Mayken Karlzon's Diary.
A Story of the Inquisition in Spain and Holland.
By C.J.L.
London: Morrish, 20, Paternoster Square, E.C., 1921.
Contents
Chapter 1. Stories of Sunny Spain
Chapter 2. The Gathering of the Storm
Chapter 3. The Field-Preaching
Chapter 4. Julianillo Heramdez, Muleteer and Martyr
Chapter 5. Images and Image-Makers
Chapter 6. One Stormy Night
Chapter 7. How They Kept the Faith in Holland
Chapter 8. "William the Silent"
Chapter 9. Dark Clouds with Silver Linings
Chapter 10. Faithful Witnesses
Chapter 11. A Strange Story
Chapter 12. Birds of Passage
Chapter 13. "The Noble Army of Martyrs"
Chapter 14. "Stormy Wind Fulfilling His Word"
Chapter 15. The Siege of Leyden
Chapter 16. The Defence of Leyden
Chapter 17. The Relief of Leyden
Chapter 18. "Joy-Bells Ringing"
Chapter 19. Henry of Navarre
Chapter 20. The Nun of Jourre
Chapter 21. Among the Heather
Chapter 22. More About the Huguenots
Chapter 23. The Edict of Nantes
Chapter 24. A Great Sorrow
Preface.
The days which are portrayed in the following pages were stirring and eventful ones. Though Germany was, as we know, the birthplace and early home of the Reformation, gleams of gospel light were seen here and there amid the darkness that had for hundreds of years hung over nearly the whole of Europe; and in Spain, some whose hearts had been prepared to receive the Glad Tidings came boldly out as witnesses for their Lord. San Roman was the first, though far from being the last, of the "noble army" of Spanish martyrs.
The Siege of Leyden is far more than an interesting page of history. It is a record of the goodness and faithfulness of God.
The days in which you and I, dear young friends, are living are not less solemn and eventful. The effort of the enemy on every hand is to take away our Bibles, not by threats of imprisonment, or death, but by trying to shake our faith in the Bible as The Word of God.
May the simple record of what has been suffered for the truth's sake in Spain and Holland be an encouragement to us all to prize our Bibles more than we have ever done, knowing that "ALL Scripture is Given by Inspiration of God."
C. J. L.
Chapter 1.
Stories of Sunny Spain.
May 1st, 1565. This is my birthday, and I am twelve years old today. I think it is very pleasant to have a birthday. I am quite rich in presents. Darling mother has given me a beautiful new hood and a hymn-book, and Truyken, the faithful old housekeeper, who has lived so many years in our family that she was my father's nurse when he was only two years old, bought me a work-bag with my name, Mayken Karlzon, embroidered upon it in crimson wool, a most useful present; for, as she says, I am getting too old to care for toys, and it was very kind of her to take so much trouble to give me pleasure. But I think the present I like the very best of all is the one I received from my dear father. It is a large, thick volume, bound in brown leather, and in gilt letters on its cover are the words, "Manuscript Book." It is not like any book I have ever seen before, for it must be written before it can be read, though I suppose this is true of all books; but the strange thing that makes it seem so different from other books is, that I am to write it; father says so, and as I always try to do as he wishes me, of course I shall try.
When I asked father, "What shall I write?" he answered, "True stories, Mayken; but they must be ALL-TRUE. Let every one be a page of history. Some will belong to the past, some to the present, for Holland may yet count her martyrs by scores, perhaps by hundreds, for King Philip of Spain cares little that his subjects in the Netherlands are loyal, peace-loving and industrious, as long as they refuse the authority of the Pope and desire liberty to read the word of God for themselves."
So I must begin at once. I think that next to the Bible stories, which I never tire of listening to, the stories that interest me most are those mother tells me in the quiet hour on Sunday evenings before the lamps are lighted. Some of these stories are sad ones, for when she tells me about the Spanish martyrs, who laid down their lives rather than deny their Lord, her voice is very low and sad, and more than once I have seen by the firelight that tears were in her eyes; I felt ready to cry too, but she kissed away a tear that was just ready to fall, and said, "Do not weep, Mayken, but rather rejoice, as they rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer for the Lord they loved; their sufferings were quickly over, but their reward is eternal." "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more . . . for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." (Rev. 7:16, 17.)
All mother's stories are so interesting that I hardly know which to choose, but perhaps her own account of something that happened when she was a very little girl ought to come first.
I think her home must have been a very happy one; she was not, like myself, an only child, but had brothers and sisters, who loved her and used to play with her. Her father, who would have been my grand-papa, died when she was too young to remember much about him, and after his death her mother took her children to live in the house of her mother, who was, like herself, a widow. Their home was in Valladolid, a beautiful Spanish town. But dearly as she loved her mother and her home, some very happy weeks were spent every year in the cottage of her old nurse, Annetta, who had married a vine-dresser named Ambrose, and lived a little way in the country. When there, she was allowed to run about the garden, feed the chickens, help or hinder Ambrose as he trimmed his vines, and do many other things that were a never-failing delight to the town-bred child.
