CHAPTER VI.

DR. LUTHER.

(1517-1546.)

Even the most enlightened Roman Catholics look with horror upon Luther

and Zwinglius as originators of the schism in their old Church. It is

to be hoped that such views may disappear in Germany. All sects have

reason to thank Luther for whatever depth and spirituality now remains

in their faith: The heretic of Wittenberg was as much the reformer of

German Roman Catholics as of Protestants; not only, because in the

struggle with him the teachers of the Roman Catholic Church were

obliged to erect at Trent a firmer building on the ruins of the Church

of the middle ages, but because he left the impress of his mind on the

character of the people, in which we all equally partake. Some things

for which the obstinate and pugnacious Luther contended, against both

Reformers and Catholics, have been condemned by the free judgment of

modern times. His doctrines, vehement and high strained, wrung from a

soul full of reverence, were in some weighty points erroneous, and he

was sometimes bitter, unjust, indeed harsh to his opponents; but such

things should not lead Germans astray, for all the deficiencies of his

nature and education disappear in the fullness of blessing, which

streamed from his great heart into the life of his nation.

To few mortals has it been granted to exercise such an influence on his

cotemporaries and on after times, as has fallen to the lot of Luther:

his life may be divided into three periods. In the first, the character

of the man was formed; it was powerfully influenced by the surrounding

world, but from the depths of human nature, under the pressure of

individual character, thoughts and convictions were gradually

strengthened into resolutions which broke forth into action, and the

individual commenced a struggle with the world. Then followed another

period, one of more energetic action, of more rapid development and of

greater triumph. Ever greater became the influence of the individual on

the world; powerfully did he draw the whole nation along with him; he

became their hero and model; the inward life of millions seemed

concentrated in one man.

But a single individual, however powerful in character, however great

his aims, could not long dominate over the spirit of a nation, the

life, strength, and wants of which are manifold. The man is under the

constraint of the logical consequences of his thoughts and actions; all

the spirits of his own deeds force him into a fixed limited path; but

the soul of a people requires for its life, incessant working with the

most varied aims. Much that an individual cannot bring himself to

receive, is taken up by others in opposition to him. The reaction of

the world begins: it is first weak, and from many quarters, with

various tendencies and little authority; then it becomes stronger and

more victorious. Finally, the inward spirit of the individual life

confines itself within its own system, and becomes only a single

element in the formation of the people. The end of a great life is

always full of secret resignation, mixed with bitterness and quiet

suffering.

And thus it was with Luther. The first of these periods ended with the

day on which he affixed his Theses; the second continued till his

return from the castle of Wartburg; the third till the beginning of the

Smalkaldic war and his death. It is not our intention to give his life

here, but only to describe shortly how he became what he was. There was

much in him which, only viewed from a distance, appears strange and

unpleasing, but the more closely we examine his character, the greater

and more amiable we find it.

Luther rose from the peasant class; his father left Moehra, a place amid

the forests of the Thuringian mountains, which was half peopled by his

kindred, to engage in mining in the district of Mansfeld; thus the boy

was born in a cottage, where the terrors inspired by the spirits of the

pine woods, and dark fissures which served as entrances to the mine in

the mountains, were still strong and vivid. His mind was no doubt often

occupied with the dark traditions of the heathen mythology; he was

accustomed to perceive in the terrors of nature, as well as in the life

of man, the work of the powers of darkness. When he became a monk,

these recollections of his childhood blended themselves with the figure

of the devil, and the busy tempter always wore the same aspect to his

imagination as the mischievous hobgoblins that frequent the hearth and

stable of the countryman.

His father was a man of concentrated and energetic character, firm and

decided, and gifted with a full measure of strong common sense: he

struggled hard to attain wealth; he kept strict discipline in his

house, and in later years Luther remembered with grief the severe

punishment he had received as a boy, and the sorrow it had inflicted on

his childish heart. The influence of the old Hans Luther on the life of

his son lasted till his death in 1530. When Martin went secretly into a

monastery at the age of twenty-two, the old man was violently angry, as

he had intended to provide for his son by a good marriage. At last

friends succeeded in bringing about a reconciliation between them, and

when the supplicating son approached his father, confessing that he had

been driven by a fearful apparition to take the monastic vows, he

replied to him in the following words: "God grant that it may not have

been a delusion of the devil." He agitated still more the heart of the

monk by the angry question: "You thought you were listening to the

command of God when you went into the cloister; have you never heard

that it is a duty to be obedient to parents?" This made a deep

impression on the son, and when, many years afterwards, he was residing

at Wartburg, cast out of the Church, and proscribed by the Emperor, he

wrote to his father these touching words: "Do you still wish to

withdraw me from the thraldom of the monastery? You are still my

father, I your son; you have on your side the power and commands of

God; on my side there is only human error. Behold, that you may not

boast yourself before God, He has anticipated you, and taken me out

himself." From that time he was as it were restored to the old man.

Hans had once reckoned upon having a grandson for whom he would work,

and to this idea he stubbornly returned, regardless as to what the rest

of world thought; he soon therefore admonished him earnestly, to marry,

and his persuasions had a great share in determining Luther to do so.

When the father, who at a great age had become councillor of Mansfeld,

was about to draw his last breath, and the priest bending over him

asked him whether he died in the pure faith of Christ and the Holy

Gospel, old Hans collected himself once more, and said shortly: "He is

a rogue who does not believe in it." When, afterwards, Luther was

relating this, he added admiringly: "That was indeed a man of the olden

time." The son received the account of his father's death, in the

fortress of Coburg; and when he read the letter, which his wife had

conveyed to him with the portrait of his youngest daughter, Magdalen,

he spoke only these words to his companions: "God's will be done, my

father is dead." He arose, took his psalter, went into his room, where

he wept and prayed, and returned with a composed mind. The same day he

wrote to Melancthon with deep emotion, of the heartfelt love of his

father, and of the entire confidence that existed between them. "Never

did I despise death so much as I do now: how often do we suffer death

by anticipation before we really die! I am now the eldest of my race,

and I have a right to follow him."

Such was the father from whom the son derived the groundwork of his

character, veracity, a steadfast will, an honest understanding, and

circumspection in the management of business and in his dealings with

men. His childhood was full of hardships, and he had much that was

disagreeable to endure at his Latin school, and as a chorister; but he

experienced also much good-will and love, and he retained, what is more

easily kept in the smaller circles of life, a heart full of trust in

the goodness of human nature, and respect for the great people of the

world. His father was able to support him comfortably at the university

of Erfurt; he was then full of youthful vigour, and took great delight

in joining his companions in vocal and instrumental music. Of his

mental life at that time we know but little, only that when in peril of

death, in a storm, "a fearful apparition called to him from heaven." In

his terror he vowed to go to a monastery, and quickly and secretly

carried out his resolution.

It is here that our accounts of the state of his mind begin. At

variance with his father, full of terror at an incomprehensible

eternity, frightened by the anger of God, he began, in a convulsive

struggle, a life of self-denial, penance, and devotion. He found no

peace. All the highest questions of life stormed with fearful power

over his distracted soul, which had no anchor to rest on. Strongly did

he feel the need of being in harmony with God and the world, and all

that he derived from his faith was unintelligible and repulsive. The

mysteries of the moral government of the world were to his mind matters

of the deepest import. That the good should be tormented and the wicked

made happy, that God should condemn the whole human race with the

monstrous curse of sin, because an inexperienced woman had eaten an

apple, and that on the other hand the same God should bear with our

sins, in love and patience; that Christ should sometimes repel upright

people with severity, and at others receive adulterers, publicans, and

murderers,--about all this, the wisdom of man becomes foolishness. He

complained in these words to his ghostly counsellor, Staupitz: "Dear

doctor, our Lord God does indeed deal terribly with us; who can serve

Him when He deals such blows on all?" To which the answer was: "How

could He otherwise bow down the stiff-necked?" This ingenious argument

was of no comfort to the youth. In his earnest strivings to find the

incomprehensible God, he tormented himself in searching out all his

thoughts and dreams. Every ebullition of youthful blood, every earthly

thought, appeared to him a shocking iniquity; he began to despair, and

wrestled with himself in endless prayer, fasting, and mortification. On

one occasion the brothers were obliged to break into his cell, where he

had been lying the whole day in a state not far removed from insanity.

Staupitz observed with warm sympathy the agitation and torments of his

soul, and endeavoured, though only by rough consolation, to give it

rest. Once when Luther had written to him, "Oh my sins! my sins! my

sins!" his ghostly counsellor answered him: "You wish to be without

sin, and yet have no real sins. Christ is the forgiver of mortal sins,

such as the murder of parents, &c., &c. If you would have the help of

Christ, you must have mortal sins to record, and not come to Him with

such trifles and peccadilloes, making a sin out of every little

infirmity."

