"Have you sold many of these?" he asked coolly.
"All but this copy," I replied.
"And what did people say of it?"
"That depended on the purchasers," I replied. "Some say the author is
the wisest and wittiest man of the age, and if all knew where to stop as
he does, the world would slowly grow into Paradise, instead of being
turned upside down as it is now. Others, on the contrary, say that the
writer is a coward, who has no courage to confess the truth he knows.
And others, again, declare the book is worse than any of Luther's and
that Erasmus is the source of all the mischief in the world, since if he
had not broken the lock, Luther would never have entered the door."
"And _you_ think?" he asked.
"I am but a poor pedlar, sir," I said; "but I think there is a long way
between Pilate's delivering up the glorious King he knew was
innocent--perhaps began to see might be divine, and St. Peter's denying
the Master he loved. And the Lord who forgave Peter knows which is
which; which the timid disciple, and which the cowardly friend of His
foes. But the eye of man, it seems to me, may find it impossible to
distinguish. I would rather be Luther at the Diet of Worms, and under
anathema and ban, than either."
"Bold words!" he said, "to prefer an excommunicated heretic to the
prince of the apostles!"
But a shade passed over his face, and courteously bidding me farewell,
he rode on.
The conversation seemed to have thrown a shadow and chill over my heart.
After a time, however, the rider slackened his pace again, and beckoned
to me to rejoin him.
"Have you friends in Basel?" he asked kindly.
"None," I replied; "but I have letters to the printer Frobenius, and I
was recommended to seek out Erasmus."
"Who recommended you to do that?" he asked.
"The good knight Ulrich von Hutten," I replied.
"The prince of all turbulent spirits!" he murmured gravely. "Little
indeed is there in common between Erasmus of Rotterdam and that
firebrand."
"Ritter Ulrich has the greatest admiration for the genius of Erasmus," I
said, "and thinks that his learning, with the swords of a few good
knights, and the preaching of Luther, might set Christendom right."
"Ulrich von Hutten should set his own life right first," was the reply.
"But let us leave discoursing of Christendom and these great projects,
which are altogether beyond our sphere. Let the knights set chivalry
right, and the cardinals the papacy, and the emperor the empire. Let the
hawker attend to his pack, and Erasmus to his studies. Perhaps hereafter
it will be found that his satires on the follies of the monasteries, and
above all his earlier translation of the New Testament, had their share
in the good work. His motto is, 'Kindle the light and the darkness will
disperse of itself.'"
"If Erasmus," I said, "would only consent to share in the result he has
indeed contributed so nobly to bring about!"
"Share in what?" he replied quickly; "in the excommunication of Luther?
or in the wild projects of Hutten? Have it supposed that he approves of
the coarse and violent invectives of the Saxon monk, or the daring
schemes of the adventurous knight? No; St. Paul wrote courteously, and
never returned railing for railing. Erasmus should wait till he find a
reformer like the apostle ere he join the Reformation. But, friend," he
added, "I do not deny that Luther is a good man, and means well. If you
like to abandon your perilous pack, and take to study, you may come to
my house, and I will help you as far as I can with money and counsel.
For I know what it is to be poor, and I think you ought to be better
than a hawker. And," he added, bringing his horse to a stand, "if you
hear Erasmus maligned again as a coward or a traitor, you may say that
God has more room in his kingdom than any men have in their schools; and
that it is not always so easy for men who see things on many sides to
embrace one. Believe also that the loneliness of those who see too much
or dare too little to be partisans, often has anguish bitterer than the
scaffolds of martyrs. But," he concluded in a low voice, as he left me,
"be careful never again to link the names of Erasmus and Hutten. I
assure you nothing can be more unlike. And Ulrich von Hutten is a most
rash and dangerous man."
"I will be careful never to forget Erasmus," I said, bowing low, as I
took the hand he offered. And the doctor rode on.
Yes, the sorrows of the undecided are doubtless bitterer than those of
the courageous; bitterer as poison is bitterer than medicine, as an
enemy's wound is bitterer than a physician's. Yet it is true that the
clearer the insight into difficulty and danger, the greater need be the
courage to meet them. The path of the rude simple man who sees nothing
but right on one side, and nothing but wrong on the other, is
necessarily plainer than his who, seeing much evil in the good cause,
and some truth at the foundation of all error, chooses to suffer for the
right, mixed as it is, and to suffer side by side with men whose manners
distress him, just because he believes the cause is on the whole that of
truth and God. Luther's school may not indeed have room for Erasmus, nor
Erasmus's school for Luther; but God may have compassion and room for
both.
