meill and thrie tailyeis of beiff."
In those days, when not only human nature but Nature herself lay under
the black shadow of one of the foulest of superstitions, the fair banks
of the Devon were much frequented by the devil, who had whole "covins"
of witches and wizards in his service, so that it is not surprising to
hear that John was frequently in his company. "That John Brughe had
been with the devil at the Rumbling Brigs and elsewhere was affirmed by
Katherine Mitchell to be of veritie, at the tyme of hir criminall
tryell at Culrose, and immediately befoir hir executione, the said John
Brughe being confronted with hir at the tyme."[7] We can claim this
renowned empiric not only for the Glendevon district, but in a sense
for the Presbytery, since it was alleged against him that he had got
his uncanny knowledge "from a wedow woman, named Neane Nikclerith, of
threescoir years of age, quha wis sister dochter to Nik Neveding, that
notorious infamous witche in Monzie, quha for her sorcerie and
witchecraft was brunt fourscoir of yeir since or thereby." Spite of
all he had done for the "bestiall," and all the testimonials he had
from patients whom he had cured of their "seiknessis" by enchanted
drinks, Glendovan and Mukhart mould, and sympathetic conjuring of
"sarkis, coller bodies, beltis, and utheris pertaining als weill to men
as to wemen," John was found guilty and condemned to be strangled and
burned. These were the real Dark Ages, when intimations were
frequently made from the Glendevon and other pulpits that the minister
and session would be glad to receive information against suspected
witches, and when the common pricker who pricked poor witches "with
lang preins of thrie inches" to discover the marks of Satan, was
specially busy in the vale of Devon, where in a record year no less
than sixteen of the local "covin" were burned. In the Roll of
Fugitives from kirk discipline drawn up by the Synod of Perth and
Stirling in 1649, Glendevon was represented by a warlock, "Mart.
Kennard, suspect of witchcraft," but of his fate we know nothing. In
this connection it may be remarked that though the "Kirkyeard of
Glendovan," immortalised by John Brughe's ghoulish visit, contains no
epitaphs, humorous or otherwise, it possesses a "Plague Stone," a large
rough slab, under which lie those who died of what is vaguely called
the Plague (1645?), and the lifting of which was duly guarded against
by a solemn curse pronounced o