Berwick, or its neighbourhood, where he might perhaps be allowed to
reside peaceably, although in a more private way than formerly. To
this proposal he does not seem to have been averse, provided he could
have seen any prospect of his being able to support himself. Since
the accession of queen Mary, the payment of the salary allotted him by
government had been stopped. Indeed, he had not received any part of
it for the last twelve months.[174] His father‑in‑law was abundantly
able to give him a sufficient establishment; but Knox’s spirit could
not brook the thought of being dependent on one who had treated him
with coldness and disdain. Induced by the importunity of Mrs Bowes,
he applied to her brother‑in‑law, Sir Robert Bowes, and attempted,
by a candid explanation of all circumstances, to remove any umbrage
which had been conceived against him by the family, and to procure an
amicable settlement {116} of the whole affair. The unfavourable issue
of this interview was communicated by him in a letter to Mrs Bowes, of
which the following is an extract:
“Dear mother, so may and will I call you, not only for the
tender affection I bear unto you in Christ, but also for the
motherly kindness ye have shewn unto me at all times since our first
acquaintance; albeit such things as I have desired, (if it had pleased
God,) and ye and others have long desired, are never like to come
to pass, yet shall ye be sure that my love and care toward you shall
never abate, so long as I can care for any earthly creature. Ye shall
understand that this 6th of November, I spake with Sir Robert Bowes on
the matter ye know, according to your request, whose disdainful, yea,
despiteful words have so pierced my heart, that my life is bitter unto
me. I bear a good countenance with a sore troubled heart; while he
that ought to consider matters with a deep judgment is become not only
a despiser, but also a taunter of God’s messengers. God be merciful
unto him. Among other his most unpleasing words, while that I was
about to have declared my part in the whole matter, he said, ‘Away
with your rhetorical reasons, for I will not be persuaded with them.’
God knows I did use no rhetoric or coloured speech, but would have
spoken the truth, and that in most simple manner. I am not a good
orator in my own cause. But what he would not be content to hear of me,
God shall declare to him one day to his displeasure, unless he repent.
It is supposed that all the matter comes by you and me. I pray God
{117} that your conscience were quiet and at peace, and I regard not
what country consume this my wicked carcase. And were it not that no
man’s unthankfulness shall move me (God supporting my infirmity) to
cease to do profit unto Christ’s congregation, those days should be
few that England would give me bread. And I fear that, when all is
done, I shall be driven to that end; for I cannot abide the disdainful
hatred of those, of whom not only I thought I might have craved
kindness, but also to whom God hath been by me more liberal than
they be thankful. But so must men declare themselves. Affection does
trouble me at this present; yet I doubt not to overcome by him, who
will not leave comfortless his afflicted to the end, whose omnipotent
spirit rest with you. Amen.”[175]
He refers to the same disagreeable affair in another letter written
about the end of this year. After mentioning the bad state of his
health, which had been greatly increased by distress of mind, he adds,
“It will be after the 12th day before I can be at Berwick; and almost
I am determined not to come at all. Ye know the cause. God be more
merciful unto some, than they are equitable unto me in judgment. The
testimony of my conscience absolves me, before his face who looks not
upon the presence of man.”[176] These extracts show us the heart of
the writer; they discover the sensibility of his temper, the keenness
of his feelings, and his pride and independence of spirit {118}
struggling with a sense of duty, and affection to his relations.
