A few days after writing this letter, Farel left Strasbourg. There was one part of the world where French was spoken, and where his message had not as yet been given. This country was the western division of Switzerland. It seemed to Farel that it was to these French Swiss the Lord would have him go. He had been invited to Switzerland, too, by a preacher of the gospel at Berne. This man, Berthold Haller, had for some time been laboring in and around Berne, where German was chiefly spoken; but there were towns and villages further west where French was the language, and where the people were under the protection of Berne. The chief lords of Berne had been taught by Berthold Haller, and, it would seem, had really believed the gospel. It was, therefore, to be expected that they would help rather than hinder any preacher who came to their territory.
William Farel left Strasbourg on foot. One friend went with him. I do not know who this was, except that his name was Thomas. The first evening of their journey they lost their way. Torrents of rain came down, and the night set in dark and cold. They wandered on, they knew not where; at last, thoroughly worn out, they sat down in the wet road, and gave up all hope of finding the right path. Farel felt, for the moment, utterly cast down. It was nothing new to him to spend the night out of doors. For weeks, if not for months, he had thus wandered amongst the mountains of Dauphiné, sheltering himself amongst the mossy rocks and wild laburnums. But now, on this dark, wet night God had a lesson to teach him which was to fit him, as he would not otherwise have been fitted, for the glorious days that were at hand. He wrote afterward to his friends at Strasbourg, “You know yourselves that I am not quite such a fool as to be unable to tell one road from another, nor am I so slow and lazy as to be incapable of following an active man; but the Lord, by showing me how powerless I am even in little things, wished to teach me my utter helplessness in great things; how I am to rest, not on myself, but on Christ.”
Yes, it may be that though Farel had been shaken from all dependence upon dear Master Faber and Roussel, and the great teacher Martin Luther, there was yet one man in whom he still felt confidence, and that man was William Farel. That night of cold, and rain, and fatigue, was a message from God, and it was well he understood it.
The two friends prayed together in the muddy road, and then started afresh. “At last,” says Farel, “after many slips and tumbles, I got to an inn, where the host endeavored, by means of my purse, to compensate himself for the damage the French had done him in past years. I started at three next morning, leaving Thomas to settle with him, and I soon found myself wading through a marsh, where the water was so deep I had no hope of getting out of it. At last I got clear of it, and when the day dawned I began to understand where I was. If these accidents were sad for me, they were not more enjoyable for Thomas. But we were not to escape with losing ourselves again that day; we got lost besides in the evening, and lost one another into the bargain.
“Next morning I started before three. I thought I would go to Colmar, and wait for Thomas; but though the road was good, and the distance was small, I wandered six hours about the mountains, amongst forests and valleys, vineyards and fields, and by six or seven o’clock I was further from Colmar than when I started. I only got there after ten o’clock. I had so lost my way that, had I tried to do so, I could not have done it better. The next day we got on more cleverly. Thomas and I kept together, and we rode in turns till we got to Mulhouse.” They arrived at last at their journey’s end; but they had had to wade through a marsh, to swim through floods, to scramble through vineyards and stony fields, and pathless forests. Wet to the skin, and covered with mud, they arrived at last at Basle. The lesson that Farel learned at that time was one he never forgot, and he could thank God for the rest of his life for the cold and the rain and the darkness which had driven him from himself to Christ.
For a few days he stayed at Basle, to the joy of his friend Hausschein. He then journeyed on to Berne. Farel stayed but a very little while at Berne. He was glad to see Berthold Haller, but he was longing to be amongst the French Swiss, where he could speak freely of his blessed Lord. Haller advised him to go to the village of Aigle, which belonged to Berne.
I must now tell you a little of the country in which the remainder of Farel’s life was to be spent for Christ—of the beautiful French Switzerland, where his name is still remembered, and where there are yet those who praise and thank God for having sent His servant to bring the glad tidings to their mountain villages. I wish that I could show you those glorious mountains, with their snow-covered peaks, and the green wooded valleys, with rushing rivers and mossy rocks—the countless waterfalls—the green meadows, with a carpet of wild flowers, such as you never see in these northern countries. You would find there the deep blue gentians and the pale primrose-colored anemones, and thick beds of large forget-me-nots, lilies, and auriculas, and many flowers which have no English names. And higher up you would find the wild Alpen roses, which are not roses, but small crimson rhododendrons, covering the gray rocks. You would see lying amongst the blue hills the beautiful lake of Geneva, with many little villages and old castles along the shore, and the snow-mountains reflected in the still water. Thousands of people go every year to see these grand mountains, and the lovely lake, and the pretty villages. But it was for another reason that William Farel found his way there, through the rain and snow, in the winter of 1526. It was not because the country was grand and beautiful, but because it was dark and miserable, that he had longed to be there.
Let me tell you something of its darkness and its misery. Four popish bishops ruled over the towns and villages of French Switzerland. They ruled in the name of the pope, whose faithful servants they were. Who was the pope at this time? Leo X was gone to his account. He knew now there was a God—he believed at last, as the devils believe and tremble. His cousin, Clement VII, now wore his triple crown, and sat upon his throne. He was a man of endless ambition; he was bent upon making for his family a great name in Europe. He contrived later to marry his cousin, Catherine of Medicis, to the King of France. You may remember how, in her old age, she was guilty of the murder of thousands upon thousands of the Lord’s people in her unhappy country. An outcry was made, even by the Roman Catholics themselves, in the time of this pope, against the vice and the crimes of the clergy. Many princes assembled at Nuremberg, and sent an appeal to the pope, desiring him to reform the church. He said he would see what could be done amongst the parish priests and curates, but as to his own court he refused all reform; and if any dared to say a word against the doings of the cardinals and bishops, they were heretics for thus speaking, and should be treated accordingly. Thus the four bishops of French Switzerland were free to follow the example of the pope, by living in self-indulgence, in ignorance, and in sin; and lest the light should break in, and their deeds should be reproved, it was needful that they should keep the people in ignorance also.
The Bible was unknown in those pretty mountain villages—unknown in the great towns of Geneva and Lausanne. The people came in crowds to the church of St. Peter at Geneva. But it was not to hear the blessed gospel, it was to see the brain of St. Peter and the arm of St. Anthony. Before these holy relics they knelt down and worshipped, and little thought how the priest who showed them was mocking in his heart at their folly, pleased though he was to pocket the money which they paid for the sight. The priest was well aware that the brain of St. Peter was a piece of pumice stone, and the arm of St. Anthony the leg of a stag. The poor wondering people would come, too, in crowds to Geneva on Christmas Eve: there, in the church of St. Gervais, they could hear the dead saints, who had been buried hundreds of years before, under the high altar, singing and chanting and talking one to another. When at last William Farel found his way to Geneva, more was heard about these singing saints. But that was not to be for some years yet. You shall hear when that time came, what yet remains to be told. I could not tell you in this short history all the mad and wicked stories told by the priests to these poor people. How much they were able to take in, you may judge of, when you hear that they really believed that all the church bells walked of their own accord to Rome during Passion Week, to ask pardon of the pope for all their sins. There were the bells in the towers, no doubt, but “those,” said the priests, “are only the appearance of bells. If you were to ring them they would give no sound.” And not even the most mischievous of boys dared to try whether the bells would ring or not.
Such was the darkness of that bright and beautiful country, and as yet no voice had been heard there to speak of better things, no light had broken in upon this land of the shadow of death.