By the late REV. WILLIAM HANNA, LL.D., Edinburgh.
(Continued from page 255.)
Another base attempt of the same kind was a few weeks afterwards defeated in like manner, Wishart’s conduct in both instances teaching us that had the occasion called for it, and had not a holier and more heavenly spirit possessed him, he had been as vigilant of eye, as cool in danger, as prompt to action, as the best of our mere battle-field heroes. When the plague left Dundee, Wishart visited Montrose. A letter bearing the signature of a well-beloved friend in the parish of Kilmany, in Fifeshire, was here put into his hands, purporting that his friend had been seized with a sudden and dangerous illness, and entreating him to come to him with all diligence. Wishart at once mounted the horse that the messenger had brought with him, and was already outside the town, when, stopping suddenly, he said to those who were accompanying him,—“I will not go; I am assured that there is treason. Go to yonder place, and tell me what ye find.” They went to the place he indicated, and there in ambush were sixty well-armed men ready to have seized him.
From Montrose, Wishart went to Edinburgh to meet there some friends from Ayrshire. On his way a strong presentiment of his approaching death and martyrdom took possession of him. One night the friends in whose house he was staying watched him going out, and saw him with many sobs and groans first fall upon his knees and then upon his face, and continue so upon the ground for nearly an hour’s space. They urged him in the morning to tell them what was weighing so heavily upon his heart. “I will tell you,” said he, “that I am assured that my travail is near an end. Therefore, call to God for me, that I shrink not now when the battle waxeth most hot.” “But,” he added, as they began to weep, “God shall send you comfort after me. This realm shall be illuminated with the light of Christ’s gospel as clearly as ever was any realm since the days of the apostles. The house of God shall be builded in it, yea, it shall not lack the very copestone. Neither shall the time be long; there shall not many suffer after me.” Not finding in Edinburgh the friends he came to meet, he put himself under the guidance and protection of Chricton of Brunston, Douglas of Longniddrie, and Cockburn of Ormiston, three tried friends of the Reformation in East Lothian. While with them, he preached at Inveresk, Tranent, and Haddington, numbers flocking to hear him. Since the attempt upon his life at Dundee, some trusty friend had always been in the habit of bearing before him, when he appeared in public, a two-handed sword. This duty was now entrusted to one then young in years but ardent in faith, destined afterwards to be the chief instrument in the establishment of the Reformed faith in Scotland. His last sermon was preached in Haddington. At its close he took an affectionate farewell of his other friends, as he was going to spend the night at Ormiston. John Knox, who bore the sword before him that day, as usual, would have accompanied him, but he strictly forbade him, and ordered the sword to be given to another. “Nay,” said he to him, as he still asked to be permitted to go, “return to your children, and God bless you. One is sufficient for the sacrifice.” That night the Earl of Bothwell and his band surrounded the house in which Wishart was lying,
and after a solemn pledge, not long of being violated, that he would not give him up to the Cardinal, Wishart was committed to his hands. After lying a short time as a prisoner in the Castle of Edinburgh, he was carried to St. Andrews. It was in the end of January, 1546, that he arrived, and the Cardinal named the 27th of the following month as the day of his trial. He summoned a large convention of the clergy for that day, and wrote to the Regent, asking that a commission should be given to some noblemen to be present, and append the civil sanction to the sentence. Arran’s conscience for the moment was touched, and he sent word in reply, “that he should not precipitate the man’s trial, but to delay it till his coming,” protesting, that if the Cardinal did otherwise, “the man’s blood would be required at his hands.” The prelate’s haughty answer bore, “That he wrote not unto the governor as though he depended in the matter upon his authority, but out of a desire he had that the heretic’s condemnation might proceed with a show of public consent; which, since he could not obtain, he would be doing himself that which he held most fitting.”
The narrative of the trial, of which a full account is preserved, is a painful record of the coarsest invective met with meekness, patience, and charity. On the 28th he was condemned to die next day. Permission was asked to administer to him the sacrament. It was refused. The night was spent in prayer. In the morning the captain of the castle invited him to breakfast with his family. The invitation was accepted. When all was ready at the table, Wishart rose: “I beseech you,” he said, “in the name of God, and for the love you bear to our Saviour Jesus Christ, to be silent a little while, till I have made a short exhortation, and blessed the bread which we are to eat, so that I may bid you farewell.” All were silent around the table. With the utmost solemnity and entire composure, he then for nearly half-an-hour discoursed on the passion and death of Christ, exhorting to mutual love and holiness of heart and life; then giving thanks, he brake the bread, and, partaking of it himself, distributed to those around. Having done the same with a cup of wine that stood upon the table, he offered a short prayer, and adding, “I will eat and drink no more in this life,” he bade them farewell, and retired to his chamber.
