“The wicked walk on every side, when the vilest men are exalted.”—Psalm xii. 8.

Thus happily occupied with the pursuits he loved, but taking no share in the turmoils of the time, Palissy prospered and cheerfully pursued his way. He could not, indeed, be an unconcerned observer of the events that were transpiring around. Having eyes, he doubtless saw the clouds that were gathering over his country, and from time to time, heard the thunders that threatened before long to burst in a terrific storm. For a season, however, the evil day was deferred, and the hymns of the rejoicing Huguenots continued to gladden his heart. We have already had sufficient evidence that he did not spare his remonstrances against those who, while they enjoyed the revenues of the church, neglected the performance of its duties. Nor did he stop there, and as his censures extended from the highest to the lowest matters, his shafts were often pointed against those who could ill endure the test of common sense, which he unceremoniously applied to them. His criticisms on the follies and vices of his neighbours had too much the character of home-thrusts not to be felt. In his lively way he relates that, on one occasion, he remonstrated with a certain high dame upon the absurdities and improprieties of feminine attire; but “after I had made her this remonstrance,” he quietly adds, “the silly woman, instead of thanking me, called me Huguenot, seeing which—I left her.” At another time, he relates that, being on a visit to the neighbouring town of Rochelle, he earnestly remonstrated with a tradesman, of whom he inquired what he had put into his pepper which enabled him, though buying it in that place at thirty-five sols the pound, to make a great profit by selling it again, at the fair of Niord, at seventeen sols, in consequence of the adulteration of the article. In reply to the man’s excuse of poverty, Bernard replied, that, by such criminal acts he was heaping up to himself fearful punishments, “and surely,” said he, “you can better afford to be poor than be damned.” Strong, though faithful language, which was wholly ineffectual upon this “poor insensate, who declared he would not be poor, follow what might.” Plain speaking of this sort was evidently very characteristic of Palissy, who uttered his remonstrances without reckoning on the consequences. The same originality and force of intellect which procured him patrons in his art, undoubtedly, when applied in a different direction, served to multiply enemies around him, and their time was not long in coming.

Happily and swiftly flew the years of prosperity, but (as we have already seen) the clouds were gathering in the horizon, and soon the cruel hounds of war were let slip, and most frightful were the results. Two great parties had involved in their disputes the passions of the whole French nation. One, which included all the Huguenots, was headed by the high old French nobility; while the leaders of the others, embracing all the Roman Catholics, were the Guises. These opposing factions, with their strong deep passions, rapidly precipitated themselves into a fierce and bloody contest. One of the young sons of Catherine de Medici had died, after a few months of nominal rule, and a child no more than ten years old, called Charles IX. had succeeded to the throne. The queen mother, who, as regent for her son, assumed the government of affairs, was anxious, as far as possible, to offend neither of the contending parties, but to hold them so well balanced, as to preserve the power in her own hands. For a short time, there was a cessation of disputes, and efforts at conciliation. The policy of Catherine was the maintenance of peace, and she spoke fair to the Huguenots, feigning so well and so successfully that she was even accused by those of the Roman Catholic party, of being in heart one with the new sect. The Reformers took courage, and were full of fervour and hope; the enthusiasm spreading throughout the provinces and awakening everywhere the hope that the triumph of the Reformed faith was at hand. It was but a passing gleam, presently followed by a darker gloom, which finally deepened into the thick night of the Black Bartholomew. In vain did the queen and the chancellor, De l’HÔpital, labour to secure peace by colloquies and edicts of toleration. The Guises fiercely stirred the fires of contention, and employed themselves in active preparations for a struggle. At length, the first signal for the outbreak of the civil war was given.

There was in Champagne, a small fortified town, called Vassy, containing about three thousand inhabitants, a third of whom, not reckoning the surrounding villages, professed the Reformed religion. It happened, on the 28th of February, 1562, that the Duke of Guise, journeying on his way to Paris, accompanied by his cousin, the cardinal of Lorraine, with an escort of gentlemen, followed by some two hundred horsemen, visited the chÂteau de Joinville, which was situated in the neighbourhood, on an estate belonging to the Lorraines.

The mistress of the castle was a very old lady, the dowager Duchess of Guise, whose bigoted attachment to the faith of her ancestors made the very name of Huguenot an offence to her. Sorely indignant was she at the audacity of the inhabitants of Vassy, who had no right, she declared, as vassals of her granddaughter, Mary Stuart, to adopt a new religion without her permission. Often had she threatened vengeance upon them, and the time was now come to inflict it. And the aged woman urged her son, the fierce Duke Francis, to make a striking example of these insolent peasants. As he listened to her angry words, he swore a deep oath, and bit his beard, which was his custom, when his wrath waxed strong.

“Heretic dogs! Huguenot rebels! Kill, kill!”

The next morning, resuming his march, he arrived at a village not far from the obnoxious town; and the morning breeze, as it came sweeping up the hills, brought to his ears the sound of church bells. “What means that noise?” he asked of one of his attendants. “It is the morning service of the Huguenots,” was the reply. It was, in fact, the sabbath day, and the Reformers, assembled to the number of some hundreds, were performing their worship in a barn, under the protection of a recent edict of toleration. Unsuspicious of danger, there was not a man among them armed, with the exception of some ten strangers, probably gentlemen, who wore swords.

