“I bless Thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now,
I bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crowned brow;
For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee,
And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly.”
Lays of the Kirk and Covenant
Heavy was the cloud of sorrow that brooded now over the once cheerful home at Dunsinnane Brae. “All joy was darkened, the mirth of the land was gone.” Mary moved with hushed footsteps about her household duties, speaking little, but praying much. Many a quiet tear dropped over her baby’s cradle; many a time the psalm she tried to sing died away in low sobs; nor could she even recall the precious words of Scripture for her own comfort, without too vividly recalling with them the thought of him who was suffering for the crime of having brought to her and to others that living water. Jamie’s grief was less resigned and patient than hers. Certain very old perplexities about the works of God and his ways with the children of men sorely haunted and troubled him. With these came thoughts of anger and bitterness, only too natural under the circumstances. Mary often heard him murmur, “How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge?” — But he could never bear to complete the sentence.
Soon afterwards Archie, who was now wonderfully subdued and quiet, joined their party. He brought with him from Dundee the tidings that the Cardinal had asked the Governor for a temporal judge to pronounce sentence upon the heretic; but that it was hoped and expected he would refuse the request, which indeed he did, telling the Cardinal that “he would not meddle with the blood of that good man.”
Further than this, for three slow and sorrowful weeks they heard nothing. One evening they had just concluded their wonted family worship, in which the prayer was never omitted, that God would hear his servant in the day of trouble, send him help from the sanctuary, and strengthen him out of Zion. Jamie’s voice faltered sorely as he offered it; and, on rising from his knees, he drew Mary aside and said to her, “It’s na use. I canna bide here ony langer. I maun gang to St. Andrews.”
Mary started at this announcement.
“To St. Andrews, Jamie! What gars ye think o’ that?”
“I wad learn a’ there, and — and — aiblins see his face again “Eh, but that’s no like to be, — God wot,” she added very earnestly,” gin you could bring him but sae muckle comfort as a cup o’ could water, I wadna baud ye back, an’ ye were to set your ain life in the birk to do it. But ye couldna. Think on’t yersel; ye ken weel they wadna let you see him. It’s naebut a fule thocht, Jamie.”
“No just that. We canna get the bit news our hearts are aching for, but I maun gang a’ the gait to Dundee. St. Andrews is no sae muckle farther.”
“Ay is it, owre twice as far. But it’s no the distance. It’s that I canna see the guid on’t. Forbye, Jamie, St Andrews is the Cardinal’s ain town.”
“Weel, what matters that to a puir simple man like me, wha naebody kens?”
“Ye might be owre gleg wi’ yer tongue.”
Jamie shook his head impatiently, was silent for a few moments, and then wisely shifted his ground. He had made a mistake, in attempting to reason at all about what was not a matter of reason, but of feeling.
“It’s a’ true what ye say, Mary. But ye maunna keep me back, for it’s borne in on me I suld gang. Fule thocht or no, I canna rest till I do it.”
The woman’s nature responded to this appeal. She answered immediately, “Then do a’ that’s in thine heart, Jamie. But oh,” she added, “for the sake o’ you bit bairn in the cradle, be prudent, man, and dinna be thinkin’ out loud!”
“Ne’er fear for me. I havens done sae muckle for my Lord that he suld honour me to suffer for him.
But it’s my thought aye and aye, an’ I gae to St. Andrews, aiblins he’ll gie me an answer here to the question that’s rackin’ my heart baith day and nicht, Thou art o’ purer eyes than to behold evil, an’ canst not look on iniquity, wharefore lookest thou on them that deal treacherously, and haudest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is mair righteous than he?’”
James Duncan acted on his impulse. It may be the highest wisdom of a wise man to do this occasionally; for “the heart has its reasons, which the reason cannot comprehend.” He was enough of a Scotchman, however, to be prudent in his way of doing even what might be considered an imprudent action. In order to cover his real purpose, he found a plausible business errand to a brother of Janet’s husband, one Walter Graham, who resided at St. Andrews. And being well aware how little Archie’s discretion could be counted upon, he steadily refused his passionate entreaties to be permitted to accompany him. It was perhaps fortunate that he had another very sufficient reason for this refusal, as the boy was still weak and suffering from the effects of his accident. Janet volunteered to remain with Mary and the invalided Archie at the farm during the few days of the master’s absence; and he set out on foot, intending to cross the Firth of Tay, and in this manner to accomplish the journey in a single day Thus the man, as man ever will, found relief for his sorrow in action, in motion, in excitement; while the woman, as woman so often must, sat at home, and suffered and kept silence.
Three anxious days passed heavily by at Dunsinnane Brae. But on the evening of the third, a little after sunset, James Duncan returned home. So calm, it might almost be said so radiant, was his countenance, that at the first glance his impetuous young brother could not help exclaiming, “Is he saved, Jamie — tell us, is he saved?”
