stormy days of conflict and victory. Yet they are not quite forgotten.
The old walls of Dundee have indeed been laid level with the ground; but
reverent grateful hearts have spared the antique gateway, hallowed so
long ago by the feet of him who brought glad tidings and published
peace. Fitting emblem of a grand truth! Thus shall perish the memories
of mere human greatness—the renown of kings and captains—the gaudy
trophies of successful warfare. But the work of faith and labour of
love, wrought in Christ and for him, stands secure of a double
immortality. Its blessed results here shall last as long as the earth
herself, while its bright memorial and recompense above are imperishable
as the stars, like which they that turn many to righteousness shall
shine for ever and ever.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XII.
=The Reward of God’s Messenger.=
“I bless Thee for the light that dawns e’en now upon my soul,
And brightens all the narrow way, with glory from the goal.
The hour and power of darkness, it is fleeting fast away,
Light shall arise on Scotland, a glorious gospel day!
· · · · ·
Now let thy good word be fulfilled, and let thy kingdom come,
And in thine now best time, O Lord, take thy poor servant home.”
_Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XII.
=The Reward of God’s Messenger.=
More than a year has passed away since James and Mary Duncan, with their
sister Janet, left Dundee for their new home amongst the Sidlaw Hills. A
very happy home they have found it. They have not been without cares and
anxieties, but these have seemed light because borne together in loving
sympathy. God has established the work of their hands upon them, and
they have now every reason to believe that the old farm of Dunsinnan
Brae will amply supply their simple wants. What is still better, they
may hold and even profess the true faith in peace, none making them
afraid. The neighbours are friendly, the parish priest careless and
indifferent. Provided he receives his “teindis, rentis, and all uthir
dewties,” he is quite willing to connive at the absence of the Duncans
from their parish kirk; and even if he is aware that many of the
neighbours find their way in the winter evenings to the farm-house
spence,[14] to hear the Scriptures read in their own tongue, at least he
is obliging enough to keep the knowledge to himself. Having thus learned
in a humble way to water others, James and Mary Duncan are abundantly
watered themselves. They often long, it is true, for the public
ministrations of the gospel; but since the streams are at present denied
them, they repair the more frequently to the fountain-head. Both can now
read with ease and fluency; and to the Testament and Psalm book they
possessed before leaving Dundee they have since added the remaining
portions of the Word of God. These they study diligently and
prayerfully, and the Lord himself is their teacher. Meanwhile, in their
daily walk, and in all their dealings with others, they seek to show
forth the praises of Him who called them out of darkness into his
marvellous light.
Janet is now no longer an inmate of the Dunsinnan homestead. An
honest-hearted farmer of the neighbourhood, who received the new
doctrines from James Duncan, has learned to appreciate the sterling
qualities of his teacher’s sister, and asked her to share his home. But
a distance of only two or three miles separates Mary and Janet, who will
always continue to be, what sorrow shared together made them to each
other,—loving sisters and true friends.
Archie is still in Dundee, and bids fair to be one of the first pupils
of the grammar-school. The good abilities of the once idle thoughtless
boy are rendered available by the industry which is born of a cherished
purpose. Wilson proves a true and wise friend, and allows him to lack
for nothing; and, moreover, in a town like Dundee, there are prizes
enough to be won by the talented and studious. A free education and
maintenance at the University of St. Andrews might be easily obtained;
but as things are at present, this would scarcely be an advantage to one
of his views and opinions. He is not, however, either at an age or of a
disposition to foresee difficulties, and is too happy in his present
life of conscious progress and improvement to think much of the future.
The beginning of the year 1546 brings great joy to Dunsinnan Brae. A
proud and happy man is James Duncan when he holds in his arms “a bonnie
lad bairn,” his first-born; prouder and happier still when Mary’s gentle
step again moves softly through the house, or her sweet voice chants for
a cradle-song some verse from the “guid and godly Ballates” of Maister
John Wedderburn.
