The City of Prague was divided into two parts, the Old Town and the New
Town. In the middle of the Old Town was a large open space, called the
Great Square. On the west side of the Great Square stood the Council
House, on the east the old Thein Church. The condemned prisoners, half
of whom were Brethren, were in the Council House: in front of their
window was the scaffold, draped in black cloth, twenty feet high,
and twenty-two yards square; from the window they stepped out on to
a balcony, and from the balcony to the scaffold ran a short flight of
steps. In that Great Square, and on that scaffold, we find the scene of
our story.
When early in the morning of Monday, June 21st, the assembled prisoners
looked out of the windows of their rooms to take their last view of
earth, they saw a splendid, a brilliant, a gorgeous, but to them a
terrible scene {1621.}. They saw God's sun just rising in the east and
reddening the sky and shining in each other's faces; they saw the dark
black scaffold bathed in light, and the squares of infantry and cavalry
ranged around it; they saw the eager, excited throng, surging and
swaying in the Square below and crowding on the house-tops to right and
left; and they saw on the further side of the square the lovely twin
towers of the old Thein Church, where Gregory had knelt and Rockycana
had preached in the brave days of old. As the church clocks chimed
the hour of five a gun was fired from the castle; the prisoners were
informed that their hour had come, and were ordered to prepare for
their doom; and Lichtenstein and the magistrates stepped out on to the
balcony, an awning above them to screen them from the rising sun. The
last act of the tragedy opened.
As there was now a long morning's work to be done, that work was begun
at once; and as the heads of the martyrs fell off the block in quick
succession the trumpets brayed and the drums beat an accompaniment. Grim
and ghastly was the scene in that Great Square in Prague, on that bright
June morning well nigh three hundred years ago. There fell the flower of
the Bohemian nobility; and there was heard the swan song of the Bohemian
Brethren. As the sun rose higher in the eastern sky and shone on the
windows of the Council House, the sun of the Brethren's pride and power
was setting in a sea of blood; and clear athwart the lingering light
stood out, for all mankind to see, the figures of the last defenders of
their freedom and their faith. Among the number not one had shown the
white feather in prospect of death. Not a cheek was blanched, not
a voice faltered as the dread hour drew near. One and all they had
fortified themselves to look the waiting angel of death in the face.
As they sat in their rooms the evening before--a sabbath evening it
was--they had all, in one way or another, drawn nigh to God in prayer.
In one room the prisoners had taken the Communion together, in another
they joined in singing psalms and hymns; in another they had feasted
in a last feast of love. Among these were various shades of
faith--Lutherans, Calvinists, Utraquists, Brethren; but now all
differences were laid aside, for all was nearly over now. One laid the
cloth, and another the plates; a third brought water and a fourth said
the simple grace. As the night wore on they lay down on tables and
benches to snatch a few hours of that troubled sleep which gives no
rest. At two they were all broad awake again, and again the sound of
psalms and hymns was heard; and as the first gleams of light appeared
each dressed himself as though for a wedding, and carefully turned down
the ruffle of his collar so as to give the executioner no extra trouble.
Swiftly, in order, and without much cruelty the gory work was done. The
morning's programme had all been carefully arranged. At each corner of
the square was a squad of soldiers to hold the people in awe, and
to prevent an attempt at rescue. One man, named Mydlar, was the
executioner; and, being a Protestant, he performed his duties with as
much decency and humanity as possible. He used four different swords,
and was paid about £100 for his morning's work. With his first sword he
beheaded eleven; with his second, five; with his two last, eight. The
first of these swords is still to be seen at Prague, and has the names
of its eleven victims engraven upon it. Among these names is the name of
Wenzel von Budowa. In every instance Mydlar seems to have done his
duty at one blow. At his side stood an assistant, and six masked men in
black. As soon as Mydlar had severed the neck, the assistant placed
the dead man's right hand on the block; the sword fell again; the hand
dropped at the wrist; and the men in black, as silent as night, gathered
up the bleeding members, wrapped them in clean black cloth, and swiftly
bore them away.
The name of Budowa was second on the list. As many of the records of the
time were destroyed by fire, we are not able to tell in full what part
Budowa had played in the great revolt. He had, however, been a leader
on the conquered side. He had fought, as we know, for the Letter of
Majesty; he had bearded Rudolph II. in his den; he had openly opposed
the election of Ferdinand II.; he had welcomed Frederick, the Protestant
Winter King, at the city gates; and, therefore, he was justly regarded
by Ferdinand as a champion of the Protestant national faith and an enemy
of the Catholic Church and throne. As he was now over seventy years of
age it is hardly likely that he had fought on the field of battle. After
the battle of the White Mountain he had retired with his family to his
country estate. He had then, strange to say, been one of those entrapped
into Prague by Lichtenstein, and had been imprisoned in the White Tower.