“Saved — ay, that he is! Ane day and nicht (but there’s nae nicht there) has he been in his Savior’s presence, and is no that enoo to pay for a’ he suffered here?”
“Oh but, Jamie — did God let them do their waurst?”
“Nae doot he kens noo that the waurst cruel men could do was just the best his Lord could appoint for him. And I’m amaist come to that mysel. What I hae seen is wonnerfu’.”
“Let my God provide for me as best pleadeth him,” had George Wishart said; and God had not denied him the request of his lips. But truly man’s worst is often His best for his chosen. Our love is timid, shrinking, more fearful even of inflicting than of enduring pain; His is broad, and strong, and far-seeing, as well as tender. Could we have our will with the dark tragedies of earth’s history, should we not be often templed to find for them some softer termination But —
“God Himself is the true poet, And the real is his song.”
And with deep meaning has it been said, that “he whom the poet loves he allows to suffer.” For the heart attuned to comprehend its beauty, no sweeter poem was ever sung than the life that ended at St. Andrews, upon that 1st of March, 1546.
As soon as the others were calm enough to hear it, James Duncan told his tale: “I hae tint my gait,” he said, “ after I crossed Tay Frith, and I land mysel at Cupar — no that a’ that matters noo; but in sae far that it gared me bide there the nicht. Neist morn (and no sae early either, for I was owre forfoughten) I walked the sax mile to St. Andrews. Being come there, straight I ken’d that something by-ordinar was on hand. Castle and town were full o’ spearmen and jackmen, wi’ knapscall splent and axe; and folk were busy loading the muckle guns in the Towers. I thocht first it was for fechting, and that there maim hae been a stour in the town, but soon I changed my mind. Passing the East Tower, I saw nigh the Abbey, at the foot o’ Castle Wynd, men biggin’ something, I ken’d na what. But ainst I looked up at the castle, I had it a’ fixed: the folk were naebut making holiday, and they were biggin’ a stage for a clerk-play, or sic like. For the hail fore tower was decked out wi’ braw gear, — velvet cushions, tapestry curtains, and the lave, — as for the Cardinal and the kirkmen to look on and tak’ their ease. By-an’-by, I askit ane o’ the jackmen wha stood on guard what a’ this suld mean. He answered me cold and careless, — ‘They’re gaun to burn Maister Wishart, and you’s naebut for my lord and the bishops to see the ploy.”
“Curse them!” cried Archie.
“Whisht, callant! — I cursed them ainst mysel, and that bitterly, — but I hae done wi’ cursing noo. Weel, I just said, The Lord require it,’ and leaned back against the wa’. Na for a’ the muckle warld wad I fecht thro’ sic’ an hour again! I thocht my heart maun break, no just wi’ grief for him, but wi’ rage an’ bitter hate. Christ’s gentle, loving servant, wha had waxed his haill life doing guid, to dee in cruel torture, — and thae fiends to sit yonder, in their hatefu’ pomp an’ pride, to enjoy the sight o’ his agony! Serpents, generation o’ vipers, how wad they escape the damnation o’ hell?’ I was blythe to think they wadna escape it. Wi’ an awfu’ thirl o’ joy the thocht gaed thro’ and thro’ me, that the smoke o’ their torment wad gang up for aye and aye in the presence o’ the holy angels. It’s nae word to say I wad hae slain the bluidy Cardinal wi’ my ain hand; I’d hae deemed a quick death like that owre muckle guid for him — it was no to that death he doomed his victim. Sae I gied him up in my heart to God’s ain fearfu’ vengeance, and I lifted my hand to heaven to curse him in his holy name.
“But when I thocht upon God I was troubled. For I minded that he saw a’ this. He beheld, frae his dwelling-place, the cruel triumph of his enemies, the bitter suffering of his dear, faithfu’ servant. Yet he bided still, and gied nae sign. The sky was clear and blue; — he sent nae thunnerstorm to smite the guilty town. Had he indeed forsaken him? Did he no care what happened I Were the murderer and the martyr alike to him? Ye may weel look fear’t, Mary, thae were gruesome wicked thochts — but God had mercy on me.
“Belyve a braw gentleman, wi’ sword and broidered doublet, passed quick by us. The man wha had spoken wi’ me made him a salute, and said, You’s our captain.’ Unkenning what I did, I gied ane glint at his face. Sadder face hae I never seen upon living man! He looked as he’d hae Bien the haill wand just to greet like a bit bairn, but daredna do it then. I couldna help mysel, I gaed richt up to him, and said, ‘Sir, in God’s name, tell me gin this thing be true?’
