*From “Historical Tales for Young Protestants.” London: Religious Tract Society, 1858.
ABOUT two hundred and fifty years ago, there was great joy in the dwellings of the Protestants in France. The news had spread over the land that the king had, while in the city of Nantes, sent out a decree in favour of the persecuted. They had passed many long years of trouble; their places of worship had been broken down; their ministers sent out of the land, and many of their friends had been slain. But henceforth they were to have the free exercise of their religion and the rights of citizens. Their sick poor were to be allowed to enter the public hospitals, and other privileges of the kind were to be fully enjoyed. They were a loyal and thankful people, and they welcomed these benefits with gratitude to the king, and with many praises to God.
The Protestants were now at liberty to attend to trade, and the care of the land. Their peaceful and active habits soon made them well known. No looms made finer silk, no ploughs were more busy in the fields, and no vines were more fruitful than theirs. They soon became the best work-people in the country. And this was as it should be; for the purest faith should always be connected with industry and attention to the duties of life.
“Henry the Good,” as the king was called, had been once a Protestant; but he changed his religion to obtain an earthly crown. Many mourned that he should have forgotten the example and counsel of a pious mother: still he did not quite neglect the friends of his early youth. He knew their worth, and did much to serve them. His merciful conduct did not please the Romanists, and one day he was stabbed by a wretched priest while riding in his carriage in the city of Paris. The Protestants soon found that the next king who came to the throne bore no love towards them; and they had to suffer many hardships. At length Louis the Fourteenth revoked the edict given in the city of Nantes, although it had been declared that it should never be altered. When it suited the purpose of the Romanists, they did not scruple to break all the laws which showed any kind of favour to the Protestants, even when they had been secured to them by the most solemn oaths and pledges.
And now, instead of joy, there was only mourning and sorrow in many of the castles and cottages of France. The enemies of the truth had obtained the power they wanted, and they were at liberty to oppress as they pleased. Severe laws were passed, in the hope of rooting out the Reformed religion. Heavy fines were laid upon those who did not adorn their houses on saints’ days, and heavy blows if they did not kneel when a Romish procession went along the streets. They were not allowed to be doctors, booksellers, printers, or even grocers. No apprentice could be taught a trade in their shops. If they were heard to sing hymns in public or private, they were sent to prison; their psalm book was publicly burned; and the Bible was taken out of their houses. Their places of worship were again broken into and destroyed; their ministers were sent out of the land, or shut up in jail. The sick could only be attended by Romish priests; and the bodies of those who died were often torn out of their graves, and left to be devoured by wolves and vultures.
The distress of the Huguenots was at its height, when they saw their dear children torn from their arms, and carried away to be brought up as Papists. The joy of watching over them, of hearing their simple little prayers, and of telling them of the love of Christ in dying on the cross for sinners, was no more to be known by them. And theirs was the bitter grief of not knowing whether their beloved ones were faithful to the truth or had denied it, whether they were suffering torture in a monastery or nunnery, or laid in the quiet grave.
Times of trial show who truly love the Lord Jesus Christ. It was so now. Many who were once known as Protestants forsook the faith of their fathers. Some were gained over with titles and honours, others with promises of reward; many from fear of a dungeon and death; and numbers were bribed with large sums. The common people were offered a freedom from taxes for two years, besides a gift of money, if they would change their religion within one month. Those who would not turn were to pay double taxes and a fine of ten pounds—a large sum in those days. The effect was, that many denied their Lord, some from terror, and others from hope of such a reward as the wicked could give. Happy did those think themselves who could make their escape to other lands, even though they left behind them all their worldly goods.
There were sad sights in those days, and those had hard hearts who did not shed tears at the sufferings of the afflicted Christians who had remained faithful in evil times. One scene was beheld in a little country town which made many weep. The good Protestant Pastor was to have his limbs broken upon a wheel—one of the most painful deaths that could be endured. His enemies did not destroy life at once; they seemed to take delight in adding to his sufferings. For two days he was left in the deepest agony on the wheel. In the midst of his pain he thus spoke to those who stood by: “Jesus Christ has satisfied for my sins, and not only for mine, but for the sins of all those who shall go to Him by faith, as now I do. I cast myself upon the merits and death of Jesus, and cling to Him as my Saviour and Redeemer. My dear people, receive my last farewell, and know that I preached to you the pure truths of the Gospel—the true way that leads to heaven.”
Many an interesting story of the flight of the Huguenots has been preserved. A family who saw that there could be no peace in their own land, planned a way for their escape. They first concealed their money, jewels, and other valuables in quilted silk petticoats, secretly worked by the lady and her daughter, and which they sent to England. The two eldest sons had already contrived to leave the country; there remained now the parents, a daughter aged sixteen, and two little boys of four and six years old. Just as they were all ready to start, the father was betrayed and carried to prison. Those he loved hastened to visit him, when he urged them to flee to a place of safety, in the hope that the time would come when he should be able to join them again. His wife, attended by a male servant, went in disguise to a sea-port, and there arranged for a passage to England for herself and three children. She then concealed herself in a house, while the servant went back to bring the children. The eldest daughter, dressed as a peasant girl, placed her young brothers each in a pannier or basket, which was slung across the back of a donkey. She then well covered over the little boys with fruits and vegetables, and on the top of all some poultry in a basket were placed. The children had been charged whatever should happen by the way, on no account to speak or move. We shall see how bravely these little ones behaved in their trying condition. The servant, in the dress of a country farmer, rode first on horseback. He moved in advance, as if he were unknown to the girl with the donkey; though he took care to keep in sight as she went along the road.
