The great struggle for religious liberty, which began with Huss and Wycliffe, culminated in the age of Luther, Calvin, and Cranmer, and continues to pervade modern thought and feeling, is apt to blind us to earlier movements in the same direction. The sixteenth century is so inseparably linked with our ideas of the Reformation, that to connect the word with a previous epoch seems almost like a paradox. But the intellectual night of the middle ages was not quite as dark as modern Protestant pride is apt to fancy, neither did nations and individuals bow without resistance to the yoke of Rome. The thirteenth century especially may be justly described as an epoch of religious revolution. Heresy raised its multifarious heads in all countries of Europe, from the Danubian principalities to the English shores of the Atlantic. Everywhere the vices of the clergy were laid bare with merciless satire, in many places the cry for liberty of thought and doctrine was raised, and the translation of the Bible into the language of the people is frequently found amongst the demands of heterodox theologians. And whatever the dissensions amongst the various sects might be, they were united in their hatred and opposition to the Church of Rome.

This alarming circumstance was fully realised by the man to whose energy the resistance and final victory of Papal supremacy were in a great measure due, Pope Innocent III. Speaking of the various classes of heretics, he says: ‘Species quidem habentes diversas, sed caudas ad invicem colligatas.... Magisterium Ecclesiae Romanae refugiunt.’ As to the extraordinary knowledge of the Bible amongst some of the sects, another unimpeachable witness may be cited,—Reinerius, a Catholic convert and violent assailant of the Waldenses, who professes to have known a common peasant able to recite the whole of the book of Job, and several others who knew the New Testament by heart. It was not without reason, the reader will perceive, that about this time the Church became more and more anxious to wrench such a dangerous source of dissent and argumentation from the hands of the common people. Hence the notion, frequently insisted upon in ecclesiastical writings of the period, of the Bible being a book of unfathomable depth, all but incomprehensible to the greatest scholars, and useless, if not dangerous, to the vulgar.

No country in those days offered a more favourable soil to the growth of heresy than the south of France. Its wealth, its practical independence from the central power of the French kings, and the natural spirit of its inhabitants, had fostered a degree of local freedom all but unequalled in other parts of feudal Europe. Particularly the citizens of the large towns showed a remarkable spirit of pride and political ambition. As early as the thirteenth century, we hear of a legally constituted ‘tiers état,’ consisting of delegates of the towns, at the provincial assemblies of the county of Toulouse. A population of this kind was not likely to bow in silent awe to a priesthood, the vices and weaknesses of which were notorious, and formed a favourite butt for the satire of the troubadours. The step from antagonism to the representatives of the Roman Church to the rejection of its doctrine was easy, and hence we are not surprised to see the south of France described as the brood-nest of foulest heresy; nay, even the Provençal language, or langue d’oc, was harsh and repulsive to orthodox ears, and, as was mentioned before, Pope Innocent IV., in a bull dated 1245, forbade its use to the students.

The chief sect existing in the county of Toulouse and its dependencies derived its name from the town or diocese of Albi. But it must be remembered that Albigenses, or, in its French form, Albigeois, is a collective name used by the Catholics almost synonymously with heretics, and without regard to the most important doctrinal and moral variations. The Vaudois or Waldenses, for instance, although frequently mixed up with the Albigenses, seem to have had little in common with them beyond their opposition to Roman supremacy.⁠[26] My task being a purely literary consideration of the subject, I must deal with the Albigeois doctrine in the briefest fashion. Our knowledge of that doctrine is, moreover, anything but satisfactory or complete, being mainly derived from the statements of Catholic controversialists, the confessions of heretics preserved amongst the documents of the Inquisition, and the decrees of councils and provincial synods. The fanaticism of mediæval monks seems to have been fatal to the utterances of their adversaries. We do not indeed possess a single authentic document from an Albigeois source, and the celebrated embodiment of the Vaudois creed, called ‘The Noble Lesson.’ which Raynouard dated from the eleventh century, is now generally acknowledged to belong to a much later period, when the sect was cooped up in its Alpine recesses, and had lost its real importance and vitality. It seems at any rate doubtful whether this curious document contains the pure doctrine of the original ‘Poor Men of Lyons.’

From such sources as those indicated above, it may be concluded with tolerable certainty that the Albigenses were part of that great new-Manichean heresy, which, taking its rise amongst the Slav populations of the Balkan peninsula, gradually spread over almost every part of Western Europe, leaving traces of its name and aspirations in more than one modern language. The self-laudatory term of Cathari (from the Greek word καθαρός, pure) assumed by some of the heretics, was converted by the Germans into the generic term of ‘Ketzer,’ or heretic; and the Italian word ‘bugiardo,’ liar, is a lasting testimony of the repute in which Bulgarian veracity, deservedly or undeservedly, was held; not to mention other still more opprobrious epithets derived from the same root.

