I must now tell you a story of a day in the month of August that was past. The second capital of the little state of Neuchâtel was the small town of Valangin. This town had long been a stronghold of popery—more so, perhaps, than Neuchâtel had been—for it was under the despotic rule of the lady of the castle, who, unlike the Princess Jeanne, lived on the spot, and had it all her own way.
This old lady had a zeal for popery which was equaled only by her intense hatred of “the gospellers.” She had heard of Farel, and looked upon him as a sort of fiend. The old chronicles say much of the “piety"of this old lady. When the count, her husband, died, she had sent for one hundred priests who were to sing mass for his soul in purgatory. For one whole year she had given a dinner every Friday to five lepers, and to each one a silver penny besides his dinner. This was to atone for the harm which the dead count had done, by hunting over the corn-fields of his subjects. The countess gave away much money to the poor in the villages around. “She kept up a noble state,” we are told, “and when the Countess of Gruyères and other noble ladies came to visit her, they would all dance together to the sound of the fife and the tambourine.”
The name of this old countess was Guillemette de Vergy. Her steward and councilor, Claude de Bellegarde, vied with her in his hatred of the gospel preaching. If this fortress of popery could be also “taken for Christ,” it must be His work alone.
Close to the town of Valangin was the little village of Boudevilliers. This village belonged not to Countess Guillemette, but to the town of Neuchâtel. It was on a great festival day, August 15th, in that summer of 1530, that the peasants from the hills and the valleys around, were flocking to the church of Boudevilliers. Amongst them came a stranger with a grave and resolute countenance. There came with him a lad of eighteen or twenty years old. The priests and choristers were already singing mass at the high altar, and the church was filled with worshippers when the two strangers came in. The elder man went straight up into the pulpit, and, regardless of the singing, he told the astonished people that there was a Savior for them in Heaven, Christ, the Son of God.
Some who were there knew the face of the preacher—they had seen and heard him in the streets of Neuchâtel. And there were some who were glad he was come.
The priest took no notice of this strange interruption. He perhaps sang all the louder. He, too, may have recognized the flashing eyes of William Farel. At last the moment came when the priest sang out the words of consecration. The bell rang, which was to tell that the wafer was now changed into God Himself. The priest held up the wafer in its golden case, and the crowd of peasants fell down and worshipped before it. All fell down on their knees but one man only. This was the lad who had come with Farel—our old friend, Anthony Froment. The voice of Farel was silent for a moment.
Suddenly Anthony Froment sprang through the kneeling crowds—he crossed the church—he went up the altar-steps—he took the wafer from the hands of the priests, and himself held it aloft before the people. “It is not this god of paste that you must worship!” he said. “The living Christ is up there, in Heaven, in the glory of the Father. Worship Him!”
There was a dead silence. The people remained motionless upon their knees. The priest stood as if thunderstruck. Then the voice of Farel was heard again, “Yes,” he said, “Christ is in Heaven. The heavens have received Him until the times of the restitution of all things. And it is this Christ in Heaven who has sent me here. It is of Him I come to speak.” And as the people listened in solemn wonder, Farel preached to them of that living Savior who had died, and who had risen again, that they might have forgiveness of sins and everlasting life.
This sermon was not a long one. The terrified priest, on recovering his senses, had fled to the belfry-tower. He there rang the alarm bell with might and main. A crowd from Valangin and the villages around gathered round the church. The priest led them on to the attack upon Farel and Anthony. This army of recruits far outnumbered the village congregation.
How Farel and Anthony escaped I cannot tell you. The old chronicle only says, “God delivered them.” This is the best explanation that can be given. But their perils were not yet over. Their only road lay straight through the town of Valangin. The streets were already filled with excited crowds, who had been aroused by the alarm-bell of Boudevilliers. A narrow side path turned off, and led round the massive walls of the old castle. Farel and Anthony ran along this path. But before they could get round the castle their enemies caught sight of them. A volley of stones flew at them immediately, and some twenty of their pursuers—priests, men, and women, rushed upon them, armed with clubs and sticks.
“These priests,” says the old chronicle, “were certainly not afflicted with gout, either in their feet or hands. They battered the two gospellers till they had nearly made an end of them.”
In the meantime the old countess, hearing the unwonted shouts, had rushed out upon the castle terrace. The news of Anthony’s crime had already reached her, and with joy she saw that both Anthony and Farel were now in the hands of the vigorous priests. “To the river! to the river!” cried the old lady. “Drown the Lutheran dogs! They have insulted the good God!” She meant the wafer. The priests followed the countess’s advice. They dragged their prisoners to the river Seyon, which was rushing below the castle walls. At this moment some neighboring peasants came up. They were returning from Neuchâtel. They knew Farel by sight, and saw that in another moment all would be over with him. “Why do you drown those men?” they said. “Lock them up till they can be called to trial for their actions. You will find out by that means who is on their side.” This clever advice saved the two prisoners. The priests carried them back to the castle.
