THE CHRISTIAN TREASURY. 493 MOUNT OF OLIVES. BY THE REV. J. T. HEADLEY, NEW YORK. IT is difficult to recall any scene vividly that has been so often described, and so long familiar to us, as that which transpired on the Mount of Olives. The mind is prepared for every event in it, and hence cannot be taken by surprise, or held in suspense. But there are moments when the heart forgets all that it has ever heard, and seems for the first time to witness that night of suffering. The indifference which long familiarity has produced, disappears before rising emotion, and that lonely hill-top-that midnight prayer-that piercing agony, with its bloody testimonial, and the rude shock of Roman soldiers-all, all, swim before the swimming eye, with the freshness of first sight, till the heart thrills and sobs at the spectacle. the bewildered listeners; and a mournful sadness rested on every face, as through the silent chamber rang those tones of tenderness. Gradually the great city sank to rest, the noise of wheels grew less and less, and only now and then a solitary carriage went rumbling by. It was midnight, and from that solitary chamber arose the voice of singing. The victim at the altar, the sufferer at the wheel, sent forth a hymn at the moment of sacrifice. Was there ever before a hymn sung under such circumstances? Through the darkened streets those twelve forms are slowly passing towards the walls of the city, cared for and noticed only by the police, whom the betrayer has put upon the track. Kedron is passed, and they reach the garden of Gethsemane. "Sit you here," says Jesus, "while I go and pray yonder;" and taking with him only Peter and James and John, he ascended the slope of Olivet. As they paused on the solitary summit, the human heart threw off the restraint it had put on its feelings, and burst forth in tones of indescribable mournfulness" My soul is exceeding sorrowful, eren unto death; tarry ye here, and watch with me." Every prop seemed falling beside him, and in the deepening gloom and dread that surrounded him, he reached out for sympathy and aid. Then, as if recollecting himself, and the task before him, he broke away, even from those three remaining friends, and they saw with speechless grief and amazement, his form disappear in the darkness. But as morally grand and moving as that scene was, it caused but little talk in Jerusalem. The streets of Jerusalem were filled with careless promenaders-parties of pleasure were assembled dissipation and revelry were on every side; and the quiet of the staid citizen's home was not interrupted by the tragedy Mount Olivet was to witness. Everything moved on in its accustomed way, when, in an obscure street, in the upper chamber of an inferior dwelling, a group of coarse-clad men sat down to a table spread with the plainest fare. The rattling of carriages and the hum of the mighty city were unheeded by them, and you could see by their countenances that some calamity was impending over their head. Few words were spoken, and those few were uttered in a subdued and saddened tone, that always bespeaks grief at the heart. At the head of the table sat one Jerusalem is sunk in slumber and security, whose noble countenance proclaimed Him chief and naught but the tread of the watchman is there. He had won the love of those simple-heard along the streets. The disciples in the hearted men; and now they sat grouped around him, expecting some sad news; but they, O, they were unprepared for the startling declaration that fell from those lips, "This night one of you shall betray me.” “Is it I?" "Is it I?" ran from lip to lip, in breathless consternation. At length all eyes centred on Judas, and he arose and went away. I will not speak of the conversation that followed; but amid words that thrilled every heart, were heard such language as, “This is my blood, shed for many;" and as the bread crumbled beneath his fingers, “This is my body; "-strange language, and awakening strange sensations in No. 42.* garden of Gethsemane are quietly sleeping below, and all is still and solemn, as night ever is when left alone; and the large luminous stars are shining down in their wonted beauty. Kedron goes murmuring by, as if singing in its dreams, and the olive trees rustle to the passing breeze; as if their leaves were but half stirred from their slumbers. It is night, most quiet night, with all its accompaniments of beauty and of loveliness. But hark, from the summit of Mount Olivet rises a low and plaintive moan, and there, stretched on the dewy grass, his face to the earth, is seen the dim outlines of a human form. All is still around, save that moan which rises in a deep perpetual monotone, like the last cry of helpless suffering. But listen again; a prayer is ascending the heavens; and what a prayer! and in what tones is it uttered! Such accents never before rung on the ear of God or man"Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." It is still again, and nature herself seems to gasp for breath; and lo, there arises another voice, in tones of resignation, sweeter than angels use " “Father, not my will, but thine be done." O what inexpressible tenderness is poured forth in that word "Father"—the very passion and soul of love is breathed forth in it. Wearied and worn, that form slowly rises, and moves through the gloom towards where the three friends are sleeping-going, in its humanity, after sympathy. The pressure is too great-the sorrow and despair too