unmarried for four years, in order to give himself up wholly to his great work; and that both in preaching and in prayer he should be as succinct as possible so as not to weary his hearers; and, lastly, ‘Oh, study God well and your own heart.’  We have five letters of Rutherford’s to this master of the human heart, and it is in the third of these that Rutherford opens his heart to his father in the Gospel, and tells him that he is made up of extremes.

In every way that was so.  It is a common remark with all Rutherford’s biographers and editors and commentators what extremes met in that little fair man.  The finest thing that has ever been written on Rutherford is Mr. Taylor Innes’s lecture in the Evangelical Succession series.  And the intellectual extremes that met in Rutherford are there set forth by Rutherford’s acute and sympathetic critic at some length.  For one thing, the greatest speculative freedom and theological breadth met in Rutherford with the greatest ecclesiastical hardness and narrowness.  I do not know any author of that day, either in England or in Scotland, either Prelatist or Puritan, who shows more imaginative freedom and speculative power than Rutherford does in his Christ Dying, unless it is his still greater contemporary, Thomas Goodwin.  And it is with corresponding distress that we read some of Rutherford’s polemical works, and even the polemical parts of his heavenly Letters.  There is a remarkable passage in one of his controversial books that reminds us of some of Shakespeare’s own tributes

to England: ‘I judge that in England the Lord hath many names and a fair company that shall stand at the side of Christ when He shall render up the kingdom to the Father; and that in that renowned land there be men of all ranks, wise, valorous, generous, noble, heroic, faithful, religious, gracious, learned.’  Rutherford’s whole passage is worthy to stand beside Shakespeare’s great passage on ‘this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.’  But persecution from England and controversy at home so embittered Rutherford’s sweet and gracious spirit that passages like that are but few and far between.  But let him away out into pure theology, and, especially, let him get his wings on the person, and the work, and the glory of Christ, and few theologians of any age or any school rise to a larger air, or command a wider scope, or discover a clearer eye of speculation than Rutherford, till we feel exactly like the laird of Glanderston, who, when Rutherford left a controversial passage in a sermon and went on to speak of Christ, cried out in the church—‘Ay, hold you there, minister; you are all right there!’  A domestic controversy that arose in the Church of Scotland towards the end of Rutherford’s life so separated Rutherford from Dickson and Blair that Rutherford would not take part with Blair, the ‘sweet, majestic-looking man,’ in the Lord’s Supper.  ‘Oh, to be above,’ Blair exclaimed, ‘where there are no misunderstandings!’  It was this same controversy that made John Livingstone say in a letter to Blair that his wife and he had had more bitterness over that dispute than ever they had

tasted since they knew what bitterness meant.  Well might Rutherford say, on another such occasion, ‘It is hard when saints rejoice in the sufferings of saints, and when the redeemed hurt, and go nigh to hate the redeemed.’  Watch and pray, my brethren, lest in controversy—ephemeral and immaterial controversy—you also go near to hate and hurt one another, as Rutherford did.

And then, what strength, combined with what tenderness, there is in Rutherford!  In all my acquaintance with literature I do not know any author who has two books under his name so unlike one another, two books that are such a contrast to one another, as Lex Rex and the Letters.  A more firmly built argument than Lex Rex, an argument so clamped together with the iron bands of scholastic and legal lore, is not to be met with in any English book; a more lawyer-looking production is not in all the Advocates’ Library than just Lex Rex.  There is as much emotion in the multiplication table as there is in Lex Rex; and then, on the other hand, the Letters have no other fault but this, that they are overcharged with emotion.  The Letters would be absolutely perfect if they were only a little more restrained and chastened in this one respect.  The pundit and the poet are the opposites and the extremes of one another; and the pundit and the poet meet, as nowhere else that I know of, in the author of Lex Rex and the Letters.

Then, again, what extremes of beauty and sweetness there are in Rutherford’s style, too often intermingled with what carelessness and disorder.  What flashes of noblest thought, clothed in the most apt

and well-fitting words, on the same page with the most slatternly and down-at-the-heel English.  Both Dr. Andrew Bonar and Dr. Andrew Thomson have given us selections from Rutherford’s Letters that would quite justify us in claiming Rutherford as one of the best writers of English in his day; but then we know out of what thickets of careless composition these flowers have been collected.  Both Gillespie and Rutherford ran a tilt at Hooker; but alas for the equipment and the manners of our champions when compared with the shining panoply and the knightly grace of the author of the incomparable Polity.

And then, morally, as great extremes met in Rutherford as intellectually.  Newman has a fine sermon under a fine title, ‘Saintliness not forfeited by the Penitent.’  ‘No degree of sin,’ he says, ‘precludes the acquisition of any degree of holiness, however high.  No sinner so great, but he may, through God’s grace, become a saint ever so great.’  And then he goes on to illustrate that, and balance that, and almost to retract and deny all that, in a way that all his admirers only too well know.  But still it stands true.  A friend of mine once told me that it was to him often the most delightful and profitable of Sabbath evening exercises just to take down Newman’s sermons and read their titles over again.  And this mere title, I feel sure, has encouraged and comforted many: ‘Saintliness not forfeited by the Penitent.’  And Samuel Rutherford’s is just another great name to be added to the noble roll of saintly penitents we all have in our minds taken out of Scripture and Church History.  Neither great Saintliness nor great service was forfeited by

this penitent; and he is constantly telling us how the extreme of demerit and the extreme of gracious treatment met in him; how he had at one time destroyed himself, and how God had helped him; how, where sin had abounded, grace had abounded much more.  In one of the very last letters he ever wrote—his letter to James Guthrie in 166l—he is still amazed that God has not brought his sin to the Market Cross, to use his own word.  But all through his letters this same note of admiration and wonder runs—that he has been taken from among the pots and his wings covered with silver and gold.  Truly, in his case the most seraphic Saintliness was not forfeited, and we who read his books may well bless God it was so.

And then, experimentally also, what extremes met in our author!  Pascal in Paris and Rutherford in Anwoth and St. Andrews were at the very opposite poles ecclesiastically from one another.  I do not like to think what Rutherford would have said of Pascal, but I cannot embody what I have to say of Rutherford’s experimental extremes better than just by this passage taken from the Thoughts: ‘The Christian religion teaches the righteous man that it