I should like, before leaving this scene of martyrdom, to tell my young reader a little that may be of interest about the place itself. The town of St. Andrews is built on the shores of a small but lovely bay, on the east coast of Fifeshire, in Scotland. Its natural situation is very good, while its past history contains much of thrilling interest, especially to the child of God. No longer is it the first seat of learning in the kingdom, the fine old castle which was once its pride lies in ruins, and the events in connection with its ancient cathedral, live only in the memories of the past. But the men who lived and ruled there have left impressions which continue for good or for evil, according to the source from which they sprang.
It is now a good many years since, for the first time, I looked upon that fine old city, and, though I have never seen it again, those few hours have left very distinct memories in my heart. The name rarely, if ever, comes before me without bringing thoughts of the dust of long departed ones, which is dear to God. There I stood by the grassy spot where sleeps the pious Samuel Rutherford. As his godly writings come before the mind, surely we may well thank God that such a devoted heart ever testified to the matchless worth of God’s Christ who is “all the glory in Immanuel’s land.” No more is “fair Anworth by the sea” his home, nor ever again can the prison walls of yonder northern city contain him. His happy ransomed spirit has long been in the presence of the Lord, and his body rests in the quiet graveyard of St. Andrews till the trump of God shall call it from the tomb.
A quaint old wooden pulpit rises before my mind now, whence thundered a voice which shook not only that important town, but morally sounded through the length and breadth of the land. The preacher was the bold, uncompromising, courageous John Knox. At one time, the archbishop, having heard that Knox purposed preaching in the cathedral, hastened from a small town near, to be present there also. To hear what was good, was it? Alas! no; his object in coming thus speedily to St. Andrews was to hinder, not to help. Poor foolish man! destitute of moral power, he presented himself armed with the secular force of a body of soldiers to prevent Knox from preaching. The latter had received a message from the archbishop on Saturday evening, to the effect that if he dared to do as he had arranged, he would give orders to his soldiers to shoot him then and there. In spite of that deadly threat, however, the brave and noble preacher gave forth a most powerful testimony against the errors of Rome the following day. Thrilling the hearts of his hearers, and rousing many a slumbering conscience, John Knox boldly delivered his message, and none dared to do him harm.
Those burning words, issuing from that religious edifice in St. Andrews, sent echoes far and wide in a country which longed to throw off the papal yoke. We cannot follow the course of events which resulted from John Knox’s appeal, but only touch upon this important incident as having taken place in the ancient city of St. Andrews.
Near the sea stands a castle, now in ruins, which was once the princely home of the archbishops in the days when popery reigned. One of its windows has a solemn history, reminding one of the death of God’s saints so precious in His sight. From that spot, Cardinal Beaton had gazed upon the burning of a servant of Christ—George Wishart, whom he was causing to die. He and his ungodly company rested there in ease and luxury, whence their cruel eyes could gaze with pleasure on that solemn sight. Not three months later, the crafty, wicked cardinal was lying a cold corpse within that very room, a murdered man. Thus he who had caused so many to suffer, fell by the ruthless revenge of man at last.
There is much more of interest in that old Scottish city, but I merely give a few passing glances, as I tell my young reader of my own brief visit there. Although Scotland possesses not the sunny clime of southern lands, yet it has its bright days and blue skies, all the more cheering, perhaps, that they are not every-day occurrences. Then the glowing sunshine lights up its lovely scenery, making as fair a picture as other lands display. It was under such a summer sun that I saw the blue waters of the bay of St. Andrews sparkling beneath the glowing rays, and all nature appeared in its fairest dress. No wonder, then, that the contrast to my mind was very great—between nature’s brightness and the sufferings of the saints whose memories were called up before me there. But there was one glad fact to cheer: the hatred of men brought forth from their victims fruit that shall yet “be found unto praise and honor and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ.”
The university of St. Andrews was founded as early as the beginning of the fifteenth century, and Romish dignitaries had made the town their center. Religious error and learning formed many a proud bigot in that fair city, and man oppressed his fellow-man in consequence. But God had His chosen vessels, too, and these were endowed with wisdom and power which made Rome’s votaries quake, and melted human hearts by the gospel message. In that seat of pride, pomp, and vanity, God’s glad tidings were proclaimed, and man’s evil ways exposed, by the light of His truth. Hence, not seldom were the flames kindled in St. Andrews, the way by which many a saint, whom earth would not retain, went home to God.
Paul Crawar, a Bohemian, suffered in 1431; Patrick Hamilton in 1528; Forrest, Straiton, and Gourlay, followed only a few years later; and George Wishart in 1545. These, and many more, were bound to the stakes set up in St. Andrews, and fires lighted by popish hands, broke “the silver cord” of life which bound them to earth. Then popery might rage, and bigotry defame, for far beyond the reach of their malice, had gone the objects of their hate. But God’s hand could not thus be stayed, for if one servant was gathered home, another could be raised up to fill his place. And with all the enemy’s wrath, there were some preaching truth in their very faces, whom popery was unable to hinder, or put out of the way.
These courageous men were, no doubt, made to suffer in life, but man was not allowed to quench their testimony by death. Thus it was with John Knox who, after hardships, perils, imprisonment, and even the galleys, died peacefully in his own bed, surrounded by many whom he loved.
It seems wonderful that such a fearless and eminent preacher should have escaped martyrdom, exposed as he was to the enmity of a popish queen. Instead of death, however, in the prime of his days, John Knox was permitted, for some wise purpose, to live to a good old age. Yet the royal head of Mary Stuart, who had so revengefully desired to put Knox out of the way, was made to fall by the ax of the executioner. This brings us to an important part of the history of the Scottish nation, when Mary had passed off the scene, and her son had become king.
James VI. sat upon the throne, and though, in an outward way, he tried to please his subjects, yet in heart he early followed the advice of his popish counselors. Strenuous efforts were put forth to persuade the young king to become a Roman Catholic, and thus bring his kingdom within the power of the pope. The fact of the Scottish monarch being also the nearest heir to the English crown, rendered him an object of double importance in the eyes of these scheming papists.
The people became alarmed at this attempt to pervert their king, and, at his suggestion, bound themselves to be true to that form of religion which they considered to be right. This agreement was called the National Covenant, and because it was first signed by king James and his household, it was also called The King’s Confession. That event took place on January 28th, 1581, and was a distinct public protest against popery.
Fifteen years afterward witnessed a renewal of this covenant by the people, but this time, it was without their king. The latter had openly sought to enforce a form of religion upon his subjects, which they determined, at all hazards, to resist, so that the stand now made was more against prelacy than popery. That we leave for another chapter, however.