4 Martin Luther.

Martin Luther. In a little cottage by the wayside in the small town of Eisleben, on Nov. 10th, 1483, the wail of a newborn babe was heard, and a father (only a humble miner) hung with proud delight over his firstborn son. When a great one of this world is born joy bells are rung, cannons are discharged, and rejoicings and splendours surround the cradle of the unconscious little one. Into the cottage of which I have spoken God had just sent one of His heroes; the greatest man of his age had stepped quietly upon the stage of life, but none knew it; there were no indications of the wondrous future that awaited him, yet hereafter the voice of this little child was to shake all popedom, his strong hands would make the proud edifice totter and fall for his tones, clear and sweet as the trumpets of the day of Jubilee, would ring through the earth, proclaiming the old gospel of free pardon through faith alone. The mother of Luther, though only a humble villager, was a woman of superior mind and character, her sweet piety lent a graceful charm to her manner. How often the fear of God gives a refinement and delicacy to the manners which we look for in vain elsewhere. It was doubtless from his gentle Christian mother that Luther inherited the loving trustful part of his nature, for he had a heart ever yearning for human sympathy, and a mind ever planning largely for the happiness of others. The ruggedness, the sternness of his nature, the lion-like fortitude which he likewise possessed in such a large degree, came, doubtless, from his father. His father was a grave, stern man, too stern, perhaps. No fault of the boy’s was left unpunished from a mistaken sense of duty the warm-hearted impulsive boy was often punished with a severity that was not wise. And yet, methinks, there was a softness somewhere beneath this hard surface, and sometimes the tender heart of the father peeps out like a gentle flower from a granite rock, for we read that often the miner might be seen carrying his "little one" to school on his shoulders. At the age of fourteen years Martin was sent to a school at Magdeburg. Here the hardships and privations of his young life were increased. His master often flogged him. It was a maxim in those days that nothing could be done with children without a free use of the rod, and we can well imagine how the buoyant, boisterous nature of the lad often led him to transgress the strict rules of the school. He mentions one day being whipped fifteen times. Poor Luther, yet this was not all he had to endure. It was the custom at that time for the scholars of the town to be sent from door to door to beg their bread, so they used to go in small companies singing and asking alms of the burghers. Very often, instead of food, the hungry tired boys received cuffs and blows. One day Luther was perambulating the streets, stopping before its likeliest dwellings, and striving by singing his little hymns to woo the inmates to kindness. He was very hungry, more so than usual, but no door opened, and no hand was extended. He was in great dejection, and stood musing as to what would become of him. Alas, he thought, he could not endure these hardships much longer, he must return home and work with his father in the mines. Then farewell to all his bright hopes of a fair education, and the brilliant career he was anticipating. Luther little thought that at that moment God was preparing a home for him. A door near him opened, and a gentle voice bade him enter. It was Ursula, the wife of Conrad Cotta, a man of consideration among the burghers of Eisnach.

It was not the first time Ursula had noticed the young scholar. She had been struck by his fresh young voice when he sung in the choir on Sundays. She had noticed him, too, when he had been sent, with harsh words, from her neighbour’s doors. Her gentle heart pitied him, and bidding him come in, she placed him at her own table and satisfied his hunger. Both she and her husband were won by the open countenance and sweet disposition of the boy, so they bade him stay with them; and from that time the boy had a home, and the worthy pair were to him as father and mother.

Here, surrounded by love and the sweet influences of a tender gentle woman, his young heart expanded like a flower in the sunshine. Penury and coldness had threatened to blight his powers, but now they awakened with fresh vigour, and he gave himself up to study with renewed ardour. Madame Cotta was very fond of music, and there was no better way in which Luther could repay his kind friends, than to sing to her while he accompanied himself on the lute. In this happy home Luther lived two years. In all his after life he never forgot the good Madame Cotta or the town where she lived. He was accustomed to speak of the latter as "his own beautiful town," and with reference to the former he would say, "There is nothing kinder on earth than a good woman’s heart." He never forgot, too, how God had helped him when he had stood hungry, solitary, and heart sick in the streets of Eisnach.

Luther entered the university of Erfurt in 1501. Here the young student came thirsting for knowledge, to drink his fill. His father, perceiving his son’s talents, wished him to study law, and he toiled harder than ever that he might support his son during his studies.

Luther was eighteen when he entered the university. With avidity did the young student drink in of the scholastic philosophy that was then in such great repute. Aristotle, Duns, Occan, and others, he studied. Doubtless they tended to the ripening of his understanding, and gave agility to his mind, and afterwards were of value to him in the discussion of subtle questions; but in all other respects it was a mere attempt to gather grapes off thorns, and figs off thistles. When he had been two years at his university, an event occurred which changed his whole future life. Always fond of books, he went day by day to the library of the university, and spent hours amid its treasures. One day, as he took down the books, he came upon one such as he had never seen before — a volume unlike all others. Looking at it with surprise, he found it to be a Bible — the Vulgate or Latin translation of the Holy Scriptures, by Jerome. He had never seen the Bible before. Certain portions the church had prescribed to be read, and these he had thought were the whole Bible. Great was his surprise when he found there were whole books and epistles which he had never seen before. As he read it seemed as though the very heavens were opening before him. Day after day he returned to the library and devoured some gospel of the New, or story of the Old Testament, rejoicing as one who had suddenly discovered a country fair and new. From this time a change came over Luther; the struggles in his soul commenced, which were destined never to cease until the old Luther had passed away, and the new Luther, born of the incorruptible seed, had taken his place. And from this new man came a new age — a new Europe. Long before, out of the Bible at Oxford, came the first dawn of the Reformation, and now out of this Old Bible at Erfurt came its second morning.

Luther took his first academic degree in the year 1503, and two years later he became Master of Arts, and Doctor of Philosophy. A grand torch-light procession was given him in honour of this event. Already the miner’s son saw a brilliant pathway before him, leading to fame and honour. He saw that even now he held no mean place in public opinion. As the nearest road to the goal of fame, he devoted himself to the bar, and began to give public lectures on the learned subjects treated of by the ancient philosopher, Aristotle. And where, in the midst of these intellectual fascinations, was the old Book upon which he had lighted with so much joy?