It was a cold inclement winter, but within that home there were warmth
and light; even for the life that now is there were “all things richly
to enjoy,” and there was a bright and sure hope for that which is to
come.
“Jamie,” said Mary softly, one day as she sat at work beside her baby’s
cradle, “do ye mind a bit promise ye made before we left Dundee?”
“I ken what ye mean, Mary,” answered Jamie, with a thoughtful face. “I
said, gin the guid Lord gied me a bonnie bairn, I’d no hae it kirstened
wi’ ‘spittle, salt, candle, coit, oil,’ and the lave, but according to
our blessed Saviours ain simple ordinance.”
“Ye said mair than that, Jamie.”
“Ay, and I’ll haud to the same. Nae hand but guid Maister Wishart’s sall
bapteeze my bairn, an I hae to carry it across half Scotland ere I find
him.”
“Ye’ll na hae that to do, for it’s maist like he’s still at Montrose.”
“Then ye wadna think muckle o’ the journey, or be fear’t for the bairn,
Mary?”
Mary’s eyes shone very brightly through tears of grateful love as she
answered: “Is it to see _his_ face again, Jamie? That were weel worth it
a’. Forbye, he’d pray a bit prayer for our bairn that wad bring it a
blessing its haill life lang.”
“And ye ken, he’s sae kind and gentle, ane needna be fear’t to ask him.
Gin the morn’s clear and frosty like the day, I’ll just gang to Dundee
and talk the matter owre wi’ Maister Wilson.”
“Ay, and speir after Archie, puir lad. I jalouse he’s working owre hard
wi’ that Latin.”
The next day James Duncan put his resolve into practice. Nine or ten
miles and back on foot were a small matter to him now; but Mary, a
careful and tender wife, was grieved to see the day, which had begun in
frosty brightness, become overclouded at noon, and end in rain and
sleet. She exerted herself to make everything within the house present
as favourable a contrast as possible to the gloom and dreariness
without; and a brighter “inglenuik,” a warmer welcome, or a more
comfortable supper, were never prepared for any tired wayfarer than
those which awaited Jamie’s return that night. He was late, and Mary had
dismissed the farm-servants to their beds long before she heard the
well-known sound of his footsteps, and joyfully hastened to open the
door for him.
He scarcely answered her inquiries whether he was “wat through,” “owfre
forfoughten,” and similar subjects of wife-like anxiety. Having thrown
off his dripping cloak in the outer porch, he silently followed her into
the cheerful spence, bright with fire and candle light.
One glance at his pale agitated face made her exclaim, in tones faint
with terror, “What’s wrang wi’ ye, Jamie?”
“O Mary, they hae taken him at last!” was the sorrowful reply. No need
to ask _who_ he meant.
“Wae’s me!” said Mary, when she _could_ speak. “I thocht God wad hae
keppit him.”
“His way is in the sea, his path is in the great waters, and his
footsteps are no kent,” answered Jamie in a voice that showed how sorely
his own faith was tried by the mystery of God’s dealings with his
servant.
“_Wha_ has taken him, Jamie?”
“Alas, that’s weelnigh the waurst of a’. My lord Bothwell has gien him
up for gowd to the bluidy Cardinal. But he’ll wish sair that day’s wark
were undone, when he comes to stand before the judgment-seat o’ God.”
“Then, whaur is he noo?”
“In the cruel Cardinal’s dungeon at St. Andrew’s. God help and
strengthen him!”
“We can but pray. Oh, Jamie, do ye no mind wha answered prayer sae lang
ago, and sent his angel to open the prison-door and set the captive
free? I dinna misdoot he loves Maister Wishart just as weel as e’er he
loved St. Peter.”
“He doesna send his angels noo, Mary.”
“I dinna ken; I think they were no that far awa’ when he was saved sae
strangely from sic’ a dreadfu’ snare at Montrose.[15] But maist like the
Lord of angels himsel was by then. Ony gait, I’ll no gie up hope for
him, Jamie. He that saved Daniel in the lions’ den, and the three
children in the fiery furnace, can save his dear servant frae the cruel
hand o’ him that hates him.”
