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  HISTORY OF THE REFORMATION IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY - VOLUME 1
  by J.H. Merle d'Aubigne
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D'Aubigne's celebrated history of one of the greatest revolutions among men,
tracing the mighty impulse of the sixteenth-century Reformation whose influence
continues to shape the world. Not a party history, but a panoramic account of
spiritual renewal.

  Chapters: 100

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS
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    1. PREFACE TO THE LAST EDITION
    2. BOOK FIRST
    3. CHAPTER I
    4. CHAPTER II
    5. CHAPTER III
    6. CHAPTER IV
    7. CHAPTER V
    8. CHAPTER VI
    9. CHAPTER VII
   10. CHAPTER VIII
   11. CHAPTER IX
   12. BOOK SECOND
   13. CHAPTER I
   14. CHAPTER II
   15. CHAPTER III
   16. CHAPTER IV
   17. CHAPTER V
   18. CHAPTER VI
   19. CHAPTER VII
   20. CHAPTER VIII
   21. CHAPTER IX
   22. CHAPTER X
   23. CHAPTER XI
   24. BOOK THIRD
   25. CHAPTER I
   26. CHAPTER II
   27. CHAPTER III
   28. CHAPTER IV
   29. CHAPTER V
   30. CHAPTER VI
   31. CHAPTER VII
   32. CHAPTER VIII
   33. CHAPTER IX
   34. CHAPTER X
   35. CHAPTER XI
   36. BOOK FOURTH
   37. CHAPTER I
   38. CHAPTER II
   39. CHAPTER III
   40. CHAPTER IV
   41. CHAPTER V
   42. CHAPTER VI
   43. CHAPTER VII
   44. CHAPTER VIII
   45. CHAPTER IX
   46. CHAPTER X
   47. CHAPTER XI
   48. BOOK FIFTH
   49. CHAPTER I
   50. CHAPTER II
   51. CHAPTER III
   52. CHAPTER IV
   53. CHAPTER V
   54. CHAPTER VI
   55. CHAPTER VII
   56. CHAPTER VIII
   57. BOOK SIXTH
   58. CHAPTER I
   59. CHAPTER II
   60. CHAPTER III
   61. CHAPTER IV
   62. CHAPTER V
   63. CHAPTER VI
   64. CHAPTER VII
   65. CHAPTER VIII
   66. CHAPTER IX
   67. CHAPTER X
   68. CHAPTER XI
   69. CHAPTER XII
   70. BOOK SEVENTH
   71. CHAPTER I
   72. CHAPTER II
   73. CHAPTER III
   74. CHAPTER IV
   75. CHAPTER V
   76. CHAPTER VI
   77. CHAPTER VII
   78. CHAPTER VIII
   79. CHAPTER IX
   80. CHAPTER X
   81. CHAPTER XI
   82. BOOK EIGHTH
   83. CHAPTER I
   84. CHAPTER II
   85. CHAPTER III
   86. CHAPTER IV
   87. CHAPTER V
   88. CHAPTER VI
   89. CHAPTER VII
   90. CHAPTER VIII
   91. CHAPTER IX
   92. CHAPTER X
   93. CHAPTER XI
   94. CHAPTER XII
   95. CHAPTER XIII
   96. CHAPTER XIV
   97. PREFACE TO VOLUME THIRD
   98. BOOK NINTH
   99. CHAPTER I
  100. CHAPTER II

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  CHAPTER 1: PREFACE TO THE LAST EDITION
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My purpose is not to write the history of a party, but that of one of the
greatest revolutions which has taken place among men—the history of a mighty
impulse which was given to the world three centuries ago, and the influence of
which is still, in our day, every where perceived. The history of the
Reformation is different from the history of Protestantism. In the former, every
thing bears testimony to a revival of human nature, to a transformation, social
and religious, emanating from God. In the latter are too often seen a remarkable
degeneracy from primitive principles, party intrigue, a sectarian spirit, and
the impress of petty private feelings. The history of Protestantism might
interest none but Protestants; the history of the Reformation is for all
Christians, or rather all men. The historian has a choice in the field in which
he is to labour. He may describe the great events which change the face of a
people, or the face of the world; or he may narrate the calm and progressive
course, whether of a nation, the Church, or mankind, which usually follows great
social changes. Both fields of history are highly important; but the preference,
in point of interest, seems due to those epochs which, under the name of
Revolutions, introduce a nation or society at large to a new era and a new life.

Such a transformation I have attempted to describe with very humble powers,
hoping that the beauty of the subject will compensate for my want of ability. In
styling it a Revolution, I give it a name which in our day is in discredit with
many, who almost confound it with revolt. This is a mistake. A revolution is a
change which takes place in the world’s affairs. It is something new evolved
(revolvo) from the bosom of humanity; and, indeed, before the end of the last
century, the term was oftener used in a good than a bad sense. They spoke of “a
happy,” a “marvellous” revolution. The Reformation being a re-establishment of
the principles of primitive Christianity, is the opposite of a revolt. For that
which behoved to revive it was a regenerating—for that which must always
subsist, a conservative movement. Christianity and the Reformation, while
establishing the grand principle that all souls are equal in the sight of God,
and overthrowing the usurpations of a haughty priesthood, which presumed to
place itself between the Creator and his creature, lay it down as a fundamental
principle of social order, that all power is of God, and cry aloud to all, “Love
your brethren, fear God, honour the king.” The Reformation differs essentially
from the revolutions of antiquity, and from the greater part of those of modern
times. In these, political changes are in question, and the object is to
establish or overthrow the ascendancy of one, or it may be of many. The love of
truth, of holiness, and eternity, was the simple, yet powerful, spring by which
our Reformation was effected. It marks a step which human nature has taken in
advance. In fact, if man, instead of pursuing only material, temporal, earthly
interests, proposes to himself a higher aim, aspiring to immaterial and immortal
blessings, he advances and makes progress. The Reformation is one of the
brightest days of this glorious advance. It is a pledge that the new struggle,
which is now being decided, will terminate in favour of truth, with a triumph
still more pure, spiritual, and splendid.

Christianity and the Reformation are the two greatest revolutions on record.
Unlike the different political movements of which we read, they took place not
in one nation merely, but in several nations, and their effects must be felt to
the end of the world.

Christianity and the Reformation are the same revolution, effected at different
times, and under different circumstances. They vary in secondary features, but
are identical in their primary and principal lineaments. The one is a repetition
of the other. The one ended the old, the other began the new world; the middle
ages lie between. The one gave birth to the other, and if, in some respects, the
daughter bears marks of inferiority, she on the other hand has her own peculiar
properties.

One of these is the rapidity of her action. The great revolutions which have
issued in the fall of a monarchy, and the change of a whole political system, or
which have thrown the human mind on a new course of development, were slowly and
gradually prepared. The old power had long been undermined, and its principal
buttresses had one after another disappeared. It was so on the introduction of
Christianity. But the Reformation is seen, at the first glance, to present a
different aspect. The Church of Rome appears, under Leo X, in all its power and
glory. A monk speaks, and over the half of Europe this power and glory crumble
away, thus reminding us of the words in which the Son of God announces his
second advent: “As the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto
the west, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.” (Matthew 24:27) This
rapidity is inexplicable to those who see, in this great event, only a reform,
and regard it as simply an act of criticism, which consisted in making a choice
among doctrines, discarding some, retaining others, and arranging those
retained, so as to form them into a new system.

