Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

being thus rudely assailed in its very infancy, might have greatly overbalanced the benefits it received from the striking display of the spirit of Rome. But God caused an impulse to be given to his own work, by the wrath of his enemies in passing these laws-and yet at the same time he defeated their councils, and prevented the execution of their cruel purpose. The Turks had been some time advancing upon Hungary, and their inroads became every day more threatening. They came apparently as the ministers of vengeance. But, as usual, in the heart of the judgment was wrapt up a bless ing. They were the deliverers of God's people at this critical moment. In the extreme remedy which was applied, we may discern the greatness of the danger which threatened the Church. In the year 1526 was fought the battle of Mohäcs, in which the political power of Hungary was almost laid prostrate. 22,000 Hungarians were left dead on the field. Among these were 500 of the highest families, and seven bishops and archbishops, whose estates were seized and kept in possession by the nobles for a considerable time. The death of the king, who fell in the same battle, and the troubles of the times, so engrossed the public mind, that the laws of 1523 were not executed. The death of so many of the most energetic bishops, no doubt, tended to the same result. Only three persons at that time suffered death for the truth's sake. Thus, an event which nearly extinguished the independence of Hungary, was the means, in the hand of God, of protecting his own cause. The Turks granted full religious freedom in those parts of the country which fell under their power. And in them, it can with truth be said, Protestantism has most prospered. The use of images by the Roman Catholics, made them peculiarly obnoxious to the Mahommedans. The latter regarded the Protestants as believers, at least, in the unity of God. They not only refrained, therefore, from persecution themselves, but did all in their power to shield the Protestants from the assaults of the Papists.

To succeed the slain monarch, two kings were elected by opposite parties. One of them persecuted the Protestants; the other, Ferdinand I., Emperor of Germany, protected them for the help they afforded him against his rival. A new diversion was thus effected in behalf of the Protestant cause. Within this period Protestantism made such rapid progress, that only three of the higher nobility and fifty gentlemen remained Popish. Twenty printingpresses were established. The Protestants, as in other parts of the continent, divided themselves into two parties, Lutherans and Reformed. In 1545, the former adopted the "Augsburgh Confession" in two synods, the one held in Hungary, the other in Transylvania. The latter adopted the "Geneva Confession" by Beza, in a synod held in 1562, and five years afterwards exchanged it for the "Helvetic Con

fession," which continues to the present day their recognised standard.

The Socinians obtained a footing in Transylvania in 1571, through the instrumentality of Socinus himself. The prince lent them his countenance, being influenced in their favour by his physician, who had met Socinus in Italy. Of the Roman Catholics, it may be mentioned that the Primate introduced the Jesuits in 1561. They were expelled by Maximilian. Two bishops were sent as delegates to the Council of Trent. Their instructions were to vote for the communion in both kinds, and the marriage of the clergy. Of the higher clergy five became Protestants in Ferdinand's time, and resigned their offices and emoluments.

Second Period, 1576-1686.-The kings during this period were Rudolph II., Ferdinand II. and III., and Leopold I., all emperors of Germany as well as kings of Hungary. They were, without exception, educated by the Jesuits. Rudolph introduced them again into Hungary, founded schools in their behalf, and granted them estates. His reign was the period of violence. He sent two generals, one into Hungary, the other into Transylvania, each at the head of a body of soldiers, composed of Spaniards, Italians, and Germans, to destroy printing-presses, to put down schools, and to banish clergymen from their flocks. No fewer than 550 churches were forcibly taken from the Protestants during this period. Driven to despair, they at length took arms. This step they justified, apart from more general considerations, on the following special ground. The great charter of Hungarian liberty, called the Golden Bull, dates as far back as 1222. It asserts the same rights as the English Habeas Corpus, of a much later date (1679). Besides this, when the king acts against the law, it is declared competent for the nation, or a single nobleman, to oppose him to the utmost, both by word and deed. Supported by this, the Protestants, under the leadership of Borskay, a nobleman, declared war. Success attended their efforts. Having taken possession of Hungary and Transylvania, they passed through Moravia, and at length appeared before the gates of Vienna. There they dictated their own terms. Peace was concluded (1606), called the Vienna pacification, on the condition that full toleration should be granted to Protestants, and that Roman Catholics should enjoy unrestricted liberty to join the Protestant Church. An evil clause, however, found its way into the treaty, and was overlooked by the too generous and unsuspicious Hungarians. It was to the effect that the various stipulations should be observed-" without prejudice to the Catholic religion." Of course the meaning which the Hungarians put upon this was, that they would attempt no measures of violent and unjust aggression against their opponents, such as had been practised against themselves. In other words, they desired, for both parties, that