The way in which Luther raised himself out of this despair decided the

whole tenour of his life. The God whom he served appeared then as a God

of terror, whose anger was only to be appeased by the means of grace

given by the old Church, especially by continual confession, for which

endless forms and directions were given, which were but cold and empty

to the spirit. By the prescriptions of the Church and the practice of

so-called good works, young Luther had not attained the feeling of true

reconciliation and inward peace. At last a sentence from his spiritual

adviser pierced him like an arrow: "There is no true repentance that

does not begin by the love of God; the love of God, and the reception

of it in the soul, does not follow, but precedes the means of grace

enjoined by the Church." This teaching which came from Tauler's school

became for him the foundation of a new, genial, and moral relation with

God; it was a holy discovery to him. The change in his own spirit was

the main point for which he must labour; repentance, penance, and

expiation must proceed from the inward feelings of the heart. It was by

his own efforts alone that man could raise himself to God. For the

first time he experienced what direct prayer was. In the place of a

distant God, whom hitherto he had sought in vain, by hundreds of forms

and childish confessions, he beheld the image of an all-loving

protector, with whom he could hold communion at every hour, whether in

joy or sorrow, before whom he could lay every grief and doubt, who

incessantly sympathized with, and cared for him, and, like a good

father, either granted or denied the requests of his heart. Thus he

learned to pray, and how ardent his prayers became! Now he was able to

live in tranquillity, being daily and hourly in communion with his God,

whom he had at last found; his intercourse with the Highest became more

confidential than with those dearest to him on earth. When he poured

out his whole soul before Him, he obtained rest, holy peace, and a

feeling of inexpressible happiness; he felt himself a portion of God,

and this sense of intimate communion with Him he preserved during the

whole remainder of his life. He needed no longer the distant paths of

the old Church; with his God in his heart he could defy the whole

world. He already ventured to believe, that teaching must be false

which laid such great weight on works of penance; that besides these

there remained only cold satisfaction and ceremonious confession; and

when later he learned from Melancthon that the Greek word for penance,

"_Metanoia_," denotes literally "a change of heart," it appeared to him

as a wonderful revelation. On this foundation was built that confidence

of faith, with which he brought forward the words of Scripture in

opposition to the prescriptions of the Church.

It was in this way that Luther, whilst still in the monastery, attained

to inward freedom. The whole of his later teaching, his struggle

against the indulgences, his unshaken firmness, and his method of

scriptural exposition, all rest on the inward process by which as a

monk he had found his God; and one may truly say that the new period of

German history began with Luther's cloister prayers. Life soon placed

him under its hammer, to harden the pure metal of his soul.

Luther unwillingly took the Professorship of Dialectics in the new

university of Wittenberg, in 1508; he would rather have taught that new

theology which he already began to consider the truth. It is known that

in the year 1510 he went to Rome on the business of his order; how

devoutly and piously he lingered in the holy city, and with what dismay

he was seized on observing the heathenish character of the people of

Rome, and the worldliness and corrupt morals of the ecclesiastics. But

deeply as he was shaken by the depravity of the hierarchy, he felt that

his whole life was still enclosed in it; out of it there was nothing:

The exalted idea of the Roman Catholic Church, and its triumphant reign

of 1500 years, fettered even the most powerful minds; and when the

German in the dress of a Romish priest, and in danger of his life,

contemplated the ruins of ancient Rome, and stood in amazement before

the gigantic pillars of the temples, which, according to tradition, had

once been destroyed by the Goths little did the valiant man from the

mountains of the old Hermunduren then think, that it would be his own

fate to destroy the temples of the Rome of the middle ages, more

completely than the brethren of his ancestors had done in the olden

time. Luther returned from Rome still a faithful son of the great

Mother, holding all heretical proceedings, as for example those of the

Bohemians, in detestation. He sympathized warmly in Reuchlin's dispute

with the Cologne inquisitor, and about 1512 had sided with the

Humanitarians. But even then he began to find something in their

teaching which separated him from them. When some years later he was at

Gotha, he did not visit the worthy Mutianus Rufus, though he wrote him

a very civil letter of excuse. Soon after, he was much wounded by the

coldness and worldly tone of Erasmus's dialogues, in which theological

sinners are turned into ridicule. The profane worldliness of the

Humanitarians did not suit the earnest faith of Luther; it aroused that

pride which had already taken root in his soul, and caused him

afterwards to wound the sensitive Erasmus in a letter intended to be

conciliatory. Even the form of literary moderation adopted by Luther at

this time, gives us the impression of being wrung by the pressure of

Christian humility from a stubborn spirit.

He felt himself already strong and secure in his faith: in 1506 he

wrote to Spalatinus, who was the connecting link between him and the

Elector, Frederic the Wise, that the Elector was of all men most

knowing in secular wisdom, but in things pertaining to God and the

salvation of souls, he was struck with sevenfold blindness.

Luther had reason for the opinion here expressed, for the domestic

disposition of this sober-minded prince showed itself in his anxiety to

provide for his home the means of grace bestowed by the old Church.

Amongst other things he had a particular fancy for relics, and

Staupitz, vicar-general of the Augustine monks in Germany, was at that

time engaged in collecting these treasures for the Elector. This

absence of his superior was very important to Luther, for he had to

fill his place. He was already a man of high repute in his order; but

though a professor at Wittenberg, he continued to reside in his

monastery, and generally wore his monk's dress. He visited the thirty

monasteries of his congregation, deposed priors, delivered strong

rebukes on account of lax discipline, severely admonished criminal

monks, and had become in 1517 a man of fully developed character and

commanding powers; yet he still preserved somewhat of the trusting

simplicity of the monastic brother.

Thus, when he had affixed the Theses against Tetzel to the church door,

he writes confidingly to the Archbishop Albrecht of Maintz, the

protector of the trader in indulgences. Full of the popular faith in

the good sense and the good will of the governing powers, Luther

thought--he often said so later--nothing was necessary but to represent

straightforwardly to the princes of the Church the injurious effects

and immorality of these malpractices.[27] But how childish did this

zeal of the monk appear to the smooth and worldly prince of the Church!

That which had roused such deep indignation in the upright man, had

from the archbishop's point of view long been a settled question. The

sale of indulgences was a much lamented evil in the Church, but

unavoidable, as are to politicians many regulations not good in

themselves, but necessary to preserve some great interests. The

greatest interest of the archbishops and the guardians of the Romish

Church was their dominion, which was to be won and maintained by such

means of acquiring money. The greatest interest of Luther and the

people was truth; here, therefore, their paths separated.

Thus Luther entered into the struggle, full of faith, still a true son

of the Church, and with all the German devotedness to authority; but

yet his firm connection with his God worked in him strongly against

this authority. He was then thirty-four years of age, in the full

vigour of his strength, of middle size, thin, but strongly made, so

that he appeared tall by the side of the small delicate boyish figure

of Melancthon. Fiery eyes, whose intense brilliancy was almost

overpowering, glowed in a face in which one could perceive the effects

of night watches and inward struggles. Though a man of great repute,

not only in his order, but in the university, he was no great scholar;

he first began to learn Greek with Melancthon, and soon afterwards

Hebrew; he possessed no great compass of book learning, and never had

any ambition to shine as a Latin poet. But he was astonishingly well

read in the Holy Scriptures and some of the Fathers, and whatever he

took up he worked out profoundly. He was unwearied in his care for the

souls of his congregation, a zealous preacher, and a warm friend; he

had a certain frank gaiety, together with a self-possessed demeanour,

and much courteous tact; the certainty of his convictions appeared in

his social intercourse, and gave a cheerful radiance to his

countenance. He was irritable, and easily moved to tears; the trifling

events of the day excited and disturbed him; but when he was called

upon for any great effort, and had subdued the first agitation of his

nerves--which, for instance, had overcome him on his first entrance at

the Imperial Diet at Worms--he then attained a wonderful composure and

confidence. He did not know what fear was; indeed, his lion nature took

pleasure in the most dangerous situations. The malicious snares of his

enemies, and the dangers to which his life was occasionally exposed, he

seemed to consider hardly worth speaking about. The foundation of this

more than human heroism--if one may venture to call it so--was the firm

personal union between him and his God. For a long period, with smiles

and inward gladness, he desired to serve truth and God by becoming a

martyr. A fearful struggle still lay before him, but it was not caused

by the opposition of men; he had to contend constantly for years

against the devil himself; he overcame also the terror of hell, which

threatened to obscure his reason. Such a man might be destroyed, but

could hardly be conquered.

The period of struggle which now follows, from the beginning of the

dispute about indulgences to his departure from Wartburg, the time of

his greatest triumph and greatest popularity, is that of which perhaps

most is known, and yet it appears to us that his character even then is

not rightly judged.

Nothing in this period is more remarkable than the way in which Luther

gradually became estranged from the Romish Church. He was sober-minded

and without ambition, and clung with deep reverence to the high idea of

the Church, that community of believers fifteen hundred years old; yet

in four short years he departed from the faith of his fathers, and

shook himself free of the soil in which he had been so firmly rooted.

During this whole time he had to maintain the struggle alone, or at

least with very few faithful confederates: after 1518 Melancthon was

united with him. He overcame all the dangers of fierce encounters, not

only against enemies, but against the anxious dissuasions of honest

friends and patrons. Three times did the Romish party try to silence

him by the authority of Cajetan, the persuasive eloquence of Miltitz,

and the unseasonable assiduity of the pugnacious Eckius; three times he

addressed the Pope in letters which are among the most valuable

documents of that century. Then came the separation: he was

anathematized and excommunicated; he burnt--according to the old

university custom--the enemy's challenge, and with it the possibility

of return. With joyful confidence he went to Worms, where the princes

of his nation were to decide whether he should die, or henceforth live

amongst them, without Pope or Church, by the precepts of the Holy

Scriptures alone.