They had to pass on the way a chapel of the Virgin Mary. They dragged Farel and Anthony into this chapel. “Kneel down and worship our Lady,” they said, pointing to the image upon the altar. “The one true God is to be worshipped,” replied Farel, “and the one God only. He is to be worshipped in spirit and in truth—He alone—not dumb images, without life or power.” The priests fell upon Farel, and beat him with their sticks. Long after the marks of his blood were shown on the bespattered walls of the chapel. The two prisoners were then carried more dead than alive into the old castle, where they were locked up in the lowest dungeon. They must have remembered Paul and Silas at Philippi.
What next the old lady and the priests would have done to them we cannot tell, for the news of their imprisonment had speedily reached the town of Neuchâtel, and a strong body of the citizens appeared before the castle of Valangin, demanding that the two prisoners should be immediately delivered up to them. The old countess dared not refuse. She was afraid of the displeasure of Berne.
It must have been three or four months later that she and Farel met again. It was again a festival time, just about Christmas. The countess had gone to mass in the parish church of Valangin. Scarcely had she arrived, when Farel, with some friends from Neuchâtel, walked boldly into the church. Farel went up into the pulpit, and, deaf to the exclamations of the angry countess, he began there and then to preach the gospel. The countess gave orders to stop him, but the people rose up as one man, and said, “We will have the gospel of Christ. We will hear Master Farel.”
The countess left the church, and returned in wrath and terror to the castle. “I am sure,” she said, “all that is not in the old gospels, and, if there are any new ones that make people do such things as that, it’s more than I can understand.”
But, in spite of the people who wished to have the gospel, the old lady had her way for a year longer. Mass was sung, and the gospel was banished. The church was locked up if any gospellers were thought to be near at hand.
The old lady wrote an imploring letter to the lords of Berne, entreating them to protect her against the preachers. She said, “I am resolved never to leave the faith of God and the Church, but in that faith I mean to live and die, without making any changes. Howbeit, last Saturday, some people of Neuchâtel, going with Farel, broke down a cross upon my chapel below the castle. And the said Farel came to preach before my church, without being asked by the greater number of the townspeople; and on Sunday at Dombresson, when the priest was going to say mass, behold, instead of the mass, the said Farel preached. And afterward they broke and spoiled the images in the church: and not content with that, they went to other churches to preach, without the consent of the good people. And yesterday the said Farel, at Angollon, stopped the mass in the middle of the service in order that he might preach.... And I know not to whom to complain but to God and to you; and I pray that you will give orders that such outrages should cease, and that you will punish those that have thus offended; otherwise I shall know that the world is a new one, wherein rulers are oppressed, and justice is at an end, and truth and loyalty lost and gone. And I beseech you not to be displeased at this entreaty, made by a poor old lady, your citizen, thus tormented in her old age.”
In a few days came an answer from Berne. “As to punishing those,” said the lords of Berne, “who have committed no other offense than attending the preaching of the gospel, and who thereupon broke and burnt the idols, know that we will do nothing of the sort, for it would be fighting against God. It would be best for you to attend to the advice we gave you before.” This advice was that the old lady should leave the preachers in peace, and allow them convenient places to preach in. “And,” added the lords of Berne, “we pray to God to give you grace to discern the errors and seductions of anti-Christ.”
The poor old countess had no intention of following the advice of Berne. She bestirred herself all the more to hinder the preaching, and to get rid if possible of Farel and Anthony.
But a day came when a preacher appeared in the marketplace of Valangin. Some say it was Farel—some, that it was Anthony Marcourt, the first pastor of Neuchâtel. All the people ran together, rejoiced to hear the preaching which had so spoken to their hearts a year before in the old church. The countess from her castle tower saw what was happening. She sent her servants to insult the preacher, But so vile were the insults of those wretched men, that suddenly the crowd rushes forward with shouts of anger. They broke open the doors of the great church, and there and then broke down the images, demolished the altars, shattered the painted windows, trod the relics of the saints underfoot, and left no trace to tell of the old days of idolatry. They then rushed upon the houses of the priests and canons. They wished to call them to account for their opposition to the gospel. The poor priests fled to hide in the woods. But the day was remembered when they had beaten Farel with their sturdy arms. Their houses were plundered of all that told the tale of obedience to the pope.
The countess and her wicked steward, Claude de Bellegarde, saw this awful scene from the castle tower. They could do nothing. They saw the furious crowd turn from the canons’ houses, and take the steep road up to the castle gates. What was now to happen? The countess saw that she was in their power, and that resistance would be worse than useless. But they had not come to harm her. They only demanded that the servants should be punished for their insults to the preacher. The countess had to consent to this.
The citizens then declared that Valangin should be free forever from the rule of the pope, and free it has remained from that day to this. The countess was allowed to have mass in the castle chapel, but there was to be no more mass, and there was to be gospel preaching, in the church of Valangin.