thirty-three (as is supposed). His ministry, after his return to
Scotland, did not last more than two, or at the most, three years. But
both that ministry itself, and the martyrdom that crowned and
consecrated it, were very fruitful in results. In the strong words of
Burnet, “Not any one thing hastened forward the Reformation more than
this did.... And it was now so much opened by his preaching, and that
was so confirmed by his death, that the nation was generally possessed
by the love of it.”
It seems strange, however, that the story of one of Christ’s gentlest
servants should be so associated with a deed of blood and vengeance,
that the martyrdom of Wishart is seldom mentioned without recalling at
the same time the assassination of Cardinal Beaton. We may not account
for the gleam of prophetic vision that crossed the martyr’s spirit,
prompting those strange words, said to have been spoken from the midst
of the flames to that faithful friend who stood so near him that he was
himself actually injured by the fire, “Captain, God forgive yon man who
sits so proudly on that wall-head; but I know that he shall soon lie
there in greater shame than he now sits in glory.” But if life and death
have both their many mysteries, above all “dark with light of mysteries”
is the dim region between them. Who knows how God may then speak to the
soul? The real difficulty is, not that in that hour he was pleased to
reveal something to his servant, but that the thing revealed was not of
a nature to have given him joy or comfort.[24]
This much is certain, no one who has felt all the glory of that death,
so bright with courage and patience, and with the gentleness of Christ,
could regard the other death, in such dark sad contrast, with any
feelings but those of mournful pity. The scene was not without a sombre
grandeur of its own. The heart throbs yet at the solemn words of the
avenger of blood, spoken with his sword at the breast of his trembling
victim, “Repent thee of thy former wicked life, but especially of the
blood of that notable instrument of God, Master George Wishart, which
albeit the fire consumed before men, yet cries for vengeance upon thee,
and we are sent from God to avenge it. For here, before God, I protest
that neither the hatred of thy person, nor the love of thy riches, nor
the fear of any trouble thou couldst have done to me in particular,
moved or moves me to strike thee, but only because thou art an obstinate
enemy of Christ Jesus and his holy evangel.” And still we seem to hear
the echo of that “dismal cry, full of eternity’s despair,” with which
the guilty spirit passed.—“All is gone!” The retribution was complete.
That the townspeople might believe their Cardinal was really dead, the
assassins flung his body, with scorn and insult, upon that very “fore
tower” from which he beheld the martyr’s sufferings.
Perhaps other humble Christians may have felt as the Duncans did when
the news of this event reached the quiet home of Dunsinnane Brae. Archie
indeed could not help exclaiming, “‘Hell frae beneath is moved for thee
at thy coming, it stirreth up the dead for thee.’ Eh, and willna Herod,
and Pontius Pilate, and a’ the wicked heathen kings be blythe to see him
there?”
But James Duncan said, “Whisht, callant. It’s no for us to tak’ sic’
awfu’ words in our mouths. Nae mair than it was for _them_ to tak’ at
their ain hands that vengeance, of the whilk God has said, ‘It is mine.’
But Mary, woman, sure ye’re no greeting for him?”
“No for the Cardinal, Jamie. But for ane wha, had he been alive the day,
wadna hae let them touch a hair o’ his head. I amaist think,” added
Mary, her tears falling faster, “I amaist think he’d hae said, as he did
ainst before, ‘_He that troubles him troubles me._’”
“But, ye ken, it was to avenge him they did it, Mary.”
“They suld hae left that to the Lord he loved. His cause was unco safe
in his guid hand. Wae’s me! what gared them touch it ava’?”
And thus, without unseemly triumph or exultation, they left the cruel
Cardinal to the just award of his great Judge. They had once fought the
battle with anger and hatred, and having, by God’s grace, gained the
victory, it had not to be fought over again.
The quiet current of their own lives flowed on undisturbed by any
striking event. James Duncan did for his child what other Christian
laymen were at that time obliged to do for theirs. He baptized it
himself, in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit, commending it to
the tender care of the Good Shepherd, and praying him earnestly to
suffer this little one to come unto him. And his prayer was heard.
