The History of Protestantism |
| Chapter 1 | . . . | THE DOCTOR OF ETAPLES, THE FIRST PROTESTANT TEACHER IN
FRANCE Arrival of a New Actor – Central Position of France – Genius of its People – Tragic Interest of its Protestantism – Louis XII. – Perdam Babylonis Nomen, – The Councils of Pisa and the Lateran Francis I. and Leo X. – Jacques Lefevre – His Birth and Education Appointed to a Chair in the Sorbonne – His Devotions – His Lives of the Saints – A Discovery – A Free Justification – Teaches this Doctrine in the Sorbonne – Agitation among the Professors – A Tempest gathering. |
| Chapter 2 | . . . | FAREL, BRICONNET, AND THE EARLY REFORMERS OF FRANCE A Student from the Dauphinese Alps – William Farel – Enters University of Paris – Becomes a Pupil Of Lefevre – His Doubts – Passes with Lefevre into the New Day – Preaches in the Churches – Retires to Switzerland – William Briconnet, Bishop of Meaux – Briconnet goes on a Mission to Rome – State of the City – His Musings on his Way back – Change at Meaux – The Bible – What Briconnet Saw in it – Begins the Reformation of his Diocese – Characters of Francis I. and Margaret of Valois. |
| Chapter 3 | . . . | THE FIRST PROTESTANT CONGREGATION OF FRANCE A Bright Morning – Sanguine Anticipations of the Protestants – Lefevre Translates the Bible – Bishop of Meaux Circulates it – The Reading of it at Meaux – Reformation of Manners – First Protestant Flock in France – Happy Days – Complaints of the Tavern-keepers – Murmurs of the Monks – The King Incited to set up the Scaffold – Refuses – The "Well of Meaux." |
| Chapter 4 | . . . | COMMENCEMENT OF PERSECUTION IN FRANCE The World's Center – The Kingdoms at War – In the Church, Peace – The Flock at Meaux – Marot's Psalms of David universally Sung in France – The Odes of Horace – Calvin and Church Psalmody – Two Champions of the Darkness, Beda and Duprat – Louisa of Savoy – Her Character – The Trio that Governed France – They Unsheathe the Sword of Persecution – Briconnet's Fall. |
| Chapter 5 | . . . | THE FIRST MARTYRS OF FRANCE The Flock at Meaux – Denis, a "Meaux Heretic" – Visited in Prison by his former Pastor, Briconnet – The Interview – Men Burned and yet they Live – Pavane – Imprisoned for the Gospel – Recants – His Horror of Mind – Anew Confesses Christ – Is Burned – His the First Stake in Paris – Martyrdom of the Hermit of Livry – Leclerc, the Wool-comber – Acts as Pastor – Banished from Meaux – Retires to Metz – Demolishes the Images at the Chapel of Mary – Procession – Astonishment of Processionists – Leclerc Seized – Confesses – His Cruel Death – Bishop Briconnet. |
| Chapter 6 | . . . | CALVIN: HIS BIRTH AND EDUCATION Greater Champions about to Appear – Calvin – His Birth and Lineage – His Appearance and Disposition – His Education – Appointed to a Chaplaincy – The Black Death – Sent to La Marche at Paris – Mathurin Cordier – Friendship between the Young Pupil and his Teacher – Calvin Charmed by the Great Latin Writers – Luther's and Calvin's Services to their respective Tongues – Leaves the School of La Marche. |
| Chapter 7 | . . . | CALVIN'S CONVERSION Calvin in the Montaigu – His Devotions and Studies – Auguries of his Teachers – Calvin still in Darkness – Trebly Armed – Olivetan – Discussions between Olivetan and Calvin – Doubts Awakened – Great Struggles of Soul – The Priests Advise him to Confess – Olivetan sends him to the Bible – Opens the Book – Sees the Cross – Another Obstacle – The "Church" – Sees the Spiritual Glory of the True Church – The Glory of the False Church Vanishes – One of the Great Battles of the World – Victory and its Fruits. |
| Chapter 8 | . . . | CALVIN BECOMES A STUDENT OF LAW Gate of the New Kingdom – Crowds Pressing to Enter – The Few only Able to do so – Lefevre and Farel Sighing for the Conversion of Francis I. – A Greater Conversion – Calvin Refuses to be made a Priest – Chooses the Profession of Law – Goes to Orleans – Pierre de l'Etoile – Calvin becomes his Scholar – Teaching of Etoile on the Duty of the State to Punish Heterodoxy – Calvin among his College Companions – A Victory – Calvin Studies Greek – Melchior Wolmar – Calvin Prepared for his Work as a Commentator – His Last Mental Struggle. |
| Chapter 9 | . . . | CALVIN THE EVANGELIST, AND BERQUIN THE MARTYR. Calvin Abandons the Study of the Law – Goes to Bourges – Bourges under Margaret of Navarre – Its Evangelisation already Commenced – The Citizens entreat Calvin to become their Minister – He begins to act as an Evangelist in Bourges – The Work extends to the Villages and Castles around – The Plottings of the Monks – His Father's Death calls Calvin away – A Martyr, Louis de Berquin – His Youth – His Conversion – His Zeal and Eloquence in Spreading the Gospel – Imprisoned by the Sorbonnists – Set at Liberty by the King – Imprisoned a Second and a Third Time – Set at Liberty – Erasmus' Counsel – Berquin Taxes the Sorbonnists with Heresy – An Image of the Virgin Mutilated – Berquin consigned to the Conciergerie – His Condemnation and Frightful Sentence – Efforts of Budaeus – Berquin on his Way to the Stake – His Attire – His Noble Behaviour – His Death. |
| Chapter 10 | . . . | CALVIN AT PARIS, AND FRANCIS NEGOTIATING WITH GERMANY AND
ENGLAND. The Death of the Martyr not the Death of the Cause – Calvin at Noyon – Preaches at Pont l'Eveque – His Audience – How they take his Sermon – An Experiment – Its Lessen – Calvin goes to Paris – Paris a Focus of Literary Light – The Students at the University – Their Debates – Calvin to Polemics adds Piety – He Evangelises in Paris – Powers of the World – Spain and France kept Divided – How and Why – The Schmalkald League holds the Balance of Power – Francis I. approaches the German Protestants – Failure of the Negotiation – Francis turns to Henry VIII. – Interview between Francis and Henry at Boulogne – Fetes – League between the Kings of France and England – Francis's Great Error |
| Chapter 11 | . . . | THE GOSPEL PREACHED IN PARIS – A MARTYR. Margaret of Navarre – Her Hopes – Resolves to have the Gospel Preached in France – The City Churches not to be had – Opens a Private Chapel in the Louvre – A Large and Brilliant Assembly convenes – The Preachers – Paris Penitent and Reforming – Agitation in the Sorbonne – The Sorbonnists apply to the King – The Monks occupy the Pulpits – They Threaten the King – Beda Banished – Excitement in Paris – The Populace Remain with Rome – The Crisis of France – The Dominican Friar, Laurent de la Croix – His Conversion – Preaches in France – Apprehended and conducted to Paris – His Torture – His Condemnation – His Behaviour at the Stake – France makes her Choice: she will Abide with Rome. |
| Chapter 12 | . . . | CALVIN'S FLIGHT FROM PARIS. Out of Paris comes the Reformer – The Contrasts of History – Calvin's Interview with the Queen of Navarre – Nicholas Cop, Rector of the Sorbonne – An Inaugural Discourse – Calvin Writes and Cop Delivers it – The Gospel in Disguise – Rage of the Sorbonne – Cop flies to Basle – The Officers on their way to Arrest Calvin – Calvin is let down by the Window – Escapes from Paris disguised as a Vine-Dresser – Arrives in Angouleme – Received at the Mansion of Du Tillet – Here projects the Institutes – Interview with Lefevre – Lefevre's Prediction. |
| Chapter 13 | . . . | FIRST PROTESTANT ADMINISTRATION OF THE LORD'S SUPPER IN
FRANCE. Calvin goes to Poictiers — Its Society — Calvin draws Disciples round him — Re-unions — The Gardens of the Basses Treilles — The Abbot Ponthus — Calvin's Grotto — First Dispensation of the Lord's Supper in France — Formation of a Protestant Congregation — Home Mission Scheme for the Evangelisation of France — The Three First Missionaries — Their Labors and Deaths — Calvin Leaves Poictiers — The Church of Poictiers — Present State and Aspect of Poictiers. |
| Chapter 14 | . . . | CATHERINE DE MEDICI. St. Paul — Calvin — Desire to Labor in Paris — Driven from this Field — Francis I. Intrigues to Outmanoeuvre Charles V. — Offers the Hand of his Second Son to the Pope's Niece — Joy of Clement VII. — The Marriage Agreed on — Catherine de Medici — Rise of the House of Medici — Cosmo I. — His Patronage of Letters and Scholars — Fiesole — Descendants of Cosmo — Clement VII. — Birth of Catherine de Medici — Exposed to Danger — Lives to Mount the Throne of France — Catherine as a Girl — Her Fascination — Her Tastes — Her Morals — Her Love of Power; etc. |
| Chapter 15 | . . . | MARRIAGE OF HENRY OF FRANCE TO CATHERINE DE MEDICI. The Pope sets Sail — Coasts along to France — Meets Francis I. at Marseilles — The Second Son of the King of France Married to Catherine de Medici — Her Promised Dowry — The Marriage Festivities — Auguries — Clement's Return Voyage — His Reflections — His Dream of a New Era — His Dream to be Read Backwards — His Troubles — His Death — Catherine Enters France as Calvin is Driven Out — Retrogression of Protestantism — Death and Catherine de Medici — Death's Five Visits to the Palace — Each Visit Assists Catherine in her Ascent to Power — Her Crimes — She Gains no Real Success. |
| Chapter 16 | . . . | MELANCTHON'S PLAN FOR UNITING WITTEMBERG AND ROME. The Laborers Scattered — The Cause Advances — The Dread it Inspires — Calvin and Catherine — A Contrast — The Keys and the Fleur-de-Lis — The Doublings of Francis — Agreement between Francis and Philip of Hesse at Bar-le-Duc — Campaign — Wurtemberg Restored to Christopher — Francis I's Project for Uniting Lutheranism and Romanism — Du Bellay's Negotiations with Bucer — Melancthon Sketches a Basis of Union — Bucer and Hedio add their Opinion — The Messenger Returns with the Paper to Paris — Sensation — Council at the Louvre — Plan Discussed — An Evangelical Pope. |
| Chapter 17 | . . . | PLAN OF FRANCIS I. FOR COMBINING LUTHERANISM AND
ROMANISM. End of Conference — Francis I, takes the Matter into his own Hand — Concocts a New Basis of Union — Sends Copies to Germany, to the Sorbonne and the Vatican — Amazement of the Protestants — Alarm of the Sorbonnists — They send a Deputation to the King — What they Say of Lutheranism — Indignation at the Vatican — These Projects of Union utterly Chimerical — Excuse of the Protestants of the Sixteenth Century — Their Stand-point Different from Ours — Storms that have Shaken the World, but Cleared the Air. |
| Chapter 18 | . . . | FIRST DISCIPLES OF THE GOSPEL IN PARIS. Calvin now the Center of the Movement — Shall he enter Priest's Orders? — Hazard of a Wrong Choice — He walks by Faith — Visits Noyon — Renounces all his Preferments in the Romish Church — Sells his Patrimonial Inheritance — Goes to Paris — Meets Servetus — His Opinions — Challenges Calvin to a Controversy — Servetus does not Keep his Challenge — State of things at Paris — Beda — More Ferocious than ever — The Times Uncertain — Disciples in Paris — Bartholemew Millon — His Deformity — Conversion — Zeal for the Gospel — Du Bourg, the Draper — Valeton, of Nantes — Le Compte — Giulio Camillo — Poille, the Bricklayer — Other Disciples — Pantheists — Calvin's Forecastings — Calvin quits Paris and goes to Strasburg. |