One morning, soon after sunrise, she was roused from sleep by Annetta's voice saying, "Awake, little lady, it is the 'fete,' and my darling will see wonderful sights to-day. She shall have her best dress on, for the princes and nobles will be there, and bishops, and priests, and grand ladies with their court dresses all ablaze with jewels, and there will be music, and the choir boys in their white robes will sing. Ah, it will be a beautiful show."
Every one in the little household was soon ready, and my mother, after being dressed by Annetta with more than usual care, garlanded with white roses, and adorned with some golden ornaments that had belonged to Annetta's great-grandmother, was seated upon a donkey, which was carefully led by Ambrose.
The Grand Square was crowded with people, all dressed in holiday attire; but getting out of the throng as quickly as possible, they went to the house of Annetta's sister, whose windows looked out upon the square.
No market of fruit and vegetables was held in the square that day. In the centre a platform had been raised, on which stood a tall, green cross; twelve large wax tapers were burning round it, though their light looked pale and dim in the glory of the sunshine that flooded the whole scene. The cross was guarded by monks, who wore long, black robes, while a guard of soldiers stood around.
After they had waited a little time, the procession came in sight. First walked the choir boys, then a large silver cross was carried, followed by a great number of monks and priests; then came the mayor and great men of the city, followed by the nobles on their beautiful horses. But just behind the cross walked several men wearing such strange dresses that at first my mother thought it was to amuse the people they formed part of the show. But they looked grave, and it was easy to see that they did not enjoy it, for almost every one pointed at them, and so she began to wonder what it all could mean. Some carried crosses and were dressed in black; but others wore long, loose coats painted all over with red tongues of flame, the points turning downward. But she soon forgot to look at the gay ladies, or the fine horses of the nobles, one man had so fixed her attention, and indeed every one seemed to be looking at him, and all around her she heard whispers, such as, "Look at him, he is still obstinate. He will not confess to a priest, or even kiss the holy relics. He must truly be a wicked man. The priest says it is sin even to pray for him."
But my mother thought he did not look like a wicked man. He wore the same ugly dress as the others, with this difference, that on his yellow robe the flames pointed upward, as real flames always do. His head was covered by a high pasteboard cap written all over with black letters. He was not an old man, she felt sure of that, and yet he walked with a slow and tottering step. A number of monks, called "Black Friars," kept talking to him in loud, angry voices, as if they wished to force him to do or say something. At first he tried to answer them, but they would not listen to what he said, so he was silent, but every now and then he looked upward with such a peaceful, happy look, and his lips moved as if in prayer.
After a little while San Roman, for that was his name, was placed upon a platform, just opposite to the cross, and one of the friars went into a wooden pulpit, covered with crimson cloth, and it sounded just as if he were scolding San Roman. When that was over, the whole company knelt down and repeated in Latin the Roman creed. I said the whole company, but there was one man who remained standing, and that was San Roman. This seemed to make the monks more angry than before. Two went up to him and, taking hold of him quite roughly, tried to make him kneel down, while a third held a crucifix close to his face which he wanted him to kiss. But though San Roman looked ill and was very pale, he would not kneel or kiss the crucifix. Then an angry murmur rose from the crowd, and she heard some one say, "He must have an evil spirit since even the rack failed to bring him to his senses." What could it all mean? If San Roman had been a very bad man would his face have been so full of peace and even joy? There was beautiful music, but she did not listen to it, for her eyes and her thoughts were fixed upon San Roman. What would happen to him? The soldiers made a passage through the crowd, and after all the men who were so strangely dressed had knelt at the feet of a tall, dark man, who they told her was the General of the Inquisition, San Roman stood alone.
Then the friars tried again to make him do as they wished, but he still refused so they led him down the steps and placed him upon an ass, for he was too weak to walk, and the people cried, "Away with him, he is not fit to live." Two friars led the ass away and the people saw it and its rider no more, but the look of peace was still upon his pale face.
But mother is calling "Mayken, little daughter, where are you?" so my story must for to-day be an unfinished one.
Chapter 2.
The Gathering of the Storm.
May 15th, 1565. Can it be only a fortnight since I wrote even a page of my MS. book? Only a fortnight, it seems longer; perhaps because so much has happened; we are living in such strange times, when so much, not only of the history of our own Holland, but of the progress of the reformed faith in France, Germany and England is being written, that I feel sometimes as if I never could be a happy, thoughtless child again.
I left the story of San Roman unfinished, for mother was calling me, and I entered our family sitting-room, which I always think a very pleasant place, with its high-backed chairs covered with crimson damask, and the large, open fire-place, from which, when I was a tiny child, mother gave me such sweet, simple Bible lessons
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