Although in his lectures and in his book he had abstained from all allusion to the struggles of the times, he was well-known for a staunch Huguenot, a man whom nothing could induce to change or to conceal his religion. They were indeed “evil days” in which his lot was cast. It had been sorrow and trouble enough to live in Paris then, and behold the vice, frivolity, and riot which prevailed. True, most true it is, that “between the excesses of depravity, and those of bigotry, there exist remarkable and intimate affinities.” Nowhere was this more strikingly exemplified than in the French court and capital during the rule of the house of Valois. The religious ideas of a court in which fanatical intolerance reigned, give sufficient proof of this. The vilest and most sanguinary passions were excited by the ceremonies of religion. The sermons of “the League” preachers were like torches, which set the kingdom in a blaze. The most impious and revolting spectacles were presented to the eyes of the mob. Thus, at Chartres, after the day of barricades, a Capuchin monk in the presence of Henry III., represented the Saviour ascending Mount Calvary. This wretched priest had drops of blood apparently trickling from his crown of thorns, and seemed with difficulty to drag the cross of painted card-board which he bore; while, ever and anon, he uttered piercing cries and fell beneath the load. The king himself, utterly steeped in the vicious pleasures of the court, became a member of the brotherhood of Flagellants, and, in a solemn procession, king, queen, and cardinal, headed the white, black, and blue friars, as they traversed the city barefoot, with heads uncovered, chaplets of skulls around their waists, and flogging their backs with cords till the blood flowed. The atrocities committed within many of the churches by the soldiers of “the League,” it is impossible here to relate. Since the massacre of St. Bartholomew the mobs of Paris had become familiar with blood, and a spirit of increased ferocity prevailed. Assassinations, tortures, and executions were frequent, and the extreme Roman Catholic party, to which the city had, from that time, been heartily attached, was pledged to exterminate the Huguenots.
At the head of “the League” was the Duke of Guise, the hero of the violent among the Roman Catholics, whom they desired to make king, instead of the worthless and despised Henry. At length, in the year 1585, the king, finding no other way of saving himself from the imminent peril which threatened him, made peace with the duke at the expense of the Reformers, and issued a decree, prohibiting the future exercise of the Reformed worship, and commanding all its adherents to abjure, or emigrate immediately, on pain of death and confiscation. This was no miserable court quarrel; it affected the interests of all, and touched the liberty, faith, fortune, and life of every man. So rigorously was the edict carried out, that the petition of a few poor women, who begged permission to dwell with their children in any remote corner of the kingdom, was refused. The most they could obtain was a safe conduct to England. Flight was out of the question for Palissy; and he remained at the mercy of men who respected neither age, virtue, nor misfortune. That he had friends who would gladly have protected him was known; nay, the king himself would willingly have sheltered one who had so long and skilfully served his mother. But the protection of the court was now unavailing; and the venerable man was sent to the Bastile.
Four years of life yet remained to Bernard; all spent within the walls of his prison-house. There, in communion with God and his own soul, he passed the residue of his days, shut out from the eye of man, within that gloomy fabric, the very thought of which inspires one’s soul with shrinking horror. Profound secrecy and mystery were among the most prominent features in the management of the Bastile, and he who was retained there to waste away life within its damp and dismal cells, was sedulously kept from all knowledge of what was passing in the busy world without, while no tidings of him were ever permitted to reach the ears of his kindred and former companions.
Debarred from the enjoyment of the beautiful sights of nature, the treasures of intellect, and the delights of social converse, fearful, indeed, was the lot of such a prisoner, unless sustained by divine consolations. We know not in what words our beloved Palissy would have clothed his thoughts, could he have spoken to us from his living tomb; but the following passage, contained in the narrative of one who was for some months a prisoner there, affords a pleasing example how, even in such circumstances, the soul has been sustained in hope. “I recollect,” says the narrator, “with humble gratitude, the first idea of comfort that shot across this gloom. It was the idea that neither massive walls, nor tremendous bolts, nor all the vigilance of suspicious keepers, could conceal me from the sight of God. This thought I fondly cherished, and it gave me infinite consolation in the course of my imprisonment, and principally contributed to enable me to support it with a degree of fortitude and resignation that I have since wondered at: I no longer felt myself alone.” So true it is,
“Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in myself am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.”
And Palissy was a true Christian. He was free with the freedom wherewith Jesus Christ makes his people free. Therefore, as an old and faithful servant of the Lord, he was willing, for the testimony of Christ, to suffer affliction, even unto bonds; nay, he counted not his life dear unto him, so that he might win Christ, and be found in him.
One glimpse we have within his dungeon. Its doors are, for once, unbarred, and we are permitted to look, for the last time, at him whose history we have lovingly retraced.
Sentence of death, executed upon many who had remained staunch in their refusal to obey the royal edict, had been deferred, in the case of Palissy, only by the artifice of friends in power. But now, at length, the formidable Council of Sixteen became urgent for the public execution (already too long deferred) of so obstinate a heretic.
The king was loath to yield to these barbarous and bloodthirsty counsels, and determined to try what a personal interview might effect in bringing the recusant to a more pliant mood.
He went, accompanied by some of his gay courtiers, to visit and remonstrate with Bernard, whom he found not solitary, for his captivity was shared by two young girls, the daughters of Jacques Foucand, the attorney to the parliament, condemned, as he was, for the firm faith and resolute tenacity with which they refused to yield to the threats of their persecutors.