It was not without good reason that he fled from the Netherlands. Charles the Fifth could not remain a stranger to what was going on there. He was doubtless first of all a politician; and when his temporal interests required it, he could display a little tolerance, either in Germany or elsewhere. But in secular affairs he was a despot, and in religious affairs a bigot. He had no doubt that the Reformation, if it were introduced in the Netherlands, would cross his autocratic projects. He therefore indemnified himself in these provinces for the cautious proceedings to which he was obliged to resign himself in other regions. He had recourse to the Inquisition. It was not, however, that terrible institution as it was known in Castile, where it found a people enthusiastic for its cruelties. The free people of the Netherlands rejected with abhorrence that criminal institution. Nevertheless, the two inquisitors of the faith nominated at this time by the Emperor, one a layman, Franz van der Hulst, a ‘great enemy of letters,’ said Erasmus; the other a monk, Nicholas van Egmont, ‘a very madman armed with a sword,’ did not do their work badly. They first committed people to prison, and afterwards inquired into their faults.[[741]] All those who had any leaning to the doctrine of Luther were ordered to appear within the space of thirty days before these judges, who were invested with the power of excommunication.
Cornelius Grapheus.
The departure of Spreng was a loss to Antwerp and the Netherlands. There were not many men whose faith was so simple and so genuine. Some eminent laymen, indeed, declared early for the Reformation; but the relation of these to the Gospel was rather that of amateurs than of believers. Cornelius Grapheus (in Flemish, Schryver), secretary of the town of Antwerp, and a friend of Erasmus, was a superior man. He had travelled a good deal and learnt a good deal; and although he was invested with one of the first offices of the imperial town in which he lived, he spent much time in reading. Jan van Goch’s work on the freedom of the Christian religion charmed him; and desirous of imparting to others the enjoyment which he had himself experienced, he translated it into Flemish. He also wrote a preface to it, in which he censured, but not ill-naturedly, those who imposed on Christians a useless yoke. Every well-informed man said as much. Grapheus, finding that these words were received with approbation, did not suppose that in saying them he had done a deed of courage. But the two inquisitors, who felt the need of making some splendid arrest, exclaimed that it was a crime to dare to speak of a yoke, leaped upon their prey, and seized Grapheus in his own house, in the presence of his terrified wife and children. The whole city was astounded. What! one of the first magistrates of the town, a distinguished man, who had travelled in Italy, who cultivated painting, music, and poetry, such a man as this a heretic! The victim once in prison, the inquisitors read the criminated treatise, picked out line after line, and drew up a terrible indictment. Grapheus, a humanist, a magistrate, an artist, and man of letters, was the most astonished of all. He had fancied that he was doing nothing more than a literary exercise, and was distressed at being taken for a theologian. This was in his eyes an honor of which he was not worthy, and by no means dreamed of. He said, like Erasmus—no martyrdom. To be restored to a beloved family, of which he was the sole support, this was the object of his desire. He sought honorably to apologize. ‘If I have spoken of a yoke,’ said he, ‘it is in no controversial spirit; I entreat pardon for my rashness, and am willing to retract my errors.’ But the Popish party were implacable, and they cast him into a black dungeon.[[742]]
The two inquisitors, not venturing to touch Erasmus, were bent on striking his friend, and on terrifying by this example the partisans of literature. They had a platform erected in the principal square of Brussels; a crowd of people stood round it, and the secretary of Antwerp appeared upon it. His only thought was to recover his peaceful life, to be once more in his study, to sit again at his family table. For this end he was prepared to do any thing. At the command of the inquisitors he hastened to retract publicly the articles of his preface; and he threw it into the fire, so much harm had it done him. Grapheus was not a Lutheran; he was only an Erasmian; and he would have done much more to regain his liberty. He supposed that he had gained it; but the judges to whose clemency he had appealed condemned him to the confiscation of his property, to deprivation of office, and to imprisonment for life. This is what a man gets by venturing to speak of a yoke in a country where there are inquisitors.
The unfortunate man, solitary in his dungeon, lamented his essay in literature, and thought only of his wife and his children. He determined to appeal to the chancellor of Brabant. ‘I wrote that preface,’ said he, ‘as a literary task for the exercise of my understanding. Alas! how much better it would have been for me had I been a blockhead, a buffoon, a comedian, or any other despicable creature, instead of obtaining by my limited abilities important offices. While so many people are allowed to publish their tales, their comedies, their farces, their satires, no matter how rude and improper they may be, a citizen is oppressed because he has had a share in human frailty.’ Sinking beneath the cruel yoke of Rome, Grapheus was quite ready to assert that this very yoke had no existence. He requested, as a great favor, that the town of Antwerp might be assigned as his prison, in order that he might be able to earn a livelihood for his family. All his entreaties were fruitless. For a mere literary peccadillo one of the first magistrates of the Netherlands groaned for years in the prisons of the town the government of which he had administered. It appears, however, that he was afterwards liberated, but he was not reinstated in his office. Instances of this kind show that Rome had a grudge not only against the Gospel, but against civilization, intelligence, and freedom.
In this same town of Antwerp, a more cruel fate was to overtake a true evangelist, a man of great intelligence, and also endowed with deep feeling and a living and steadfast faith.
Henry Of Zutphen.
Henry Mollerus, of the town of Zutphen, the name of which he usually bore, had entered the Augustinian order. He had distinguished himself in it, and after having several times changed his convent had settled in that of Antwerp. Here he had soon risen to an important position. Eager to advance, he strove continually to attain to a loftier knowledge and to a more powerful faith.[[743]] He was not one of those Christians who lie down and slumber, but of those who awake, go on, press forward, and run to the goal which they have set before them. In consequence of hearing the prior, Jacob Spreng, speak much about Martin Luther, he betook himself in 1521 to Wittenberg, was admitted to the convent of the Augustines, was joyfully welcomed by Luther, and began immediately to study in earnest. The reformer, who often conversed with him, was struck with his capacity and his faith, and considered him worthy to be a recipient of the honors of the University. Henry applied himself especially to the study of man; he descended into the depths of his nature, and made discoveries there which alarmed him. He was struck with the holiness of the Divine law; he perceived that he could not fulfil its commandments; and falling to the ground, with closed lips, he confessed himself guilty. But ere long Christ having been revealed to his soul, he had lifted up his head and contemplated the Saviour in all his beauty. From that time he had lived with Christ, and had been eager to walk in his steps.
Henry of Zutphen requested permission of the University to maintain publicly some theses, with a view to his taking the degree of bachelor in theology. The friars of the convent of the Augustines, professors and students, and other inhabitants of Wittenberg, assembled to hear him. Zutphen began:—‘Man, having turned aside from the Divine word, wherein is his life, died immediately, that is to say he was deprived of the spirit of God.[[744]]
‘Oh, the impiety of the philosophy which aims at persuading us that this death of the soul with which we are affected is a life! Oh, vanity of the human heart, which, in not esteeming the knowledge of God as the supreme good, and in choosing rather to follow a blind philosophy, goes astray and rushes into the paths of perdition!