In common with other new-Manichean sects, the Albigenses seem to have rejected a Trinity, and to have placed in its stead a dualism of creative principles: one good, the other evil; one representing the invisible and spiritual, the other the physical and tangible. More obnoxious perhaps than this merely speculative attempt at the solution of an old metaphysical problem must have been, in the eyes of Romish priests, those doctrines which more immediately clashed with Papal dogmas and rites. To these belong the abolishment of mass and sacraments, and of the veneration of the saints. The idea of transubstantiation the Albigenses treated with scorn, and, moreover, they founded this and other heterodox opinions on the exclusive authority of the Bible, or rather of the New Testament, for against the Hebrew books they had a strange prejudice. The spiritual tinge of their doctrine made them adverse to marriage or any form of sexual intercourse, from which indeed the initiated abstained totally. From a similar point of view we have to explain another of their moral precepts, viz., vegetarianism, founded not on the nature-worship of Buddhism, or on Shelley s humanitarian enthusiasm, but on the abhorrence of the flesh and everything procreated by the flesh. For the same reason the prohibition did not extend to fish.

It is less apparent on what grounds they insisted upon another demand of modern philanthropists, the abolition of capital punishment. And it is not unlikely that our admiration of this almost unique instance of humanity in those cruel times would be considerably diminished by our knowledge of its motive. Most probably some absurd theological crotchet was at the bottom of it. For in that respect mediæval heretics were by no means in advance of their Catholic contemporaries. One of the questions, for instance, hotly discussed by Pope Innocent III. and the heretics, was, whether the number of nails used at the Crucifixion was three or four. The heretics inclined to the lower figure, and were soundly rated for that reason by a learned controversialist, who denounces their doctrine as unworthy of Catholics and Christians.

The charges of all manner of vices raised against the Albigeois by monkish chroniclers ought naturally to be received with great caution. Sometimes even these bear unwilling testimony to the general purity of their manners. It is said that on one occasion Folquet, the fanatical Bishop of Toulouse, asked a knight recently converted to Catholicism, why he and his friends did not drive the heretics from the country. ‘It is impossible,’ was the answer; ‘we have grown up amongst them, our friends and relations are of them, and we know that they lead honest lives.’ It is, however, by no means improbable that the exaggerated asceticism of their moral code frequently led to secret vice and hypocrisy.

The anecdote just related may at the same time give the reader an idea of the power and extension of the Provençal heresy, about the beginning of the thirteenth century, the period which chiefly concerns us here. It proves, and we know from other sources, that the sect was by no means limited to the lower orders. We hear, for instance, of a great teacher of the Albigeois, by name Guillabert de Castres, who had many followers amongst the highest nobility of Southern France. At one of his religious meetings, in 1204, he received amongst his flock five high-born ladies, one of them the sister of Count Raimon Roger of Foix, one of the most powerful lords of the country, of whom we shall hear again. The ladies, the old account runs, surrendered themselves to God and the Gospel. They consented to abstain from flesh, eggs, and cheese; the use of oil and fish, on the other hand, was conceded to them. They also promised never to take an oath nor to speak an untruth. Vows of perfect chastity, and of adherence to their creed at the risk of their lives, were further conditions of their reception amongst the faithful. The Count of Foix, and many knights and citizens, are said to have witnessed this conversion, and there is little doubt that the former himself followed, or perhaps had preceded, his sister’s example. But the same is not by any means certain of Raimon VI., Count of Toulouse, the champion of the national and religious freedom of Southern France. There is little evidence with regard to him of even an inclination towards the doctrinal views of the heretics, and he died a faithful son of the Catholic Church, although she refused him her comfortings in his last hours, and a grave after death. But it is just this orthodoxy of his dogmatical opinions which makes his position in the struggle so interesting. He is an almost unique instance in the middle ages of a strict adherent, nay a martyr, to religious toleration.

Raimon VI. was not, like his friend the Count of Foix, a fighting baron in the ordinary sense. His personal courage on the battle-field was unimpeachable, but he did not love the fight for the fight’s sake. When the spreading of the heresy in his territories, fostered by his leniency, first began to alarm the watchfulness of Rome, he did everything in his power to avoid the thunders of the Church. Many were the penances and humiliations and promises of amendment to which he submitted without much personal reluctance, it would seem. But all attempts at a final reconciliation were frustrated by his one unalterable resolve, not to give over his subjects to the tender mercies of the Inquisition. Their safety and freedom were to him dearer than his lands and castles, more sacred even than the vows extracted from him under compulsion. Much fault may be found with Raimon’s general conduct in these transactions; even in his noble principle of toleration he may have been influenced by the ties of relationship and other personal motives. But the fact remains, that at a time when heretics were treated worse than robbers and murderers, a great prince struggled and fought, at the risk of his life and property, for the religious freedom of his subjects, whose belief he did not share.

