These rights of conscience, which we record, are not new. They date neither from our century, nor from the sixteenth. The Saviour established them when he said: 'Render unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar's, and unto God the things that are God's.' Since that hour they have been maintained by many courageous voices. During three centuries the martyrs said to the pagan emperors: 'Is it not an irreligious act to forbid my worshipping the God whom I like, and to force me to worship the god whom I dislike?'[8] In the fourth century Athanasius and Hilary told the Arian princes: 'Satan uses violence, he dashes in the doors with an axe ... but persuasion is the only weapon truth employs.'[9] In later years, when the barbarians desired to bend the Church under the weight of brute force, the hitherto servile clergy declared as loudly as they could that religious doctrine did not fall under the dominion of the temporal sword.
=ROME, A PERSECUTING POWER.=
When, therefore, in the bloody days of the Reformation, the power of Rome, uniting in some countries with the power of the princes, wished to constrain men's souls and force them to submit to its laws, the evangelical christians, by claiming liberty in their turn, only asserted the great principle of Jesus Christ formerly adopted by the Church herself. But, strange to say! this principle which she had found so admirable, when she had to employ it in self-defence, became impious when it was appealed to in order to escape from her persecutions. Such inconsistencies frequently occur in the history of fallen humanity. We must call them to remembrance though it be with sorrow. There have always existed many generous persons in the bosom of catholicity who have protested with horror against the frightful punishments by which it was attempted to make our forefathers renounce their faith; and there are still more now, for the laws of religious liberty are gradually becoming established among nations. But we must never forget that two centuries of cruel persecution was the welcome the world gave to the Reformation. When the day of St. Bartholomew saw the streets of the capital of the Valois run with blood,—when ruffians glutted their savage passions on the corpse of that best and greatest of Frenchmen, Coligny—immense was the enthusiasm at Rome, and a fierce shout of exultation rang through the pontifical city.[10] Wishing to perpetuate the glory of the massacre of the huguenots, the pope ordered a medal to be struck, representing that massacre and bearing the device: Hugonotorum strages. The officers of the Roman court still sell (as we know personally) this medal to all who desire to carry away some remembrance of their city. Those times are remote; milder manners prevail, but it is the duty of protestantism to remind the world of the use made by the court of Rome, on emerging from the middle ages, of that pre-eminence in catholic countries, which she contends belongs to her always, and which she is still ready to claim 'with the greatest vigour.' Resistance to this cruel pre-eminence cost the Reformation torrents of the purest blood; and it is this blood which gives us the right to protest against it.
Before we describe the scenes of horror that defiled the streets of Paris at this period, we must follow in his flight that young doctor, who, though illustrious in after years, was now the victim of persecution.
The feast of All Saints being the day when the university celebrated the opening of the academical year, Calvin (as we have seen), through the channel of his friend Cop the rector, had displayed before the Sorbonne and a numerous audience the great principles of the Gospel. University, monks, priests had all been excited, scandalised, and exasperated; parliament had interfered; and Cop and Calvin were obliged to flee.
That man whose hand was one day boldly to raise the standard of the Gospel in the world, whose teaching was to enlighten many nations, and whose eloquence was to stir all France; that man who was yearly to send forth from Geneva some thirty or forty missionaries, and whose letters strengthened all the Churches; that man, still young, pursued by the lieutenant-criminal and his sergeants, had been forced to steal out of his chamber into the street and disguise himself in strange garments; and in the beginning of November, he found himself in the back streets on the left bank of the Seine looking on every side lest there should be any one on his track. He had never been more tranquil than at the moment when struck by this sudden blow. Francis I. resisted the insolence of the monks; the Sorbonne had been compelled to disavow their most fanatical acts; many Lutherans were able to preach the Gospel freely to those around them; a reforming movement seemed spreading far and wide through France ... when suddenly the lightning darted forth and struck the young reformer. 'I thought I should be able to devote myself to God's service without hindrance,' said he in his flight; 'I promised myself a tranquil career; ... but at that very moment, what I expected least, namely persecution and exile, were at the door.'[11]
=CALVIN'S FLIGHT.=
Calvin did not regret, however, the testimony he had borne to the truth, and resigned himself to exile. Far from resembling the unbroken horse (to use his own expression) who refuses to carry his rider, he voluntarily bowed his shoulders to the cross.[12] Never tire in the middle of your journey, was his maxim always.[13] Yet as he travelled along those rough byroads of the Mantois, he often asked himself what this severe dispensation was to teach him. Was he to retire from Paris and renounce the idea of making that city the centre of his christian activity? That would, indeed, be a hard trial for him. His people seemed to be waking, and he must leave them!... Still he kept on his way. On arriving near Mantes, he went to the residence of the Sire de Haseville, to whom he was known, and there remained in hiding several days. He then resumed his journey, either because he thought himself too near his enemies, or because his host was afraid.
Calvin took the road to the south; he crossed the charming plains and valleys of Touraine, entered the pasturages and forests of Poitou, and thence turned his steps towards Saintonge and the Angoumois.[14] This latter province was the end of his journey. On a hill at whose foot the Charente 'softly flowed,' stood the cathedral, the old castle and city of Angoulême, the birth-place of Margaret of Navarre. Calvin entered the gates of this antique town, and made his way to one of the principal streets, which afterwards received in his honour the name it still bears—Rue de Genève. In that street was a large mansion whose principal apartment was a long gallery in which more than four thousand volumes, printed or manuscript, were collected: it was one of the most valuable private libraries then existing in France.[15] The fugitive halted before this house. Learned works were doubtless well calculated to attract him; but he was animated by another motive also. This mansion belonged to the family of Du Tillet, whose members were reckoned among the most learned in the kingdom. The father and two of his sons were detained in Paris by their duties in the Chamber of Accounts, at the Louvre and in parliament; but another son, Louis, canon of the cathedral, was at Angoulême, and lived alone in that large house, when he was not at his parish of Claix. Louis was Calvin's friend,[16] and it was the remembrance of this gentle, mild, and rather weak young man, whose disposition was very engaging, that had induced the fugitive to bend his steps towards the Angoumois.
=DU TILLET'S HOUSE AND LIBRARY.=