Meanwhile, the mother and aunt had ascertained the truth of the father’s averment, and were bathing the cold brow of the lovely boy with their tears.

An explanation then took place; from which it appeared that, after the soldiers had tumbled over the precipice, Mr Austin had made his way backwards, with the view of seeing his beloved son once more before he died, and of giving him a father’s blessing. The precipice, he said, besides, over which the soldiers had tumbled, was so covered in with snow, and so formed by nature, that he had little doubt but that they would escape, with some bruises, perhaps, but with life. In these circumstances, his adjourn at Thornhill would probably be short; as the men would naturally infer that he would return, rather than advance, in their absence. In the meantime, a coffin was prepared, and the body was removed to Mortontown (a village now extinct), where a relation of his, an uncle, tenanted a small farm from _the_ Douglas of Drumlanrig. This being closely adjoining to the kirkyard, the body was quietly and secretly, during the second night after the decease, deposited in the grave; and, much to the astonishment of his friends at the time, another coffin was kept empty in the room beside him. His wife and uncle having expressed their surprise at this, he disclosed to them his plan, which was, to take possession of the box, with the suitable cover over it, and other necessary precautions with regard to air, should a search for him be made within a few days; and that, if necessary, they should carry him out on spokes to the churchyard, through the file of soldiers, as if it were his son’s body. As he had anticipated, so it happened—the same three men who had accompanied him before, assisted by a fourth, a sergeant, surrounded the dwelling, and passed their swords, as usual, through everything piercable in the house; swearing and roaring, and eating and drinking, all the while. The coffin, however, even _they_ respected; and, having seen it conveyed out of doors, and in the act of being carried towards the grave, they uttered a horrible quartette of oaths and departed, determined to find out the old fox in the old den—namely, at Penpont. Thus, by his own forethought and sagacity, were these wicked men put upon a wrong scent; and ultimately, broken and cashiered by their commanding officer, for a criminal, and seemingly irremediable, neglect of duty.

Brownrig is now united with the adjoining farm of Mitchelslacks; but it was, at this time, tenanted by a Mr Hunter, a predecessor of the late distinguished Professor of Humanity, at St Andrew’s. This honest man, Halbert Hunter, was a decided Covenanter; and had often walked from ten to fifteen miles, of a Sabbath morning, to hear Mr Austin preach. His residence was in the wildest division of the parish of Closeburn, and very far removed from neighbours. Having heard of Mr Austin’s misfortunes, Honest Hab—for by that name this worthy man was familiarly known—set out westward, with the view of tracing out Mr Austin’s retreat, and, at all risks, offering him a refuge in his remote and obscure dwelling. But nobody could give him information; and he was upon the point of returning home to Brownrig again, without attaining the purpose, when, in passing Morton Manse, his horse, scared at some clothes which were hanging, hard-frozen, and rattling in the twilight wind, suddenly reared, and, throwing him off, he was severely bruised, and carried into the farm of Mortontown, where Mr Austin was actually lodged. Great care was at first taken to keep Mr Austin and his family out of the way; but, as soon as old Halbert was recognized, and his errand accertained, the Lord’s doing was instantly perceptible, and the evening was spent in pious conversation and devotional exercise.

Next evening saw the whole party—minister, wife, and sister—conveyed, not without some difficulty, to Brownrig. This movement, however, secret and guarded as it was, had not been unobserved by some of those detestable informers, who, for hire, would have betrayed their own fathers into the hands of a murderer; and, whilst Mr Austin was, next day, addressing a number of young men and women, inhabitants of this pastoral land, he was suddenly surrounded by a band of dragoons, and captured without resistance. When his poor blind sister heard that her brother was in the hands of his enemies, whose voices she heard, though she could not see their persons, she rushed out in the direction of the sound, in a frantic manner—calling aloud on the men to spare her brother—her only stay in this world, when, ere any one could prevent the accident, she tumbled over a steep precipice, upon the brink of which, or nearly so, Brownrig farm-steading was, and is still, placed, and, lighting upon her head, she was killed on the spot. Mr Austin, seeing the danger in which his blind sister, unacquainted with the locality, was placed, strove hard to disengage himself from the grasp of the soldiers, who held him fast, but in vain; and, when he saw the poor helpless being putting her last step upon air, he uttered a scream, and bursting a bloodvessel, was with difficulty conveyed into the house alive.

“Keep down your sticks, lads—keep down your sticks. That’s no the game we are accustomed to play at; when we begin, cheeks and chaft blades are apt to dance a Highland fling. Keep off your hands, or, by the mettle of this old Ferrara, which never yet failed me against Turk or Tartar, ye shall have fewer hands to keep off.” Thus saying, Dalziell pushed up his horse, cutting right and left, in such a manner, however, as to terrify rather than seriously to injure; for he struck with the side and not with the edge of his weapon. In the meantime, Mr Austin was put to bed; his wife had recovered to a perception of her misery; and the cavalcade rode off, Dalziell having first appointed a guard of two men, to abide by the apparently dying man, till (as he expressed it) the “deil had his soul fairly in tow.”

