Part 10

“But maist eager for his death, after the cruel Cardinal himsel, was the Archbishop o’ Glasgow. Folk couldna fail to mind it was no that lang sin’ he came to Ayr, wi’ his jackmen and spearmen, to tak’ the muckle heretic. But he fand him wi’ a’ the Westland gentlemen around him, sword in hand. Ye mind then how he seized the kirk, and how, as at Mauchline, the angry gentlefolk wad hae driven him forth waur than he came, hadna God’s servant withheld them, saying, ‘Let him alane; his sermon will not much hurt. Let us go to the Mercat Cross.’ Bitter thanks the bishop gied him for the same! But at least Maister Wishart had his will; ‘the Word sent by him was a word o’ peace,’ na bluid was shed for it—_but his ain_.

“We were talking o’ these things amang oursels wi’ sad hearts, when the captain came again, and wi’ him—the man sae dear to us a’.”

“Oh, Jamie! Then, ye saw him?” Jamie bowed his head.

“Was he changed?” asked Mary in a trembling voice.

“He was pale and worn-looking, but ye’d scarce hae thocht o’ that; for God’s peace was in his face, gin it’s ever been in man’s.”

“Then he wasna fear’t?” asked Janet.

“_Fear’t_, Janet? He was naebut gaun ‘unto God, his exceeding joy.’ But I couldna but mind the day he knelt by my bedside sae kind and gentle, and a great sob came up like a wave frae the bottom o’ my heart. Wi’ a’ my strength I forced it back, and kept still, warsling wi’ mysel, while the lave pressed round and talked wi’ him.

“But presently I heard him say, ‘I beseik ye, my brethren, to be silent for a little while, that I may bless this bread according to our Saviour’s ordinance, and so take my leave of you.’ He was sae calm himsel, that he calmed us a’. He gared us come to the table; and we were soon seated there, as for a simple meal, yet kenning full weel the place was na ither than the house o’ God, the vera gate o’ heaven.

“And sic’ God made it to us. Oh Mary, it was wonnerfu’ to hear a man talk o’ Christ, wha we kenned, ere that day’s sun set, suld see Him eye to eye. It was amaist as though he _had_ seen Him, even then. He seemed to tak’ us wi’ him—abune—ayont a’ earth’s grief and dolor, into the strange peace and quiet of our Lord’s ain immediate presence. He spake first o’ the institution of the Lord’s Supper, then of his sufferings and his death for us. He made us a’ think o’ that, till, looking at the Cross, we amaist forgot the stake that was sae near us. Nae doot but _he_ forgot it!

“But ye ken that in the old times, Mary, he never failed to bring the truth hame to our ain hearts and lives. And sae it was the noo. Maist lovingly he pleaded wi’ us, by that Death for us, to love ane anither ‘as perfect members of Christ, wha intercedes continually for us to God the Father.’ And he bade us lay aside, for His name’s sake, a’ rancour, envy, _vengeance_!—Weel we kenned what he meant! Archie, lad, it seemed no hard to do it then, wi’ sic’ thochts before us. I looked for a’ the rage and hate that a wheen agone had filled my soul wi’ the bitterness o’ death, and lo! they were gone; Christ’s love had melted them awa’. Frae the vera depth o’ my heart I forgave that hour—even the cruel Cardinal. And I think we a’ did the same. This was the last lesson _he_ taught us.

“Then he blessed the bread and wine, and having tasted them himsel, he gied to ilka ane of us. I feel the thirl yet o’ his hand touching mine, and his voice saying to me, ‘Remember that Christ died for thee, and feed on Him in thy heart by faith.’ Still mair when he gied the cup, that the kirkmen say we daurna touch.”—Here at last Jamie’s voice failed, and he was silent for some moments. Presently he resumed, “After this he gied thanks, and prayed for us. Then he said, ‘I shall neither eat nor drink more in this life. There is a more bitter cup prepared for me, only because I have preached the true Word of God; but pray for me, that I may take it patiently, as from his hand.’ And sae, having bade us a’ farewell, he gaed forth.”

“Did ye greet?” asked Janet.

“Not ane tear till he was awa’. We wadna grieve him wi’ our grief; forbye, ere he had done, our hearts were owre full of a kind of awfu’ happiness that left nae thocht o’ grief. But then—when a’ was by,”—again his voice died away.

Archie broke the silence,—“It was just like him to help and comfort a’body else to the vera last minute, wi’ nae thocht nor care for himsel.”

“It was like his Lord,” said Mary’s low soft voice. “Thank God a’ yer life ye hae seen him thus, Jamie.”

“I hae seen him ainst mair.”

“Sure ye daredna see the end?”—the question was Archie’s.

“I’d hae dared onything then. I said to mysel, ‘Am I sae weak that I canna thole to _see_ what he maun suffer? Gin a’ that love him hae sic’ coward hearts, he’ll be left, that dreadfu’ hour, his lane amang faes and strangers.’ Sae I gaed wi’ the lave.

