It has been said, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.” There are apparent exceptions to this rule. Protestantism in France has never recovered from this blow. But for this massacre, one-half of the nobles of France would have continued Protestant. The reformers would soon have constituted so large a portion of the population, that mutual toleration would have been necessary. Intelligence would have been diffused; religion would have been respected; and, in all probability, the horrors of the French Revolution would have been averted.
God is an avenger. In the mysterious government which he wields,—mysterious only to our feeble vision,—“he visits the iniquities of the fathers upon the children even unto the third and fourth generation.”
As we see the priests of Paris and of France, during the awful tragedy of the Revolution, massacred in the prisons, shot in the streets, hung upon the lamp-posts, and driven instarvation and woe from the kingdom, we cannot but remember the day of St. Bartholomew. The 24th of August, 1572, and the 2d of September, 1792, though far apart in the records of time, are consecutive days in the government of God.
Henry of Navarre, by stratagem, soon escaped from Paris, renounced the Catholicism which he had accepted from compulsion, and was accepted as the military leader of the Protestant party throughout Europe. The surviving Protestants rallied in self-defence, and implored aid from all the courts which had embraced the principles of the Reformation. England and Germany sent troops to their aid. Catholic Spain, the Netherlands, and Italy sent armies to assist the Papists. Again France was deluged in the woes of civil war, and years of unutterable misery darkened the realm.
Charles IX., as weak as he was depraved, became silent, morose, and gloomy. Secluding himself from all society, month after month he was gnawed by the scorpion fangs of remorse. A bloody sweat, oozing from every pore, crimsoned his bedclothes. His aspect of misery drove all companionship from his chamber. He groaned and wept, exclaiming incessantly,—
“Oh, what blood! oh, what murders! Alas! why did I follow such evil counsels?”
He saw continually the spectres of the slain with ghastly wounds stalking about his bed; and demons, hideous and threatening, waited to grasp his soul. As the cathedral bell was tolling the hour of midnight on the 30th of May, 1574, his nurse heard him convulsively weeping. Gently she drew aside the bed-curtains. The dying monarch turned his dim and despairing eye upon her, and exclaimed,—
“O my nurse, my nurse! what blood have I shed! what murders have I committed! Great God, pardon me, pardon me!”
A convulsive shuddering for a moment agitated his frame: his head fell upon his pillow, and the wretched man was dead. He was then but twenty-four years of age. He expressed satisfaction that he left no heir to live and suffer in a world so full of misery.
The order of knighthood deserves record, as one of the outgrowthsof Christianity. This institution, originating in the eleventh century, was continued through several hundred years as one of the most potent of earthly influences. Guizot, speaking of its origin, says,—