About the end of November, or the beginning of December, he retired
from the south to Newcastle. The parliament had by this time repealed
all the laws made in favour of the Reformation, and restored the Roman
catholic religion; but such as pleased, were permitted to observe
the protestant worship until the 20th of December. After that period
they were thrown out of the protection of the law, and exposed to
the pains decreed against heretics. Many of the bishops and ministers
were already committed to prison; others had escaped beyond sea. Knox
could not, however, prevail on himself either to flee the kingdom, or
to desist from preaching. Three days after the period limited by the
statute had elapsed, he says in one of his letters, “I may not answer
your places of scripture, nor yet write the exposition of the sixth
psalm, for every day of this week must I preach, if this wicked
carcase will permit.”[177]
His enemies, who had been defeated in their attempts to ruin him under
the former government, had now access to rulers sufficiently disposed
to listen to their information. They were not dilatory in improving
the opportunity. In the end of December 1553, or beginning of January
1554, his servant was seized, as he carried letters from him to his
wife and mother‑in‑law, and the letters were taken from him, in the
hopes of finding in them some matter of accusation {119} against the
writer. As they contained merely religious advices, and exhortations
to constancy in the protestant faith, which he was prepared to avow
before any court to which he might be called, he was not alarmed
at their interception. But, being aware of the uneasiness which the
report would give to his friends at Berwick, he set out immediately
with the design of visiting them. Notwithstanding the secrecy with
which he conducted this journey, the rumour of it quickly spread;
and some of his wife’s relations who had joined him, perceiving that
he was in imminent danger, prevailed on him, greatly against his own
inclination, to relinquish the design of proceeding to Berwick, and
retire to a place of safety on the coast, from which he might escape
by sea, provided the search for him was continued. From this retreat
he wrote to his wife and her mother, acquainting them with the reasons
of his absconding, and the small prospect which he had of being able
at that time to see them. “His brethren,” he said, “had, partly by
admonition, partly by tears, compelled him to obey,” somewhat contrary
to his own mind; for “never could he die in a more honest quarrel,”
than by suffering as a witness for that truth of which God had made
him a messenger. Notwithstanding this state of his mind, he promised,
if providence prepared the way, to “obey the voices of his brethren,
and give place to the fury and rage of Satan for a time.”[178]
{120} Having ascertained that his friends were not mistaken in the
apprehensions which they felt for his safety, and that he could not
hope to elude the pursuit of his enemies, if he remained in England,
he procured a vessel, which landed him safely at Dieppe, a port of
Normandy in France, on the 20th of January, 1554.[179]
{121}
PERIOD IV.
FROM THE YEAR 1554, WHEN HE LEFT ENGLAND, TO THE YEAR 1556,
WHEN HE RETURNED TO GENEVA, AFTER VISITING SCOTLAND.
PROVIDENCE, having more important services in reserve for Knox, made
use of the urgent importunities of his friends to hurry him away from
those dangers, to which, had he been left to the determination of his
own mind, his zeal and fearlessness would have prompted him to expose
himself. No sooner did he reach a foreign shore, than he began to
regret the course which he had been induced to take. When he thought
upon his fellow‑preachers, whom he had left behind him immured in
dungeons, and the people lately under his charge, now scattered abroad
as sheep without a shepherd, he felt an indescribable pang, and an
almost irresistible desire to return and share in the hazardous but
honourable conflict. Although he had only complied with the divine
direction, “when they persecute you in one city, flee ye unto another,”
and although in his own breast he stood acquitted of cowardice, yet
he found it difficult to divest his conduct of the appearance of that
weakness, and was afraid that it might operate as a discouragement
to his brethren in England, and induce {122} them to make sinful
compliances with a view of saving their lives.
On this subject we find him unbosoming himself to Mrs Bowes in
his letters from Dieppe. “The desire that I have to hear of your
continuance with Christ Jesus, in the day of this his battle, (which
shortly shall end to the confusion of his proud enemies,) neither by
tongue nor by pen can I express, beloved mother. Assuredly, it is such,
that it vanquisheth and overcometh all remembrance and solicitude
which the flesh useth to take for feeding and defence of herself.
For, in every realm and nation, God will stir up some one or other
to minister those things that appertain to this wretched life, and,
if men will cease to do their office, yet will he send his ravens;
so that in every place, perchance, I may find some fathers to my body.