deep-and the human heart reaches out for help." What! could you not watch with me one hour?" falls on their slumbrous ears; and the lonely sufferer turns again to his solitude and woe. Prone on the earth he again casts himself, and the waves come back with a heavier and darker flow. Bursting sighs, and groans that rend the heart, again startle the midnight air, and adown those pale cheeks the blood is trickling, and the dewy grass turns red, as if a wounded man were weltering there. The life-stream is flowing from the crushed heart, as it trembles and wrestles in the grasp of its mighty agony. Woe, and darkness, and horror inconceivable, indescribable, gather in fearful companionship around that prostrate form; but still the prayer goes up, and still the voice of resignation hovers amid the tumult, like the breath of God over a world in chaos, ruling the wild scene. O, is this the form that a few days ago stood on the same height and looked off on Jerusalem sleeping below, while the sunlight around, and the fragrant breezes, loaded with the scent of the pomegranate and vine, visited in kindness his brow, and the garden smiled up in his face from beneath, and garments were strewed before him, and branches of palm waved around him, and “HOSANNA IN THE HIGHEST!" shook the hill? Alas, what a change has passed over him! No hosannas greet his ear, but deep within his soul are voices of terror and dismay, striving, but in vain, to shake his constancy or darken his faith. helpless on the earth, when, lo! a bright wing flashed through the gloom, and an angel appeared strengthening him." O, no wings ever before passed the portals of heaven with such lightning-like rapidity, not even when the birthsong arose from the manger of Bethlehem, as those that sped away to the Mount of Olives; and never before did they so joyously enclose with their bright foldings a human or divine form, as when they wrapped the bloody, exhausted body of the Son of God. The first act in the fearful tragedy had now passed, and the second was soon to commence. There was, however, to be an interval of insults, scorn, and mockery. Christ arose from the earth he had moistened with his blood, and stood beneath the stars that still shone on as tranquilly as if all unconscious of the scene that had transpired in their light. Kedron still murmured by, and the night air stirred the leaves as gently as ever. All was sweet and tranquil, when torches were seen dancing to and fro along the slopes of the hill, and the heavy tread of approaching feet was heard, and rough voices broke the quiet of nature; and soon Roman helmets flashed through the gloom, and swords glittered in the torch-light, and a band of soldiers drew up before "the Man of Sorrows." "Whom seek ye?" fell in languid and quiet accents on their ears. "Jesus of Nazareth," was the short and stern reply. "I am he," he answered them, but in tones that had more of God than man in them-for swords and torches sank to the earth at their utterance, and those mailed warriors staggered back and fell like dead men. It was not the haggard and bloodstreaked face over which the torches shed their sudden glare, that unnerved them so, for they were used to scenes of violence and murder: it was the God speaking from the man. "But so it must be, that the Scriptures may be fulfilled;" and the betrayer and his accomplices take up their fallen weapons, and freed from the sudden awe that overwhelmed them, close threateningly round their unresisting victim. With their prisoner they clatter down the declivity of Olivet, cross Kedron, and their heavy tread resounds along the streets of Jerusalem as they hurry on to the house of the high priest. At length the sacrifice was paid, the fearful baptism endured, and the brow prepared for its chaplet of thorns. The agony was over, but the Son of God, weak and exhausted, lay | terrible tragedy of Mount Calvary. The night wanes away-the morning, the last dreadful morning, approaches, and the scenes of Mount Olivet are to disappear before the THE AGONY. ❝ our misery to the human mind of which it is capable for there could be in the holy Jesus no In the presence of his disciples, "he began horrors of a guilty conscience, no conflict of to be sorrowful and very heavy;" and he com- sinful passions, no despair as to the final event plained "that his soul was exceeding sorrow- of his sufferings. It is not, indeed, possible for ful, even unto death." The words used are us fully to understand or explain this subject: most expressive, and denote the greatest de- yet we may point out the light which the jection, amazement, anguish, and horror of Scriptures afford us upon it. Christ sustained mind which can be conceived-the state of one the character of our Surety, who undertook to surrounded with sorrows, overwhelmed with be answerable for our sins: accordingly miseries, and almost swallowed up with con- iniquities were laid upon him," and "he was sternation. In this frame of mind, he went a made sin for us," and "suffered once for sins, little way from the disciples; and first kneel- the just for the unjust;" and the Scripture ing down, but afterwards prostrating himself ascribes the heaviest of his sufferings to the imon the earth, he prayed to his Father that, "if mediate hand of God: "It pleased the Lord to possible, that cup might pass from him." bruise him, .... he made his soul a sacrifice Some refer this to the present anguish and for sin." The sword of divine