There he was tried and condemned as a rebel, and there, as even Gindely
admits, he bore himself like a hero to the last. At first, along with
some other nobles, he signed a petition to the Elector of Saxony,
imploring him to intercede with the Emperor on their behalf. The
petition received no answer. He resigned himself to his fate. He was
asked why he had walked into the lion's den. For some reason that I fail
to understand Gindely says that what we are told about the conduct of
the prisoners has only a literary interest. To my mind the last words of
Wenzel of Budowa are of the highest historical importance. They show how
the fate of the Brethren's Church was involved in the fate of Bohemia.
He had come to Prague as a patriot and as a Brother. He was dying both
for his country and for his Church.
"My heart impelled me to come," he said; "to forsake my country and its
cause would have been sinning against my conscience. Here am I, my God,
do unto Thy servant as seemeth good unto Thee. I would rather die myself
than see my country die."
As he sat in his room on the Saturday evening--two days before the
execution--he was visited by two Capuchin monks. He was amazed at their
boldness. As they did not understand Bohemian, the conversation was
conducted in Latin. They informed him that their visit was one of pity.
"Of pity?" asked the white-haired old Baron, "How so?"
"We wish to show your lordship the way to heaven." He assured them that
he knew the way and stood on firm ground.
"My Lord only imagines," they rejoined, "that he knows the way of
salvation. He is mistaken. Not being a member of the Holy Church, he has
no share in the Church's salvation."
But Budowa placed his trust in Christ alone.
"I have this excellent promise," he said, "Whosoever believeth in Him
shall not perish but have everlasting life. Therefore, until my last
moment, will I abide by our true Church."
Thus did Budowa declare the faith of the Brethren. The Capuchin monks
were horrified. They smote their breasts, declared that so hardened a
heretic they had never seen, crossed themselves repeatedly, and left him
sadly to his fate.
For the last time, on the Monday morning, he was given another chance to
deny his faith. Two Jesuits came to see him.
"We have come to save my lord's soul," they said, "and to perform a work
of mercy."
"Dear fathers," replied Budowa, "I thank my God that His Holy Spirit
has given me the assurance that I will be saved through the blood of
the Lamb." He appealed to the words of St. Paul: "I know whom I have
believed: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness,
which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day."
"But," said the Jesuits, "Paul there speaks of himself, not of others."
"You lie," said Budowa, "for does he not expressly add: 'and not to me
only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.'"
And after a little more argumentation, the Jesuits left in disgust.
The last moment in Budowa's life now arrived. The messenger came and
told him it was his turn to die. He bade his friends farewell.
"I go," he declared, "in the garment of righteousness; thus arrayed
shall I appear before God."
Alone, with firm step he strode to the scaffold, stroking proudly his
silver hair and beard.
"Thou old grey head of mine," said he, "thou art highly honoured; thou
shalt be adorned with the Martyr-Crown."
As he knelt and prayed he was watched by the pitying eyes of the two
kind-hearted Jesuits who had come to see him that morning. He prayed for
his country, for his Church, for his enemies, and committed his soul
to Christ; the sword flashed brightly in the sun; and one strong
blow closed the restless life of Wenzel von Budowa, the "Last of the
Bohemians."
And with his death there came the death of the Ancient Church of the
Brethren. From the moment when Budowa's hoary head fell from the block
the destruction of the Church was only a question of time. As Budowa
died, so died the others after him. We have no space to tell here in
detail how his bright example was followed; how nearly all departed with
the words upon their lips, "Into Thy hands I commend my spirit"; how the
drums beat louder each time before the sword fell, that the people might
not hear the last words of triumphant confidence in God; how Caspar
Kaplir, an old man of eighty-six, staggered up to the scaffold arrayed
in a white robe, which he called his wedding garment, but was so weak
that he could not hold his head to the block; how Otto von Los looked
up and said, "Behold I see the heavens opened"; how Dr. Jessen, the
theologian, had his tongue seized with a pair of tongs, cut off at the
roots with a knife, and died with the blood gushing from his mouth; how
three others were hanged on a gallows in the Square; how the fearful
work went steadily on till the last head had fallen, and the black
scaffold sweated blood; and how the bodies of the chiefs were flung
into unconsecrated ground, and their heads spitted on poles in the
city, there to grin for full ten years as a warning to all who held the
Protestant faith. In all the story of the Brethren's Church there has
been no other day like that. It was the day when the furies seemed to
ride triumphant in the air, when the God of their fathers seemed to
mock at the trial of the innocent, and when the little Church that had
battled so bravely and so long was at last stamped down by the heel of
the conqueror, till the life-blood flowed no longer in her veins.