George Duncan feared the God of his father from his youth upwards. There
rested indeed upon all the family that blessing of the Lord which maketh
rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it. James and Mary saw their
children’s children, and peace upon the Israel of their native land,
God’s faithful “congregation” in Scotland.
The minister’s martyr death was the message God sent home to Archie’s
young ardent soul. He lived to realise his boyish dream; for
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
He became himself a preacher of the gospel, a good steward of the
manifold grace of God. When, twelve years afterwards, his native town of
Dundee “began to erect the face of a publick churche reformed, in the
which the Worde was openlie preached, and Christ’s Sacramentis trewlie
ministrat,” he was amongst those “zealous men who did exhort their
brethren according to the gifts and graces granted unto them.” Thus the
lips silenced by fire at St. Andrews spoke on still, as well in the
living burning words which other lips caught up from theirs, as in the
voiceless eloquence of thousands of holy lives, extending and
transmitting their influence for good in wider and ever wider circles of
blessing.
Two years after the establishment of the Reformation in Dundee, the
faith for which George Wishart died became the recognised faith of
Scotland. “Nor was this long in doing, nor did many suffer after” him;
only two indeed—Adam Wallace, and brave old Walter Mill—were privileged
to lay down their lives at the stake, before “the kingdom of God
evidently appeared and triumphed in despite of Satan.”
“Round went the message, over rock and plain,
Like burning words from lips of prophet old;
Priest, lord, and king, opposed the voice in vain,—
It would not be controlled.
“Wide o’er the land went forth the new-born day,
Brightening alike the cot, the hall, the throne;
Long years of darkness vanish at its ray,
Ages of night have gone.
“The Christ has come, the breaker of all chains,
The giver of the heavenly liberty.
Peace, light, and freedom, to these hills and plains,—
The land—the land is free!”
And after three centuries, still the land is free, and peace and light
have their habitation there. Happy Scotland, land of Schools and Bibles,
land of God-fearing men and women! As we climb thy glorious hills, or
wander over thy peaceful plains, so rich in all that can please the eye
or stir the fancy, and hear the voice of prayer and praise arise from
hall and cottage, and behold the Sabbath esteemed a delight, the holy of
the Lord, honourable—there floats back upon the ear, like sweet music
from the distance, the echo of those words spoken so long ago by one of
thy noblest martyr sons,—
“THIS REALM SHALL BE ILLUMINED WITH THE LIGHT OF CHRIST’S EVANGEL, AS
CLEARLY AS ANY REALM EVER WAS SINCE THE DAYS OF THE APOSTLES. GOD’S
HOUSE SHALL BE BUILT IN IT; YEA, IT SHALL NOT LACK THE VERY COPESTONE.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE PRIOR]
[Illustration]
I.
=Tithing the Fish.=
“The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu’ weel;
And muckle luck attend the boat,
The merlin, and the creel.”
_Old Scotch Song._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
I.
=Tithing the Fish.=
“Tak’ guid counsel when ye get it, man,” said the Laird of Lauriston to
his brother David, who was pacing up and down the hall of Lauriston
Castle in a state of considerable excitement.
“Thole it, Davie, thole it—‘He that tholes overcomes.’ Forbye, ye suld
ken it’s ill fechting wi’ kirkmen.”
“Ay,” returned David Stratton between his teeth, “’ill fechting wi’
them, but waur tholing them. A pack o’ greedy loons they be, ilka ane o’
them, bishop, priest, monk, and friar; taking the bread frae the mouths
o’ widows and fatherless bairns to keep their ainsels in pride and
luxury, and a’ manner o’ sin. What wi’ the best cow, and the uppermost
cloth, and the teind o’ meal and maut, and a’ the lave, were we no
shaved close enoo’, but they maun come speiring after the vera fish o’
the sea, that we get by the guid help o’ God and the hard toil o’ our
ain hands? Say what ye may, brither, neither Prior Patrick Hepburn nor
Maister Robert Lawson sall hae the tenth fish o’ me.” And he confirmed
his declaration by an oath.