“Archie, Mary, dinna ask me to say muckle on’t! I canna—no just yet. Aiblins when lang years are by, and our hairs are gray, we’ll talk it owre wi’ mair quiet hearts; but noo”—

After a long pause he went on, shading his face, and bringing out every word slowly and with effort. “I saw him led to the stake—the gibbet I suld say, for nae shame or scorning they could devise was spared him. His hands bound behind him, a rope round his neck, and a muckle chain—oh Mary, dinna greet like that, it’s a’ by noo. Shame, did I say? God’s bright angels might hae envied him the glory o’ that hour. Gin ye’d seen his face as I did, ye’d hae thocht sae. His spirit had just been in sic’ close communion wi’ the Lord he loved; he was gaun straight to the mair perfect fellowship abune; and this was naebut a bit passage,—ane step between the twa,—Christ’s presence in grace here, Christ’s presence in glory up yonder.

“Vera gentle were his words to a’, baith friend and fae. Even to the beggars, wha met him on the way, he couldna but gie a word o’ comfort. ‘I want my hands, wherewith I wont to give you alms. But the merciful Lord, of his benignity and abundant grace, that feedeth all men, vouchsafe to give you necessaries, both unto your bodies and souls.’ And when the Grayfriars troubled him, urging him to pray to our Lady, he answered meekly, ‘Cease to tempt me, I entreat you, my brethren.’

“Being come to the place, he kneeled down and prayed, ‘O thou Saviour of the world, have mercy upon me. Father of Heaven, I commend my spirit into thy holy hands.’ Then he spake to the people. I hae brought ye his last message, Mary. I think my heart has gathered ilka ane o’ the words he spake. For the hot airn takes the stamp, and keeps it for aye.

“‘I pray you,’ he said to them that stood around, ‘show my brethren and sisters, which have heard me oft before, that they cease not nor leave off to learn the Word of God, which I taught unto them after the grace given unto me, for no persecutions or troubles in this world, which lasteth not. And show unto them, that my doctrine was no wives’ fables, after the constitutions made by men; and if I had taught men’s doctrine, I had gotten greater thanks by men. But for the Word’s sake and true evangel, which was given to me by the grace of God, I suffer this day, not sorrowfully, but with a glad heart and mind. Consider and behold my visage, ye sall not see me change my colour. This grim fire I fear not; and so I pray you for to do, if that any persecution come to you for the sake of the Word, and not to fear them that slay the body, and after that have no power to slay the soul. Some have said of me, that I taught that the soul of man should sleep until the last day; but I know surely that my soul shall sup with my Saviour this night, or it be six hours, for whom I suffer this.’

“Then prayed he for his enemies in sic’ words as thae: ‘I beseik the Father of Heaven to forgive them that have, of any ignorance, or else of any evil mind, forged lies upon me; I forgive them with all mine heart; I beseik Christ to forgive them that have condemned me to death this day ignorantly.’

“But no yet was done his last act o thoughtfu’ love. For we marked that the doomster[23] kneeled unto him, and maist earnestly prayed his forgiveness, saying he was in no ways guilty of his death. To whom he said, ‘Come hither to me.’ When he was come, he kissed him on the cheek, wi’ the words, ‘Lo, here is a token that I forgive thee. My friend, do thine office.’”

A long, long silence followed. At last Archie murmured through his tears, “What then?”

“Then—the end came. But my coward heart failed me; I could thole nae mair. Scarce kenning what I did, I gat me frae the place, frae the town. I dinna mind aething, till belyve I fand mysel in a bit quiet grassy spot. There I threw mysel on my knees, and tried hard to cry to God. It were sae easy for Him to tak’ a’ the bitter pain awa’, and gie his servant peace in that last awfu’ hour. The ‘grim fire’ needna hurt, gin He willed it sae. For fire and hail, snaw and vapour, alike fulfil His word. A’ my heart gaed up in ane last prayer for him; and I took nae thocht o’ time, till at length the sound of a bell frae the Abbey Kirk struck my ear. Then my prayers changed to praises. For I kenned it was the saxt hour, and I minded the martyr’s words, ‘Ere it be sax hours, my soul shall sup wi’ Christ my Saviour.’ Nae truer thirl o’ joy do I ever think to feel, were I to live a hundert year on earth. I couldna but cry aloud, wi’ clasped hands, and tears that were a’ for gladness, ‘Thou hast gien thy servant ‘quiet rest’ at last. I thank thee, O my Father!’”

“God be thanked for _him_. He rests frae his labours, and his warks do follow him.—But it’s the waefu’ day for us!” sobbed Archie, who although at an age when boys are more ashamed of tears than men, had for some time been weeping without restraint.

James Duncan laid his hand gently on his shoulder. “Brither,” he said, “daur ye stand this day by the word ye spake when ye waled sic’ a life as his aboon ilka ither? Can ye drink o’ that cup, think ye?”

The boy raised his head quickly, dashed his tears away, and said with deep emotion, “I’d rather live sic’ a life and dee sic’ a death, than be king owre a’ the muckle warld, wi’ a’ the honour and glory o’t. But,” he added presently, and in a lower voice, “it’s no by might or by power, but by the Lord’s ain Spirit; the whilk he’ll no deny e’en to a puir sinfu’ lad like me, wha asks it this day for his dear Son’s sake.”

“Amen,” said James Duncan.

Then they wept together, long and bitterly, like orphaned children for a beloved father. But with their tears were mingled earnest prayers that they might be enabled to follow his faith, considering the end of his conversation.

George Wishart entered into rest at the comparatively early age of 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.”

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._

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.”