tired, and at his own convenience he withdrew from his watery hiding-place, but not without sincere acknowledgments to the Preserver of his life.

The meadow by the Lane is to this day connected with the name of John Ferguson. These traditions have been preserved in his family with pious care, and were communicated by a lineal descendant.

CHAPTER XLIX.

John Colvin of Dormont.

IN gleaning the wide field of covenanting interest, we have hitherto found but little in Annandale; and yet many a worthy person resided in this district, and many a faithful adherent to the cause in support of which our forefathers struggled so manfully and so constitutionally. The blood of the martyrs was shed in this locality, as well as in other parts of the land. The famous James Welwood of Tundergarth reared under his ministry many a godly person, who flinched not in the day when Zion's troubles came thick upon her, like the heavy hailstones which descend from the bosom of the ominous cloud that lowers fearfully over the earth. The savour of Mr Welwood's piety was retained for many years after his decease. The letter which, in 1655, he wrote to a brother minister, shows the stedfastness of his spirit in the midst of the Church's distress, and the almost prophetic forecastings which he had of the still greater tribulations which were to come. Mr Welwood laboured assiduously for the salvation of souls; for his heart was in his Master's work, and he lived very near him in heavenly fellowship. As a proof of the uncommon spirituality of this good man, we may adduce the following anecdote given by Patrick Walker: "The night in which his wife died he spent in prayer and meditation in his garden. The next morning one of his elders coming to visit him, lamented his great loss and want of rest, but he replied: "I declare I have not all this night had one thought of the death of my wife, I have been so taken up in meditating on heavenly things. I have this night been on the banks of Ulai, plucking an apple here and there.'

His son, John Welwood, suffered much in those trying times, preaching the Gospel in the fields, and wandering from place to place. He died in Perth, 1679, in the thirtieth

year of his age. "When drawing near his end, in conversation with some friends, he used frequently to communicate his own exercise and experience; and with regard to the assurance he had of his own interest in Christ he said: 'I have no more doubt of my interest in Christ than if I were in heaven already. At another time he said: 'Although I have been for some weeks without sensible, comforting presence, yet I have not the least doubt of my interest in Christ. I have ofttimes endeavoured to pick a hole in my interest, but cannot get it done.' The morning he died, when he observed the light of day, he said: 'Now eternal light, and no more night and darkness to me;' and that night he exchanged a weakly body, a wicked world, and a weary life, for an immortal crown in that heavenly inheritance which is prepared and reserved for such as him."

Annandale then produced great men and illustrious witnesses for Jesus Christ. The vale of the Annan, when seen from the rising ground on the east of Torthorwald heights, presents a splendid scene. Beneath lies "Marjory o' the mony lochs," and the ancient castle of the Bruce, mouldering among the stately trees on the margin of the glassy lake whose silvery waves, rippling before the southern breeze, murmur in the ear many a tale of the feudal times, connected with the grey ruins that still appear in solitary grandeur. The whole valley, stretching from south to north, where it terminates at the base of the frowning heights between it and the wilds of Tweedsmuir, furnishes a diversity of scenery so enchanting that few localities in the south of Scotland can equal it. The wilder parts on either side of this fair strath afforded places of retreat to the worthies of the covenant, who, in that part of the country, were subjected, like their brethren elsewhere, to the rude treatment of the times.

It was at Dormont, in Annandale, that John Colvin and his youthful wife Sarah Gibson lived. They belonged to the covenanting party, and were sore harassed on account of their stedfast adherence to their principles. The house of John Colvin was ever open to the wanderers, to whom he afforded a ready shelter in the day of their distress. At length John became so noted for his hospitality to the intercommuned sufferers, that the persecutors deemed it necessary to suppress the obnoxious household.