The day of the funeral of the poor maiden sister arrived, and with it came, through snow and storm, a considerable band of mountaineers, secretly armed with various weapons, but avowedly and openly prepared to convey the coffin to a considerable distance—to Dulgarno churchyard. The soldiers did everything in their power to annoy and obstruct, offering to assist in carrying, and then suddenly withdrawing their hands, and causing the coffin to fall to the ground—placing their muskets betwixt the feet of some of the company, and thus tripping up their heels, &c., &c. This was more than could be endured; so, after the funeral, a consultation was held, and it was agreed that, as Mr Austin was now considerably recovered, he and his wife should be conveyed from beneath surveillance of these horrid men. But how was this to be done? Many advices were tendered and discussed. At last, it was resolved upon that, about twelve o’clock at night, information having been previously given to the parties more immediately concerned, a company of twelve stout shepherd lads, armed with pistols and staves, should suddenly enter the door of Brownrig house, the bolt being previously drawn from within, and immediately seize upon and bind the twin demons, who had wrought, and were still working such dreadful mischief and cruelty. The minister and his lady were to be conveyed, through the snow, to the town of Moffat, about four miles distant, there to be concealed in a friend’s house, to whom a messenger was immediately despatched, advertising him of their purpose.

Accordingly, at the hour appointed, and in the manner already mentioned, the men were secured whilst asleep, and bound and guarded; whilst Mr Austin, still incapable of walking, was conveyed on horseback—with his wife behind him, and two men holding him up on each side—over the long moor towards Moffat. It was about five o’clock in the morning when the party arrived at its destination, and the flying couple were placed for the time in a place of safety. Upon the return of the young men to Brownrig, they found nothing but a heap of smoking ruins. Dalziell, who had received information of the meditated flight, but who had not learned in what direction it was to be conducted, came about half an hour after their departure, upon the farm-steading of Brownrig; and, not being able, on account of the yird-drift, to trace the fugitives, he returned in wrath upon the inhabitants of the place, whom, after exchanging a few shots, and wounding one man severely in the leg, he ultimately captured; liberated the soldiers, and then, in the presence of the whole party, coolly set fire to the thatched dwellings, and kept close guard till the fire had done its commission.

Owing to the extreme cold and constant state of excitement, Mrs Austin fevered soon after her arrival at Moffat, and died in her husband’s arms, exhorting him, with her last breath, to persevere in the good cause which he had undertaken; so much had “trial and trouble” altered the views and sanctified the heart of this weak but upright and pious woman.

Mr Austin continued to recover from his severe indisposition, and spent some months at Moffat in comparative peace and safety. It was here that he met with his brother-in-law, the worthy and beloved Mr Shiels, minister of Kilbride. Indeed, all the ten ministers of the Presbytery of Penpont, with the exception of Black of Closeburn, and Wishart of Keir, had refused to conform, and, along with nearly four hundred ministers in the south and west of Scotland in particular, had been compelled to fly from their homes and their flocks, and were, in many cases, conveyed in droves beyond the Tay; compelled to emigrate to foreign lands, or to take up their abode with the curlews and gleds of the lake and the mountain. It was indeed a sad day for Scotland the 23rd of December, 16—, when, by Middleton’s drunken act of Privy Council, so many conscientious and pious men were laid aside for so long a time (many of them for ever), from their sphere of useful and acceptable ministration in the Presbyterian church. As the faithful historian of these dismal times very expressively observes—“When those I am now speaking of took leave of their dear flocks, it was a day not only of weeping but howling, like the weeping of Jazer, as when a besieged city is sacked.” Mothers were seen carrying their infants through snow and storm, and large families of children accompanying their helpless parents with tears and lamentations to the cold and often houseless desert. Whoever gave them food or shelter was liable to be fined; to have soldiers billeted upon them; or even to suffer imprisonment.

The leading persecutors being about this time principally engaged about Wigton, Dalry, Dumfries (town), and other districts in the south and west, the upper wards of Dumfriesshire were less annoyed, and had more freedom of conventicle exercise. It was therefore deemed a favourable opportunity—now that the month of July had arrived—to hold a very general meeting, as privately as possible, on the confines of Altrieve Lake—a locality which has since acquired considerable notoriety from its having been the residence of one of the most distinguished characters of more modern times. The reader knows that I refer to James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a more wonderful (perhaps) instance of merit in a completely untaught man than even the case of the comparatively early and well-educated and civilized Bard of Coila. This situation was accordingly centrical and retired; elevated, and yet surrounded by still higher eminences, and commanding the higher districts or _moors_ of the Yarrow, the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Annan. Mr Thomas Shiels was well-known to be a fit coadjutor to the worthy Mr Samuel Austin; and several people of what may be termed the better class—the small lairds, and the moorland or sheep farmers—had agreed to defray all expense of the communion elements, and to come armed to the table, that their blood might not be mingled with their sacrifice, without their making some resistance.