It seemed in danger of being well-nigh forgotten. But God would not have it so. Amid the excitement of his scholastic studies a sudden blow fell upon him which opened his eyes to the solemnity of eternity. He was brought to its very verge that he might gaze, as it were, over its brink. His bosom friend, Alexis, was suddenly snatched away by a violent death. His conscience, which the old Bible had awakened, but which had of late been sleeping, again awoke. "What," it said to him, "shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" Again, still louder, the voice of God spoke to him. He was passing through the country on a visit to his friends, when a violent storm broke over him. The thunders rolled and the lightnings flashed in an awful manner. It seemed to Luther as though the great Judge had descended and was calling him to account. A flash of fire suddenly struck the place where he was standing; a terrible crash of thunder broke above his head, and Luther fell almost senseless to the ground, momentarily expecting death. In agony of mind he vowed to God that if He would spare his life he would devote it to His service. The lightnings ceased, the thunders rolled away, and, rising from the ground, Luther pursued his way with solemn steps to Erfurt. But his vow, it must be fulfilled. In those days devoting oneself to God was interpreted as meaning that you must enter a monastery — you must wear the monk’s hood. To Luther, the monastery was but another word for the grave. How could he, who was so well fitted to enjoy them, forswear the delights of love and friendship? How could he renounce the honour and glory he was so well able to win: nay, which were almost already in his grasp? But his vow had been made, and it could not be broken; and surely, he thought, the more the sacrifice I make, the greater will be my merit in the sight of God. But he must see his friends once more, and then —. So, without telling them of his purpose, he calls his friends around him. He trys to converse gaily with them; but surely there are tears in his voice at times, for in his heart he is bidding them a long farewell. He touched his lute, and regales them with the music he loves so well, and if the strain is sad and dirge-like, how can he help it, for is it not his own requiem that he is playing? The time comes for them to part — he sees the last one away, and then without a moment’s hesitation, he walks straight to the Augustine Convent; he lifts the heavy knocker, its ponderous bolts are withdrawn, the door opens to receive him, and he enters. And now surely that he has been admitted into the solemn cloisters of the monastery that he has heard spoken of as being so peaceful, calm, and holy, the pangs of his troubled conscience will cease. Here, afar from the world and its temptations, he will find rest for his weary soul. Surely God will accept the great sacrifice that he has made. So thought Luther. Did he find it so? Ah, no. Luther had to find out that there could be no peace for him out of Christ. His inward torments became day by day more unsupportable. He found that the convent bars had but shut him in with his conscience: and now louder, and still louder, became its voice. He knew not where to flee. "Where," he groaned, "shall I find a shadow from this great heat — where a shelter from this great blast?" He knew no holier place than the cell; yet with all his penances and prayers he became no holier, gained no rest. It was a bitter cup that Luther was drinking, but God was teaching the man who was to be the church’s great reformer.

What a heavy burden is unpardoned guilt, and how impossible it is to find relief from it by these works of self-righteousness!

Again and again the poor monk came, as it were, to the door of heaven with his goodly sum of works only to find it closed. God was teaching the man who was to be the great apostle of justification by Faith — that heaven could not be bought by any sum, however great, but must be a free gift from God Himself.

Like a shadow he glided from cell to cell of his monastery, his eyes sunken, his bones protruding, his figure bowed to the earth. His crys and groans echoed through the long corridors of the convent. He became a mystery and a terror to his brother monks. His confessor tried to help him, but his wounds were too deep for his skill.

"’Save me in thy righteousness’ — what does that mean?" asked Luther; "I can see how God can condemn me in His righteousness, but how can He save me in His righteousness?" But none could answer poor Luther. God was allowing great furrows of sorrow to be worn in his heart, but only that He might flood them with the water-brooks of life. And even now one is approaching the monastery who will bring relief to his broken heart! It chanced — but no, it was not chance — that just at this time Staupitz, Vicar-general of the Augustines of Germany, paid a visit to the monastery where Luther was groaning under his heavy burden of sin. He was a man of great piety; one who was trusting not to the church for salvation, but to Christ alone. His eye, trained to read the faces of those around him, fell on the young monk. He could not gaze on that broad brow, upon which was the shadow of a great sorrow, or mark the eye which told of much spirit anguish, without feelings of deep interest. He spoke to him with tenderness — such sounds were rare to poor Luther now, for the inmates of the monastery thought that his conflicts could only be accounted for by the influence of the evil one, and so had shunned him. The words of love won his confidence, and he laid his whole soul bare before the vicar. Staupitz saw at once how it was. "Luther," said he in effect, "you are trying to stand before the Great Judge without a days-man. Turn your eyes away from your own wounds, your stripes, maceratings, and fastings. You can never move God by these. Look to the wounds of Christ — see there His blood flowing for you!"

"But how dare I come to Christ," said Luther, "till I am a better man?"

"A better man! It is sinners, not just men, Christ came to call." And so with skilful hand the vicar strove to turn his thoughts from himself to his Saviour. Like healing balm upon an open wound seemed the vicar’s words to Luther’s bruised spirit; he felt that light was beginning to pierce the cloud. Before the vicar left he gave him a Bible, which he received with unbounded joy.