But, alas! where I shall find children to be begotten unto God by
the word of life, that can I not presently consider; and therefore
the spiritual life of such as some time boldly professed Christ,
(God knoweth,) is to my heart more dear than all the glory, riches,
and honour in earth; and the falling back of such men, as I hear
daily to turn back to that idol again, is to me more dolorous than,
I trust, the corporal death shall be, whenever it shall come at God’s
appointment. Some will ask, Then why did I flee? Assuredly I cannot
tell; but of one thing I am sure, the fear of death was not the chief
cause of my fleeing. I trust that one cause hath been to let me see
with my corporal eyes, that all had not a true heart to Christ Jesus,
that, in the day of rest and peace, bare a fair {123} face. But my
fleeing is no matter; by God’s grace I may come to battle before
that all the conflict be ended. And haste the time, O Lord, at thy
good pleasure, that once again my tongue may yet praise thy holy
name before the congregation, if it were but in the very hour of
death!”――“I would not bow my knee before that most abominable idol
for all the torments that earthly tyrants can devise, God so assisting
me, as his Holy Spirit presently moveth me to write unfeignedly. And
albeit that I have, in the beginning of this battle, appeared to play
the faint‑hearted and feeble soldier, (the cause I remit to God,) yet
my prayer is, that I may be restored to the battle again. And blessed
be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I am not left so bare
without comfort, but my hope is to obtain such mercy, that, if a short
end be not made of all my miseries by final death, (which to me were
no small advantage,) that yet, by him who never despised the sobs of
the sore afflicted, I shall be so encouraged to fight, that England
and Scotland shall both know, that I am ready to suffer more than
either poverty or exile, for the profession of that doctrine, and that
heavenly religion, whereof it has pleased his merciful providence to
make me, among others, a simple soldier and witness‑bearer unto men.
And therefore, mother, let no fear enter into your heart, as that
I, escaping the furious rage of these ravening wolves that for our
unthankfulness are lately loosed from their bands, do repent any
thing of my former fervency. No, mother; for a few sermons by me to
be made within England, my heart at {124} this hour could be content
to suffer more than nature were able to sustain; as, by the grace of
the most mighty and most merciful God, who only is God of comfort and
consolation through Christ Jesus, one day shall be known.”[180]
In his present sequestered situation, Knox had full leisure to
meditate upon the surprising vicissitudes in his lot during the
last seven years――his singular call to the ministry and employment
at St Andrews――his subsequent imprisonment and release――the sphere of
usefulness in which he had been placed in England, with the afflicting
manner in which he was excluded from it, and driven to seek refuge as
an exile in that country to which he had formerly been carried as a
prisoner. This last event seemed in a special manner to summon him to
a solemn review of the manner in which he had discharged the sacred
trust committed to him, as “a steward of the mysteries of God.” It
will throw light on his character, and may not be without use to such
as occupy a public station in the church, to exhibit the result of his
reflections on this subject.
He could not deny, without ingratitude to him who had called him to
be his servant, that his qualifications for the ministry had been
in no small degree improved since he came to England; and he had the
testimony of his own conscience, in addition to that of his numerous
auditors, that he had not altogether neglected the gifts bestowed on
him, but had exercised {125} them with some measure of fidelity and
painfulness. At the same time, he found reason for self‑accusation
on different grounds. Having mentioned, in one of his letters, the
reiterated charge of Christ to Peter, “Feed my sheep, feed my lambs,”
he exclaims, “O, alas! how small is the number of pastors that obeys
this commandment. But this matter will I not deplore, except that I,
not speaking of others, will accuse myself that do not, I confess,
the uttermost of my power in feeding the lambs and sheep of Christ.