When first he published in print the "Theses against Tetzel," he was

astounded at the prodigious effect they produced in Germany, at the

venomous hatred of his enemies, and at the tokens of friendly

approbation which he received from all sides. Had he done anything so

very unprecedented? The opinions he expressed were entertained by all

the best men in the Church. When the Bishop of Brandenburg sent the

Abbot of Lehnin to him, with a request that he would withdraw from the

press his German sermon upon indulgences and grace, however right its

contents might be, the poor Augustine friar was deeply moved that so

great a man should hold such friendly and cordial intercourse with him,

and he felt inclined to give up the publication rather than make

himself a lion disturbing the Church. He zealously endeavoured to

refute the report that the Elector had induced him to engage in the

dispute with Tetzel. "They wish to involve the innocent Prince in the

odium that belongs to me only." He desired as much as possible to

preserve peace with Miltitz before Cajetan; only one thing he would not

do: he would not retract what he had said against the unchristian sale

of indulgences. But this retraction was the only thing that the

hierarchy required of him. Long did he continue to wish for peace,

reconciliation, and a return to the peaceful occupations of his cell;

but some false assertion of his opponents always reinflamed his blood,

and every contradiction was followed by a new and sharper stroke of his

weapons.

The heroic confidence of Luther is striking; even in his first letter

to Leo X., dated the 30th May, 1518, he is still the faithful son of

the Church; he still concludes by laying himself at the feet of the

Pope; offers him his whole life and being, and promises to respect his

voice as the voice of Christ, whose representative he is as sovereign

of the Church. But in the midst of all this submission, which became

him as a monastic brother, these impassioned words burst forth: "If I

have deserved death, I do not refuse to die." And in the letter itself,

how strong are the expressions with which he describes the insolence of

the indulgence vendors! Honest, too, are his expressions of surprise at

the effect of his Theses, which were difficult to understand, being,

according to the old custom, composed of enigmatical and involved

propositions. Good humour pervades the manly words, "What shall I do? I

cannot retract. I am only an unlearned man, of narrow capacity, not

highly cultivated, in a century full of intellect and taste, which

might even put Cicero into a corner. But necessity has no law; the

goose must cackle among the swans."

The following year all who esteemed Luther endeavoured to bring about a

reconciliation. Staupitz, Spalatinus, and the Elector scolded,

entreated, and urged. Even the Pope's chamberlain, Miltitz, praised his

opinions, whispered to him that he was quite right, entreated, drank

with, and kissed him; though Luther indeed had reason to believe that

the courtier had a secret commission to take him if possible a prisoner

to Rome. The mediators happily hit on a point in which the refractory

man heartily agreed with them; it was, that respect for the Church must

be maintained and its unity not destroyed; Luther therefore promised to

keep quiet and to leave the disputed points to the decision of three

eminent bishops. Under these circumstances he was pressed to write a

letter of apology to the Pope; but this letter of the 3rd of March,

1519, though undoubtedly approved by the mediators and wrung from the

writer, shows the advance that Luther had already made. Of the humility

which our theologians discover in it, there is little; it is, however,

thoroughly cautious and diplomatic in its style. Luther regrets that

what he has done to defend the honour of the Romish Church has been

attributed to him as a want of respect; he promises henceforth to be

silent on the subject of indulgences,--provided his opponents would be

the same, and to address a letter to the people admonishing them

loyally to obey the Church,[28] and not estrange themselves from it,

because his opponents had been insolent and he himself harsh. But all

these submissive words could not conceal the chasm which already

separated his spirit from that of the Romish Church. With what cold

irony he writes: "What shall I do, most holy father? All counsel fails

me; I cannot bear your anger, and yet know not how to avoid it. It is

desired that I should retract; if by this what they aim at could be

effected, I would do so without delay, but the opposition of my

opponents has spread my writings further than I had ever hoped, and

they have laid too deep hold on the souls of men. There is now much

talent, education, and free judgment in our Germany: were I to retract,

I should, in the opinions of my Germans, cover the Church with still

greater shame; but it is my opponents who have brought disgrace in

Germany upon the Romish Church." He concludes his letter politely. "Do

not doubt my readiness to do more, if it should be in my power. May

Christ preserve your Holiness. M. Luther."

There is much concealed behind this measured reserve. Even if the

conceited Eckius had not immediately after stirred up the indignation

of the whole university of Wittenberg, this letter could hardly have

availed at Rome as a sign of repentant submission.

The thunderbolt of excommunication was launched; Rome had spoken.

Luther, now restored to himself, wrote once more to the Pope; it was

the celebrated letter, which, at the request of the indefatigable

Miltitz, he antedated, the 6th of September, 1520, in order to ignore

the bull of excommunication. It is the noble expression of a determined

spirit which contemplates its opponent from its elevated position,

grand in its uprightness and noble in its sentiments! He speaks with

sincere sympathy of the Pope, and of his difficult position; but it is

the sympathy of a stranger: he still mourns over the Church, but it is

evident that he has already passed out of it. It is a parting letter

written with cutting sharpness and confidence, but in a tone of quiet

sorrow, as of a man separating himself from one whom he had once loved,

but found unworthy.

Luther had in the course of these years become quite another man; he

had acquired caution and confidence in intercourse with the great, and

had gained a dear-bought insight into the political and private

character of the governing powers. To the peaceful nature of his own

sovereign nothing could be more painful than this bitter theological

strife, which, though sometimes advantageous to him politically, always

disquieted his spirit. Continual endeavours were made at court to

restrain the Wittenbergers, but Luther was always beforehand with them.

Whenever the faithful Spalatinus warned him against the publication of

some new aggressive writing, he received for answer, that it could not

be helped; that the sheets were already printed, already in many hands,

and could not be withdrawn.[29] In intercourse also with his opponents

Luther acquired the confidence of an experienced combatant. He was very

indignant when in the spring of 1518, Jerome Emser had inveigled him at

Dresden to a supper, at which he was obliged to contend with angry

enemies; and still more when he heard that a begging Dominican had

listened at the door, and had the following day reported all over the

town that Luther had been put down by the number of his opponents, and

that the listener had with difficulty restrained himself from springing

into the room and spitting in his face. At the first interview with

Cajetan, he placed himself humbly at the feet of the Prince of the

Church; but after the second, he permitted himself to say that the

Cardinal was as well suited to his business as an ass to play on the

harp. He treated the polite Miltitz with corresponding civility; the

Romanist had hoped to tame the German Bear, but the courtier himself

was soon put in his proper position, and was made use of by Luther; in

the disputation at Leipsic with Eckius, the favourable impression

produced by Luther's unembarrassed, honest, and self-composed

demeanour, was the best counterbalance to the self-sufficient

confidence of his dexterous opponent.

But Luther's inward life demands a higher sympathy. It was a fearful

period for him; he experienced together with a sense of elevation and

victory, mortal anguish, tormenting doubts, and terrible temptations.

He, with a few others, stood against the whole of Christendom, always

opposed by the most powerful and implacable enemies; and these

comprised all that he had from his youth considered most holy. What if

he should be in error? He was answerable for every soul that he carried

away with him. And whither was he taking them? What was there beyond

the pale of the Church?--Destruction, temporal and eternal ruin.

Opponents and timid friends cut his heart with reproaches and warnings,

but incomparably greater was one pain, that secret gnawing and

uncertainty which he dared not confess to any one. In prayer, indeed,

he found peace; when his glowing soul soared up to God, he received

abundance of strength, rest, and cheerfulness; but in his hours of

relaxation, when his irritable spirit writhed under any obnoxious

impressions, he felt himself embarrassed, torn asunder, and under the

interdict of another power which was inimical to his God. From his

childhood he had known how busily evil spirits hover around men, and

from the Scriptures he had learned that the devil labours to injure

even the purest. On his own path lurked busy devils seeking to weaken

and entice him, and to make countless numbers miserable through him. He

saw them working in the angry mien of the Cardinal, the sneering

countenance of Eckius, and indeed in his own soul; and he knew how

powerful they were in Rome. In his youth he had been tormented by

apparitions, and now they had returned to him. Out of the dark shadows

of his study rose the tempter as a spectre, clutching at his reason,

and when praying, the devil approached him, even under the form of the

Saviour, radiant as king of heaven, with his five wounds as the old

Church represented him. But Luther knew that Christ only approaches

weak man in his word, or in humble form, as He hung upon the cross; so

by a violent effort he collected himself and cried out to the

apparition: "Away with thee, thou vile devil!" then the spectre

vanished.[30] Thus again and again for years did the stout heart of the

man struggle with wild excitement. It was a gloomy conflict between

reason and delusion; he always came out as conqueror, the primitive

strength of his healthy character gained the victory. In long hours of

prayer the stormy waves of excitement were calmed; his solid

understanding and his conscience led him always from doubt to security,

and he felt this expansion of his soul as a gracious inspiration from

his God. It was after such experiences, that he, who had been so

anxious and timid, became firm as steel, indifferent to the judgment of

men, intrepid and inexorable.

He appeared quite another person in his conflicts with earthly enemies;

in these he almost always showed the confidence of superiority, and

especially in his literary disputes.

