Statistics of the
glen—Religious revival—Conversation on Divine things—Family
worship—Sheep-stealing—Startling discovery-Bob, the travelling chapman—Curious
incident—Important information—Caravan.
The middle part of the glen
was the most thickly peopled. Within little more than a mile in extent along
the valley there might be about two hundred and fifty of population. There
was no village—there were little hamlets or clumps of cottages, and single
huts, or pairs of houses, all scattered here and there—some in the bottom of
the valley on the banks of the stream, others under the sheltering woods
that skirted the fields, while others, again, were higher up on the breast
of the hill where it slopes towards the plain. Every little farm house had
its cluster of cottages* There were the Orchard, the Kiln, Auchengour, the
two Carcos, Spouth, upper and lower, the Chapel Hill, and other nameless
places, with their respective huts. All these were within a brief space of
each other, and well remembered every one of them by the people of the last
generation, but all of which are now swept away, with the exception of five
or six houses, a riddance which was gradually accomplished in the lapse of
two generations. The nucleus of the population, as we have said, occupied
the middle part of the glen, and it was here also that the aggregate of the
moral worth was to be found. The worth contained in the cottages in those
days, and even yet, is perhaps what few of the gentry would be prepared to
count on, and this through their entire unacquaintance respecting the
popular morals in the rural districts. The piety of the cottages has
hitherto been the glory of the land; a rich residuum is still to be found in
the lowly dwellings of the industrious poor. To clear the landward parts of
such piety and virtue is a great mistake, and a mistake which in after times
may come to tell its own tale.
The inhabitants of the glen
were a compact community. They were intermingled by marriages; they were
thoroughly acquainted with one another; their individual histories were all
well known; and gossip in the glen was as common as elsewhere. In the forty
or fifty households scattered here and there, not a few cottage patriarchs
were to be found who were eminent for their intelligence and true religion,
although some were characterised by indifference and general
irreligiousness.
We now come to notice a
considerably important religious movement which about this time took place
in the glen. Several things contributed to this, of which the chief was the
conversion of Saunders' daughter Jenny. The neighbours began to inquire more
particularly into the nature of the change which sinners must necessarily
undergo before they can be deemed genuine Christians. Many wondered at the
change which was said to have taken place on Jenny, considering that she was
so blameless a character, and one who never failed to attend to the duties
of religion. This being the case, they did not see why any further change
was needed to constitute a strictly religious character in the sight either
of God or man. With not a few of them the mere formalities of religion were
enough; they never dreamed of looking into the state of the heart: that was
a field of discovery on which some of them had never entered. In conversing
with the people on religious matters, Saunders took care to show them that
unless the heart was right with God, all else went for nothing; and that the
inner man must be renewed by the special operations of the Holy Spirit; and
that all this was necessary before a sinner could be made meet for the
heavenly kingdom. He showed that, while faith in the Divine Saviour was
necessary to bring the pardon of sin to the guilty conscience through the
blood of the great atonement, this faith was no less necessary in order to
the purification of the heart from sin. In this way a conviction began
gradually to creep into the minds of some that more was needed than a mere
profession, and that unless they were born again, and became new creatures
by God's grace, they could not see the kingdom of heaven. Many, as it
afterwards appeared, felt deeply concerned about their eternal interests who
never opened their minds to any one. They brooded silently but painfully
over their spiritual condition, and some were brought even to the borders of
despair. An event, however, soon occurred which opened, as it were, the
safety valve which let out the pent-up steam, and that was the case of a
young woman, an intimate companion of Jenny, who, on witnessing what had
happened to her, was brought under the deepest concern about her salvation.
The poor young woman could not contain herself, but, amidst showers of
tears, cried out incessantly, What must I do to be saved? The news of this
spread from house to house, and created no small speculation and inquiry,
till, one after another having come under the same concern, began to express
themselves in a similar manner, till the thing became so general that
Saunders and a few pious friends along with him made it their business to go
from house to house conversing with the anxious inquirers, and endeavouring
to lead them to the Saviour. And in this way they were greatly successful,
for not a few were gathered into the fold of the Redeemer; not a few of the
really religious heretofore experienced a time of refreshing from the
presence of the Lord, and a number of those of an irreligious cast was
overawed and restrained. The face of the community was in a great measure
changed, so that with many, "old things had passed away, and all things had
become new." It was a joyous time to Saunders and the few godly friends by
whom he was surrounded.
