The day was wet, the pasture was beaded with drops, and the rushing streamlets disputed our crossing yet a passionate longing to see the place where John Brown, known as the “Christian Carrier” had lived, and was buried, overcame every difficulty.  The walk covered three miles.  At length we ascended a knoll, and, lo, the monument stood before our eyes, and almost at our feet.  Now we were on ground, where one of the most tragic scenes of Scotland was transacted.  Cargill very beautifully said, “The moors are flowered with martyrs’ graves.”  Here is one of these flowers; a century plant it is, watered with precious blood, and abloom in sweet solitude.

The buildings are gone; not a trace of them is left.  The grave was made, it is said, where the martyr fell, in front of his cottage.  It is enclosed with a stone wall breast high.  A flat stone lies over the remains, bearing a copious inscription.  The solitariness is oppressive; death and desolation here bear undisputed sway.  The blood ran in chills, as the cold grey stones gave their testimony, amid the gusts that played with the heather, and the drizzle that sprinkled our bare heads.  The thoughts of the heart played wildly; imagination refused to be bridled; in a moment former conditions were, in vision, revived.  The monument had given place to the dwelling, and the dreariness was astir with the scenes of busy life.

The country around, was then, as it is now, somber as a desert.  The silence is solemn; we bated our breath; the lips shrank from speaking; aught except a prayer, or the melody of a Psalm, seemed out of place.  The outlook on every side is without an inhabitant; yet, even here, the persecutor sought his prey, and did his cruel work.

Many years had this home been a sanctuary in the wilderness, and a refuge for the hunted Covenanters.  John Brown and Isabel, his wife, were like Zacharias and Elizabeth, “both righteous before God, walking in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless.”  They had two children, a babe in the mother’s arms, and Janet, five years old, a child by a former wife.  Morning and evening God’s worship perfumed their humble dwelling.  These hearts, filled with the love of Jesus, poured forth His praise every day, but especially on the Sabbath, which they kept with great care.  Their hospitality was munificent:  they entertained angelic strangers.  The latch-string was on the outside, and many a Covenanter, driven by storms, or hunted by dragoons, found a welcome here.  They came wearied with journeying, wasted with hunger, weakened with sickness, and worried with trouble, and found rest, comfort, and inspiration in this habitation, where God was pleased to dwell.

A society of Covenanters held its meetings in this home.  Several families came across the broad moor on Sabbath morning, and remained till evening.  Sometimes they traveled both ways under star-light, for fear of the enemy.  The day was devoutly spent in prayer, reading the Word, singing Psalms, and conversing on the heart-stirring doctrines of redemption.  They spoke much concerning the duties and dangers of the times.  This society continued to meet, till broken up by the martyrdom of its men; one after another was pursued and shot down like game on the mountains.