The activity he displayed from this period as a writer was gigantic. Up

to the year 1517, he had published little; but after that he became not

only the most copious, but the most popular writer of Germany. By the

energy of his style, the power of his arguments, the fire and vehemence

of his convictions, he carried all before him. No one had as yet spoken

with such power to the people. His language adapted itself to every

voice and every key; sometimes brief, terse, and sharp as steel; at

others, with the rich fullness of a mighty stream his words flowed upon

the people; and a figurative expression or a striking comparison made

the most difficult things comprehensible. He had a wonderful creative

power, and pre-eminent facility in the use of language; when he took

his pen, his spirit seemed to emancipate itself: one perceives in his

sentences the cheerful warmth that animated him, and they overflow with

the magic creations of the heart. This power is very visible in his

attacks upon individual opponents, and was closely allied to rudeness,

which caused much perplexity to his admiring cotemporaries. He liked

also to play with his opponents: his fancy clothed them in a grotesque

mask, and he rallied, derided, and hit at this fantastic figure, in

expressions by no means measured, and not always very becoming. But the

good humour which shone out from the midst of these insults had

generally a conciliatory effect, though not upon those whom they

touched. Scarcely ever do we perceive any small enmities, but

frequently inexhaustible kindness of heart. Sometimes forgetting the

dignity of the reformer, he played antics like a German peasant child,

or rather like a mischievous hobgoblin. How he buffeted his

adversaries! now with the blows of an angry giant's club, now with the

rod of a buffoon. He delighted in transforming their names into

something ridiculous; thus they were known in the Wittenberger's circle

by the names of beasts and fools: Eckius became Dr. Geek,[31]

Murner[32] was called Katerkopf[33] and Krallen; Emser, who had his

crest (the head of a horned goat) engraved on every controversial

writing, was insulted by being changed into Bock;[34] the Latin name of

the apostate Humanitarian, Cochlaeus, was translated back into German,

and Luther greeted him as Schnecke (the snail) with impenetrable

armour, and--it grieves one to say--sometimes as Rotzloeffel.[35] Still

more annoying, and even shocking in the eyes of his cotemporaries, was

the vehement recklessness with which he broke forth against hostile

princes; the Duke George of Saxony, cousin to his own sovereign, was

the only one he was occasionally obliged to spare. The profligate

despotism of Henry VIII. of England was abhorrent to the soul of the

German reformer, who abused him terribly, and he dealt with Henry of

Brunswick as a naughty school-boy. It cannot, we fear, be denied that

it was this alloy to the moral dignity of his character that acted as

the salt, which made his writings so irresistible to the earnest

Germans of the sixteenth century.

In the autumn of 1517, he had a controversy with the reprobate

Dominican; in the winter of 1520, he burnt the papal bull; in the

spring of 1518, he still laid himself at the feet of the Pope as the

vicegerent of Christ; but in the spring of 1521, he declared before the

Emperor, princes, and papal nuncios at the Imperial Diet at Worms, that

he did not trust either in the Pope or the councils alone, but only in

the witness of the Holy Scripture and the convictions of his own

reason. He had now become a free man, but the papal interdict and the

ban of the empire hung over him; he was inwardly free, but he was free

like the wild beast of the forest, with the bloodthirsty hounds giving

tongue after him. He had now arrived at the acme of his life: the

powers against which he had revolted, and even the thoughts which he

had excited in the people, began now to work against his life and

doctrines.

It appears that already at Worms, Luther was warned that he must

disappear for a time. The habits of the Franconian knights, among whom

he had many faithful adherents, gave rise to the idea of carrying him

off by armed men. The Elector Frederic planned the abduction with his

confidential advisers; yet it was quite in the style of this Prince to

arrange that he himself should not know the place of his confinement,

that in case of necessity he might be able to affirm his ignorance. It

was not easy to make this plan acceptable to Luther, for his valiant

heart had long overcome all earthly fear, and with ecstatic pleasure,

in which there was much enthusiasm and some humour, he watched the

attempts of the Romanists who wished to take away his life; this,

however, was under the disposal of another and higher power, which

spoke through his mouth.[36] He unwillingly submitted; but however

cleverly the abduction was arranged, it was not easy to keep the

secret. In the beginning, Melancthon was the only one of the

Wittenbergers who knew the place of Luther's concealment; but Luther

was not the man to accommodate himself, even to the most well-meaning

intrigue, and soon messengers were actively passing to and fro between

the Wartburg and Wittenberg, so that whatever circumspection was

employed in the care of the letters, it was difficult to prevent the

spreading of reports. Luther in the castle, learned what was going on

in the great world sooner than the Wittenbergers; he received accounts

of all the news of his university, and endeavoured to raise the courage

of his friends and to guide their politics. It is touching to see how

he tried to strengthen Melancthon, whose unpractical nature caused him

to feel bitterly the absence of his stronger friend. "Things must go on

without me," Luther writes to him. "Only take courage and you will no

longer need me; if, when I come out, I cannot return to Wittenberg, I

must go out into the world. You are the men to maintain, without me,

the cause of the Lord against the devil." His letters are dated from

the "aerial regions," from "Patmos," from the "wilderness," "from among

the birds who sing sweetly among the branches, and praise God day and

night with all their powers." Once he endeavoured to be cunning:

writing to Spalatinus, he enclosed a crafty letter, saying, that it was

believed without foundation that he was at Wartburg. That he was living

among faithful brothers, and that it was remarkable no one thought of

Bohemia; it concluded with a not ill-natured thrust at Duke George of

Saxony, his keenest enemy. This letter, Spalatinus, with pretended

negligence, was to lose, that it might come into the hands of his

enemies; but in such diplomacy Luther was by no means consistent, for

no sooner was his lion nature roused by any intelligence, than he made

a hasty decision to burst forth to Erfurt or Wittenberg. He bore with

difficulty the tedium of his residence; he was treated with the

greatest consideration by the commander of the castle, and this care

showed itself chiefly, as was then the custom, in providing him with

the best food and drink. The good living, the absence of excitement,

the fresh air on horseback, which the theologian enjoyed, worked both

on soul and body. He had brought with him from Worms, a bodily ailment

from which arose hours of dark despondency, which made him incapable of

work.

Two days successively he went out hunting; but his heart was with the

poor hares and partridges, which were hunted by a host of men and dogs

into a net. "Innocent little creatures! thus do the papists hunt." To

preserve the life of a little hare he concealed it in the sleeve of his

coat; then came the hounds and broke the limbs of the little animal

within the protecting coat. "Thus does Satan gnash his teeth against

the souls I seek to save." Luther had enough to do to defend himself

and his from Satan; he had thrown off all the authorities of the

Church, and now stood shuddering alone, only one thing remained to him,

the Scriptures. The old Church had been continually expounding

Christianity; traditions which were concurrent with the Scriptures,

councils and decrees of the Pope, had kept the faith in constant

agitation. Luther placed in its stead the word of Scripture, which

while it brought deliverance from a wilderness of erroneous soulless

conceptions, gave threatenings of other dangers. What was the Bible?

There were about two centuries between the oldest and the newest

writings of the holy book. The New Testament itself was not written by

Christ, nor even always by those who had received his holy teaching

from himself; it had been compiled long after his death, portions of it

might have been delivered incorrectly; all was written in a foreign

language that Germans could with difficulty understand. Expounders of

the greatest discernment were in danger of interpreting falsely if not

enlightened by the grace of God as the Apostles had been. The old

Church had brought to its assistance that sacrament which gave to the

priest's office this enlightenment; indeed the holy father assumed so

much of the omnipotence of God, that he considered himself in the right

even where his will was contrary to the Scripture. The reformer had

nothing but his weak human understanding and his prayers.

It was indeed imperative that Luther should use his reason, for a

certain degree of criticism upon the Holy Scriptures was necessary. He

did not set an equal value upon all the books of the New Testament: it

is known that he had doubts about the Revelations of St. John, and he

did not much value the Epistle of St. James; but objections to

particular parts never disturbed his faith in the whole; his belief in

the verbal inspiration of the Holy Scriptures (with the exception of a

few books) could not be shaken; they were to him what was dearest on

earth, the groundwork of his whole knowledge; he was so thoroughly

imbued with their spirit, that he lived as it were under their shadow.

The more deeply he felt his responsibility, the more intense was the

ardour with which he clung to the Scriptures.[37] A powerful instinct

for what was rational and judicious helped him over many dangers; his

penetration had nothing of the hair-splitting sophistry of the old

teachers; he despised unnecessary subtleties, and with admirable tact

he left undecided what appeared to him not essential. But if he was not

to become a frantic or godless man, nothing remained to him but to

ground his new doctrines on the words which were spoken and written

fifteen hundred years before him, and he fell in some case into what

his opponent Eckius called "Black-letter style."

Under these restraints his method was formed. If he had a question to

solve, he collected all the passages in Scripture which appeared to him

to contain an answer; he examined each passage to understand their

mutual bearing, and thus arrived at his conclusions. By this mode of

proceeding, he brought the Scriptures within the compass of an ordinary

understanding; for example, in the year 1522, he undertook, out of the

Holy Scriptures, to place marriage on a new moral foundation; he

severely criticised the eighteen reasons given by ecclesiastical law,

forbidding and dissolving marriages, and condemned the unworthy

favouring of the rich in preference to the poor.

It was this same system which made him so pertinacious in his

transactions with the Reformers in the year 1529, when he wrote on the

table before him: "This _is_ my body;" and looked gloomily on the tears

and outstretched hands of Zwinglius. Never had that formidable man

shown more powerful convictions, convictions won in vehement wrestling

with his doubts and the devil. It may be considered by some as an

imperfect system; but there was a genial strength in it, that made his

own view more available to the cultivation and heart-cravings of his

time, than even he himself anticipated.

Besides these great trials, the proscribed monk at the Wartburg was

exposed to smaller temptations: he had long, by almost superhuman

spiritual activity, overcome, what great self-distrust led him to

consider as merely sensual inclinations; still nature stirred

powerfully in him, and he many times begged of his dear Melancthon to

pray for him concerning this.

It happened providentially, that just at this time at Wittenberg the

restless spirit of Karlstadt took up the subject of the marriage of

priests, in a pamphlet in which he decided that vows of celibacy were

not binding upon priests and monks. The Wittenbergers were in general

agreed on this question, especially Melancthon, who was perfectly

unbiassed, as he himself had never entered into holy orders, and had

been married two years.