Conversations on religious
matters now became more common. At one time it was with much difficulty that
the people of the glen could be made to engage in religious discourse. They
evinced a shyness to talk on Divine things, and this arose from two
causes—the one was an ignorance of these matters, and the other was an
aversion to them—these two combined tended to shut their mouths. But after
the general awakening took place, all excuses were laid aside, and an
unwonted readiness to converse on sacred topics showed itself. The people
were now in earnest, and the concerns of the soul had assumed a paramount
importance, and every one was disposed to speak freely with his neighbour on
these matters.
Family worship, which hitherto had by no means been
neglected in the glen, was now almost universally observed; and it was
interesting to notice how, in many cases, the people uttered themselves in
prayer with an accuracy and a fluency surprising both to others and to
themselves, for when the heart is touched there is no lack of words in the
mouth. This religious awakening was productive of immense advantage to the
cottars along the entire line of the glen, so that the good effects were
visible for many years afterwards, and a batch of truly pious persons, both
men and women, were reared on that occasion, who continued with more or less
constancy in the faith, till they were scattered by the gradual clearing of
the inhabitants of which we have already spoken. They had now attained a
religious status, which they were emulous of sustaining.
About this time, however, a circumstance befel which
greatly distressed the honest rustics, who were very sensitive, as it
respected their integrity and honesty. A case of sheep-stealing was
reported—and not one case only, but a series of cases. One of the small
farmers in the glen, whose flocks fed on the massive green height in the
immediate vicinity of the cottars, had lost some of his sheep, and suspicion
instantly attached to them. The insinuations filled every one with shame,
and with nearly the same intensity of shame as if they had been clearly
guilty. And then there was the danger, besides, the danger of being evicted
on mere suspicion. The law in those days was very stringent, so that to be
convicted of i
sheep-stealing was a capital
crime. A strict investigation was to be entered on, and every house was to
undergo an unsparing search. Accordingly, the search was made, but nothing
could be found. Suspicions, indeed, there were, but no person could be fixed
on with certainty. The neighbours were perplexed) and none were more
troubled than honest Saunders, for he was concerned lest anything should
occur that might bring disgrace on the religious profession of the glen. It
now occurred to him, that to place a watch in the night-time among the
bushes might lead to a discovery, and therefore he mooted the thing to the
farmer who had sustained the loss. The two accordingly ensconced themselves
in a place where they could see all around, so far as the dusk would allow.
They lay quietly till about midnight, when they perceived a gentle rustling
among the bushes, and next heard a man speaking to his dog, and apparently
giving him certain directions in an under tone. In a short time a general
movement was perceived among the sheep, and then a dog was sagaciously
gathering them into a cluster; next, a man was observed cautiously stepping
into the field, and moving in the direction in which the flock was coming,
and as they neared him he laid himself down on his backin a furrow. Being
ensconced in this manner, and keeping close to the ground without motion,
the sheep advanced and passed nearly over him in the dusk. He then caught
one of them firmly by the legs, and tumbling it on its side, secured his
prey by binding its feet. He then threw it struggling across his shoulders
and walked leisurely away, secure of his prize. At this moment the two men
sprang from their concealment, and, having seized the thief by the arm,
found, to their surprise, that he was one of the farmer's own shepherds. The
man was stunned. He threw his burden on the ground, stood condemned, and
implored forgiveness. The fact could not be denied. He was caught in the
very act, and could plead no excuse. Honest Edward, the farmer, felt
indignant at the deed having been committed by one of his own servants who
had the whole flock in his trust. What was now to be done? To divulge the
crime might cost the poor man his life, and this was what the feeling man
could not think of. He would rather have sustained the damage a hundred
times over. He dealt with the man according to the nature of his crime, and
directed him to seek forgiveness from the quarter whence alone pardon of sin
is to be had. The poor man expressed his deep sorrow, and promised that such
an action should never be perpetrated by him so long as he lived. This fact,
for fact it is, only the names are changed, afforded great relief to the
parties. The shepherd's name was never divulged, and no prosecution was
sought.