How could a whole nation, how could several nations, have so quickly performed
an operation so laborious? How could this critical examination have kindled that
fire of enthusiasm which is essential to great, and, above all, to rapid
revolutions? The Reformation, as its history will show, was altogether
different. It was a new effusion of the life which Christianity brought into the
world. It was the triumph of the greatest of doctrines, that which animates
those who embrace it with the purest and strongest enthusiasm—the doctrine of
faith, the doctrine of grace. Had the Reformation been what many Catholics and
many Protestants in our day imagine,—had it been that negative system of
negative reason, which childishly rejects whatever displeases it, and loses
sight of the great ideas and great truths of Christianity, it had never passed
the narrow limits of an academy, a cloister, or a cell. It had nothing in common
with what is generally understood by Protestantism. Far from being a worn-out,
emaciated body, it rose up like a man of might and fire.

Two considerations explain the rapidity and the extent of this revolution. The
one must be sought in God, the other among men. The impulse was given by a
mighty and invisible hand, and the change effected was a Divine work. This is
the conclusion at which an impartial and attentive observer, who stops not at
the surface, necessarily arrives. But the historian’s task is not finished; for
God works by second causes. A variety of circumstances, many of them
unperceived, gradually prepared men for the great transformation of the
sixteenth century, and, accordingly, the human mind was ripe when the hour of
its emancipation pealed. The task of the historian is to combine these two great
elements in the picture which he presents, and this has been attempted in the
present history. We shall be easily understood, when we come to trace the second
causes which contributed to the Reformation, but some perhaps will not
understand us so well, and will even be tempted to tax us with superstition,
when we attribute the accomplishment of the work to God. The idea, however, is
particularly dear to us. This history, as indicated by the inscription on its
title-page, places in front and over its head the simple and prolific principle,
God in History. But this principle being generally neglected, and sometimes
disputed, it seems necessary to expound our views with regard to it, and thereby
justify the method which we have seen it proper to adopt.

History cannot, in our day, be that lifeless series of events which the greater
part of previous historians deemed it sufficient to enumerate. It is now
understood that in history as in man are two elements, matter and spirit. Our
great historians, unable to satisfy themselves with a detail of facts,
constituting only a barren chronicle, have sought for a principle of life to
animate the materials of past ages.

Some have borrowed this principle from art, aiming at vivid, faithful, and
graphic description, and endeavouring to make their narrative live with the life
of the events themselves.

Others have applied to philosophy for the spirit which should give fruit to
their labours. To facts they have united speculative views, instructive lessons,
political and philosophical truths, enlivening their narrative by the language
which they have made it speak, and the ideas which it has enabled them to
suggest.

Both methods doubtless are good, and should be employed within certain limits.
But there is another source to which, above all others, it is necessary to apply
for the spirit and life of the past—I mean Religion. History should be made to
live with its own proper life. God is this life. God must be acknowledged—God
proclaimed—in history. The history of the world should purport to be annals of
the government of the Supreme King.

I have descended into the field to which the narratives of our historians
invited me, and there seen the actions of men and of states in energetic
development and violent collision: of the clang of arms, I have heard more than
I can tell; but no where have I been shown the majestic form of the Judge who
sits umpire of the combat. And yet in all the movements of nations, there is a
living principle which emanates from God. God is present on the vast stage on
which the generations of men successively appear. True! He is there a God
invisible; but if the profane multitude pass carelessly by, because He is
concealed, profound intellects, spirits which feel a longing for the principle
of their existence, seek him with so much the more earnestness, and are not
satisfied until they are prostrated before Him. And their enquiries are
magnificently rewarded. For, from the heights which they must reach in order to
meet with God, the history of the world, instead of exhibiting to them, as to
the ignorant crowd, a confused chaos, is seen like a majestic temple, on which
the invisible hand of God himself is at work, and which, from humanity, as the
rock on which it is founded, is rising up to his glory. Shall we not see God in
those great phenomena, those great personages, those great states, which rise,
and suddenly, so to speak, spring from the dust of the earth, giving to human
life a new impulse, form, and destiny? Shall not we see Him in those great
heroes who start up in society, at particular epochs, displaying an activity and
a power beyond the ordinary limits of man, and around whom individuals and
nations come without hesitation, and group themselves as around a higher and
mysterious nature? Who flung forward into space those comets of gigantic form
and fiery tail, which only appear at long intervals, shedding on the
superstitious herd of mortals either plenty and gladness, or pestilence and
terror? Who, if not God?… Alexander seeks his origin in the abodes of Divinity;
and in the most irreligious age there is no great renown which strives not to
connect itself in some way with heaven. And do not those revolutions, which cast
down dynasties, or even whole kingdoms into the dust; those huge wrecks which we
fall in with in the midst of the sands; those majestic ruins which the field of
humanity presents, do not those cry loud enough, God in History? Gibbon, sitting
amid the wrecks of the Capitol, and contemplating the venerable ruins,
acknowledges the intervention of a higher power. He sees, he feels it, and in
vain would turn away from it. This spectre of a mysterious power reappears
behind each ruin, and he conceives the idea of describing its influence in the
history of the disorganisation, the decline and fall of this Roman power, which
had subjugated the nations. This powerful hand, which a man of distinguished
genius, one, however, who had not bent the knee before Jesus Christ, perceives
athwart scattered fragments of the tomb of Romulus, reliefs of Marcus Aurelius,
busts of Cicero and Virgil, statues of Cæsar and Augustus, trophies of Trajan,
and steeds of Pompey, shall not we discover amid all ruins, and recognise as the
hand of our God?

Strange! this interposition of God in human affairs, which even Pagans had
recognised, men reared amid the grand ideas of Christianity treat as
superstition. The name which Grecian antiquity gave to the Sovereign God, shows
us that it had received primitive revelations of this great truth of a God, the
source of history, and of the life of nations. It called him Zeus, that is to
say, He who gives life to all that lives, to individuals and nations. To his
altars kings and subjects come to take their oaths, and from his mysterious
inspirations Minos and other legislators pretend to have received their laws.
Nay more, this great truth is figured by one of the most beautiful myths of
Pagan antiquity. Even Mythology might teach the sages of our day. This is a fact
which it may be worth while to establish; perhaps there are individuals who will
oppose fewer prejudices to the lessons of Paganism than to those of
Christianity. This Zeus, then, this Sovereign God, this Eternal Spirit, the
principle of life, is father of Clio, the Muse of History, whose mother is
Mnemosyne or Memory. Thus, according to antiquity, history unites a celestial to
a terrestrial nature. She is daughter of God and man. But, alas! the
short-sighted wisdom of our boasted days is far below those heights of Pagan
wisdom. History has been robbed of her divine parent, and now an illegitimate
child, a bold adventurer, she roams the world, not well knowing whence she
comes, or whither she goes. But this divinity of Pagan antiquity is only a dim
reflection, a flickering shadow of the Eternal Jehovah. The true God whom the
Hebrews worship, sees meet to imprint it on the minds of all nations that he
reigns perpetually on the earth, and for this purpose gives, if I may so express
it, a bodily form to this reign in the midst of Israel. A visible Theocracy
behoved for once to exist on the earth, that it might incessantly recall the
invisible Theocracy which will govern the world for ever. And what lustre does
not the great truth—God in History—receive from the Christian Dispensation? Who
is Jesus Christ, if he be not God in History? It was the discovery of Jesus
Christ that gave John Müller, the prince of modern historians, his knowledge of
history. “The Gospel,” he says, “is the fulfilment of all hopes, the finishing
point of all philosophy, the explanation of all revolutions, the key to all the
apparent contradictions of the physical and moral world; in short, life and
immortality. Ever since I knew the Saviour, I see all things clearly; with him
there is no difficulty which I cannot solve.” So speaks this great historian;
and, in truth, is not the fact of God’s appearance in human nature the key-stone
of the arch, the mysterious knot which binds up all the things of earth, and
attaches them to heaven? There is a birth of God in the history of the world,
and shall God not be in history? Jesus Christ is the true God in the history of
men. The very meanness of his appearance proves it. When man wishes to erect a
shade or shelter on the earth, you may expect preparations, materials,
scaffolding, workmen, tools, trenches, rubbish. But God, when he is pleased to
do it, takes the smallest seed, which a new-born babe could have clasped in its
feeble hand, deposits it in the bosom of the earth, and, from this grain, at
first imperceptible, produces the immense tree under which the families of the
earth recline. To do great things by imperceptible means is the law of God. In
Jesus Christ this law receives its most magnificent fulfilment. Of Christianity,
which has now taken possession of the portals of nations, which is, at this
moment, reigning or wandering over all the tribes of the earth from the rising
to the setting sun, and which incredulous philosophy herself is obliged to
acknowledge as the spiritual and social law of the world—of this Christianity,
(the greatest thing under the vault of heaven, nay, in the boundless immensity
of Creation,) what was the commencement? An infant born in the smallest town of
the most despised nation of the earth—an infant whose mother had not what the
poorest and most wretched female in any one of our cities has, a room for
birth—an infant born in a stable and laid in a manger!… There, O God, I behold
and I adore Thee! The Reformation knew this law of God, and felt she had a call
to accomplish it. The idea that God is in history was often brought forward by
the Reformers. In particular, we find it on one occasion expressed by Luther,
under one of those grotesque and familiar, yet not undignified figures which he
was fond of employing in order to be understood by the people. “The world,” said
he one day at table among his friends; “the world is a vast and magnificent game
at cards, consisting of emperors, kings, and princes. For several ages the pope
has beaten the emperors, princes, and kings, who stooped and fell under him.
Then our Lord God came and dealt the cards, taking to himself the smallest,
[Luther,] and with it has beaten the pope, who beat the kings of the earth.… God
used it as his ace. ‘He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted
them of low degree,’ says Mary.” (Luke 1:52) The period whose history I am
desirous to trace, is important with reference to the present time. Man, on
feeling his weakness, is usually disposed to seek for aid in the institutions
which he sees existing around him, or in devices, the offspring of his own
imagination. The history of the Reformation shows that nothing new is done with
what is old, and that if, according to our Saviour’s expression, there must be
new vessels for new wine, there must also be new wine for new vessels. It
directs man to God, the sole actor in history—to that divine Word—always
ancient, from the eternity of the truths which it contains—always new, by the
regenerating influence which it exerts, which three centuries ago purified
society, restoring faith in God to those whom superstition had enfeebled; and
which, at all epochs in the world’s history, is the source from which salvation
proceeds.