| Chapter 19 | . . . | THE NIGHT OF THE PLACARDS. Inconstancy of Francis — Two Parties in the young French Church: the Temporisers and the Scripturalists — The Policy advocated by each — Their Differences submitted to Farel — The Judgment of the Swiss Pastors — The Placard — Terrific Denunciation of the Mass — Return of the Messenger — Shall the Placards be Published? — Two Opinions — Majority for Publication — The Kingdom Placarded in One Night — The Morning — Surprise and Horror — Placard on the Door of the Royal Bed-chamber — Wrath of the King. |
| Chapter 20 | . . . | MARTYRS AND EXILES. Plan of Morin. — The Betrayer — Procession of Corpus Christi — Terror of Paris — Imprisonment of the Protestants — Atrocious Designs attributed to them — Nemesis — Sentence of the Disciples — Execution of Bartholomew Millon — Burning of Du Bourg — Death of Poille — His Tortures — General Terror — Flight of Numbers — Refugees of Rank — Queen of Navarre — Her Preachers — All Ranks Flee — What France might have been, had she retained these Men — Prodigious Folly. |
| Chapter 21 | . . . | OTHER AND MORE DREADFUL MARTYRDOMS. A Great Purgation Resolved on — Preparations — Procession — The Four Mendicants — Relics: the Head of St. Louis; the True Cross, etc. — Living Dignitaries — The Host — The King on Foot — His Penitence — Of what Sins does he Repent? — The Queen — Ambassadors, Nobles, etc. — Homage of the Citizens — High Mass in Notre Dame — Speech of the King — The Oath of the King — Return of Procession — Apparatus of Torture — Martyrdom of Nicholas Valeton — More Scaffolds and Victims — The King and People's Satisfaction — An Ominous Day in the Calendar of France — The 21st of January. |
| Chapter 22 | . . . | BASLE AND THE "INSTITUTES." Glory of the Sufferers — Francis I. again turns to the German Protestants — They Shrink back — His Doublings — New Persecuting Edicts — Departure of the Queen of Navarre from Paris — New Day to Bearn — Calvin — Strasburg — Calvin arrives there — Bucer, Capito, etc. — Calvin Dislikes their Narrowness — Goes on to Basle — Basle — Its Situation and Environs — Soothing Effect on Calvin's Mind — His Interview with Erasmus — Erasmus "Lays the Egg" — Terrified at what Comes of it — Draws back — Calvin's Enthusiasm — Erasmus' Prophecy — Catherine Klein — First Sketch of the Institutes—What led Calvin to undertake the Work — Its Sublimity, but Onerousness. |
| Chapter 23 | . . . | THE "INSTITUTES." Calvin Discards the Aristotelian Method — How a True Science of Astronomy is Formed — Calvin Proceeds in the same way in Constructing his Theology — Induction — Christ Himself sets the Example of the Inductive Method — Calvin goes to the Field of Scripture — His Pioneers — The Schoolmen — Melanchthon — Zwingli — The Augsburg Confession — Calvin's System more Complete — Two Tremendous Facts — First Edition of the Institutes — Successive Editions — The Creed its Model — Enumeration of its Principal Themes-God the Sole Fountain of all things — Christ the One Source of Redemption and Salvation — The Spirit the One Agent in the Application of Redemption — The Church — Her Worship and Government. |
| Chapter 24 | . . . | CALVIN ON PREDESTINATION AND ELECTION. Calvin's Views on the Affirmative Side — God as the Author of all things Ordains all that is to come to pass — The Means equally with the End comprehended in the Decree — As Sovereign, God Executes all that comes to pass — Calvin's Views on the Negative Side — Man a Free Agent — Man an Accountable Being — Calvin maintained side by side God's Eternal Ordination and Man's Freedom of Action — Cannot Reconcile the Two — Liberty and Necessity — Tremendous Difficulties confessed to Attach to Both Theories — Explanations — Locke and Sir William Hamilton — Growth of the Institutes. |
| Chapter 25 | . . . | CALVIN'S APPEAL TO FRANCIS I. Enthusiasm evoked by the appearance of the Institutes—Marshals the Reformed into One Host — Beauty of the Style of the Institutes—Opinions expressed on it by Scaliger, Sir William Hamilton, Principal Cunningham, M. Nisard — The Institutes an Apology for the Reformed — In scathing Indignation comparable to Tacitus — Home-thrusts — He Addresses the King of France — Pleads for his Brethren — They Suffer for the Gospel — Cannot Abandon it — Offer themselves to Death — A Warning — Grandeur of the Appeal — Did Francis ever Read this Appeal? |
BOOK FIRST
FROM RISE OF PROTESTANTISM IN FRANCE (1510) TO PUBLICATION OF THE INSTITUTES (1536)
CHAPTER 1 Back to Top
THE DOCTOR OF ETAPLES, THE FIRST PROTESTANT TEACHER IN FRANCE
Arrival of a New Actor – Central Position of France – Genius of its People
– Tragic Interest of its Protestantism – Louis XII. – Perdam Babylonis
Nomen, – The Councils of Pisa and the Lateran Francis I. and Leo X. – Jacques
Lefevre – His Birth and Education Appointed to a Chair in the Sorbonne – His
Devotions – His Lives of the Saints – A Discovery – A Free Justification
– Teaches this Doctrine in the Sorbonne – Agitation among the Professors –
A Tempest gathering.
THE area of the Reformation – that great movement which,
wherever it comes, makes all things new is about to undergo enlargement. The stage,
already crowded with great actors – England, Germany, Switzerland, Sweden, Denmark
– is to receive another accession. The plot is deepening, the parts are multiplying,
and the issues give promise of being rich and grand beyond conception. It is no mean actor
that is now to step upon that stage on which the nations do battle, and where, if
victorious, they shall reap a future of happiness and glory; but if vanquished, there
await them decadence, and shame, and ruin. The new nationality which has come to mingle in
this great drama is France.
At the opening of the sixteenth century, France held a foremost place among the countries
of Europe. It might not unworthy aspire to lead in a great movement of the nations. Placed
in the center of the civilized West, it touched the other kingdoms of Christendom at a
great many points. On its south and south-east was Switzerland; on its east and north-east
were Germany and the Low Countries; on its north, parted from it only by the narrow sea,
was England At all its gates, save those that looked towards Italy and Spain, was the
Reformation waiting for admission. Will France open, and heartily welcome it? Elevated on
this central and commanding site, the beacon-lights of Protestantism will shed their
effulgence all around, making the day clearer where the light has already dawned, and the
night less dark where the shades still linger.
The rich endowments of the people made it at once desirable and probable that France would
embrace the Reformation. The French genius is one of marvelous adaptability. Quick,
playful, trenchant, subtle, it is able alike to concentrate itself in analytical
investigations, and to spread itself out in creations of poetic beauty and intellectual
sublimity. There is no branch of literature in which the French people have not excelled.
They have shone equally in the drama, in philosophy, in history, in mathematics, and in
metaphysics. Grafted on a genius so elegant and yet so robust, so playful and yet so
Penetrating – in short, so many sided – Protestantism will display itself under
a variety of new and beautiful lights, which will win converts in quarters where the
movement has not been regarded hitherto as having many attractions to recommend it –
nay, rather where, it has been contemned as "a root out of a dry ground."
We are entering on one of the grandest yet most tragic of all the pages of our history.
The movement which we now behold entering France is to divide – deeply and fiercely
divide the nation; for it is a characteristic of the French people that whatever, cause
they embrace, they embrace with enthusiasm; and whatever cause they oppose, they oppose
with an equal enthusiasm. As we pass on the scenes will be continually shifting, and the
quick alternations of hope and fear will never cease to agitate us. It is, so to speak, a
superb gallery we are to traverse; colossal forms look down upon us as we pass along. On
this hand stand men of gigantic wickedness, on that men of equally gigantic virtue –
men whose souls, sublimed by piety and trust in God, have attained to the highest pitch of
endurance, of self-sacrifice, of heroism. And then the lesson at the close, so distinct,
so solemn. For we are justified in affirming that in a sense France has glorified
Protestantism more by rejecting it than other countries have done by accepting it.
We lift the curtain at the year 1510. On its rising we find the throne of France occupied
by Louis XII., the wisest sovereign of his time. He has just assembled a Parliament at
Tours to resolve for him the question whether it is lawful to go to war with the Pope, who
violates treaties, and sustains his injustice by levying soldiers and fighting battles?[1] The warlike Julius II. then
occupied the chair which a Borgia had recently filled.
Ignorant of theology, with no inclination, and just as little capacity, for the spiritual
duties of his see, Julius II. passed his whole time in camps and on battle-fields. With so
bellicose a priest at its center, Christendom had but little rest. Among others whom the
Pope disquieted was the meek and upright Louis of France; hence the question which he put
to his Parliament. The answer of that assembly marks the moral decadence of the Papacy,
and the contempt in which the thunderbolts of the Vatican were beginning to be held.
"It is lawful for the king," said they, "not only to act defensively but
offensively against such a man"[2] Fortified
by the advice of his Parliament, Louis gave the command to his armies to march, and two
years later he indicated sufficiently his own opinion of the Papacy and its crowned chief,
when he caused a coin to be struck at Naples bearing the words, Perdan Babylonis nomen [3] These symptoms announced the
near approach of the new times.
Other things were then being transacted which also gave plain indication that the old age
was about to close and a new age to open. Weary of a Pope who made it his sole vocation to
marshal armies and conquer cities and provinces, who went in person to the battle-field,
but never once appeared in the pulpit, the Emperor Maximilian I. and Louis of France
agreed to convoke a Council [4] for
"the Reformation of the Church in its head and members." That Council was now
sitting at Pisa. It summoned the Pope to its bar, and when Julius II. failed to appear,
the Council suspended him from his office, and forbade all people to obey him.[5] The Pope treated the decree of
the Fathers with the same contempt which he had shown to their summons. He convoked
another Council at the Lateran, made void that of Pisa, with all its decrees, fulminated
excommunication against Louis,[6] suspended
Divine worship in France, and delivered the kingdom to whomsoever had the will and the
power to seize upon it.[7]
Thus Council met Council, and the project of the two sovereigns for a Reformation came to
nothing, as later and similar attempts were destined to do.
For the many evils that pressed upon the world, a Council was the only remedy that the age
knew, and at every crisis it betook itself to this device. God was about to plant in
society a new principle, which would become the germ of its regeneration.
