ABERDEEN, _Feb. 20, 1637_.
CII.--_To ALEXANDER GORDON of Knockgray_.
[Knockgray is a farm-like house, enclosed by trees, at the foot
of the hills of Carsphairn. It is on your right hand, coming from
Earlston to Carsphairn, after passing the little hill of
Dundeuch. "Alexander Gordon of Knockgray," says Livingstone, who
personally knew him, "was a rare Christian in his time. His
chief, the Laird of Lochinvar, put him out of his land mostly for
his religion; yet, being thereafter restored by that man's son,
Lord Viscount of Kenmure, he told me the Lord had blessed him, so
as he had ten thousand sheep" ("Select Biograph." vol. i.). From
what Rutherford says in a subsequent letter addressed to
him,--"Christ's ways were known to you long before I (who am but
a child) knew anything of Him,"--it may be concluded that he was
much older than Rutherford. The venerable old man was apprehended
in his own house by one Captain Stuart; by whom also he seems to
have been carried to Edinburgh, and there incarcerated.
Alexander, his son (the grandson of Rutherford's correspondent),
had also his own share of persecution under the intolerant reign
of Charles II. He suffered much by garrisons put into his house,
by the loss of household articles which they carried away, and by
the forfeiture of his property. (Wodrow, MSS. vol. xxxvii.)]
(_GROUNDS OF PRAISE--AFFLICTION TEMPTS TO MISREPRESENT
CHRIST--IDOLS._)
DEAR BROTHER,--Grace, mercy, and peace be to you. I long to hear how
your soul prospereth. I expected letters from you ere now.
As for myself, I am here in good case, well feasted with a great King.
At my coming here, I was that bold as to take up a jealousy of
Christ's love. I said I was cast over the dyke of the Lord's vineyard,
as a dry tree; but I see that if I had been a withered branch, the
fire would have burned me long ere now. Blessed be His high name, who
hath kept sap in the dry tree. And now, as if Christ hath done the
wrong, He hath made the mends, and hath miskent my ravings; for a man
under the water cannot well command his wit, far less his faith and
love. Because it was a fever, my Lord Jesus forgave me that amongst
the rest. He knoweth that in our afflictions we can find a spot in the
fairest face that ever was, even in Christ's face. I would not have
believed that a gloom should have made me to misken my old Master; but
we must be whiles[198] sick. Sickness is but kindly to both faith and
love. But oh, how exceedingly is a poor dawted prisoner obliged to
sweet Jesus! My tears are sweeter to me than the laughter of the
fourteen prelates is to them. The worst of Christ, even His chaff, is
better than the world's corn.
[198] Occasionally.
Dear Brother, I beseech you, I charge you in the name and authority of
the Son of God, to help me to praise His Highness; and I charge you
also to tell all your acquaintance, that my Master may get many
thanks. Oh, if my hairs, all my members, and all my bones, were
well-tuned tongues, to sing the high praises of my great and glorious
King! Help me to lift Christ up upon His throne, and to lift Him up
above the thrones of the clay-kings, the dying sceptre-bearers of this
world. The prisoner's blessing, the blessing of him that is separate
from his brethren, be upon them all who will lend me a lift in this
work. Show this to that people with you to whom I sometimes preached.
Brother, my Lord hath brought me to this, that I will not flatter the
world for a drink of water. I am no debtor to clay; Christ hath made
me dead to that. I now wonder that ever I was such a child, long
since, as to beg at such beggars! Fy upon us, who woo such a
black-skinned harlot, when we may get such a fair, fair match in
heaven! O that I could give up this clay-idol, this masked, painted,
over-gilded dirt, that Adam's sons adore! We make an idol of our will.
As many lusts in us, as many gods; we are all godmakers. We are like
to lose Christ, the true God, in the throng of those new and false
gods. Scotland hath cast her crown off her head; the virgin-daughter
hath lost her garland. Wo, wo to our harlot mother. Our day is coming;
a time when women shall wish they had been childless, and fathers
shall bless miscarrying wombs and dry breasts; many houses great and
fair shall be desolate. This kirk shall sit on the ground all the
night, and the tears shall run down her cheeks. The sun hath gone down
upon her prophets. Blessed are the prisoners of hope, who can run into
their stronghold, and hide themselves for a little, till the
indignation be overpast.
Commend me to your wife, your daughters, your son-in-law, and to A. T.
Write to me the case of your kirk. Grace be with you.
I am much moved for my brother. I entreat for your kindness and
counsel to him.
Yours, in his sweet Lord Jesus,