In those perilous times men were put to many shifts, and were obliged to resort to many devices, to secure themselves in the moment of danger, when it came unexpectedly upon them. Accordingly, there was in the cottage of Dormont a

rather ingenious place of concealment. The beds, which were constructed of wood, in the form of oblong boxes, and neatly roofed in above, were movable at pleasure, although they had all the appearance of fixtures. Between the boards of the beds and the wall was an empty space, into which an entrance was made by shifting the back parts of the beds, and closing them in such a way as no suspicion could possibly be entertained. The space behind was occupied as a hiding place by the fugitives who occasionally resorted to Colvin's house; and many a time were persons concealed in this seclusion, and fed by the Christian kindness of the man who entertained them at the risk of his own life.

One day John Colvin and his wife were thrown into great consternation by the following incidental circumstance: A party of troopers, who, it appears, had been out on a hunting excursion, happened to call at Dormont on their way home, though not for the purpose of searching the place, which, probably at the time of the occurrence of this incident, had not been regarded as peculiarly a place of retreat to the refugees. At the moment the horsemen rode up to the door, there were no fewer than eight of the covenanting party seated at dinner in the house, The soldiers, without dismounting, cried lustily for food to their hungry dogs, that were weary and exhausted with the chase. Sarah hastily lifted the food from the board at which the men had been partaking, while they were doubtless, by this time, making their retreat to the hiding-place, and carried it out to the dogs. She next brought a basket of good oaten cakes or thick bannocks, and therewith fed the horses from her own hand. This prompt display of hospitality called forth the commendations of the party, who were exceedingly gratified by the attention shown them, and they departed without entering the house.

But the visits of the dragoons to the cottage at Dormont were not always incidental. John Colvin and his wife became more than merely suspected persons-they were looked on as flagrant rebels, and as individuals who had even forfeited their lives by harbouring the obnoxious party, who gave the rulers so much annoyance, and on whose extermination they were bent. A company of horsemen were one day sent to Dormont to seize both the husband and his wife, for the purpose of inflicting on them such a punishment as might deter others from following their practices. When they came to the place, Colvin was not at home, and Sarah, having observed their approach, fled from the house to seek

a place of concealment. She was a young woman of low stature, and of rather a swarthy complexion. In her retreat from the house the soldiers observed her, and judging by her hurried movements that she was one of those of whom they were in quest, they quickened their pace, in order to overtake her. It was the depth of winter, and the keen frost had crusted with thick and smooth ice the streams and the pools, and the hilarious youth of both sexes were jocundly employed in the healthful exercise of sliding on the glassy surface of the frozen lakes. As the young wife fled from her pursuers, she encountered a company of boys and girls amusing themselves on the ice that covered a sheet of water in her track. She instantly made her situation known to them, in full confidence of obtaining their sympathy. It was immediately suggested that, as they were not in sight of the troopers, Sarah should throw her hair loose over her face and shoulders, and follow in the row of the sliders as they proceeded one after another, in fleet and heedless movement, from one extremity of the pool to the other. The suggestion was speedily acted on, and Sarah possessing a sufficiently girlish appearance to prevent her from being distinguished from her companions, mingled in the youthful sport, and was careering along the slippery surface when a party of the soldiers, detached from the rest that turned aside to the house, came up. They looked at the merry group on the ice, and passed by in the chase without taking any notice of the individuals that might be there, and without asking any questions respecting the fugitive. In this way Sarah escaped, and remained at a distance from the house till the troopers departed. In those times the slightest incident not unfrequently occasioned the concealment of the wanderers. Sometimes when escape was deemed impossible, a trifling occurrence was the means of a complete deliverance, and of a deliverance so striking, that in it the hand of Providence was plainly visible. The next time the military visited the cottage of Dormont, they chose the evening, after the darkness had set in. This plan was adopted the better to prevent their approach from being noticed before they were just at the place. When the trampling of the feet of the horses was heard at the door, John, who justly suspected the character of the visitants, retired into the space behind the beds. Sarah was found on the floor when the men entered, busily employed with the affairs of her household. She seized her infant in her arms, and looked on with astonishment, as the blustering troopers rushed into the apartment, prepared to lay waste both life