“He _can_, Mary. He’s the God o’ the haill earth. But I doot it’s na his
will to do it.”
“What gars ye say the like o’ that?”
“Unco hard it is to say it, God wot. Oh, Mary, I _hae_ prayed—I hae
warsled sair wi’ the Lord a’ the time sin’ I heard it, wi’ the bitter
sleet and rain driving in my face, and a waur storm in my heart. And I
could get nae licht or comfort ava’, God help me! But I ken by a sure
token Maister Wishart’s wark is done.”
With trembling lips Mary asked him what he meant.
“He kenned it weel himsel. But I maun tell ye frae the beginning what I
hae heard the day. Maister Wilson tald me the waefu’ tidings; and by and
by wha suld come in but Maister James Wedderburn himsel. Ane love and
ane sorrow brought us twa thegither, and I think neither minded that are
was puir and the ither rich. He sat down sae douce and kind, and tald me
a’ that happened sin’ the time Maister Wishart left Montrose.”
“Why did he leave it, Jamie?”
“The gentlemen o’ the Westland, wha were his friends, wrote to ask him
to come to Edinburgh, and they wad keep tryst wi’ him there, and gar the
bishops gie him leave to haud public disputation, and to preach the
gospel. Dauntless as he ever was in the cause of Christ’s evangel, ye
may weel guess he didna say them nay. Gin ither hearts had been as leal
and true, it might hae fared better wi’ him and wi’ us a’. There was
fearfu’ peril, for the cruel Cardinal was coming to Edinburgh; but this
didna move him, nor counted he his life dear to himsel. He passed thro’
Dundee”—
“I wish we had kenned that, Jamie.”
“Sae do I. For noo, I wot weel that they amang whom he has gone
preaching the word o’ God sall see his face nae mair.”
After a long pause he continued. “But he didna bide in the town. He
stayed the night at Invergowrie, wi’ Maister James Watson. It’s his
brither John wha hae tald Maister Wedderburn what happened there. In the
dark nicht, a wheen before the daybreak, Maister Wishart rose and gaed
forth o’ the house. Still and lane as it was that hour, the yard was no
lane enoo’ for him,—he maun gang to and fro till he fand a bit quiet
walk. Maist like he thocht nae closet wi’ the door steeked could be sae
siccar as _that_, in the chill silent autumn night. But John Watson, wi’
ane friend o’ his, followed and marked a’ he did.”
“Eh, but that was no richt, Jamie.”
“Owre true. Nae een but God’s suld hae watched the bitter struggle o’
that brave heart. For he fell upon his knees, and wept and groaned aloud
like ane that tholed an awfu’ agony. _He_, sae grand and calm, and aye
sae unmoved in trouble and danger! And at last he bowed e’en his vera
face to the earth, and prayed thus for nigh an hour, in a low voice sair
broken wi’ tears. But it seemed as tho’ God heard his prayer, for then
he rose calm and stilled, and sae he gaed in.
“The twa friends met him, as by chance, and askit him whaur he had been.
He wadna tell them; but in the morning they came again to him, and said:
‘Maister George, ye maun be plain wi’ us; for we hae seen ye, and heard
your bitter mourning, baith on yer knees and on yer face.’ They kenned
weel he was grieved at this, tho’ he wadna gie them an ungentle word. ‘I
had rather you had been in your beds; and it had been more profitable to
you,’ he said. But still they urged him to show them some comfort. Then
at last he answered them: ‘I will tell you. I am assured my travail is
nigh an end. Call to God for me that now I shrink not when the battle
waxes hot.’ But this gared them baith greet, and say to him, ‘that was
sma’ comfort unto them.’ ‘God shall send you comfort after me,’ Maister
Wishart said again. ‘This realm shall be illumined with the light of
Christ’s evangel, as clearly as ever was any realm since the days of the
Apostles. The house of God shall be built in it. Yea, it shall not lack
(whatsoever enemies shall devise to the contrary) the very copestone.