It is singular to see a great number of individuals under the agitation produced
by a vague longing for some fixed belief, actually applying to old Catholicism.
In one sense, the movement is natural. Religion being so little known, they
imagine the only place to find it is where they see it painted, in large
characters, on a banner, which age makes respectable. We say not that every kind
of Catholicism is incapable of giving man what he wants. Our belief is, that a
distinction should be carefully drawn between Catholicism and the Papacy. The
Papacy we hold to be an erroneous and destructive system; but we are far from
confounding Catholicism with it. How many respectable men, how many true
Christians has not the Catholic Church contained! What immense services did not
Catholicism render to existing states on their first formation, at a time when
it was still strongly impregnated with the Gospel, and when the Papacy was only
sketched above it in faint outline! But we are far away from those times. In our
day an attempt is made to yoke Catholicism to the Papacy; and if catholic
Christian truths are presented, they are little else than baits to allure men
into the nets of the hierarchy. There is nothing to be expected from that
quarter. Has the papacy abandoned one of its practices, its doctrines, its
pretensions? Will not this religion, which other ages were unable to bear, be
still less tolerable to ours? What revival was ever seen to emanate from Rome?
Is it from the Papal hierarchy, all engrossed by earthly passions, that the
spirit of faith, hope, and charity, which alone will save us, can proceed? Is it
an effete system, which has no life for itself, which is everywhere struggling
with death, and exists only by aid borrowed from without, that will give life to
others, and animate Christian society with the heavenly breath for which it
sighs? Or will this void in heart and soul, which some of our contemporaries
begin to feel, dispose others of them to apply to the new Protestantism which
has in several places supplanted the principal doctrines taught in the days of
the Apostles and Reformers? A great vagueness of doctrine reigns in many of
those Reformed Churches whose original members gave their blood as a seal of the
living faith which animated them. Men of distinguished talents, alive to all
that is beautiful in creation, have fallen into singular aberrations. A general
faith in the divinity of the Gospel is the only standard which they are willing
to follow. But what is this Gospel? This is the essential question; and yet all
are silent on it, or, rather, each speaks in his own way. What avails it to know
that in the midst of the people stands a vessel placed there by God in order to
cure them, if none care for its contents, if none endeavour to appropriate them?
This system cannot fill up the existing void. While the faith of the Apostles
and Reformers is now in all quarters displaying its activity and power in the
conversion of the world, this vague system does nothing, gives no light, no
life. But let us not be without hope. Does not Roman Catholicism confess the
great doctrines of Christianity, God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Creator,
Saviour, and Sanctifier, the Truth? Does not vague Protestantism hold in its
hand the Book of Life, which is “profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for
correction, and for instruction in righteousness?” And how many upright spirits,
honourable in the eyes of men, and pleasing in the sight of God, are found among
the followers of these two systems! How shall we not love them?—how shall we not
ardently desire their complete emancipation from the elements of the world?
Charity is of vast extent; she takes the most opposite opinions into her
embrace, that she may bring them to the feet of Jesus Christ.

Already there are signs which show that these two extreme opinions are in course
of approximating to Jesus Christ, who is the centre of truth. Are there not some
Roman Catholic churches in which the reading of the Scriptures is recommended
and practised? And, in regard to Protestant rationalism, how great the advance
which it has already made! It did not originate in the Reformation, for the
history of this great revolution will prove that it was a time of faith; but may
we not hope that it is tending towards it? May not the force of truth reach it
through the Word of God, and, reaching, transform it? Even now it gives signs of
religious sentiment, inadequate, no doubt, but still forming an approach towards
sound doctrine, and giving hopes of decisive progress.

Both Protestantism and old Catholicism are in themselves out of the question,
and off the field; and it must be from some other source that the men of our day
are to derive a saving power. There must be something which comes not of man,
but of God. “Give me,” said Archimedes, “a point outside the world, and I will
lift it from its poles.” True Christianity is this point outside the world. It
lifts the human heart from the double pivot of egotism and sensuality, and will
one day lift the whole world from its evil course, and make it turn on a new
axis of righteousness and peace.

Whenever religion is in question, three objects engage the attention—God, man,
and the priest. There can only be three religions on the earth, according as
God, man, or the priest, is the author and head. By the religion of the priest,
I mean that which is invented by the priest for the glory of the priest, and is
ruled over by a sacerdotal caste. By the religion of man, I mean those systems,
those various opinions which human reason forms, and which, created by man under
disease, are, in consequence, utterly devoid of power to cure him. By the
religion of God, I mean the truth as God himself has given it, having for its
end and result the glory of God and the salvation of men.

Hierarchism, or the religion of the priest, Christianity, or the religion of
God, rationalism, or the religion of man, are the three systems which in our
days share Christendom among them. There is no safety either for man or for
society in hierarchism and rationalism. Christianity alone will give life to the
world; but, unhappily, of the three dominant systems it is not the one which
counts the greatest number of followers.

Followers, however, it has. Christianity is doing its work of regeneration among
many Catholics in Germany, and, doubtless, in other countries also. In our
opinion, it is accomplishing it more purely and efficaciously among the
evangelical Christians in Switzerland, France, Great Britain, the United States,
etc. Blessed be God, the revivals, individual or social, which the Gospel
produces, are no longer in our day rare events, for which we must search in
ancient annals!