I satisfy, peradventure, many men in the small labours I take, but
I satisfy not myself. I have done somewhat, but not according to my
duty.”[181] In the discharge of private duties, he acknowledges,
that shame, and the fear of incurring the scandal of the world, had
sometimes hindered him from visiting the female part of his charge,
and administering to them the instruction and comfort which they
craved. In public ministrations, he had been deficient in fervency
and fidelity, in impartiality, and in diligence. He could not charge
himself with flattery, and his “rude plainness” had given offence
to some; but his conscience now accused him of not having been
sufficiently plain in admonishing offenders. His custom had been to
describe the vices of which his hearers were guilty in such colours
that they might read their own image; but, being “unwilling to provoke
all men” against him, he had restrained himself from particular
application. Though his “eye had not been much {126} set on worldly
promotion,” he had sometimes been allured, by affection for friends
and familiar acquaintances, to reside too long in some places, to the
neglect of others which had an equal or perhaps stronger claim on his
labours. Formerly he thought he had not sinned, if he had not been
idle; now he was convinced that it was his duty to have considered
how long he should remain in one place, and how many hungry souls
were starving elsewhere. Sometimes, at the solicitation of friends,
he had spared himself, and devoted to worldly business, or to bodily
recreation and exercise, the time which ought to have been employed
in the discharge of his official duties. “Besides these,” says he, “I
was assaulted, yea infected, with more gross sins, that is, my wicked
nature desired the favours, the estimation, and praise of men; against
which, albeit that sometimes the Spirit of God did move me to fight,
and earnestly did stir me (God knoweth I lie not) to sob and lament
for these imperfections, yet never ceased they to trouble me when
any occasion was offered; and so privily and craftily did they enter
into my breast, that I could not perceive myself to be wounded till
vainglory had almost got the upper hand. O Lord! be merciful to my
great offence; and deal not with me according to my great iniquity,
but according to the multitude of thy mercies.”[182]
Such was the strict scrutiny which Knox made into his ministerial
conduct. To many the offences {127} of which he accused himself will
appear slight and venial, while others will perceive in them nothing
worthy of blame; but they struck his mind in a very different light,
in the hour of adversity and solitary meditation. If he, whose labours
were so abundant as to appear to us excessive, had such reason for
self‑condemnation, how few are there in the same station who may not
say, “I do remember my faults this day!”
He did not, however, abandon himself to melancholy and unavailing
complaints. One of his first cares, after arriving at Dieppe, was
to employ his pen in writing suitable advices to those whom he could
no longer instruct by preaching and conversation. With this view, he
transmitted to England two short treatises. The one was an exposition
of the sixth Psalm, which, at the request of Mrs Bowes, he had begun
to write in England, but had not found leisure to finish. It is an
excellent practical discourse upon that portion of scripture, and will
be read with peculiar satisfaction by those who have been trained to
religion in the school of adversity. The other treatise was a large
letter, addressed to those in London and other parts of England,
among whom he had been employed as a preacher. The drift of it was to
warn them against abandoning the religion which they had embraced, or
giving countenance to the idolatrous worship now erected among them.
The reader of this letter cannot fail to be struck with its animated
strain, when he reflects that it proceeded from a forlorn exile, in
a strange country, without a single acquaintance, and ignorant where
he would {128} find a place of abode, or the means of subsistence.
As a specimen of elevated piety and the most fervid eloquence, I
cannot refrain from quoting the conclusion of the letter; in which
he addresses their consciences, their hopes, their fears, and adjures
them, by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to them, as men,
as parents, and as Christians, not to start back from their good
profession, and plunge themselves and their posterity into the gulf
of ignorance and idolatry.
“Allace! sall we, efter so many graces that God has offerit in our
dayis, for pleasure, or for vane threatnying of thame whome our
hart knaweth and our mouthes have confessit to be odious idolateris,
altogidder without resistance turne back to our vomit and damnabill
ydolatrie, to the perdition of us and our posteritie? O horribill to
be hard! Sall Godis halie preceptis wirk no greater obedience in us?
Sall nature no otherwayis molifie our hartis? Sall not fatherlie pitie
overcum this cruelnes? I speik to you, O natural fatheris! Behold
your children with the eie of mercie, and considder the end of thair
creatioun. Crueltie it were to saif your selves, and damn thame.
But, O! more than crueltie, and madnes that can not be expressit,
gif,[183] for the pleasure of a moment, ye depryve yourselves and
your posteritie of that eternall joy that is ordanit for thame that
continewis in confessioun of Christis name to the end. Gif natural
lufe, fatherly affectioun, reverence of God, feir {129} of torment,
or yit hoip of lyfe, move you, then will ye ganestand that abominabill
ydol; whilk, gif ye do not, then, allace! the sone[184] is gone doun,
and the lyht is quyte lost, the trompet is ceissit, and ydolatrie
is placeit in quietnes and rest. But gif God sall strenthin you,
(as unfainedlie I pray that his majestie may,) then is their but ane
dark clude overspred the sone for ane moment, whilk schortlie shall
vanische, sa that the beames efter salbe seven fald mair bryht and
amiable nor they were befoir. Your patience and constancie salbe a
louder trompit to your posteritie than were the voces of the prophetis
that instructit you; and so is not the trompit ceissit sa lang as any
baldlie resistith ydolatrie. And, thairfoir, for the tender mercies of
God, arme yourselves to stand with Christ in this his schorte battell.