Thus a web of thoughts and moral problems was cast from the outer world

upon Luther's soul, the threads of which enclosed the whole of his

later life. Whatever joy of heart and earthly happiness was vouchsafed

to him henceforth, rested on the answer to this question. It was the

happiness of his home that made it possible for him to bear the trials

of his later years; by that the full blossom of his rich heart was

first unfolded. So graciously did Providence send to him, just in the

time of his loneliness, the message which was to bind him anew, and

more firmly than ever to his people. Again, the way in which Luther

treated this problem is quite characteristic; his pious spirit and the

conservative tendency of his character strove against the hasty and

superficial way in which Karlstadt reasoned. It may be assumed, that

his own feelings made him suspicious as to whether this critical

question was not made use of by the devil, to tempt the children of

God; and yet the constraint upon the poor monks in the monasteries

grieved him much. He examined the Scriptures, and easily made up his

mind as to the marriage of priests; but there was nothing in the Bible

about monks: "Where the Scripture is silent, man is unsafe." It

appeared to him, withal, a laughable idea that his friends could marry,

and he wrote to the cautious Spalatinus: "Good God, our Wittenbergers

wish also to give wives to the monks! now they shall not so encumber

me;" and he warns him ironically: "Have a care that you also do not get

married;" yet this problem occupied him incessantly. Men live fast in

great times. Gradually, by Melancthon's reasoning, and we may add by

fervent prayer, he arrived at certainty. What, almost unknown to

himself, brought about the decision, was the perception that it had

become wise and necessary for the moral foundation of social life, that

the monasteries should be opened. For nearly three months this question

had been struggling in his mind; on the 1st November, 1521, he wrote

the afore-mentioned letter to his father.

Unbounded was the effect of his words on the people; they produced a

general excitement: out of almost all the cloister doors monks and nuns

slipped away; it was at first singly and by stealth, but soon whole

monasteries and convents dissolved themselves. When Luther in the

following spring returned to Wittenberg, his heart full of anxious

cares, the fugitive monks and nuns caused him a great deal of trouble.

Secret letters were forwarded to him from all quarters, chiefly from

excited nuns who had been placed as children in convents by harsh

parents, and being now without money or protection, looked to the great

Reformer for help; it was not unnatural that they should throng to

Wittenberg. Nine nuns came from the foundation for noble ladies at

Nimpschen, amongst them were a Staupitz, two Zeschau, and Catherine von

Bora; besides these there were sixteen other nuns to take care of, and

so forth. He was much grieved for these poor people, and hastened to

place them under the protection of worthy families. Sometimes, indeed,

it became too much of a good thing, and the crowd of runaway monks

especially annoyed him. He complains: "They desire immediately to

marry, and are unfit for every kind of work." He gave great scandal by

his bold solution of this difficult question; and there was much that

was very painful to his feelings; for amongst those who now returned in

tumult to social life, though there were some high-minded men, others

were coarse and dissolute. Yet all this did not for one moment make him

turn aside; he became, according to his nature, more decided from

opposition. When, in 1524, he published the history of the sufferings

of a nun, Florentina von Oberweimar, he repeated in the dedication what

he had so often preached: "God often testifies in the Scriptures that

He desires no compulsory service, and no one can become his, who is not

so in heart and soul. God help us! Is there nothing in this that speaks

to us? Have we not ears and understanding? I say it again, God will not

have compulsory service; I say it a third time, I say it a hundred

thousand times, God will have no compulsory service."[38]

Thus Luther entered the last period of his life. His disappearance in

the Thuringian forest had made an immense sensation. His opponents, who

were accused of his murder, trembled before the indignation which was

roused against them, both in city and country. The interruption,

however, of his public activity was pregnant with evil to him; as long

as he was at Wittenberg, the centre of the struggle, his word and his

pen could dominate the great spiritual movement both in the north and

south, but in his absence it worked arbitrarily in different

directions, and in many heads. One of Luther's oldest associates began

the confusion, and Wittenberg itself was the scene of action of a wild

commotion. Luther could no longer bear to remain at the Wartburg; he

had already been once secretly to Wittenberg; he now returned there

publicly, against the will of the Elector. Then began an heroic

struggle against old friends, and against conclusions drawn from his

own doctrines. His activity was superhuman; he thundered incessantly

from the pulpit, and his pen flew over the pages, in his cell. But he

was not able to bring back all the erring minds, neither could he

prevent the excitement of the people from gathering into a political

storm. What was more, he could not hinder the spiritual freedom which

he had won for the Germans, from producing, even in pious and learned

men, an independent judgment upon faith and life, which was often

opposed to his own convictions. Then came the dark years of the

Iconoclastic and Anabaptist struggle, the Peasant war; and the sad

dispute about the Sacrament. How often at this time did the figure of

Luther arise gloomy and powerful above the disputants! how often did

the perversity of men and his own secret doubts, fill him with anxious

cares about the future of Germany!

In this wild time of fire and sword, the spiritual struggle was carried

on more nobly and purely by him than by any one else. Every

interference of earthly power was hateful to him; he did not choose to

be protected even by his own sovereign, and would not have any human

support for his teaching. He fought with a sharp pen, alone against his

enemies; the only pile that he lighted was for a paper: he hated the

Pope as he did the devil, but he had always preached toleration and

Christian forbearance towards papists; he suspected many of having a

secret compact with the devil, but he never burnt a witch. In all the

Roman Catholic countries the stake was lighted for the confessors of

the new faith, and even Hutten was strongly suspected of having cut off

the ears of some monks; but so benevolent were Luther's feelings, that

he had heartfelt compassion for the humbled Tetzel, and wrote him a

consolatory letter. His highest political principle was obedience to

the authorities ordained by God, and he never rose in opposition to

them except when necessary for the service of God. On his departure

from Worms, although on the point of being declared free from

interdict, he was forbidden to preach; he did not, however, desist from

doing so, but suffered great anxiety lest it should be imputed to him

as disobedience. His conception of the unity of the Empire was quite

primitive and popular; the reigning princes and electors, according to

the laws of the Empire, owed the same obedience to the Emperor that

their own subjects did to them.

During the whole course of his life he took a heartfelt interest in

Charles V., not only in that early period when he greeted him as the

"Dear youth," but even later, when he knew well, the Spanish Burgundian

only tolerated the German reformation for political reasons: he said of

him, "He is good and quiet; he does not speak as much in one year as I

do in a day; he is the favourite of fortune:" he had pleasure in

extolling the Emperor's moderation, discretion, and long sufferance;

and after he had begun to condemn his policy, and to distrust his

character, he still insisted upon his companions talking with reverence

of the sovereign of Germany; for he said, apologetically, "A politician

cannot be as candid as we ecclesiastics." In 1530 he gave it as his

opinion, that it would be wrong in the Elector to arm in opposition to

the Emperor: it was not till 1537 that he unwillingly adopted a more

enlarged view; but even then, the threatened Prince was not to take up

arms first. So strongly in this man of the people still dwelt the

honourable tradition of a firm well-ordered state, at a time when the

proud edifice of that old Saxon and Frank empire was crumbling into

ruin; but there was no trace of servile feeling in this loyalty: when

the Elector on one occasion desired him to write a plausible letter,

his truthful feeling revolted against the Emperor's title of "Most

Gracious Sovereign," for the Emperor was not graciously disposed

towards him; and in his intercourse with people of rank he showed a

careless frankness that shocked the courtiers. To his own sovereign he

had with all submission spoken truths as only a great character can

speak, and to which only a good heart will listen. He had in general a

poor opinion of the German princes, though he esteemed individuals

among them; frequent and just are his complaints of their incapacity,

licentiousness, and other vices:[39] the nobles too he treated with

irony; the coarseness of most of them displeased him extremely.[40] He

felt a democratic aversion to the hard and selfish lawyers who

conducted the affairs of the princes, courted favour, and tormented the

poor; to the best of them he allowed only a doubtful prospect of the

grace of God: his whole heart, on the other hand, was with the

oppressed: he blamed the peasants sometimes for their obduracy and

their usuriousness, but he commended their class, regarded their vices

with heartfelt compassion, and remembered that he sprang from them.

These were his views on worldly government, but he served the

spiritual: he held firmly the popular idea, that there should be two

ruling powers,--the Church, and the princes, and he thought he was

justified in proudly placing the domination of the former above that of

worldly politics. He strove indignantly to prevent the governing powers

from assuming the control in matters pertaining to the care of souls

and to the autonomy of his communities. He estimated all politics with

reference to the interests of his faith and according to the laws of

his Bible. When the Scripture seemed to be endangered by worldly

politics, he raised his voice, indifferent where it hit: it was not his

fault that he was strong and the princes weak, and it ought to be no

reproach to him, the monk, the professor, and the shepherd of souls, if

the allied Protestant princes withstood the cunning statesmancraft of

the Emperor, like a herd of deer; he himself was so conscious that

politics were not his business, that when on one occasion the active

Landgrave of Hesse would not follow ecclesiastical advice, he was the

more esteemed for it by Luther: "He has a good head of his own; he will

be successful; he thoroughly understands the world."

Since Luther's return to Wittenberg a democratic agitation had been

fermenting amongst the people. Luther had opened the cloisters, and now

people desired to be delivered from many other social evils, such as

the destitution of the peasants, the ecclesiastical imposts, the

malversation of the benefices, and the bad administration of justice.