What I design to write, is a general history of the Reformation. I purpose to
follow its course among the different nations, and to show that the same truths
have everywhere produced the same results; at the same time, pointing out the
diversities occasioned by differences of national character. And, first, it is
in Germany especially that we find the primitive type of reform. There it
presents the most regular development, there, above all, it bears the character
of a revolution not limited to this or that people, but embracing the whole
world. The Reformation in Germany is the fundamental history of reform. It is
the great planet; the other Reformations are secondary planets. which turn with
it, lighted by the same sun, and adapted to the same system, but still having a
separate existence, each shedding a different light, and always possessing a
peculiar beauty. To the Reformation of the sixteenth century we may apply the
words of St. Paul, “There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the
moon, and another glory of the stars; for one star differeth from another star
in glory.” (1 Corinthians 15:41) The Swiss Reformation took place at the same
time with that of Germany, and independently of it, and presented, more
especially at an after period, some of the grand features which characterise the
German Reformation. The Reformation in England has very special claims on our
attention, from the powerful influence which the Church of that kingdom is now
exercising over the whole world. But recollections of family and of flight, the
thought of battles, sufferings, and exile endured for the cause of the
Reformation in France, give it, in my eyes, a peculiar attraction. Considered in
itself, and also in the date of its commencement, it presents beauties of its
own.

I believe that the Reformation is a work of God; this must have been already
seen. Still, I hope to be impartial in tracing its history. Of the principal
Roman Catholic actors in this great drama—for example, of Leo X, Albert of
Magdeburg, Charles V, and Doctor Eck—I believe I have spoken more favourably
than the greater part of historians have done. On the other hand, I have not
sought to hide the faults and failings of the Reformers.

Since the winter of 1831–32, I have delivered public lectures on the period of
the Reformation, and I then published my opening Address. These lectures have
served as a preparative for the work which I now offer to the public. This
history has been drawn from sources made familiar to me by long residence in
Germany, the Netherlands, and Switzerland, and by the study, in the original
tongues, of documents relating to the religious history of Great Britain, and
some other countries besides. These sources are indicated by notes throughout
the work, and therefore require not to be mentioned here.

I could have wished to authenticate the different parts of my narrative by
numerous original notes, but found that, if long and frequent, they might
interrupt the course of the narrative in a manner disagreeable to the reader. I
have, therefore, confined myself to certain passages which seemed fitted to make
him more thoroughly acquainted with subject.

I address this history to those who love to see past events simply as they were,
and not by the help of the magic mirror of genius, which magnifies and gilds,
but sometimes also diminishes and distorts them. Neither the philosophy of the
eighteenth, nor the romance of the nineteenth century, will furnish my opinions
or my colours. I write the history of the Reformation in its own spirit.
Principles, it has been said, have no modesty. Their nature is to rule, and they
doggedly insist on the privilege. If they meet in their path with other
principles which dispute their ascendancy, they give battle instantly; for a
principle never rests till it has conquered. Nor can it be otherwise. To reign
is its life; if it reigns not, it dies. Hence, while declaring that I am not
able, and that I have no wish to rival other historians of the Reformation, I
make a reservation in favour of the principles on which this history rests, and
fearlessly maintain their superiority.

I cannot help thinking that as yet no history of the memorable epoch which I am
about to describe exists in French. When I commenced my work, I saw no
indication that the blank was to be filled up. This circumstance alone could
have induced me to undertake the work, and I here bring it forward as my excuse.
The blank exists still; and I pray Him from whom every good gift “cometh down”
to grant that this humble attempt may not be without benefit to some of its
readers.

J. H. M. D’AUBIGNÉ.

Eaux-Vives, near Geneva.


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  CHAPTER 2: BOOK FIRST
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State of Matters Before the Reformation


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  CHAPTER 3: CHAPTER I
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Christianity—Two distinguishing Principles—Formation of the Papacy—First
encroachments—Influence of Rome—Co-operation of Bishops and Factions—External
Unity of the Church—Internal Unity of the Church—Primacy of St.
Peter—Patriarchates—Co-operation of Princes—Influence of the Barbarians—Rome
invokes the Franks—Secular Power—Pepin and Charlemagne—The Decretals—Disorders
of Rome—The Emperor the Pope’s Liege Lord—Hildebrand—His
character—Celibacy—Struggle with the Emperor—Emancipation of the
Pope—Hildebrand’s Successors—The Crusades—The Church—Corruption of Doctrine. The
enfeebled world was rocking on its base when Christianity appeared. National
religions which had sufficed for the fathers, could no longer satisfy the
children. The new generation could not be moulded in the ancient forms. The gods
of all nations transported to Rome, had there lost their oracles, as the nations
had there lost their liberty. Brought face to face in the Capitol, they had
mutually destroyed each other, and their divinity had disappeared. A great void
had been made in the religion of the world. A kind of deism, destitute of spirit
and life, kept floating, for some time, over the abyss in which the vigorous
superstitions of the ancients were engulfed. But, like all negative beliefs, it
was unable to build. Narrow national distinctions fell with the gods, and the
nations melted down into one another. In Europe, Asia, and Africa, there was now
only one empire, and the human race began to feel its universality and its
unity.

Then the Word was made flesh.

God appeared among men, and as a man, “to save that which was lost.” In Jesus of
Nazareth “dwelt all the fulness of the Godhead bodily.” This is the greatest
event in the annals of the world. Ancient times had prepared it,—new times flow
from it. It is their centre, their bond, and their unity.

Thenceforth all the popular superstitions were without meaning, and the slender
remains which they had saved from the great shipwreck of infidelity sank before
the Majestic Sun of eternal truth. The Son of man lived thirty-three years here
below, curing the sick, instructing sinners, having no place where to lay his
head, yet displaying, in the depth of this humiliation, a grandeur, a holiness,
a power, and divinity, which the world had never known. He suffered, died, rose
again, and ascended to heaven. His disciples, beginning at Jerusalem, traversed
the empire and the world, everywhere proclaiming their Master “the Author of
eternal salvation.” From the heart of a nation, which stood aloof from all
nations, came forth a mercy which invited and embraced all. A great number of
Asiatics, Greeks, and Romans, till then led by priests to the feet of dumb
idols, believed the Word which suddenly illumined the earth “like a sunbeam,” as
Eusebius expresses it. A breath of life began to move over this vast field of
death. A new people, a holy nation, was formed among men, and the astonished
world beheld, in the disciples of the Galilean, a purity, a self-denial, a
charity, a heroism, of which it had lost even the idea.

Two principles, in particular, distinguished the new religion from all the human
systems which it drove before it. The one related to the ministers of worship,
the other to doctrine. The ministers of Paganism were in a manner the gods whom
those human religions worshipped. The priests of Egypt, Gaul, Scythia, Germany,
Britain, and Hindostan, led the people so long, at least, as the eyes of the
people were unopened. Jesus Christ, no doubt, established a ministry, but he did
not found a particular priesthood. He dethroned the living idols of the nations,
destroyed a proud hierarchy, took from man what man had taken from God, and
brought the soul again into immediate contact with the divine source of truth,
proclaiming himself sole Master and sole Mediator.—“One is your Master, even
Christ,” said he; “and all ye are brethren.” (Matthew 23:8) In regard to
doctrine, human religions had taught that salvation was of man. The religions of
the earth had framed an earthly religion. They had told man that heaven would be
given him as a hire—they had fixed its price, and what a price! The religion of
God taught that salvation came from God, was a gift from heaven, the result of
an amnesty, of an act of grace by the Sovereign. “God,” it is said, “has given
eternal life.”

It is true, Christianity cannot be summed up under these two heads, but they
seem to rule the subject, especially where history is concerned; and as we
cannot possibly trace the opposition between truth and error, in all points, we
must select those of them which are most prominent.

