eking; Knox had lived forty years quietly obscure,
before he became conspicuous. He was the son of poor parents; had got a
college education; become a priest; adopted the Reformation, and seemed
well content to guide his own steps by the light of it, nowise unduly
intruding it on others. He had lived as Tutor in gentlemen's families;
preaching when any body of persons wished to hear his doctrine:
resolute he to walk by the truth, and speak the truth when called to do
it; not ambitious of more; not fancying himself capable of more. In
this entirely obscure way he had reached the age of forty; was with the
small body of Reformers who were standing siege in St. Andrew's
Castle--when one day in their chapel, the preacher, after finishing his
exhortation to these fighters in the forlorn hope, said suddenly, That
there ought to be other speakers, that all men who had a priest's heart
and gift in them ought now to speak; which gifts and heart one of their
own number, John Knox the name of him, had: had he not? said the
preacher, appealing to all the audience: what then is _his_ duty? The
people answered affirmatively; it was a criminal forsaking of his post,
if such a man held the word that was in him silent. Poor Knox was
obliged to stand up; he attempted to reply; he could say no word; burst
into a flood of tears, and ran out. It is worth remembering, that
scene. He was in grievous trouble for some days. He felt what a small
faculty was his for this great work. He felt what a baptism he was
called to be baptized withal. He "burst into tears."

Our primary characteristic of a hero, that he is sincere, applies
emphatically to Knox. It is not denied anywhere that this, whatever
might be his other qualities or faults, is among the truest of men.
With a singular instinct he holds to the truth and fact; the truth
alone is there for him, the rest a mere shadow and deceptive nonentity.
However feeble, forlorn the reality may seem, on that and that only
_can_ he take his stand. In the Galleys of the River Loire, whither
Knox and the others, after their Castle of St. Andrew's was taken, had
been sent as Galley-slaves--some officer or priest, one day, presented
them an image of the Virgin Mother, requiring that they, the blasphemous
heretics, should do it reverence. Mother? Mother of God? said Knox,
when the turn came to him: This is no Mother of God: this is "a _pented
bredd_"--a piece of wood, I tell you, with paint on it! She is fitt