The honest heart of Luther sympathized with this movement, and he

exhorted and reproved the landed proprietors and princes; but when the

wild waves of the Peasant war poured over his own country, when deeds

of bloody violence wounded his spirit, and he found that factious men

and enthusiasts exercised a dominion over the multitudes which

threatened his doctrines with destruction, he threw himself with the

deepest indignation into the struggle against the rough masses. Wild

and warlike was his appeal to the princes; he was horrified at what had

taken place: the gospel of love had been disgraced by the headstrong

wilfulness of those who had called themselves its followers. His policy

was right; there was in Germany, unfortunately, no better power than

that of the princes; on them, in spite of everything, rested the future

of the father-land, for which neither the peasant serfs, nor the

rapacious noblemen, nor the dispersed cities of the empire, which stood

like islands in the midst of the surging sea, could give a guarantee:

he was entirely in the right; but in the same headstrong unbending way,

which had hitherto made his struggle against the hierarchy so popular,

he now turned against the people. A cry of dismay and horror was raised

among the masses. He was a traitor. He, who for eight years had been

their hero and darling, suddenly became the most unpopular of men:

again his life and liberty were threatened; even five years afterwards

it was dangerous for him to visit his sick father at Mansfeld, on

account of the peasants. The anger of the multitude worked also against

his teaching; the field preachers and new apostles treated him as a

lost, corrupt man.

He was excommunicated and outlawed by the higher powers, and cursed by

the people; even many well-meaning men had been displeased with his

attack on celibacy and monastic life. The nobility of the country

threatened to waylay the outlaw on the high-roads, because he had

destroyed the convents in which, as in foundling hospitals, the

respectable daughters of poor nobles were thrown in early childhood.

The Romish party triumphed; the new heresy was deprived of that which

had hitherto made it powerful; Luther's life and doctrines seemed

doomed to destruction.

It was at this time that Luther determined to marry. Catherine von Bora

had lived at Wittenberg for two years in the house of Reichenbach, the

town clerk, afterwards burgomaster. She was a fine young woman of

stately manners, the deserted daughter of a noble family of Meissen.

Twice had Luther endeavoured to obtain a husband for her, as with

fatherly care he had already done for many of her companions; at last

Catherine declared that she would not marry any man, unless it were

Luther himself, or his friend Amsdorf. Luther was astonished, but he

came to a rapid decision. Accompanied by Lucas Kranach, he went to woo

her, and was married to her on the spot. He then invited his friends to

his marriage feast, begged for venison from the court, which it was the

habit of the prince to present to the professors on their wedding days,

and received from the city of Wittenberg, as a bridal present, wine for

the feast. We would fain understand what passed through Luther's soul

at that time; his whole being was strained to the uttermost; his strong

and wild primitive nature was excited on all sides; he was deeply

shaken by the evils arising up everywhere around him, the burning

villages and slaughtered men. If he had been a mere fanatic he would

have ended in despair; but above the stormy disquiet, which is

perceptible in him up to his marriage, a bright light shone; the

conviction that he was the guardian of the divine law amongst the

Germans, and that in order to protect social order and morals, he was

bound to guide and not to follow the opinions of men. However eagerly

and warmly he might declaim in individual cases, he appears now

decidedly conservative and more firmly self-contained than ever. He

had, moreover, the impression that it was ordained that he should not

live much longer, and many were the hours in which he looked forward

with a longing to martyrdom. He concluded his marriage in full harmony

with his convictions. He had entered fully into the necessity of

marriage and its conformity with Scripture, and he had for some years

pressed all his acquaintances to marry, at last even his own opponent

the Archbishop of Mentz. He himself gives two reasons for his decision.

He had robbed his father for many years of his son; it would be to him

a kind of expiation, in case he should die first, to leave old Hans a

grandson. Besides this, it was also an act of defiance; his opponents

triumphed that Luther was humbled, all the world was offended with him,

and by this he would give them still more offence.

He was a man of strong passions, but there was no trace of coarse

sensuality; and we may assume that the best reason, which he did not,

however, avow to any of his friends, was yet the most decisive, and

that was, that there had long been gossip amongst people, and he

himself knew that Catherine was favourably disposed towards him. "I am

not passionately in love, but am very fond of her," he writes to one of

his dearest friends. And this marriage, concluded contrary to the

opinion of his cotemporaries, and amidst the derision of his opponents,

was an act to which we Germans owe as much, as we do to all the years

in which, as an ecclesiastic of the old Church, he had by deeds

supported his theology. For from henceforth the father, husband, and

citizen became also the reformer of the domestic life of his nation;

and that which was the blessing of his earthly life, in which Roman

Catholics and Protestants to this day have an equal interest, arose

from a marriage contracted between an outcast monk and a fugitive nun.

He had still, for one-and-twenty laborious years, to carry out the

moulding of his nation. His greatest work, the translation of the

Bible, which he had now brought to a conclusion, in union with his

Wittenberger friends, gave him an entire mastery over the language of

the people, a language, the richness and power of which first became

practically known by this book. We know in how noble a spirit he

undertook the work: he wished to produce a book for the people, for

that purpose he studied assiduously the forms of speech, proverbs, and

technical expressions used by them. The Humanitarians still continued

to write clumsy and involved German, a bad resemblance to the Latin

style. The nation now obtained for its daily reading a work which in

simple words and short sentences gave expression to the deepest wisdom

and the highest spiritual treasures. The German Bible, together with

Luther's other writings, became the groundwork of the new German

language; and this language, in which our whole literature and

spiritual life have found expression, is an indestructible possession,

which, though marred and spoilt, has even in the worst times reminded

the different branches of the German race that they belong to one

family. Individuals are now discarding their native dialects, and the

language of education, poetry, and science which was created by Luther

is the bond by which the souls of all Germans are united. Not less was

done by this same man for the social life of Germany. Private devotion,

marriage, the education of children, corporate life, school life,

manners, amusements, all feelings of the heart, all social pleasures

were consecrated by his teachings and writings; everywhere he

endeavoured to place new boundary stones and to dig deeper foundations.

There was no sphere of human duty over which he did not constrain his

countrymen to meditate. By his numerous sermons and essays he worked on

the public; by countless letters in which he gave counsel and comfort

to inquirers he worked on individuals. He urged incessantly upon all

the necessity of self-examination, and the duty of being well assured

what was owing from the father to the child, from the subject to the

sovereign, and from the chief magistrate to his community; the progress

he thus made was important in this respect, that he freed the

consciences of people; and in the place of outward pressure, against

which egotism had haughtily rebelled, he substituted everywhere a

genial self-control. How beautifully he comprehended the necessity of

cultivating the minds of children by school instruction, especially in

the old languages! How he recommended his beloved music to be

introduced into the schools! How great his views were when he advised

the magistrates to establish city libraries; and, again, how

conscientiously he endeavoured to secure freedom of choice in

matrimony! He had overthrown the old sacrament of marriage; but higher,

nobler, and freer, he established the inward relation of man and wife.

He had attacked the unwieldy monastic schools; everywhere in village

and city, as far as his influence reached, flourished better

institutions for the education of youth; he had removed the mass and

the Latin chantings; he gave instead, to both disciples and opponents,

regular preaching and the German chorale.

His desire to find something divine in all that was lovely, good, and

amiable, which the world presented to him, always kept increasing. With

this feeling he was ever pious and wise, whether in the fields, or in

decorous gaiety among his companions, in his playfulness with his wife,

or when holding his children in his arms. He rejoiced when standing

before a fruit tree at the splendour of the fruit: "If Adam had not

fallen, we might thus have admired all trees." He would take a large

pear admiringly in his hands, and exclaim: "See, six months ago it was

deeper under the earth than its own length and breadth, and has come

from the extreme end of the roots; these smallest, and least thought of

things are the most wonderful of God's works. He is in the smallest of

his creations, even to the leaf of a tree or a blade of grass." Two

little birds had made a nest in his garden, and flew about in the

evening, being frightened by the passersby: he thus addressed them:

"Ah, you dear little birds, do not fly away. I wish you well from my

heart, if you could only trust me--though I own we do not thus trust

our God." He had great pleasure in the companionship of true-hearted

men; he enjoyed drinking wine with them, and conversation flowed

pleasantly on both great and small matters; he sang, or played the

lute, and arranged singing-classes. He delighted in the art of music,

as it yielded innocent enjoyment. He was lenient in his judgment about

dancing, and spoke with indulgence--fifty years before Shakespeare--of

plays: "For they teach," said he, "like a mirror how every one should

behave himself."[41]

Once when sitting with Melancthon, the mild and learned master Philip

prudently moderated the too bold assertions of his vehement friend.

Rich people were the subject of conversation, and Frau Kate could not

resist remarking, eagerly, "If my husband had held such opinions he

would have become very rich." Then Melancthon replied decidedly: "That

is impossible, for those who thus strive after the good of the

community cannot attend to their own interest." There was one subject,

however, on which both men liked to argue. Melancthon was a great lover

of astrology; Luther looked on this science with sovereign contempt; on

the other hand, by his method of Biblical exegesis, and also by his

secret political views, he had come to the conviction that the end of

the world was near; and that appeared very doubtful to the sagacious

Melancthon. When therefore the latter began with his signs and aspects

of the heavens, and explained that Luther's success was owing to his

having been born under the sign of the sun, Luther exclaimed: "I have

no faith in your Sol. I am the son of a peasant; my father,

grandfather, and ancestors have all been thorough peasants." "Yes,"

answered Melancthon, "but even in a village you would have become the

leader, the magistrate, or the head labourer over all others." "But,"

exclaimed Luther, triumphantly, "I became a Baccalaureus, a master, and

a monk; that was not written in the stars: after that, I quarrelled

with the Pope, and he with me. I have taken a nun for my wife, and

have had children by her; who has seen that in the stars?" Again

Melancthon--continuing his astrological exposition--began to explain

about the Emperor Charles; how he was destined to die in the year 1584.

