ABERDEEN, _Nov. 22, 1636_.
LXXII.--_To WILLIAM GORDON of Roberton_.
[WILLIAM GORDON of Roberton, in the parish of Borgue in Galloway,
close to Knockbrex, was the father of William Gordon of Roberton,
who joined with the Covenanters in the rising at Pentland in
1666, and was killed, "to the great loss of the country where he
lived," says Wodrow, "and his own family, his aged father having
no more sons." Mary, a daughter of this venerable old man, to
whom this letter is addressed, suffered much for nonconformity at
the hands of Claverhouse and his friends. She was married to John
Gordon of Largmore (which is in Kells, near Kenmure Castle), who,
in the battle at Pentland, was severely wounded, and, returning
to his own house, died in the course of a few days. The old man
did not long survive the death of his son and son-in-law; for, on
the 8th of September 1668, Mary Gordon is retoured heir of
William Gordon of Roberton, her father. In Kells churchyard, near
the gate, there is a short epitaph: "Here lyes the corpse of
Roger Gordon of Largmore, who dyed March 2, 1662, aged 72 years;
and of John Gordon of Largmore his grandchild, who dyed January
6, 1667, of his wounds got at Pentland in defence of the
Covenanted Reformation."]
(_HOW TRIALS ARE MISIMPROVED--THE INFINITE VALUE of CHRIST--DESPISED
WARNINGS._)
DEAR BROTHER,--Grace, mercy, and peace be to you. So often as I think
on our case, in our soldier's night-watch, and of our fighting life in
the fields, while we are here, I am forced to say, prisoners in a
dungeon, condemned by a judge to want the light of the sun, and moon,
and candle, till their dying day, are no more, nay, not so much, to be
pitied as we are. For they are weary of their life, they hate their
prison; but we fall to, in our prison, where we see little, to drink
ourselves drunk with the night-pleasures of our weak dreams; and we
long for no better life than this. But at the blast of the last
trumpet, and the shout of the archangel, when God shall take down the
shepherd's tent of this fading world, we shall not have so much as a
drink of water, of all the dreams that we now build on. Alas! that the
sharp and bitter blasts on face and sides, which meet us in this life,
have not learned us mortification, and made us dead to this world! We
buy our own sorrow, and we pay dear for it, when we spend out our
love, our joy, our desires, our confidence, upon an handful of snow
and ice, that time will melt away to nothing, and go thirsty out of
the drunken inn when all is done. Alas! that we inquire not for the
clear fountain, but are so foolish as to drink foul, muddy, and rotten
waters, even till our bed-time. And then in the Resurrection, when we
shall be awakened, our yesternight's sour drink and swinish dregs
shall rift up upon us; and sick, sick, shall many a soul be then.
I know no wholesome fountain but one. I know not a thing worth the
buying but heaven; and my own mind is, if comparison were made betwixt
Christ and heaven, I would sell heaven with my blessing, and buy
Christ. O if I could raise the market for Christ, and heighten the
market a pound for a penny, and cry up Christ in men's estimation ten
thousand talents more than men think of Him! But they are cheapening
Him,[168] and crying Him down, and valuing Him at their unworthy
halfpenny; or else exchanging and bartering Christ with the miserable
old fallen house of this vain world. Or then they lend Him out upon
interest, and play the usurers with Christ: because they profess Him,
and give out before men that Christ is their treasure and stock; and
in the mean time, praise of men, and a name, and ease, and the summer
sun of the Gospel, is the usury they would be at. So, when the trial
cometh, they quit the stock for the interest, and lose all. Happy are
they who can keep Christ by Himself alone, and keep Him clean and
whole till God come and count with them. I know that in your hard and
heavy trials long since, ye thought well and highly of Christ; but,
truly, no cross should be old to us. We should not forget them because
years are come betwixt us and them, and cast them byhand as we do old
clothes. We may make a cross old in time, new in use, and as fruitful
as in the beginning of it. God is where and what He was seven years
ago, whatever change may be in us. I speak not this as if I thought ye
had forgotten what God did, to have your love long since, but that ye
may awake yourself in this sleepy age, and remember fruitfully of
Christ's first wooing and suiting of your love, both with fire and
water, and try if He got His answer, or if ye be yet to give Him it.
For I find in myself, that water runneth not faster through a sieve
than our warnings slip from us; I have lost and casten byhand many
summons the Lord sent to me; and therefore the Lord hath given me
double charges, that I trust in God shall not rive me. I bless His
great name, who is no niggard in holding-in crosses upon me, but
spendeth largely His rods, that He may save me from this perishing
world. How plentiful God is in means of this kind is esteemed by many
one of God's unkind mercies; but Christ's cross is neither a cruel nor
unkind mercy, but the love-token of a father. I am sure, a lover
chasing us for our weal, and to have our love, should not be run away
from, or fled from. God send me no worse mercy than the sanctified
cross of Christ portendeth, and I am sure I should be happy and
blessed.
[168] Bringing down the price, perhaps alluding to Zech. xi. 31.
Pray for me, that I may find house-room in the Lord's house to speak
in His name. Remember my dearest love in Christ to your wife. Grace,
grace be unto you.
Yours in his sweet Lord Jesus,