Neither shall this be long in doing. There shall not many suffer after
me, till that the glory of God shall evidently appear, and shall anes
triumph in despite of Satan.’—I hae gien ye word for word, Mary; a man
doesna forget sic’ words as thae.”
“Oh, Jamie,” said Mary, in tones full of awe and wonder, “did God
himsel’ tell him a’ that?”
“Is it that strange gin he did, Mary? Might he no tak’ his servant, like
Moses to the top o’ Pisgah, and gie him a glint of the guid land whaur
he means to bring his ain faithfu’ folk? Forbye, ye ken there’s a power
in the prayer o’ faith that passes thocht and comprehension. I canna
think that Maister Wishart’s sair warsling wi’ the Lord that hour, wi’
strong crying and tears, was a’, or maistly for himsel. Nae doot the
thocht o’ sic’ a death as he maun face is owre hard to flesh and bluid.
And that’s no the bravest heart that feels the least, Mary; but that
feels the _maist_, that kens a’ the bitter pain and dolor, and yet can
thole it for the Saviour’s sake. But I believe Christ’s wark in this
realm is mair a thousandfald to him than his ain life. I believe the
strongest cry of his heart gaed up to heaven for thae puir souls he
wared that life to teach and save. And wadna the guid Lord tell him,
‘See, I hae heard thee in this thing’—‘My righteousness is near, My
salvation is gone forth.’—‘But gae thou thy way till the end be, for
thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot in the end o’ the days?’—Still,
it’s no for me to say muckle on’t; the place is owre holy, a man suld
tak’ his shoon frae his feet.[16]
“After that nicht’s agony and joy, he gaed forward, strong in the calm
trust that kens nae fear. But when he came to Leith there was nae word
frae the Westland gentlemen; and the peril being great, his friends were
feart for him, and gared him keep close a wee while. But he waxed
sorrowfu’ in spirit, and said: ‘What differ I from a dead man, except
that I eat and drink? To this time God has used my labours for the
instruction of others, and the disclosing of darkness; and now I lurk as
a man ashamed, and dare not show myself before men.’ Seeing that he
willed to preach, they answered him: ‘Maist comfortable were it unto us
to hear ye, but because we ken the danger wherein ye stand, we daurna
desire ye.’
“‘But daur you and others hear?’ said the brave preacher o’
righteousness,—‘then let my God provide for me as best pleaseth him.’
(It was aye _my_ God wi’ him.) Sae he preached in Leith, in Inveresk, in
Tranent; and God wrought for him, and blessed his ain Word. Amang thae
whase hearts he opened was Sir George Douglas, the Maister of Angus.
After the sermon at Inveresk he said publicly, ‘I ken that my lord
governor and my lord cardinal will hear I hae been at this preaching.
Say unto them that I will avow it, and that I will not only maintain the
doctrine I hae heard, but also the person o’ the preacher to the utmost
o’ my power.’
“But it was in Haddington he preached his last sermon. Ere he gaed to
the pulpit, they brought him a letter frae the Westland, to wit, that
the gentlemen couldna keep their tryst, or come to Edinburgh ava’;—maist
like they feared the Cardinal. He called unto him ane Sir John Knox”—
“Wha’s he?” asked Mary, little dreaming that the name so unfamiliar to
her ears was destined to become far more famous than that of her revered
pastor. Thus also perhaps was the word fulfilled, “One soweth and
another reapeth,”—if indeed this be worth noticing, now that for so many
years he that sowed and he that reaped have been rejoicing together in
their Saviour’s presence.