THE RELIGIOUS HISTORY OF HUNGARY.

they should act according to the dictates of their own minds, without external compulsion. Yet shortly after, when they had returned peacefully to their homes, and their combination, having apparently achieved its object, was broken up, they were again robbed of their dearly purchased freedom, on the pretence that all their acts, and even petitions, were to the injury of the Romish Church. This clause was, indeed, expunged by the Diet two years after; but it continued to be acted upon by the Executive, as if no such event had taken place. The Protestants were at length relieved by the famous Bethlen, prince of Transylvania, who took arms in their defence. Success again crowned the enterprise, and peace was concluded (1621), the Vienna pacification being confirmed, but without the obnoxious clause. The Papists continued their old course in total disregard of the treaty. Rococzy, prince of Transylvania, successor to Bethlen, declared war. Once more the Protestant cause was victorious, and right prevailed. With the help of the Turks he bore down all opposition, and concluded peace at Lintz in Upper Austria. This was termed the Lintz pacification (1645). Both of these princes were eminently pious. It is said of the first, that he read the whole Bible through twenty-six times. He had it ever with him in the camp as his counsellor and guide, and no emergency, however urgent, prevented his devoting a considerable time to the daily study of it. When offered the Hungarian throne as the reward of his success, he refused to accept it lest his motives should be suspected, and the cause of God should suffer in his hands. The latter, with his officers around him, used to read and pray both morning and night. Thus, in the hour of need, God raised up able and valiant men, who feared himself, as well as wrought deliverance for his people.

The treaties of Vienna and Lintz are the great bulwarks of Hungarian Protestant, freedom. Down to the present day, every king at his coronation, must swear to conform to them, But the period of Protestant suffering was not yet over, or rather was but beginning. The Turks, who had ever been a defence to the Protestant cause; were overthrown, and their power was so completely broken (1670), that they seemed quite unable to maintain a footing within the country. Instead, however, of following up the victory, the emperor granted them an amnesty for twenty years. This was done at the instigation of the Jesuits, who wished to get the hands of the Turks bound at any price, that they might exert their whole strength on their darling object, the suppression and extermination of Protestantism. Much discontent was excited in the country on account of the unequal peace. A conspiracy was formed, which, shortly after, on the death of its two chief props, was discovered, and the ringleaders were executed. Although, without exception,

307

they had been all Roman Catholics, the Jesuits affected to believe that the Protestants were the guilty parties, and commenced a violent persecution (1673). A delegated court, consisting of bishops and other Papists, was appointed to inquire. They invited all Protestant clergymen and schoolmasters, within the country, to appear and clear themselves. The Turks, seeing through the whole procedure, forbade such as lived under their jurisdiction to attend. From other parts of Hungary there assembled 400 ministers and schoolmasters. Of course, the great majority did not obey the summons, although well aware that their nonappearance would be interpreted by their unprincipled persecutors as a proof of guilt, and might expose them to still greater evils than those which their brethren encountered who pursued the opposite course. As soon as the four hundred arrived, they were more, it is likely, to their horror than surprise, suddenly seized and put under arrest. Seven accusations were laid to their charge. They, of course, asserted their innocence with all the energy and boldness of calumniated Christian men. But it was of no use; the object of the Jesuits was not to try, but to condemn them. They were declared guilty of high treason. According to the usual policy of that mercy, which first stings its victim and then professes to pity it, they were offered the choice of three things -1. Forsake the Protestant Church and become Roman Catholics; or, 2. Lay down their sacred office and become laymen; or, 3. Banish themselves from the country and go abroad.