David Stratton was a man whom either priest or layman, in those stormy
days, might have preferred having as a friend than as a foe. Every
movement of his powerful well-knit frame, every glance of his keen blue
eye, bespoke energy and decision of character. A strong will and a brave
heart, a good share of common sense, and an iron constitution, had
hitherto enabled him, in whatever he undertook, to bear down opposition,
and to carry out his purposes with a high hand. Still he had a rough but
real sense of justice that might have disposed him to yield good
humouredly to a fair demand. It only quickened his opposition to one
that he considered obviously unjust and oppressive.
His case was this. He had shrewdly invested part of his moderate
resources (a younger brother’s portion) in the purchase of a
fishing-boat, which brought him in a considerable profit. Hearing of
this, the Prior of St. Andrews demanded the tithe of his gains,
employing as his agent in the business, Robert Lawson, vicar of
Ecclescreig.
The Laird of Lauriston, who did not equal his brother in courage and
determination, urged compliance with the demand; but David, although
well content to leave his soul, with all its weighty interests, to the
management of the kirkmen, had no disposition to permit their meddlesome
interference with his temporal possessions.
Lauriston therefore remonstrated in vain, and he did so in the
hesitating tone of one who foresees his remonstrance will be in vain.
“Gie him the teind, Davie, that ye may keep the nine siccar.”
“Haud yer clavers! I’ll keep the nine siccar, and nae thanks to you or
him.”
“Douce, man, douce. Do ye no ken the holy prior may curse ye wi’ the
muckle curse, and aiblins yer net ’ill break, or your boat ’ill gae down
in the sea, or Hugh Peters, yer best fisherman, that ye set sic’ store
by, ’ill fall frae the mast?”
For a moment David stared at his brother in surprise, then he burst into
a loud fit of laughter.
“The _holy_ prior! Heerd a man ever the like? Ye’ve been just taking a
willy-waucht o’ yer guid French wine, or ye wadna talk sic’ fooleries.
What wad gar me be fear’t for a kirkman’s curse, that aebody wha likes
may buy for a plack[25] ony day? Forbye, the blessed saints hae got mair
to do than to tak’ tent o’ Patrick Hepburn, when it’s his pleasure to
curse better men than himsel.”
“Weel, a wilfu’ man maun gang his gait. Gin it were but for my sake,
though, ye might speak him fair. Forbye that, ye’re a daft lad to be
making faes for yersel when it’s _friends_ ye suld be speiring after.
An’ ye want to win favour wi’ the Lindsays it’s ill fechting wi’ the
Hepburns, for they’re fast friends the noo.”
David threw himself into the nearest seat, and remained silent for some
minutes, during which a change passed gradually over his face, softening
its hard and keen expression. At last he said, “Alison Lindsay’s a brave
lass, and likes a man wi’ a will o’ his ain.”
“There be ways enoo’ to show thy will, but meddling wi’ the priests.”
“I canna thole to hae the gear minished when I’m gathering it for her,”
said David slowly, and in an altered tone.
“Hoot awa, man! There’ll be gear enoo’. I’ve nae but ane son”—
David stretched out his sinewy arm with a forbidding gesture. “Na, na,
David Stratton ’ill never sorn upon ony, be it his ain brither ten times
owre. Forbye,” he added with a laugh, “Maister Geordie ’ill need a’ the
gear ye can win for him, for I wad ye a plack it’s na muckle he’ll win
for himsel, wi’ his Latin and his logic, and a’ his ither fooleries,
that hae never filled aebody’s mouth, sae far’s I ken, wi’ onything
better than idle clavers.”
Lauriston looked annoyed, but controlled himself. “Atweel, David,” he
said, “we’re no like to agree upon _that_. But never heed the gear.
Alison’s father’ll gie her a braw tocher, never fear. She’s my wife’s
ain cousin, and forbye that, she’s a guid lass and a bonnie, sae I wish
thee guid luck wi’ her.”
A very perceptible flush mounted to David’s bronzed cheek. Not choosing
apparently to talk more of the matter, he turned his attention to the
“good French wine” on the table, of which he drank a cup. Then he said
with a smile, “Weel, Andrew, I’ll no stan’ against guid counsel. The
prior may tak’ his teind, I’se no hinder him.”
Lauriston looked keenly at his brother. He spoke fairly enough, but
there was a light in his eye, and a smile lurking about the corners of
his mouth, not pleasing in the sight of the prudent and peaceable laird.
