RELEASE.
The situation of Wittenberg was not a healthy one. The vapors
arising from the broad flats of the Elbe were doubtless favorable to
the growth of vegetation,--but scarcely to the health of human
beings. The moat surrounding the walls, and half-filled with
stagnant water, contributed its share to the noisome odors which
poisoned the air. Several times during Luther's lifetime the plague,
beside other epidemics, had made fearful havoc among the citizens; it
returned again in the summer of 1552, and raged with renewed fury.
The angel of death was followed as usual, by his most powerful
ally,--fear. Men had learned no lessons from experience, or they
would have remembered that a calm temper is the most effective
safe-guard against the pestilence; and again, death reaped an
abundant harvest. In the universal distress, charity was dead, and
selfishness stood revealed in its most hideous form. Children
forsook their dying parents; the gravediggers left the neglected
corpses lying by the wayside: superstition, with its senseless
remedies helped many an one to his death, while others with fiendish
malice carried the seeds of the pestilence into uninfected houses.
Many of the citizens sought safety in flight. The University was
closed at the Elector's command, professors and students repairing to
Torgau.
Katharine had learned from her husband, calmly to commit herself to
the Lord's care, and to help, wherever she was able. The opportunity
was thus given her, of heaping coals of fire upon the heads of many,
who had closed their hearts to her in the time of her need.
For five weeks the plague had raged in Wittenberg, still sparing
Katharine's household. Then one of her lodgers was stricken down,
and died. She had no fear, at least not for herself,--for her desire
was, to depart and be with Christ, and with her beloved husband. Yet
she was concerned for her children's sake, and finally resolved to
leave Wittenberg, and go to Torgau.
As usual, she lost no time in carrying out her decision. A few days
later, a large, canvas-covered wagon held at the door of the
Luther-house, to carry away the widow and her children with their
most necessary belongings.
Katharine's eyes rested sadly upon the spot, where she had enjoyed so
much happiness during her husband's life, and had experienced so much
affliction since his death. The human heart is bound with a thousand
cords to its earthly home; and not only the joys of the past, but its
sorrows also, exercise a magnetic power, which makes parting a bitter
trial.
Katharine was very sad. Hot tears gushed from her eyes, and she
stood hesitating at the open gate, until the horses grew impatient
and the driver urged her to make haste.
Their road led them through the Elster-gate, and past the garden,
whose dense shrubbery recalled so many pleasant hours. Further on,
at a little distance from the road, rose the summer-house beside the
fountain, where her husband was wont to receive his friends, and
where they spent many hours together in earnest labor or in cheerful
talk. It seemed to her like taking leave of her life, as one by one,
the scenes of her departed happiness vanished from her sight.
She sat lost in melancholy revery, and the children, divining her
thoughts, feared to disturb her, or to relieve the heaviness of their
own hearts. Only the driver was insensible to their grief, and swore
lustily at his horses, who refused to settle to a quiet pace.
Katharine roused herself at last, and saw to her dismay that the
horses were being controlled with difficulty. As they passed through
the outskirts of a village, a dog ran out and barked at them. This
so excited the frightened animals that they became entirely
unmanageable. They plunged and dashed furiously down the road.
Katharine was in deadly fear. Scarcely conscious of herself, she
suddenly rose from her seat, and sprang from the wagon. She could
not have chosen a more unfavorable spot, for by the roadside ran a
stream of water, with steep banks. In alighting, she struck against
a stone and slipped into the water. With the help of a peasant who
hurried to their assistance, the driver succeeded in quieting the
horses; Katharine, wet to the skin, and stunned by her fall, was
unable to rise; she was lifted into the wagon, and covered with warm
wraps.
Two hours later they reached Torgau. Lodgings had been taken for
them in a house near the convent church. The landlord, Kasper
Grünewald by name, and a worthy man, had been a friend of Luther's.