Suddenly, a band of the duke’s soldiers approached the place, and began shouting—“Heretic dogs! Huguenot rebels! Kill, kill!” The first person whom they laid hands on was a poor hawker of wine. “In whom do you believe?” they cried. “I believe in Jesus Christ,” was the answer; and with one thrust of the pike he was laid low. Two more were killed at the door, and instantly the tumult raged. The duke, hastening up at the sound of arms, was struck by a stone, which drew blood from his cheek. Instantly the rage of his followers redoubled, and his own fury knew no bounds. A horrible butchery followed; men, women, and children were attacked indiscriminately, and sixty were slain in the barn or in the street, while more than two hundred were grievously wounded.

The pastor, Leonard Morel, at the first sound of alarm, kneeled down in the pulpit and implored the divine aid. He was fired at; and then endeavoured to escape, but, as he approached the door, he stumbled over a dead body, and received two sabre cuts on the right shoulder and on his head. Believing himself to be mortally wounded, he exclaimed, “Into thy hands I commend my spirit, O Lord; for thou hast redeemed me.” He was captured, and carried, being unable to walk, into the presence of the duke. “Minister, come this way,” he said, “what emboldens thee to seduce this people?” “I am no seducer,” said Morel, “but I have faithfully preached the gospel of Jesus Christ.” “Does the gospel teach sedition, sirrah?” said M. de Guise, with his usual blasphemous oath; “thou hast caused the death of all these people; and thou shalt thyself be hanged immediately. Here, ProvÔt, make ready a gallows for him on the spot!” But even among that fierce crew none seemed willing to obey the savage mandate, and no one came forward to enact the part of hangman. This delay saved the life of the captive, who was removed under good guard, but eventually escaped.

The following year, as the blood-thirsty duke lay on his death-bed, mortally wounded by the hand of an assassin, he protested that he had neither premeditated nor commanded the massacre of Vassy. This may be true; but his consent at the moment of its perpetration is beyond question.

An extraordinary effect was produced throughout the whole kingdom, by the tidings of this cruel slaughter. Among the Reformed party it created a universal feeling of indignant horror and alarm. It was like the war-whoop of the Indians, which precedes the rush to battle. Each party flew to arms, after putting forth manifestoes, asserting the merits of their respective causes. The Prince of CondÉ hastened to Orleans, which he succeeded in occupying, and there the army of the Huguenots established their headquarters. In that town the Calvinist lords assembled, on the 11th of April, 1562, and after partaking the Lord’s supper together, bound themselves in an alliance, to maintain the Edicts, and to punish those who had broken them. They took a solemn oath to repress blasphemy, violence, and whatever was forbidden by the law of God, and to set up good and faithful ministers to instruct the people; and lastly, they promised, by their hope of heaven, to fulfil their duty in this cause.

And thus the fearful work began, and tumult, massacre, battle, and siege prevailed. Every town in France was filled with the riot of contending factions. “It was a grand and frightful struggle of province against province, city with city, quarter with quarter, house with house, man with man,” says a recent historian. “Fanaticism had reduced France to a land of cannibals; and the gloomiest imagination would fail to conceive of all the varieties of horrors which were then practised.”

We have to do with the town of Saintes. There were few places in which the Huguenots were so numerous, and had multiplied so rapidly, as in Saintonge. Passions were nowhere stronger; no place was more trampled by combatants; it was the scene of many of the maddest contests during the days of the religious warfare. At the invitation of the Duke de La Rochefoucault, all the Protestant leaders of the district gathered themselves together at AngoulÊme, and betook themselves, under his guidance, to Orleans, in order to join the Prince of CondÉ, who was his brother-in-law. After the departure of these forces, the various towns in that neighbourhood, AngoulÊme, Saintes, Pons, and others, remained indeed in the possession of the Huguenots, but without defence, nearly all the Reformers of the district, capable of bearing arms, having followed the march of De La Rochefoucault, “especially” we are told, “those of Saintes.” Consequently, the town, deprived of its soldiers, presented an easy prey to the enemy, and in a short time, fell into the hands of a hostile leader, named Nogeret, who treated with harsh severity all that remained in the place, in execution of a decree from Bordeaux, by which the Reformers were abandoned, without appeal, to the mercy of any royal judge.

Among those thus given over to the power of these miscreants, was Palissy. In few but emphatic words he has recorded the terrors of that fearful time. “Deeds so wretched were then done,” he said afterward, “that I have horror in the mere remembrance. To avoid those dreadful and execrable sights, I withdrew into the secret recesses of my house, and there, by the space of two months, I had warning that hell was broke loose, and that all the spirits of the devils had come into this town of Saintes. For where, a short time before, I had heard psalms, and holy songs, and all good words of edification, now mine ears were assailed only with blasphemies, blows, menaces, and tumults, all miserable words, and lewd and detestable songs. Those of the Reformed religion had all disappeared, and our enemies went from house to house, to siege, sack, gluttonize, and laugh; jesting and making merry with all dissolute deeds and blasphemous words against God and man.”

Very terrible is this truth-breathing description of the miseries of a city given over to the license of an unbridled soldiery; but the most affecting picture is that which he draws when closing his short narrative of those “evil days.” “I had nothing at that time but reports of those frightful crimes that, from day to day, were committed; and of all those things, that which grieved me most within myself was, that certain little children of the town, who came daily to assemble in an open space near the spot where I was hidden (always exerting myself to produce some work of my art), dividing themselves into two parties, fought and cast stones one side against another, while they swore and blasphemed in the most execrable language that ever man could utter, so that I have, as it were, horror in recalling it. Now, that lasted a long time, while neither fathers nor mothers exercised any rule over them. Often I was seized with a desire to risk my life by going out to punish them; but I said in my heart the 79th Psalm, which begins, ‘O God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance.’”