MY name is Christine de Merle. I was born in the year 1765, just sixteen years before the Emperor, Joseph II, issued his famous Edict of Toleration.
The home of my childhood was a pretty village only a few miles distant from Prague. My father, who was the only doctor within ten or twelve miles, was so constantly engaged by the duties of his profession that he was unable to spend much time with his family, so that the care and education of myself and my only brother, Casper, who was five years younger, was left very much in the hands of my mother, the daughter of a Protestant pastor; she had received a good education, was a woman of quick understanding, and strong, though simple faith.
Both my parents were Hussites, a name which for many years had been given to those of our countrymen and women who, because they held the truth of the Bible, refused to bow to the authority of the Popes of Rome, did not attend mass, or go to confession. My father did not approve of the name, and would sometimes say, "All who love and seek to follow the Lord Jesus Christ are Christians; we own no other name; we are Hussites only in that we honor the memory of a good man, who laid down his life rather than deny his Lord and Savior.”
Very often in the winter evenings, as my mother plied her spinning wheel by the cheerful light of the wood fire (for though we were rich in affection, there was never much money in our home), she would tell us stories of martyr times, and though at the time I thought more of the faith and courage of the martyrs than of the One for whose sake they suffered, I never forgot those stories, and in after years they bore fruit.
One I can recall impressed me so deeply that though many years have passed since I heard it, the very words in which it fell from my mother's lips come back to me. It was about a relation of her own, a great-aunt of her grandfather's; I do not remember that she ever spoke of her by any name but that of Clara. She was a widow, and had for some years been housekeeper to a learned and pious gentleman, from whom she learned the truth as it is in Jesus.
During an outbreak of persecution her master was arrested on a charge of having said that the bread used in the sacrament was not the real body, bones, flesh and blood of the Lord Jesus; and also of having told one of his neighbors that it was God, and not the priests, who had power to forgive sins. Clara, who was at the time sixty years of age, boldly confessed that she held the same faith and was taken to prison with her master.
When brought before the judges, they said that they believed the teaching of Rome was in many things contrary to that of the Bible, and refused to confess to a priest; so sentence was passed—they were both to be burnt alive. The only favor they asked—to be allowed to pray together before their death—could, they were told, be granted only on one condition, that they should kneel and pray before a crucifix. This they refused, saying, "The word of God forbids us to worship any image, we worship only the living God, who made heaven and earth.”
The old gentleman was first led to the stake; and as they bound him to it, he said with a loud voice, "Lord Jesus, Son of the living God, who hast vouchsafed to die upon the cross for me, a vile sinner, Thee only I adore, to Thee I commend my spirit. Have mercy upon me, and pardon my many sins.”
The priests had done their utmost to persuade Clara to recant, but on finding that all their efforts were useless, she was placed by the side of her master; when both were fastened to the stake, the Protestant books found in their house were brought out and thrown upon the fagots. The pile was lighted, and in a short time only a heap of smoldering ashes remained to mark the spot where two faithful witnesses for Christ had lain down their lives. But they did not die in vain; many who had long been halting between two opinions were led to choose the good part, and cast in their lot with the persecuted Hussites.
There was only one day-school in the place, and as it was taught and managed entirely by nuns, we did lessons at home with mother, as both my parents felt it would be wrong to place their children in the care of those who worshipped pictures and images, and would have taught them to do the same.
We often heard sad stories of the sufferings of the Hussites in other parts of Bohemia, but persecution did not seem to come our way. When I grew old enough to think about such things, I used to wonder how this happened, for 1 knew quite well that little companies of the so-called Hussites, sometimes numbering ten or twelve, used to meet for prayer and reading the scriptures in the houses of one or other of their number, though care was taken to attract as little notice as possible, and they usually came and went singly. Sometimes these meetings were held in our house, and I had on several occasions been allowed to be present. We felt sure that Father Andre, the parish priest, a quiet, easy-going old gentleman, knew of these little gatherings, and also that those who attended them never went to mass, or visited the confessional, and that, had he wished to do so, he could have put a stop to them by giving information to the officers of the Inquisition; we were however allowed, during several years, to meet without interruption. Father Andre had been attended by my father through a long and dangerous illness, and a strong affection had sprung up between the two men. I remember one night father saying to my mother, when he returned from a visit to the priest, "I have long thought of Father Andre as a sincere and devout man; but now I rejoice to know, that though he seems wanting in courage to come out boldly on the Lord's side, he is a true, though secret, disciple of Christ.”
He went on to tell how they had often prayed and read the scriptures together; a secret drawer in his study table contained quite a number of the writings of Luther and other reformers; more than once he had told my father that his only hope of salvation was in the death and resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ, but that, when urged to leave the Church of Rome, in which he saw so much of error, he would reply sadly, "Had I read my Bible forty, or even twenty years ago, I think I could have welcomed reproach, and even death, for Christ's sake; but I am old and feeble, I am not far from the end of my journey; what can an old man do? If I left Rome to-morrow it would only bring down trouble on the heads of the few scattered sheep, who are now suffered to go quietly on.”
It was, I think, only two days after the conversation I have referred to that Joan, who had for many years been his housekeeper, came to our house very early and in great distress, begging my father to return with her at once, as her master, contrary to his usual custom, had not entered the church for "matins" or morning prayers. She sent one of the choir boys to call him, who returned, saying that though he had knocked several times at the door of his room, he got no answer. She then went herself, and at last opened the door. Seeing Father Andre lying upon the bed, but breathing heavily, she thought he must be in a fit, and came with all speed for my father, who lost no time in going to the house, but before he reached it the old man had breathed his last.
We all felt his death as that of a personal friend, and wondered who would take his place. After a few weeks we heard that a young and very zealous Catholic priest had been appointed by the bishop and would arrive the week following. Father Jacques, as he was called, was in every way unlike the gentle, kindly man we had all learned to love. But as he will enter more than once into my story, there is no need that I should write much about him now.