Still Luther’s faith was but feeble and flickering, and at times the clouds of despondency would gather round him, and his old conflicts would be renewed. At last he was laid on a bed of sickness, and while he was there God used a very humble instrument to complete the work that the vicar had commenced. A poor old brother monk came to Luther’s bed-side one day, and began reciting, with great earnestness and simplicity, the apostle’s creed. Luther repeated after him in feeble accents, "I believe in the forgiveness of sins." "Nay," said the monk, "you are to believe not only in the forgiveness of David’s sins, and Peter’s sins, you must believe in the forgiveness of your own sins." The decisive word was spoken. As a flash of vivid lightning in the night time suddenly illumines the whole landscape, so the monk’s simple words thew a flood of light upon the scheme of the Gospel, which had before seemed to Luther so incomprehensible. "Oh, God," he exclaimed in an ecstasy of joy, "I see it all now, it is not payment, but forgiveness." It seemed as though he were in a new world — his prison doors were open. God had removed his sackcloth from him, and girded him with gladness. "In that hour," says one, "the principle of popery fell from Luther’s soul." To Christ alone now he looked for salvation, to the church he would look no more. But although Luther had received life and peace, there was still much that he had to learn, and soon after this we find him being ordained as a priest. Our picture will show what a gorgeous scene this was when Rome had full sway over men’s hearts. What an awful perversion of the simplicity of the Lord’s supper! The ceremonies of popery still had a hold upon him, yet according to his light, with wholeheartedness he served his God, and remained some time in the monastery, under the training of God, and growing daily richer in the knowledge of Him. And now the time has come for him to pass out of his cell — the cell in which he had fought a battle sublimer than the one he was afterwards called upon to fight before the Diet of Worms — and enter upon the work which God had in divine wisdom been preparing him to fulfil.

He was appointed to the post of Doctor of Theology in the University of Wittemberg; and passing from the monastery to the class-room with the open Bible in his hand, he was able to reveal the fountains of life to the eager students who surrounded him. How freely could he now communicate to others that which he learned amid tears, and groans, and anguish of soul. Such was the power and freshness of his words that crowds of students came to hang, as it were, upon his utterances. His fame went out into other lands. Flocks of students from foreign countries came to drink in of the heaven-taught wisdom of the Wittemberg professor.

Staupitz watched with lively satisfaction the career of the young monk. Why, thought he, should this man confine his light to the walls of a university? around him on all sides were multitudes who were endeavouring to satisfy their hunger on the wretched husks which the monks gave them to feed on. Why should not this man, who was so well able, minister to them the bread of Life? Why should not the living waters, so long dammed up, be let loose to flow again among the habitations of men? The vicar-general proposed to Luther that he should preach in public, and soon after this, Luther commenced his public ministry. At an old wooden chapel in the centre of the public square, so tottering with age that it needed to be propped up on all sides, Luther first commenced his public ministry. And here, after the silence of centuries, rang out again the proclamation of free pardon for all sins through faith in Jesus Christ alone. With animated countenance, and kindling eye, Luther told out in thrilling tones the majestic truths that he had received from God, and the hearts of his hearers were filled with awe. Men wondered at tidings so strange and sweet, so refreshing and welcome. When the heart is full it is easy for the tongue to be eloquent, and day by day the fame of the preacher grew. From all the surrounding cities came crowds to hear him; the old wooden chapel became far too small for the numbers who flocked to it. The Town Council of Wittemberg now elected him to be their preacher, and gave him the use of the parish church. Once the Elector Frederick was among his hearers, and was delighted with the simplicity of his language, and with the weight of his matter. And now the Reformation was fairly launched. God had bidden it go forward, and man could not stop it. But it was needful for Luther that he should learn another lesson. The Lord wished him to find out the vileness of that church which he still regarded as the church of Christ, and the dwelling place of holiness; and that he might learn it more surely, it was necessary that he should go to Rome. And so God opened up the way for him to go there. With heart swelling with strange emotion, Luther stands within the gates of, to him, the thrice holy city. What a disenchantment awaited him! What a deliverance from a spell that had too long held him captive! He would see Rome, not as he had fondly painted her in his dreams, but as she had made herself by her own corruptions.

It must not be forgotten that although Luther was converted, and resting on the Lord Jesus as the rock of his salvation, his knowledge was still very imperfect, for popery still extended its shadow over his mind. It was no easy thing for Luther to emerge from under that gloom, a gloom that had lasted for twelve centuries, and which is brooding, even to this day, over half of Europe. And so we find that the first few days of Luther’s stay in Rome were occupied in visiting the holy places, and saying mass at its most holy churches, and thus he was brought into contact with the priests. And now it was that he saw behind the scenes. With unspeakable pain and grief of heart he found out that these "holy" men were merely playing a part, and that in private they laughed to scorn the very rites which in public they celebrated with such a show of devotion. And if he was shocked at their levity, they were no less astonished at his solemn credulity. They jeered at him as a dull German; a poor thing without genius enough to be a sceptic, and without cunning enough to be a hypocrite. They were amazed, they said, to find such a fossilised specimen in the sixteenth century.

One day he was at table with some prelates who, thinking the German was as easy of faith as themselves, began to make merry over the clever way in which they deceived and befooled the people. When blessing the bread, and using the Latin words by which (as Rome teaches) the bread is truly changed into the flesh and blood of Christ, they would say, in Latin, "Bread thou art, and bread thou wilt remain," and then they said, "We elevate the Host and the people bow down and worship." In horror Luther listened, and in that moment the vail was torn from his eyes. He saw then that he must either give up Christianity or Rome. But what he had gained amid his groans and struggles in his lonely cell at Erfurt, could never be given up. That he had received from God Himself. It was from this Rome, with her mocking hypocrisy, her jeering impiety and shameless revelry, that he must turn away. And so from the clergy Luther turned; but even yet he thought her rites might be holy; surely, he thought, there must be some merit in visiting the shrines, something whereby he might nourish his piety and return home a holier man. Influenced by these feelings he went one day to the church of the Lateran. In it are the holy stairs which, tradition says, Christ descended when returning from the hall of judgment where Pilate had passed sentence on Him. It was said that the angels had removed these marble stairs from Jerusalem to Rome, and every one who climbed them on his knees would merit fifteen years of indulgence for each ascent!

