PART J. AMONG the monumental brasses, which have recently been placed in St. Giles', to commemorate the notable men connected with that Church, none better deserves its place, than that which bears the name of John Craig, Knox's colleague, chaplain to King James, one of the builders up of the Reformation, and leaders of the Kirk in troublous times. No name recalls a more strangely varied and eventful history -fuller of the wild romance of those days of religious and social revolution. Romance may seem an ill-chosen word to apply to the incidents of a period which was specially a period of religious crisis and change; but none other describes so appropriately the vicissitudes and experiences of the lives of many of the actors in the great drama, and very notably of such of them as were our countrymen.

The Scottish scholars and divines were, in the 15th and 16th centuries, as familiar figures on the Continent as the Scottish soldiers and knights errant ; and their careers were not less chequered and adventurous. The changes and chances that befel them in the churches, monasteries, and universities of France, Italy, and Germany, as they travelled from city to city, or ministered to the scattered congregations of the Reformed, are as picturesque and spiritstirring in their way as any that we read of in the martial anrals of the Scottish Guard of the French kings, or of the musketeers who fought and conquered under "the Lion of the North." The adventures of Buchanan as he wandered through France from Paris to Bordeaux, where he was the friend of Scaliger and the teacher of Montaigne, and finally to Coimbra, where the Inquisition laid its hand on him, and, as the story goes, bade him, in expiation of his offences, write his Latin version of the Psalms: of Knox, rowing in the French galley on the Loire, and mingling in the religious strifes and interests of Frankfort and Geneva, ere he came to his proper place in his own country: of John Welch, serving a gun on the ramparts of St. Jean D'Angeley, and when the siege was over and he stood a prisoner before the king, meeting his accusation of unlawful preaching with the answer, "You, sire, if you did right, would come to hear me preach, and make all France hear me too:"-the adventures of these men, and of others in the great company of Scottish exiles and wanderers on the Continent, would, if we could record them all, form a history second to none in variety and interest.

Of that great company John Craig was a conspicuous member. He was born in the year 1512. His father, who was a gentleman of Lothian, and of the same stock as that from which the present family of Gibson Craig of Riccarton is descended, fell "on Flodden's fatal hill" the year after his son John was born.

The boy was well cared for by his kindred, and in due time sent to college at St. Andrews, where he passed through his course of letters and philosophy.

At the close of it he went to England, and there became preceptor to the sons of the Warden of the Western Marches, that Lord Dacre, whose "horsemen light" his father had no doubt seen, perhaps encountered, at Flodden. This office he had held for about two years, when a renewal of the marauding warfare which was chronic on the Border, and in which Lord Dacre had to take a leading part, rendered his position in the Warden's family embarrassing, and, resigning his situation, he returned to Scotland. He must have been, by this time, at least 20 years of age; and not long after he entered the Order of Dominicans at their house in the Northgate of St. Andrews.

It was now many years since Luther had struck, at Wittenberg, his first resounding blow at the immoral doctrines and practices of Rome, and had, at Worms, made his heroic stand on behalf of human freedom and the rights of conscience: but the voice of "the solitary monk that shook the world" had as yet found but broken echoes in Scotland. Patrick Hamilton and Henry Forrest had perished at the stake the proto-martyrs of the good cause: others had fled into England or over sea; but the old system was still dominant. The Church was jealously on the watch for heresy, and believed in the policy of stamping it out by extirpating the heretics. Suspicion of being infected with the Lutheran errors fastened on Craig, and he was thrown into prison; but after a short confinement liberated. Alarmed, however, by his treatment, he left St. Andrews and made his way to England, where, though rough the sway of Henry VIII. was, there was yet more individual freedom than could be found in the North. He hoped that his former patron, Lord Dacre, would have been able to procure his admission to the University of Cambridge, where there was some toleration for Protestant opinion; but Lord Dacre's influence had declined, and his friendship was of no avail. Disappointed in his hopes of an English residence, and deterred by his recent experience from retracing his steps to Scotland, Craig crossed over to France-probably late in 1536, or early in 1537-and is said to have travelled about, for more than a year, with some young Englishmen, as their tutor. Be this as it may, before the end of 1538 he reached Rome, where he took up his abode for some time.

The most notable Englishman in Rome, in those days, was Reginald Pole, distinguished alike by his princely lineage, rich scholarship, humane principles, and personal sacrifices for the sake of the Papal supremacy. His opposition to Henry's divorce and his maintenance of the Pope's authority, in his book"De unitate ecclesiastica," had driven him into exile, enraging the king, who stripped him of all his English preferments, as much as they gratified the Pope, who raised him to the compensating dignity of Cardinal. Craig was introduced to Pole, who was attracted by the young Scotsman's acquire

ments and manner, and admitted him to his friendship.

