The Dark Year of Dundee: A Tale of the Scottish Reformation
9781465536679
418 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
The Dark Year of Dundee may be called a tale of Fact, since Fiction has only been employed in it as the handmaid of Truth, and for the purpose of throwing a more vivid light upon scenes and events that actually occurred. The “story,” slight as it is, may not inaptly be likened to the sheath or calyx that encloses and protects the yet unopened bud. When the flower unfolds its petals, the calyx has fulfilled its work, and, hidden from the eye, no longer attracts the thoughts and attention of the spectator. Thus it has been intended only to leave upon the reader’s mind the impression of one grand and simple character;—only to tell, plainly and briefly, the story of one who, long ago, laboured abundantly and endured nobly for Christ’s sake, “strengthened with all might according to his glorious power.” And no alloy of fiction has been admitted into what is here recorded of George Wishart; for, apart from any other consideration, such a character as his is “God’s workmanship,” and it would seem impossible to add anything to the great Artist’s design without marring its beauty and completeness. It was the early summer of the year 1544, and the shadow of a dark cloud was already looming over every home in Dundee. God’s terrible angel of the pestilence stood with his sword outstretched, as of old over guilty Jerusalem; but no eye was opened to behold him; as yet no one suspected the danger and the anguish at hand. In a small room of one of the high dark houses of the old town, a pretty, modest-looking young girl sat spinning, and singing as she span, in a sweet though rather listless voice. Now and then she glanced anxiously at the door, or rose to pay some little attention to the “kail” for the mid-day repast. Although the meal could scarcely have been intended for more than two persons, the fire necessary for its preparation increased uncomfortably the heat of the narrow room. “Guid day, Mary,” said a girl about her own age, or a little older, entering without ceremony. The new comer was tall and strongly made; and, without the smallest pretensions to beauty, had an honest, open countenance. She held in her hand a large bunch of the pretty field-flowers so well known in Scotland as blue-bells. “Look what I hae brocht ye, sin’ ye tell me ye come frae the hills. I thocht ye’d like them, maybe, to mind ye of yer auld hame.” Mary Wigton eagerly took the flowers, thanked her friend with many expressions of delight, and a moment or two afterwards burst into tears. Honest Janet Duncan was considerably disconcerted by the effect produced by her gift. “Weel, to be sure,” she ejaculated, “gin I didna think they’d hae pleasured ye!” “Sae they hae,” said Mary, recovering herself quickly. “It was naebut a wee thocht of the auld hame and the auld times, and the heather and gowans on the bonnie Sidlaw hills. But it’s nae use thinking lang. Noo father’s farm is sold, it’s no like we’ll ever gae back again. Where did ye get thae blue-bells, Janet?” “Archie, the ne’er-do-weel, played the truant frae his schule wi’ a wheen idle callants like himsel, and gaed out owre the Law and Balgay Hill. I’m afeard when Jamie comes ben and hears it he’ll be sair angered. An’ it’s no wonnerfu’, when he’s focht as he has to keep the lad to his schuling, and he nae mair himsel but a puir journeyman baxter.” “He’s a guid brither to ye, Janet.” “Ye may say just that.” Then, as a new thought struck her, she contradicted herself energetically. “Na, he’s nae guid brither, but the best brither in a’ Dundee. Left but father, or mither, or friend in the wide warld, wha wad hae thocht he could hae keepit us thegither, and fended for us sae weel. I can turn my hand to mony a thing, thank the saints, but there’s Archie and Effie, puir bairns; Archie naebut gaun threteen, and unco witless, and Effie a wee bit lassie. Eh, but we’ve seen hard times, Mary.”
