IN the days of the young king, Edward the Sixth, a Bible was placed on a desk in every church of the land, for the use of the people. A large print copy, bound in wooden boards, with curious iron clasps, was then seen fastened by a chain to a strong upright stand.
As “the word of God was precious in those days” for it was costly and scarce, and many truly loved it those who had a small share of learning read it aloud to those who had less ability than themselves. Thus light began to spread, when a dark cloud came over this hopeful state of things; for Queen Mary, a stern papist, ascended the throne of England, and quickly ordered the removal of the Bibles.
In a few places, however, her commands were either not received or were not obeyed. Whatever was the cause, it is certain that there still lay the old Bible on a stand just inside the porch of the little chapelry at Brentwood, in Essex.
It was in the spring of the year 1554, when a youth, named William Hunter, entered the church to read the book he loved. He was an apprentice to a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native town. The lad was one of those who were faithful to the truth, and who would rather suffer than sin against it.
As he stood reading the holy book and lifting up his prayer, a man of the name of Atwell, a summoner or officer of the popish bishop, came that way, and saw him so engaged.
“Why meddlest thou with the Bible!” said the officer, not a little angry that a boy should dare to open the Book of God. “Knowest thou how to read? and canst thou expound the Scriptures?”
The youth modestly replied, “Father Atwell, I take not upon me to expound the Scriptures; but finding the Bible here, I read it to my comfort.”
The officer then began to speak scornfully of the sacred word as a hurtful book.
“Say not so,” said William, in a kind and respectful manner, “it is God’s book, out of which every one that hath grace may learn to know what pleaseth God, and what is displeasing to him.”
“Could we not tell formerly,” inquired Atwell, “as now, how God was to be served?”
“Not so well as now,” added William, “if we might have His blessed word among us, as we have had; and I pray God that we may have the blessed Bible among us continually.”
As Atwell could not prevail with the lad, he cried, “I see you are one who dislikes the queen’s laws. I have heard how you left London on that account; but if you do not turn, you, as well as other heretics, will broil for your opinions.”
“God give me grace,” meekly replied William, “that I may believe His word, and confess His name, whatever may come of it.”
“Confess His name!” shouted old Atwell. “No, no; you will go to the devil, all of you.”
Atwell quickly left the chapel, and meeting with a priest, returned with him to where William was reading, when the priest began to upbraid and threaten him. The youth well knew what this meant, so he hastened kilo his father’s house, and taking a hasty leave of his parents, fled from the town.
It was a sad time when the young who loved the Lord had to leave the homes of their early days, and seek their dwelling and food wherever they could find them.
A few days after William had gone, a justice sent for the father, and ordered him to produce his son.
“What, sir,” said the parent, “would you have me seek my son that he may be burned?”
The justice was resolute; and upon this errand the poor father was obliged to depart. He rode about for two or three days, hoping to satisfy the justice, without finding his son. The lad, however, saw his father at a distance, and went to meet him.
On learning the danger of his parent, he said he would return, rather than place his father in any peril. And yet how could the aged parent secure his own safety by the surrender of his child? It was a struggle of affection: at length he yielded, and they went together into the town.
When the evening drew on, William and his father ascended the hill that leads to the little town of Brentwood. The cottagers bade them good cheer as they passed them on their way; but it was with heavy hearts and weeping eyes that they looked forward to the coming morrow.
They had not, however, to wait till the morning dawn, for during the night the young Christian was seized and hurried to the stocks. There he lay, till break of day, pained in body, but happy in mind.
Early in the morning, William was taken before a justice of the peace, who, after trying in vain to shake his faith, ordered him to be carried to the old palace in the fields of Bethnal Green about sixteen miles away where Bonner, the popish bishop of London, then resided. When he stood in the hall of the palace, the bishop first spoke to him gently, then sternly, and then roughly; but still the youth would not promise to give up the Bible, and deny its truths.
“Away with him again to the stocks,” cried the bishop, and to the stocks William was again hurried. Two long days and nights he lay there, without any food, except a crust of brown bread and a small supply of water.
Poor boy, what were his thoughts in these hours of trial? Alone, oppressed, and with the prospect of a painful death before him, what did he suffer? Surely he had grace given to him to bear all with humble trust and patience; or, like Paul and Silas, as he felt the pressure of the wood on his legs, he may have sung praises unto God.
We cannot but believe that his Saviour who tenderly feels for His suffering disciples, gave to him to taste His choicest comfort and love.
Not satisfied with this act of cruelty, his enemies proceeded to further lengths, in the hope of subduing his spirit. The bishop sent William to one of the London prisons, with strict orders to the jailor to put as many iron chains upon him as he could possibly bear. And in a dungeon he was confined for three-quarters of a year, hoping, trusting, praying always.