The more yielding subscribed a bond, binding them to the last of these alternatives. The others, who were chiefly of the Reformed Church, and of the Magyar (or Hungarian race, properly so called), considered the subscription as in some measure admitting the charge, and absolutely refused to choose. They were laid in chains, and sent by twenties and thirties to the fortresses. There they were subjected to every kind of maltreatment. They were thrown into damp dungeons, and when it was hoped that their resolution was in some measure subdued, they were dragged into the churches, and commanded to kneel before the images, and, on their refusal, were knocked with violence on their knees. All endeavours to make them apostatize proving fruitless, they were again assembled and transported to the galleys at Naples. There they were afterwards discovered by the celebrated Dutch admiral, Ruyter. An account of the first meeting between the admiral and these faithful men, is preserved in an old Latin manuscript, and is deeply affecting. He threw himself upon their necks, weeping like a child, and calling them the dear limbs of Jesus Christ. He immediately set them free, and carried them in his ships to Holland. At his request, the StatesGeneral entered into negotiations for their re

storation to their own land.

These were at

he had gone abroad for a period of three years. In about eighteen months after this, circumstances

at a public place in Florence, I saw a young Englishman whose features, though bronzed and matured, I speedily recognized as those of Sir William It was a mutual pleasure to meet. We talked over past days and future prospects, and, in short, agreed, visited Rome and Naples, fearless of the banditti as long as it was possible, to travel together. We which then infested Calabria; we traversed that province; we explored the island of Sicily, and then prepared, by leisurely journeys, to return through France into England.

length successful, but many had died through carried me to the continent; and one day, as I was the hardships they had endured. In those times there was no such intercourse between distant countries as we now enjoy. Their friends knew nothing of their fate; they knew nothing of the fate either of their friends, or of the Church, which was still dearer than any earthly relationship. They returned to see Zion mourning and desolate. Many of those they most loved, they found partly removed by death, partly dispersed by the hand of persecution, and the places once gladdened by their presence, and where they anticipated a joyful meeting, were now in the possession of strangers.

In the period 1686-1790, no fewer than seven hundred churches were forcibly taken from the Protestants. During the 18th century, a systeMultitudes matic persecution was carried on. were absolutely compelled to become Papists. Villages were frequently surrounded by an armed military; the circle closed in, driving all before them, man, woman, and child, into the churches. There holy water was sprinkled upon them by the priests, and they were forthwith declared genuine Catholics. After this purification, they were subjected to a heavy punishment if they applied to a Protestant minister for the baptism of their children, or for burial; and he was exposed to the severest penalties if he dared to exercise any of his functions among them. At length in 1781, under the Emperor Joseph II., a toleration edict was proclaimed. In 1791, another law was passed to their advantage, founded on the ratification of the treaties of Lintz and Vienna. From that period persecution in its more positive form has ceased. The power of Rome, generally, has been greatly crippled since the outbreak of the first French Revolution. This has been felt in Hungary also. A new class of influences has been brought to bear upon the Protestant Church. The history of this new period, though perhaps more tame, is not less interesting than the preceding, to those who are accustomed to mark the wonderful development of the divine scheme. At present, however, we must close, and reserve to a future opportunity some account of the progress of the public mind, the present position of the Protestant Church, and the providential contact of our own Church with it through the Jewish mission, with the remarkable effects that have resulted from this connection.

THE TWO DEATHBEDS. WHEN I was at college, I formed an acquaintance with a young man of elevated rank and great expectations. Our rooms were upon the same staircase, and we were almost inseparable companions. But, on quitting the university, I lost sight of my friend. I heard, however, at some distance of time that, having succeeded to the family title and estate,

Sir William was a delightful companion. He had taste and information; he was fond of antiquarian research, and well acquainted with the modern literature of the countries through which we were travelling; his amusements were rational, and his moral conduct irreproachable; his disposition was kind and generous, and he possessed an inexhaustible flow of cheerful spirits. On one point alone we differed. I found with regret that my friend had the religion he professed, it mattered not, provided adopted the notion, that, if a man was but sincere in his conduct was decent, what faith he had embraced. He defended his opinions with much zeal, but always with perfect good-humour; and though certainly I combated his arguments, yet I have often since regretted that I did not use all the opportunities I had for convincing him of the truth. Alas! had I been more faithful, perhaps, by God's blessing, the deep misery of after days might have been averted. But I was scarcely myself at that time thoroughly alive to the importance of vital godliness.

