Chapter 24

I do not think he ever saw Mrs. Locke after he left Geneva; but his correspondence with her continued for three years. It may have continued longer, of course, but I think the last letters we possess read like the last that would be written. Perhaps Mrs. Locke was then remarried, for there is much obscurity over her subsequent history. For as long as their intimacy was kept up, at least, the human element remains in the Reformer’s life. Here is one passage, for example, the most likable utterance of Knox’s that I can quote:—Mrs. Locke has been upbraiding him as a bad correspondent. “My remembrance of you,” he answers, “is not so dead, but I trust it shall be fresh enough, albeit it be renewed by no outward token for one year. _Of nature_, _I am churlish_; _yet one thing I ashame not to affirm_, _that familiarity once thoroughly contracted was never yet broken on my default_. _The cause may be that I have rather need of all_, _than that any have need of me_. However it (_that_) be, it cannot be, as I say, the corporal absence of one year or two that can quench in my heart that familiar acquaintance in Christ Jesus, which half a year did engender, and almost two years did nourish and confirm. And therefore, whether I write or no, be assuredly persuaded that I have you in such memory as becometh the faithful to have of the faithful.” {390} This is the truest touch of personal humility that I can remember to have seen in all the five volumes of the Reformer’s collected works: it is no small honour to Mrs. Locke that his affection for her should have brought home to him this unwonted feeling of dependence upon others. Everything else in the course of the correspondence testifies to a good, sound, down-right sort of friendship between the two, less ecstatic than it was at first, perhaps, but serviceable and very equal. He gives her ample details as to the progress of the work of reformation; sends her the sheets of the _Confession of Faith_, “in quairs,” as he calls it; asks her to assist him with her prayers, to collect money for the good cause in Scotland, and to send him books for himself—books by Calvin especially, one on Isaiah, and a new revised edition of the “Institutes.” “I must be bold on your liberality,” he writes, “not only in that, but in greater things as I shall need.” {391a} On her part she applies to him for spiritual advice, not after the manner of the drooping Mrs. Bowes, but in a more positive spirit,—advice as to practical points, advice as to the Church of England, for instance, whose ritual he condemns as a “mingle-mangle.” {391b} Just at the end she ceases to write, sends him “a token, without writing.” “I understand your impediment,” he answers, “and therefore I cannot complain. Yet if you understood the variety of my temptations, I doubt not but you would have written somewhat.” {391c} One letter more, and then silence.

And I think the best of the Reformer died out with that correspondence. It is after this, of course, that he wrote that ungenerous description of his intercourse with Mrs. Bowes. It is after this, also, that we come to the unlovely episode of his second marriage. He had been left a widower at the age of fifty-five. Three years after, it occurred apparently to yet another pious parent to sacrifice a child upon the altar of his respect for the Reformer. In January 1563, Randolph writes to Cecil: “Your Honour will take it for a great wonder when I shall write unto you that Mr. Knox shall marry a very near kinswoman of the Duke’s, a Lord’s daughter, a young lass not above sixteen years of age.” {392} He adds that he fears he will be laughed at for reporting so mad a story. And yet it was true; and on Palm Sunday, 1564, Margaret Stewart, daughter of Andrew Lord Stewart of Ochiltree, aged seventeen, was duly united to John Knox, Minister of St. Giles’s Kirk, Edinburgh, aged fifty-nine,—to the great disgust of Queen Mary from family pride, and I would fain hope of many others for more humane considerations. “In this,” as Randolph says, “I wish he had done otherwise.” The Consistory of Geneva, “that most perfect school of Christ that ever was on earth since the days of the Apostles,” were wont to forbid marriages on the ground of too great a disproportion in age. I cannot help wondering whether the old Reformer’s conscience did not uneasily remind him, now and again, of this good custom of his religious metropolis, as he thought of the two-and-forty years that separated him from his poor bride. Fitly enough, we hear nothing of the second Mrs. Knox until she appears at her husband’s deathbed, eight years after. She bore him three daughters in the interval; and I suppose the poor child’s martyrdom was made as easy for her as might be. She was “extremely attentive to him” at the end, we read and he seems to have spoken to her with some confidence. Moreover, and this is very characteristic, he had copied out for her use a little volume of his own devotional letters to other women.