“He didna answer me sae quick; but he peered in my face as he’d hae read the vera thochts o’ my heart. Indeed, I trow ilka ane of us read the ither’s heart, for the een whiles can say mair than the tongue. At last he speired o’ me, Be you a friend o’ his?’
“I said, ‘ Nae mair than thousands wha hae heard the Word o’ Life frae his lips, and wad be blythe to dee for him the day, gin that might be.
“Ye haud his faith?’
“‘Dearer than my heart’s bluid.’
“Follow me then,’ sayeth he, in the name o’ our Lord Jesus Christ.’
“Muckle wonnerin’, I did as he bade. As we passed alang to a postern o’ the castle, he spake but ane word mair to me, — ’ He sall hae his last wish the day, despite a’ the bishops in Scotland.’ Then a familiar having opened to us, he gied me in his charge, and we parted. I was led to a quiet, pleasant room, and left there my lane. Like ane in a dream I looked around me, and felt a kind o’ wormer at seeing ilka thing sae still and hame-like. As the’ that day were like ither days, and folk could eat and drink, there was a fair white cloth laid on the table, wi’ bread and wine, and sic’, upon’t. Belyve, there dropped in quietly ane, an’ anither, an’ anither. Aiblins the maist part were the captain’s ain househald, but I ken there were mair by than that Ane thing was sure, they a’ feared the Lord. Strange it seemed to me to meet God’s children there, in the vera seat o’ Satan. But I soon learned frae their talk what had happened. It was but that morn they had tried and condemned him.”
“Their feet were swift to shed bluid,” said Archie. “What need to try him ava’?”
“It was naebut for fear the folk suld say he was unjustly slain, as indeed they spared not to avow.” James Duncan paused for a moment, and suppressed a bitter sigh. “I canna just tell a’ they tald me o’ that trial as calm as I ought. The’ it’s a’ by noo, the heart maun burn still at the cruel insults heaped on Christ’s servant. They gied him to drink verra deep of his Maister’s cup; he was mocked, reviled, — even spit upon. But he tholed a’ wi’ grand and sweet patience; not ainst, they say, did e’en a change come owre his face. Sae calmly and bravely he defended God’s truth, that the folk wha filled the Abbey Kirk — ”
“Auld wives and doited caries they maun hae been to bide it. They suld hae torn the Cardinal in pieces and saved him!” Archie burst forth impetuously, every nerve in his frame quivering with passion. Mary and Janet were weeping quietly.
“Callant, what could they do? I hae said the town was filled wi’ soldiers; and the gunners stood ready at the muckle guns till a’ was done. Ane hundert jackmen, wi’ spear, splent, and axe, guarded the prisoner. But the folk gied him what they could. Ainst, a priest wha said the devil was in him, had the word gien back to him quick by ane young scholar boy’ in the crowd, It’s a devilish tale to say that. The devil never moved to speak as you man speaks.’ Again, as he spake o’ the priesthood of a’ God’s children, the bishops drowned his voice wi’ a shout of insulting laughter. Sae soon as he might be heard, he said gently, Do ye laugh, my lords? Though these sayings appear to your lordships scornful and worthy of derision, yet they are very weighty to me, and of great value, for they stand not only upon my life, but also upon the honour and glory of God.’ When folk’s hearts are owre full, a sma’ thing’ll gar them greet; many wha were present brake forth into tears at this, nor did they even fear to make lamentation for him aloud. And at last, ere their wark was done, the bishops were fain to put the people forth, for they daredna trust them main.
“Ane that came in later than the lave, tald us that Dean John Wynram, the sub-prior o’ the Abbey, wha preached the sermon in the kirk that morn before them a’, having spoken afterwards wi’ Maister Wishart, was moved to the vera heart; sae that he gaed, weeping bitterly, to the bluidy Cardinal himsel, wi’ a’ his priests and bishops, and tald him plainly, that Maister Wishart was an innocent man, and that he said this, not to intercede for his life, but to make known his innocency unto all men, as it was known already unto God.’ May God remember that man for quid, and bring him in his grace, to a clear knowledge o’ the Truth, for the whilk his servant suffered!
“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 anther ‘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 forgive 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 dauma 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 maim suffer I Gin a’ that love him hae sic’ coward hearts, he’ll be left, that dreadfu’ hour, his lane amarg 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 I 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 Savior 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 wake. For the hot aim 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 sail not see me change my color. 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 Savior 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; 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 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 main 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 talc’ 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 fulfill 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 glen thy servant ‘ quiet rest’ at last. I thank thee, O my Father! ‘“
“God be thanked for him. He rests frae his labors, 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 wand, 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 you 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.
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 somber 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, Mar”
“They sold hae left that to the Lord he loved. His cause was unto 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 realize 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 openly 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 recognized 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,
Area of night have robe.
“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, honorable — 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.”