At Basel I replenished my pack from the stores of Frobenius, and
received very inspiriting tidings from him of the spread of the truth of
the gospel (especially by means of the writings of Luther) into Italy
and Spain. I did not apply further to Erasmus.
NEAR ZURICH, _July_.
My heart is full of resurrection hymns. Everywhere in the world it seems
Easter-tide. This morning, as I left Zurich, and, climbing one of the
heights on this side, looked down on the lake, rippled with silver,
through the ranges of green and forest-covered hills, to the glorious
barrier of far-off mountains, purple, and golden, and snow-crowned,
which encircles Switzerland, and thought of the many hearts which,
during these years, have been awakened here to the liberty of the sons
of God, the old chant of Easter and Spring burst from my lips:--
Plandite coeli,
Rideat aether
Summus et imus
Gaudeat orbis!
Transivit atrae
Turba procellae!
Subuit almae
Gloria palmae!
Surgite verni,
Surgite flores,
Germina pictis
Surgite campis!
Teneris mistae
Violis rosae;
Candida sparsis
Lilla calthis!
Currite plenis
Carmina venis,
Fundite laetum
Barbita metrum;
Namque revixit
Sicuti dixit
Pius illaesus
Funere Jesus.
Plaudite montes,
Ludite fontes,
Resonent valles,
Repetant colles!
Io revixit.
Sicuti dixit
Pius illaesus
Funere Jesus[9]
[Footnote 9:
Smile praises, O sky!
Soft breathe them, O air,
Below and on high,
And everywhere!
Awake thee, O spring!
Ye flowers, come forth,
With thousand hues tinting
The soft green earth!
Ye violets tender,
And sweet roses bright,
Gay Lent-lilies blended
With pure lilies white.
Sweep tides of rich music
The new world along,
And pour in full measure,
Sweet lyres, your song!
The black troop of storms
Has yielded to calm;
Tufted blossoms are peeping,
And early palm.
Sing, sing, for He liveth!
He lives, as He said;--
The Lord has arisen,
Unharmed, from the dead!
Clap, clap your hands, mountains!
Ye valleys, resound!
Leap, leap for joy, fountains!
Ye hills, catch the sound!
All triumph; He liveth!
He lives, as He said:--
The Lord has arisen,
Unharmed, from the dead!]
And when I ceased, the mountain stream which dashed over the rocks
beside me, the whispering grasses, the trembling wild-flowers, the
rustling forests, the lake with its ripples, the green hills and solemn
snow-mountains beyond--all seemed to take up the chorus.
There is a wonderful, invigorating influence about Ulrich Zwingle, with
whom I have spent many days lately. It seems as if the fresh air of the
mountains among which he passed his youth were always around him. In his
presence it is impossible to despond. While Luther remains immovably
holding every step of ground he has taken, Zwingle presses on, and
surprises the enemy asleep in his strongholds. Luther carries on the war
like the Landsknechts, our own firm and impenetrable infantry; Zwingle,
like his own impetuous mountaineers, sweeps down from the heights upon
the foe.
In Switzerland I and my books have met with more sudden and violent
varieties of reception than anywhere else; the people are so free and
unrestrained. In some villages, the chief men, or the priest himself,
summoned all the inhabitants by the church bell, to hear all I had to
tell about Dr. Luther and his work, and to buy his books; my stay was
one constant _fete_, and the warm-hearted peasants accompanied me miles
on my way, discoursing of Zwingle and Luther, the broken yoke of Rome,
and the glorious days of freedom that were coming. The names of Luther
and Zwingle were on every lip, like those of Tell and Winkelried and the
heroes of the old struggle of Swiss liberation.
In other villages, on the contrary, the peasants gathered angrily around
me, reviled me as a spy and an intruding foreigner, and drove me with
stones and rough jests from among them, threatening that I should not
escape so easily another time.
In some places they have advanced much further than among us in Germany.
The images have been removed from the churches, and the service is read
in the language of the people.