This is the end of the roll, unless we add to it Mrs. Adamson, who had delighted much in his company “by reason that she had a troubled conscience,” and whose deathbed is commemorated at some length in the pages of his history. {393}

And now, looking back, it cannot be said that Knox’s intercourse with women was quite of the highest sort. It is characteristic that we find him more alarmed for his own reputation than for the reputation of the women with whom he was familiar. There was a fatal preponderance of self in all his intimacies: many women came to learn from him, but he never condescended to become a learner in his turn. And so there is not anything idyllic in these intimacies of his; and they were never so renovating to his spirit as they might have been. But I believe they were good enough for the women. I fancy the women knew what they were about when so many of them followed after Knox. It is not simply because a man is always fully persuaded that he knows the right from the wrong and sees his way plainly through the maze of life, great qualities as these are, that people will love and follow him, and write him letters full of their “earnest desire for him” when he is absent. It is not over a man, whose one characteristic is grim fixity of purpose, that the hearts of women are “incensed and kindled with a special care,” as it were over their natural children. In the strong quiet patience of all his letters to the weariful Mrs. Bowes, we may perhaps see one cause of the fascination he possessed for these religious women. Here was one whom you could besiege all the year round with inconsistent scruples and complaints; you might write to him on Thursday that you were so elated it was plain the devil was deceiving you, and again on Friday that you were so depressed it was plain God had cast you off for ever; and he would read all this patiently and sympathetically, and give you an answer in the most reassuring polysyllables, and all divided into heads—who knows?—like a treatise on divinity. And then, those easy tears of his. There are some women who like to see men crying; and here was this great-voiced, bearded man of God, who might be seen beating the solid pulpit every Sunday, and casting abroad his clamorous denunciations to the terror of all, and who on the Monday would sit in their parlours by the hour, and weep with them over their manifold trials and temptations. Nowadays, he would have to drink a dish of tea with all these penitents. . . . It sounds a little vulgar, as the past will do, if we look into it too closely. We could not let these great folk of old into our drawing-rooms. Queen Elizabeth would positively not be eligible for a housemaid. The old manners and the old customs go sinking from grade to grade, until, if some mighty emperor revisited the glimpses of the moon, he would not find any one of his way of thinking, any one he could strike hands with and talk to freely and without offence, save perhaps the porter at the end of the street, or the fellow with his elbows out who loafs all day before the public-house. So that this little note of vulgarity is not a thing to be dwelt upon; it is to be put away from us, as we recall the fashion of these old intimacies; so that we may only remember Knox as one who was very long-suffering with women, kind to them in his own way, loving them in his own way—and that not the worst way, if it was not the best—and once at least, if not twice, moved to his heart of hearts by a woman, and giving expression to the yearning he had for her society in words that none of us need be ashamed to borrow.

And let us bear in mind always that the period I have gone over in this essay begins when the Reformer was already beyond the middle age, and already broken in bodily health: it has been the story of an old man’s friendships. This it is that makes Knox enviable. Unknown until past forty, he had then before him five-and-thirty years of splendid and influential life, passed through uncommon hardships to an uncommon degree of power, lived in his own country as a sort of king, and did what he would with the sound of his voice out of the pulpit. And besides all this, such a following of faithful women! One would take the first forty years gladly, if one could be sure of the last thirty. Most of us, even if, by reason of great strength and the dignity of gray hairs, we retain some degree of public respect in the latter days of our existence, will find a falling away of friends, and a solitude making itself round about us day by day, until we are left alone with the hired sick-nurse. For the attraction of a man’s character is apt to be outlived, like the attraction of his body; and the power to love grows feeble in its turn, as well as the power to inspire love in others. It is only with a few rare natures that friendship is added to friendship, love to love, and the man keeps growing richer in affection—richer, I mean, as a bank may be said to grow richer, both giving and receiving more—after his head is white and his back weary, and he prepares to go down into the dust of death.

* * * * *

THE END.