Julius II. was busied with his Council of the Lateran when (1513) he died, and was
succeeded in the Papal chair by Cardinal John de Medici, Leo X.
With the new Pope came new manners at Rome. Underneath, the stream of corruption continued
steadily to flow, but on the surface things were changed. The Vatican no longer rang with
the clang of arms. Instead of soldiers, troops of artists and musicians, crowds of
masqueraders and buffoons now filled the palace of the Pope. The talk was no longer of
battles, but of, pictures and statues and dancers. Soon Louis of France followed his
former opponent, Julius II., to the grave. He died on the 1st January, 1515, and was
succeeded by his nephew, Francis I.
The new Pope and the new king were not unlike in character. The Renaissance had touched
both, communicating to them that refinement of outward manners, and that aesthetical
rather than cultivated taste, which it never failed to impart to all who came under its
influence. The strong, wayward, and selfish passions of the men it had failed to correct.
Both loved to surround themselves with pomps. Francis was greedy of fame, Leo was greedy
of money, and both were greedy of pleasure, and the characteristic passions of each became
in the hand of an overruling Providence the means of furthering the great movement which
now presents itself on the scene.
The river which waters great kingdoms, and bears on its bosom the commerce of many
nations, may be traced up to some solitary fountain among the far-off hills. So was it
with that river of the Water of Life that was now to go forth to refresh France. It had
its first rise in a single soul. It is the year 1510, and the good Louis XII. is still
upon the throne. A stranger visiting Paris at that day, more especially if of a devout
turn, would hardly have failed to mark an old man, small of stature and simple in manners,
going his round of the churches and, prostrate before their images, devoutly
"repeating his hours:" This man was destined to be, on a small scale, to the
realm of France what Wicliffe had been, on a large, to England and the world –
"the morning star of the Reformation." His name was Jacques Lefevre. He was born
at Etaples, a village of Picardy,[8] about
the middle of the previous century, and was now verging on seventy, but still hale and
vigorous. Lefevre had all his days been a devout Papist, and even to this hour the shadow
of Popery was still around him, and the eclipse of superstition had not yet wholly passed
from off his soul. But the promise was to be fulfilled to him, "At evening time it
shall be light." He had all along had a presentiment that a new day was rising on the
world, and that he should not depart till his eyes had seen its light.
The man who was the first to emerge from the darkness that covered his native land is
entitled to a prominent share of our attention. Lefevre was in all points a remarkable
man. Endowed with an inquisitive and capacious intellect, hardly was there a field of
study open to those ages which he had not entered, and in which he had not made great
proficiency. The ancient languages, the belles lettres, history, mathematics, philosophy,
theology; – he had studied them all. His thirst for knowledge tempted him to try what
he might be able to learn from other lands besides France. He had visited Asia and Africa,
and seen all that the end of the fifteenth century had to show. Returning to France he was
appointed to a chair in the Sorbonne, or Theological Hall of the great Paris University,
and soon he drew around him a crowd of admiring disciples. He was the first luminary,
Erasmus tells us, in that constellation of lights; but he was withal so meek, so amiable,
so candid, and so full of loving-kindness, that all who knew him loved him. But there were
those among his fellow-professors who envied him the admiration of which he was the
object, and insinuated that the man who had visited so many countries, and had made
himself familiar with so many subjects, and some of them so questionable, could hardly
have escaped some taint of heresy, and could not be wholly loyal to Mother Church.
They set to watching him; but no one of them all was so punctual and exemplary in his
devotions. never was he absent from mass; never was his place empty at the procession, and
no one remained so long as Lefevre on his knees before the saints. Nay, often might this
man, the most distinguished of all the professors of the Sorbonne, be seen decking the
statues of Mary with flowers.[9] No
flaw could his enemies find in his armor.
Lefevre, thinking to crown the saints with a fairer and more lasting garland than the
perishable flowers he had offered to their images, formed the idea of collecting and
re-writing their lives: He had already made some progress in his task when the thought
struck him that he might find in the Bible materials or hints that would be useful to him
in his work. To the Bible – the original languages of which he had studied – he
accordingly turned. He had unwittingly opened to himself the portals of a new world.
Saints of another sort than those that had till this moment engaged his attention now
stood before him – men who had received a higher canonisation than that of Rome, and
whose images the pen of inspiration itself had drawn. The virtues of the real saints
dimmed in his eyes the glories of the legendary ones. The pen dropped from his hand, and
he could proceed no farther in the task on which till now he had labored with a zeal so
genial, and a perseverance so untiring.
Having opened the Bible, Lefevre was in no haste to shut it. He saw that not only were the
saints of the Bible unlike the saints of the Roman Calendar, but that the Church of the
Bible was unlike the Roman Church. From the images of Paul and Peter, the doctor of
Etaples now turned to the Epistles of Paul and Peter, from the voice of the Church to the
voice of God. The plan of a free justification stood revealed to him. It came like a
sudden revelation – like the breaking of the day. In 1512 he published a commentary,
of which a copy is extant in the Bibliotheque Royale of Paris, on the Epistles of Paul. In
that work he says, "It is God who gives us, by faith, that righteousness which by
grace alone justifies to eternal life."[10]
The day has broken. This utterance of Lefevre assures us of that. It is but a
single ray, it is true; but it comes from Heaven, it is light Divine, and will yet scatter
the darkness that broods over France. It has already banished the gloom of monkery from
the soul of Lefevre; it will do the same for his pupils – for his countrymen, and he
knows that he has not received the light to put it under a bushel. Of all places, the
Sorbonne was the most dangerous in which to proclaim the new doctrine. For centuries no
one but the schoolmen had spoken there, and now to proclaim in the citadel and sanctuary
of scholasticism a doctrine that would explode what had received the reverence, as it had
been the labor, of ages, and promised, as was thought, eternal fame to its authors, was
enough to make the very stones cry out from the venerable walls, and was sure to draw down
a tempest of scholastic ire on the head of the adventurous innovator. Lefevre had attained
an age which is proverbially wary, if not timid; he knew well the risks to which he was
exposing himself, nevertheless he went on to teach the doctrine of salvation by grace.
There rose a great commotion round the chair whence proceeded these unwonted sounds. With
very different feelings did the pupils of the venerable man listen to the new teaching.
The faces of some testified to the delight which his doctrine gave them. They looked like
men to whose eyes some glorious vista had been suddenly opened, or who had unexpectedly
lighted upon what they had long but vainly sought. Astonishment or doubt was plainly
written on the faces of others, while the knitted brows and flashing eyes of some as
plainly bespoke the anger that inflamed them against the man who was razing, as they
thought, the very foundations of morality.
The agitation in the class-room of Lefevre quickly communicated itself to the whole
university. The doctors were in a flutter. Reasonings and objections were heard on every
side, frivolous in some cases, in others the fruit of blind prejudice, or dislike of the
doctrine. But some few were honest, and these Lefever made it his business to answer,
being desirous to show that his doctrine did not give a license to sin, and that it was
not new, but old; that he was not the first preacher of it in France, that it had been
taught by Irenaeus in early times, long before the scholastic theology was heard of; and
especially that this doctrine was not his, not Irenaeus', but God's, who had revealed it
to men in his Word.
Mutterings began to be heard of the tempest that was gathering in the distance; but as yet
it did not burst, and meanwhile Lefevre, within whose soul the light was growing clearer
day by day, went on with his work.
It is important to mark that these occurrences took place in 1512. Not yet, nor till five
years later, was the name of Luther heard of in France. The monk of Wittemberg had not yet
nailed his Theses against indulgences to the doors of the Schloss-kirk. From Germany then,
most manifest it is, the Reformation which we now see springing up on French soil did not
come.
Even before the strokes of Luther's hammer in Wittemberg are heard ringing the knell of
the old times, the voice of Lefevre is proclaiming beneath the vaulted roof of the
Sorbonne in Paris the advent of the new age. The Reformation of France came out of the
Bible as really as the light which kindles mountain and plain at daybreak comes out of
heaven. And as it was in France so was it in all the countries of the Reform. The Word of
God, like God himself, is light; and from that enduring and inexhaustible source came
forth that welcome clay which, after a long and protracted night, broke upon the nations
in the morning of the sixteenth century.
CHAPTER 2 Back to Top
FAREL, BRICONNET, AND THE EARLY REFORMERS OF FRANCE
A Student from the Dauphinese Alps – William Farel – Enters University of Paris
– Becomes a Pupil Of Lefevre – His Doubts – Passes with Lefevre into the
New Day – Preaches in the Churches – Retires to Switzerland – William
Briconnet, Bishop of Meaux – Briconnet goes on a Mission to Rome – State of the
City – His Musings on his Way back – Change at Meaux – The Bible –
What Briconnet Saw in it – Begins the Reformation of his Diocese – Characters of
Francis I. and Margaret of Valois.
AMONG the youth whom we see gathered round the chair of the
aged Lefevre, there is one who specially attracts our notice. It is easy to see that
between the scholar and his master there exists an attachment of no ordinary kind. There
is no one in all that crowd of pupils who so hangs upon the lips of his teacher as does
this youth, nor is there one on whom the eyes of that teacher rest with so kindly a light.
This youth is not a native of France. He was born among the Alps of Dauphine, at Gap, near
Grenoble, in 1489. His name is William Farel.
His parents were eminently pious, measured by the standard of that age. Never did morning
kindle into glory the white mountains, in the midst of which their dwelling was placed,
but the family was assembled, and the bead-roll duly gone over; and never did evening
descend, first enkindling then paling the Alps, without the customary hymn to the Virgin.
The parents of the youth, as he himself informs us, believed all that the priests told
them; and he, in his turn, believed all that his parents told him.
Thus he grew up till he was about the age of twenty – the grandeurs of nature in his
eye all hours of the day, but the darkness of superstition deepening year by year in his
soul. The two – the glory of the Alps and the glory of the Church – seemed to
blend and become one in his mind. It would have been as hard for him to believe that Rome
with her Pope and holy priests, with her rites and ceremonies, was the mere creation of
superstition, as to believe that the great mountains around him, with their snows and
their pine-forests, were a mere illusion, a painting on the sky, which but mocked the
senses, and would one day dissolve like an unsubstantial though gorgeous exhalation.
"I would gnash my teeth like a furious wolf," said he, speaking of his blind
devotion to Rome at this period of his life, "when I heard any one speaking against
the Pope."
It was his father's wish that he should devote himself to the profession of arms, but the
young Farel aspired to be a scholar. The fame of the Sorbonne had reached him in his
secluded native valley, and he thirsted to drink at that renowned well of learning.
Probably the sublimities amid which he daily moved had kept alive the sympathies of a mind
naturally ardent and aspiring. He now (1510) set out for Paris, presented himself at the
gates of its university, and was enrolled among its students.
It was here that the young Dauphinese scholar became acquainted with the doctor of
Etaples. There were but few points to bring them together, one would have thought, and a
great many to keep them apart. The one was young, the other old; the one was enthusiastic,
the other was timid; but these differences were on the surface only. The two were kindred
in their souls, both were noble, unselfish, devout, and in an age of growing skepticism
and dissoluteness the devotion of both was as sincere as it was ardent. This was the link
that bound them together, and the points of contrast instead of weakening only tended the
more firmly to cement their friendship. The aged master and the young disciple might often
be seen going their rounds in company, and visiting the same shrines, and kneeling before
the same images.