Then Luther broke out vehemently: "The world will not last so long, for

when we have driven away the Turks, the prophecy of Daniel will be

fulfilled, and the end of all things come, then assuredly the last day

is at hand."

How amiable he was as the father of a family! When his little children

were standing at the table watching eagerly the peaches and other

fruit, he said, "Whoever wishes to see a picture of one who rejoices in

hope, will see it truly portrayed here. Oh, that we could look as

joyfully for the last day. Adam and Eve must have had far better

fruits: ours are in comparison only like crabs. The serpent was then, I

have no doubt, the most beautiful of creatures, amiable and lovely; it

still has its crest, but after the curse it lost its feet and beautiful

body." Looking at his little son, just three years old, who was playing

and talking to himself, he said, "This child is like a drunken man; he

does not know that he lives, and yet he enjoys life in security,

jumping and skipping about." He drew the child towards him, and thus

addressed him: "Thou art our Lord's little innocent, not under the law,

but under the covenant of grace and forgiveness of sins; thou fearest

nothing, but art secure and without cares, and what thou doest is

pure." He then continued: "Parents always love their youngest children

best; my little Martin is my dearest treasure: the little ones have

most need of care and love, therefore the love of parents naturally

descends. What must have been the feeling of Abraham when he had to

sacrifice his youngest and dearest son? he could not have told Sarah

about it; this journey must have been a bitter one to him." His beloved

daughter Magdalen lay dying; he laments thus: "I love her very much,

but, dear Lord, as it is thy will to take her to thee, I am content to

know that she is with thee. Magdalen, my little daughter, thou wouldst

willingly remain with thy father here, yet gladly goest to thy Father

yonder." The child then said, "Yes, dear father, as God wills it." As

she was dying, he fell on his knees by the bed, weeping bitterly, and

praying that God would redeem her. She then passed away in her father's

arms. When the people came to bury her, he addressed them as was usual,

saying, "I am joyful in spirit, but the flesh is weak; parting is

beyond measure grievous. It is a wonderful thing, that, though feeling

assured of all being well with her, and that she is at peace, one

should yet feel so sorrowful." His _dominus_, or Herr Kate, as he used

to call his wife in his letters to his friends, had soon become an apt

and thrifty housewife. She had great troubles; many children, her

husband frequently an invalid, a number of boarders (masters and poor

students), always open house--as it seldom happened that they were

without learned or distinguished guests, and in addition to all, a

scanty income and a husband who preferred giving to taking; and who

once during his wife's confinement got hold in his zeal of the baby's

christening plate to give in alms.[42] From the way in which Luther

treated her, we see how happy his family life was, and when he made

allusions to the glib chattering of women, he had no right to do so,

for he was by no means a man who was himself scanty in words. Once,

when his wife appeared much delighted at being able to serve up

different kinds of fish from the pond in their little garden, the

doctor was heartily pleased to see her joy, and did not fail to take

the opportunity of making a pleasant remark upon the happiness of

contentment. Another time, when he had been reading to her too long in

the Psalter, and she said that she heard enough upon sacred subjects,

that she read much daily, and could talk about them, "God only grant

that she might live accordingly," the doctor sighed at this sensible

answer, and said, "Thus begins a weariness of the word of God; new

trifling books will come in the place of the Scriptures, which will

again be thrown into a corner." But this close union between these two

excellent persons was still for many years disturbed by a secret

sorrow. We only learn what was gnawing at the soul of the wife, by

finding, that when as late as the year 1527, Luther, being dangerously

ill, took a last leave of her, he spoke these words:--"You are my true

wedded wife, of that you may feel certain."

Luther's spiritual life was as much a reality to him as his earthly

one. All the holy personages of the Bible were to him as true friends;

through his lively imagination he saw them in familiar forms, and with

the simplicity of a child he liked to picture to himself the various

circumstances of their life. When Veit Dietrich asked him what kind of

person he thought the Apostle Paul was, Luther answered quickly, "He

was an insignificant, lean little man, like Philip Melancthon." He

formed a pleasing image of the Virgin Mary: he used to say, admiringly,

"She was a pretty, delicate maiden, and must have had a charming

voice."

He preferred thinking of the Redeemer as a child with his parents; how

he took his father's dinner to the timber-yard, and how when he had

been absent too long, Mary asked him, "Where have you been so long,

little one?"

The Saviour should be thought of, not as in his glory, nor as the

fulfiller of the law, conceptions too high and terrible for man; but

only as a poor sufferer, who lived among and died for sinners.

His God was to him entirely as father and head of the family. He liked

to meditate on the economy of nature: he was filled with astonishment

at the quantity of wood which God must always be creating. "No one can

reckon what God requires to nourish merely sparrows and useless birds:

in one single year they cost Him more than the income of the King of

France; and then think of all that remains." "God understands all

trades: as a tailor He can make a coat for the deer, which might last a

hundred years; as a shoemaker He gives him shoes to his feet, and by

means of the dear sun He is a cook. He could become rich indeed, if He

chose, if He were to withhold the sun and air, and threatened the Pope,

Emperor, bishops, and doctors with death, if they did not pay Him a

hundred thousand gulden on the spot. He does not do this, yet we are

thankless miscreants." He seriously reflected whence came the means of

nourishment for so many men. Old Hans Luther had maintained that there

were more men than sheaves of corn; the doctor indeed thought that

there were more sheaves than men, but that there were more men than

shocks. "A shock of corn, however, hardly yields a bushel, and that

will not nourish one man a whole year." Even a dung-heap was a subject

of pleasant reflection to him. "God is obliged to clear away as well as

to create; if He had not continually done so, the world would long ago

have become too full." "When God chastises the godly more severely than

the godless, He deals with him as a strict father of a family with his

son, whom he more frequently punishes than the bad servant: but he

secretly collects treasures as an inheritance for his son, whilst he

finally casts the servant off." Luther comes joyfully to this

conclusion: "If God can forgive me for having during twenty years

offended Him by saying mass, He can also excuse my having sometimes had

a good drink to his honour--let the world think what it will."

It surprised him much that God should be so very wrath with the Jews.

"For fifteen hundred years they have prayed fervently with great zeal

and earnestness, as their little prayer-books show; and He has not

revealed himself to them during the whole time by the smallest word. I

would give two hundred florins' worth of books if I could pray as they

do. It must be a great and unspeakable anger. Ah! dear Lord, punish me

with pestilence, rather than be thus silent!"

Luther prayed like a child morning and evening, and often during the

day, even indeed, during his meals. He repeated again and again with

fervent devotion those prayers which he knew by heart. His favourite

was the Lord's Prayer, and then he repeated the short catechism; he

always carried the Psalter with him as a little prayer-book. When he

was in extreme trouble his prayer became like a storm, a wrestling with

God, the power, the greatness, and the holy simplicity of which can

hardly be compared with any other human emotion. He was then the son

who despairingly lies at the feet of his father, or the faithful

servant who supplicates his prince. For nothing could shake his

conviction that we may influence God's decisions by prayer and

supplication. Thus overflowing feelings alternated in his prayers with

complaints and even remonstrances. It is often related how, in the year

1540, he restored to life the dying Melancthon at Weimar. When Luther

arrived he found "_Magister Philippus_" at the point of death,

unconscious and with closed eyes. Luther, struck with terror, said,

"God forbid! how has this organ of God been marred by the devil!" Then

he turned his back on those assembled, and went to the window as he was

wont to do when he prayed. "Now," said Luther, "must the Lord God

stretch forth his hand to me, for I have brought the matter home to

Him, and dinned in his ears all his promises as to the efficacy of

prayer, which I could repeat from the Holy Scripture, so that He must

hearken to me if I am to trust his promises." Then he took Melancthon

by the hand, saying, "Be comforted, Philip, you will not die:" and

Melancthon, under the spell of his powerful friend, began at once to

breathe again, and recovered his consciousness. He was restored.

As God was to Luther the source of all good, so was the devil the

producer of all evil and wickedness. He considered that the devil

interfered destructively with the course of nature by illness or

pestilence, deformity and famine. All that this deep-thinking man

preached so firmly and joyfully had formerly pressed with fearful

weight upon his conscience; especially when awaking in the night, the

devil stood full of malice by his bed, whispering horrors in his ear;

then his spirit wrestled for freedom, often for a length of time in

vain. It is extraordinary what this son of the sixteenth century went

through in these inward struggles. Every fresh inquiry into the

Scriptures, every important sermon upon a new theme, threw him again

into this strife of conscience: then he reached such a state of

excitement that his soul became incapable of systematic thought, and

for whole days he trembled with anguish. When he was occupied with the

question of monks and nuns, a text of the Bible startled him, which he

thought, in his excitement, placed him in the wrong: his heart died

within him, and he was nearly strangled by the devil. At this time

Bugenhagen visited Luther, who showed him the threatening text.[43]

Bugenhagen, probably infected by the eagerness of his friend, began

also to doubt, unconscious of the greatness of the misery which it

occasioned Luther. Now was Luther indeed terrified, and again passed a

fearful night. The next morning Bugenhagen came back. "I am very

angry," he said; "I have now, for the first time, understood the text

rightly; it has quite another sense." "And it is true," said Luther

later, "it was a ridiculous argument; ridiculous indeed for one who is

in his right mind, and not under temptation."

He often lamented to his friends, over the terrors which these

struggles with the devil occasioned him. "He has never been from the

beginning so fierce and raging as now, at the end of the world. I feel

him well. He sleeps much nearer to me than my Kate; that is to say, he

gives me more disquiet than she does pleasure." Luther never ceased to

abuse the Pope as antichrist, or the papal system as devilish. But

whoever observes more accurately, will perceive behind this hatred of

the devil, the indestructible reverence by which the loyal spirit of

the man was bound to the old Church. What became to him temptations,

were often only the pious recollections of his youth, which stood in

striking contrast to the changes he had gone through as a man.