* * * * *

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES

{0} _Gaudeamus_: _Carmina vagorum selecta_. Leipsic. Trübner. 1879.

{27} Prefatory letter to _Peveril of the Peak_.

{71} For the love affairs see, in particular, Mr. Scott Douglas’s edition under the different dates.

{179} Yoshida, when on his way to Nangasaki, met the soldier and talked with him by the roadside; they then parted, but the soldier was so much struck by the words he heard, that on Yoshida’s return he sought him out and declared his intention of devoting his life to the good cause. I venture, in the absence of the writer, to insert this correction, having been present when the story was told by Mr. Masaki.—F. J. And I, there being none to settle the difference, must reproduce both versions.—R. L. S.

{185} I understood that the merchant was endeavouring surreptitiously to obtain for his son instruction to which he was not entitled.—F. J.

{192} _Etude Biographique sur François Villon_. Paris: H. Menu.

{195} _Bougeois de Paris_, ed. Panthéon, pp. 688, 689.

{196} _Bourgeois_, pp. 627, 636, and 725.

{204} _Chronìque Scandaleuse_, ed. Panthéon, p. 237.

{210} Monstrelet: _Panthéon Littéraire_, p. 26.

{220a} _Chron. Scand._ ut supra.

{220b} Here and there, principally in the order of events, this article differs from M. Longnon’s own reading of his material. The ground on which he defers the execution of Montigny and De Cayeux beyond the date of their trials seems insufficient. There is a law of parsimony for the construction of historical documents; simplicity is the first duty of narration; and hanged they were.

{224} _Chron. Scand._, p. 338.

{238} Champollion-Figeac’s _Louis et Charles d’Orléans_, p. 348.

{240a} D’Héricault’s admirable _Memoir_, prefixed to his edition of Charles’s works, vol. i. p. xi.

{240b} Vallet de Viriville, _Charles VII. et son Epoque_, ii. 428, note 2.

{241a} See Lecoy de la Marche, _Le Roi René_, i. 167.

{241b} Vallet, _Charles VII_, ii. 85, 86, note 2.

{241c} Champollion-Figeac, 193–198.

{242a} Champollion-Figeac, 209.

{242b} The student will see that there are facts cited, and expressions borrowed, in this paragraph, from a period extending over almost the whole of Charles’s life, instead of being confined entirely to his boyhood. As I do not believe there was any change, so I do not believe there is any anachronism involved.

{243} _The Debate between the Heralds of France and England_, translated and admirably edited by Mr. Henry Pyne. For the attribution of this tract to Charles, the reader is referred to Mr. Pyne’s conclusive argument.

{244} Des Ursins.

{248} Michelet, iv. App. 179, p. 337.

{249} Champollion-Figeac, pp. 279–82.

{250} Michelet, iv. pp. 123–4.

{253} _Debate between the Heralds_.

{254} Sir H. Nicholas, _Agincourt_.

{257a} _Debate between the Heralds_.

{257b} Works (ed. d’Héricault), i. 43.

{257c} _Ibid._ 143.

{258a} Works (ed. d’Héricault), i. 190.

{258b} _Ibid._ 144.

{258c} _Ibid._ 158.

{259a} M. Champollion-Figeac gives many in his editions of Charles’s works, most (as I should think) of very doubtful authenticity, or worse.

{259b} Rymer, x. 564. D’Héricault’s _Memoir_, p. xli. Gairdner’s _Paston Letters_, i. 27, 99.

{260} Champollion-Figeac, 377.

{262a} Dom Plancher, iv. 178–9.

{262b} Works, i. 157–63.

{265a} Vallet’s _Charles VII._, i. 251.

{265b} _Procès de Jeanne d’Arc_, i. 133–55.

{267a} Monstrelet.

{267b} Vallet’s _Charles VII._, iii. chap. i. But see the chronicle that bears Jaquet’s name: a lean and dreary book.

{268} Monstrelet.

{269} D’Héricault’s _Memoir_, xl. xli. Vallet, _Charles VI._, ii. 435.

{271a} Champollion-Figeac, 368.

{271b} Works, i. 115.