But now a change was commencing in the mind of Lefevre which must part the two for ever,
or bind them together yet more indissolubly. The spiritual dawn was breaking in the soul
of the doctor of Etaples; would his young disciple be able to enter along with him into
that new world into which the other was being translated? In his public teaching Lefevre
now began to let fall at times crumbs of the new knowledge he had gleaned from the Bible.
"Salvation is of grace," would the professor say to his pupils.
"The Innocent One is condemned and the criminal is acquitted." "It is the
cross of Christ alone that openeth the gates of heaven and shutteth the gates of
hell."[1] Farel
started as these words fell upon his ear. What did they import, and where would they lead
him? Were then all his visits to the saints, and the many hours on his knees before their
images, to no purpose – prayers flung into empty space? The teachings of his youth,
the sanctities of his home, nay, the grandeurs of the mountains which were associated in
his mind with the beliefs he had learned at their feet, rose up before him, and appeared
to frown upon him, and he wished he were back again, where, encompassed by the calm
majesty of the hills, he might no longer feel these torturing doubts.
Farel had two courses before him, he must either press forward with Lefevre into the
light, or abjuring his master as a heretic, plunge straightway into deeper darkness.
Happily God had been preparing him for the crisis. There had been for some time a tempest
in the soul of the young student. Farel had lost his peace, and the austerities he had
practiced with a growing rigor had failed to restore it. What Scripture so emphatically
terms "the terrors of death and the pains of hell" had taken hold upon him. It
was while he was in this state, feeling that he could not save himself, and beginning to
despair of ever being saved, that the words were spoken in his hearing, "The cross of
Christ alone openeth the gates of heaven." Farel felt that this was the only
salvation to suit him, that if ever he should be saved it must be "of grace,"
"without money and without price," and so he immediately pressed in at the
portal which the words of Lefevre had opened to him, and rejoined his teacher in the new
world into which that teacher himself had so recently entered.[2] The tempest was at an end: he was now in the quiet haven.
"All things," said he, "appear to me under a new light. Scripture is
cleared up." "Instead of the murderous heart of a ravening wolf, he came
back," he tells us, "quietly like a meek and harmless lamb, having his heart
entirely withdrawn from the Pope and given to Jesus Christ."[3]
For a brief space Jacques Lefevre and Guillaume Farel shone like twin stars in the
morning sky of France. The influence of Lefevre was none the less efficient that it was
quietly put forth, and consisted mainly in the dissemination of those vital truths from
which Protestantism was to spring among the young and ardent minds that were gathered
round his chair, and by whom the new doctrine was afterwards to be published from the
pulpit, or witnessed for on the scaffold. "Lefevre was the man," says Theodore
Beza, "who boldly began the revival of the pure religion of Jesus Christ, and as in
ancient times the school of Socrates sent forth the best orators, so from the lecture-room
of the doctor of Etaples issued many of the best men of the age and of the Church."[4] Peter Robert Olivetan, the
translator of the first French Bible from the version of Lefevre, is believed to have been
among the number of those who received the truth from the doctor of Etaples, and who, in
his turn, was the means of enlisting in the service of Protestantism the greatest champion
whom France, or perhaps any other country, ever gave to it.
While Lefevre scattered the seed in his lecture-room, Farel, now fully emancipated from
the yoke of the Pope, and listening to no teaching but that of the Bible, went forth and
preached in the temples. He was as uncompromising and bold in his advocacy of the Gospel
as he had aforetime been zealous in behalf of Popery. "Young and resolute," says
Felice, "he caused the public places and temples to resound with his voice of
thunder."[5] He
labored for a short time in Meaux,[6] where
Protestantism reaped its earliest triumphs: and when the gathering storm of persecution
drove him from France, which happened soon thereafter, Farel directed his steps towards
those grand mountains from which lie had come, and preaching in Switzerland with a courage
which no violence could subdue, and an eloquence which drew around him vast crowds, he
introduced the Reformation into his native land. He planted the standard of the cross on
the shores of the lake of Neuchatel and on those of the Leman, and eventually carried it
within the gates of Geneva, where we shall again meet him. He thus became the pioneer of
Calvin.
We have marked the two figures – Lefevre and Farel – that stand out with so
great distinctness in this early dawn. A third now appears whose history possesses a great
although a melancholy interest. After the doctor of Etaples no one had so much to do with
the introduction of Protestantism into France as the man whom we now bring upon the stage.[7] He is William Briconnet, Count
of Montbrun, and Bishop of Meaux, a town about eight leagues east of Paris, and where
Bossuet, another name famous in ecclesiastical annals, was also, at an after-period,
bishop. Descended from a noble family, of good address, and a man of affairs, Briconnet
was sent by Francis I. on a mission to Rome. The most magnificent of all the Popes –
Leo X. – was then in the Vatican, and Briconnet's visit to the Eternal City gave him
an opportunity of seeing the Papacy in the noon of its glory, if now somewhat past the
meridian of its power.
It was the same Pope to whom the Bishop of Meaux was now sent as ambassador to whom the
saying is ascribed, "What a profitable affair this fable of Christ has been to
us!" To Luther in his cell, alone with his sins and his conscience, the Gospel was a
reality; to Leo, amidst the statues and pictures of the Vatican, his courtiers, buffoons
and dancers, the Gospel was a fable. But this "fable" had done much for Rome. It
had filled it – no one said with virtues – but with golden dignities, dazzling
honors, and voluptuous delights. This fable clothed the ministers of the Church in purple,
seated them every day at sumptuous tables, provided for them splendid equipages drawn by
prancing steeds, and followed by a long train of liveried attendants: while couches of
down were spread for them at night on which to rest their wearied frames – worn out,
not with watching or study, or the care of souls, but with the excitements of the chase or
the pleasures of the table. The viol, the tabret, and the harp were never silent in the
streets of Rome. Her citizens did not need to toil or spin, to turn the soil or plough the
main, for the corn and oil, the silver and the gold of all Christendom flowed thither.
They shed copiously the juice of the grape in their banquets, and not less copiously the
blood of one another in their quarrels. The Rome of that age was the chosen home of pomps
and revels, of buffooneries and villanies, of dark intrigues and blood-red crimes.[8] "Enjoy we the Papacy,"
said Leo, when elected, to his nephew Julian de Medici, "since God has given it to
us."
But the master-actor on this strange stage was Religion, or the "Fable" as the
Pontiff termed it. All day long the bells tolled; even at night their chimes ceased not to
be heard, telling the visitor that even then prayer and praise were ascending from the
oratories and shrines of Rome. Churches and cathedrals rose at every few paces: images and
crucifixes lined the streets: tapers and holy signs sanctified the dwellings: every hour
processions of shorn priest, hooded monk, and veiled nun swept along, with banners, and
chants, and incense. Every new day brought a new ceremony or festival, which surpassed in
its magnificence and pomp that of the day before. What an enigma was presented to the
Bishop of Meaux! What a strange city was Rome – how full of religion, but how empty
of virtue! Its ceremonies how gorgeous, but its worship how cold; its priests how
numerous, and how splendidly arrayed! It wanted only that their virtues should be as
shining as their garments, to make the city of the Pope the most resplendent in the
universe. Such doubtless were the reflections of Briconnet during his stay at the court of
Leo.
The time came that the Bishop of Meaux must leave Rome and return to France. On his way
back to his own country he had a great many more things to meditate upon than when on his
journey southward to the Eternal City. As he climbs the lower ridges of the Apennines, and
casts a look behind on the fast-vanishing cluster of towers and domes, which mark the site
of Rome on the bosom of the Campagna, we can imagine him saying to himself, "May not
the Pope have spoken infallibly for once, and may not that which I have seen enthroned
amid so much of this world's pride and power and wickedness be, after all, only a
'fable'?" In short, Briconnet, like Luther, came back from Rome much less a son of
the Church than he had been before going thither.[9]
New scenes awaited him on his return, and what he had seen in Rome helped to
prepare him for what he was now to witness in France. On getting back to his diocese the
Bishop of Meaux was astonished at the change which had passed in Paris during his absence.
There was a new light in the sky of France: a new influence was stirring in the minds of
men. The good bishop thirsted to taste the new knowledge which he saw was transforming the
lives and gladdening the hearts of all who received it. He had known Lefevre before going
to Rome, and what so natural as that he should turn to his old friend to tell him whence
had come that influence, so silent yet so mighty, which was changing the world? Lefevre
put the Bible into his hands: it was all in that book. The bishop opened the mysterious
volume, and there he saw what he had missed at Rome – a Church which had neither
Pontifical chair nor purple robes, but which possessed the higher splendor of truth and
holiness. The bishop felt that this was the true Spouse of Christ.
The Bible had revealed to Briconnet, Christ as the Author of a free salvation, the
Bestower of an eternal life, without the intervention of the "Church," and this
knowledge was to him as "living water," as "heavenly food." "Such
is its sweetness," said he, "that it makes the mind insatiable, the more we
taste of it the more we long for it. What vessel is able to receive the exceeding fullness
of this inexhaustible sweetness?"[10]
Briconnet's letters are still preserved in MS.; they are written in the mazy
metaphorical style which disfigured all the productions of an age just passing from the
flighty and figurative rhetoric of the schoolmen to the chaster models of the ancients,
but they leave us in no doubt as to his sentiments. He repudiates works as the foundation
of the sinner's justification, and puts in their room Christ's finished work apprehended
by faith, and, laying little stress on external ceremonies and rites, makes religion to
consist in love to God and personal holiness. The bishop received the new doctrine without
experiencing that severe mental conflict which Farel had passed through. He found the gate
not strait, and entered in – somewhat too easily perhaps – and took his place in
the little circle of disciples which the Gospel had already gathered round it in France
– Lefevre, Farel, Roussel, and Vatable, all four professors in the University of
Paris – although, alas! he was not destined to remain in that holy society to the
close.
Of the five men whom Protestantism had called to follow it in this kingdom, the Bishop of
Meaux, as regarded the practical work of Reformation, was the most powerful. The whole of
France he saw needed Reformation; where should he begin? Unquestionably in his own
diocese. His rectors and cures walked in the old paths. They squandered their revenues in
the dissolute gaieties of Paris, while they appointed ignorant deputies to do duty for
them at Meaux. In other days Briconnet had looked on this as a matter of course: now it
appeared to him a scandalous and criminal abuse. In October, 1520, he published a mandate,
proclaiming all to be "traitors and deserters who, by abandoning their flocks, show
plainly that what they love is their fleece and their wool." He interdicted,
moreover, the Franciscans from the pulpits of his diocese. At the season of the grand
fetes these men made their rounds, amply provided with new jests, which put their hearers
in good humor, and helped the friars to fill their stomachs and their wallets. Briconnet
forbade the pulpits to be longer desecrated by such buffooneries. He visited in person,
like a faithful bishop, all his parishes; summoned the clergy and parishioners before him:
inquired into the teaching of the one and the morals of the other: removed ignorant cures,
that is, every nine out of ten of the clergy, and replaced them with men able to teach,
when such could be found, which was then no easy matter. To remedy the great evil of the
time, which was ignorance, he instituted a theological seminary at Meaux, where, under his
own eye, there might be trained "able ministers of the New Testament;" and
meanwhile he did what he could to supply the lack of laborers, by ascending the pulpit and
preaching himself, "a thing which had long since gone quite out of fashion."[11]
Leaving Meaux now, to come back to it soon, we return to Paris. The influence of
Briconnet's conversion was felt among the high personages of the court, and the literary
circles of the capital, as well as amidst the artizans and peasants of the diocese of
Meaux. The door of the palace stood open to the bishop, and the friendship he enjoyed with
Francis I. opened to Briconnet vast opportunities of spreading Reformed views among the
philosophers and scholars whom that monarch loved to assemble round him. One high-born,
and wearing a mitre, was sure to be listened to where a humbler Reformer might in vain
solicit audience. The court of France was then adorned by a galaxy of learned men –
Budaeus, Du Bellay, Cop, the court physician, and others of equal eminence – to all
of whom the bishop made known a higher knowledge than that of the Renaissance.[12] But the most illustrious convert
in the palace was the sister of the king, Margaret of Valois. And now two personages whom
we have not met as yet, but who are destined to act a great part in the drama on which we
are entering, make their appearance.
