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lowed, he could not help comparing the simple form and efficacious spirit of that religion for which the present miseries were endured, with the vain pomp and haughty intolerance of that of his persecutors; and if he ascribed the spirit of persecution to the use, instead of the abuse of that particular form, he could scarcely be blamed. The hated Council and their creatures were Prelatists; Sir Robert Grierson was a bigot to the same faith; and feeling the influence of religious belief on his own conduct, and knowing its effects on the manners of others, it was not surprising that a plain man, unaccustomed to philosophical reasoning, should consider that as the cause, which, in almost every case, was perhaps nothing more than a pretence to cover other purposes.

Enthusiasm, however, like every other effort of the imagination, is like the "morning cloud and the early dew;" and, in following the supposed cause to its effects, M' Millan could not prevent the transition of his thoughts to the painful realities of his present condition. He was a sincere Christian and a staunch Presbyterian; but he was also the child of human nature, and alive to all the pains and privations of suffering. Gloomy thoughts began to intrude themselves: and, when oppressed with cold, hunger, and total darkness, he could not resist their melancholy influences. A less noble, at least more painful train of thought took possession of his mind, and the full tide of his woes began to flow fast upon him. His wife in misery, and his eldest son emaciated with disease and sorrow, presented them selves before the eyes of his mind. A cloud of uncertainty also hung over the fate of his second son, the principal stay and hope of his declining years. This young man had gone that very morning to a considerable distance, in order to accompany one of the ejected clergymen to a house in the neighbourhood, where a private meeting was to be held in the evening. This was an errand attended with considerable risk, as they were exposed to the danger of falling in with companies of military in every direction. But how or when could he, notwithstanding all his anxiety and uncertainty, alle

viate the suffering of the one, or satisfy the yearnings of his soul concerning the other? He himself was a prisoner, and in the power of men who would neither pity nor assist him. In a day or two he might be dispatched to Edinburgh, and in a few days more consigned to the hands of the executioner. He mechanically turned towards the window; but all his attempts were vain, and he resigned himself to despair. His imagination brooded over the horrors of captivity with a pertinacity which checked every attempt to turn his thoughts into a more hopeful channel; and the bitterness of anguish had driven him almost into a state of distraction, when his attention was arrested by a slight noise at the door of his apartment. Presently he imagined that it opened, and that he heard some person groping round the room. The noise he made, as he instinctively retreated when the unknown individual approached, directed the stranger, who soon succeeded in laying hold of, and pulling him gently, as if intimating that he was to follow. In the present mood of his mind, he was little inclined to resist any such intimation, whatever might be its issue; and obeying the directions of his guide, he soon found himself in the open air. Whether it was any of Sir Robert's servants, or some friend, who had found means to release him from his captivity, he could not ascertain, as his deliverer retreated as soon as he was without the walls of the Tower. Again at liberty, his spirits began to revive, and having fairly cleared the premises of the Tower, he directed his steps towards his own home. As he could visit Barndennoch, where the private conventicle was to be held, with but little

deviation from the direct road, he determined to go by that place, and endeavour to learn what had become of his son William, and his friends. Here his appearance caused no small surprise and joy to a considerable number who had assembled, grieved at the tidings of his unfortunate сарture. When he entered, they were deliberating whether or not to attend a field-meeting which was to be held next day, not far from Drumlanrig. The increase of military force, which

had lately arrived, rendered such a meeting exceedingly dangerous; but when it was considered that their absence could not now prevent it, and might be construed into diffidence in the goodness of their cause, or criminal lukewarmness, they resolved to give their attendance. By representing to M'Millan, that, as soon as his escape was known, the pursuit would be directed to his own house, and that he might thus bring

destruction on his wife and son, as well as on himself, and by dispatch ing a messenger to inform them of his liberty and safety, he was persuaded to accompany them, without returning home; and they accordingly set out long before day-break.

The morning was already advanced when they reached the heights which nearly surround the ducal residence of Drumlanrig. From these is a beautiful prospect of the fertile and picturesque country, watered by the Nith, which can be traced in all its windings for many miles, till it seems to lose itself among the distant holms. The country possesses that richness of appearance which cultivation alone can be stow, and is variegated and adorned, in almost every direction, by large plantations. The view is bounded on the north by the Lowther hills, which are green to their summits; and on the east, by that bleaker range above which Queensberry rises in lofty pre

eminence. Toward the south there is a distant view of the Solway Frith, and the horizon is bounded by the wild and irregular forms of the mountains of Cumberland. The beauty of such a prospect, heightened, as in the present instance, by the appear

ance of the castle with its towers, as

it were gilded with gold by the beams of the rising sun, and the surrounding woods glittering in all the freshness of the morning, was calculated to raise the feelings to the highest pitch of enthusiastic admiration; and many of the company could not refrain from singing aloud that most pious and poetical description of the works of creation, composed by the Hebrew

Bard:

"Bless God, my soul. O Lord my God,

Thou art exceeding great; With honour and with majesty Thou clothed art in state.