Not, indeed, till the last breath of Church life had gone did the
fearful stamping cease. The zeal of Ferdinand knew no bounds. He was
determined, not only to crush the Brethren, but to wipe their memory
from off the face of the earth. He regarded the Brethren as a noisome
pest. Not a stone did he and his servants leave unturned to destroy
them. They began with the churches. Instead of razing them to the
ground, which would, of course, have been wanton waste, they turned them
into Roman Catholic Chapels by the customary methods of purification and
rededication. They rubbed out the inscriptions on the walls, and put
new ones in their places, lashed the pulpits with whips, beat the altars
with sticks, sprinkled holy water to cleanse the buildings of heresy,
opened the graves and dishonoured the bones of the dead. Where once was
the cup for Communion was now the image of the Virgin. Where once
the Brethren had sung their hymns and read their Bibles were now the
Confessional and the Mass.
Meanwhile the Brethren had been expelled from Bohemia. It is a striking
proof of the influence of the Brethren that Ferdinand turned his
attention to them before he troubled about the other Protestants. They
had been the first in moral power; they had done the most to spread the
knowledge of the Bible; they had produced the greatest literary men
of the country; and, therefore, now they must be the first to go. What
actually happened to many of the Brethren during the next few years
no tongue can tell. But we know enough. We know that Ferdinand cut the
Letter of Majesty in two with his scissors. We know that thirty-six
thousand families left Bohemia and Moravia, and that the population of
Bohemia dwindled from three millions to one. We know that about one-half
of the property--lands, houses, castles, churches--passed over into the
hands of the King. We know that the University of Prague was handed over
to the Jesuits. We know that the scandalous order was issued that all
Protestant married ministers who consented to join the Church of Rome
might keep their wives by passing them off as cooks. We know that
villages were sacked; that Kralitz Bibles, Hymn-books, Confessions,
Catechisms, and historical works of priceless value--among others
Blahoslaw's "History of the Brethren"--were burned in thousand; and that
thus nearly every trace of the Brethren was swept out of the land. We
know that some of the Brethren were hacked in pieces, that some were
tortured, that some were burned alive, that some swung on gibbets at the
city gates and at the country cross-roads among the carrion crows. For
six years Bohemia was a field of blood, and Spanish soldiers, drunk and
raging, slashed and pillaged on every hand. "Oh, to what torments," says
a clergyman of that day, "were the promoters of the Gospel exposed!
How they were tortured and massacred! How many virgins were violated to
death! How many respectable women abused! How many children torn from
their mothers' breasts and cut in pieces in their presence! How many
dragged from their beds and thrown naked from the windows! Good God!
What cries of woe we were forced to hear from those who lay upon the
rack, and what groans and terrible outcries from those who besought the
robbers to spare them for God's sake." It was thus that the Brethren, at
the point of the sword, were driven from hearth and home: thus that
they fled before the blast and took refuge in foreign lands; thus,
amid bloodshed, and crime, and cruelty, and nameless torture, that the
Ancient Church of the Bohemian Brethren bade a sad farewell to the land
of its birth, and disappeared from the eyes of mankind.
Let us review the story of that wonderful Church. What a marvellous
change had come upon it! It began in the quiet little valley of Kunwald:
it ended in the noisy streets of Prague. It began in peace and brotherly
love: it ended amid the tramp of horses, the clank of armour, the swish
of swords, the growl of artillery, the whistle of bullets, the blare of
trumpets, the roll of drums, and the moans of the wounded and the dying.
It began in the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount: it ended amid the
ghastly horrors of war. What was it that caused the destruction of
that Church? At this point some historians, being short of facts, have
thought fit to indulge in philosophical reflections; and, following
the stale philosophy of Bildad--that all suffering is the punishment of
sin--have informed us that the Brethren were now the victims of internal
moral decay. They had lost, we are told, their sense of unity; they had
relaxed their discipline; they had become morally weak; and the day of
their external prosperity was the day of their internal decline. For
this pious and utterly unfounded opinion the evidence usually summoned
is the fact that Bishop Amos Comenius, in a sermon entitled "Haggai
Redivivus," had some rather severe remarks to make about the sins of his
Brethren. But Bishops' sermons are dangerous historical evidence. It is
not the business of a preacher to tell the whole truth in one discourse.