But at that moment the young Master of Lauriston entered the room, his
usually open countenance wearing an expression of considerable
impatience and vexation. His father and uncle had in fact delegated to
him the very uncongenial task of entertaining the vicar of Ecclescreig,
whilst they deliberated upon the demand of which he was the bearer; and
the youth was both wearied and disgusted with his companion. Nor was he
perhaps too willing to sacrifice his own convenience to that of his
uncle David, whom he could not help regarding with the kind of contempt
a scholar usually entertains for the _wilfully_ ignorant. And David
repaid his contempt with interest, though upon different grounds. “He
despysed all reading, chiefly of those things that are godly;” he
regarded every scholar as a useless, effeminate character, but most of
all a scholar who, like George Stratton, had “drunk of St. Leonard’s
Well,”[26] and was even suspected of carrying about his person, for
private perusal, a copy of Tyndale’s New Testament. At the same time,
with considerable inconsistency, he also despised the clergy for their
shameful ignorance and their abandoned lives.
“Uncle,” said George, “yon priest wad needs be gone. I pray you stay him
not, but give him an answer straightway, yea or nay.”
“An answer, lad? That I will, and a better, I wad ye, than ye’d find in
yer books frae this to Yule.” And he rose to go.
“Tak’ tent,” said Lauriston, in a warning voice. “I jalouse ye’ll be
playing some of your tricks upon the priest.”
“I?” said Stratton, with a droll look of assumed simplicity, “what for
suld I play tricks upon Maister Robert? I’d as soon play them upon my
lord the prior himsel (which was probably quite true). Ye ken my boat
lies in the creek, twa mile and a bittock frae this. I’ll just ride sae
far wi’ the vicar, and he sall hear me tell my men to reserve my lord’s
teinds at their peril. Gin that’ll no content him, ’twill be an ill
case.”
With this assurance Lauriston was obliged to be satisfied; and a few
minutes later saw the energetic David Stratton and Master Robert Lawson
on their way together to the little harbour.
The sound of their master’s well-known whistle summoned the fishermen,
who were engaged in preparing their evening meal on board the little
vessel. They were a rough, wild-looking group; but they seemed warmly
attached to “Maister Davie,” who had often shared their toils and
dangers.
He addressed himself particularly to the two who stood foremost amongst
them: “Hark ye, my lads. The Prior o’ St. Andrews hath sent this holy
man unto me, speiring after the teind pairt o’ our fish. And we maun be
guid Christians, and gie the kirk her dues, ye ken. Sae I command ye,
gin ye be my true men, of a’ the fish ye tak’ frae this day
for’ard—_throw the teind pairt back into the sea_!” The men listened to
the first part of this address with ill-concealed annoyance and dislike.
But when, in conclusion, their master gave his singular command, the
expression of their countenances changed, first into surprise and
wonder, then into undisguised satisfaction. “Ay, ay, maister!” shouted
the two foremost heartily; and their shout was echoed by all the group,
from gray-haired Hugh Peters to the brace of bare-legged, shock-headed
boys, who stood at a respectful distance staring at the master and his
unwonted companion the priest.
To whom, as soon as the noise had subsided, Master David turned: “Gang
yer ways, sir, and tell my lord the prior that he may _come and tak’ his
teind frae the place whaur I get my stock_.”
To judge by their continued cheers and laughter, the joke was better
relished by the fishermen than it was by the priest. “That’s a dour
message, Maister David,” said he, “and ill to carry to a proud and
scornful man like my lord the prior.”
“Nae ither sall ye get frae me,” answered David briefly; and with a
slight and rather contemptuous salute, he turned his horse’s head and
rode quickly back to Lauriston.
Far indeed was he then from foreseeing all the sorrow his rude and
thoughtless jest was destined to occasion. Yet out of that sorrow were
to spring forth richer and purer blessings than as yet he could even
conceive. But for the covetous demand of the prior of St. Andrews, and
the reckless defiance it provoked, David Stratton would probably have
lived and died without God in the world. His fishing, his farm, his
field-sports, his family, would have engrossed his thoughts, and (as far
as these things can do it) have filled his heart. But He who is
“wonderful in counsel and excellent in working” was leading the blind by
a way that he knew not, which was yet for him “the right way, that he
might go unto a city of habitation.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
=The Excommunication.=
“There is a forest where the din
Of iron branches sounds!
