harbouring in my house ministers, against
whom warrants were out, for having
worshipped God in conventicles, or uplifted on
the mountain side, by the brae-burn, or on
the lonely moor, the voice of praise or
supplication. Once I concealed Mr. Peden in
my house for eleven days and nights.
Search was made for him from cellar to
attic, in library, in spence, in parlours,
and in bed-rooms, by a party of dragoons,
with pistols and swords. But he escaped
their vigilance, they knew not how, and I
got free with a penalty of three thousand
marks. Years afterwards, when Donald
Cargill's church of the Barony had been
closed against him, I attended his ministrations
in secret places, sometimes in the
vennels and wynds of Glasgow, in the
houses of the faithful poor, and sometimes
afar off in the lonely places of the Campsie
Hills. It was often sought to entrap both
him and me, and all listeners to his word
of good tidings, by sending troops of
mounted dragoons after us to suspected
places. But we escaped harmless. It was
not easy to surprise us. The people were
with us, and not the humblest shepherd or
servant lass would lift a finger or say a
word to betray our whereabouts.

It was on the fourth day of May, in the
year one thousand six hundred and seventy-
nine, a lovely Sabbath as ever shone from
heaven, when Mr. Cargill was preaching
on the hill-side in Campsie glen, that news
was suddenly brought by a shepherd
which startled us all. We numbered about
three hundred persons, one-half of whom
were women and young people. The other
half were men of all ages. Every one of
them was armed; some having pistols,
others swords, and none but Mr. Cargill himself
being without a weapon of some kind.
Mr. Cargill was an aged man, being near
upon threescore years and ten, but there
was no sign of old age about him, except
his long white hair. His form was erect,
his eye was bright, and his voice dear and
loud. He was always impressive in his
discourses, but on this particular Sabbath
he seemed to me to be even more eloquent
than was his wont, and to warm the
souls of his hearers as with heavenly fire.
He was not calm and persuasive, as I had
so often heard him, but wrathful, defiant—
even vengeful—as he spoke of the oppression
of the people of God, by such servants
of Satan as Lauderdale, Rothos, and James
Sharpe, the Archbishop of St. Andrews.
Upon the heads of these three he imprecated
the judgments of Heaven for the
persecution of the saints, whose only crime was
that they worshipped God in their own
fashion, and adhered to that Solemn League
and Covenant which two out of these three
—the Duke of Lauderdale and the
Archbishop of St. Andrews—had sworn to
uphold. The hands of the young men
grasped at their sword-hilts as he spoke,
and the eyes of the old men shone with the
fire of youth, as they thought of the
persecution which they endured. Many of
the women wept aloud. He was but in
the middle of his discourse, when a man,
mounted on a fast-going nag, was observed
galloping down the glen from the direction
of Glasgow. We all sprang to our feet,
and grasped our weapons at the sight; but
as he approached nearer, he was observed
to be alone, and I recognised him as Archie
Cameron, an aged shepherd, and a brave
soldier of the Covenant. He bore a letter
for me from my uncle at St. Andrews,
which I handed to Mr. Cargill, after a hasty
perusal, that he might read it aloud to the
congregation. It made known that on the
yester morn a party of five gentlemen of
Fife had set out in search of the sheriff,
whose oppression of the people in the
matter of enforced subscriptions to the
bond, renouncing conventicles, had greatly
incensed the whole country, with the
intention, it was supposed, of taking his
life, should they fall in with him, But
their purpose was not known except to
themselves. The sheriff had notice of their
coming, and escaped, no one could tell
whither. Returning from his house, on
their bootless errand, they had reached
Magus Moor, when, unfortunately, they
met the carriage of Archbishop Sharpe—
containing himself and daughter—
approaching towards them. In a moment,
and as if by one consent, the five gentlemen
surrounded the carriage, stopped the
horses, and ordered the archbishop to alight,
for that their quarrel was with him, and
not with his daughter. They held their
pistols at his head, and he, possibly fearing
that his daughter might suffer, obeyed the
summons to alight, and, falling on his
knees and clasping his hands, entreated
them to spare his life. "Think of the
martyrs of the Covenant, whom thou hast
not spared, thou man of sin," said one of
the party, "and commend thy soul to God,
for thou hast not two minutes to live."
The whole party discharged their shots
into his body, and he died shrieking for
man's mercy, not for God's, with his latest
breath. Such was the letter, and the