“God’s Spirit sweet,
Still thou the heat
Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat
Quiet their swell,
And gently tell
That his right hand doth all things well.”
C. F. ALEXANDER.
DAVID STRATTON’S heart was not likely to sink when the trial he had anticipated actually came. He was constitutionally brave; gifted indeed with A spirit that would dare The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring’s sake.
Not that his fortitude was of the very highest and noblest kind; of such fortitude, strange as it may seem, that nature is only capable which is also capable of the intensest agony of fear. It is the heart sensitive enough to apprehend and to feel in its utmost bitterness every pang that can be inflicted, that will rise, by God’s grace, to the loftiest height of gentle, self forgetting heroism in the hour of anguish. But even if David Stratton’s courage was not, like one of Solomon’s targets, of beaten gold pure and precious, it was at least “a right good shield of hides untanned,” strong and serviceable in the day of battle.
When, therefore, he was apprehended and brought a prisoner to Edinburgh, he was probably not by any means the greatest sufferer himself. Other hearts trembled more than his, when at last he was “produced in judgment in the Abbey of Holyrood House, the king himself (all clad in red) being present.” A priest named Norman Gourlay was his companion in faith and suffering. The priest was accused of having said “that there was no such thing as purgatory, and that the Pope was not a bishop, but Antichrist, and had no jurisdiction in Scotland.”
Against David the old accusation was revived. Robert Lawson, vicar of Ecclescreig, deposed to his unmannerly refusal of the tithes demanded by him on behalf of the Prior of St. Andrews. To this was added an offense more recently committed― “that he said there was no purgatory but the passion of Christ and the tribulations of this world.”
The king, most anxious to save him, earnestly entreated him to recant, and to “burn his bill.” But in vain. “I have offended in nothing,” said brave, honest David Stratton.
His was not the tongue of the learned; he had no words of burning eloquence wherewith to explain and defend the faith so precious to his heart; yet, as was once said by another of Christ’s true disciples, he “could not speak for him, but he could die for him.” No threatsno persuasions could turn him from his simple strong adherence to the cause of truth and right. He “stood ever at his defense,” maintaining that he had done no wrong, and therefore refusing to retract.
Then, before all that awe struck assembly, the terrible sentence was pronounced―death by fire.
David heard it with undaunted courage. Death had no terrors for him, for he knew in whom he had believed, and was persuaded that He was able to keep that which he committed to him against that day. Still, for the sake of one far away whose heart would bleed, he desired to live, if life might be preserved without unfaithfulness to his God. He made, therefore, one last effort to save himself by appealing to the king and asking his grace.
The king’s heart was touched, and words of mercy and pardon trembled on his lips. But the Bishop of Ross, who managed the prosecution upon this occasion, proudly interposed. “Your hands are bound in this case,” said he. “You have no grace to give to such as are condemned by the Church’s law.” So little did a king’s compassion avail the victims of priestly cruelty.
There is no need to linger over the rest of the story; a few brief words may suffice to tell it. On the 27th of August 1534, Norman Gourlay and David Stratton sealed their testimony with their lives. They were strangled, and their bodies burned at a place “besydis the rood of Greenside;” probably near the road that now leads from the Calton Hill to Leith. It is recorded that David Stratton consoled and encouraged his fellow sufferer to the last. We know not why a less painful death was granted these two than that which in those days usually fell to the lot of the witnesses for Christ. But after all, it mattered little through what gate they passed from earth, with its sin and sorrow, to the brightness of their Saviour’s presence. In that presence it was well with them―nay, it is well―for years and centuries make no change in the blessedness of those who, absent from the body, are present with the Lord, and “await their perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul, in his eternal and everlasting glory.”
But how was it with the inmates of Lauriston Castle when these sad tidings reached them? How the Laird mourned his brother, or George his uncle―rather his loved and valued friend―might indeed easily be told. But Alison Lindsay, in the restlessness of her anxious and sorrowful heart, had once again sought the shelter of that roof, only to learn the terrible truth from the lips of her cousin Isabel―and who shall paint anguish such as hers?
We know, alas! ―
“What bitter words we speak,
When God speaks of resigning,”
though it is his own voice that asks us to give up our treasure, and his own loving hand, not the cruel violence of men, that takes it gently from our arms. We know how hard it is to bury our dead out of our sight, even when, as oft as we will, our tears may water the seed sown in “God’s acre” against the harvest of the resurrection. What would it be if, without farewell, without last look or parting word, that to which our hearts cling so fondly were snatched from us; and even the lifeless form―still so precious―denied a grave, burned to ashes, and scattered to the winds of heaven Yet all this many women have borne, and borne bravely and meekly, not cursing God or man, but learning day by day to love and pray through all, and to possess their souls in patience. Surely, besides that written here below, there is another “Book of Martyrs”―a book in which He who himself wept over the dead, has recorded those tears and agonies, worse than stake or gibbet, shed in secret and endured in silence, for his name’s sake.
But if it be only the willing sacrifice He accepts, Alison could not yet receive the joy of that sacrifice to compensate for her bitter pain. While hope remained she had prayed for David’s life, if indeed the cry sent up from her agonized heart to him who was as yet to her the unknown God, could be called prayer. “Surely” (she thought), “the God whom he served continually could and would deliver his faithful witness from the hands of his enemies. He would never suffer the bad to triumph, and the good to perish thus. He would take care of his own cause.” So, even to the last, she sought to reason herself into trustful hope, if not into confidence. And then the blow came. Her life was desolate; earth was dark―dark forever; nor did any light from Heaven shine in upon its midnight gloom. For had not her hope deceived her? was not her prayer given back into her own bosom? And yet she could not say, “It was a chance that happened us.” She could not forget God―there are situations in which this is impossible; she recognized his mighty hand, and bowed beneath it―alas! not in resignation, but in despair. The language of her heart was not, “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good;” but rather, “O Lord, take, I beseech thee, my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live.”