After some months' companionship we parted. Circumstances had occurred to prevent my returning to England with Sir William, and I took up my residence as British chaplain in a seaport town, giving him a promise that my first visit, when I did again see my native country, should be to him. Some years, however, elapsed before I was able to redeem my pledge.

Park. I found the baronet the same kind friend I At length, one fine autumn, I repaired to had always known him. He had now married; his wife was a most amiable lady, and he had a family of three children. It was gratifying to see his conduct as an affectionate husband and indulgent father. He was esteemed by the neighbouring gentlemen, and beloved by his numerous tenantry. He had every thing around him of a worldly nature which could tend to comfort; but yet I thought that I discerned occasionally a trace of care upon his open forehead. It was only at times; for he was in conversation as cheerful, and in society as interesting, as ever, I did not like to question him, as I concluded he would of himself, from the ingenuousness of his character, lead to the subject if he thought fit to speak of it at all. I waited, therefore, though with some anxiety, yet with a hope that perhaps there was no ground for my surmise. One thing I observed, that he never touched on a religious topic. He appeared once on the Sunday at the parish church, but that was the only sign given of his professing any religion at all. And when I strove to direct the discourse to this subject, he evidently took pains to change or break off the conversation.

When I had been at the park about a fortnight, Sir William said to me one morning, as he was mounting his horse to go a hunting, "Emerson, you are fond of visiting cottages; there's a poor man just dying, about a mile off; he was run over last night, I hear, by a waggon, and is in great distress. I wish you would call there in your walk to-day, and

THE TWO DEATHBEDS.

see if there is any relief we can send him." With these words he galloped off. In about an hour's time, as I was sallying forth to the cottage he had described, my attention was arrested by a crowd of persons at a distance, moving slowly towards me. I quickened my steps, and was overwhelmed with horror and grief when I saw that they were bearing an apparently lifeless body, which I instantly perceived to be that of my friend. To rush to his side, and grasp his hand, and to question his attendants what fatal accident had occurred, was the work of an instant. I with difficulty learned from their incoherent answers, that, in leaping a hedge, his horse had fallen, and, dashing him with violence against the ground had rolled upon him. He still lived, though perfectly insensible, and it was my melancholy duty to hasten to Lady and, as gently as I could, to apprise her of the calamity. I need not dwell upon the grief of that morning, or attempt to describe our agonized suspense while the surgeon, who had been sent for, was examining Sir William's hurts. His report at last was but too confirmatory of our worst fears. There was little-there was, in fact, no hope, he said: sensation would return, and life might last a few days perhaps, but recovery was impossible.

Several hours had elapsed before the patient awoke to a full perception of his calamity. Lady and I were sitting beside his bed, when we heard his feeble whisper," Where am I? what has befallen me?" In a few minutes he looked at us with perfect consciousness; and I shall never forget the smile it was one which told of so much gratitude, yet so much wretchedness-with which he tried to thank us for our attention to him. That night no individual, except the poor children, closed an eye in Park. Grievous was the pain with which Sir William was racked, and vain were all the attempts to alleviate his agony. The next day, however, towards noon, he fell into a kind of unquiet sleep; and I, scarcely knowing whither I went, strolled sadly for a little breath of air across one of the plantations.

I had walked some distance, when I perceived myself near the cottage Sir William had mentioned to me. I tapped at the door, and was admitted by a sour-looking woman. In answer to my inquiries, she said that the man-John Hopkins she believed his name was, at least so he called himself; she knew nothing of him but from himself; he was only a lodger there had, while helping to load a waggon, fallen from the top of it; and, the horses at that moment moving on, had been crushed by the wheel. The doctor had said he could do nothing for him, and little enough time, said the woman, she had to attend him she must take care of her own children. Disgusted at her unfeeling language, I passed by her into the room where poor Hopkins lay. "My friend," I said, "I am grieved to hear of your sad accident."

"It is the Lord," faintly replied the sufferer, "let him do what seemeth him good."

I was truly rejoiced to hear these words, and asked, "Are you, then, able patiently to submit to God's will?"

"I trust," said Hopkins, "I know whom I have believed; and if, as I feel must be the case, my death be near at hand, I trust that, through the merits of my Saviour, to die will be my gain. In the world I have had tribulation, but in Christ I have peacemost precious peace."