As the Saviour said of Mary Magdalene, it might be said of him: He
hath done what he could. It seemed like paying a debt of love to his
departed friend, when he could shelter the widow in his house; and he
vied with her children in giving her the tenderest care.
Katharine was at once put to bed;--the fright and the chill had made
her very weak, and brought on a high fever.
The physician who was called in, shook his head, and did all that his
skill suggested, to revive the sinking forces. It seemed as though
all were concerned in repairing the world's neglect of the widow of
the great man.
She appreciated their efforts. Her lips overflowed with gratitude,
and when her growing weakness deprived her of the power of speech,
her eyes and the mute pressure of her hand conveyed her thanks.
The loveliest roses bloomed upon her cheeks; and her skin was
lily-white and transparently pure. She did not seem ill, and never
in her life had she been fairer. A strange light shone in her eyes,
and her manner was so gentle and tender, that those who entered her
presence, seemed to feel a breath from the other world. Her thoughts
were in Heaven, more than upon the earth. She often spoke of her
husband, not only in her waking moments, but also in her dreams; and
sometimes she spoke _to_ him, as though he were actually present.
Winter came, with its snow-flakes and its ice-flowers, with its long
nights, and the holy calm of the Advent Season. "Come, Thou Saviour
of the Gentiles,"--they sang in the churches; and in the street,
under the sick woman's window, the choir-boys repeated the sacred
strains.
She listened to the sweet, joyous tones; her cheeks flushed, her eyes
glowed, and she softly sang, "Come, Thou Saviour of the Gentiles."
Then she folded her hands, and inspired with sudden strength, she
prayed: "Lord, my Saviour, Thou standest at the door, and wouldst
enter in. O come, Thou beloved guest, whom my soul awaits with
longing. For I desire to depart and to be with Thee. Grant me a
peaceful end, and a blessed departure from this valley of tears. Let
my poor children be committed to Thy mercy,--that none of them be
lost, but that all may one day appear before Thy throne, and unite
with us in praising Thy glorious Name. And, Lord, look down in mercy
upon Thy Church, which the pope and other ungodly men would fain rend
in pieces, extinguishing the light of the Gospel truth which, by Thy
servant, the blessed Dr. Martin, Thou didst kindle in our German
land. Have mercy upon all, who for the Gospel's sake suffer shame
and persecution, and give them strength, boldly to confess their
faith, that Thy Name may through them be glorified. I give Thee
thanks, that Thou didst regard the misery of our beloved Elector, and
didst turn his captivity, that men may see how Thou dost bring to
honor those who have suffered for Thy Name's sake. Grant him a calm
and peaceful old age, and finally take him home to Thee. Dear Lord,
I thank Thee for all the trials, through which Thou didst lead me,
and by which Thou didst prepare me to behold Thy Glory. Thou hast
never forsaken nor forgotten me; Thou hast evermore caused Thy face
to shine upon me, when I called upon Thee. Behold, now I grasp Thy
hand and say, as Jacob of old: Lord, I will not let Thee go, unless
Thou bless me! I will cling to my Lord Jesus forevermore. Amen.
Help me, dear Lord God. Amen."
She had spoken in a low tone, pausing frequently. Now she lay
exhausted. Her hands were clasped; her eyes turned upward, as though
she were watching for the coming of the Lord.
Those around her prayed softly.
The hours passed; night came. They lighted the lamp, and kindled a
fresh fire in the stove, for it was a bitter cold day, the 20th of
December, in the year 1552.
As it struck nine, the mother turned to her children, whose faces had
grown wan and pinched with watching and anxiety. "Had you not better
lie down and sleep, my dear children?" she whispered. "I too am
tired."
Then, assisted by Gretchen, she turned to the wall, closed her eyes
and breathed quietly.
The children sat in silence by her bedside, watching their mother's
sleep, and fondly hoping that it might be the sleep of returning
health. About an hour passed thus.
Then Margaret rose, and softly creeping to the bed, she leaned over
her mother. She listened--all was still: The patient sufferer was at
home with her God.
THE END.