The young refugee daughter travelled at night; but as time was precious, the latter part of the journey had to be taken by daylight. Mingled hope and grief filled her mind, as she either thought of going to her mother and escaping to a land of liberty, or of the sorrows of her dear father, left behind in his dreary prison. While on the road she was alarmed at the sight of a party of horse-soldiers riding towards her. They fixed their eye upon her, and then at the panniers. “What is in those baskets?” they cried. Before she could give an answer, one of them drew his sword, and thrust it into the pannier in which the younger child was hid. No cry was heard; no resistance was made. The soldiers concluded that all was right, and turning round, galloped quickly down the road. As soon as they were out of sight, the sister seized the pannier and threw off the upper part of its contents, expecting to find her little brother killed. As he lifted up his arms towards his terrified sister, she saw he was covered with blood from a severe cut on one of them. The child, in the hour of danger, shut up in his basket-prison, knew that if he cried, his own life and the lives of his brother and sister would be lost, and he bravely bore the pain and was silent. The sister bound up the wound as best she could, and nursed him on the road with the fondest care, and had the joy of finding that his life was spared, though he carried a scar from the wound all his days.
After a perilous journey, the young refugees safely reached the seaside. They secretly got on board a ship, whose sails were soon spread to the wind; and in a few days they safely landed in England. But the father never followed them. Year after year passed away, and there was the poor captive, though not all the time in a dungeon, yet under restraint, and unable to join those he loved. They never met again on earth.
A husband and his wife tried to escape. They each took a different road, to avoid suspicion. The man was caught and carried to prison, but the wife reached the English shores, where she anxiously awaited her husband. To force the poor man to renounce his religion, his jailors placed him in a dungeon with an iron floor, and no seat or means of support. Under this was a strong fire. The iron floor was then slowly heated, until the feet of the prisoner were so fearfully burnt as to make him a cripple for life. When they grew weary of tormenting, the poor Huguenot was left to go about the town on crutches—a misery to himself, and an object of pity to all beholders.
Years passed away, when one day a poor aged Frenchman was seen hobbling about the streets of London. In broken English he asked the passers-by to tell him where he could find his wife. Some could not understand his words; and those who could were yet unable to aid him in his search. All he could tell them was, that he was in search of his wife—his “Louise.” As he crept along one afternoon, with the constant inquiry on his lips, someone directed him to a coffee-house near Soho Square, kept by a French refugee. It was the resort of the Huguenots, many of whom by this time had turned their skill to good account in busy London. To this coffee-house the poor cripple made his way; but no one there knew his wife. “She might be alive,” said they, “or she might be dead.” It seemed as if her name was now unknown on the earth.
In the corner sat a pedlar: he listened to what was said, but made no reply. Yet there were kindly thoughts and feeling in his heart. He had come to London to lay in a stock of goods; and as, on his return to the country, he would pass through some towns where the French had found a home, why, thought he, could he not make inquiry if anyone knew of the poor cripple’s wife. As he pursued his way from place to place, he ceased not to feel an interest in the sad story he had heard in that coffee-house in London. At length he came to Canterbury, where he knew many refugees followed the trades of jewellers and wax-bleachers. He sought among them for anyone who might answer to the missing wife. The strange tale soon got spread about, and it led to a delightful result. For there, indeed, lived the poor woman, getting her living by needlework. She had long given up the hope of seeing her dear husband again: surely he was a galley-slave, or in some dungeon, or dead. But now the pedlar’s story reached her ears, and she set off without delay for London. There she soon found her aged afflicted husband, who had been reduced to the lowest poverty, and was in utter despair of finding her he had so earnestly sought. It was a meeting of mingled joy and sorrow. She rejoiced to behold again the companion of her youth, and the professor of the same faith, but tears flowed fast as she beheld his helpless state. After a short stay, they set out for Canterbury, where the faithful wife worked hard, and nursed, and cherished the cripple-husband whom she had often mourned as dead.
The new home of these poor refugees, as we have said, was mostly in England. There were many of all ranks in this land who felt for their sorrows; they opened their houses to receive them, and their purses to aid them in their need. But the refugees came not to eat the bread of idleness. They carried with them their skill and their trades. Thousands made their way to London, and formed almost a new town in the part of the outskirts known as Spitalfields; and others founded a colony at St. Giles-in-the-Fields. Some went to Norwich, Coventry, Canterbury, Edinburgh, and other places. Among the refugees in England were a duke, a duchess, several generals, counts, marquises, viscounts, barons, judges, noble ladies, men of learning, ministers, merchants and captains. It is pleasing to trace in their descendants some who attained to honour in the land that gave them an asylum.