justice was comhorror which he felt in his soul, and not to manded to awake against the Shepherd, and his approaching crucifixion: but, whatever smite him;" and "God spared not his own we understand by it, it expressed his strong Son." From the Scriptures we may conclude, aversion to suffering, save when the glory of that the human nature of Christ was, on this God and the good of man required it; and it occasion, left wholly destitute of all consolashowed that he had all the innocent feelings tory communications from the Holy Spirit; of our nature, in the most exquisite degree; though supported by its union with the Deity, that had it been "possible"-that is, consistent to endure the unknown anguish without sinkwith the justice, truth, holiness, and mercy of ing under it: that he had the most distinct God-to have mitigated or remitted his suffer- and clear perception of the infinite evil of sin, ings, he would have desired it, as much as we and of that immensity of guilt, which he was should in similar circumstances; and the sub- to expiate: that he had the most awful view of sequent retractation showed his perfect resigna- the divine justice, and the vengeance deserved tion, and willingness to bear that unspeakable by the sins of men; and that such a sense of burden, which must otherwise have sunk us the divine wrath oppressed his inmost soul, as into everlasting destruction. St. Luke records, no tongue can express or imagination conceive. that when Jesus was at prayer, an angel was At the same time" he suffered, being tempted;" sent to strengthen his mind for the conflict; and, probably, all kinds of thoughts were sugand that, though the night was cold, his whole gested by Satan, which tended to despondency, frame was agitated to such a degree, "that his and every other dreadful conclusion; which sweat became as great drops of blood falling would be the more intolerable, in proportion to to the ground." It therefore occurs here to the perfection of his holiness. So that we may inquire, with diffidence and caution, into the be certain, he endured as much misery, of the causes of our Lord's agony. He had, doubtless, same kind with that of condemned spirits, as a distinct view of all the sufferings which he could possibly consist with a pure conscience, was about to undergo, with all their aggrava- perfect love of God and man, and an assured tions: but then he had all along had the same; confidence of a glorious event. Probably some yet he acted and spoke with the most entire degree of the same darkness and horror opserenity, even to the very moment of this ex-pressed his mind, during the whole subsequent traordinary scene. Many of his disciples, in different ages, have met the most excruciating tortures which human, or rather diabolical, cruelty and ingenuity could devise, without any such perturbation; being supported by inward peace, consolation, and joyful hope: and doubtless Christ was as much superior to them all, in fortitude and constancy, as the heavens are above the earth. We must therefore conclude, that there were some ingredients mingled in his cup which was not in theirs, and some in theirs which were not in his. To mention the treachery and fate of Judas, or the misconduct of Peter and the other apostles, or the unbe. lief of the Jews, as causes of this surprising effect, must fail to give the reflecting mind the least satisfaction. We must also exclude many of those things which cause the most exquisite scene, till on the cross he said, "It is finished." Accordingly we do not read, that he uttered any complaint about his outward sufferings, but he most dolefully exclaimed, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" * * * * While we with thankfulness take the cup of salvation, let us never forget that cup of wrath which the Redeemer drank off to the very dregs, for the remission of our sins. If we were not shamefully and surprisingly drowsy in spiritual things, we never could read or meditate about Gethsemane, without the most lively affections and most instructive recollections. Here let us look attentively, that we may learn to distinguish between the sufferings of a martyr and those of our atoning Sacrifice. View a poor, frail, sinful man, under borious life in the vineyard, and died at the stake, a le witness for the truth. He was born in the year 1510; but in what part of Scotland, and in what circumstances, we do not, know. When still a very young man, supposing himself unfairly dealt by in regard to some property to which he considered he had a lawful claim, he left home, and entered a monastery of the Black Friars, in the town of Stirling. The monasteries were dens of wickedness, and the monks, in many instances, licentious profligates, as is sufficiently proved by contemporaneous writers-divines, historians, and poets. The entering into a monastery was like the going down to the grave-withdrawment into a place of hopeless spiritual night and desolation. The Lord reigns; into the darkest places he can send his light and his truth to visit the souls of his chosen, and to in the monastery of the Black Friars during the period of sixteen years. There is reason to think that it was during his stay in it that he was led to true and saving convictions regarding divine things. although Fox states that it was during the time that he served as chaplain to Arran that he became the subject of that great change. the smiles of his reconciled Father, serene and