The one is Francis I., who ascended the throne just as the new day was breaking over
Europe; the other is his sister, whom we have named above, Margaret of Angouleme. The
brother and sister, in many of their qualities, resembled each other. Both were handsome
in person, polished in manners, lively in disposition, and of a magnanimous and generous
character. Both possessed a fine intellect, and both were fond of letters, which they had
cultivated with ardor: Francis, who was sometimes styled the Mirror of Knighthood,
embodied in his person the three characteristics of his age – valor, gallantry, and
letters; the latter passion had, owing to the Renaissance, become a somewhat fashionable
one. "Francis I.," says Guizot, "had received from God all the gifts that
can adorn a man: he was handsome, and tall, and strong; his amour, preserved in the
Louvre, is that of a man six feet high; his eyes were brilliant and soft, his smile was
gracious, his manners were winning."[13]
Francis aspired to be a great king, but the moral instability which tarnished his many
great qualities forbade the realization of his idea. It was his fate, after starting with
promise in every race, to fall behind before reaching the goal. The young monarch of Spain
bore away from him the palm in arms. Despite his great abilities, and the talents he
summoned to his aid, he was never able to achieve for France in politics any but a second
place. He chased from his dominions the greatest theological intellect of his age, and the
literary glory with which he thought to invest his name and throne passed over to England.
He was passionately fond of his sister, whom he always called his "darling;" and
Margaret was not less devoted in affection for her brother. For some time the lives, as
the tastes, of the two flowed on together; but a day was to come when they would be
parted. Amid the frivolities of the court, in which she mingled without defiling herself
with its vices, the light of the Gospel shone upon Margaret, and she turned to her Savior.
Francis, after wavering some time between the Gospel and Rome, between the pleasures of
the world and the joys that are eternal, made at last his choice, but, alas! on the
opposite side to that of his lovely and accomplished sister. Casting in his lot with Rome,
and staking crown, and kingdom, and salvation upon the issue, he gave battle to the
Reformation.
We turn again to Margaret, whose grace and beauty made her the ornament of the court, as
her brilliant qualities of intellect won the admiration and homage of all who came in
contact with her.[14] This
accomplished princess, nevertheless, began to be unhappy. She felt a heaviness of the
heart which the gaieties around her could not dispel. She was in this state, ill at ease,
yet not knowing well what it was that troubled her, when Briconnet met her (1521).[15] He saw at once to the bottom of
her heart and her griefs. He put into her hand what Lefevre had put into his own –
the Bible; and after the eager study of the Word of God, Margaret forgot her fears and her
sins in love to her Savior. She recognized in him the Friend she had long sought, but
sought in vain, in the gay circles in which she moved, and she felt a strength and courage
she had not known till now. Peace became an inmate of her bosom. She was no longer alone
in the world. There was now a Friend by her side on whose sympathy she could cast herself
in those dark hours when her brother Francis should frown, and the court should make her
the object of its polished ridicule.
In the conversion of Margaret a merciful Providence provided against the evil days that
were to come. Furious storms were at no great distance, and although Margaret was not
strong enough to prevent the bursting of these tempests, she could and did temper their
bitterness. She was near the throne. The sweetness of her spirit was at times a restraint
upon the headlong passions of her brother. With quiet tact she would defeat the plot of
the monk, and undo the chain of the martyr, and not a few lives, which other wise would
have perished on the scaffold, were through her interposition saved to the Reformation.
CHAPTER 3 Back to Top
THE FIRST PROTESTANT CONGREGATION OF FRANCE
A Bright Morning – Sanguine Anticipations of the Protestants – Lefevre
Translates the Bible – Bishop of Meaux Circulates it – The Reading of it at
Meaux – Reformation of Manners – First Protestant Flock in France – Happy
Days – Complaints of the Tavern-keepers – Murmurs of the Monks – The King
Incited to set up the Scaffold – Refuses – The "Well of Meaux."
A MORNING without clouds was rising on France, and Briconnet
and Lefevre believed that such as the morning had been so would be the day, tranquil and
clear, and waxing ever the brighter as it approached its noon. Already the Gospel had
entered the palace. In her lofty sphere Margaret of Valois shone like a star of soft and
silvery light, clouded at times, it is true, from the awe in which she stood of her
brother and the worldly society around her, but emitting a sweet and winning ray which
attracted the eye of many a beholder.
The monarch was on the side of progress, and often made the monks the butt of his biting
satire. The patrons of literary culture were the welcome guests at the Louvre. All things
were full of promise, and, looking down the vista of coming years, the friends of the
Gospel beheld a long series of triumphs awaiting it – the throne won, the ancient
superstition overturned, and France clothed with a new moral strength becoming the
benefactress of Christendom. Such was the future as it shaped itself to the eyes of the
two chief leaders of the movement. Triumphs, it is true, glorious triumphs was the Gospel
to win in France, but not exactly of the kind which its friends at this hour anticipated.
Its victories were to be gained not in the lettered conflicts of scholars, nor by the aid
of princes; it was in the dungeon and at the stake that its prowess was to be shown. This
was the terrible arena on which it was to agonize and to be crowned. This, however, was
hidden from the eyes of Briconnet and Lefevre, who meanwhile, full of faith and courage,
worked with all their might to speed on a victory which they regarded as already half won.
The progress of events takes us back to Meaux. We have already noted the Reformation set
on foot there by the bishop, the interdict laid on the friars, who henceforward could
neither vent their buffooneries nor fill their wallets, the removal of immoral and
incapable cures, and the founding of a school for the training of pastors. Briconnet now
took another step forward; he hastened to place the Reform upon a stable basis – to
open to his people access to the great fountain of light, the Bible.
It was the ambition of the aged Lefevre, as it had been that of our own Wicliffe, to see
before he died every man in France able to read the Word of God in his mother tongue. With
this object he began to translate the New Testament.[1] The four Gospels in French were published on the 30th October,
1522; in a week thereafter came the remaining books of the New Testament, and on the 12th
October, 1524, the whole were published in one volume at Meaux.[2] The publication of the translated Bible was going on
contemporaneously in Germany. Without the Bible in the mother tongues of France and
Germany, the Reformation must have died with its first disciples; for, humanly speaking,
it would have been impossible otherwise to have found for it foothold in Christendom in
face of the tremendous opposition with which the powers of the world assailed it. The
bishop, overjoyed, furthered with all his power the work of Lefevre. He made his steward
distribute copies of the four Gospels to the poor gratis.[3] "He spared," says Crespin, "neither gold nor
silver," and the consequence was that the New Testament in French was widely
circulated in all the parishes of his diocese.
The wool trade formed the staple of Meaux, and its population consisted mainly of
wool-carders, spinners, weavers.[4] Those
in the surrounding districts were peasants and vine-dressers. In town and country alike
the Bible became the subject of study and the theme of talk. The artizans of Meaux
conversed together about it as they plied the loom or tended the spindle. At meal-hours it
was read in the workshops. The laborers in the vineyards and on the corn-fields, when the
noontide came and they rested from toil, would draw forth the sacred volume, and while one
read, the rest gathered round him in a circle and listened to the words of life. They
longed for the return of the meal-hour, not that they might eat of the bread of earth, but
that they might appease their hunger for the bread whereof he that eateth shall never die.[5]
These men had grown suddenly learned, "wiser than their teachers," to use
the language of the book they were now so intently perusing. They were indeed wiser than
the tribe of ignorant cures, and the army of Franciscan monks, whose highest aim had been
to make their audience gape and laugh at their jests. Compared with the husks on which
these men had fed them, this was the true bread, the heavenly manna. "Of what use are
the saints to us?" said they. "Our only Mediator is Christ."[6] To offer any formal argument to
them that this book was Divine, they would have felt to be absurd. It had opened heaven to
them. It had revealed the throne of God, and their way to it by the one and only Savior.
Whose book, then, could this be but God's? and whence could it have come but from the
skies?
And well it was that their faith was thus simple and strong, for no less deep a conviction
of the Gospel's truth would have sufficed to carry them through what awaited them. All
their days were not to be passed in the peaceful fold of Meaux. Dark temptations and fiery
trials, of which they could not at this hour so much as form a conception, were to test
them at no distant day. Could they stand when Briconnet should fall? Some of these men
were at a future day to be led to the stake. Had their faith rested on no stronger
foundation than a fine logical argument – had their conversion been only a new
sentiment and not a new nature – had that into which they were now brought been a new
system merely and not a new world – they could not have braved the dungeon or looked
death in the face. But these disciples had planted their feet not on Briconnet, not on
Peter, but on "the Rock," and that "Rock" was Christ: and so not all
the coming storms of persecution could cast them down. Not that in themselves they could
not be shaken – they were frail and fallible, but their "Rock" was
immovable; and standing on it they were unconquerable – unconquerable alike amid the
dark smoke and bitter flames of the Place de Greve as amid the green pastures of Meaux.
But as yet these tempests are forbidden to burst, and meanwhile let us look somewhat more
closely at this little flock, to which there attaches this great interest, that it was the
first Protestant congregation on the soil of France. They were the workmanship, not of
Briconnet, but of the Spirit, who by the instrumentality of the Bible had called them to
the "knowledge of Christ," and the "fellowship of the saints." Let us
mark them at the close of the day. Their toil ended, they diligently repaired from the
workshop, the vineyard, the field, and assembled in the house of one of their number. They
opened and read the Holy Scriptures; they conversed about the things of the Kingdom; they
joined together in prayer, and their hearts burned within them. Their numbers were few,
their sanctuary was humble, no mitred and vested priest conducted their services, no choir
or organ-peal intoned their prayers; but ONE was in the midst of them greater than the
doctor of the Sorbonne, greater than any King of France, even he who has said, "Lo, I
am with you alway" – and where he is, there is the Church.
The members of this congregation belonged exclusively to the working class. Their daily
bread was earned in the wool-factory or in the vineyard. Nevertheless a higher
civilization had begun to sweeten their dispositions, refine their manners, and ennoble
their speech, than any that the castles of their nobility could show. Meek in spirit,
loving in heart, and holy in life, they presented a sample of what Protestantism would
have made the whole nation of France, had it been allowed full freedom among a people who
lacked but this to crown their many great qualities.
