Nicholas de Clemangis, Rector of the University of Paris, subsequently private secretary of Benedict the Thirteenth at Avignon, and perhaps the most elegant writer of his age, drew a startling picture of the wretched state of the church at the beginning of the fifteenth century. No writer had ever described more vividly the corruption of the convents and monasteries, or denounced more unsparingly the unfaithfulness and impurity of the parish clergy, and the simony pervading alike all grades of the hierarchy. His censure was the more effective because he spoke in sorrow rather than in anger.[124] John Gerson, his contemporary and friend, who reached the eminent position of chancellor of the university, was not less bold in stigmatizing the same evils, while the weight of his authority was even greater. So far, however, was he from grasping the nature and need of a substantial renovation of the existing religious belief, that to his influence in no inconsiderable measure was due the perfidious condemnation and execution of the great Bohemian forerunner of the Reformation, John Huss. The student of mediæval history may be inclined to smile at the subtilties of scholastic distinctions, but he is also compelled to lament the fact that the death of a Realist was greeted with demonstrations of evident satisfaction by a philosopher belonging to the opposite school of the Nominalists.[125]
Jean Bouchet's "Deploration."
A century elapsed between the time of Nicholas de Clemangis and Gerson and the almost simultaneous appearance of Ulrich Zwingle in Switzerland and Martin Luther in Germany. During this long interval of expectation the voice of remonstrance was not altogether silent. A few earnest men refused to suppress the indignation they felt at the sight of the impiety that had invaded the sacred precincts of the church. Among the last of those whose words have come down to us was Jean Bouchet, a native of Poitiers. In 1512, only five years before the publication of the theses of the reformer of Wittemberg, he gave to the world a poem not devoid of historical interest, though possessed of little poetic merit, entitled "La Déploration de l'Église militante."[126] In this spirited lament it is the church herself that addresses the hierarchy—pontiff, cardinals, patriarchs, bishops, and others—as well as kings and secular dignitaries. She complains of the great injuries and molestations she endures. The practice of simony has converted a temple into a loathsome stable. Science and learning are no longer necessary for the candidate for ecclesiastical preferment; a hundred crowns in hand will serve his purpose much better, no matter how bad his moral character may be. As for his qualifications, he is full well provided if he can manage the hounds aright and knows how to hunt with the falcon. "Cease," cries the church through the poet to the French princes, "cease to load me down with gewgaws, with chalices, crosses, and sumptuous ornaments. Furnish me instead with virtuous ministers. The exquisite beauty of abbeys or of silver images is less pleasing in God's sight than the holy life of good prelates."[127] As it is, the dissolute ministers of religion are engrossed in forbidden games, in banquets, and the chase. Decked out with flowers, rings, and trinkets, the bishop in his dress is more like a soldier or a juggler, than a servant of the church. He recites his prayers reluctantly, while words of profane swearing flow freely from his lips. From such disorders as these the church invokes her worldly protectors to deliver her.
The abuses which Jean Bouchet described, and other abuses of a similar kind, were so notorious that no intelligent man could close his eyes to the evidence of their existence. They had been recited again and again by more eloquent tongues than that of the poet of Poitiers. Dante and Petrarch had held them up to immortal contempt. Boccaccio had made them the subject of ridicule in his popular stories. But neither remonstrance nor taunt had effectually abated the prevailing corruption. It remained that a new remedy should be tried, and the time for its application was close at hand.
Changes in the boundaries of France during the sixteenth century.
It must not be forgotten that the boundaries of France varied considerably during the sixteenth century. Thus Artois and Flanders, at the accession of Francis the First, were nominally fiefs of the French crown, for which Charles of Austria sent to France a very honorable embassy, with Henry, Count of Nassau, at its head, to do homage to the young prince. It was on this occasion that Francis, desirous of gratifying Charles, proposed or consented to the marriage of his favorite with Claude de Châlons, daughter of the Prince of Orange (Jean de Serres, Inventaire Général de l'Histoire de France, 1619, ii. 4, Motley, Dutch Republic, i. 234). Eleven years later, January, 1526, by the Treaty of Madrid, Francis renounced his suzerainty over the counties of Artois and Flanders, as a condition of his release from captivity (Inventaire Général, ii. 96). On the other hand, not to speak of the "Three Bishoprics"—Metz, Toul, and Verdun—definitely incorporated with the French dominions in 1552, France had for a longer or shorter time possession of the Duchy of Milan, of the island of Corsica, and of Piedmont. Not only Bresse, but the very Duchy of Savoy, were for years merged in the realm of France, until restored to Philibert Emmanuel by the disgraceful Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.