Such, then, were two of the constituent principles of the religion which at that
time took possession of the empire, and of the world. With them we are within
the true land-marks of Christianity—out of them Christianity disappears. On the
preservation or the loss of them depended its greatness or its fall. They are
intimately connected; for it is impossible to exalt the priests of the church,
or the works of believers, without lowering Jesus Christ in his double capacity
of Mediator and Redeemer. The one of these principles should rule the history of
religion, the other should rule its doctrine. Originally, both were paramount;
let us see how they were lost. We begin with the destinies of the former. The
Church was at first a society of brethren, under the guidance of brethren. They
were all taught of God, and each was entitled to come to the Divine fountain of
light, and draw for himself. (John 6:45) The Epistles, which then decided great
questions of doctrine, were not inscribed with the pompous name of a single
man—a head. The Holy Scriptures inform us, that the words were simply these,
“The apostles, elders, and brethren, to our brethren.” (Acts 15:23) But even the
writings of the apostles intimate, that from the midst of these brethren a power
would rise and subvert this simple and primitive order. (2 Thessalonians 2:2)
Let us contemplate the formation, and follow the development of this power—a
power foreign to the Church.

Paul of Tarsus, one of the greatest apostles of the new religion, had arrived at
Rome, the capital of the empire and of the world, preaching the salvation which
comes from God. A church was formed beside the throne of the Cæsars. Founded by
this apostle, it consisted at first of some converted Jews, some Greeks, and
some citizens of Rome. For a long time it shone like a pure light on a mountain
top. Its faith was everywhere spoken of; but at length it fell away from its
primitive condition. It was by small beginnings that the two Romes paved their
way to the usurped dominion of the world. The first pastors or bishops of Rome
early engaged in the conversion of the villages and towns around the city. The
necessity which the bishops and pastors of the Campagna di Roma felt of
recurring in cases of difficulty to an enlightened guide, and the gratitude
which they owed to the Church of the metropolis, led them to remain in close
union with it. What has always been seen in analogous circumstances was seen
here; this natural union soon degenerated into dependence. The superiority which
the neighbouring churches had freely yielded, the bishops of Rome regarded as a
right. The encroachments of power form one large part of history, while the
resistance of those whose rights were invaded forms the other. Ecclesiastical
power could not escape the intoxication which prompts all those who are raised
to aim at rising still higher. It yielded to this law of humanity and nature.

Nevertheless, the supremacy of the Roman bishop was at this time limited to
oversight of the churches within the territory civilly subject to the prefect of
Rome. But the rank which this city of the Emperors held in the world, presented
to the ambition of its first pastor a larger destiny. The respect paid in the
second century to the different bishops of Christendom was proportioned to the
rank of the city in which they resided. Now Rome was the greatest, the richest,
and the most powerful city in the world. It was the seat of Empire,—the mother
of nations; “All the inhabitants of the earth belong to it,” says Julian; and
Claudian proclaims it “the fountain of law.”3

If Rome is queen of the cities of the world, why should not its pastor be the
king of bishops? Why should not the Roman Church be the mother of Christendom?
Why should not the nations be her children, and her authority their sovereign
law? It was easy for the ambitious heart of man to reason in this way. Ambitious
Rome did so.

Thus Pagan Rome, when she fell, sent the proud titles which her invincible sword
had conquered from the nations of the earth to the humble minister of the God of
peace seated amidst her ruins. The bishops in the different quarters of the
empire, led away by the charm which Rome had for ages exercised over all
nations, followed the example of the Campagna di Roma, and lent a hand to this
work of usurpation. They took pleasure in paying to the Bishop of Rome somewhat
of the honour which belonged to the Queen city of the world. At first there was
no dependence implied in this honour. They treated the Roman pastor as equal
does equal; but usurped powers grow like avalanches. What was at first mere
brotherly advice soon became, in the mouth of the Pontiff, obligatory command.
In his eyes a first place among equals was a throne. The Western bishops
favoured the designs of the pastors of Rome, either from jealousy of the Eastern
bishops or because they preferred the supremacy of a pope to the domination of a
temporal power. On the other hand, the theological factions which rent the East
sought, each in its turn, to gain the favour of Rome, anticipating their triumph
from the support of the principal Church of the West.

Rome carefully registered these requests, these mediations, and smiled when she
saw the nations throwing themselves into her arms. She let slip no occasion of
increasing and extending her power. Praise, flattery, extravagant compliments,
consultation by other churches, all became, in her eyes, and in her hands,
titles and evidents of her authority. Such is man upon the throne; incense
intoxicates him, and his head turns. What he has he regards as a motive to
strive for more. The doctrine of the Church, and of the necessity of her
external unity, which began to prevail so early as the third century, favoured
the pretensions of Rome. The primary idea of the Church is, that it is the
assembly of the saints, (1 Corinthians 1:2) the assembly of the first-born whose
names are written in heaven. (Hebrews 12:23) Still, however, the Church of the
Lord is not merely internal and invisible. It must manifest itself outwardly,
and it was with a view to this manifestation that the Lord instituted the
Sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist. The Church considered as external, has
characteristics different from those which distinguish her as the Church
invisible. The internal Church, which is the body of Christ, is necessarily and
perpetually one. The visible Church, doubtless, has part in this unity, but
considered in herself, multiplicity is a characteristic attributed to her in the
Scriptures of the New Testament. While they speak to us of a Church of God, they
mention, when speaking of the Church, as externally manifested, “the Churches of
Galatia,” “the Churches of Macedonia,” “the Churches of Judea,” “all the
Churches of the Saints.”2 These different Churches, unquestionably, may to a
certain extent cultivate external union; but though this tie be wanting, they
lose none of the essential qualities of the Church of Christ. In primitive
times, the great tie which united the members of the Church was the living faith
of the heart, by which all held of Christ as their common Head.

Various circumstances early contributed to originate and develop the idea of the
necessity of an external unity. Men accustomed to the ties and political forms
of an earthly country, transferred some of their views and customs to the
spiritual and eternal kingdom of Jesus Christ. Persecution, powerless to
destroy, or even to shake this new society, drew its attention more upon itself,
and caused it to assume the form of a more compact incorporation. To the error
which sprung up in deistical schools, or among sects, was opposed the one
universal truth received from the Apostles, and preserved in the Church. This
was well, so long as the invisible and spiritual Church was one with the visible
and external Church. But a serious divorce soon took place; the form and the
life separated from each other. The semblance of an identical and external
organisation was gradually substituted for the internal and spiritual unity
which forms the essence of genuine religion. The precious perfume of faith was
left out, and then men prostrated themselves before the empty vase which had
contained it. The faith of the heart no longer uniting the members of the
Church, another tie was sought, and they were united by means of bishops,
archbishops, popes, mitres, ceremonies, and canons. The living Church having
gradually retired into the hidden sanctuary of some solitary souls, the external
Church was put in its place, and declared to be, with all its forms, of divine
institution. Salvation, no longer welling up from the henceforth hidden Word, it
was maintained that it was transmitted by means of the forms which had been
devised, and that no man could possess it if he did not receive it through this
channel. None, it was said, can, by his own faith attain to eternal life. Christ
communicated to the Apostles, and the Apostles communicated to the Bishops, the
unction of the Holy Spirit; and this Spirit exists nowhere but in that order!
Originally, whosoever had the Spirit of Jesus Christ was a member of the Church,
but the terms were now reversed, and it was maintained that none but members of
the Church received the Spirit of Jesus Christ. In proportion as these ideas
gained ground, the distinction between clergy and people became more marked. The
salvation of souls no longer depended solely on faith in Christ, but also, and
more especially, on union with the Church. The representatives and heads of the
Church obtained a part of the confidence due only to Jesus Christ, and in fact
became mediators for the flock. The idea of the universal priesthood of
Christians accordingly disappeared step by step; the servants of the Church of
Christ were likened to the priests under the Old Dispensation; and those who
separated from the bishop were put in the same class with Korah, Dathan, and
Abiram. From an individual priesthood, such as was then formed in the Church, to
a sovereign priesthood, such as Rome now claims, the step was easy. In fact, as
soon as the error as to the necessity of a visible unity of the Church was
established, a new error was seen to arise, viz., that of the necessity of an
external representative of this unity.