The Cardinal, although zealous for the prerogatives of the Papal chair, which he hoped one day to Occupy, was a man of a liberal and catholic spirit; and his genial breadth and charity-contrasted with the suspicious bigotry which had hunted Craig from Scotland-no doubt did much to restore the latter's somewhat shaken allegiance to the Church of Rome. By the Cardinal's advice he resolved to resume the monastic life, which he had quitted at home; and on his recommendation he entered a convent of Dominicans, in Bologna, a city whose university is supposed to have supplied the model upon which that of St. Andrews was erected, and where the Dominican Order was numerous and powerful. There is no record of his ordination as priest; but his appointment, soon after his reception at Bologna, as Master of Novices, pre-supposes his being in Orders. That appointment, and his frequent missions to other houses of the Order throughout Italy, attest his capacity for business and his brethren's confidence in him. On one occasion he was sent as far as to the isle of Chios, to rectify abuses which had there corrupted the rule of St. Dominic. He discharged this embassy so ably that, after his return, he was promoted to be rector of the Dominican College.

We are told that Luther's finding a copy of the Scriptures in the library of the University at Erfurt was the first step in his deliverance from Papal error, and entrance into the fulness and freedom of the Gospel. Like him, Craig lighted on a book in the library at Bologna, which marked a crisis in his religious history; but his discovery was a very different one from Luther's. It was Calvin's "Institutes," which, though published in 1536, he had never seen till now-some twenty years later. The severe logic and the rigid morality of the Genevan divine, coupled with his uncompromising exposure of the Romish system, so wrought upon Craig's mind, that by the time he had read the book through he was at heart a convert from Popery. There was an old Scotch friar in the monastery, whose piety and gentleness had won Craig's friendship, and with whom he was on terms of confidential intercourse. To him he imparted his new convictions, and found, to his surprise, that for many years they had been his old friend's own. "But," said the cautious Scot, "I have kept my belief to myself; and I advise you in these perilous times to do the same." But in Craig's ears there seemed to sound the words which fell on Luther's, as he went through the streets of Worms to stand before the Diet, "Whosoever shall confess Me before men, him will I also confess before My Father who is in heaven;" and he felt that he was in a place where he was bound to speak the truth, "impugn it whoso list." Both in conversation with his brethren, and in his public sermons, he avowed his sympathies with the reformed doctrines, until he gave such offence to the authorities that he had to withdraw from his office and quit the monastery.

The Reformation was not without its converts, even in the Papal territories themselves; and a Protestant nobleman is said to have received him into his

family, and entrusted him with the education of his sons. The report of his heterodoxy had, however, spread too widely, and the Inquisition had set its mark against his name. His faithful service of the Order during his twenty years at Bologna availed him nothing. In November, 1558, he was seized, carried to Rome, and thrown into the dungeon of the Inquisition. The historian Row describes this as a 66 pit into which the river of Tiber did every tide flow, so that the prisoners stood in water, sometimes almost to their middle," which, as there is no tide in the Tiber, is a specimen of the sympathetic exaggeration not uncommon in the chronicles of the Reformation; but no doubt the prison was squalid and dismal enough. He was kept there for nine months in great misery, and at last, having made a final and unswerving confession of his faith, he was, on the 18th August, 1559, condemned to be burnt at the stake the next morning. But while Craig stood that day at the infamous bar of the Inquisition, Pope Paul IV., the great patron and model of all Inquisitors, was lying at the point of death, and with his failing breath commending the Inquisition to the care of his cardinals. That evening he died. During the night Craig, and some others who were to suffer along with him, were, like Paul and Silas at Philippi, encouraging each other with prayers and psalmsinging, when the dungeon doors were suddenly thrown wide, and a man appeared who called to them that they were free, that the Pope was dead, and all the prison doors in Rome were open.

Craig and his companions quickly fled, and found the streets resounding with the uproar of the mob making merry over the death of a ruler who had been feared and hated, dragging his statue through the kennels, assaulting the officers of the Inquisition, and setting fire to its buildings. Craig, who was penniless and nearly naked, sought refuge in a small tavern in the suburbs, which, as he was waiting to be supplied with some food and drink, was entered by a band of Papal soldiers, say some-of banditti, say others-but, in either event, of rough and disorderly men-at-arms. Their leader, after eyeing Craig narrowly for some time, took him aside, and asked him if he remembered a day, many years ago, when walking with some young men in a wood near Bologna, he met a poor wounded soldier, to whom he showed kindness, providing him with food and money. Craig seems to have had no distinct recollection of the incident. "But I," said the captain, "remember it well. I am that man you befriended. The money you gave me I gave to a surgeon, who healed my wound, so that you saved my life. The fortune of war has favoured me, and I am now a commander, and able to make some return for your kindness." He ended by furnishing Craig with money and clothes, a horse to carry him to Bologna, and his own escort part of the way. Craig's idea in returning to Bologna was to trust himself to the protection of some of his friends there; but, on arriving, he found them so little disposed to the risk of his company that he left them as secretly as possible, and shaped his course for Milan, which, lying outside the States of the Church, he hoped might prove a more hospitable retreat for him.

