J H Merle d’Aubigné
In the summer of 1544 George Wishart returned from England to Scotland. He was a pious man, a brother of the laird of Pittarow in the county of Kincardine. While at Montrose in 1538, he had read the Greek New Testament with several youths whom he was educating and was cited by the Bishop of Brechin to appear before him. Wishart had then retired to Cambridge and there he devoted himself to study for six years. In 1544 he returned to Scotland. He returned first to Montrose, his old abode, and from there went to Dundee, where he wished to preach the Word of God.
He was amiable, unassuming, polite and serious; his chief delight was to learn and to teach. He was tall; his black hair was short and his beard long. He wore a French cap, a gown which fell to his heels, and a black doublet. He slept on straw, and his charity had no end, night or day. He loved everyone. He gave gifts, consolation and assistance. He studied all means of doing good to all and hurt to none. He distributed to the poor various articles of clothing, with the exception of “his French cap, which he kept the whole year of my being with him,” says the Cambridge student who drew this portrait of him just before Wishart set out for Scotland.
Wishart’s reputation had preceded him, and a multitude of hearers gathered about him at Dundee. In a series of discourses, he expounded the doctrine of salvation according to the Epistle to the Romans, and his knowledge and eloquence aroused general admiration. But the priests declared everywhere that, if he was allowed to go on, the Roman system must inevitably fall to the ground. They therefore sought the assistance of an influential layman, Robert Mill, who had once professed the truth but had since forsaken it.
One day, just as Wishart was finishing his discourse, Mill rose in the church and forbade him in the name of the Queen and the Regent to trouble them any more. Wishart was silent for awhile, with his eyes turned heavenward, and then looking sorrowfully on the assembly he said, “God is witness that I never minded [intended] your trouble, but your comfort. But I am assured that to refuse God’s Word and to chase from you His messenger shall not preserve you from trouble but shall bring you into it. I have offered unto you the word of salvation and, with the hazard of my life, I have remained among you. But and [if] trouble unlooked for apprehend you, turn to God, for He is merciful. But if you turn not at the first, He will visit you with fire and sword.” When he had thus spoken, he came down from the pulpit and went away at once into the western part of Scotland.
After arriving at Ayr, he preached to large numbers of people who gladly received his words. But as soon as Dunbar, Bishop of Glasgow, was informed of it, he hastened to the town with a body of men and took possession of the church in order to prevent Wishart preaching. The Reformer’s friends were indignant at this step. The Earl of Glencairn and several gentlemen of Kyle went to Wishart and offered to get possession of the church and place him in the pulpit. “No,” said the evangelist wisely, “the Bishop’s sermon will not much hurt; let us go to the market cross.” They did so and he preached there with so much energy that some of his hearers received it gladly who were till then enemies of the truth. Meanwhile the Bishop was in the church with hardly anyone to hear him but some vetry attendants and some poor dependents. They were expecting a sermon, but he had forgotten to put one in his pocket. He made the best excuses he could. “Hold us still for your bishop,” he said, “and we shall provide better the next time.” He then with haste departed from the town, not a little ashamed.
Wishart persevered in his work, and his reputation spread all around. The men of Mauchline came and asked him to preach the gospel to them on the following Sabbath. But when the Sheriff of Ayr heard of it, he sent a body of men by night to post themselves about the church. “We will enter by force”, said Hugh Campbell to Wishart. “Brother,” replied the evangelist, “it is the word of peace which God sends by me; the blood of no man shall be shed this day for the preaching of it. I find that Christ Jesus oftener preached in the desert, at the seaside, and other places judged profane, than He did in the temple of Jerusalem.” He then withdrew to the country, saying to the people who followed him that the Saviour was “as potent [when preached] upon the fields as in the kirk”. He climbed onto a wall on the edge of the moorland and there, on that warm day, preached for more than three hours.
One man present, Lawrence Ranken, laird of Shield, who had previously led a wicked life, was impressed by what he heard. “The tears ran from his eyes in such abundance that all men wondered.” Converted by that discourse, the laird of Shield gave evidence during the rest of his life that his conversion was genuine. Wishart preached with like success in the whole district. The harvest was great, says one historian.
The Reformer heard that the plague had broken out at Dundee four days after he left the town and that it was raging cruelly. He resolved instantly to go there. “They are now in trouble and they need comfort”, he said to those who would fain hold him back; “perchance this hand of God will make them now to magnify and reverence that word which before, for the fear of men, they set at light part.” He reached Dundee in August 1544 and announced the same morning that he would preach. It was necessary to keep apart the plague-stricken from those who were in health, and for that purpose he placed himself at the east gate of the town. Those who were in health stood inside the city, and those who were sick remained outside.
Wishart opened the Bible and read the words: “He sent His word and healed them” (Ps 107:20). “The mercy of God”, he said, “is prompt to fall on all such as truly turn to Him, and the malice of men can neither eik nor pair [add to nor diminish] His gentle visitation.” “We do not fear death,” said some of his hearers; “nay, we judge them more happy that should depart, than such as should remain behind.” That east gate of Dundee [the Cowgate] was left standing in memory of Wishart when the town walls were taken down at the end of the eighteenth century and is still preserved.