Although we nowhere find in the gospel any traces of a pre-eminence in St. Peter
over the other apostles; although the very idea of primacy is opposed to the
fraternal relations which united the disciples, and even to the spirit of the
gospel dispensation, which, on the contrary, calls upon all the children of the
Father to be servants one to another, recognising one only teacher, and one only
chief; and although Jesus Christ sharply rebuked his disciples, as often as
ambitious ideas of pre-eminence arose in their carnal hearts, men invented, and
by means of passages of Scripture ill understood, supported a primacy in St.
Peter, and then in this apostle, and his pretended successors at Rome, saluted
the visible representatives of visible unity—the heads of the Church! The
patriarchal constitution also contributed to the rise of the Roman Papacy. So
early as the three first centuries, the churches of metropolitan towns had
enjoyed particular respect. The Council of Nice, in its Sixth Canon, singled out
three cities, whose churches had, according to it, an ancient authority over
those of the surrounding provinces; these were Alexandria, Rome, and Antioch.
The political origin of this distinction is betrayed by the very name which was
at first given to the bishop of these cities. He was called Exarch, in the same
way as the civil governor. At a later period, the more ecclesiastical name of
Patriarch was given to him. This name occurs for the first time in the Council
of Constantinople, but in a different sense from that which it received at a
later period; for it was only a short time before the Council of Chalcedon, that
it was applied exclusively to the great metropolitans. The second ecumenical
Council created a new patriarchate, that of Constantinople itself, the new Rome,
the second capital of the empire. The Church of Byzantium, so long in obscurity,
enjoyed the same privileges, and was put by the Council of Chalcedon in the same
rank as the Church of Rome. Rome then shared the patriarchate with these three
churches; but when the invasion of Mahomet annihilated the sees of Alexandria
and Antioch—when the see of Constantinople decayed, and later, even separated
from the west, Rome remained alone, and circumstances rallied all around her
see, which from that time remained without a rival.

New accomplices, the most powerful of all accomplices, came also to her aid.
Ignorance and superstition seized upon the Church, and gave her up to Rome with
a bandage on her eyes, and chains on her hands. Still this slavery was not
completed without opposition. Often did the voice of the churches protest their
independence: This bold voice was heard especially in proconsular Africa and the
East. But Rome found new allies to stifle the cry of the Churches. Princes, whom
tempestuous times often caused to totter on the throne, offered her their
support if she would in return support them. They offered her spiritual
authority, provided she would reinstate them in secular power. They gave her a
cheap bargain of souls, in the hope that she would help them to a cheap bargain
of their enemies. The hierarchical power which was rising, and the imperial
power which was declining, thus supported each other, and, by this alliance,
hastened their double destiny.

Here Rome could not be a loser. An edict of Theodosius II, and of Valentinian
III, proclaimed the bishop of Rome “Rector of the whole Church.” Justinian
issued a similar edict. These decrees did not contain all that the popes
pretended to see in them; but in those times of ignorance it was easy for them
to give prevalence to the interpretation which was most in their favour. The
power of the emperors in Italy becoming always more precarious, the Bishops of
Rome failed not to avail themselves of the circumstance to shake off their
dependence. But energetic promoters of the Papal power had by this time emerged
from the forests of the North. The barbarians, who had invaded the West, and
there fixed their abode, after intoxicating themselves with blood and rapine,
behoved to lower their fierce sword before the intellectual power which they
encountered. Altogether new to Christianity, ignorant of the spiritual nature of
the Church, and requiring in religion a certain external show, they prostrated
themselves, half savages, and half Pagans, before the High Priest of Rome. With
them the West was at his feet. First, the Vandals, then the Ostrogoths, a little
later the Burgundians, afterwards the Visigoths, lastly, the Lombards and
Anglo-Saxons, came to do obeisance to the Roman Pontiff. It was the robust
shoulders of the sons of the idolatrous North which finished the work of placing
a pastor of the banks of the Tiber on the supreme throne of Christendom.

These things took place in the West at the beginning of the seventh century,
precisely at the same period when the power of Mahomet, ready also to seize on a
portion of the globe, was rising in the East. From that time the evil ceases not
to grow. In the eighth century we see the Bishops of Rome with one hand
repulsing the Greek Emperors, their lawful sovereigns, and seeking to chase them
from Italy, while, with the other, they caress the Mayors of France, and ask
this new power, which is beginning to rise in the West, for a share in the
wrecks of the empire. Between the East, which she repels, and the West, which
she invites, Rome establishes her usurped authority. She rears her throne
between two revolts. Frightened at the cry of the Arabs, who, become masters of
Spain, vaunt that they will soon arrive in Italy by the passes of the Pyrennees
and the Alps, and proclaim the name of Mahomet on the seven hills—amazed at the
audacious Astolphus, who, at the head of his Lombards, sends forth his
lion-roar, and brandishes his sword before the gates of the eternal city,
threatening massacre to every Roman,—Rome, on the brink of ruin, looks around in
terror, and throws herself into the arms of the Franks. The usurper Pepin asks a
pretended sanction to his new royalty; the Papacy gives it to him, and gets him
in return to declare himself the defender of the “Republic of God.” Pepin wrests
from the Lombards what they had wrested from the emperor; but, instead of
restoring it to him, he deposits the keys of the towns which he has conquered on
the altar of St. Peter, and, swearing with uplifted hand, declares that it was
not for a man he took up arms, but to obtain the forgiveness of his sins from
God, and do homage to St. Peter for his conquests.

Charlemagne appears. The first time, he goes up to the Cathedral of St. Peter
devoutly kissing the steps. When he presents himself a second time, it is as
master of all the kingdoms which formed the empire of the West, and of Rome
herself.

Leo III deems it his duty to give the title to him who already has the power,
and, in the year 800, at the feast of Noel, places on the head of the son of
Pepin the crown of the Emperor of Rome. From that time the pope belongs to the
empire of the Franks, and his relations with the East are ended. He detaches
himself from a rotten tree which is about to fall, in order to engraft himself
on a vigorous wild stock. Among the Germanic races, to which he devotes himself,
a destiny awaits him to which he had never ventured to aspire.

Charlemagne bequeathed to his feeble successors only the wrecks of his empire.
In the ninth century civil power being everywhere weakened by disunion, Rome
perceived that now was the moment for her to lift her head. When could the
Church better make herself independent of the State than at this period of
decline, when the crown which Charles wore was broken, and its fragments lay
scattered on the soil of his ancient empire? At this time the spurious Decretals
of Isidore appeared. In this collection of pretended decrees of the popes, the
most ancient bishops, the contemporaries of Tacitus and Quintilian, spoke the
barbarous Latin of the ninth century. The customs and constitutions of the
Franks were gravely attributed to the Romans of the time of the emperors; popes
quoted the Bible in the Latin translation of St. Jerome, who lived one, two, or
three centuries after them; and Victor, Bishop of Rome, in the year 192, wrote
to Theophilus, who was Archbishop of Alexandria, in 395. The impostor, who had
forged this collection, strove to make out that all the bishops derived their
authority from the Bishop of Rome, who derived his immediately from Jesus
Christ. Not only did he record all the successive conquests of the pontiffs, but
he, moreover, carried them back to the remotest periods. The popes were not
ashamed to avail themselves of this despicable invention. As early as 865,
Nicholas I selected it as his armour to combat princes and bishops. This
shameless forgery was for ages the arsenal of Rome.