It was during this journey that the incident occurred, which has been regarded in some quarters with no little scepticism, but which, in all its main facts, there can be no doubt Craig was himself in the habit of relating as absolutely true, and as a marvellous illustration of a watchful and kindly Providence. I shall tell it in the words of Archbishop Spottiswoode, who was less likely than Row, or any Presbyterian historian, to exaggerate the facts, and who says that Craig often related it (we may presume in the form it wears in Spottiswoode's pages)" to many of good place." "When he had travelled some days, declining the highways out of fear, he came into a forest, a wild and desert place, and, being sore wearied, lay down among some bushes on the side of a little brook, to refresh himself. Lying there, pensive and full of thought (for neither knew he in what part he was, nor had he any means to bear him out the way), a dog cometh fawning with a purse in his teeth, and lays it down before him. He, stricken with a fear, riseth up, and looking about if any were coming that way, when he saw none, taketh it up, and, construing the same to proceed from God's favourable providence towards him, followed his way till he came to a little village, where he met some that were travelling to Vienna, in Austria, and, changing his course, went in their company thither." Row adds to this that the purse was full of gold, and that when Craig, more than a year afterwards, came back to Scotland, he had still some of the coins, and brought with him the purse, and the dog, which, unquestionably, deserved the best of board and lodging from him for the rest of its days.

At Vienna, Craig, who seems to have had the happy gift of winning the goodwill of the generous and high-minded, gained the friendship of the Archduke Maximilian, heir-apparent of the Kaisar Ferdinand, a prince always friendly to the cause of the reformed. Maximilian heard him preach; and his father, on hearing him also, was so pleased that he resolved to appoint him one of his chaplains. Craig still wore his friar's gown, and had not renounced his connexion with the Order. It was as a Dominican he preached at Vienna. Like many another of those who were imbued with the evangelical doctrines, he appears to have had no destructive wish to proclaim war against the ancient church, and no schismatic de

sire to separate himself from her unity, unless he were forced to do so. He might, probably, have remained at Vienna, and become the chief of the Kaisar's chaplains, for his preaching was renowned; but the report of his popularity at the Imperial Court reached Rome, and the new Pope, Pius IV., forwarded a demand for his surrender to the Inquisition, from whose jaws he had just escaped.

Maximilian contrived that this demand should be evaded, and furnished him with a safe-conduct, which provided for his passing, in security, through Germany to England, for thither, after an absence of 24 years, he determined to wend his way. He made out his journey safely, and landed in England in the spring of 1560, and in the following year went on to Scotland.

When he had quitted his native land, some five-and-twenty years before, James V. was on the throne; James Beatoun was Archbishop of St. Andrews; and the ancient church was, as yet, in all the pride of place and power. Now, Mary was on her way to Holyrood, determined to restore the Roman system and doctrine; but the real ruler of the Scots was John Knox, under whose inspiration the Parliament had upset the hierarchy and made celebration of the mass a crime; and the first General Assembly of the Kirk had met, on 20th December, 1560. There was much to do before it should be decided whether the Romish faction, with Queen Mary at its head, or the Scottish people, with John Knox at its head, was to win the battle between the old faith and mediæval traditions, and the new forces and convictions of the modern world. The Church was to be the battle-field; and among the combatants there were not a few base mercenaries, selfish renegades, greedy robbers, and camp followers, as well as high-minded patriots and noble soldiers of the Cross. A veteran such as Craig, in the fulness of his strength, rich in learning, and manifold experience of the world, was welcome to the field. He had finally made up his mind to renounce his allegiance to Rome. The Church of Scotland, which he had left corrupt and benighted, he found reformed and enlightened. He felt that, as a loyal Scot, his services were due to her, and he offered thempassing, like Winram the Augustinian, Douglas the Carmelite, Willock the Franciscan, and many others, from the ranks of the regular clergy of the Romish, to the ministry of the Reformed Church.

WITH theologians Goethe is not, generally speaking, an acknowledged favourite; yet, strange to say, he bas furnished Canon Liddon, Professor Luthardt, Dr. Christlieb, and other of our modern Christian apologists with some of their most telling phrases, and has drawn, moreover, one of the finest literary portraits of a Beautiful Soul, or, as Carlyle prefers to call her, of a Fair Saint, in existence, if not indeed the finest there is outside the Bible. The explana

tion of this seeming contradiction, for, after all, it is only seeming, is to be found partly in the coldly severe and intensely critical character of Goethe's nature, and partly in the width and depth and keenly sensitive nature of his sympathies. He had not only wonderful talents and wonderful versatility in their use; he had behind them a nature wonderfully susceptible to all the influences around him; and yet, while keenly alive to them, he could so hold himself in

hand as to be unmoved by them.