“He’s a guid priest,” said James Duncan, “wha was maister to Sir Hew
Douglas’s bairns. He has shown muckle love to Maister Wishart, waiting
on him wi’ a’ diligence, and blythe and proud to bear before him the
twa-handed sword his friends gared him tak’ wi’ him sin’ John Wigton—
“Well, I meant—I was saying he ca’ed for his friend Sir John Knox, and
tald him a’ his bitter grief at thae tidings. Nae thocht had he for
himsel, that they had led him into cruel peril, and then left him his
lane to dee; a’ his complaint was, that they were weary o’ God and his
cause.
“Then, after sermon,—whilk he ended thus, ‘Let these my last words as
concerning public preaching remain in your minds till God send you new
comfort,’—‘he took good night, as it were for ever, of all his
acquaintance.’ Sir John Knox begged sair to bide wi’ him, but he wadna.
He took frae him the twa-handed sword, and bade him gang his ways. Sir
John still entreating, he answered (aye thoughtfu’ as he was for a’body
but himsel), ‘Nay; go back to your bairns, and God bless you—_ane is
enough for a sacrifice_.’”
It was well for Scotland that the heart of George Wishart was thus “at
leisure from itself.” Had he granted Knox’s affectionate entreaty,
another name would probably have been added to the noble army of
martyrs, but the Reformation would have lacked its great leader, the one
man who could bend and sway the hearts of thousands. Little, however,
did the Duncans suspect all this; and very lightly would they have
esteemed the life of John Knox in comparison with _his_ over whose head
they saw the martyr’s crown suspended.
Jamie continued, “Sae he gaed wi’ the laird and a wheen ither gentlemen
to Ormistoun, whaur he was to sleep. It chanced they had to walk, by
reason o’ the muckle frost. After supper he talked happily wi’ his
friends o’ the death o’ God’s dear children; then, being weary, he said,
‘Methinks I desire earnestly to sleep. Will we sing a psalm?’ Near as he
lived to Christ, the lowliest words o’ penitence and prayer seemed best
to suit his heart’s need that nicht. Sae he waled the fifty-first, frae
the “gude and godly ballates,’—
“‘Have mercy on me now, good Lord,
After thy great mercy;
My sinful life does me remord,
Whilk sair has grievit thee;
But thy great grace has me restored,
Through grace to liberty:
To thy mercy with thee will I go.’
“Whilk being sung, he gaed to his chalmer, saying to his friends as they
parted, ‘God grant quiet rest.’ But na quiet rest was for God’s weary
servant that nicht. Ere midnicht Lord Bothwell, wi’ his men-at-arms, had
beset the house.[17] Sae soon as he kenned their purpose, Maister
Wishart said to the laird, ‘Open the gates, and let the blessed will of
my God be done.’ Sair grieved was the laird to do it, but it had to be.
Forbye, Lord Bothwell had gien express promise ‘that he should be safe,
and that it should pass the power o’ the Cardinal to do him scaith or
harm.’ And this said he owre again to Maister Wishart himsel, in the
presence o’ the lairds his friends. ‘Neither sall the Governor or the
Cardinal hae their will o’ ye, but I sall retain ye in my ain hands and
in my ain place, until that either I sall mak’ ye free, or else restore
ye in the same place where I receive ye.’
“And the lairds answered, ‘Gin ye do this, my lord, we will serve ye our
haill lives lang, wi’ a’ the men o’ Lothian wha profess Christ’s
evangel.’ Sae they a’ straik hands upon it, and made solemn promise as
in God’s presence.
“But sma’ thocht o’ God was in Lord Bothwell’s mind. Maist like he meant
fair at first; but the Cardinal gied muckle gowd, and the Queen’s
grace[18] gied guidly words, and sae—and sae—amang them a’ God’s servant
was bought and sold. First the Lord Governor had him in his keeping in
Edinburgh Castle. Wae’s me! but few days passed then, until he lichtly
gied him up into the hands o’ him that sought his life.”
“What say the Dundee folk to a’ this, Jamie?”
“It’s no that lang sin’ the tidings came for sure, that they had haled
him to St. Andrews. A’ the faithful make sair lamentation, but I needna
tell ye _that_, Mary” (and his own voice faltered)—“The cry is aye and
aye, ‘My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and the horsemen
thereof.’”