“Let it be knawn to your posteritie that ye wer Christianis, and
no ydolateris; that ye learnit Chryst in tyme of rest, and baldlie
professit him in tyme of trubill. The preceptis, think ye, are scharpe
and hard to be observit; and yet agane I affirme, that comparit with
the plagis that sall assuredlie fall upon obstinat ydolateris, thay
salbe fund easie and lycht. For avoyding of ydolatrie ye may perchance
be compellit to leave your native contrie and realme, but obeyris of
ydolatrie without end salbe compellit to burne in hell; for avoyding
ydolatrie your substance salbe spoillit, but for obeying ydolatrie
heavenly ryches salbe lost; for avoyding ydolatrie ye may fall {130}
into the handis of earthlie tirantis, but obeyeris, manteaneris, and
consentaris to ydolatrie sall not eschaip the handis of the liveing
God; for avoyding of ydolatrie your children salbe depryvit of father,
friendis, ryches, and of rest, but by obeying ydolatrie they sall be
left without God, without the knawledge of his word, and without hoip
of his kingdome. Considder, deir brethrene, that how mekill mair[185]
dolorous and feirfull it is to be tormentit in hell than to suffer
trubill in erth, to be depryvit of heavenlie joy than to be rubbit
of transitorie ryches, to fall in the hands of the liveing God than
to obey manis vane and uncertane displeasure, to leif oure children
destitute of God than to leif thame unprovydit befoir the world,――sa
mekill mair feirful it is to obey ydolatrie, or by dissembling to
consent to the same, than by avoyding and flying from the abominatioun,
to suffer what inconvenient may follow thairupon.
“Ye feir corporall deth. Gif nature admitit any man to live ever,
then had your feir sum aperance of reasone. But gif corporall deth be
commoun to all, why will ye jeoparde to lois eternall lyfe, to eschaip
that which neither ryche nor pure, nether wyse nor ignorant, proud
of stomoke nor febill of corage, and finally, no earthlie creature,
by no craft nor ingyne[186] of man, did ever avoid. Gif any eschapit
the uglie face and horibill feir of deth, it was thay that baldlie
confessit Chryst befoir men.――Why aucht the way of lyfe to be so
feirfull by reasone of any pane, considering {131} that a great
noumber of oure brethrene hes past befoir ws, by lyke dangeris as we
feir. A stout and prudent marinell, in tyme of tempest, seeing but one
or two schippis, or like weschells to his, pass throughout any danger,
and to win a sure harberie, will have gud esperance,[187] by the lyke
wind, to do the same. Allace! sall ye be mair feirfull to win lyfe
eternall, than the natural man is to save the corporall lyfe? Hes not
the maist part of the sanctis of God from the begynning enterit into
thair rest, by torment and trubillis? And yit what complayntis find
we in their mouthis, except it be the lamenting of thair persecuteris?
Did God comfort thame? and sall his Majestie despyse us, gif, in
fichting aganis iniquitie, we will follow thair futstepis? Hie will
not.”[188]
On the last day of February, 1554,[189] he set out from Dieppe,
like the Hebrew patriarch of old, “not knowing whither he went;”[190]
and “committing his {132} way to God,” travelled through France to
Switzerland. A correspondence had been kept up between some of the
English reformers and the most noted divines of the Helvetic church.
The latter had already heard, with the sincerest grief, of the
overthrow of the Reformation, and the dispersion of its friends, in
England. On making himself known, Knox was cordially received by them,
and treated with the most affectionate hospitality. He spent some
time in Switzerland, visiting the particular churches, and conferring
with the learned men of that country; and embraced the opportunity of
submitting to them certain difficult questions, which were suggested
by the present conjuncture of affairs in England, and about which
his mind had been greatly occupied. Their views with respect to these
coinciding with his own, he was confirmed in the judgment which he had
already formed for himself.[191]