{271c} D’Héricault’s _Memoir_, xlv.

{272} ChampoIlion-Figeac, 381, 361, 381.

{273} Champollion-Figeac, 359,361.

{276a} Lecoy de la Marche, _Roi René_, ii. 155, 177.

{276b} Champollion-Figeac, chaps. v. and vi.

{276c} _Ibid._ 364; Works, i. 172.

{276d} Champollion-Figeac, 364: “Jeter de l’argent aux petis enfans qui estoient au long de Bourbon, pour les faire nonner en l’eau et aller querre l’argent au fond.”

{277a} Champollion-Figeac, 387.

{277b} _Nouvelle Biographie Didot_, art. “Marie de Clèves.” Vallet, _Charles VII_, iii. 85, note 1.

{277c} Champollion-Figeac, 383, 384–386.

{278} Works, ii. 57, 258.

{329} Gaberel’s _Eglist de Genève_, i. 88.

{330a} _La Démocratie chez les Prédicateurs de la Ligue_.

{330b} _Historia affectuum se immiscentium controversiæ de gynæcocratia_. It is in his collected prefaces, Leipsic, 1683.

{333a} _Œuvres de d’Aubigné_, i. 449.

{333b} _Dames Illustres_, pp. 358–360.

{334} Works of John Knox, iv. 349.

{341} M‘Crie’s _Life of Knox_, ii. 41.

{342} Described by Calvin in a letter to Cecil, Knox’s Works, vol. iv.

{344} It was anonymously published, but no one seems to have been in doubt about its authorship; he might as well have set his name to it, for all the good he got by holding it back.

{345a} Knox’s Works, iv. 358.

{345b} Strype’s _Aylmer_, p. 16.

{346a} It may interest the reader to know that these (so says Thomasius) are the “ipsissima verba Schlusselburgii.”

{346b} I am indebted for a sight of this book to the kindness of Mr. David Laing, the editor of Knox’s Works.

{348} _Social Statics_, p. 64, etc.

{349} Hallam’s _Const. Hist. of England_, i. 225, note m.

{352a} Knox to Mrs. Locke, 6th April 1559. Works, vi. 14.

{352b} Knox to Sir William Cecil, 10th April 1559. Works, ii. 16, or vi. 15.

{354} Knox to Queen Elizabeth, July. 20th, 1559. Works, vi. 47, or ii. 26.

{355} Knox to Queen Elizabeth, August 6th, 1561. Works, vi. 126.

{357} Knox’s Works, ii. 278–280.

{359} Calderwood’s _History of the Kirk of Scotland_, edition of the Wodrow Society, iii. 51–54.

{360} _Bayle’s Historical Dictionary_, art. Knox, remark G.

{368} Works, iv. 244.

{369a} Works, iv. 246.

{369b} _Ib._ iv. 225.

{371a} Works, iv. 245.

{371b} _Ib._ iv. 221.

{373a} Works, vi. 514.

{373b} _Ib._ iii. 338.

{373c} _Ib._ iii. 352, 353.

{374a} Works, iii. 350.

{374b} _Ib._ iii. 390, 391.

{375a} Works, iii. 142.

{375b} _Ib._ iii. 378.

{375c} _Ib._ ii. 379.

{376} Works, iii. 394.

{377} Works, iii. 376.

{378} Works, iii. 378.

{379a} Works, vi. 104.

{379b} _Ib._ v. 5.

{379c} _Ib._ vi. 27.

{379d} _Ib._ ii. 138.

{380} Mr. Laing’s preface to the sixth volume of Knox’s Works, p. lxii.

{381} Works. vi. 534.

{382a} Works, iv. 220.

{382b} _Ib._ iii. 380.

{382c} _Ib._ iv. 220.

{383} Works, iii. 380.

{384} Works, iv. 238.

{385} Works, iv. 240.

{388} Works, vi. 513, 514.

{390} Works, vi. ii.

{391a} Works, vi. pp. 21. 101, 108, 130.

{391b} _Ib._ vi. 83.

{391c} _Ib._ vi. 129.

{392} Works, vi. 532.

{393} Works, i. 246.