XX.—JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE.

In the Greyfriars' Churchyard of Edinburgh I have often spent a solitary hour, during what, in Scotland, is called the "gloaming." The large and handsome monument which still records the sufferings of the covenanted friends of freedom, always occupied my deepest thoughts; and when I looked around me on the quiet solitude of the scene, on the modest and unassuming style of the sacred edifice, and on the old and scarcely-visible fort,[1] which had stood so many sieges, and witnessed so many changes, I have often let the moon peep upon my meditative movements, over the top of the Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat, or Salisbury Crags. There passed, on the outside of the wall, the light-hearted carter, whistling alongside of his horse; or the fish-wife, proclaiming the caller commodity she wished to sell; or the merry school boy, indicating his relish of freedom from school restraint by boisterous mirth and unrestrained motion;—and yet, on the inner side of the wall, all was alone and peaceful, as if I had taken up my station in a far-off Highland glen. These were the days of my youthful feelings, and warm and generous emotion. If my blood did not boil within me, it warmed exceedingly, as the vision of other times and far different scenes crossed my brain, and was reflected from my heart. From the works of our historians—of Knox and Woodrow in particular—I had early become acquainted with the history of those times, (which are still continuing to interest our feelings and influence our judgment;) and I could not fail to image out more particularly the dismal aspect which this very locality presented in 1679. Whilst engaged one evening in these reveries, I inadvertently wandered away behind the church, and stood looking out upon the moonshine, which, "o'er the dark a silver mantle threw;" whilst the officer of the Greyfriars' Church, seeing nobody in the yard, quietly and unperceived by me, locked the door, and retired to his home in the Netherbow. Accordingly, when I began to think, about eleven o'clock, of home and repose, I was not a little surprised to find all egress by the customary outlet impossible. The night was indeed lovely—mild and still; but yet there was something not altogether satisfactory in being compelled to enjoy it in company with the dead of many generations. A large mastiff, too, which had concealed itself for some time under the wall, came forth into the moonlight, with a bone in his jaws—manifestly a human skull.

The sight was not only jarring to all my more composed and soothing reflections, but not unaccompanied with a certain indefinite apprehension of evil. The season had been hot, and hydrophobia had shewn its dreadful existence in Leith Walk and in the Canongate. Two persons had died of it raving mad. I was, therefore, exceedingly anxious to place the high wall which surrounded the Greyfriars' Churchyard betwixt my companion and myself. But how was this to be effected? I ventured to raise my voice, and shout aloud; but no notice was taken of my call. Nay, my growling and crunching neighbour approached me—offering seeming defiance. He was a fearful animal, of that very breed which I have all my life trusted the least—I may say feared and abhorred the most. I began to speak soothingly to him; but, to all my "poor fellows," and other accents of friendly intercourse, he only answered with a deeper growl. What was to be done? I was afraid to renew my shout; for that manifestly annoyed him; and yet he seemed evidently approaching me. Merciful God! I could see the very glare of his eyes, even in the softened moonlight. I looked up, in perfect despair, to the moon and to the stars, and could not help envying them their secure positions. I would have become anything heavenly, even a star of the very least magnitude, to have secured my retreat from this bull-headed monster. I edged myself towards the monument of the Martyrs; and, with some difficulty, got myself elevated a considerable way up one of the pillars. I clung to every projection like one perishing; and, being young, slender, and full of elastic vigour, I at last gained the top of the wall, from whence I immediately informed a night watch, then passing along, of my terrible situation. In the meantime, the hideous monster made a spring from a tombstone to the top of the same wall; but, instead of visiting me, he dropped himself quietly into a carrier's cart, to which he belonged, and which stood near the doorway of the "Harrow" public house. I was immediately relieved both from my fears and my position, by the assistance of John Brown, the Greyfriars' Church officer, who opened the gate, and assisted me in my descent. The incident was somewhat singular; and, as I stood in need of some refreshment, and honest Johnny Dowie's shop did not shut till twelve, I asked the pleasure of John Brown's company to a red herring and a glass

During the discussion of these viands, (and, maybe, a wee drap of Highland whisky made into warm todd,) John Brown and I became exceedingly well acquainted. He had occupied his present office for upwards of forty years, was an enthusiast about the Covenanters, and possessed, in fact, some written documents on the subject, which he promised to shew me. He was a lineal descendant, he informed me, of the famous Thomas Brown, who suffered, along with John Waddel, Andrew Sword, John Clide, and James Wood, on Magus Muir. The documents, as I afterwards found, were nothing more nor less than some scattered and pencilled notices by one John Govan, in the parish of Kirkliston, of his share in the affair of Bothwell Brig, and his sufferings in consequence thereof. I shall avail myself partially of these pencillings, in the following narrative:—

"O Lord, thy mercies are manifold! Thou wilt not desert thine ancient inheritance—thy puir, suffering, persecuted remnant. O Lord! thou wilt, and thou must stand by thy servants, godly Hamilton, and Cargill, and Rathillet, and by us and our cause—which, guid Lord, is, after all, thine own—in this awful day. I see the Duke's men on the hill-side opposite. They are now, even now, making downwards towards the bridge. They have opened their guns. I must up and do my duty. Lord, stand by the righteous!"