Raimon’s great antagonist—intellectually, and perhaps morally, infinitely his superior—was Pope Innocent III. He is one of those characters in history which leave their impress on periods of which they at the same time represent the highest development in one direction or another. Without him the Church of Rome might have succumbed to the aggressions of temporal and spiritual enemies, but neither would he have been possible except as the representative of a great spiritual power, full of latent vitality, and with a strong hold on the minds of the people. The one great idea of his life was the consolidation and enlargement of the Church, with regard to its dogma, its discipline, and its political power. To this aim he devoted the energy of his mind and the great stores of his acquired knowledge; to it he sacrificed his personal interests, perhaps his conscience. For, even accepting his own standard of duty, it is difficult to justify at least the one act of his reign which concerns us most immediately. This is, the diverting of the enthusiasm which found its tangible result in the Crusades, from the Turk, the common enemy of Christianity, to a comparatively harmless sect in his more immediate neighbourhood. I am alluding to the celebrated crusade preached by him against the Provençal heretics, fatal alike to the political freedom and to the independent literature of Southern France.

When Innocent, in 1198, at the early age of thirty-seven, ascended the chair of St. Peter, one of his first desires was to impart new life to the hitherto somewhat sluggish action against the Albigenses. The bishops of the threatened dioceses were admonished to take immediate and energetic measures, and a number of Papal legates were successively despatched to stem the current of heresy by preaching, personal persuasion, and, if need be, severe repression. Amongst the priests most devoted to the cause of Rome, and most fanatical in their orthodox zeal, two names stand out prominently—that of Folquet, Bishop of Toulouse, once a gay troubadour, now an ascetic; and that of St. Dominic, branded by history as the originator of the Inquisition.

Count Raimon’s attitude in the meantime seems to have been one of diplomatic evasion. When taken to task for his notorious connivance at the heretical movement, he meekly confessed his guilt, and promised the immediate expulsion of the culprits from his dominions. But no result followed; not even after the severest punishment of the Church, the Interdict, had been twice inflicted on him and his subjects. The instrument of the Papal wrath on the second occasion was Pierre de Castelnau, the legate; and his death at the hands of two unknown assassins, with which Count Raimon was charged, is the tragic close of the first scene of the Albigeois drama.

This event gave new zest to the extreme measure resolved upon by the Pope shortly before—the preaching of a crusade against the heretics and their protector. The political wisdom of such a measure is at once apparent, and fully accounts for its ultimate success. The fertile valleys and wealthy cities of Provence offered a tempting bait to pious plunderers, who at the same time avoided a wearisome and dangerous journey to the far East without losing any of the spiritual privileges connected with the more onerous task. Moreover, the Papal mandate was chiefly addressed to the ruler and the nobles of the French kingdom, who for a long time had looked with a covetous eye on the broad acres and rich vineyards of their southern neighbours.

The year 1209 marks the opening of the first crusade. The legates of the Pope guided the sacred army. Amongst the worldly leaders, the name of Simon de Montfort, father of the celebrated Earl of Leicester, is the most prominent. The incidents of this war, which lasted over twenty years, and laid waste the most flourishing provinces of France, are matter of history. Suffice it here to allude briefly to the revolting cruelties of the crusaders, and to such memorable events as the sieges of Lavaur and Beziers, and the decisive battle of Muret, at which Peter II. of Aragon, the brother-in-law and ally of Count Raimon, perished with the flower of his chivalry. It was at the sack of Beziers that that man of God, Arnaud, Abbot of Citeaux, when asked by the soldiers how to distinguish Catholics and heretics, spoke the pious words: ‘Kill them all; the Lord will know his own!’

In the end, the Church remained triumphant. Raimon died with a broken heart and a broken fortune. His valour in the field of battle had been in vain; even his most humiliating attempts at reconciliation with the Roman See had come to naught, owing, in great part, to the personal hatred of the legates and local clergy, who, out-heroding Herod, frustrated the milder intentions of the Pope. It ought to be added, in alleviation of the guilt of the priests, that religious intolerance was supported in this case by worldly ambition and covetousness. The crusade soon took the form of a political war between the North and the South of France; it was a struggle of provincial autonomy against centralisation. This issue also was gained by the invaders. As early as 1215, the lands of the Count of Toulouse were by the Pope given to his champion, Simon de Montfort, who, it is true, never enjoyed their quiet possession, and died in the defence of his ill-gotten title. By his eldest son, Amaury, these claims were ceded to the King of France, who in the meantime had taken a prominent part in the crusade. In the final peace concluded with the crown of France at Paris, in 1229, Count Raimon VII., son of Raimon VI., barely succeeded in retaining possession of the scanty remains of his heritage during his own lifetime. His daughter and heiress was married to the brother of the King of France. This marriage sealed the doom of southern independence; its customs, its traditions, and its literature were rapidly merged in the overpowering influence of northern centralisation. The langue d’oc descended to the level of a local patois.

It is sad to relate that the last recorded action of Raimon VII. was his personal attendance at the conviction and burning alive of eighty heretics. With the Treaty of Paris, the last hope of the Albigeois movement had vanished, and its remnants were gradually hunted down by the bloodhounds of the Inquisition, now an established institution in beautiful Provence.