"What wad he mind what he took?" replied the girl, evidently rather offended at her statement being doubted. "Na, na; that's just the place where he threw the murdered folk!"
After a little more conversation, she was called away to her work, and I was left alone. There is something indescribably melancholy in wandering among the ruins of some ancient castle, whose inmates, in days gone by, bore a conspicuous part in the annals of their country, when the courtyard, which once resounded with the trampling of steeds and the shrill sound of the trumpet, now only re-echoes to the tread of some passing stranger, whom perchance curiosity has brought out of his way to inspect a ruin leagued with historical associations. I experienced this sensation strongly as I stood gazing on the setting sun pouring its bright rays fully on the old Tower of Lag. A gentle breeze had sprung up, and the ivy bent low its head before the welcome visitor, as if to woo its tender embraces; whilst the low sighing of the wind amongst the crevices and openings in the ruined walls seemed like some departing spirit's wail o'er the bloody deeds of the wicked persecutor.
The adventurous tourist, while exploring the romantic valleys of Dumfriesshire, would do well to visit this solitary spot, where lived the author of many an evil deed, professedly done in the cause of religion, which all who recognise the mild and gentle precepts it inculcates, would be the first to grieve over and condemn.
How pleasing to relate that a lineal descendant of this famous persecutor is revered for her many deeds of Christian charity and active benevolence, throughout the country which formerly rung with the evil doings of the Laird of Lag!
THE SUTOR'S SEAT.
Having ascertained, during a recent visit in Dumfriesshire, that Crichup Linn—celebrated on account of its wild sublimity, but more especially for the refuge it afforded to the Covenanters during the days of their persecution—was distant about seven miles from the house where I was then staying, I set off one fine morning, with a friend, to explore the dark recesses of that romantic spot.
Dear to the heart of the Scottish peasant is the remembrance of those bloody days; when the mountains and valleys of their native country resounded with the voice of lamentation as Claverhouse and his dragoons darted like eagles on their prey; and the incense of praise ascended on high from the lonely hill-side and solitary moor, uttered by the lips of those dauntless men who took up arms in defence of a broken Covenant and persecuted Kirk.
Of the many places of refuge sought after by the Covenanters of Dumfriesshire in their hour of danger, Crichup Linn was the most frequently resorted to by them, as its narrow and tortuous paths afforded little scope for the mounted dragoon; while all along the base of the rocks, which rose dark and frowning from the depths of the abyss, Nature had formed a series of caves, as if with a view of sheltering those suffering children who fled to her bosom for protection.
A guide being procured—in the person of a grey-haired labourer, to point out the precise spots where lurked those hapless defenders of Scotland's spiritual freedom—we entered the sequestered shades of Crichup Linn. Few persons could visit this picturesque solitude without being deeply impressed by the almost terrific grandeur of the scene presented to their view while traversing the narrow path along which we followed our venerable guide, who, staff in hand, strode slowly onwards, with head and eyes bent towards the ground, as though he was ruminating, sadly perhaps, on the vanished past. Above our heads gigantic masses of rock towered upward, dark and menacing in their rugged strength, from whose crevices burst forth some withered-looking trees, which wreathed their distorted limbs into fantastic shapes around the huge blocks of stone to which they clung; while at an immeasurable distance beneath, the water—from whence the linn derives its name—fell with a murmuring sound into the basins Nature had formed to receive it.
Evidently enjoying the delighted surprise with which we gazed on the startling scene, our guide exclaimed, as if in answer to his own thoughts, while he pointed with his stick to the gloomy depths below:—"Yes! beneath the shade of these frowning rocks the persecuted Covenanter—friendless and homeless, heart-sick and weary—could lay himself down to rest in as much security as the sleeping child reposing on its mother's breast!" The old man's colour rose as he gave utterance to these words; his eyes flashed, and he grasped his staff with a firmness which convinced me that he himself, had he lived in those times, would have been a staunch supporter of the Covenanting cause. I ventured to hint as much, upon which he replied—"Maybe, maybe! there is no saying what either of us might have been had we lived in those wild days; but praise be to God! they are gone—I trust never to return in Scotland."