Wishart was not satisfied with speech alone; he personally visited the sick, fearlessly exposing himself to infection in the most extreme cases. He took care that the sick should have what they needed, and the poor were as well provided for as the rich. The town was in great distress lest the mouth from which so much sweetness flowed should be closed.
Nevertheless, at the Cardinal’s instigation, says Knox, a priest named Wighton took a sword and, concealing it under his gown, mixed with the crowd as if he were a hearer and stood waiting at the foot of the steps by which Wishart must come down. The discourse was finished; the people dispersed. Wishart, whose glance was keen and whose judgement was swift, noticed as he came down the steps a priest who kept his hand under his gown. As soon as he came near the priest he said, “My friend, what would you do?” At the same moment he laid hold of the priest’s hand and snatched the weapon from him. The assassin fell at his feet and confessed his fault.
The report quickly went around that a priest had attempted to kill the Reformer, and the sick who heard it cried, “Deliver the traitor to us, or else we will take him by force”. And so they rushed on him, but Wishart put his arms round the assassin. “Whosoever troubles him,” he said, “shall trouble me, for he has hurt me in nothing.” His friends however insisted that, in future, one of them should be armed and accompany him wherever he went.
When the plague ceased at Dundee, Wishart thought that, as God had put an end to that battle, he called him to another. It was proposed that he should hold a public disputation. He inquired of the bishops where he should be heard. But first he went to Montrose “to salute the kirk there” and, although sometimes preaching the gospel, he was “most part in secret meditation, in the which he was so earnest that night and day he would continue in it”.
While there he received a letter purporting to be written by his friend the laird of Kynneir – requesting Wishart to come because he was sick. It was a trick of the Cardinal. Sixty armed horsemen were lying in wait behind a hill to take him prisoner. He set out unsuspecting, but when he had gone some distance, he suddenly stopped in the midst of the friends who accompanied him and seemed absorbed in deep musing. Then he turned back. “What mean you?” asked his friends, wondering. “I will go no further,” he replied; “I am forbidden by God. I am assured there is treason.” Pointing to the hill he added, “Let some of you go to that place and tell me what they find”. The men reported with all speed what they saw. “I know, he said, “that I shall end my life in that bloodthirsty man’s hands, but it will not be of this manner.”
Shortly afterwards, he set out for Edinburgh, in spite of the entreaties of the laird of Dundee, and went to lodge at Innergowrie at the house of a Christian man named James Watson. A little after midnight two men of good credit who were in the house, William Spalding and John Watson, heard him open his door and go downstairs. They followed him secretly and saw him go into the garden and walk up and down for some time. Wishart, persuaded that he was drawing near to his end and thinking of the horrors of martyrdom and of his own weakness, was greatly agitated and felt in need of asking God to keep him from failing in the midst of the conflict. He was heard sighing and groaning and, just as day began to dawn, he was seen to fall on his knees, and afterwards on his face. For a whole hour his two friends heard the confused sounds of his prayer, interrupted now and then by his tears. At length he seemed to grow quiet and to have found rest for his soul. He rose and went quietly back to his chamber.
In the morning his anxious friends asked him where he had been. He evaded the question. “Be plain with us,” they said, “for we heard your groans; yea, we heard your mourning and saw you, both upon your knees and upon your face.” “I had rather you had been in your beds,” said Wishart, “for I was scarce well occupied.” And, as they urged him, he spoke to them of his approaching death and of his need of God’s help. They were much saddened and they wept. Wishart told them: “God shall send you comfort after me. This realm shall be illuminated 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 into it; yea, it shall not lack – whatsoever the enemy imagine to the contrary – the very capstone.” Meaning, adds Knox, that the house of God should there be brought to full perfection. Wishart went on: “Neither shall this be long; there shall not many suffer after me, till that the glory of God shall evidently appear and shall once triumph in spite of Satan. But, alas, if the people shall be afterwards unthankful, then fearful and terrible shall the plagues be that after shall follow.”
Soon afterwards Wishart went into the Lothians. A man like Wishart belongs to the history of the Reformation in his own right, but another motive leads us to narrate these circumstances. The great Reformer of Scotland was trained in the school of Wishart. Among those who followed the latter from place to place, as he preached the gospel, was John Knox. He had left St Andrews because he could not endure either the superstition of the Romish system or the Cardinal’s despotism and was for some time tutor in the family of Douglas of Langniddrie. After he had openly professed evangelical doctrine, the clergy in their wrath declared him a heretic and deprived him of the priesthood. Attracted by Wishart’s preaching and life, Knox became his beloved disciple. He listened to Wishart’s public discourses with eager attention and also received instruction in private. During Wishart’s preaching excursions Knox kept watch for his safety; he bore the sword which Wishart’s friends had provided after the Dundee priest’s attempt to assassinate him. Knox was, like his master, soon to bear another sword, the sword of the Spirit.
