ABOUT the time when the Oxford students were arrested, hands were suddenly laid upon Dr. Barnes, one of the most learned men at Cambridge, and orders were given that diligent search should be made throughout the colleges for forbidden books. Thirty members of the university—probably many of them those who had been known as frequenters of the White House, where the Greek Testament readings took place—were pointed out to Wolsey as likely to be tainted with the contagion of the German doctrines, and their rooms were the first to be searched. No books were found, however, for those who possessed them had received timely warning, and had conveyed them away before the officers came. Dr. Barnes, who was carried off to the cardinal's palace at Westminster, to answer before him the grave charge of heresy, had really given offense by a sermon preached at the university, which had been reported to Wolsey. In explaining his text, " Let your moderation be known unto all men," the preacher had, in a very marked manner, alluded to the pompous and showy processions in which Wolsey was accustomed to move from place to place, and had asked whether scarlet and gold raiment and pearls befitted the servants of Him who lay in the lowly man great Bethlehem. It were better, he said, that the great ones of the church should quit their magnificent palaces, sell their costly robes, and give to the poor, that they might be more like their Master.
There could be no doubt that, in speaking thus, Dr. Barnes aimed a blow at the greatest dignitary of the Church then in England, and when Wolsey saw the man, whose sermon had been reported to him, kneeling at his feet, he did not spare him.
He asked him, not without reason, whether he had not scope enough in the Scriptures to teach the people without setting him up as a laughing-stock before them. This question might well fill the heart of the preacher with uneasiness, for the man whom he had thus held up to ridicule was the most powerful man in England. Perhaps, too, Barnes felt the truth of the words in a deeper sense than that which Wolsey attached to them; for surely it was no part of the mission of one who stood before his fellowmen as an ambassador of Christ to talk to those who were perishing for lack of the bread of life of the golden shoes of the proud cardinal, of his crimson gloves, and of the silver pillar which was borne before him in token of his being a pillar of the Church.
While Barnes was trying to justify himself, Wolsey abruptly closed the interview by telling him that, if he could not find six doctors of the Church who would swear that he was not guilty of heresy, he must be burnt.
Dr. Barnes had been bold in preaching against error. Even before he had met Bilney, and had those conversations with him which were the means, by God's blessing, of leading him to Christ as the only confidence of his soul, in his sermons on St. Paul's Epistles, he had struck many a blow at the follies and superstitions of the religious teaching of his day. But to be occupied only with what is false, even though it be to denounce and cast it down, does not give strength to the soul when brought face to face with a terrible death to be borne for the truth's sake.
The threat of Wolsey did its work. During the long night in the Tower, which followed his interview with the cardinal, those dreadful last words came again and again to his mind, ever bringing fresh images of horror, as he dictated to three of his students who, for love of their master, had followed him to prison, a long statement in defense of his doctrines.
Next day a paper was brought for him to read. It was written by his judges, and he was told that he might save his life, if he would, by putting his name at the bottom of it to signify that it expressed his own opinions, and then reading it aloud in public without omitting or altering a word.
To do this would be acting a lie; it would be denying the truth, which he had learned from the unchanging word of God, and Barnes recoiled from the thought.
“I would rather die than sign that paper," he said, resolutely.
“Alas," cried those who had been sent, if possible, to shake his purpose, “is there then no help for it? Verily you must die, if you take not this only way of escape; you must die, and then"—the words were craftily spoken—" and then, when better times have come, times when you might defend what you count truth, no man making you afraid, your voice will be silent, and there will be none to be her champion."
Then, pressing nearer and dropping his voice, one of his friends whispered, "Think, oh, think what it must be to be burnt alive!"
Barnes did think—had he not been dwelling all night upon the terror and the anguish of such a death until heart and flesh failed? And, sore beset, he took the pen they offered him, and signed the paper.
It seemed but a little thing; those words, Robert Barnes,’ were soon written, but even before the ink was dry, the thought of how much they meant rose before him in its tremendous reality, and all the arguments which had seemed so fair showed themselves the vain and unworthy excuses which they were.
He who was a deceiver from the beginning had deceived this servant of Christ for a time, but the Lord graciously gave Barnes another opportunity of being His faithful witness, even unto death. He lived to learn that God had no need of him to defend His truth by his life, and by-and-by we find him uttering such words as these: “The sun and moon, fire and water, the stars and the elements, yea, and also stones shall defend this cause, rather than the truth should perish."
The following Sunday was fixed for Dr. Barnes, the Augustine prior, to perform a public act of penance at St. Paul's. The great cathedral was full, and upon the steps the cardinal sat enthroned in all his pomp, as Barnes entered, accompanied by five Dutch merchants, who had been convicted of bringing the English New Testaments over the sea. One of the six held a large candle, and each of them carried a fagot. They knelt in silence while they listened to a sermon preached to them by Fisher, Bishop of Rochester. Then, being led to a fire which was burning before the great cross at the gate, they walked three times round it, throwing in their fagots, which helped to consume the books which were also thrown into the burning; and then, having received from the bishop absolution for their sin of heresy, and the assurance that the Church had graciously received these her erring sons back to her bosom, they were again led to prison.
This act of penance at St. Paul's happened about the time when the like scene was enacted at Oxford.
In the autumn of the same year, just when Fryth and his companions were released from their loathsome dungeon, Barnes too was set free, and sent back to his Augustine monastery. In less than a month he was again in danger, a charge being brought against him concerning a conversation which had been overheard between him and two countrymen who possessed the gospel in English. Escaping from the officers who were in search of him, he contrived secretly to get on board ship, and take refuge in Germany, where he is said to have spent some time with Luther. It was fourteen years after the time when he had loved his life in this world too well that Dr. Barnes, with Garratt and a faithful martyr named Jerome, suffered at Smithfield. Each in turn made confession of his faith in Christ as his only Saviour, disclaiming all other ground of confidence, and so, hand in hand, they passed through the fire into the presence of the Lord, who had counted them worthy, and had, by His mighty grace, made them willing to suffer for His name.