While Luther was laboriously ascending the stairs, he was startled by a sudden voice, which seemed to him to come from heaven, saying, "The just shall live by faith!" In amazement Luther started to his feet. This was the third time that these words had been conveyed to his mind, and with startling power. Now they seemed to speak louder than ever. "What am I doing?" said Luther, "why am I striving to gain an indulgence from the church which can last me only a few years, when God has given me an indulgence that will last for ever?" From this time the doctrine of justification by faith alone stood out before Luther as the one grand leading doctrine of revelation. He had done now with relics shrines, and altars; that one glorious sentence, "The just shall live by faith," had more efficacy in it, a thousand times over, than all the holy treasures Rome contained. This was the key that should unlock the closed gates of Paradise; this the star, the bright star, that should go before him and lead him to his Saviour’s feet. In words grandly characteristic of the man, Luther at this time recorded his purpose. "I Dr. Martin Luther," writes he, "unworthy herald of the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, confess this article, that faith alone without works justifies before God, and I declare that it shall stand for ever, in despite of the Emperor of the Romans, the Emperor of the Turks, the Emperor of the Tartars, the Emperor of the Persians; in spite of the Pope and all the cardinals, with the bishops, priests, monks, and nuns; in spite of kings, princes, and nobles, and in spite of all the world, and of the devils themselves; and that if they endeavour to fight against this truth, they will draw the fires of hell upon their own heads. This is the true and holy gospel, and the declaration of me, Dr Martin Luther, according to the teaching of the Holy Ghost. We hold fast to it in the name of God. Amen." This was what Luther had learned at Rome. Verily it was worth his wearisome journey thither. His stay did not extend over two weeks, but the lessons learned there would never be forgotten during his life. The year of his return was 1512. A few months after this he received the degree of Dr. of Divinity. On this occasion Luther took a solemn oath upon the Bible to study, propagate, and defend the faith contained in the holy Scriptures. And now he bade farewell to philosophy, and turned to the Bible as his great life work. Even yet he had no thought of separating himself from the Romish church; there were still some links that held him in bondage, and to find out how Rome herself severed these links we must turn our eyes a few moments to the history of the time. The warlike Julius II., who was Pope at the time of Luther’s visit to Rome, was now dead, and Leo X. occupied the Vatican. He was of the family of the Medici, and like them was distinguished by sensuality and voluptuousness, though graced by an exquisite refinement of manner. He was a lover of fine arts, and had a taste for letters. He was determined that his court should be the most brilliant in Europe. No elegance, no amusement, no pleasure should be forbidden to enter it.

You may be sure that this pontiff was burdened with no religious beliefs or convictions. To him the whole scheme of Christianity was a "gigantic fable." And he was wont to sneer and give vent to his scepticism in the words, "What a profitable affair this fable of Christ has been to us!" And now Leo conceived a grand idea. His family had adorned Florence with its noblest edifices, and its glories were spoken of in all countries. Why should not he make his name famous and adorn the Eternal City by a pile more glorious than Christendom contained? But to execute such a project millions would be needed; how could the money be procured? His exchequer was empty, emptied by the vain shows and amusements of his court. But surely such a magnificent conception must not be allowed to fall through from want of money. Could not he sell his pardons and indulgences? And so it was resolved to open a grand market for the sale of spiritual blessings. It was done, and very soon, as he expected, a river of gold began to flow into Rome. The licence to sell these indulgences in the different countries of Europe, was disposed of to the highest bidder. The indulgences of Germany were farmed by Albert, Archbishop of Main and Magdeburg, a man as bereft of conscience and religion as the Pope himself. And now he began to look about for a suitable person to walk the streets of Germany, and to do his best to sell his pardons. He soon found a man in every way suited to his purpose. This was a monk of the name of Tetzel. He had been convicted of an odious crime, and sentenced to be put in a sack and drowned, but through powerful intercession, had been reprieved. He had the voice of a town-crier, and the eloquence of a mountebank. Such was the man that made progress through Germany, carrying a great red cross, on which were suspended the arms of the Pope. In front of the procession, on a velvet cushion, was borne the Pontiff’s bull of grace, in the rear came the mules laded with bales of pardons to be given — not to the penitent of heart, but to those whose money was in their hand. When he entered a city, Tetzel and his company went straight to the cathedral; then the cross was set up on the high altar, a strong iron box was placed beside it to receive the money, and Tetzel, in the garb of a Dominican Friar, began to set forth in stentorian tones the marvellous worth of his wares. "Press in now, press in while the gates of Paradise are open. Should that cross be taken down, the doors of heaven will be closed." "Indulgences," he went on, "are the most precious, and the most noble of God’s gift’s. Come, come while you may, and I will give you letters all properly sealed, by which, even the sins which you intend to commit, may be pardoned; and, more than this, indulgences avail not only for the living but for the dead. Priest, noble, merchant, wife, youth, maiden, do you not hear your parents, and your other friends who are dead, and who cry from the bottom of the abyss, "We are suffering horrible torments, a trifling alms will deliver us; you can give it, and you will not!" "At the very instant," he continued to his shuddering hearers, "that the money rattles at the bottom of the box, the soul escapes from purgatory, and flies liberated to heaven!"

These are some of the very sentences by which this wicked man strove to extort the money from poor deluded people, who firmly believed in the fires of purgatory. And now Tetzel, in the course of his tour through Germany, has arrived within four miles of Wittemberg. And there, in the Market place, the great red cross has been set up, and the pardon-monger’s stentorian tones are heard proclaiming his wares. With grief and indignation did Luther witness the thousands that flocked to his standard, and very soon did he perceive the moral havoc that these so-called "pardons" were working. You must remember that Luther still believed in the power of the church to exact confession and penance from its flock, though not as a means to salvation. This he taught was to be had alone through the merits of the Saviour’s blood.

One day, when he was sat at the confessional, some citizens came to him, and confessed having committed some thefts and other grave sins.

"You must abandon your evil courses," said Luther, "otherwise I cannot absolve you."

You may imagine his holy indignation and horror, when they told him that they had no intention of leaving off their sins, that there was no necessity for them to do so, seeing that the Pope had, in the person of Tetzel, pardoned these sins, and secured them against the punishment of them. And then, in the testimony of their innocence, they pulled out their indulgence papers, and shewed them to him.

Groaning in anguish of spirit at the way in which the poor creatures were being deluded, Luther could only tell them that their papers were worthless, and that they must repent and be forgiven of God, or perish everlastingly.

Refused absolution, and sore at losing their money, and also their hope of heaven, these people went back to Tetzel, and informed him that a monk in Wittemberg was throwing contempt on his indulgences. Foaming with rage, Tetzel poured out a torrent of abuse against the man who dared to make light of the Pope’s pardons; then as a sign of what would be done with him, he kindled a great fire in the market place, with the threat that the Pope had given him authority to commit all such heretics to the flames.

