ST. ANDREWS, _June 1657_.
CCCXLVIII.--_To my_ LADY KENMURE.
(_GOD'S DEALINGS WITH THE LAND._)
MADAM,--I should not forget you; but my deadness under a threatening
stroke, both of a falling church (a broken covenant, a despised
remnant) and a craziness of body, that I cannot get a piece sickly
clay carried about from one house or town to another, lieth most heavy
on me. The Lord hath removed Scotland's crown, for we owned not His
crown. We fretted at His catholic government of the world, and fretted
that He would not be ruled and led by us, in breaking our adversaries:
and He maketh us to suffer and pine away in our iniquities, under the
broken government of His house. It is like, that it would be our snare
to be tried with the honour of a peaceable Reformation: we might mar
the carved work of His house, worse than those against whom we cry
out. It is like, that He hath bidden us lie on our left side three
hundred and ninety days; and yet so astonishing is our stupidity, that
we moan not our sore side. Our gold is become dim, the visage of our
Nazarites is become black, the sun is gone down on our seers; the
crown is fallen from our heads; we roar like bears. Lord save us from
that, "He that made them will not have mercy on them" (Isa. xxvii.
11). The heart of the scribe meditateth terror. Oh, Madam, if the Lord
would help us to more self-judging, and to make sure an interest in
Christ! Ah, we forget eternity, and it approaches quickly. Grace be
with you.
Your Ladyship's, at all obedience, in the Lord,