The battle, as is here anticipated, began; and (owing to the sad divisions in the camp of the nonconformists) was won by the Duke of Buccleuch and Monmouth, almost without any resistance. Notwithstanding the humane exertions of the Duke—owing to the sanguinary revenge of Clavers in particular—the slaughter after the battle, in what may be termed the wantonness of cruelty, was very great indeed. The next extract from Govan's diary, confirms this historical truth:—

"And thou, O Lord, hast yet more work to do for poor John Govan. But poor Samuel Logan lies dead in the next field there—I saw him run when I fell into a ditch, and just lay still; but the destroyer was hard behind him. Sam darned at last in a corn-field; and there I saw him shot through the head by that terrible Clavers. He did not give him an instant to make his peace wi' his Maker. O Lord! wherefore is it thus with thy Zion? But it belongs not to poor John Govan to find fault wi' sic a Master—thy ways are not as our ways, nor thy thoughts as ours."

Poor John Govan was, however, at last taken prisoner, whilst endeavouring to conceal himself in an outhouse of a farm-steading in Strathavon, but not till after a whole volley of balls had been poured in upon his retreat, only one of which, however, had taken effect, and that on the fleshy part of his leg. Notwithstanding his wound, and the stiffness, which, after it had bled profusely, was induced upon the limb, he was compelled to march on foot, along with upwards of three hundred prisoners—many of them badly wounded—towards Edinburgh. Mr Reid and Mr King—both of whom were afterwards tried, tortured, hanged, and quartered—were of the number. To avoid the commiseration and sympathy of the more populous districts, Clavers marched the prisoners through the upper district of Lanarkshire. At Lanark the first halt was made for the night; and there the men were tied together by twos and threes, and compelled to bivouac in the open air, in a barn-yard. In vain were all their groanings and complainings—some from their wounds, others from hunger or thirst, and not a few from the dismal fate which had overtaken the cause which they supported. The infamous soldiery, urged on, or at least not properly checked by their leaders, only laughed at their calamities, telling them to be patient—that patience was a d——d good supper—a great deal too good for a covenanter, &c., &c. Upon this I found the following reflections in Govan:—

"O Lord! when will their ire be stayed?—when will thy face return and shine again upon thy heritage? This night has been an awful night: my sufferings, all our sufferings, have been great, great beyond bearing—four of our number have died of their wounds and fatigue. My own cousin, William Young, has paid the debt of nature; he has gone to the bosom of his God; for William was a just, and a good, and a holy man. I held his head till he expired; it was a sore struggle, but he quailed not; he repeated as long as he could speak—'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him; my heart and my flesh may faint and fail—oh, yes! the earthly house of our tabernacle must be dissolved; but we have a house, John, not made with hands, eternal in the heavens; and the Spirit and the bride say, Come;' and, with these words, he bowed his head and he gave up the ghost. He and I were tied together by the legs, and I sat till morning light with his dead body in my arms. These dreadful men only scoffed when I spoke of death, and bade me take my supper off the dead man's bones. O Lord! how long? O Lord! how long?"

The next resting-place seems to have been in the midst of the "Lang Whang"—a barren and bleak muir, which stretches eastward ten or eleven miles beyond Carnwath. Here an enclosure was effected by means of stakes and ropes, as the binding system had been found ineffectual, there being generally some method adopted by the fettered sufferers to relieve themselves. Within this enclosure these three hundred men stood or lay during a dark and a rainy night, without fire, and with very scanty provisions; whilst the demons on the outside of the enclosure lighted up fires of the heath, and of some peats which were found ready dried in the neighbourhood, and spent the night in roasting all manner of barn-door fowls, pigs, and even sheep, which they had captured as they passed along. Refreshment of a spirituous character was not denied them; and their songs, and their blasphemies, and their insulting language, "rose up in the midst of the wilderness" as Govan expresses it—"to the throne of the Most High, calling for vengeance in the day of retribution, on the head of the oppressor."

"This," continues he, "is a second morning, and a cold, and a gloomy, and a dreadful one it is. Clavers and his attendants are galloping up from Carnwath, where they have been spending the night in jollification wi' the laird; and we are just about to renew our dismal march. My leg is exceedingly troublesome; but, as we advance but slowly, I make a shift to get on. One man died last night raving mad; and another, I much fear, has put an end, with his own hand, to an unendurable existence. O Lord, give me strength to bear whatever thy wisdom sees meet to inflict!"