cheerful in the prospect and endurance of every possible torture; then behold the incarnate Son of God," the holy, undefiled," " well beloved" of the Father," in whom he was well pleased," prostrate on the earth, "exceeding sorrowful, even unto death," and "sweating great drops of blood, rolling to the ground;" and with this scene before our eyes, let it be determined, whether he was not then enduring the wrath and tremendous frown of God, as our surety and the vicarous sacrifice for our sins. And let the careless and impenitent ask themselves, Did God's own hand inflict these insupportable strokes, in fulfilment of his ancient prophecies, on his "beloved Son," who was more valued by him than the whole visible creation; and will he break his word, in order to spare a de-bring them out of the prison-house. Rough remained termined rebel and enemy, who takes encouragement to sin from the very persuasion of God being merciful? Most vain and destructive presumption! Did the load of imputed guilt so weigh down the soul of Him concerning whom it is said, that "He upholdeth all things by the word of his power?" Into what an abyss of misery unknown, then must they sink, whose iniquities are left upon their own heads, a burden far "too heavy for them to bear!" "How will they escape who neglect so great salvation?" What a forlorn hope must that of the Pharisee or the Infidel be, who expects happiness in his own way, despising that which infinite wisdom has devised, and infinite love effected, at a price which baffles the powers of computation itself! Assuredly it will end in black despair; with the presumption of every one, who perverts the doctrine of a free salvation into an excuse for indulged wick. edness. But the same scene discovers a cheerful dawn of hope to the trembling, desponding penitent; here we see the infinite hatred of sin of our holy Lord God, and his infinite love of sinners; his determination to satisfy his justice, and his delight in exercising mercy. In short, we must resort to Gethsemane, to learn repentance, hatred of sin, humility, hope, love, patience, meekness, and self-denying obedience; and to find comfort under dejection and temptations. Here we see our pattern, our motives, our encouragements; here we learn the vanity of the world, the evil of sin, and our obligations to live devoted to him, and willingly to suffer for his glory, who agonized and died for our salvation.-Rev. Thomas Scott. SKETCH OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF BY THE REV. JOHN FAIRBAIRN, ALLANTON. He continued in the monastery sixteen years, during which time he was much famed as a preacher. His withdrawal from the monastery happened in the following manner: Arran was regent of Scotland during a portion of the minority of Mary. The report of the excellence of Rough as a preacher came to his ears, and he was anxious to obtain his services as one of his chaplains. In prosecution of this wish he applied for, and obtained a dispensation in favour of, Rough Arran at that time professed and patronized the principles of the Reformation. This circumstance makes the first of the above statements as to the time of Rough's conversion to the truth the more likely. In his new employment Rough continued but for a short time, viz., during the course of one year. On the apostasy of Arran from the principles of the Reformation, Rough withdrew from his service and retired into Kyle, in which district, and other districts of the west of Scotland, the persecuted servants of Christ have often found a temporary refuge. After some stay in the above-named district, he retired to St. Andrews. After the death of Cardinal Beaton, the Castle of St. Andrews was kept by those who had been engaged in that transaction. It was in those days a place of great strength, and a place of refuge to many who were exposed to the fury of persecution on account of their having embraced the Gospel. Rough was appointed chaplain to the garrison. The garrison having command of the town, Rough's public ministrations were conducted in the parish church. An important event took place during Rough's stay at St. Andrews. Wishart had a short time before suffered martyrdom. The holy walk of Wishart, his apostolic labours, the blessing that attended them, bis cruel death, were greatly useful to the opening of the public mind to the abominations of Popery, and hastened its overthrow. The Papists, meanwhile, were stirred up to the most diligent exertions against SKETCH OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JOHN ROUGH. the Gospel and all who professed it. John Knox had constantly waited upon Wishart during his stay in the east country, and had been very helpful to him in carrying out his plans in the preaching of the Gospel. He became in consequence a marked man. In one so stedfast to the truth, so accomplished, and of so resolved a character, the Papists recognised a most dangerous enemy to their interests and kingdom of ignorance and darkness. It being no longer safe for him to remain where he was, Knox retired to the Castle of St. Andrews. He took along with him three young men, his pupils, now ready to enter upon their studies at the university. The religious part of their education he conducted publicly, that those within the Castle who were so inclined might share in the benefit. His intimate acquaintance with the Scriptures, and admirable gifts for the expounding of them, became evident. An earnest desire was entertained