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein
Sees the heavens all black with sin,—
Sees not its depths nor bounds.”
LONGFELLOW
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
=The Excommunication.=
Whilst Patrick Hepburn, Prior of St. Andrews, was disputing about his
“teindis” with David Stratton, the corrupt hierarchy, of which he was a
most worthy member, was fast filling up the measure of its iniquity.
What that iniquity was—how deep, how dark, how terrible—may still be
read in the pages of contemporary history. But the heart turns sickening
from the record, feeling it “a vexation only to understand the report,”
a pain and a grief even to _know_ what these men dared to do “in the
face of the sun and the eye of light.”
Some, indeed, there were, who amidst all that unutterable pollution yet
“walked with Christ in white garments stainless.” For their names and
their memories we thank God; and none the less because such names have
oftenest come down to us surrounded by a mournful halo of martyr glory.
Strange to say, it is usually those stories that end with stake and
gibbet to which the student turns with relief and pleasure, and over
which he lingers gladly. Bright to the thoughtful eye is the dungeon’s
midnight gloom; dark with a horror of great darkness are the abodes of
pomp and luxury, where cardinal, priest, and bishop held ungodly
revelry.
For they held revelry, as those who neither feared God nor regarded man.
Like the nobles at Belshazzar’s feast, they drank wine, and praised
their gods of silver and gods of gold; they profaned to every vile,
degrading use “the vessels of the sanctuary,” those hallowed names and
symbols which Rome has borrowed, or rather stolen, from the true temple
of the Lord. But they saw not the writing of the man’s hand upon the
wall, they knew not that even then they were weighed in the balances and
found wanting, and that God had numbered their kingdom, and finished it.
Already, at the period of which we write, the light of the glorious
gospel of Christ was beginning to shine upon Scotland. Five years
before[27] young Patrick Hamilton, the protomartyr of the Scottish
Reformation, sealed his testimony at St. Andrews, and “the reek of his
burning infected all that it did blow upon.” Many copies of Tyndale’s
New Testament had found their way into the country, chiefly through the
instrumentality of the merchants of the sea-port towns; and these were
eagerly read by all classes of the people. Some of the principal
teachers at the university of St. Andrews were strongly inclined to the
reformed doctrines, and numbers of the young men who were educated there
had imbibed their opinions.
But to return to the true history of David Stratton. For a short time
after his bold message to the Prior of St. Andrews, all went on
prosperously with him. His land brought forth abundantly, his nets
gathered rich spoils from the sea. What was better still, Alison Lindsay
was disposed to look favourably on his suit; nor did her relatives, at
this time, seem to regard him with an unfriendly eye. But while he
“blessed his soul,” and promised himself years of peace and plenty, a
dark and threatening cloud had gathered unnoticed, and was about to
burst over his head.
The proud and covetous Prior of St. Andrews answered his rude taunt with
the thunders of a Romish excommunication. It might have been thought,
even by zealous Romanists, that the punishment exceeded the offence; and
that those thunders might better have been reserved for more important
occasions, and more desperate and wilful offenders. “For, indeed, the
man had _no_ religion,” as we are gravely told of another person, by way
of a sufficient reason for his full and triumphant acquittal from the
charge of heresy. It is light that darkness hates, and light alone:
Rome’s quarrel is not with ignorance and irreligion; though these may
sometimes provoke her bitter anger, when they lay their hands upon some
of her cherished interests. This was just what David Stratton had done:
striking blindly and recklessly, under the influence of momentary
irritation, he had chanced to strike a very tender part. “One that
shoulde have said that no tithes shoulde be payed” was a dangerous
member of society in the eyes of those who by means of these very
“teindis and rentis,” extracted from the fears or the superstitions of
the laity, were clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously
every day.
It is not easy for us to understand what David Stratton felt when he
found himself cursed with bell, book, and candle, and “delivered into
the deville’s handes.” The lion’s roar has lost its terrors for us, who
have only seen him caged and powerless; it was very different with the
men who knew that the roar was but the prelude to the crouch and spring
of the deadly destroyer.