‘Consequently we deliver you over as such to the secular arm.’
This was the formula employed by the ecclesiastical tribunals in pronouncing the capital sentence. De la Maisonneuve appealed to the king, to the legate, to any proper authority, and was led back to prison.
The Church, having a horror of blood, delivered Baudichon to the civil magistrates that they might take the life of that high-minded man: the captain of the Lutherans was condemned to death.[[589]] For a long while people at Geneva, Lyons, and elsewhere, had been every day expecting that he would be burnt.[[590]] Now there could no longer be any doubt about his fate: the sentence was lawfully pronounced. The priests triumphed, and the evangelicals awaited a great sorrow.
Many burning piles had already been erected in France, Germany, and elsewhere, and Christians more earnest than Maisonneuve, but not freer or more courageous, had perished on them for their faith. Were the persecutors always influenced by cruelty and hatred? Were the vicars-general, the canons of St. John, the archbishop-primate of France—all of them thirsting for blood? No doubt there were malignant fanatics among them, but it would be unjust to form so severe a judgment of all. Some of them were upright and perhaps benevolent men, to whom the words uttered upon the cross might be justly applied: Forgive them, for they know not what they do. Atrocious as are the deeds of the persecutors in the sixteenth century, they easily admit of explanation. A religion convinced of the truth of its dogmas considers it to be its right and duty to combat the errors which destroy souls (as it believes); and, if it is allied with the civil power, makes it a virtue and a law to borrow the secular sword to purify the Church from contagion. The fault of such judges—and it is a great fault—is to put themselves in the place of God, to whom alone belongs the dominion over conscience; to forget that religion, being in its nature spiritual, has nothing to do with constraint, and can be propagated and received by moral convictions only. The sword, when religion determines to grasp it, easily becomes insensate and ruthless in her hands. Put up thy sword into the sheath, said Jesus to Peter; and those who call themselves Peter’s successors have been always drawing it. The ground is so slippery, the gulf so near, that, besides the thousands of cases in which the Church of Rome during the sixteenth century suffered that great fall, two or three instances may be quoted in which even protestants have stumbled.
Three centuries have corrected such lamentable aberrations; we no longer erect scaffolds, but tribunals, dungeons, and exile still coerce religious convictions. What must we do to destroy forever such evils in all their ramifications? The most effectual remedy would seem to be the separation of the spiritual and temporal power, the destruction of the links which still unite the ecclesiastical with the civil power. The doctrine which condemns those fanatical murders has long prevailed all over evangelical Christendom; at Rome the acts are tempered, but the principles remain. Modern civilization is waiting for the time when salutary modifications between the Church and the State will take from the former, everywhere and forevermore, the possibility of again grasping the unholy sword which has poured forth such torrents of the most generous blood.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE NIGHT OF JULY THIRTY-FIRST AT GENEVA.
(July 1534.)
Effect Of Baudichon’s Imprisonment.
By imprisoning Maisonneuve, the priests had desired to check the progress of the Gospel, but it had the contrary effect. The courage of the accused and the injustice of the accusers increased the determination of the Genevans. The work of the Reformation was not a work without fore-thought; it had been long preparing, and advanced step by step towards the goal by paths which the hand of God had traced for it. The rich harvests which were to cover the shores of Lake Leman and to feed so many hungry souls, were not to spring from the earth in a day; the soil had long been ploughed and dressed, the seed had been sown, and therefore the crop was so abundant. The Reformation was the fruit of a long travail: at one time the secret operations of divine influence, at another, deeds done by men in the light of day, was transforming by slow degrees a somewhat restless but still energetic and generous people.
The festival of Corpus Christi was approaching, and the catholics hoped by that imposing ceremony to bring back some of those who had left them; but their expectations were disappointed. The most enlightened and honorable men of Geneva had no longer any taste for these feasts—not because of their antiquity, but because they were in their opinion founded on serious errors, and shocked their enlightened sentiments. The thought that a wafer, consecrated by a priest, was about to be paraded through the city to receive divine honors, revolted evangelical Christians. They determined not to join in the procession, or to shut up their houses, but to work as on ordinary days. When the priests and their adherents heard of this, they imagined that the Lutherans intended attacking them during their progress; but, on being reassured, they took courage and the devout began to file off. There was not the least act of violence, but only a silent protest; many houses before which the procession passed were without hangings, and through the open windows ‘the Lutheran dames were seen in velvet hoods busily spinning with their distaffs or working with their needles.’ Vainly did the priests sing and the splendid cortège defile through the streets: the velvet-hooded ladies remained motionless. Gross insults would not have enraged the devotees so much. One of them seeing a window open on the ground-floor and a protestant lady filling her distaff, reached into the room, snatched away the distaff, struck her violently on the head with it, threw it into the mud, trampled on it, and disappeared among the crowd. The startled lady screamed out, and (says Sister Jeanne) nearly died of fright. Notwithstanding this act of violence, the protestants remained quiet. Everything helped the cause of Reform: neither the grotesque nor unseemly dances of the populace, nor the sanctimonious processions of the clergy, were able to paralyze in Geneva the power of the doctrine from on high.[[591]]
An act of a new convert still further increased the murmurs. When Louis Bernard threw off the surplice he returned to civil life: he soon became a member of the Two Hundred, and afterwards of the Executive Council. Being an upright man and desirous of leading a Christian life, he married a widow of good family, and Viret blessed their union. The marriage created a great sensation. ‘What!’ exclaimed the catholics, ‘priests and monks with wives!’ ‘Yes!’ rejoined the reformers, ‘you think it strange they should have lawful wives, but you were not surprised when they had unlawful wives, the practice was so general. What foxy consciences are yours! You confess to brushing off the dew with your tail as you crossed the meadows, but not of having stolen the poor man’s poultry!’ Bernard justified by his conduct the step that he had taken. The men who had been dissolute priests became good fathers,[[592]] and society was gainer by the exchange.