But the great joy is to see that the light has not been spread only from
torch to torch, as human illumination spread, but has burst at once on
Germany, France, and Switzerland, as heavenly light dawns from above. It
is this which makes it not an illumination merely, but morning and
spring! Lefevre in France and Zwingle in Switzerland both passed through
their period of storms and darkness, and both, awakened by the heavenly
light to the new world, found that it was no solitude--that others also
were awake, and that the day's work had begun, as it should, with matin
songs.
Now I am tending northwards once more. I intend to renew my stores at my
father's press at Wittemberg. My heart yearns also for news of all dear
to me there. Perhaps, too, I may yet see Dr. Luther, and find scope for
preaching the evangelical doctrine among my own people.
For better reports have come to us from Germany and we believe Dr.
Luther is in friendly keeping, though where, is still a mystery.
THE PRISON OF A DOMINICAN CONVENT,
FRANCONIA, _August_.
All is changed for me. Once more prison walls are around me, and through
prison bars I look out on the world I may not re-enter. I counted this
among the costs when I resolved to give myself up to spreading far and
wide the glad tidings of redemption. It was worth the cost; it is worth
whatever man can inflict--for I trust that those days have not been
spent in vain.
Yesterday evening, as the day was sinking, I found my way once more to
the parsonage of Priest Ruprecht in the Franconian village. The door was
open, but I heard no voices. There was a neglected look about the little
garden. The vine was hanging untwined around the porch. The little
dwelling, which had been so neat, had a dreary, neglected air. Dust lay
thick on the chairs, and the remains of the last meal were left on the
table. And yet it was evidently not unoccupied. A book lay upon the
window-sill, evidently lately read. It was the copy of Luther's German
Commentary on the Lord's Prayer which I had left that evening many
months ago in the porch.
I sat down on a window seat, and in a little while I saw the priest
coming slowly up the garden. His form was much bent since I saw him
last. He did not look up as he approached the house. It seemed as if he
expected no welcome. But when I went out to meet him, he grasped my hand
cordially, and his face brightened. When, however, he glanced at the
book in my hand, a deeper shade passed over his brow; and, motioning me
to a chair, he sat down opposite me without speaking.
After a few minutes he looked up, and said in a husky voice, "That book
did what all the denunciations and terrors of the old doctrines could
not do. It separated us. She has left me."
He paused for some minutes, and then continued,--"The evening that she
found that book in the porch, when I returned I found her reading it.
'See!' she said, 'at last some one has written a religious book for me!
It was left here open, in the porch, at these words: "If thou dost feel
that in the sight of God and all creatures thou art a fool, a sinner,
impure, and condemned, ... there remaineth no solace for thee, and no
salvation, unless in Jesus Christ. To know him is to understand what the
apostle says,--'Christ has of God been made unto us wisdom, and
righteousness, and sanctification, and redemption.' He is the bread of
God--our bread, given to us as children of the heavenly Father. To
believe is nothing else than to eat this bread from heaven." And look
again. The book says, "It touches God's heart when we call him
Father,"--and again, "_Which art in heaven._" "He that acknowledges he
has a Father who is in heaven, owns that he is like an orphan on the
earth. Hence his heart feels an ardent longing, like a child living away
from its father's country, amongst strangers, wretched and forlorn. It
is as if he said, "Alas! my Father, thou art in heaven, and I, thy
miserable child, am on earth, far from thee amid danger, necessity, and
sorrow." 'Ah, Ruprecht,' she said, her eyes streaming with tears, 'that
is so like what I feel,--so lost, and orphaned, and far away from home.'
And then, fearing she had grieved me, she added, 'Not that I am
neglected. Thou knowest I could never feel that. But oh, can it be
possible that God would take me back, not after long years of penance,
but _now_, and _here_, to his very heart?"
"I could say little to teach her, but from that time this book was her
constant companion. She begged me to find out all the passages in my
Latin Gospels which speak of Jesus suffering for sinners, and of God as
the Father. I was amazed to see how many there were. The book seemed
full of them. And so we went on for some days, until one evening she
came to me, and said, 'Ruprecht, if God is indeed so infinitely kind and
good, and has so loved us, we must obey him, must we not?' I could not
for the world say No, and I had not the courage to say Yes, for I knew
what she meant."
Again he paused.
"I knew too well what she meant, when, on the next morning, I found the
breakfast laid, and everything swept and prepared as usual, and on the
table, in printed letters on a scrap of paper, which she must have
copied from the book, for she could not write, 'Farewell. We shall be
able to pray for each other now. And God will be with us, and will give
us to meet hereafter, without fear of grieving him, in our Father's
house."