that he should devote himself to the labours of the ministry in the congregation. This being conveyed to him, he could by no means consent to the proposal, but shrunk back from labour so solemn and responsible. These scruples were successfully combated and got over. After very earnest dealing with him by those who were appointed for that purpose, he consented to become assistant to Rough. The details of this solemn transaction we quote from M'Crie's Life of Knox: "These persons were so pleased with Knox's talents, and his manner of teaching his pupils, that they urged him strongly to preach in public, and to become colleague to Rough. But he resisted all their solicitations, assigning as his reason that he did not consider himself as having a call to this employment, and would not be guilty of intrusion. They did not, however, desist from their purpose; but having consulted with their brethren, came to a resolution, without his knowledge, that a call should be publicly given him, in the name of the whole, to become one of their ministers. "Accordingly, on a day fixed for the purpose, Rough preached a sermon on the election of ministers, in which he declared the power which a congregation, however small, had over any one in whom they perceived gifts suited to the office, and how dangerous it was for such a person to reject the call of those who desired instruction. Sermon being concluded, the preacher turned to Knox, who was present, and addressed him in these words: Brother, you shall not be offended, although I speak unto you that which I have in charge, even from all those that are here present, which is this: In the name of God, and of his Son Jesus Christ, and in the name of all that presently call you by my mouth, I charge you, that you refuse not this holy vocation, but as you tender the glory of God, the increase of Christ's kingdom, the edification of your brethren, and the comfort of me, whom you understand well enough to be oppressed by the multitude of labours, that you take the public office and charge of preaching, even as you look to avoid God's heavy displeasure, and desire that he shall multiply his graces unto you.' Then, addressing himself to the congregation, he said, 'Was not this your charge unto me? and do ye not approve this vocation?' They all answered, 'It was; and we 497 approve it.' Overwhelmed by this unexpected and solemn charge, Knox, after an ineffectual attempt to address the audience, burst into tears, rushed out of the assembly, and shut himself up in his chamber. 'His countenance and behaviour, from that day till the day that he was compelled to present himself in the public place of preaching, did sufficiently declare the grief and trouble of his heart; for no man saw any sign of mirth from him, neither had he pleasure to accompany any man for many days together.'' Rough left St. Andrews before the surrender of the Castle in 1547. He was a man of a meek, and almost timid spirit, and was not possessed of the qualities necessary for maintaining authority over turbulent minds, and shaping events to a good issue in troublous times. The dangers to which he was exposed in the place he occupied at St. Andrews, and the grief he experienced in marking the unsuitable conversation of some who made a profession of the truth, led him to resolve upon departing. His mind leaning to such a course, he would doubtless adopt it the more readily, from the consideration that, in the person of his colleague, he left behind him a man admirably adapted to the condition of the place. We next find him engaged in preaching the Gospel in Berwick, Newcastle, Carlisle, and in the neighbourhood of these places. He was afterwards appointed to a pastoral charge in the vicinity of Hull, where he continued till the death of Edward VI. The During the short reign of Edward VI., England enjoyed a season of great Gospel privilege. sound and faithful preaching of the Gospel was encouraged, and many steps towards a thorough reformation in religion set on foot and accomplished. Many records remain which give insight into the progress of the truth during that highly-favoured time. That a very great work of the Gospel went forward is also manifest from the multitudes of persons, in almost every condition of life, who bore public testimony to the truth, and suffered martyrdom for it in the succeeding reign, which was as dark and bloody as that of Edward had been bright and prosperous. The persecution that began shortly after the accession of Mary to the English throne, drove out of the kingdom many on whom its best hopes and interests depended. Incredible numbers were called upon to seal their testimony with their blood. At the breaking out of this persecution, Rough left England and went over to Friesland, where he maintained himself and his wife by honest labour, in a very humble employment—the knitting of woollen caps and stockings. Though of a quiet and timid spirit, yet in the day of trial, when his hour came, when he was called upon to witness for truth at the peril of his life, he was enabled to be as bold for the truth as any who, in that dismal time, went to the stake or the scaffold. He suffered mar tyrdom in December, 1557. The occasion of his apprehension was as follows: Having exhausted the materials needful for the carrying on of his trade, and there being no supply of such where he was located, he, with a view of procuring what he required in this way, set out upon a journey |