Bishop Bonner one day thought of the Bible-loving lad in prison, and hoping that his long confinement, together with the natural love of liberty and home, had made him more ready to yield, sent for him to his palace. But the spirit of the young martyr was yet unbroken, and his trust in the gospel as firm as before.
“If you recant,” said the bishop, “I will give you forty pounds, and set you up in business.” This was a large sum of money in those days, and the offer was very tempting, but it was at once rejected.
“I will make you steward of my own house,” added Bonner, in a gentle and crafty manner.
“But, my lord,” was the reply, “if you cannot persuade my conscience by Scripture, I cannot find in my heart to turn from God for the love of the world; for I count all worldly things but loss, in comparison with the love of Christ.”
Will neither threats nor promises avail? Then away with him to the fire.
When William again entered his native town, he knew it was to endure a painful death. But yet he knew what his Saviour had suffered for him. And he remembered, too, the words, “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.” There was no prison in the little town, so the martyr youth was confined in an inn, and guarded by constables.
His mother heard of his return, and with true love rushed to the place where he lay. Charity moved the hearts of the guards, and they allowed her to see him, and to sit by his side. And when she found him happy and constant, she blessed God for such a son, and the more so when he said: “For any little pain which I shall suffer, Christ has procured for me a crown of joy; are you not glad of that, mother?”
They then knelt down, and she prayed to God to strengthen her poor boy to the end.
At length the morning came, March 26th, 1555, that young William was to die. The sheriff justices, and priests were duly in attendance, with executioners and guards, while a crowd of people had come together to the last sad scene.
As the young martyr was led along from the inn, his father rushed forward towards him in an agony of parental feeling. Throwing his arms around the neck of his noble boy, he said, with flowing tears, “God be with thee, son William.”
The son calmly looked for the last time on his dear parent, and replied, “God be with you, father; be of good comfort; I trust we shall meet again where we shall rejoice together.”
There were many weeping eyes on that day in the little town of Brentwood. To see one so young a kind, gentle lad whose only offense was that he loved the gospel, dragged through the streets, to bear the scorching flames, was a sight that touched the hardest heart, and brought tears on many a manly cheek.
William, as he passed along, saw his father’s cottage, and cast a look on his sorrowing sisters. He bade farewell to those who had been the playmates and friends of his earliest day. He was to suffer in the cause of Christ, and they saw that he feared not to die.
At last, the procession came to the end of the town, where the stake and chain and fagots were ready. Without loss of time he was secured by the chain, and wood was piled around. While this was being done, a pardon was offered if he would profess himself a papist.
“No,” said William, resolutely, “I will not recant, God willing.” Then turning to the people he asked them to pray for him.
“Pray for thee?” cried a hard-hearted justice, who was looking on, “I will no more pray for thee than I would for a dog.”
“I pray God this may not be laid to your charge at the last day,” was William’s calm reply.
A priest, too, began to taunt him; until a gentleman spoke aloud, “May God have mercy on his soul;” and the people mournfully added, “Amen.”
The fire was now lighted, and as the flames began to rise, William, who still held in his hand a book of Psalms, threw it into the hands of his brother, who had followed him to the place of death. His brother said, “William, think on the sufferings of Christ, and be not afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” added the martyr. “Lord, Lord, receive my spirit.” The fire was lighted; the dry fagots burned briskly; and the flames soon wrapped around his body. In a few minutes his sufferings were at an end forever.
An old elm tree still marks the spot, near which William Hunter yielded up his life for the truth. Though three hundred and fifty years have passed since then, his name is not forgotten. His soul has joined the “noble army of martyrs” in heaven; but the record of his faith and courage will long survive on earth.
Let us learn from his history:
1. The need of constancy in resisting the most tempting offers to deny our Master. Like Moses, the servant of God, let us choose “rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season; esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures in Egypt.”
2. The blessing of having praying parents. The father and mother of William could give such a son to Christ and for Christ, encouraging him, even in the prospect of death, not to renounce the truth. May your parents never be called to such a test of love.
3. The true character of Popery. Can that be the pure and holy religion of Jesus the religion of love and mercy which commits such dreadful deeds? Christ was kind and loving to all. He came “not to destroy men’s lives, but to save them.” When His disciples would have used the sword, and have called “down fire from heaven,” He rebuked them. How different from His gentle and merciful spirit has been the conduct of cruel persecutors in every age! How truly lamentable when any who profess to follow Him manifest a bitter and merciless spirit towards their fellow-men, just because they do not see eye to eye.