Two executioners soon entered. They threw on him a black linen cloak, put a rope about his neck, an iron chain round his waist, and fastened some bags of gunpowder to different parts of his body. Thus prepared, they led him out to the appointed place. This had been chosen at the foot of what is called the Castle Wynd, nearly opposite to the eastern tower or corner of the castle, in order that, lolling on rich cushions laid down at a window in that tower, the Cardinal and his friends might feast their eyes with the spectacle. On the scaffold, Wishart, addressing the people, said, “I beseech you, Christian brethren, that ye be not offended at the word of God, for the afflictions and torments that ye see already prepared for me. For that word’s sake and true evangel, which was given to me by the grace of God, I suffer this day by men, not sorrowfully, but with a glad heart and mind. Consider and behold my visage. Ye shall not see me change my colour. This grim fire I fear not. Some have said of me that I taught that the soul of man should sleep till the last day; but I know surely, and my faith is such, that my soul shall be this night
with my Saviour in the heavens.” Bending on his knees he offered up the prayer,—“I beseech thee, Father of heaven, to forgive them that have of any ignorance, or else of any evil mind, forged any lies upon me. I forgive them with all my whole heart. I beseech Christ to forgive them that have condemned me to death this day ignorantly.” Rising from his knees he was bound to the stake, and thrice he cried aloud, “O Saviour of the world, have mercy upon me! Father of heaven, I commend my spirit into thy holy hands!” The fire was kindled. The powder bags blew up. He was sadly scorched, but the captain of the castle, who stood near, perceiving that he was still alive, bade him be of good courage, and commend his soul to God. “This flame,” said the dying martyr, “hath scorched my body, yet hath it not daunted my spirit; but he who from yonder high place beholdeth us with such pride shall within few days lie in the same as ignominiously as he is now seen proudly to rest himself.” As he spake these words, one of the executioners drew the rope tight that was about his neck, the fire burned more fiercely around him, and in a short time the body was consumed to ashes.
Mr. Gadsby and the Prayer, “Lord, Help Me!” *
THE late Mr. Gadsby, of Manchester, once preached at Rochdale from the text, “Lord, help me!” Having read his text, he took off his spectacles and in his usual deliberate way, looked round on the congregation, saying, “Friends, by way of introduction, I will tell you how I came by my text; and if you will allow me to speak in the first person, I can tell you more easily by saying “I” than “he.”
“Well, then, before I was fully devoted to the ministry, I was in business, and, as most business men do, I worked a little on credit. When I gave up business and settled as a preacher and pastor of a congregation, I owed several sums of money, but much more was owing to me, so I had no fear of being able to pay my creditors. One of these creditors, to whom I owed twenty pounds, called upon me for the payment. I said to him, ‘I will see what I can do for you next Monday.’ He called on the Monday, but I had not got the money. He was rather cross with me, saying I had no business to promise unless I intended to perform. This observation roused my pride, and I told him I would pay him on the coming Monday. He went away in a rage, saying he hoped I would.
“I set out the following day to see some of my debtors, not fearing but that I could raise the twenty pounds; but I did not get one farthing. I tried others, but with the same result. I then put down on a sheet of paper the names of several of my friends, certain that I could borrow twenty pounds from any one of them; but to my utter amazement, I was mistaken. All of them could sympathise with me a deal better than lend me anything; and I began to find out that if a man wants to know how many friends he has, he had better try to borrow some money. The next day I made out another list of names, of those not so well able to help me as the former, for I thought that if I can get five pounds here and five pounds there, I shall be able to raise it all. I travelled many miles
*Reproduced from Hope Chapel (Baptist) Circular, by kind permission of Pastor Frank
L. Rowell, Rochdale, Lancashire.
on my errand, spending a whole day, but returned in the evening without one penny. I began to ask myself, ‘How is this, that I, a respectable man, and, as people say, a popular preacher, cannot, in the whole of my acquaintances, borrow twenty pounds.’ My pride got a terrible shake, and I felt very little indeed.