Nor was this all. Such was his self-mastery that he could contemplate his feelings and whatever moved them as if from a distance, and then turn them to his use. Theologians prefer emotion and tradition. Religion and criticism, they imagine, have nothing in common, and are, if anything, mutually opposed. Goethe is always himself, always ruling, never ruled. He has feelings, deep, strong, vehement, as well as a clear and piercing intellect; but the former he never suffers to control him, keeping them, as a rule, behind, and rarely allowing them to appear. As you read his works, you always feel that he is above them, that he is using his words and measuring their effect with a calm, passionless, masterly power which is scarcely human. And so, while he sees and says many things which theologians can approve, and which are often of the greatest use to them, there is always something about him-a spirit of criticism, a realism, or perhaps they would say a worldliness, or a paganism, by which they are more or less repelled.

In his "Dichtung und Warheit," or, as it is somewhat inaccurately translated, "Truth and Poetry," Goethe has given us a charming account of a great part of his. life. Readers who wish to make his acquaintance should begin by reading this. They will find in it not only much that is of interest about Goethe told in a singularly clear and delightful way, but also many profound observations on art and life, with frequent criticisms on contemporary authors. All that Goethe says about himself need not be received with absolute faith. The facts and events are doubtless correct; but their colouring

is more frequently the reflection unconsciously cast upon them from the memory and imagination of a cheerful old age. The standard biography of Goethe is, of course, Mr. G. H. Lewes' "Life of Goethe," not the "Story of Goethe's Life," which is simply an abridgment; but the "Life," which, like Carlyle's "Schiller," has the no small merit of having the approval and admiration of Germans.

Goethe was born at noon on the 28th August, 1749, in the old-fashioned and thoroughly medieval-looking town of Frankfort-on-the-Maine, under, as he himself records, a "propitious horoscope," in which there was clear anticipation of the special worship of young ladies and of a general sceptre over earth and air. His father, who occupied an official position and was in easy circumstances, was shy, testy, punctilious, somewhat proud of his family connections, fidgety and austere in his superintendence of his children, yet not ill-natured. His mother was a genial, busy, little body, with, for a German, a strong sense of humour, a not over-strict conscience, willing and skilful in the invention of white lies to screen her children, whom she never pretended to be capable of

educating, and not wanting in imagination and the faculty of story-telling. Hers was a curious nature. Her sensitiveness was extreme, and there was nothing she disliked so much as the hearing of painful news. With her servants she always made it a condition that they should never repeat to her anything of the kind they might accidentally pick up; and during her son's dangerous illness at Weimar no one durst venture to tell her of it until it was past. Yet for her own funeral she gave the most minute directions, ordering her servants, among other things, not to put too few raisins in the cakes, as she could never endure that in her life, and it would be sure to chafe her in her grave. On the day of her death she received an invitation to a party, and sent for reply that "Madame Goethe could not come, as she was engaged just then in dying." The peculiarities of both father and mother were seen in Goethe. From the former he inherited his orderliness, thoroughness, pride, independence; and from the latter his imagination, sensuousness, and dislike to encounter mental pain, or to hear of suffering or anything sad.

During his earlier years Goethe's education was superintended by his father. In 1764 he began that habit of falling into love which never left him during the next sixty years of his life. One of his first love affairs having led him into an indiscretion which threatened to be serious, and which strongly incensed his father, he was sent off in 1765 to the

University of Leipzig. The intention was that he should study law, but he preferred drawing caricatures of the professors to taking notes of their lectures. A love affair and a severe illness brought on a crisis in his life. Soon after his recovery he took the task of his education into his own hand; and, though he never got rid of the habit of falling in love, his personal self-culture remained his chief aim through life. In the year 1776, when Goethe was already famous as an author, the Heir-Apparent of Weimar passed through Frankfort, and through the intervention of some friends waited upon him. The visit seems to have been mutually agreeable. Soon after, Goethe accepted an invitation to reside in Weimar, and remained the trusted minister and friend of the Duke until they were separated by death.

Goethe was what Fichte calls a genuine scholar. Though a master in his art, he was always learning, and never believed that his studies, which were the most varied possible, were completed. His literary works, which require to be distinguished from his scientific, amount to between twenty and thirty volumes. Strangely enough, too, they are all in a measure autobiographical-not that they are formally so, like his "Dichtung und Warheit," but, in reality, Goethe never wrote aught that was purely fictitious. Whatever he cast into a literary form had