Little heeding Tetzel’s angry words, Luther continued his opposition more strenuously than ever. With all the grand unflinching boldness of his character, he condemned, from the pulpit, in the university, and at the confessional, these proceedings of Rome, denouncing them as a scandal to religion and a snare to souls. But this was not enough for him, he felt he must do still more to free his conscience.

One, day, on the eve of All Saint’s Day, when the streets of Wittemberg were filled with pilgrims who had come to nourish their piety at the numerous shrines of Wittemberg, Luther issued from his home, and joined the stream of people who were flowing to the Castle Church, which stood by the eastern gate. Drawing from his pocket a paper, he proceeded to nail it on the church door. The strokes of his hammer soon drew a crowd around him, who pressed eagerly forward to read what was written thereon. And what was this paper? It was Luther’s wonderful "Theses," consisting of ninety-five propositions on the doctrine of indulgence.

These propositions Luther undertook to defend against all who might choose to impugn them next day at the university. But none appeared. In this wonderful paper, which was destined to be the means of bringing light and blessing to thousands, Luther took the opportunity of preaching a free salvation to all who would believe. He placed God’s free gift in sharp contrast to the indulgence of Rome — the one to be had "without money and without price," the other to be bought with gold. He taught that the Pope’s forgiveness, without God’s was a mere cheat and delusion. And so taking the great prerogative of salvation from the church’s hand, he gave it back to God. And now the great movement of the Reformation is fairly launched, and is spreading onward with wonderful rapidity. The Theses were printed, and seemed to fall as thick as snow flakes all over Saxony. They were translated into Dutch, and read in Holland they were rendered into Spanish, and studied at the universities of the Iberian peninsula. "It seemed," as one has said, "as though the angels were their bearers," for even as far away as Jerusalem, copies were to be bought. Strange as it may seem, in four short weeks Luther’s tract had become a household book, and his name a household word. Everywhere the Theses were the subject of converse and discussion. The feelings awakened by them were, of course, of a varied nature, but by very many they were received with great joy. Men were conscious of a great burden taken from their hearts. "While those," says Mathesius, "who had entered the convent to seek a good table and lazy life, or consideration and honour, heaped Luther’s name with revilings, those monks who lived in prayer, fasting and mortifications, gave thanks as soon as they heard the cry of that eagle which John Huss had foretold a century before." The historian, Kranz, of Hamburg, was on his deathbed, when Luther’s Theses was brought to him. "Thou art right, brother Martin," he said upon reading them, "but thou wilt not succeed. Poor monk, hie thee to thy cell and cry, ’O God, have pity on me!’" Another old, priest of Hexter said: "Dear brother Martin, if thou succeed in overthrowing this purgatory, and all these paper-mongers, thou are truly a very great gentlemen." But, others, lifting their eyes higher, saw God’s hand in it, and they felt he had come forth in answer to the groans of His burdened saints, to break their bonds in sunder.

Three years have sped away since Luther, with bold hand nailed his theses to the door of the Kirk of Wittemberg. But in those three short years what changes had taken place in the opinions of men, and indeed, in those of Luther himself. A light as fair as that which streamed in the beginning, on this dark chaotic world, had shone upon the moral blackness of that time. Gladness was flooding the hearts of men. Deep joy was breaking out on every side. How fair was the light! How gracious the drops that were falling from heaven upon a weary earth, for men afar and near were praising God for a recovered gospel. In vain now did Tetzel cry his wares; pardons had become unsaleable. Shrines once thought so holy, were now forsaken. Nunneries and monasteries were emptying for men were learning now to turn to God alone for their souls’ needs. In the direst alarm, the Pope and his counsellors sought to silence this monk who was working them such ill. But in vain they set their snares to entrap him, God took care of him; in vain they sent their cleverest men to meet and confound him with subtle arguments and theological skill. With his hand upon the Bible, Luther put them utterly to rout. One by one, they returned to their master discomfited. Pope Leo felt that something must be done, and at once, to stop the baneful course of this intrepid man.

He stepped into the arena and launched his final missal. A bull of excommunication was issued against Luther, by which (according to them) he was hurled from the church, and cut off from hope of heaven.

Harmlessly fell the bolt which once had power to shake the thrones of monarchs. The men of Wittemberg, with Luther at their head, took the bull and (as all unclean things were burnt outside the camp) burnt it, and with it, the books of the papal canon law outside the city. No mysterious virtue was in these Papal edicts. They blazed and crackled and sank to ashes like any common paper. Amid demonstrations of triumph, the procession reformed, and doctors, masters, students and townsmen gathered round the great Reformer, and led him back to the city. But well Luther knew that one blow would not win the battle. Next day, when he was lecturing to a crowd of eager students, he told them that the burning of the Papal statutes was but a sign; the thing signified was the utter extinction of the Papacy. His voice grew solemn as he continued — "Unless, with all your hearts, you abandon the Papacy, you cannot save your souls. The reign of the Pope is so opposed to the law of Christ, and the life of the christian, that it will be safer to roam the desert, and never see the face of man, than abide under the rule of Antichrist. I warn every man to look to his soul’s welfare, lest, by submitting to the Pope, he deny Christ. The time is come when christians must choose between death here, and death hereafter; for my part, I choose death here. I cannot lay such a burden upon my soul, as to hold my peace in this matter. I must look to the great reckoning, I abominate the Babylonian pest; as long as I live I will proclaim the truth. If the wholesale destruction of souls throughout Christendom cannot be prevented, at least I shall labour to the utmost of my power to rescue my countrymen from the bottomless pit of perdition." On the 24th of March, 1521, the imperial herald arrived at Wittemberg, and put in the hands of Luther, the summons of the Emperor to appear before the Diet of Worms. A more brilliant assemblage than this, the first Diet of the young Emperor Charles, of Spain, had perhaps never been gathered together since the days of Charlemagne. It may have been his youth, for he was only twenty, together with the vast dominions over which he had sway, that helped to throw such a singular interest over him. From far and near came unprecedented numbers to his Diet. We read "that every road leading to Worms, displayed a succession of gay cavalcades — the electors with their courts, the archbishops with their chapters, margraves, and barons with their military retainers, the delegates of the various cities, in the badge of their office — all hastened to Worms." But a greater than Charles was to present himself before them, and a cause greater than that of the Empire, was to unfold its claims to their hearing. The time had come when Luther must bear testimony to the gospel, not at the stake, but on the loftiest stage the world can furnish. God had so willed it that emperor, lords, and barons must come to Worms, and there patiently wait and listen while the miner’s son speaks to them.

