The face of nature did not seem propitious to the great gathering on Skeoch Hill. Inky clouds rolled athwart the leaden sky, threatening a deluge of rain, and fitful gusts of wind seemed to indicate the approach of a tempest. Nevertheless the elements were held in check by the God of nature, so that the solemn services of the day were conducted to a close without discomfort, though not altogether without interruption.

 

Several of the most eminent ministers, who had been expelled from their charges, were present on this occasion. Besides John Welsh of Irongray, there were Arnot of Tongland, Blackadder of Troqueer, and Dickson of Rutherglen—godly men who had for many years suffered persecution and imprisonment, and were ready to lay down their lives in defence of religious liberty. The price set upon the head of that “notour traitor, Mr John Welsh,” dead or alive, was 9000 merks. Mr Arnot was valued at 3000!

 

These preached and assisted at different parts of the services, while the vast multitude sat on the sloping hillside, and the mounted men drew up on the outskirts of the congregation, so as to be within sound of the preachers’ voices, and, at the same time, be ready for action on the defensive if enemies should appear.

 

Andrew Black and his companion stood for some time listening, with bowed heads, to the slow sweet music that floated towards them. They were too far distant to hear the words of prayer that followed, yet they continued to stand in reverent silence for some time, listening to the sound—Black with his eyes closed, his young companion gazing wistfully at the distant landscape, which, from the elevated position on which they stood, lay like a magnificent panorama spread out before them. On the left the level lands bordering the rivers Cairn and Nith stretched away to the Solway, with the Cumberland mountains in the extreme distance; in front and on the right lay the wild, romantic hill-country of which, in after years, it was so beautifully written:—

 

    “O bonnie hills of Galloway oft have I stood to see,

 

    At sunset hour, your shadows fall, all darkening on the lea;

 

    While visions of the buried years came o’er me in their might—

 

    As phantoms of the sepulchre—instinct with inward light!

 

    The years, the years when Scotland groaned beneath her tyrant’s hand!

 

    And ’twas not for the heather she was called ‘the purple land.’

 

    And ’twas not for her loveliness her children blessed their God—

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