With light, as with a robe, thyself
Thou coverest about;
And, like unto a curtain, thou

The heavens stretchest out, &c. &c.

Even at this early hour, numerous parties were seen emerging from the woods and glens, and by the time that they reached the place of rendezvous, a great multitude had already assembled. The place pitched upon for the exercises of the day was an open space, on the side of a hill, nearly surrounded with wood. All those who were armed were placed on the outposts, to guard against sudden attack, and scouts were posted on all the neighbouring heights, to give the alarm, in case of the approach of danger. Experience proved that these precautions were not taken in vain ; for the work was scarcely begun when it was reported that two parties of dragoons were advancing to attack them. As soon as the certainty of this report was known, the people dispersed in different directions, with the exception of about three hundred, who, occupying a position inaccessible to cavalry, determined to might the more easily escape beyond wait their approach, that the rest the reach of danger.

When the soldiers saw that they could neither dislodge these men by their manœuvres, nor compel them to retreat by menaces, nor provoke them to an engagement by insolence and reproaches, they directed their pursuit after such of the stragglers as were still within reach. Among many others who were overtaken and made prisoners were the clergyman who had intended to officiate, and six men, who attended him. After having been grievously maltreated, they were fastened to the horses, and dragged along at the same speed with

which the horsemen rode.

The capture of their minister was had stationed themselves on the hillno sooner known to the men who side, than, dividing themselves into companies, they set out in different directions to seize all the passes through which it was likely the soldiers would pass with their prisoners, in order, if possible, to retake them. M'Millan, with a party of thirty-seven, proceeded to Enterkin, a very steep hill on the way to Edinburgh. Along the side of this hill

the road winds for nearly two miles, and is in many places so narrow, that not more than two horsemen can ride abreast. It also passes along the edge of several frightful precipices, down which the smallest effort might precipitate the heaviest body. In a little hollow immediately opposite the most dangerous of these, M'Millan, with his companions, lay concealed till next morning, when a party of cavalry, with the prisoners, were seen ascending the mountain. As soon as they had arrived at a place where resistance could only have caused inevitable destruction, M'Millan ascended a height, and commanded them, as they valued their lives, to halt, and deliver up their prisoners. As the morning was misty, it was some time before the commanding officer could discover whence the voice proceeded; but, at last, looking up, and perceiving a man standing almost above him, he ordered his men to halt, and cried out, "What do you want, and who are you?" M'Millan, having called up twelve of his companions, and given them the word, "Make ready," again demanded, "Will you deliver our minister?""No," answered the officer, accompanying his refusal with a dreadful oath. He had scarcely pronounced the words, when he was shot through the head by a musket ball, and falling from his horse, was dashed to pieces against the sides of the precipice. The whole company then levelled their pieces, and the soldiers must have been inevitably destroyed, had not the officer who was next in command desired a truce. The wisdom of this proposal was rendered more conspicuous by the appearance of another body of countrymen at the top of the hill. "What do you want?" inquired the next in command. "Our minister," replied M'Millan, "and the rest of the prisoners." "You shall have them," said the officer, "but it is only on condition that you order your men to ground their arms." "We desire no man's life," said M'Millan, and he ordered his companions to fall back. "I expect," said the officer to the clergyman, when he and the other prisoners were set free," that you will use your influence with these men to prevent farther blood

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shed." "I will do so," replied the clergyman. "Then go, said the officer; "you owe your life to this damned mountain." "Rather say, to the God who made the mountain,” replied the clergyman. When M'Millan and his friends were preparing to retire, the officer again cried out, I hope you will fulfil your promise, and cause these fellows, who occupy the top of the hill, make way." "These fellows, as you call them," replied M'Millan, "belong not to us. I presume they are peaceable travellers, waiting till you pass.' "Had I known so sooner," said the officer, " you should neither have got your men so cheap, nor come off so free." "You may judge from the fate of your superior officer," replied M'Millan," which party has the most cause to be thankful that the affair has ended so peaceably."

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The activity and vigilance used by the "Persecutors" rendering it impossible for the "Covenanters" in this district to assemble in such numbers as to make any effectual resistance, and unsafe to remain in situations where they were liable to be apprehended, M'Millan, with many others, retired to Crichup Linn, a cavernous glen about three miles distant from the village of Thornhill. The only entrance to this Linn is through a little valley, formed on each side by gently sloping hills, covered with wood, which, as you advance, gradually contract till there is scarcely room for a footpath on the edge of a small river. After a number of windings, in which the path becomes more rugged and difficult, the rocks rise, on both sides, to the height of fifty or sixty feet, approaching so near at the top that a man may, without much difficulty, leap from the one side to the other. Into the recess formed by these rocks there is no passage except by the bed of the stream, which is here very deep, and a dangerous path of not above a foot in breadth. There is a sort of cave of freestone, supported by natural pillars; different parts of which are still known by the names of the Whigs' Lang-settle, and the Sutor's Seat, on account of the refuge which it afforded to the persecuted Presbyterians, and the oppor

tunity which a mechanic of their number embraced of following his employment. Above this cave the Linn is little else than a succession of the most awful precipices, where the foot of man has never trod, and the light of the sun never shone.