"Will he come?" asked the members of the Diet one of another, when they had determined to summon Luther before them. Not for a moment did he hesitate, he knew that a higher than the Emperor had summoned him, and he was ready to obey. He knew that his safe conduct might be violated, as that of John Huss had been; he might be going to the stake, for many, he knew, were thirsting for his blood, yet he never wavered. There he would be able to bear testimony for the truth, as for the rest, he had no concern, he left the issue with God. "Fear not," he wrote to a friend, "that I shall retract a single syllable. With the help of Christ I will not desert the Word on the battle field." To others, he said, "I am called, it is ordered and decreed that I appear in that city. I will neither recant nor fly. I will go to Worms in spite of all the gates of hell, and the prince of the power of the air." Like wild fire the news spread through Germany, that their beloved Luther had been summoned to appear before the Emperor and his Diet. It was with mingled feelings of thankfulness and alarm that they heard. Thankfulness, that their cause — which they knew to be God’s cause also — was about to be examined before so august an assembly, and fear, lest Luther should be sacrificed, and so many loving eyes and anxious hearts followed him as he left Wittemberg.

It was ten o’clock in the morning of the 16th of April when Luther saw the old towers of Worms rising before him. Sitting up in his car he began to sing a hymn that he had composed two days before, "A Strong Tower is our God." Away on the cathedral tower the sentinel descried the approach of the cavalcade and sounded his trumpet. At this signal of Luther’s arrival, the citizens of Worms rushed into the street, and in a moment nobles, citizens, princes, and men of all nations mingled in one mighty throng to see the entry of the intrepid monk. Preceded by a herald Luther approached, dressed in his monk’s gown. Although bearing traces of his recent illness, all who gazed upon him noticed the deep and settled calm of his eyes. The surging crowd, struck with the courage of the man who, contrary to all their expectations, had entered their gates, pressed around him to give him a hearty welcome. Looking round upon them as he descended from his carriage, Luther revealed to them the secret of his courage in the simple words, "God will be for me."

Weak after his recent severe illness, and greatly fatigued with his fourteen days’ journey, the Reformer greatly needed rest. The next day, too, was before him; the most eventful, perhaps, of his whole life, but all were too anxious to see the monk to permit him an hour’s repose. Princes, dukes, counts — friends and foes alike — besieged his hotel and crowded his apartments. As one relay of visitors were dismissed, another waited for admission. With calmness and dignity the miner’s son received the brilliant throng. Unmoved he stood in their midst, hearing and answering their questions with a quietness and wisdom that filled even his enemies with wonder and admiration. At last, far in the night, his crowd of visitors, so varied in rank, left him, and Luther was alone. Too excited and restless to sleep, he threw open the casement, and let the soft spring air fan his fevered brow; taking his lute he touched it and sang a favorite hymn, and then from his window he looked off out into the night. Below him the weary city was silently sleeping; away in the great valley he heard the roar of the Rhine as it poured out its floods; above him was the silent, fathomless vault of heaven. To it he lifted his eyes, as had often been his wont when in anguish of mind. The midnight stars, always so dear to him, gazed down on him now like the faces of old friends; all else around him was so unfamiliar and strange. How it soothed his soul to see them now fulfilling their stately march so far above the tumult of the earth, and yet so far below the throne whereon sat a King infinitely greater than the monarch before whom he was to appear to-morrow. He gazed till a sense of sublimity filled his soul, bringing with it a feeling of repose. Turning away from his casement, he said, "I will lay me down and take quiet rest, for Thou makest me to dwell in safety."

Next morning, Wednesday, the 17th of April, at eight o’clock, Luther was cited to appear at four in the afternoon before his Imperial Majesty and the States of the Empire. With all the earnestness that marked his nature, the Reformer prepared himself to meet the coming strife, and kneeling before the throne of the eternal God, he poured out his prayers and supplications with groans that were audible outside his chamber door: and so he spent most of the time, until he rose to stand before the throne of Charles.

Accompanied by the Marshal of the Empire, and preceded by a herald, Luther set out for the Diet. But no easy matter did they find it to push their way to the town-hall, for the streets were filled with a denser crowd than that which had assembled the day before. Every window and house-top had its cluster of spectators, all eager to catch a sight of the Reformer. Arrived at the town-hall, they found the road so blocked up that the soldiers had to clear a way by main force. As they were elbowing their way, and were now near the door at which they were to be ushered into the presence of the Diet, Luther felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He looked round to see the kindly face of George Freundsberg, a veteran well know to his countrymen for his gallantry and bravery.

"My monk, my good monk" said the soldier, "you are now going to face greater peril than any of us have ever encountered on the bloodiest field; but if you are right and feel sure of it, go on, and God will fight for you."

Hardly had these words been spoken, when the door opened, and Luther was in the presence of the august assembly.

Again came words of comfort to him. Passing through the throng of princes to take his place before the Emperor, a soft whisper reached his ear: "But when they deliver you up, take no thought how or what you shall speak, for it shall be given you in that same hour, what you shall speak." To Luther it seemed like the voice of God, and came to him with soothing power; and so, with equanimity and composure, he advanced and stood before the throne of Charles.