By-and-by the churches were opened to them. Their conferences were no longer held in
private dwellings: the Christians of Meaux now met in public, and usually a qualified
person expounded to them, on these occasions, the Scriptures. Bishop Briconnet took his
turn in the pulpit, so eager was he to hold aloft "that sweet, mild, true, and only
light," to use his own words, "which dazzles and enlightens every creature
capable of receiving it; and which, while it enlightens him, raises him to the dignity of
a son of God."[7] These
were happy days. The winds of heaven were holden that they might not hurt this young vine;
and time was given it strike its roots into the soil before being overtaken by the
tempest.
A general reformation of manners followed the entrance of Protestantism into Meaux. No
better evidence could there be of this than the complaints preferred by two classes of the
community especially – the tavern-keepers and the monks. The topers in the wine-shops
were becoming fewer, and the Begging Friars often returned from their predatory excursions
with empty sacks. Images, too, if they could have spoken, would have swelled the murmurs
at the ill-favored times, for few now bestowed upon them either coin or candles. But
images can only wink, and so they buried their griefs in the inarticulate silence of their
own bosoms. Blasphemies and quarrellings ceased to be heard; there were now quiet on the
streets and love in the dwellings of the little town.
But now the first mutterings of the coming storm began to be heard in Paris; even this
brought at first only increased prosperity to the Reformed Church at Meaux. It sent to the
little flock new and greater teachers. The Sorbonne – that ancient and proud champion
of orthodoxy – knew that these were not times to slumber: it saw Protestantism rising
in the capital; it beheld the flames catching the edifice of the faith. It took alarm: it
called upon the king to put down the new opinions by force. Francis did not respond quite
so zealously as the Sorbonne would have liked. He was not prepared to patronize
Protestantism, far from it; but, at the same time, he had no love for monks, and was
disposed to allow a considerable margin to "men of genius," and so he forbade
the Sorbonne to set up the scaffold.
Still little reliance could be placed upon the wavering and pleasure-loving king, and
Lefevre, on whom his colleagues of the Sorbonne had contrived to fasten a quarrel, might
any hour be apprehended and thrown into prison. "Come to Meaux," said Briconnet
to Lefevre and Farel, "and take part with me in the work which is every day
developing into goodlier proportions"[8] They accepted the invitation; quitting the capital they went to
live at Meaux, and thus all the Reformed forces were collected into one center.
The glory which had departed from Paris now rested upon this little provincial town. Meaux
became straightway a light in the darkness of France, and many eyes were turned towards
it. Far and near was spread the rumor of the "strange things" that were taking
place there, and many came to verify with their own eyes what they had heard. Some had
occasion to visit its wool markets; and others, laborers from Picardy and more distant
places, resorted to it in harvest time to assist in reaping its fields; these visitors
were naturally drawn to the sermons of the Protestant preachers moreover, French New
Testaments were put into their hands, and when they returned to their homes many of them
carried with them the seeds of the Gospel, and founded churches in their own districts,[9] some of which, such as Landouzy in the department of Aisne,
still exist.[10] Thus
Meaux became a mother of Churches: and the expression became proverbial in the first half
of the sixteenth century, with reference to any one noted for his Protestant sentiments,
that "he had drunk at the well of Meaux."[11]
We love to linger over this picture, its beauty is so deep and pure that we are
unwilling to tear ourselves from it. Already we begin to have a presentiment, alas! to be
too sadly verified hereafter, that few such scenes will present themselves in the eventful
but tempestuous period on which we are entering. Amid the storms of the rough day coming
it may solace us to look back to this delicious daybreak. But already it begins to
overcast. Lefevre and Farel have been sent away from the capital. The choice that Paris
has made, or is about to make, strikes upon our ear as the knell of coming evil. The
capital of France has already missed a high honor, even that of harboring within her walls
the first congregation of French Protestants. This distinction was reserved for Meaux,
though little among the many magnificent cities of France. Paris said to the Gospel,
"Depart. This is the seat of the Sorbonne; this is the king's court; here there is no
room for you; go, hide thee amid the artizans, the fullers and wool-combers of
Meaux." Paris knew not what it did when it drove the Gospel from its gates. By the
same act it opened them to a long and dismal train of woes – faction, civil war,
atheism, the guillotine, siege, famine, death.
CHAPTER 4 Back to Top
COMMENCEMENT OF PERSECUTION IN FRANCE
The World's Center – The Kingdoms at War – In the Church, Peace – The Flock
at Meaux – Marot's Psalms of David universally Sung in France – The Odes of
Horace – Calvin and Church Psalmody – Two Champions of the Darkness, Beda and
Duprat – Louisa of Savoy – Her Character – The Trio that Governed France
– They Unsheathe the Sword of Persecution – Briconnet's Fall.
THE Church is the center round which all the affairs of the
world revolve. It is here that the key of all politics is to be found. The continuance and
advance of this society is a first principle with him who sits on the right hand of Power,
and who is at once King of the Church and King of the Universe; and, therefore, from his
lofty seat he directs the march of armies, the issue of battles, the deliberation of
cabinets, the decision of kings, and the fate of nations, so as best to further this one
paramount end of his government. Here, then, is the world's center; not in a throne that
may be standing to-day, and in the dust to-morrow, but in a society – a kingdom
– destined to outlast all the kingdoms of earth, to endure and flourish throughout
all the ages of time.
It cannot but strike one as remarkable that at the very moment when a feeble evangelism
was receiving its birth, needing, one should think, a fostering hand to shield its
infancy, so many powerful and hostile kingdoms should start up to endanger it. Why place
the cradle of Protestantism amid tempests? Here is the powerful Spain; and here, too, is
the nearly as powerful France. Is not this to throw Protestantism between the upper and
the nether mill-stones? Yet he "who weigheth the mountains in scales, and the hills
in a balance," permitted these confederacies to spring up at this hour, and to wax
thus mighty. And now we begin to see a little way into the counsels of the Most High
touching these two kingdoms. Charles of Spain carries off the brilliant prize of the
imperial diadem from Francis of France. The latter is stung to the quick; from that hour
they are enemies; war breaks out between them; their ambition drags the other kingdoms of
Europe into the arena of conflict; and the intrigues and battles that ensue leave to
hostile princes but little time to persecute the truth. They find other uses for their
treasures, and other enterprises for their armies. Thus the very tempests by which the
world was devastated were as ramparts around that new society that was rising up on the
ruins of the old. While outside the Church the roar of battle never ceased, the song of
peace was heard continually ascending within her. "God is our refuge and strength, a
very present help in time of trouble. Therefore, will not we fear, although the earth be
removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. God is in the
midst of her; she shall not be removed."
From this hasty glance at the politics of the age, which had converted the world into a
sea with the four winds warring upon it, we come back to the little flock at Meaux. That
flock was dwelling peacefully amid the green pastures and by the living waters of truth.
Every day saw new converts added to their number, and every day beheld their love and zeal
burning with a purer flame. The good Bishop Briconnet was going in and out before them,
feeding with knowledge and understanding the flock over which, not Rome, but the Holy
Ghost had made him overseer. Those fragrant and lovely fruits which ever spring up where
the Gospel comes, and which are of a nature altogether different from, and of a quality
infinitely superior to, those which any other system produces, were appearing abundantly
here. Meaux had become a garden in the midst of the desert of France, and strangers from a
distance came to see this new thing, and to wonder at the sight. Not unfrequently did they
carry away a shoot from the mother plant to set it in their own province, and so the vine
of Meaux was sending out her branches, and giving promise, in the opinion of some, at no
distant day of filling the land with her shadow.
At an early stage of the Reformation in France, the New Testament, as we have related in
the foregoing chapter, was translated into the vernacular of that country. This was
followed by a version of the Psalms of David in 1525, the very time when the field of
Pavia, which cost France so many lives, was being stricken. Later, Clement Marot, the
lyrical poet, undertook – at the request of Calvin, it is believed the task of
versifying the Psalms, and accordingly thirty of them were rendered into metre and
published in Paris in 1541, dedicated to Francis I [1] Three years afterwards (1543), he added twenty others, and
dedicated the collection, "to the ladies of France." In the epistle dedicatory
the following verses occur: –
The prophecy of the poet was fulfilled. The combined majesty
and sweetness of the old Hebrew Psalter took: captive the taste and genius of the French
people. In a little while all France, we may say, fell to singing the Psalms. They
displaced all other songs, being sung in the first instance to the common ballad music.
"This holy ordinance," says Quick, "charmed the ears, heart, and affections
of court and city, town and country. They were sung in the Louvre, as well as in the Pres
des Clercs, by the ladies, princes, yea, by Henry II. himself. This one ordinance alone
contributed mightily to the downfall of Popery and the propagation of the Gospel. It took
so much with the genius of the nation that all ranks and degrees of men practiced it, in
the temples and in their families. No gentleman professing the Reformed religion would sit
down at his table without praising God by singing. It was an especial part of their
morning and evening worship in their several houses to sing God's praises."
This chorus of holy song was distasteful to the adherents of the ancient worship. Wherever
they turned, the odes of the Hebrew monarch, pealed forth in the tongue of France, saluted
their ears, in the streets and the highways, in the vineyards and the workshops, at the
family hearth and in the churches. "The reception these Psalms met with," says
Bayle, "was such as the world had never seen."[3] To strange uses were they put on occasion. The king, fond of
hunting, adopted as his favorite Psalm, "As pants the hart for water-brooks,"
etc. The priests, who seemed to hear in this outburst the knell of their approaching
downfall, had recourse to the expedient of translating the odes of Horace and setting them
to music, in the hope that the pagan poet would supplant the Hebrew one [4] The rage for the Psalter
nevertheless continued unabated, and a storm of Romish wrath breaking out against Marot,
he fled to Geneva, where, as we have said above, he added twenty other Psalms to the
thirty previously published at Paris, making fifty in all. This enlarged Psalter was first
published at Geneva, with a commendatory preface by Calvin, in 1543. Editions were
published in Holland, Belgium, France, and Switzerland, and so great was the demand that
the printing, presses could not meet it. Rome forbade the book, but the people were only
the more eager on that account to possess it.
Calvin, alive to the mighty power of music to advance the Reformation, felt nevertheless
the incongruity and indelicacy of singing such words to profane airs, and used every means
in his power to rectify the abuse. He applied to the most eminent musicians in Europe to
furnish music worthy of the sentiments. William Franc, of Strasburg, responding to this
call, furnished melodies for Marot's Psalter; and the Protestants of France and Holland,
dropping the ballad airs, began now to sing the Psalms to the noble music just composed.
Now, for the first time, was heard the "Old Hundredth," and some of the finest
tunes still in use in our Psalmody.
After the death of Mater (1544) Calvin applied to his distinguished coadjutor, Theodore
Beza, to complete the versification of the Psalms. Beza, copying the style and spirit of
Marot, did so,[5] and
thus Geneva had the honor of giving to Christendom the first whole book of Psalms ever
rendered into the metre of any living language.
This narration touching the Psalms in French has carried us a little in advance of the
point of time we had reached in the history. We retrace our steps.