“Friday came, and my spirits were sinking. I could not tell which way to turn. I had promised to pay, and was very anxious to fulfil my promise for good reasons—my honour and veracity as a minister of the Gospel were at stake. I feared that if I did not pay the man, he would send me the bailiffs, and for a minister to have the bailiffs would be a terrible disgrace. I read the seventy-third psalm that morning at family worship, for I thought it was nearest my case. The mournful portions of God’s Word best agree with the feelings of God’s mourning people. I began to look out texts for the Sabbath, but I could find none, for I could think of nothing but twenty pounds. I tried to read, but it was of no use; twenty pounds covered all the letters. Twenty pounds seemed written on everything—on the ceiling, on the walls, in the fire, on my dinner plates, on the faces of my wife and children, so that the whole of that day was one of morbid depression of spirits. I was really miserable.
“Saturday morning came, and I rose from a sleepless bed. I ate very little breakfast, and, when at prayer I was so overcome with my feelings that my wife asked me if I was poorly or in trouble. ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I am in trouble enough,’ and I then told her all about the cause of my sorrow. She was silent for a few minutes, and then said, ‘You have often talked and preached about the power of faith; I think you now need some yourself.’ Having said this, she rose from her chair, and went rattling amongst her pots and kettles. She was evidently mortified because I had been refused the money by those she had considered our friends. ‘My wife,’ I said to myself, ‘is a good Christian woman, but she thinks works are the best evidence of faith, both in preacher and people.’ Saturday was spent much as Friday had been. I was in a state of torpor till evening. I then went upstairs into a little room I called my study, with a heavy heart, for I had to preach three times on Sabbath, and no text—twenty pounds to pay on Monday, and no money. What was I to do? For a long time I sat with my face buried in my hands, and then I fell on my knees and, I believe, I said ‘Lord, help me!’ a hundred times, for I could say nothing else. While praying I felt a strong impression that these words might serve me for at least one text, and as Sabbath came before Monday, I began to prepare as well as I could for the Sabbath’s work, but no other text could I think of but ‘Lord, help me!’
“While preaching on the Sabbath morning, I had so many thoughts and illustrations arising out of the subject that I felt very great liberty in preaching. One of my illustrations was about a man I knew well, who was a deacon of a church, and had been an executor for two orphan children. He was tempted to make use of the money, and much of it was lost. This so preyed upon his mind that he began to drink. He lost his character, lost his office, lost his peace of mind, and died with the notoriety of a rogue. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘had this man, the executor, when he first thought of taking the children’s money, resisted the temptation, calling on God to help him to do nothing but what a professing Christian
ought to do, instead of losing the money, his good name, his peace of mind, and perhaps his soul, God might have heard his prayer and saved him.’ Noon came, and my sermon was not half done. I preached from it again in the afternoon, and again in the evening, and I felt that I could have preached from it for a week. So, you see, the Lord helped me through my work on the Sabbath, and I believed He would, some way, on the Monday.
‘After finishing the night’s service, when I got to the bottom of the pulpit stairs, a young man stood there, with his hat in hand, wishing to see me in private. I took him into the vestry and requested his errand, expecting it would be something about his soul. For several minutes we were both silent, but at length he said, ‘You knew my mother, Mr. Gadsby?’ I looked him in the face, saying, ‘Surely I did, but I did not know you at first sight.’ ‘Well, sir, when she died she left me some money; all she had except two small sums she wished me to give—one sum of five pounds to a poor old woman of her acquaintance: and, then, speaking of you, she said, “Our minister needs help, and I wish you to give him twenty pounds.” I paid the five pounds to the poor woman, but thinking no one knew, I resolved never to give you the twenty pounds. But while you were speaking about the roguish executor this morning I felt thunderstruck, and I have now brought you the twenty pounds. Here it is. Do take it, and forgive me.’ It was now my turn to be thunderstruck. I was amazed, and while the young man was putting the twenty sovereigns into my hand I trembled all over. God had heard my prayer; He helped me through the Sabbath, and sent me the twenty pounds for the Monday. It was mine, and I took it. I shook the young man by the hand, and without putting the money into my pocket I went home, spread it out on the table before my wife, saying, ‘Here it is. I see now how it was that I could not borrow the money. God knew where it was, and He has sent me the twenty pounds and delivered me out of my trouble. He has heard my prayer, and helped me, and I will trust Him and praise Him while I live.’ Ah! my dear friends, when that little prayer, ‘Lord, help me!’ comes from the heart of one of God’s children in distress, neither men, devils, nor angels, can tell its power. It has brought me thousands of blessings, besides the twenty pounds. Truly ‘God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform’.”