"Never," says D’Aubigné, "had man appeared before so imposing an assembly. The Emperor Charles V., whose sovereignty extended over great part of the old and new worlds; his brother, the Archduke Ferdinand; six electors of the empire, most of whose descendants now wear the kingly crown; twenty-four dukes, the majority of whom were independent sovereigns over countries more or less extensive, and among whom were some whose names afterwards became formidable to the Reformation; the Duke of Alva and his two sons; eight marquises; thirty archbishops, bishops, and abbots; seven ambassadors, including those from the Kings of France and England; the deputies of ten free cities; a great number of princes, counts and sovereign barons; the Papal nuncios — in all, two hundred and four persons. Such was the imposing court before which appeared Martin Luther."

"The sun," says the historian Wylie, "was near its setting, his level rays pouring in at the windows and falling in rich mellow light on all within, gave additional splendour to the scene. It brought out in strong relief, the national costumes and variously coloured dresses and equipments of the members of the Diet. The yellow silken robes of the Emperor, the velvet and ermine of the electors, the red hat and scarlet gown of the cardinal, the velvet robe of the bishop, the rich doublet of the knight, covered with the badges of his rank and valour, the more sombre attire of the city deputy, the burnished steel of the warrior, all showed to advantage in the chastened radiance which was now streaming in from the descending luminary. In the midst of that scene, which might have been termed gay but for its overwhelming solemnity, stood Luther in his monk’s frock."

Amid a deep silence John Eck, Archbishop, of Treves and spokesman of the Diet, rose and in a sonorous voice repeated, first in Latin and then in German, the following words: "Martin Luther, his sacred and invincible majesty has cited you to appear before his throne to answer two questions. First, do you acknowledge these books," pointing to a pile of volumes on the table, "to have been written by you? Secondly, are you prepared to retract and disavow the opinions you have advanced in them?"

"Most gracious Emperor," answered Luther, "the books are mine. As to the second, seeing it is a question which concerns the salvation of souls, and in which the Word of God is interested — I should act imprudently were I to reply without reflection. I entreat your Imperial Majesty, with all humility, to allow me time, so that I may reply without offending the Word of God."

Fondly hoped the members of the Diet that this request for time was a mere prelude to a retraction. "He is but breaking his fall," said they; "the heretic of Wittemberg is about to play the part of penitent at Worms." Had they known a little more of Luther’s character, they would have judged very differently. They would have known that this pause was the act of a man whose mind was thoroughly made up, and who, knowing that it was unalterably so, wished to make his avowal without haste, and in such a way that its full strength might appear, and that all might feel it to be irrevocable.

After a time of deliberation, the Diet granted Luther his request. At the same time to-morrow he must appear, and give to them his final answer.

Luther bowed, and instantly the herald was by his side to conduct him to his hotel. The morning broke that was destined to be the most eventful one in Luther’s life, and also in the history of the Reformation, and it awoke to find Luther a prey to the most tormenting anxieties and gloomy forebodings. There were moments when Luther, with his exquisitely strung and highly emotional nature, gave way to these feelings, and we shall err greatly if we suppose that it was a great intrepidity of spirit, or an iron firmness of nerve, that bore him up and carried him through these scenes of awful mental trial. There were times when the sense of the presence of the Lord, that shed such a divine serenity and strength into his mind, was withdrawn, and then difficulties and dangers would rise around his path like so many giants, he would feel himself forsaken, and a horror of great darkness would fill his soul. And so did it befall him on the morning of this eventful day. The upholding power which had sustained him on his journey to Worms, seemed to be all gone, and Luther felt weak and feeble as a little child. It was not the thought that he would be condemned and led to the stake, that shook, so terribly, the Reformer on the morning of his second appearance before the Imperial Diet. It was something far more dreadful than to die, to die a thousand deaths. He felt the crisis had come, and he was powerless to meet it. He would falter at the Diet, he would wreck his cause, he would blast the hopes of future ages, and God’s enemies would triumph. Let us draw near to his closet door and hear his groans and cries.

It is scarcely dawn yet; he has been a considerable while engaged in prayer. His supplications are drawing to a close; "My God," he cries, "My God, hearest Thou me not? Hidest Thou Thyself from me? Thou hast chosen me for this work, I know it well! ... Act then, oh God! ... Stand at my side for the sake of Thy well-beloved Jesus Christ, who is my defence, my shield, and my strong tower." After an interval of silence again we hear his voice, "Lord, where stayest Thou? ... Oh, my God! where art Thou? Come, come, I am ready .... I am ready to lay down my life for Thy truth....patient as a lamb, for it is the cause of justice, it is Thine ..... I will never separate myself from Thee, neither now nor through eternity ....And though the world should be filled with devils —though my body, which is still the work of Thy hands, should be slain — should be racked on the wheel ... cut in pieces ... reduced to ashes ... My soul is Thine ... Yes! Thy Word is my solemn assurance of it. My soul belongs to Thee! It shall abide for ever with Thee ... Amen! ... Oh, God, help me ... Amen!"

Thus, with strong wrestlings, Luther prayed. What a solemn moment! As we listen we feel as though we were nearing the precincts of the eternal throne and walking on holy ground. And did he plead and call in vain? Ah, no. Only that he might feel, and prove the better, God’s own great strength and power, had he been allowed to feel his own great weakness. "When we are weak then are we strong," says Paul. And so Luther found it, for as he prayed the veil of darkness around his soul seemed rent. A light broke in upon him, and as he rose from his knees he felt, by the calm now reigning in his soul, that he had already received an answer to his cries. At four o’clock the grand marshal and the herald presented themselves, and again, through crowded streets, conducted the Reformer to the town hall. But for hour after hour Luther was kept standing in the outer court, amid the hum and clamour of the multitude. Although this delay was well fitted to exhaust him, and to mentally detract and ruffle him, his tranquility never for a moment forsook him. Alone, in a sanctuary that the multitudes around him knew not of, he communed with his Lord. At last when night was falling and torches were being kindled, Luther was admitted into the hall. With perfect composure, and with an air of dignity, Luther stood before the Emperor, and with a calm steadfast eye gazed around at the assembled princes. Then the chancellor of the Bishop of Tréams, Dr. Eck, rose and demanded his answer. In a full, firm, but modest tone Luther began his reply. The discourse occupied in all two hours, and as he proceeded with his eloquent and fervid discourse, "to their amazement," says Wylie, "the princes found that a change had somehow come over the scene. Luther no longer stood at their bar, they had come suddenly to stand at his. The man who, two hours before, had seemed to them the accused was now transformed into the judge — a righteous and awful judge — who, unawed by the crowns they wore, and the armies they commanded, was entreating, admonishing, and reproving them with a severe but wholesome fidelity, and thundering forth their doom, should they prove disobedient, with a solemnity and authority before which they trembled. At the conclusion of this wonderful address, Dr. Eck again rose, and in peevish tones, and with a fretted air, said to Luther: "You have not answered the question put to you. We demand a direct and precise answer. Will you, or will you not retract?"