A storm was brewing at Paris. There were two men in the capital, sworn champions of the
darkness, holding high positions. The one was Noel Beda, the head of the Sorbonne. His
chair – second only, in his own opinion, to that of the Pope himself – bound him
to guard most sacredly from the least heretical taint that orthodoxy which it was the
glory of his university to have preserved hitherto wholly uncontaminated. Beda was a man
of very moderate attainments, but he was moderate in nothing else. He was bustling,
narrow-minded, a worshipper of scholastic forms, a keen disputant, and a great intriguer.
"In a single Beda," Erasmus used to say, "there are three thousand
monks." Never did owl hate the day more than Beda did the light. He had seen with
horror some rays struggle into the shady halls of the Sorbonne, and he made haste to
extinguish them by driving from his chair the man who was the ornament of the university
– the doctor of Etaples.
The other truculent defender of the old orthodoxy was Antoine Duprat. Not that he cared a
straw for othodoxy in itself, for the man had neither religion nor morals, but it fell in
with the line of his own political advancement to affect a concern for the faith. A
contemporary Roman Catholic historian, Beaucaire de Peguilhem, calls him "the most
vicious of bipeds." He accompanied his master, Francis I., to Bologna, after the
battle of Marignano, and aided at the interview at which the infamous arrangement was
effected, in pursuance of which the power of the French bishops and the rights of the
French Church were divided between Leo X. and Francis I. This is known in history as the
Concordat of Bologna; it abolished the Pragmatic Sanction – the charter of the
liberties of the Gallican Church – and gave to the king the power of presenting to
the vacant sees, and to the Pope the right to the first-fruits. A red hat was the reward
of Duprat's treachery. His exalted office – he was Chancellor of France – added
to his personal qualities made him a formidable opponent. He was able, haughty,
overbearing, and never scrupled to employ violence to compass his ends. He was, too, a man
of insatiable greed. He plundered on a large scale in the king's behoof, by putting up to
sale the offices in the gift of the crown; but he plundered on a still larger scale in his
own, and so was enormously rich. By way of doing a compensatory act he built a few
additional wards to the Maison de Dieu, on which the king, whose friendship he shared
without sharing his esteem, is said to have remarked "that they had need to be large
if they were to contain all the poor the chancellor himself had made."[6] Such were the two men who now
rose up against the Gospel.[7]
They were set on by the monks of Meaux. Finding that their dues were diminishing at an
alarming rate the Franciscans crowded to Paris, and there raised the cry of heresy. Bishop
Briconnet, they exclaimed, had become a Protestant, and not content with being himself a
heretic, he had gathered round him a company of even greater heretics than himself, and
had, in conjunction with these associates, poisoned his diocese, and was laboring to
infect the whole of France; and unless steps were immediately taken this pestilence would
spread over all the kingdom, and France would be lost. Duprat and Beda were not the men to
listen with indifferent ears to these complaints.
The situation of the kingdom at that hour threw great power into the hands of these men.
The battle of Pavia – the Flodden of France – had just been fought. The flower
of the French nobility had fallen on that field, and among the slain was the Chevalier
Bayard, styled the Mirror of Chivalry. The king was now the prisoner of Charles V. at
Madrid. Pending the captivity of Francis the government was in the hands of his mother,
Louisa of Savoy. She was a woman of determined spirit, dissolute life, and heart inflamed
with her house's hereditary enmity to the Gospel, as shown in its persecution of the
Waldensian confessors. She had the bad distinction of opening in France that era of
licentious gallantry which has so long polluted both the court and the kingdom, and which
has proved one of the most powerful obstacles to the spread of the pure Gospel. It must be
added, however, that the hostility of Louisa was somewhat modified and restrained by the
singular sweetness and piety of her daughter, Margaret of Valois. Such were the trio
– the dissolute Louisa, regent of the kingdom; the avaricious Duprat, the chancellor;
and the bigoted Beda, head of the Sorbonne into whose hands the defeat at Pavia had
thrown, at this crisis, the government of France. There were points on which their
opinions and interests were in conflict, but all three had one quality in common –
they heartily detested the new opinions.
The first step was taken by Louisa. In 1523 she proposed the following question to the
Sorbonne: "By what means can the damnable doctrines of Luther be chased and
extirpated from this most Christian kingdom?" The answer was brief, but emphatic:
"By the stake;" and it was added that if the remedy were not soon put in force,
there would result great damage to the honor of the king and of Madame Louisa of Savoy.
Two years later the Pope earnestly recommended rigor in suppressing "this great and
marvelous disorder, which proceeds from the rage of Satan;"[8] otherwise, "this mania will not only destroy religion, but
all principalities, nobilities, laws, orders, and ranks besides."[9] It was to uphold the throne,
preserve the nobles, and maintain the laws that the sword of persecution was first
unsheathed in France!
The Parliament was convoked to strike a blow while yet there was time. The Bishop of Meaux
was summoned before it. Briconnet was at first firm, and refused to make any concession,
but at length the alternative was plainly put before him – abandon Protestantism or
go to prison. We can imagine the conflict in his soul. He had read the woe denounced
against him who puts his hand to the plough and afterwards withdraws it. He could not but
think of the flock he had fed so lovingly, and which had looked up to him with an
affection so tender and so confiding. But before him was a prison and mayhap a stake. It
was a moment of supreme suspense. But now the die is cast. Briconnet declines the stake
– the stake which in return for the life of the body would have given him life
eternal. On the 12th of April, 1523, [10] he was condemned to pay a fine, and was sent back to his diocese
to publish three edicts, the first restoring public prayers to the Virgin and the saints,
the second forbidding any one to buy or read the books of Luther, while the third enjoined
silence on the Protestant preachers.
What a stunning blow to the disciples at Meaux! They were dreaming of a brilliant day when
this dark storm suddenly came and scattered them. The aged Lefevre found his way, in the
first instance, to Strasburg, and ultimately to Nerac. Farel turned his steps toward
Switzerland, where a great work awaited him. Of the two Roussels, Gerard afterwards
powerfully contributed to the progress of the Reformation in the kingdom of Navarre.[11] Martial Mazurier went the same
road with Briconnet, and was rewarded with a canonry at Paris.[12] The rest of the flock, too poor to flee, had to abide the brunt of
the tempest.
Briconnet had saved his mitre, but at what a cost! We shall not judge him. Those who
joined the ranks of Protestantsism at a later period did so as men "appointed unto
death," and girded themselves for the conflict which they knew awaited them. But at
this early stage the Bishop of Meaux had not those examples of self-devotion before him
which the martyr-roll of coming years was to furnish. He might reason himself into the
belief that he could still love his Savior in his heart, though he did not confess him
with the mouth: that while bowing before Mary and the saints he could inwardly look up to
Christ, and lean for salvation on the Crucified One: that while ministering at the altars
of Rome he could in secret feed on other bread than that which she gives to her children.
It was a hard part which Briconnet put upon himself to act; and, without saying how far it
is possible, we may ask how, if all the disciples of Protestantism had acted this part,
could we ever have had a Reformation?
CHAPTER 5 Back to Top
THE FIRST MARTYRS OF FRANCE
The Flock at Meaux – Denis, a "Meaux Heretic" – Visited in Prison by
his former Pastor, Briconnet – The Interview – Men Burned and yet they Live
– Pavane – Imprisoned for the Gospel – Recants – His Horror of Mind
– Anew Confesses Christ – Is Burned – His the First Stake in Paris –
Martyrdom of the Hermit of Livry – Leclerc, the Wool-comber – Acts as Pastor
– Banished from Meaux – Retires to Metz – Demolishes the Images at the
Chapel of Mary – Procession – Astonishment of Processionists – Leclerc
Seized – Confesses – His Cruel Death – Bishop Briconnet.
Briconnet had recanted: but if the shepherd had fallen the
little ones of the flock stood their ground. They continued to meet together for prayer
and the reading of the Scriptures, the garret of a wool-comber, a solitary hut, or a copse
serving as their place of rendezvous.[1] This congregation was to have the honor of furnishing martyrs
whose blazing stakes were to shine like beacons in the darkness of France, and afford
glorious proof to their countrymen that a power had entered the world which, braving the
terror of scaffolds and surmounting the force of armies, would finally triumph over all
opposition.
Let us take a few instances. A humble man named Denis, one of the "Meaux
heretics," was apprehended; and in course of time he was visited in his prison by his
former pastor, Briconnet. His enemies at times put tasks of this sort upon the fallen
prelate, the more thoroughly to humiliate him. When the bishop made his unexpected
appearance in the cell of the poor prisoner, Denis opened his eyes with surprise,
Briconnet hung his with embarrassment. The bishop began with stammering tongue, we may
well believe, to exhort the imprisoned disciple to purchase his liberty by a recantation.
Denis listened for a little space, then rising up and steadfastly fixing his eyes upon the
man who had once preached to him that very Gospel which he now exhorted him to abjure,
said solemnly, "'Whosoever shall deny me before men, him shall I also deny before my
Father who is in heaven!'" Briconnet reeled backwards and staggered out of the
dungeon. The interview over, each took his own way: the bishop returned to his palace, and
Denis passed from his cell to the stake.[2]
That long and terrible roll on which it was so hard, yet so glorious, to write
one's name, was now about to be unfolded. This was no roll of the dead: it was a roll of
the living; for while their contemporaries disappeared in the darkness of the tomb and
were seen and heard of no more on earth, those men whose names were written there came out
into the light, and shone in glory un-dimmed as the ages rolled past, telling that not
only did they live, but their cause also, and that it should yet triumph in the land which
they watered with their blood. This was a wondrous and great sight, men burned to ashes
and yet living.
We select another from this band of pioneers. Pavane, a native of Boulogne and disciple of
Lefevre, was a youth of sweetest disposition, but somewhat lacking in constitutional
courage. He held a living in the Church, though he was not as yet in priest's orders.
Enlightened by the truth, he began to say to his neighbors that the Virgin could no more
save them than he could, and that there was but one Savior, even Jesus Christ. This was
enough: he was apprehended and brought to trial. Had he blasphemed Christ only, he would
have been forgiven: he had blasphemed Mary, and could have no forgiveness. He must make a
public recantation or, hard alternative, go to the stake. Terrified at death in this
dreadful form, Pavane consented to purge himself from the crime of having spoken
blasphemous words against the Virgin. On Christmas Eve (1524) he was required to walk
through the streets bare-headed and barefooted, a rope round his neck and a lighted taper
in his hand, till he came to the Church of Notre Dame. Standing before the portals of that
edifice, he publicly begged pardon of "Our Lady" for having spoken disparagingly
of her. This act of penitence duly performed, he was sent back to his prison.
Returned to his dungeon, and left to think on what he had done, he found that there were
things which it was more terrible to face than death. He was now alone with the Savior
whom he had denied. A horror of darkness fell upon his soul. No sweet promise of the Bible
could he recall: nothing could he find to lighten the sadness and heaviness that weighed
upon him. Rather than drink this bitter cup he would a hundred times go to the stake. He
who turned and looked on Peter spoke to Pavane, and reproved him for his sin. His tears
flowed as freely as Peter's did. His resolution was taken. His sighings were now at an
end: he anew made confession of his faith in Christ. The trial of the "relapsed
heretic" was short; he was hurried to the stake. "At the foot of the pile he
spoke of the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper with such force that a doctor said, 'I wish
Pavane had not spoken, even if it had cost the Church a million of gold.'"[3] The fagots were quickly lighted,
and Pavane stood with unflinching courage amid the flames till he was burned to ashes.