From the Lang Whang, the Grass Market was reached on the succeeding evening, and, after being united with two hundred prisoners from Stirling, they were all marched from the Grass Market; and, after some seasonable refreshment, ordered by the humane and kind-hearted Duke of Monmouth, into the Greyfriars' Churchyard, there to abide—from the month of June to that of December following—all the peltings of the pitiless storm, without a sufficiency of food, and entirely without covering.

Men of Scotland, was there ever anything like this? Can the remembrance of such atrocities ever be obliterated? Can century upon century, as they slowly roll on their course, ever place these events, and this event in particular, beyond the range of your interest? We read with horror of the scaffold and the guillotine; but what immediate death could equal in atrocity their protracted sufferings? Friends have they, indeed, within these walls, but they cannot, or but seldom, and at great risk, obtain an entrance. Many are disposed to supply the houseless prisoner with couch and covering, but they only supply additional means of debauchery to the ruffian soldiery. The chambers of the many dead are defiled and rendered pestilential by the presence of the many living. Death, in ordinary circumstances, is a boon to this. Winter approaching—(nay, has arrived)—the sleety shower plashing over the Castle—the whirling drifts, eddying about, amongst, and beneath the tombstones—the wild, long, endless night, to which succeeds no dawn of comfort—no warm chamber—no invigorating and cheering meal. Oh, honest and fearless shades, tell us all! how did you stand it? How was it that you did not sell your remaining strength as dearly as possible?—that you did not rush like tigers upon your guards, and perish whilst rending them with your teeth and nails? But ye are silent as becomes ye; so I must apply to honest John Govan's MS.

"This is now the sixth week that I have dwelt in this dreary place. Oh, happy they who lie beneath! they are covered, and feel not our privations, and pains, and sufferings; and yet freedom and home is offered to us, and accepted by many. God forgive them, if it be His will!—but John Govan will never accept his liberty on such terms. His mother's shade would rise up in judgment. Shall I take their infamous oaths, or subscribe their no less infamous bonds? Shall I swear that the Bishop's death is murder, and that the resistance of an oppressed and persecuted people is rebellion? Shall I 'bind, oblige, and enact myself,' that I shall not hereafter take up arms in so good a cause? No! I will sooner perish, inch by inch; I will sooner suffer the tortures of the boot, and the final cruel judgment of the maiden. Men are yet unborn that will bless us—a whole people, happy in a pure religion and a free government, will adore the memory of the most humble son of the Covenant; they will build and erect pillars and monuments to our memory; they will count, anxiously count, kindred with us; they will record and register our deeds and our sufferings; and, when this world, with all its interests, shall have ceased to exist, we shall be in everlasting remembrance."

Thus reasoned, and thus were supported, these men, who set at defiance threats, and entreaties, and insidious reasonings; who valued the approbation of their own consciences above every other; who feared their God, and had no other fear.

As winter drew on, the intercourse with the inhabitants of Edinburgh became more frequent and less easily obstructed. It was absolutely necessary that brothers, and even sisters, and wives, and mothers, should be permitted occasionally to carry some warm broth, or some still stronger stimulants, to those whose rations were so limited, and whose exposure to the cold air was so dismally protracted. Even partial scaffoldings were erected around the churchyard, and towards the east, or town side in particular; and some imperfect, no doubt, but still acceptable shelter, was thus extended to the perishing inmates. It was not possible that disease should not walk in the train of so much deprivation. Many died of fever; some of consumption or bad colds; and not a few of downright debility. The guards, too, became tired of the monotony of their task, and often retired into adjoining taverns to keep up their spirits. Some escaped by one means and some by another; one in the dress of a sister, and another in the garb of a mason. An Act of Indemnity was at last passed, from which, however, about twenty were exempted, and perhaps nine or ten executed. John Govan seems to have survived these dismal times by some years; for I find him next on Magus Muir, encouraging and supporting his friends who suffered. His concluding sentences are these:—

"I have seen, I have seen—mine eyes have seen thy salvation; Presbytery, my beloved Presbytery, established by law; freedom of conscience secured to all; a Protestant King; a Protestant government; every man dwelling in peace, under his own vine and his own fig-tree; mine own son delivering the word of God to a Protestant congregation, and protected by law. My old age has been soothed by many comforts; the partner of my fortunes and sharer of all my trials still alive, and capable of uniting with me in the song of thanksgiving—verily, the Lord has been merciful and gracious, and I now await his divine pleasure with perfect resignation. I am old, and have had my day. I trust I have not altogether neglected my duty; and when it shall be His blessed will to call me, I will depart cheerfully home, and appear in his presence. My sins and imperfections are indeed many; but I know in whom I have believed, and to whom I have committed the soul, my immortal part. Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace."

Thus far honest John Govan, who seems to have slept with his fathers a year or two after the Revolution, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. The papers, John Brown informed me, passed into his grandfather's keeping, in consequence of the friendship which continued to exist betwixt the Govans and the Browns; the Govans having long ago emigrated to America, and left the Browns a bequest of books, and these papers besides.