Indeed, no man is entirely transformed by the great thoughts and deeds

of his manhood. We ourselves do not become new through new actions; our

inward life consists of the sum of all the thoughts and feelings which

we have ever had. He who has been chosen by fate to create the new by

the destruction of the old, shatters in pieces at the same time a

portion of his own life: he must violate lesser duties to fulfil

greater ones. The more conscientious he is, the more deeply he feels

the rent which he has made in the order of the world, and also in his

own inward nature. This is the secret sorrow, and even the regret, of

every great historical character. Few mortals have felt this grief so

deeply as Luther; and that which was so great in him, was his never

being prevented by this feeling from acting with the utmost boldness.

This appears to us a tragical moment in his inward life; and equally so

was the effect of his teaching upon the life of the nation. He had laid

the foundation of a new Church upon the pure Gospel, and had given

greater depth and substance to the minds and conscience of the people.

Around him burst forth a new life, greater general prosperity, many new

arts, improvements in painting and music, comfortable enjoyment, and

more refined cultivation in the middle classes. Yet there was a

something gloomy and ominous which pervaded the German atmosphere.

Fierce discord raged amongst princes and governors. Foreign powers were

arrayed against the people, the Emperor from Spain, the Pope from Rome,

and the Turks from the Mediterranean; enthusiasts and factious spirits

were powerful, the hierarchy had not yet fallen. Had his gospel given

greater unity and power to the nation? The discord had become only

greater, and the future of his Church seemed dependent on the worldly

interests of individual German princes. And well he knew what even the

best among them were. Something terrible seemed approaching, the

Scripture would be fulfilled, the last day was at hand. But afterwards

God would raise up a new world, more beautiful, more splendid, and more

pure, full of peace and blessing; a world in which there would be no

devil; where the soul of man would find more enjoyment in the flowers

and fruit of the new heavenly trees, than the present race do in gold

and silver; where music, the most beautiful of all arts, would give

birth to tones more entrancing than the most splendid song of the best

singers of this world; and where good men would find again all that

they had loved and lost.[44]

Ever more powerful became in him the longing of the creature after an

ideal purity of existence. If he expected the end of the world, it was

the dim traditions of the German people from the distant past which

still veiled the heaven of the new Reformer; and yet it was at the same

time a prophetic presentiment of what was at hand. It was not the end

of the world which was approaching, but the Thirty years' war.

So he died. As the hearse bearing his corpse passed through the country

of Thuringia, the bells tolled in every village and town, and the

people pressed sobbing round his coffin. A large share of German

popular strength was buried with this one man. Philip Melancthon, in

the church of the castle at Wittenberg, standing before the corpse of

Luther, said: "Every one who has known him well must bear witness that

he was a truly good man; gracious in speech, friendly and lovable; not

in the least insolent, violent, obstinate, or quarrelsome; and yet

there was an earnestness and boldness in his words and bearing

befitting such a man. His heart was true, and without guile; the

harshness which appeared in his writings against the enemies of his

doctrine, did not arise from a quarrelsome or bad spirit, but from his

great earnestness and zeal for the truth. He showed great courage and

manliness, and did not allow himself to be easily frightened. He was

not dispirited by threatenings and danger. He possessed such a lofty

and clear understanding, that in confused, dark, and difficult

circumstances, he could see sooner than others what was to be

counselled and done. He was not, as some perhaps have thought, so

heedless as not to have remarked how it fared everywhere with the

governments. He knew right well in what government consists, and paid

assiduous attention to the opinions and will of the people with whom he

had to do. Let us have a constant and undying remembrance of this our

beloved father, and keep him ever in our hearts."[45]

Such was Luther, a superhuman nature; his mind was ponderous and

sharply defined, his will powerful and temperate, his morals pure, and

his heart full of love. As besides him no other powerful spirit arose

strong enough to become the leader of the nation, the German people

have lost for centuries the supremacy over the world; their supremacy

in the realm of mind rests however upon Luther. That he may in

conclusion speak for himself, we will give a letter to the Elector

Frederic the Wise, written at the time when Luther's whole powers were

most strongly developed. The prudent prince had commanded him to remain

at Wartburg, because he could not protect him at Wittenberg, as the

anger of the Duke George of Saxony would lead him to insist immediately

upon the carrying out of the ban of the empire against Luther. Luther

then writes to his sovereign:--

"Most Serene Highness, Illustrious Elector, and Gracious Sovereign!

Your Electoral Highness's letter and gracious remembrance of me,

reached me on Friday evening, when I was preparing to leave on Sunday

morning. I need truly neither proof nor witness that your Electoral

Highness's intentions are for the best, for I am as fully convinced

thereof as any human being can be.

"Yet in this matter, Gracious Sovereign, I must answer thus: your

Electoral Highness knows, or if you do not know, permit me hereby to

make you acquainted with it, that I have not received the gospel from

man, but from heaven alone, through our Lord Jesus Christ, so that I

may, and indeed from henceforth will, boast and sign myself a servant

and evangelist. If I have presented myself for trial and judgment, it

was not because I doubted the truth, but from overflowing humility, and

to persuade others. I have done enough for your Electoral Highness in

leaving my place vacant for a whole year for the sake of your Electoral

Highness. The devil knows well that I have not done it from fear. He

saw what a heart I had when I came to Worms; for if I had known that as

many devils were lying in wait for me as there were tiles on the roofs,

yet I would have rushed into the midst of them with joy.

"Now the Duke George is very unlike even a single devil. And since our

Father, in his unfathomable mercy, has, by his gospel made us joyful

lords over death and all devils, and has given us such a fullness of

assurance that we may call Him 'Dearly beloved Father,' your Electoral

Highness can yourself judge that it would be the greatest offence to

such a Father if we did not so trust Him as to be above the anger of

Duke George. For my part I know well, I would gladly ride into his own

Leipzig--I hope your Electoral Highness will forgive my foolish

jesting--even though it should rain, proud Duke Georges during nine

following days, and every one should be ninefold more furious than this

one. He considers my Lord Christ only a man of straw; this my Lord and

I can well bear with for a time. But I will not conceal from your

Electoral Highness that I have not once only, but often prayed and wept

for Duke George, that God would enlighten him. I will still once more

pray and weep for him, but after that never more. And I beg of your

Electoral Highness to help and pray also that we may turn from him the

evil, which, God help him, weighs incessantly upon him. I would at once

strangle Duke George with a word if it could be thus removed.

"I have written thus to your Electoral Highness, with the intention of

making known to you that I come to Wittenberg under a far higher

protection than that of the Elector. I also do not intend to request

the protection of your Electoral Highness, for indeed, I think I could

better protect your Electoral Highness than you could protect me. So

much so, that if I knew your Electoral Highness could protect me, and

would do so, I would not come. It is not the sword which can counsel or

help in this business; it is God alone who can act, without any human

assistance; therefore he who has most faith will have most power to

protect.

"As I therefore perceive that your Electoral Highness is as yet weak in

faith, I can in no wise regard your Electoral Highness as the man to

protect or deliver me.

"As your Electoral Highness desires to know what you shall do in this

business, especially as you think that you have done too little, I

answer, with all due submission, that your Electoral Highness has done

too much, and should do nothing. For God will not allow of our cares

and doings; He will have every doing left to himself, to himself and no

other. May your Electoral Highness act accordingly.

"If your Electoral Highness believes this, you will have security and

peace; if you do not, I do, and must leave your Electoral Highness in

your unbelief, to torment yourself with the anxieties which all

unbelievers deservedly suffer. As, therefore, I will not obey your

Electoral Highness, you will be excused before God if I should be

imprisoned or put to death. Towards men your Electoral Highness ought

thus to conduct yourself. You should as Elector be obedient to the

supreme authority, and should allow the Imperial majesty to rule in

your towns and provinces, over persons and property, in conformity with

the laws of the empire, and should not attempt to prevent or oppose, or

make any hindrance or resistance to this power if it should seize and

kill me. For no one should resist authority, he excepted by whom it has

been established, otherwise it is revolt, and against God. But I hope

that your Electoral Highness will be reasonable, and perceive that you

are in too high a position to become my gaoler. If your Electoral

Highness keeps the door open, and grants a free escort in case my

enemies themselves or their emissaries should come to seize me, you

will have done enough for obedience-sake. They cannot indeed demand

more of your Electoral Highness, than to learn the residence of Luther

in your Electoral Highness's dominions. And that, they shall do without

any care, work, or danger on the part of your Electoral Highness; for

Christ has not yet taught men to be Christians to the injury of others.

"If, however, they should be so unreasonable as to command your

Electoral Highness to lay hands on me yourself, I will then tell you

what is to be done: I will secure your Electoral Highness from injury

and danger to person, property, and soul, in what concerns me. Your

Electoral Highness may or may not believe this.

"Herewith I commend your Electoral Highness to God's grace; of anything

further we will speak when it is needful. For I have written this in

haste, that your Electoral Highness may not be troubled by the report

of my arrival, for I must comfort and not injure any one if I would be

a true Christian. I have to deal with quite a different man to Duke

George: we know each other well. If your Electoral Highness would have

faith, you would see the glory of God; but because you have not yet

faith, you have not seen it. Love and praise be to God in eternity.

Amen. Given at Borna by the messenger, Ash Wednesday, anno 1522.

"Your Electoral Highness's most obedient servant,

"Martin Luther."