One evening as the people of the glen were sitting, after
the toils of the day, on their turfen seats close to the walls of their
huts, enjoying themselves in the cheerful sunshine, about an hour before the
king of day went down behind the majestic green hill on the west, a shout
arose—"Bob is come!" Bob was the strolling chapman who visited the glen, at
certain periods, with his wares. The advent of no person was more welcome
than that of Bob, the packman. He was an honest creature, kept a good
article, never refused credit, and never failed of a kind entertainment at
the various stations where he regularly halted in the wide circle of his
peregrinations. The elderly people hailed his arrival for the news they
expected to hear; the general multitude for his jokes and stories; and the
young women for his fancy wares. In those days there were no newspapers, and
the rustic people knew not what was going on beyond the hills. The farmer's
domicile in "Muckle Carco" was Bob's general station in the glen, and as he
entered in what is called the close, he was hailed with shouts of welcome;
but there was something in Bob's countenance that was not his usual. Nobody
could tell what it was; it could not be characterised. There was something,
apparently, which he wanted to conceal, and which, at the same time, he was
scarcely unwilling to divulge. The thing was this: Bob on his progress up
the glen happened to call at the Orchard, with the laird of which he was
always on friendly terms. The occupant of this place was the venerable Mr
Hair, a man well known to all the people of the last generation—a man who
possessed certain strange peculiarities, and even ludicrous, and of whom
many queer stories are yet told. On entering the house there was a door
almost confronting on the side of the long passage, or trance, as it was
called, that led between the kitchen and the spence. This door opened on the
head of a flight of steps that conducted to a cellar beneath. When Bob
entered with his wares on his back, and a little box of trinkets in his
hand, he leaned unwittingly against the door—backwards. His pressure
instantly burst it open, and down went Bob, pack and all, heels o'er head,
in one fell dash, into the dark chamber beneath. He was stunned for a
moment, but the soft goods on his back saved him, and he scrambled to his
feet unscathed, amidst the uproarious laughter of the household. Poor Bob
crawled up the ascent looking somewhat dumfoundered at the unexpected
occurrence; but he soon got matters adjusted when he reached the spacious
kitchen, and felt truly thankful that the incident was nothing serious. It
was this that made him look so sheepish when he reached the farmhouse, not
willing to encounter the ridicule of the servants and the cottars around. We
have often looked on the little cellar door, which remains to this day, and
called to mind the inglorious descent of the poor chapman.
But Bob on this occasion was the bearer of tidings— and
tidings of a very serious import. It happened that Bob, on the night
previous to his visit to his friends in the glen, had, in the dark, stepped
out a short way from the house where he lodged, and hearing the sound of
human voices, felt a natural curiosity to listen. He crept nearer and nearer
till he distinctly heard every word. To his great surprise he learned that
the two men who were conversing, had laid a plan for the burning of the
premises of the farmer of "muckle Carco" in the Crawick, and that this was
to be done exactly two nights hence. They were to be on the spot at
midnight, and having powder and matches with them, they were to strike fire
from the flint, and first to kindle the thatch of the dwelling-house, and
then to ignite the byre and outhouses. When this was done, they were to
retire to the thickets on the hill-side to witness the conflagration. All
this was to be done, as far as Bob could learn, to avenge a certain injury
which they alleged had been done them by the farmer. Having gained this
information, Bob withdrew stealthily to the dwelling-house, without a word
to any.
Early in the morning, Bob,
with his pack on his back, and his little box of trinkets in his hand, set
out for the glen, and as no time was to be lost, he hastened past the places
where he usually displayed his wares, and rested not till he reached the
orchard, where his descent adown the cellar stair befel.
On reaching his destination,
the first thing that Bob did was to communicate with the farmer privately,
and: to lay the whole matter before him. The worthy man was in great
perplexity, he plainly saw that mischief was determined, but how to guard
against it, he seemed to be at a loss. The thing, said the honest chapman,
appears to be very plain, and without much ado about the matter, or
circulating the report in any way, I think that we should select a company
of the strongest men in the glen, who, with implements of defence, should
hide themselves in the dark thicket behind the house, and be ready to pounce
on the villains whenever they make their appearance. Only, I think, this
should be done—let them fairly kindle the thatch, that full proof may be had
of evil design, and then let there be buckets of water ready to dash on the
fire, and, besides, let us have a coil of strong ropes to bind them on the
spot. All this was agreed to. Accordingly, on the night suspected, about a
dozen of powerful men were secreted in the bushes, where they watched
patiently the approach of the incendiaries. After waiting a considerable
time, a gentle rustling was heard among the bushes, immediately at the back
of the dwelling-house, and then a low whispering became more and more
audible. At length the striking of the flint was apparent, and then the
fizzing of the match was perceptible. The two villains then approached the
wall, and held up the match to the dry thatch, which, in an instant, took
Are; but, at the same instant, the men in concealment rushed out—one party
dashed the water on the flames, and the other, seizing the ruffians, bound
them firmly with the ropes, and laid them flat on the ground. The two men
were thunderstruck. They were apprehended in the very act of fire-raising,
which, in a brief space, would have consumed the whole establishment, and
probably would also have consumed both the people sleeping on their beds and
the cattle in the stalls. A cart was instantly brought, and without any
parley or ceremony, the persons were placed in it, and conveyed to the
neighbouring burgh and deposited in the jail, and then after a due trial,
were banished for life.
Bob earned the sincere
approbation of all the people.