Calmly Luther replied: "Since your most Serene Majesty and your High Mightiness require from me a direct and precise answer, I will give you one, and it is this: I cannot submit my faith either to the Pope or to the councils, because it is clear as day they have frequently erred and contradicted each other. Unless, therefore, I am convinced by the testimony of Scripture so that conscience shall bind me to make acknowledgments, I can and will not retract, for it is neither safe nor wise to do anything contrary to conscience." And then, looking round on the assembly, he said, "Here I stand; I can do no other. May God help me, Amen." As Luther ended his discourse in words which, in their courage and grandeur, are among the sublimest in history, a thrill, which after three centuries, communicates itself to us, passed through the august assembly, and a murmur of applause burst out in the Diet. Not, however, among its Papal partisans; they were silent in dismay. Well they knew that the monk’s decisive "No," which had fallen like a thunder-clap amongst them, would sound forth from out that hall, and reverberate throughout the world, arousing christians everywhere to break the chains that had so long held their spirits captive, and to stand forth in the liberty wherewith Christ had made them free. Rome had lost the battle, they knew it mattered not what they might do with Luther now. The fatal word had been spoken, the monk was the victor, to place him at the stake would only be to enhance his glory.

Filled with mortification, they bade Luther withdraw for a time, and during his absence the Diet deliberated. Could nothing be done? They saw a crisis had arisen, but what to do to meet it they could not tell. Again they would call him before them, and give him another opportunity of retracting. So he was called in and placed in front of the Emperor’s throne, and asked to pronounce over again, now the third time, his "Yes" or "No." With simple dignity, his answer came —

"I have no other to give than that which I have already given."

"In the calmness of his voice," says the historian Wylie, "in the steadfastness of his eye, and in the lion-like lines of his rugged German face," the assembly read the stern indomitable resolve of his soul. The "No," could not be recalled. The die had been cast irrevocably.

"The Diet will meet again to-morrow, to hear the Emperor’s decision," said Chancellor Eck, dismissing the members for the night.

Late as it was, crowds still lingered around, anxious to know what the end would be. "See, see," they cried, as Luther was led out between two Imperial officers, "there he is, in charge of the guard; are they taking you to prison?"

"No," replied Luther, "they are taking me to my hotel." So quietly they dispersed, and Worms settled down into silence. When Luther reached his lodgings, faint and weary after his long mental exertions, a servant entered, bearing a silver jug filled with Eimberk beer.

"My master," said the bearer, presenting it to the doctor, "invites you to refresh yourself with this draught."

"Who is the prince," said Luther, "who so generously remembers me?" It was the aged Duke Eric of Brunswick, one of the Papal members of the Diet.

Raising the vessel to his lips, Luther took a long draught, and then putting it down said, "As this day Duke Eric has remembered me, so may the Lord Jesus Christ remember him in the hour of his last struggle." Not long after, when the Duke lay dying, he whispered to some one near, "Read to me from the Bible." Opening the book his young page read, "Whosoever shall give you a cup of cold water to drink in my name, because ye belong to me, verily, I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward." And the Duke remembered Luther’s words, and so he in his turn was refreshed, when heart and strength were failing, with a draught from the Well of Life, But we must pass on more hurriedly to tell of Luther’s departure from Worms, for in spite of their earnest wishes to the contrary, the Papal party dare not but let him depart peacefully. Well they knew that from the most distant cities men were watching, with their hands on their swords, to see what would happen to Luther, and to have violated his safe conduct, as they had done that of the martyr Huss, would have been but the signal for civil war throughout Germany. So on the morning of the 26th of April, Luther was allowed to depart, but scarcely had he gone, ere the Emperor fulminated his edict against him, placing him outside the pale of the law, and commanding all men, whenever the term of the safe conduct had expired, to withhold from him food and drink, succour and shelter, to apprehend him, and send him bound to the Emperor.

Meanwhile the Reformer was drawing near to his journey’s end, the pines were getting fewer, and the hills were sinking into the plain. Very grateful to him after the stir and grandeur of Worms were the silent glades of the peaceful hamlets. He had reached a lonely spot near the Castle of Altenstein, when a troop of horsemen, wearing masks and completely armed, rushed suddenly upon him; one of them seized Luther, while others raised him to a saddle, and grasping his horse’s reign plunged quickly with him into the forest of Thuringia. All day long the horsemen wandered hither and thither until the night began to fall, and then they began to ascend a mountain. A little before midnight they came under the walls of a castle that crowned its summit. Here, passing over the drawbridge, the cavalcade passed in, and the captive was led into an apartment where he was told he must make a sojourn of unknown length; he must lay aside his monk’s dress, and attire himself in the costume of a knight, and be known only by the name of Knight George. Not until the morning broke did the Reformer know where he was. As the first beams of the morning began to shoot their golden shafts through the forest glades, Luther looked from his casement, and lo! around him lay the well-known scenes that adjoin Eisnach. Further away were the plains round Mora, and beyond these still further away rose the vast circle of hills that sweep along the horizon. Then with joyful heart Luther knew that he was in the hands of friends, and in the castle of the Wartberg. Yes, God had in this wonderful way allowed Luther to be snatched away and carried off as by a whirlwind, none knew whither, from all the danger that was closing in around him. And here, in the peaceful silence of the Wartberg, we must leave him; leave him to learn the lessons that God had to teach him, and for which He had brought him hither, and to begin and end his great work — the translation of the Bible.