Nevertheless, the vices and crimes of the pontiffs were for some time to suspend
the effects of the Decretals. The Papacy celebrates its admission to the table
of kings, by shameful libations. It proceeds to intoxicate itself, and its head
turns amidst the debauch. It is about this time that tradition places upon the
Papal throne a damsel named Joan, who had fled to Rome with her lover, and,
being taken in labour, betrayed her sex in the middle of a solemn procession.
But let us not unnecessarily aggravate the disgrace of the Court of the Roman
Pontiffs. Abandoned females did reign in Rome at this period. A throne, which
pretended to exalt itself above the majesty of kings, grovelled in the mire of
vice. Theodora and Marozia, at will, installed and deposed the pretended Masters
of the Church of Christ, and placed upon the throne of Peter their paramours,
their sons, and their grandsons. These scandalous proceedings, which are but too
true, perhaps, gave rise to the tradition of Popess Joan.

Rome becomes a vast theatre of disorder, on which the most powerful families in
Italy contend for ascendancy—the Counts of Tuscany usually proving victorious.
In 1033, this house dares to place upon the pontifical throne, under the name of
Benedict the Ninth, a young boy brought up in debauchery. This child of twelve,
when pope, continues his ineffable turpitude. A faction elects Sylvester in his
stead, and at length Pope Benedict, with a conscience loaded with adultery, and
a hand dyed with the blood of murders, sells the popedom to an ecclesiastic of
Rome. The Emperors of Germany, indignant at so many disorders, cleansed Rome
with the sword. The empire, exercising its rights of superiority, drew the
triple crown out of the mire into which it had fallen, and saved the degraded
popedom by giving it decent men for heads. Henry III, in 1046, deposed three
popes, and his finger, adorned with the ring of the Roman Patricians, pointed
out the bishop to whom the keys of the confession of St. Peter were to be
remitted. Four popes, all Germans, and nominated by the emperor, succeeded each
other. When the pontiff of Rome died, deputies from that Church appeared at the
imperial court, like the envoys from other dioceses, to request a new bishop.
The emperor was even glad to see the pope reforming abuses, strengthening the
Church, holding councils, inducting and deposing prelates, in spite of foreign
monarchs; the Papacy, by these pretensions, only exalted the power of the
emperor, its liege lord. But there was great danger in allowing such games to be
played. The strength which the popes were thus resuming, by degrees, might be
turned, all at once, against the emperor himself. When the viper recovered, it
might sting the bosom which warmed it. This was what actually happened.

Here a new epoch in the Papacy begins. It starts up from its humiliation, and
soon has the princes of the earth at its feet. To exalt it is to exalt the
Church, is to aggrandise religion, is to secure to the mind its victory over the
flesh, and to God his triumph over the world. These are its maxims, and in these
ambition finds its profit, fanaticism its excuse. The whole of this new tendency
is personified in one man,—Hildebrand.

Hildebrand, by turns unduly extolled or unjustly stigmatised, is the
personification of the Roman pontificate in its power and glory. He is one of
those master spirits of history, which contain in them an entire order of new
things, similar to those presented in other spheres by Charlemagne, Luther, and
Napoleon.

Leo IX took up this monk in passing through Clugny, and carried him to Rome.
From that time Hildebrand was the soul of the popedom, until he became the
popedom itself. He governed the Church in the name of several pontiffs before
his own reign under that of Gregory VII. One great idea took possession of this
great genius. He wishes to found a visible theocracy of which the pope, as vicar
of Jesus Christ, will be head. The remembrance of the ancient universal dominion
of Pagan Rome haunts his imagination, and animates his zeal. He wishes to
restore to Papal Rome all that the Rome of the Emperors had lost. “What Marius
and Cæsar,” said his flatterers, “could not do by torrents of blood, thou
performest by a word.”

Gregory VII was not led by the Spirit of the Lord. To this Spirit of truth,
humility, and meekness, he was a stranger. He sacrificed what he knew to be
true, when he judged it necessary to his designs. In particular, he did so in
the affair of Berenger. But a spirit far superior to that of the common run of
pontiffs, a deep conviction of the justice of his cause, undoubtedly did animate
him. Bold, ambitious, and inflexible in his designs, he was, at the same time,
dexterous and supple in the employment of means to ensure their success. His
first labour was to embody the militia of the Church, for he behoved to make
himself strong before he attacked the empire. A Council held at Rome cut off
pastors from their families, and obliged them to belong entirely to the
hierarchy. The law of celibacy, conceived and executed under popes who were
themselves monks, changed the clergy into a kind of monastic order. Gregory VII
pretended to have over all the bishops and priests of Christendom the same power
which an abbot of Clugny had over the order over which he presided. The legates
of Hildebrand, comparing themselves to the proconsuls of ancient Rome, traversed
the provinces to deprive pastors of their lawful wives, and if need were, the
pope himself stirred up the populace against married ministers. But Gregory’s
main purpose was to shake Rome free of the empire. This bold design he never
would have ventured to conceive, had not the dissensions which troubled the
minority of Henry IV, and the revolt of the German princes, favoured its
execution. The pope was then like one of the grandees of the empire. Making
common cause with the other great vassals, he forms a party in the aristocratic
interest, and then forbids all ecclesiastics, under pain of excommunication, to
receive investiture to their benefices from the Emperor. He breaks the ancient
ties which unite churches and their pastors to the authority of the prince, but
it is to yoke all of them to the pontifical throne. His aim is by a powerful
hand to enchain priests, kings, and people, and make the pope a universal
monarch. It is Rome alone that every priest must fear, in Rome alone that he
must hope. The kingdoms and princedoms of the earth are his domain, and all
kings must tremble before the thunder of the Jupiter of modern Rome. Woe to him
who resists! Subjects are loosed from their oath of allegiance, the whole
country is smitten with interdict, all worship ceases, the churches are shut,
and their bells are mute; the sacraments are no longer administered, and the
word of malediction reaches even to the dead, to whom the earth, at the bidding
of a haughty pontiff, refuses the peace of the tomb. The pope, who had been
subject from the earliest days of his existence, first to the Roman Emperors,
then to the Frank Emperors, and, lastly to the German Emperors, was now
emancipated, and walked, for the first time, their equal, if not, indeed, their
master. Gregory VII was, however, humbled in his turn; Rome was taken, and
Hildebrand obliged to flee. He died at Salerno, saying, “I have loved
righteousness and hated iniquity, therefore die I in exile.” Words thus uttered
at the portals of the grave who will presume to charge with hypocrisy? The
successors of Gregory, like soldiers who arrive after a great victory, threw
themselves, as conquerors, on the subjugated churches. Spain, rescued from
Islamism, Prussia, delivered from idols, fell into the hands of the crowned
priest. The crusades, which were undertaken at his bidding, every where widened
and increased his authority. Those pious pilgrims, who had thought they saw
saints and angels guiding their armies, and who, after humbly entering the walls
of Jerusalem barefoot, burned the Jews in their synagogue, and, with the blood
of thousands of Saracens, deluged the spots to which they had come, seeking the
sacred footsteps of the Prince of Peace, carried the name of pope into the East,
where it had ceased to be known from the time when he abandoned the supremacy of
the Greeks for that of the Franks. On the other hand, what the armies of the
Roman republic and of the empire had not been able to do, the power of the
Church accomplished. The Germans brought to the feet of a bishop the tribute
which their ancestors had refused to the most powerful generals. Their princes,
on becoming emperors, thought they had received a crown from the popes, but the
popes had given them a yoke. The kingdoms of Christendom, previously subjected
to the spiritual power of Rome, now became its tributaries and serfs.