Seeing that he was too weak to bear muca conversation, I simply commended him in prayer to God, and left him with a promise that I would visit him again the next day.

301

On my return to the park, I found that Sir William was perfectly sensible, and desired to see me. When I entered the room, he bade his attendant withdraw, and, taking my hand in his as I seated myself by the bed, he exclaimed

"Emerson, I am very miserable.".

"And in truth, my dear friend," replied I, "it grieves me to the heart to see you in this condition." "It is not that-it is not that," he said, with quickness; "what is the pain I suffer-what even is the sorrow "-here his voice faltered-" of my wife? All this might be borne, but do you know "-in the deepest tone of thrilling emotion-" do you knowI dread to die?"

"Let me beg you, then," I said, "to look to that Divine Saviour who has destroyed death, and him that had the power of death."

66

Ay, there is my misery," he rejoined; "I have rejected the Saviour, and now he has rejected me." "Oh no!" I cried, "the sinner that cometh unto him he will in no wise cast out."

"I tell you," repeated Sir William, "that I have rejected him, and he has justly rejected me."

He paused for a moment, then summoning his remaining strength, he added, "I will tell you all. You know how, in years gone by, I disregarded religion, and maintained that any worship, if sincere, was acceptable to the Deity; and that we need only avoid grossness of conduct to possess all the virtue that could by possibility be required. This was generally my opinion, and I had almost forgotten that any one could entertain another, till about six months ago I was called to the death-bed of a near relation, my mother's sister. She showed me in what peace a true Christian could die, and earnestly entreated me to seek the favour of God in his Son. I was impressed at first with the importance of what she said, but the impression has worn off; and-shall I speak the truth? I have striven to efface it. I have combated conviction till I have entirely extinguished it. It is true, that from time to time unpleasant thoughts have risen in my mind-and perhaps you may have observed me occasionally dispirited, that was the reason-but I have persisted in neglecting the Bible, and in disregarding prayer; I have forced myself to believe that my upright character was enough. I have, in my prosperity, rejected Christ, and now I feel that he, in my adversity, has rejected me. I now see that there can be salvation in no other; I now see the necessity of a change of heart, which, as a child, I was by a pious mother taught, but, alas! I see all this too late."

The agony of my unfortunate friend's mind was most distressing: I endeavoured to comfort him with the assurance that the blood of Jesus Christ can cleanse from all sin, and that if, with simple confidence in him, he would look to his cross, he would assuredly find relief. But he withstood every attempt to console him, and persisted that, after his resolute rejection of the Saviour, the Saviour had justly rejected him. I left the room in bitter affliction at the contrast I had witnessed. In the poor man's hut, where there was no earthly consolation, where poor Hopkins lay on a flock-bed in racking pain, without a friendly hand to wipe of the chill dews of death as they gathered on his brow, there was peace and joy, a sure trust in the Redeemer's merits, a hope that was full of immortality. Death was welcomed as the gate of everlasting life. In the rich man's hall, where every hand was ministering to his necessities, and all that human power could effect was done; in a splendidly furnished chamber lay Sir William ; his bodily pains had almost ceased, but his heart was filled with disquiet, and his anticipations were misery. Death was dreaded as the portal

of an unseen state which he shuddered to contemplate.

Sir

ex

I shall not attempt to describe the agonizing scenes of that night and the next morning. William slept little. Over his pallid countenance swept rapidly shade after shade of strong emotion, and his unresting eye glared on each by turns of those that watched beside his bed. Several times I offered up prayers for him, but prayer seemed to give him no ease. I read portions of the Scripture to him, but he fixed on every threatening rather than on a promise. Nature was now fast sinking, and at nine o'clock, October, 18-, Sir William pired. His last words, as well as we could catch the low murmur of his voice, were-" O Son of God, would that I had not rejected thee till it was TOO LATE!" Over his grave a veil must be cast. It is not for us to know how far, even at his last hour, Christ might mercifully pluck this brand from the burning. But such an end does utter an awful warning to men to lay hold of, in their day, the things that make for their peace, before they be hidden from their eyes.