This was the first stake planted in the capital of France, or indeed within the ancient
limits of the kingdom. We ask in what quarter of Paris was it set up? In the Place de
Greve. Ominous spot! In the Place de Greve were the first French martyrs of the
Reformation burned. Nearly three hundred years pass away; the blazing stake is no longer
seen in Paris, for there are now no longer martyrs to be consumed. But there comes another
visitant to France, the Revolution namely, bringing with it a dreadful instrument of
death; and where does the Revolution set up its guillotine? In the same Place de Greve, at
Paris. It was surely not of chance that on the Place de Greve were the first martyrs of
the Reformation burned, and that on the Place de Greve were the first victims of the
Revolution guillotined.
The martyrdom of Pavane was followed, after a short while, by that of the Hermit of Livry,
as he was named. Livry was a small burgh on the road to Meaux. This confessor was burned
alive before the porch of Notre Dame. Nothing was wanting which his persecutors could
think of that might make the spectacle of his death terrible to the on-lookers. The great
bell of the temple of Notre Dame was rung with immense violence, in order to draw out the
people from all parts of Paris. As the martyr passed along the street, the doctors told
the spectators that this was one of the damned who was on his way to the fire of hell.
These things moved not the martyr; he walked with firm step and look undaunted to the spot
where he was to offer up his life.[4]
One other martyrdom of these early times must we relate. Among the disciples at
Meaux was a humble wool-comber of the name of Leclerc. Taught of the Spirit, he was
"mighty in the Scriptures," and being a man of courage as well as knowledge, he
came forward when Briconnet apostatised, and took the oversight of the flock which the
bishop had deserted. Leclerc had received neither tonsure nor imposition of hands, but the
Protestant Church of France had begun thus early to act upon the doctrine of a universal
spiritual priesthood. The old state of things had been restored at Meaux. The monks had
re-captured the pulpits, and, with jubilant humor, were firing off jests and reciting
fables, to the delight of such audiences as they were able to gather round them.[5] This stirred the spirit of
Leclerc; so one day he affixed a placard to the door of the cathedral, styling the Pope
the Antichrist, and predicting the near downfall of his kingdom. Priests, monks, and
citizens gathered before the placard, and read it with amazement. Their amazement quickly
gave place to rage. Was it to be borne that a despicable wool-carder should attack the
Pontiff? Leclerc was seized, tried, whipped through the streets on three successive days,
and finally branded on the forehead with a hot iron, and banished from Meaux. While
enduring this cruel and shameful treatment, his mother stood by applauding his constancy.[6]
The wool-comber retired to Metz, in Lorraine. Already the light had visited that
city, but the arrival of Leclerc gave a new impulse to its evangelisation. He went from
house to house preaching the Gospel; persons of condition, both lay and clerical, embraced
the Reformed faith; and thus were laid in Metz, by the humble hands of a wool-carder, the
foundations of a Church which afterwards became flourishing. Leclerc, arriving in Metz
with the brand of heretic on his brow, came nevertheless with courage unabashed and zeal
unabated; but he allowed these qualities, unhappily, to carry him beyond the limits of
prudence.
A little way outside the gates of the city stood a chapel to Mary and the saints of the
province. The yearly festival had come round, and to-morrow the population of Metz would
be seen on their knees before these gods of stone. Leclerc pondered upon the command,
"Thou shalt break down their images," and forgot the very different
circumstances of himself and of those to whom it was originally given. At eve, before the
gates were shut, he stole out of the city and passed along the highway till he reached the
shrine. He sat down before the images in mental conflict. "Impelled," says Beza,
"by a Divine afflatus,"[7] he
arose, dragged the statues from their pedestals, and, having broken them in pieces,
strewed their fragments in front of the chapel. At daybreak he re-entered Metz.
All unaware of what had taken place at the chapel, the procession marshalled at the usual
hour, and moved forward with crucifixes and banners, with flaring tapers and smoking
incense. The bells tolled, the drums were beat, and with the music there mingled the chant
of the priest.
And now the long array draws nigh the chapel of Our Lady. Suddenly drum and chant are
hushed; the banners are cast on the ground, the tapers are extinguished, and a sudden
thrill of horror runs through the multitude. What has happened? Alas! the rueful sight.
Strewn over the area before the little temple lie the heads, arms, legs of the deities the
processionists had come to worship, all cruelly and sacrilegiously mutilated and broken. A
cry of mingled grief and rage burst forth from the assembly.
The procession returned to Metz with more haste and in less orderly fashion than it had
come. The suspicions of all fell on Leclerc. He was seized, confessed the deed, speedy
sentence of condemnation followed, and he was hurried to the spot where he was to be
burned. The exasperation of his persecutors had prepared for him dreadful tortures. As he
had done to the images of the saints so would they do to him. Unmoved he beheld these
terrible preparations. Unmoved he bore the excruciating agonies inflicted upon him. He
permitted no sign of weakness to tarnish the glory of his sacrifice. While his foes were
lopping off his limbs with knives, and tearing his flesh with red-hot pincers, the martyr
stood with calm and intrepid air at the stake, reciting in a loud voice the words of the
Psalm –
If Leclerc's zeal had been indiscreet, his courage was truly
admirable. Well might his death be called "an act of faith." He had by that
faith quenched the violence of the fire – nay, more, he had quenched the rage of his
persecutors, which was fiercer than the flames that consumed him. "The
beholders," says the author of the Acts of the Martyrs, "were astonished, nor
were they untouched by compassion," and not a few retired from the spectacle to
confess that Gospel for which they had seen the martyr, with so serene and noble a
fortitude, bear witness at the burning pile.[9]
We must pause a moment to contemplate, in contrasted lights, two men – the
bishop and the wool-comber. "How hardly shall they who have riches enter the kingdom
of heaven!" was the saying of our Lord at the beginning of the Gospel dispensation.
The saying has seldom been more mournfully verified than in the case of the Bishop of
Meaux. "His declension," says D'Aubigne, "is one of the most memorable in
the history of the Church."
Had Briconnet been as the wool-carder, he might have been able to enter into the
evangelical kingdom; but, alas! he presented himself at the gate, carrying a great burden
of earthly dignities, and while Leclerc pressed in, the bishop was stopped on the
threshold. What Briconnet's reflections may have been, as he saw one after another of his
former flock go to the stake, and from the stake to the sky, we shall not venture to
guess. May there not have been moments when he felt as if the mitre, which he had saved at
so great a cost, was burning his brow, and that even yet he must needs arise and leave his
palace, with all its honors, and by the way of the dungeon and the stake rejoin the
members of his former flock who had preceded him, by this same road, and inherit with them
honors and delights higher far than any the Pope or the King of France had to bestow
– crowns of life and garlands that never fade? But whatever he felt, and what ever at
times may have been his secret resolutions, we know that his thoughts and purposes never
ripened into acts. He never surrendered his see, or cast in his lot with the despised and
persecuted professors of those Reformed doctrines, the Divine sweetness of which he
appeared to have once so truly relished, and which aforetime he labored to diffuse with a
zeal apparently so ardent and so sincere. In communion with Rome he lived to his dying
day. His real character remains a mystery. Is it forbidden to hope that in his last hours
the gracious Master, who turned and looked on Peter and Pavane, had compassion on the
fallen prelate, and that, the blush of godly shame on his face, and the tears of unfeigned
and bitter sorrow streaming from his eyes, he passed into the presence of his Savior, and
was gathered to the blessed company above – now the humblest of them all – with
whom on earth he had so often taken sweet counsel as they walked together to the house of
God?
CHAPTER 6 Back to Top
CALVIN: HIS BIRTH AND EDUCATION
Greater Champions about to Appear – Calvin – His Birth and Lineage – His
Appearance and Disposition – His Education – Appointed to a Chaplaincy –
The Black Death – Sent to La Marche at Paris – Mathurin Cordier –
Friendship between the Young Pupil and his Teacher – Calvin Charmed by the Great
Latin Writers – Luther's and Calvin's Services to their respective Tongues –
Leaves the School of La Marche.
THE young vine just planted in France was bending before the
tempest, and seemed on the point of being uprooted. The enemies of the Gospel, who,
pending the absence of the king, still a prisoner at Madrid, had assumed the direction of
affairs, did as it pleased them. Beda and Duprat, whom fear had made cruel, were planing
stake after stake, and soon there would remain not one confessor to tell that the Gospel
had ever entered the kingdom of France. The Reformation, which as yet had hardly commenced
its career, was already as good as burned out. But those who so reasoned overlooked the
power of Him who can raise up living witnesses from the ashes of dead ones. The men whom
Beda had burned filled a comparatively narrow sphere, and were possessed of but humble
powers; mightier champions were about to step upon the stage, whom God would so fortify by
his Spirit, and so protect by his providence, that all the power of France should not
prevail against them, and from the midst of the scaffolds and blazing stakes with which
its enemies had encompassed it, Protestantism would come forth to fill Christendom with
disciples and the world with light.
The great leader of the Reformation in Germany stepped at once upon the scene. No note
sounded his advent and no herald ushered him upon the stage. From the seclusion of his
monastery at Erfurt came Luther startling the world by the suddenness of his appearing,
and the authority with which he spoke. But the coming of the great Reformer of France was
gradual. If Luther rose on men like a star that blazes suddenly forth in the dark sky,
Calvin's coming was like that of day, sweetly and softly opening on the mountain-tops,
streaking the horizon with its silver, and steadily waxing in brightness till at last the
whole heavens are filled with the splendor of its light.
Calvin, whose birth and education we are now briefly to trace, was born in humble
condition, like most of those who have accomplished great things for God in the world. He
first saw the light on the 10th of July, 1509, at Noyon in Picardy.[1] His family was of Norman
extraction.[2] His
grandfather was still living in the small town of Pont l'Eveque, and was a cooper by
trade. His father, Gerard, was apostolic notary and secretary to the bishop, through whom
he hoped one day to find for his son John preferment in the Church, to which, influenced
doubtless by the evident bent of his genius, he had destined him. Yes, higher than his
father's highest dream was the Noyon boy to rise in the Church, but in a more catholic
Church than the Roman.
Let us sketch the young Calvin. We have before us a boy of about ten years. He is of
delicate mould, small stature, with pale features, and a bright burning eye, indicating a
soul deeply penetrative as well as richly emotional. There hangs about him an air of
timidity and shyness [3] ,
– a not infrequent accompaniment of a mind of great sensibility and power lodged in a
fragile bodily organisation. He is thoughtful beyond his years; devout, too, up to the
standard of the Roman Church, and beyond it; he is punctual as stroke of clock in his
religious observances.[4] Nor
is it a mere mechanical devotion which he practices. The soul that looks forth at those
eyes can go mechanically about nothing. As regards his morals he has been a Nazarite from
his youth up: no stain of outward vice has touched him. This made the young Calvin a
mystery in a sort to his companions. By the beauty of his life, if not