Philip had not forgotten his father’s command to punish heretics with the utmost rigor. The Reformation had been silently and rapidly advancing in Spain. Now the terrible persecutions of the Inquisition were turned against this heroic little band of fearless Christians by those professing to worship the same merciful God, and to be followers of the same loving and sinless Christ. How such awful crimes could have been perpetrated in the sacred name of religion seems at the present day incomprehensible, and we shudder at the recital of such savage barbarity, more especially when committed by the enlightened and civilized nations of the world less than four centuries ago.
The bigoted Philip issued an edict “that all who bought, sold, or read prohibited works were to be burned alive.” Every person suspected of heresy was arrested and thrown into prison. In Seville alone, eight hundred were arrested in one day. The accused were then dragged from their dungeons and subjected to the horrors of the most merciless tortures to induce them to give up their Protestant faith; and these shocking deeds were performed in the name of religion. The awful details of those barbarous crimes are too horrible to relate. What must the reality have been to the poor victims of this inhuman persecution!
The first act of burning, under the decrees of the Pope, Philip II., and the Spanish inquisitor-general, Valdés, took place in May, 1559, at Valladolid. This terrible ceremony was called auto de fé, or act of faith; and so common did they at length become, that Catholics would engage to meet each other at the “auto de fé,” as in modern times appointments are made to meet at the theatre, opera, or other place of public gathering. One of the historians thus describes the second auto de fé in Valladolid, in October, 1559: “The Pope wished to invest the scene with all the terrors of the Day of Judgment. That he might draw an immense crowd, an indulgence of forty days was granted to all who should be present at the spectacle.
“The tragedy was enacted in the great square of the city. At one end of the square a large platform was erected, richly carpeted and decorated, where seats were arranged for the inquisitors. A royal gallery was constructed for the king and his court. Two hundred thousand spectators surrounded the arena. At six o’clock in the morning all the bells of the city began to toll the funeral knell. A solemn procession emerged from the dismal fortress of the Inquisition. A body of troops led the van. Then came the condemned. There were two classes: the first consisting of those who were to be punished with confiscation and imprisonment; and the second, of those who were to suffer death. The latter were covered with a loose gown of yellow cloth, and wore upon the head a paper cap of conical form. Both the gown and cap were covered with pictures of flames fanned and fed by demons. Two priests were by the side of each one of the victims, urging him to abjure his errors. Those who were merely to endure loss of property and to be thrown into the dungeons of the Inquisition were clothed in garments of black. A vast concourse of dignitaries of state, and of the common people, closed the procession. The fanaticism of the times was such, that probably but few of the people had any sympathy with the sufferers. The ceremonies were opened with a sermon by the bishop of Zamora. Then the whole assembled multitude took an oath, upon their knees, to defend the Inquisition and the purity of the Catholic faith, and to inform against any one who should swerve from the faith. Then those who, to escape the flames, had expressed penitence for their errors, after a very solemn recantation, were absolved from death. But heresy was too serious a crime to be forgiven, even upon penitence. All were doomed to the confiscation of property, and to imprisonment—some for life—in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Their names were branded with infamy, and in many cases their immediate descendants were rendered ineligible to any public office. These first received their doom, and under a strong guard were conveyed back to prison.
“And now all eyes were turned to the little band of thirty, who, in the garb of ignominy, and with ropes around their necks, were waiting their sentence. Many of these were men illustrious for rank, and still more renowned for talents and virtues. Their countenances were wan and wasted, their frames emaciated, and many of them were distorted by the cruel ministry of the rack. Those who were willing to make confession were allowed the privilege of being strangled before their bodies were exposed to the torture of the fire. After being strangled by the garrote, their bodies were thrown into the flames. Enfeebled by suffering, all but two of them thus purchased exemption from being burned alive.
“One of these, Don Carlos de Seso, was a Florentine noble. He had married a Spanish lady of high rank, and had taken up his residence in Spain, where he had adopted the principles of the Reformation. For fifteen months, with unshaken constancy, he had suffered in the dungeons of the Inquisition. When sentence of death at the stake was pronounced upon him, he called for pen and paper in his cell. His judges supposed that he intended to make confession. Instead of that he wrote a very eloquent document, avowing his unshaken trust in the great truths of the Reformation. De Seso had stood very high in the regards of Philip’s father, Charles V. As he was passing before the royal gallery to be chained to the stake, he looked up to Philip, and said, ‘Is it thus that you allow your innocent subjects to be persecuted?’ The king replied, ‘If it were my own son, I would fetch the wood to burn him, were he such a wretch as thou art.’
“He was chained to the stake. As the flames slowly enveloped him in their fiery wreaths, he called upon the soldiers to heap up the fagots, that his agonies might sooner terminate. Soon life was extinct, and the soul of the noble martyr was borne on angel wings to heaven. The fellow-sufferer of De Seso was Domingo de Rexas, son of the marquis of Posa. Five of this noble family, including the eldest son, had been victims of the Inquisition. De Rexas had been a Dominican monk. In accordance with usage, he retained his sacerdotal habit until he stood before the stake. Then in the midst of the jeers of the populace his garments were one by one removed, and the vestments of the condemned, with their hideous picturings, were placed upon him. He attempted to address the spectators. Philip angrily ordered him to be gagged. A piece of cleft wood was thrust into his mouth, causing great pain. He was thus led to the stake and burned alive. The cruel exhibition occupied from six o’clock in the morning until two o’clock in the afternoon.”
Such were some of the shocking and barbarous scenes connected with the notorious Spanish Inquisition. This persecution raged year after year. So fiercely did these fires of persecution burn throughout all Spain, that nearly all traces of the Protestant religion were eradicated from the kingdom. The Spaniards degenerated into semi-barbarism. Education was discouraged, all human rights were trampled upon, and Spain became one of the most debased, impoverished, and miserable nations in Europe. Thus had religious fanaticism turned this fair province of Philip’s into a desert. In regard to the blame which rests upon Philip II., for this deplorable state of things, his own words will answer. He wrote to his sister, whom he had appointed his regent in the Netherlands, thus:—
“I have never had any object in view than the good of my subjects! In all that I have done I have trod in the footsteps of my father, under whom the people of the Netherlands must admit that they lived contented and happy. As to the Inquisition, whatever people may say of it, I have never attempted anything new. With regard to the edicts, I have been always resolved to live and die in the Catholic faith. I could not be content to have my subjects do otherwise. Yet I see not how this can be compassed without punishing the transgressors. God knows how willingly I would avoid shedding a drop of Christian blood; but I would rather lose a hundred thousand lives, if I had so many, than allow a single change in matters of religion.”