Part 8

One story amongst others the mercer told them, which Knox has preserved for us, bestowing upon the picture one or two of those rare touches of grace and tenderness of which his strong bold hand was not incapable. Having been invited to preach in the church of Mauchline, Wishart found himself on his arrival excluded by the Sheriff and a strong party of Romanists, who, acting under his orders, had seized upon the building. The high-spirited gentlemen, his friends and adherents, were indignant at this treatment, and vowed to enter the church by force. But the servant of the Lord would not strive. Taking Hugh Campbell of Kinyeancleugh, the most zealous of his followers, aside, he said to him: “Brother, Jesus Christ is as potent upon the fields as in the kirk; and I find that he himself more often preached in the desert, at the sea-side, and in other places judged profane, than that he did in the Temple of Hierusalem. It is the word of peace that God sends by me: the blood of no man shall be shed this day for the preaching of it.” And so, followed by all the people of the town, he withdrew to the hillside, where they stood or sate around him while he preached from “a dyke in the moor edge.” And Knox forgets not to tell us, that “God gave the day pleasing and hote.” Modern church-goers may be surprised to hear that the sermon lasted more than three hours; but the preacher knew his time was short, nor were the hearers weary, for “the word of the Lord was precious in those days.” And “in that sermon God wrought so wonderfully with him, that ane of the most wicked men that was in that country, named Laurence Rankin, laird of Sheill, was converted. The tears ran from his eyes in such abundance that all men wondered.” And his life thenceforward was such as to evidence the reality of the change.

Here Wilson paused, struck by the eager attention of his younger listener. Archie’s bright young face was indeed glowing with interest and enthusiasm; and the mercer, pleased with the boy’s appearance, felt the more desirous to receive him into his household. He therefore asked him kindly if his brother had told him of his proposal, and what he thought of it.

“Ye’re unco guid, sir,” said Archie, so fired by all he had been hearing that reserve and shyness were forgotten, “but I willna hae a trade. I maun gang to the schule and learn my book. Aiblins God’ll gie me sae muckle grace that when I’m a man grown I may preach his holy Word—like guid Maister Wishart.”

Jamie stood aghast at this revelation of his brother’s ambition. Had the friendless orphan boy declared his intention of one day becoming lord provost of Dundee, or even lord high sheriff of Angus, he would have deemed his aspirations comparatively moderate and reasonable. “Ye puir fule callant!” he said, too deeply compassionate to entertain the least thought of ridicule, “ye’ll no ever be like _him_. What gars ye cry for the moon, like a senseless bit bairn?”

“Leave him his lane,” interposed Wilson. “He’ll no be the waur, ony gait, for having dreamed that dream; and he’s like to be the better his haill life lang.”

The famous words,

“Who aimeth at the sky, Shoots higher far than he that means a tree,”

had not yet been penned; but they would not be so famous if they did not embody a truth which thoughtful spirits had recognised and acted upon long before.

Wilson then spoke to James Duncan about his plans; and having ascertained his determination to remove to the country, he finally offered Archie a home in his house for the next year; telling him he might attend school with his own bairns and show what progress he could make; and adding, for Jamie’s benefit, that if it seemed advisable, at the end of that time, he might still be bound to the trade.

Archie “wasna blate,” as Jamie afterwards declared. He frankly and gratefully embraced the proposal, leaving his brother little opportunity for showing the reluctance he felt at accepting so great a boon from a comparative stranger.

The brothers did not return as silently as they came. Their brief misunderstanding had been swept away by a common interest and sympathy; and if the elder remonstrated with the younger on the wildness of his ambition, it was in the spirit of love and meekness. For he had reason to fear that the boy had not yet in his own heart felt the power of the truths that Wishart preached; and that what looked so like an ardent attachment to the doctrines of the gospel, was, in fact, only the result of a passionate admiration for the best and noblest man he had ever known. Archie’s answers to the questions he put, though both frank and intelligent, confirmed him in this opinion; and he warned him, gently but faithfully, against the danger of self-deception. He was so far impressed and sobered, that on his return home he actually allowed Jamie to narrate to Janet and Mary all they had heard; not interposing a single word until his brother told Wishart’s reason for leaving Dundee, when he could not refrain from saying, “Eh, but I think it’s unco hard. _Our_ troubles are bye noo, and we’re gaun to rest. An’ is _he_ naebut to gang to some ither battle, aiblins as hard as this ane?”

“Ay, lad,” said Jamie, “there’s nae rest for the preacher o’ God’s Word till God gies rest himsel. How could it be ony ither gait, sae lang as the haill country lies in darkness and the shadow o’ death, and men are deeing ilka day without the fear o’ God or the hope o’ heaven? Atweel,” he added after a pause, “he’ll no ever ken here a’ the guid he’s done us, and a’ the love we bear him for it; but an’ it’s no wrang, I like to think whiles that we’ll get to tell him up yon in heaven. For doesna the Book say that sic’ as we ’ill be the minister’s joy and crown o’ rejoicing in Christ’s presence by and by?”

“But I’m no just sure, Jamie,” said Mary thoughtfully, “that it’s richt to leave a’ the doing and suffering in Christ’s cause to Maister Wishart. What has the guid Lord done for him he hasna done just the same for ilka ane of us?”

“But ye ken we canna preach, Mary,” remarked Janet.

“That’s owre true, Janet, but we can _live_. Forbye, Jamie, when we gang to Dunsinnan, do ye no think we can tell our puir neebors the Word o’ God, and read them a wheen chapters out o’ the Book?”

“Sae we will, God helping us,” said Jamie. “Gin trouble suld come to us for the same (I’m no saying it’s like to come, Mary, but ye ken it _might_), we’d be blythe to thole it for his sake wha tholed the bitter cross for ours.”

“Ony gait, Jamie, we’re unco safe in his keeping. An’ how weel he has fended for us! I canna but mind that bit verse in the wee psalm book ye bought me yestreen for a propine.[13] ‘The lot is fallen to me in a fair ground: yea, I hae a guidly heritage.’”

“God be praised,” answered Jamie; “the year o’ the muckle sickness has been the best year I hae seen in a’ my life.”

Many besides James Duncan could have borne this witness. The dark year of Dundee proved one of the brightest in her history. Never before, and perhaps never since, until the great revival of the present day, had such numbers there been turned from darkness to light and from the power of Satan unto God. It was but a little while until that light so increased and brightened, that it chased the shades of darkness away before it,—nay, until its beams, concentrated as in a burning-glass, shrivelled to ashes the worn-out gauds and trappings of Romish superstition. Dundee was the first of all the Scottish burghs that declared for the Reformation; and by her whole-hearted steadfastness in the good cause she won the honourable name of the Second Geneva.

Three hundred years, with all their changes, lie between us and those 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.

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._

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”—