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-twenty 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-two years gladly, if one could be sure of the last twenty-five. Most of us, even if, by reason of great strength and the dignity of grey
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 maybe 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. FOOTNOTES:

  [60] Gaberel's "Église de Genève," i. 88. [61] "La Démocratie chez les Prédicateurs de la Ligue." [62] "Historia affectuum se immiscentium controversiæ de
    gynæcocratia." It is in his collected prefaces; Leipsic, 1683. [63] "OEuvres de d'Aubigné," i. 449. [64] "Dames Illustres," pp. 358-360. [65] Works of John Knox, iv. 349. [66] M'Crie's "Life of Knox," ii. 41. [67] Described by Calvin in a letter to Cecil, Knox's Works, vol. iv. [68] 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. [69] Knox's Works, iv. 358. [70] Strype's "Aylmer," p. 16. [71] It may interest the reader to know that these (so says Thomasius)
    are the "ipsissima verba Schlusselburgii." [72] I am indebted for a sight of this book to the kindness of Mr.
    David Laing, the editor of Knox's Works. [73] "Social Statics," p. 64, etc. [74] Hallam's "Const. Hist. of England," i. 225, note ^m. [75] Knox to Mrs. Locke, 6th April, 1559.--Works, vi. 14. [76] Knox to Sir William Cecil, 10th April, 1559.--Works, ii. 16, or
    vi. 15. [77] Knox to Queen Elizabeth, July 20th, 1559.--Works, vi. 47, or ii. 26. [78] _Ibid._, August 6th, 1561.--Works, vi. 126. [79] Knox's Works, ii. 278-280. [80] Calderwood's "History of the Kirk of Scotland," edition of the
    Wodrow Society, iii. 51-54. [81] Bayle's "Historical Dictionary," art. KNOX, remark G.

  [82] Works, iv. 244. [83] Works, iv. 246. [84] _Ibid._, iv. 225. [85] Works, iv. 245. [86] _Ibid._ iv. 221. [87] Works, vi. 514. [88] _Ibid._ iii. 334. [89] Works, iii. 352, 353. [90] _Ibid._ iii. 350. [91] _Ibid._ iii. 390, 391. [92] Works, iii. 142. [93] _Ibid._ iii. 378. [94] _Ibid._ ii. 379. [95] _Ibid._ iii. 394. [96] Works, iii. 376. [97] Works, iii. 378. [98] _Ibid._ vi. 104. [99] _Ibid._ v. 5. [100] _Ibid._ vi. 27. [101] _Ibid._ ii. 138. [102] Mr. Laing's preface to the sixth volume of Knox's Works, p. lxii. [103] Works, vi. 534. [104] _Ibid._ iv. 220. [105] _Ibid._ iii. 380. [106] _Ibid._ iv. 220. [107] Works, iii. 380. [108] _Ibid._ iv. 238. [109] Works, iv. 240. [110] Works, vi. 513, 514. [111] Works, vi. 11. [112] Works, vi. 21, 101, 108, 130. [113] _Ibid._ vi. 83. [114] _Ibid._ vi. 129. [115] _Ibid._ vi. 532. [116] Works, i. 246. THE BODY-SNATCHER




THE BODY-SNATCHER


Every night in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour of the
George at Debenham--the undertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and
myself. Sometimes there would be more; but blow high, blow low, come
rain or snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his own
particular armchair. Fettes was an old drunken Scotchman, a man of
education obviously, and a man of some property, since he lived in
idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago, while still young, and by a
mere continuance of living had grown to be an adopted townsman. His blue
camlet cloak was a local antiquity, like the church-spire. His place in
the parlour at the George, his absence from church, his old, crapulous,
disreputable vices, were all things of course in Debenham. He had some
vague Radical opinions and some fleeting infidelities, which he would
now and again set forth and emphasise with tottering slaps upon the
table. He drank rum--five glasses regularly every evening; and for the
greater portion of his nightly visit to the George sat, with his glass
in his right hand, in a state of melancholy alcoholic saturation. We
called him the Doctor, for he was supposed to have some special
knowledge of medicine, and had been known, upon a pinch, to set a
fracture or reduce a dislocation; but beyond these slight particulars,
we had no knowledge of his character and antecedents. One dark winter night--it had struck nine some time before the landlord
joined us--there was a sick man in the George, a great neighbouring
proprietor suddenly struck down with apoplexy on his way to Parliament;
and the great man's still greater London doctor had been telegraphed to
his bedside. It was the first time that such a thing had happened in
Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and we were all
proportionately moved by the occurrence. "He's come," said the landlord, after he had filled and lighted his
pipe. "He?" said I. "Who?--not the doctor?" "Himself," replied our host. "What is his name?" "Doctor Macfarlane," said the landlord.