In the afternoon I was reminded of my promise to visit Hopkins, by a little boy from a neighbour's cottage, who brought me a message from the dying man, begging me to hasten down to him, that he might see me once more. I crossed the park, therefore, immediately, and soon stood beside him. Upon his features a heavenly peace seemed to rest.

"I am a guilty sinner," he feebly said, "but my Saviour's blood, I can trust, has washed away my transgressions. Oh that I could glorify him more! I go where there will be no more pain, no more poverty or sickness. Happy, happy lot!" "Are you in much pain?" I asked.

"Oh yes! very much, but Christ helps me to bear it."

"And are you depending on his merits only for acceptance."

"On him alone," he answered; "he is my only hope."

[ocr errors]

And he will not leave you nor forsake you," I replied.

"No, God is faithful; his promises in Christ are yea and amen. Oh glory!" he said, with a faltering tongue, and sunk into a lethargic doze. I waited his awaking. In about a quarter of an hour he slowly opened his eyes, stretched out his hand as if to grasp mine, and then feebly uttering some words of which I could only catch one-“ faithful!" after a short struggle he fell asleep in Jesus. Happy art thou, I thought, my poor brother; happier in thy low estate than the rich man in his wealth. Thou art, doubtless, now before the throne of God, where "the wicked cease from troubling," and " the weary be at rest," Job. iii. 17. Sir William and John Hopkins were buried the same day, at church. A long train of carriages and many mourners accompanied the body of the baronet, as it was laid in the sumptuous tomb of his fathers. The bearers alone stood round the grave of Hopkins, as in a distant corner of the churchyard there were committed, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life."

If this simple narrative makes the impression I desire on those who read it, they will see how far better it is to be poor in this world, and rich in faith, than to have their good things here, with no treasure secured on high. May they learn, when good and evil, when life and death are set before them, may they learn, and be strengthened thereto by God's Spirit, to choose the good, that their souls may live for ever!-Church of England Magazine.

THE UNHEEDED WARNING.

Ir was some time ago-it must have been five, six, yes, seven years, when I first met Ellen D--. I saw her but twice. I shall never forget her.

She was standing before a mirror, when I first observed her arranging her dress for an evening ball. She wore a robe of pure white satin. A simple band of pearls clasped her snowy neck, and on her head was no ornament save her own dark shining hair, which was swept back in wavy clusters from her forehead, and woven in tasteful braids behind. On her cheek was a faint yet brilliant glow, like the first blush of morning; her lips were red and smiling, and her full black eye burned like a star. As she stood before me, humming a lively tune, and half tripping off into the steps of a favourite dance, my childish imagination fancied her the happiest, as well as the most beautiful, creature that I had ever seen. She turned round as I entered the room, and curtsying gaily to a quiet-looking elderly lady, who with looks of kind and admiring interest was watching her movements.

She was interrupted by a sharp, quick ring at the door bell. There was a sound of confused, anxious voices in the hall-a moment after, her mother entered.

She looked pale and startled, and paused as if collecting strength to speak.

"Bad news, mother?" said Ellen hurriedly, "what, what is it?"

66

Ellen, my child, your young friend Anna Morris is dead!"

The smile fled from the lips of the terrified girl. She stood like one in a dream.

"Dead!" repeated she, slowly, "Anna Morris dead? why it is but this morning that I met her in the street, as well and happy as ever."

"She was seized with convulsions in the early part of the evening; about an hour ago she died. Her mother has sent for me. Will you excuse yourself from the ball and go with me, Ellen?" She leaned against the arm of the sofa near which For a few moments her face she was standing. looked sad and thoughtful. She was silent. Visions of a darkened room, a pale corpse, a shroud, a pall and a grave, rushed unbidden and gloomily through her mind; then came others, of a brilliantly lighted ball and festal throng; of whispered compliments, and mirth and song. The tempter was at work. Ellen, will you go?"

66

She raised her head. "Not to-night, mother, tomorrow I will. You know the sight of a dead person unnerves me. I could not look at poor Anna just now.'

[ocr errors]

"It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting. Anna was as young and gay as you."

"Only to-night, mother, only to-night," pleaded the conscience-warned girl. "I promise you that it is the last ball I ever will attend, and, kissing her mother fondly, she slipped away."

The mother went alone to her watch beside the

« ForrigeFortsæt »