He is not a witness in the box; he is a prophet aiming at some special
moral reform. If a Bishop is lecturing his Brethren for their failings
he is sure to indulge, not exactly in exaggeration, but in one-sided
statements of the facts. He will talk at length about the sins, and
say nothing about the virtues. It is, of course, within the bounds of
possibility that when the Brethren became more prosperous they were not
so strict in some of their rules as they had been in earlier days; and
it is also true that when Wenzel von Budowa summoned his followers to
arms, the deed was enough, as one writer remarks, to make Gregory the
Patriarch groan in his grave. But of any serious moral decline there
is no solid proof. It is absurd to blame the Brethren for mixing in
politics, and absurd to say that this mixing was the cause of their
ruin. At that time in Bohemia religion and politics were inseparable. If
a man took a definite stand in religion he took thereby a definite stand
in politics. To be a Protestant was to be a rebel. If Budowa had never
lifted a finger, the destruction of the Brethren would have been no less
complete. The case of Baron Charles von Zerotin proves the point. He
took no part in the rebellion; he sided, in the war, with the House of
Hapsburg; he endeavoured, that is, to remain a Protestant and yet at
the same time a staunch supporter of Ferdinand; and yet, loyal subject
though he was, he was not allowed, except for a few years, to shelter
Protestant ministers in his castle, and had finally to sell his estates
and to leave the country. At heart, Comenius had a high opinion of his
Brethren. For nearly fifty weary years--as we shall see in the next
chapter--this genius and scholar longed and strove for the revival
of the Brethren's Church, and in many of his books he described the
Brethren, not as men who had disgraced their profession, but as heroes
holding the faith in purity. He described his Brethren as broad-minded
men, who took no part in religious quarrels, but looked towards heaven,
and bore themselves affably to all; he said to the exiles in one of his
letters, "You have endured to the end"; he described them again, in
a touching appeal addressed to the Church of England, as a model of
Christian simplicity; and he attributed their downfall in Bohemia,
not to any moral weakness, but to their neglect of education. If the
Brethren, he argued, had paid more attention to learning, they would
have gained the support of powerful friends, who would not have allowed
them to perish. I admit, of course, that Comenius was naturally partial,
and that when he speaks in praise of the Brethren we must receive his
evidence with caution; but, on the other hand, I hold that the theory of
a serious moral decline, so popular with certain German historians,
is not supported by evidence. If the Brethren had shown much sign
of corruption we should expect to find full proof of the fact in the
Catholic writers of the day. But such proof is not to hand. Not even
the Jesuit historian, Balbin, had anything serious to say against the
Brethren. The only Catholic writer, as far as I know, who attacked their
character was the famous Papal Nuncio, Carlo Caraffa. He says that the
Brethren in Moravia had become a little ambitious and avaricious, "with
some degree of luxury in their habits of life";[53] but he has no remarks
of a similar nature to make about the Brethren in Bohemia. The real
cause of the fall of the Brethren was utterly different. They fell,
not because they were morally weak, but because they were killed by the
sword or forcibly robbed of their property. They fell because Bohemia
fell; and Bohemia fell for a variety of reasons; partly because her
peasants were serfs and had no fight left in them; partly because
her nobles blundered in their choice of a Protestant King; and partly
because, when all is said, she was only a little country in the grip
of a mightier power. In some countries the Catholic reaction was due
to genuine religious fervour; in Bohemia it was brought about by brute
force; and even with all his money and his men King Ferdinand found
the destruction of the Brethren no easy task. He had the whole house of
Hapsburg on his side; he had thousands of mercenary soldiers from Spain;
he was restrained by no scruples of conscience; and yet it took him six
full years to drive the Brethren from the country. And even then he had
not completed his work. In spite of his efforts, many thousands of
the people still remained Brethren at heart; and as late as 1781,
when Joseph II. issued his Edict of Toleration, 100,000 in Bohemia and
Moravia declared themselves Brethren. We have here a genuine proof of
the Brethren's vigour. It had been handed on from father to son through
five generations. For the Brethren there was still no legal recognition
in Bohemia and Moravia; the Edict applied to Lutherans and Calvinists
only; and if the Brethren had been weak men they might now have called
themselves Lutherans or Calvinists. But this, of course, carries us
beyond the limits of this chapter. For the present King Ferdinand had
triumphed; and word was sent to the Pope at Rome that the Church of the
Brethren was no more.