"Do you know where she is?" I asked.
"She has taken service in a farm-house several miles away in the
forest," he replied. "I have seen her once. She looked very thin and
worn. But she did not see me."
The thought which had so often suggested itself to me before, came with
irresistible force into my mind then,--"If those vows of celibacy are
contrary to the will of God, can they be binding?" But I did not venture
to suggest them to my host. I only said, "Let us pray that God will lead
you both. The heart can bear many a heavy burden if the conscience is
free!"
"True," he said. And together we knelt down, whilst I spoke to God. And
the burden of our prayer was neither more nor less than this, "Our
Father which art in heaven, not our will, but thine be done."
On the morrow I bade him farewell, leaving him several other works of
Luther's. And I determined not to lose an hour in seeking Melancthon and
the doctors of Wittemberg, and placing this case before them.
And now, perhaps, I shall never see Wittemberg again!
It is not often that I have ventured into the monasteries, but to-day a
young monk, who was walking in the meadows of this abbey, seemed so
interested in my books, that I followed him to the convent, where he
thought I should dispose of many copies. Instead of this, however,
whilst I was waiting in the porch for him to return, I heard the sound
of angry voices in discussion inside, and before I could perceive what
it meant, three or four monks came to me, seized my pack, bound my
hands, and dragged me to the convent prison, where I now am.
"It is time that this pestilence should be checked," said one of them.
"Be thankful if your fate is not the same as that of your poisonous
books, which are this evening to make a bonfire in the court."
And with these words I was left alone in this low, damp, dark cell, with
its one little slit high in the wall, which, until my eyes grew
accustomed to it, seemed only to admit just light enough to show the
iron fetters hanging from the walls. But what power can make me a
captive while I can sing:--
Mortis portis practis, fortis
Fortior vim sustulit;
Et per crucem regem trucem,
Infernorum perculit.
Lumen clarum tenebrarum
Sedibus resplenduit;
Dum salvare, recreare
Quod creavit, voluit.
Hinc creator, ne peccator,
Moreretur, moritur;
Cujus morte, nova sorte,
Vita nobis oritur.[10]
[Footnote 10:
Lo, the gates of death are broken,
And the strong man armed is spoiled,
Of his armour, which he trusted,
By the stronger Arm despoiled.
Vanquished is the Prince of Hell;
Smitten by the cross, he fell.
That the sinner might not perish,
For him the Creator dies;
By whose death, our dark lot changing,
Life again for us doth rise,]
Are not countless hearts now singing this resurrection hymn, to some of
whom my hands brought the joyful tidings? In the lonely parsonage, in
the forest and farm, hearts set free by love from the fetters of sin--in
village and city, in mountain and plain!
And at Wittemberg, in happy homes, and in the convent, are not my
beloved singing it too?
_September_.
Yet the time seems long to lie in inaction here. With these tidings,
"The Lord is risen," echoing through her heart, would it not have been
hard for the Magdalene to be arrested on her way to the bereaved
disciples before she could tell it?
_October_.
I have a hope of escape. In a corner of my prison I discovered, some
days since, the top of an arch, which I believe must belong to a
blocked-up door. By slow degrees--working by night, and covering over my
work by day--I have dug out a flight of steps which led to it. This
morning I succeeded in dislodging one of the stones with which the
door-way had been roughly filled up, and through the space surveyed the
ground outside. It was a portion of a meadow, sloping to the stream
which turned the abbey mills. This morning two of the monks came to
summon me to an examination before the Prior, as to my heresies; but
to-night I hope to dislodge the few more stones, and this very night,
before morning dawn, to be treading with free step the forest covered
hills beyond the valley.
My limbs feel feeble with insufficient food, and the damp, close air of
the cell; and the blood flows with feverish, uncertain rapidity through
my veins; but, doubtless, a few hours on the fresh, breezy hills will
set all this right.
And yet once more I shall see my mother, and Else, and Thekla, and
little Gretchen, and all--all but one, who, I fear, is still imprisoned
in convent walls. Yet once more I trust to go throughout the land
spreading the joyful tidings.--"The Lord is risen indeed;" the work of
redemption is accomplished, and He who once lived and suffered on earth,
compassionate to heal, now lives and reigns in heaven, mighty to save.