The Earl of Cassilis and some other friends of Wishart had arranged to meet him at Leith. As the town is very near Edinburgh, they had advised him not to let himself be seen until they arrived. After waiting for them for a day or two he became depressed. “What differ I from a dead man,” he asked, “except that I eat and drink? To this time God has used my labours to the disclosing of darkness, and now I lurk as a man that was ashamed and durst not show himself before men.” “You know,” said his friends, “the danger wherein you stand.” “Let my God,” he replied, “provide for me as best pleases Him.”
On the following Sabbath, in the middle of December, he preached on the parable of the sower. The next Sabbath again, he addressed a large concourse of people at Inveresk both morning and afternoon. Two Franciscan friars came and stood by the church door and whispered something to those who were going in, to turn them back. Wishart observed this and told some standing near the pulpit: “I heartily pray you to make room to these two men; it may be that they be come to learn”. Then he addressed the monks: “Come near, for I assure you that you shall hear the word of truth, which shall either seal unto you this same day your salvation or your condemnation”.
He continued his discourse, but the two friars, who had taken their places, did not cease whispering right and left and troubling all who stood near them. Wishart turned sharply to them and said, “O sergeants of Satan and deceivers of the souls of men, will you neither hear God’s truth nor suffer others to hear it? Depart, and take this for your portion; God shall shortly confound and disclose your hypocrisy within this realm; you shall be abominable unto men, and your places and habitations shall be desolate.”
He then resumed his sermon, and preached with so much power that Sir George Douglas, brother of the Earl of Angus, said publicly afterwards: “I know that my Lord Governor and my Lord Cardinal shall hear that I have been at this preaching (for they were then in Edinburgh). Say unto them that I will avow it and will not only maintain the doctrine that I have heard, but also the person of the teacher to the uttermost of my power.” Those who were present greatly rejoiced at these words, spoken by so influential a man. As for Wishart, it was enough for him to know that God keeps His own people for the end to which he calls them. He preached in other places to large numbers; and with all the more fervour because he was persuaded that the day of his death was at hand.
Afterwards he decided to pass into East Lothian. The Cardinal heard of this and informed the Earl of Bothwell, who immediately let it be known, both in the town of Haddington and in the country, that anyone who went to hear that heretic would do so under pain of his displeasure. The prohibition of this powerful lord had its effect. The first day there was a large gathering to hear Wishart, but the next day his audience was very small.
A new trial now afflicted him. His friends in western Scotland had promised to come to Edinburgh to discuss with him the means of advancing the cause of the gospel. Now on the third day after arriving in East Lothian, when he was about to go into the pulpit, a messenger approached and handed him a letter. He opened it. His friends at Ayr and other places had written to tell him that certain obstacles prevented them from fulfilling their promises. Struck with sorrow, “he called for John Knox, who had waited upon him carefully from the time he came to Lothian”. “I am wearied of the world,” he said, “for I perceive that men begin to be weary of God.” Knox wondered that Wishart should enter into conversation with him before sermon, which he was never accustomed to do, and said to him, “Sir, the time of sermon approaches, I will leave you for the present to your meditations”.
Wishart, left to himself, began to walk about slowly at the back of the high altar. He paced to and fro, and everything about him revealed the deep grief that was in his soul. This lasted for about half an hour. At length he went into the pulpit. The audience was small, as it had been the day before. He did not have power to treat the subject which he had proposed: his heart was too full, and he must needs unburden it before God. “O Lord,” said he, “how long shall it be that Thy holy Word shall be despised and men shall not regard their own salvation? I have heard of thee, Haddington, that in time there would have been at a vain clerk-play [a play representing some part of Scripture] two or three thousand people, and now to hear the messenger of the eternal God, of all the town or parish there cannot be numbered one hundred persons. Sore and fearful shall the plagues be that shall ensue this thy contempt; with fire and sword shalt thou be plagued. And that because you have not known and will not know the time of God’s merciful visitation.”
He then made a short paraphrase of the second table of the law. He exhorted to patience, to the fear of God, and to works of mercy. And, impressed by the presentiment that this was the last time he should preach publicly, he declared that the spirit of truth and judgement were both in his heart and on his lips. He left the church, bade farewell to his friends and then prepared to leave the town. “I will not leave you alone,” said Knox to him. But Wishart, who had his approaching end constantly before his eyes, said, “Nay, return to your bairns [meaning his pupils], and God bless you. One is sufficient for a sacrifice.”
He then compelled Knox to give up the sword and parted with him. The laird of Ormiston, who was at the time with Wishart, had invited him to his house in the country. They set out on their journey with several gentlemen of the neighbourhood. The cold was severe, and they therefore travelled on foot. While at supper Wishart spoke of the death of God’s children. Then he said with a cheerful smile: “Methinks that I desire earnestly to sleep. We’ll sing a psalm.” He chose Psalm 51, and struck up the tune himself: “Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving kindness”. As soon as the psalm was ended, he went to bed.
1Taken, with editing, from The History of the Reformation in the Time of Calvin, vol 6. November’s chapter described setbacks to the Reformation cause and further martyrdoms.
Prayer is the natural expression of dependence upon divine influences.
It is . . . the glory of the gospel that the blood of Christ who, through the eternal Spirit, offered Himself without spot to God, purges the conscience, dispels all its distracting fears, and imparts peace and serenity where despair and guilt had held their troubled reign.
J H Thormell