Mary shuddered. “Oh, Jamie, do ye no think what that minds me of? The
chariot—of _fire_!” The last word was rather breathed than spoken; yet
the loudest thunder-peal could not have sent such a thrill through both
those hearts.
James Duncan covered his face, and did not speak for a long time. At
last he said, “Young folk like Archie are weel nigh daft, because the
gentlemen and a’ the lave wha hae heard the blessed word o’ truth frae
his lips, sit still the noo in their quiet hames while the Cardinal pays
him for his message wi’—wi’ _that_. But they couldna save him. The haill
power o’ the realm is against them.”
“Archie, puir lad, ’ill be sair troubled.”
“Ay; but he’s had his arm broken.” What would at another time have been
considered a serious misfortune, now scarcely caused Mary a start. So
true it is that “a great grief kills all the rest.” She asked, however,
how it happened.
“A’ anent thae waefu’ tidings. There be some, of course, amang the
tounsfolk wha haud still by the Cardinal and the priests. The lads fecht
their forbears’ quarrels owre again, and whiles they dinna spare to use
waur weapons than their tongues. Our Archie wadna stint to gie as guid
as he got, ony gait. But it chanced he fell in wi’ a wheen silly
callants, wha had learned frae the priests to ca’ Maister Wishart a
heretic. He gied them back the word, that he was na heretic, but the
noblest man and the best Christian in a’ Scotland. That was unco weel;
but then he was sae far left to himsel, that he maun curse the bluidy
Cardinal in a loud voice, and pray God wad send him an evil end. Wi’
that somebody flang a muckle stane at him, and, lifting his arm to save
his head, he had it broken.”
“I’m wae for that, ilka gait,” said Mary. “Sic’ paivies couldna do God’s
servant ony guid.”
“True; but the broken arm willna do Archie muckle harm. It’s a kind o’
comfort to him to hae something to thole, and keeps him a bit quiet. I
gared Maister Wilson promise to send him here sae soon as he could.”
“Jamie,” said Mary after a pause, and rather hesitatingly, “will ye no
tak’ yer supper, man?”
Jamie drew forward towards the table, which had been spread by Mary with
such loving care. His eye rested on the little tokens of anxious thought
for his comfort, then wandered round the cheerful pleasant room, to
their store of treasured books—to the bright fireside—to the cot near it
where their infant slept. With a quick movement he turned away, and
veiled his face to hide the tears he could no longer restrain. “Oh,
Mary,” he said, “I’m fear’t it’s no sae cheery as this the nicht—in the
Sea Tower o’ St. Andrews!”
“But, Jamie, God can make the dark gruesome dungeon mair bright wi’ his
presence than the summer sky wi’ sunshine. Can we no trust our dear
father in Christ in the loving hands o’ the guid Maister he served sae
faithfu’? While yet he walked amang us God was his portion, why suld we
doot that even noo he can be his exceeding great reward?”
Mary Duncan’s words were true. No record indeed remains to us of the
month during which he lay, “straitly bound in irons,” in that “nook in
the bottom of the Sea Tower, a place where many of God’s children had
been imprisoned before,”[19]—unless the faith and love, shown so soon
afterwards by the captain of the castle, may be counted a record of work
done for Christ in that solemn interval. But it has well been said,
“There has been a joy in dungeons and on racks passing the joy of
harvest. A joy strange and solemn, mysterious even to its possessor. A
white stone dropped from that signet-ring, peace, which a dying Saviour
took from his own bosom, and bequeathed to those who endure the cross,
despising the shame.” If that white stone has been ever given (and most
assuredly it has), we may presume it was not withheld, in the hour of
loneliness and suffering, from Christ’s faithful soldier and servant,
George Wishart.
[Illustration]
XIII.
=“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=
“I bless Thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now,
I bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crownèd brow;
For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee,
And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly.”
_Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XIII.
=“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=