In this almost inaccessible retreat, M'Millan, with his companions in trouble, remained for a considerable time, sending out parties every night to bring provisions, and gain intelligence of what was going on without. During that period, however, great numbers—some from impatience of confinement, others from necessity, on account of indisposition occasioned by damps, fatigue, and other causes-had left them, preferring health and freedom, with the danger of being taken, to security in so unwholesome an abode; so that, after the battle of Bothwell Bridge, their numbers were reduced to six men. Each of these, by turns, went out about nightfall to forage for the rest, and usually returned about daybreak. One morning, however, the sun having already risen, and there being no appearance of the person who had gone out on the preceding evening, M'Millan sent his son to endea vour to gain intelligence concerning him. They were not without suspicions of treachery; but as William was told to proceed with extreme caution, they apprehended little danger. He had not been gone many minutes, however, when the report of a gun confirmed their suspicions, and made them forebode the worst concerning the fate of William M'Millan and their own safety. They seized the arms which they had in their possession, and hasted to defend the entrance to the Linn. The first who advanced fell at the feet of

his companions, who, seeing the advance of a considerable body of soldiers, plunged into the river, and, with great difficulty, reached a place of safety from the shot of the enemy. But as it was impossible to remain long standing up to the middle in water, they resolved to endeavour to reach a wood at a short distance from the head of the Linn, where they hoped to conceal themselves till an opportunity offered of making their escape. The first who made the attempt was instantly shot, and the rest shared the same fate, from the deliberate cruelty of the soldiers.

During the time that M'Millan was necessitated to make Crichup Linn the principal place of his retreat, he had ventured, more than once, to visit his wife and son. Whether Sir Robert Grierson had been informed of these visits, and considered that, by his connivance, James M'Millan had forfeited all claims to his forbearance, or whether he thought that his duty was but imperfectly performed, so long as a single Presbyterian remained, in one of his rounds he called at the house, dragged him from his bed, to which he was still confined by sickness, and exposing him to the fire of his soldiers, added his name also to the long list of martyrs. A large stone, which the piety of the present proprietor of the land has induced him to surround with a few trees and a fence, marks the place where this cruel deed was perpetrated. Mrs McMillan died soon after of a broken heart, and, together with her son, was interred in the parish church-yard. A hawthorn bush, and a small stone, still point out the grave where they "rest in peace, to rise in glory."

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D.

Like sunset billows playing on the

shore ;

Oh, never may the branding seal of woe Impress its felon-mark on hue so fair! Sweet dimpling smiles thy face are

straying o'er,

And all is bliss and heaven that beameth there.

Such once was I. Yes, babe! as pure as thou;

But, ah! sweet peace of mind, where art C c

thou now?

A.

Walks in Edinburgh.

BY DICK PEPPERMINT.

Walk II.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.

'Twas two o'clock, the labourers left their
toil

With hungry bellies, and with hastening feet,

The flocks that brows'd upon each smooth green hill,

And each green meadow, were my father's flocks;

And I, with highly-throbbing heart, the The kine that low'd beside the willow'd

while

Walk'd briskly onward towards Prince's Street;

Not to behold the orb of heaven decline, But woman-earth's bright sun-come forth to shine.

Hail, Prince's Street! but hold-ere I begin This fine apostrophe, it will be meet, Like many periodic scribes, that win Their bread by putting forth a weekly sheet,

To give a history of myself-a tale Belonging to a lone and lovely vale: A lone and lovely vale it is-there lies, Within its bosom of deep solitude, A placid lake as clear as summer skies, O'er which the wild-duck rows her numerous brood,

When spring comes smiling up the moorland dell

To deck its borders with the heather-bell.

Green are the hills that rise on every side,

And green the meadows, where the bleating flock

Finds food and shelter-yet diversified, By Nature's hand, with many a hoary rock,

Where hoots the midnight owl, and shaggy thorn,

From which the wood-lark hails the open

ing morn.

One human home is there; upon the shore Of the calm lake it beautifully stands Within the shadow of an oak-tree hoar, Whose giant branches, like protecting

hands

Of parent or of friend, a shelter form, To mitigate the sunshine and the storm. Sweet, solitary cottage! there mine eye

First open'd on the cheerful light of day;

There my fond mother's soothing lullaby,

Warm from the bosom where I often

lay,

To slumber calm'd my infant sorrows→→ there

My pious father form'd my lips to prayer.

rill,

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