“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.
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 neighbors 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 neighbors find their way in the winter evenings to the farm house spence, * 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 marvelous light.
Janet is now no longer an inmate of the Dunsinnan homestead. An honest hearted farmer of the neighborhood, 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 grammarschool. 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 Saviour’s ain simple ordinance.”
“Ye said mair than that, Jamie.”
“Ay, and I’ll haud to the same. Nae hand but guid Moister Wishart’s call 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 se 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 ower wi’ Maister Wilson.”
“Ay, and speir after Archie, pair lad. I jalouse he’s working ower hard wi’ that Latin.”
The next day James Duncan put his resolve into practire. 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 favorable 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,” “ower 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 wrarg wi’ ye, Jamie I”
“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 se 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 se strangely from sic’ a dreadfu’ snare at Montrose.
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 Wedderbum himsel. Ape love and ane sorrow brought us twa thegither, and I think neither minded that ane was puir and the ither rich. He sat down se 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 baud 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.”
“Se do I. For noo, I wot weel that they amang whom he has gone preaching the word o’ God sail 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 ged 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 se 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.”
“Ower 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, se grand and calm, and aye se unmoved in trouble and danger I 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 the’ God heard his prayer, for then he rose calm and stilled, and se he ged 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, the 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 belong 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 ower hard to flesh and bluid. And that’s no the bravest heart that feels the least, Mary; but that feels the mat’s, 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 ged 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 ge thou thy way till the end be, for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot in the end o’ the days?―it’s no for me to say muckle on’t; the place is ower holy, a man suld tak’ his shoon frae his feet.
“After that nicht’s agony and joy, he ged 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 labors 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.) Se 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 ged 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 goodnight, as it were forever, 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 — arre 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, “Se he ged 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. Se 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 ged 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. Se soon as he kenned their purpose, Maister Wishart said to the laird, Open the gates, and let the blessed will of ray 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 ower again to Maister Wishart himsel, in the presence o’ the lairds his friends. “Neither sail 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 sail 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.” Se 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 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 faithfu 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 Names 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, I’ll 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 ower 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 se 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 Hang a muckle stane at him, and, lifting his arm to save his head, he had it broken.”
“I’m was 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 se soon as he could.”
“Jamie,” said Mary after a pause, and rather hesitatingly, “will ye no tak’ yer supper, manl”
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 se cheery as this the nichtin 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 se 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,” ―unless the faith and love, shown so soon afterward 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.