Those around her, though they longed to comfort, yet had to stand apart, for it is God’s ordinance that through all deep waters the soul must pass alone. In the great silence that he makes around the mourner, every human voice dies away that his, and his alone, may be heard. It is a fearful thing when He is silent! Then to the tried and tortured heart come the whispers of the tempter, the “adversary” of God and man. Such whispers came to Alison. First, they said to her, “There is no God;” but well she knew that was false. Then came the more subtle suggestion, “There is a God, but he cares not for you. He does what he pleases in heaven and upon earth, heedless of the happiness or the misery of the creatures his hand has made.” And Alison said in her heart, “It is so in truth;”―thus from despair she passed into rebellion, and again rebellion engendered despair.
All this time she did not weep, or wept but seldom. Nor would she speak of the past even to her cousin Isabel, after having once heard, with a calmness that seemed terrible to those who told it, the tale of David’s trial, condemnation, and martyrdom. But George took care frequently to leave in her way the Testament from which David had so loved to hear the words of truth. Remembering how earnestly he had urged its study upon her, she took it to her own apartment, and there read it, often for hours together. At first her attention wandered, and she scarcely tried to fix it, believing herself already sufficiently familiar both with the history and the doctrines of the book. But gradually she became interested in what she read. Now and then a passage would arrest and touch her; some parable or narrative it might be, which she had heard in David’s presence, or he had spoken of to her. And then tears would come, welcome tears, that relieved the heart of some of its heavy burden. She began to grow humbler in her sorrow, to take sympathy gently if not thankfully, and to long to hear of him she had lost from those who knew and loved him.
Thus it happened that George told her one day of his last interview with David. She heard all in silence, determined to restrain her emotion, at least in George’s presence; with Isabel it might have been different. But when she heard that David had been willing to trust her where he trusted his own soul, because he knew by experience even a little of that love passing knowledge, wherewith he had been loved, so strong was the rush of feeling, that in spite of all self restraint, there were heavy sobs and tears, though they were not wholly for sorrow.
George would willingly have consoled her, but he knew not what to say or do. He was about to leave the room, when the thought occurred to him that if he did not finish his story now he might probably never have another opportunity. Before the conversation began, he had been reading the Testament to his mother and Alison; but Lady Isabel having been called away, he had laid the book aside. He now quietly resumed where he had left off; and these were the words that fell upon the ear of Alison: “And when even was now come, his disciples went down unto the sea, and entered into a ship, and went over the sea toward Capernaum. And it was now dark, and Jesus was not come to them. And the sea arose, by reason of a great wind that blew. So when they had rowed about five and twenty or thirty furlongs, they see Jesus walking on the sea, and drawing nigh unto the ship: and they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I; be not afraid. Then they willingly received him into the ship: and immediately the ship was at the land whither they went.”
No words she ever heard had been to Alison what those words were then. To her sorrowful but softened heart they seemed an image of her own condition. Was she not alone―as it were―on a stormy sea, amidst wild and tossing breakers? “And it was now dark, and Jesus was not come.” Was it because he cared not? Oh, no; his heart was full of love. Whatever else she doubted, henceforward she would not doubt of this. But would he come to her? Surely she would “receive him willingly.” Would he but say to her: “It is I; be not afraid?” Would he but reveal himself as he had done to one she loved Then all might yet be well, and a bright and blessed morning dawn upon her night of weeping.
She thanked George calmly enough, and then withdrew to the welcome refuge of her own room. As her heart had known its own bitterness, so with this newly awakened hope no stranger might intermeddle. Thus it is, almost always, with deep natures. Whether we lose or win, we must fight our great battles alone. Alone I but if once we have learned to “cry to the strong for strength”―because we know that the strong is also the loving One, and therefore will surely hear us it is no longer doubtful whether victory will be ours or no. Weary and heavy laden heart, be comforted; “thou wouldst not be seeking him, if he had not already found thee.”
Very soon Alison’s prayer was answered, and the desire of her heart was given her. She found rest in Christ; and though still she wept for the earthly treasure his hand had taken, she wept like a child sobbing out its grief in its mother’s arms; not like one standing outside in the cold and dark, knocking in vain at a closed door. Christ had revealed himself to her as her Saviour, her Redeemer, her ever living Friend. And having seen him, she had seen the Father also; she knew him as her Father who loved and cared for her. Once she could not say: “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good;” now, “Even so, Father, for so it seemeth good in thy sight,” was the voice of her resigned and grateful heart.
The great sorrow of her life had come to her in midsummer, when skies, and leaves, and flowers were brightest, and all nature seemed to rejoice. Peace and comfort came when the November winds were whistling through the leafless trees, and the first snows of winter were whitening the ground.
And even then she arose and went to her own home. When God visited her and gave her peace, he taught her that she had a work to do for him, and that the command, “Occupy till I come,” was as truly addressed to her as though her life had been filled with earthly ties and earthly happiness. Nay, perhaps it is addressed to her and to those like her, for their comfort and blessing, in a sense peculiarly full of meaning; for was she not called and set apart, even more than others, to care for the things of the Lord, that she might be holy both in body and in spirit?