Thus every thing in the Church is changed. At first it was a community of
brethren, and now an absolute monarchy is established in its bosom. All
Christians were priests of the living God, (1 Peter 2:9) with humble pastors for
their guides; but a proud head has risen up in the midst of these pastors, a
mysterious mouth utters language full of haughtiness, a hand of iron constrains
all men, both small and great, rich and poor, bond and slave, to take the stamp
of its power. The holy and primitive equality of souls before God is lost, and
Christendom, at the bidding of a man, is divided into two unequal camps—in the
one, a caste of priests who dare to usurp the name of Church, and pretend to be
invested in the eyes of the Lord with high privileges—in the other, servile
herds reduced to blind and passive submission, a people gagged and swaddled, and
given over to a proud caste. Every tribe, language, and nation of Christendom,
fall under the domination of this spiritual king, who has received power to
conquer.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 4: CHAPTER II
========================================================================

Grace—Dead Faith—Works—Unity and Duality—Pelagianism—Salvation at the hands of
Priests—Penances—Flagellations—Indulgences—Works of
Supererogation—Purgatory—Taxation—Jubilee—The Papacy and Christianity—State of
Christendom.

But, along with the principle which should rule the history of Christianity was
one which should rule its doctrine. The grand idea of Christianity was the idea
of grace, pardon, amnesty, and the gift of eternal life. This idea supposed in
man an estrangement from God, and an impossibility on his part to reenter into
communion with a Being of infinite holiness. The opposition between true and
false doctrine cannot, it is true, be entirely summed up in the question of
salvation by faith, and salvation by works. Still it is its most prominent
feature, or rather, salvation considered as coming from man is the creating
principle of all error and all abuse. The excesses produced by this fundamental
error led to the Reformation, and the profession of a contrary principle
achieved it. This feature must stand prominently out in an introduction to the
history of the Reformation. Salvation by grace, then, is the second
characteristic which essentially distinguished the religion of God from all
human religions. What had become of it? Had the Church kept this great and
primordial idea as a precious deposit? Let us follow its history. The
inhabitants of Jerusalem, Asia, Greece, and Rome, in the days of the first
emperors, heard the glad tidings, “By grace are ye saved through faith—it is the
gift of God.” (Ephesians 2:8) At this voice of peace—at this gospel—at this
powerful word—many guilty souls believing were brought near to Him who is the
source of peace, and numerous Christian churches were formed in the midst of the
corrupt generation then existing. But a great misapprehension soon arose as to
the nature of saving faith. Faith, according to St. Paul, is the means by which
the whole being of the believer—his intellect, his heart, and his will—enter
into possession of the salvation which the incarnation of the Son of God has
purchased for him. Jesus Christ is apprehended by faith, and thenceforth becomes
every thing for man, and in man. He imparts a divine life to human nature; and
man thus renewed, disengaged from the power of selfishness and sin, has new
affections, and does new works. Faith (says Theology, in order to express these
ideas) is the subjective appropriation of the objective work of Christ. If faith
is not an appropriation of salvation, it is nothing; the whole Christian economy
is disturbed, the sources of new life are sealed up, and Christianity is
overturned at its base.

Such was the actual result. The practical view being gradually forgotten, faith
soon became nothing more than what it still is to many—an act of the
understanding—a simple submission to superior authority. This first error
necessarily led to a second. Faith being stripped of its practical character,
could not possibly be said to save alone. Works no longer coming after it,
behoved to be placed beside it, and the doctrine that man is justified by faith
and by works gained a footing in the Church. To the Christian unity, which
includes under the same principle justification and works, grace and law,
doctrine and duty, succeeded the sad duality, which makes religion and morality
to be quite distinct,—a fatal error, which separates things that cannot live
unless united, and which, putting the soul on one side, and the body on the
other, causes death. The words of the apostle, echoing through all ages, are,
“Having begun in the Spirit, are ye now made perfect by the flesh?” (Galatians
3:3)

Another great error arose to disturb the doctrine of grace. This was
Pelagianism. Pelagius maintained that human nature is not fallen—that there is
no hereditary corruption—and that man, having received the power of doing good,
has only to will it in order to perform it. If goodness consists in certain
external actions, Pelagius is right. But if we look to the motives from which
those external actions proceed, we find in every part of man selfishness,
forgetfulness of God, pollution, and powerlessness. The Pelagian doctrine,
driven back from the Church by Augustine, when it advanced with open front, soon
presented a side view in the shape of semi-Pelagianism, and under the mask of
Augustinian formulæ. This heresy spread over Christendom with astonishing
rapidity. The danger of the system appeared, above all, in this—by placing
goodness, not within, but without, it caused a great value to be set on external
works, on legal observances, and acts of penance. The more of these men did, the
holier they were; they won heaven by them, and individuals were soon seen (a
very astonishing circumstance, certainly) who went farther in holiness than was
required. Pelagianism, at the same time that it corrupted doctrine, strengthened
the hierarchy; with the same hand with which it lowered grace it elevated the
Church; for grace is of God, and the Church is of man. The deeper our conviction
that the whole world is guilty before God, the more will we cleave to Jesus
Christ as the only source of grace. With such a view, how can we place the
Church on a level with him, since she is nothing but the whole body of persons
subject to the same natural misery? But, so soon as we attribute to man a
holiness of his own, all is changed, and ecclesiastics and monks become the most
natural medium of receiving the grace of God. This was what happened after
Pelagius. Salvation, taken out of the hands of God, fell into the hands of
priests, who put themselves in the Lord’s place. Souls thirsting for pardon
behoved no longer to look towards heaven, but towards the Church, and, above
all, towards its pretended head. To blinded minds, the Pontiff of Rome was
instead of God. Hence the greatness of the popes and indescribable abuses. The
evil went farther still. Pelagianism, in maintaining that man may attain perfect
sanctification, pretended, likewise, that the merits of saints and martyrs might
be applied to the Church. A particular virtue was even ascribed to their
intercession. They were addressed in prayer, their aid was invoked in all the
trials of life, and a real idolatry supplanted the adoration of the true and
living God.

Pelagianism, at the same time, multiplied rites and ceremonies. Man imagining
that he could, and that he ought, by good works, to render himself worthy of
grace, saw nothing better fitted to merit it than outward worship. The law of
ceremonies becoming endlessly complicated, was soon held equal at least to the
moral law, and thus the conscience of Christians was burdened anew with a yoke
which had been declared intolerable in the times of the apostles. (Acts 15:10)
But what most of all deformed Christianity was the system of penance which rose
out of Pelagianism. Penance at first consisted in certain public signs of
repentance, which the Church required of those whom she had excluded for
scandal, and who were desirous of being again received into her bosom. By
degrees, penance was extended to all sins, even the most secret, and was
considered as a kind of chastisement to which it was necessary to submit, in
order to acquire the pardon of God through the absolution of priests.

Ecclesiastical penance was thus confounded with Christian repentance, without
which there cannot be either justification or sanctification.

Instead of expecting pardon from Christ only by faith, it was expected chiefly
from the Church by works of penance.

Great importance was attached to the outward marks of repentance, tears,
fastings, and macerations, while the internal renewal of the heart, which alone
constitutes true conversion, was forgotten. As confession and works of penance
are easier than the extirpation of sin, and the abandonment of vice, many ceased
to struggle against the lusts of the flesh, deeming it better to supply their
place by means of certain macerations.

Works of penance substituted in lieu of the salvation of God kept multiplying in
the Church from the days of Tertullian in the third century. The thing now
deemed necessary was to fast, go barefoot, and wear no linen, etc., or to quit
house and home for distant lands, or, better still, to renounce the world and
embrace the monastic state! To all this were added, in the eleventh century,
voluntary flagellations. These, at a later period, became a real mania in Italy,
which at that time was violently agitated. Nobles and peasants, young and old,
even children of five, go two and two by hundreds, thousands, and tens of
thousands, through villages, towns and cities, with an apron tied round their
waist, (their only clothing,) and visit the churches in procession in the dead
of winter. Armed with a whip, they flagellate themselves without mercy, and the
streets resound with cries and groans, such as to force tears from those who
hear them.

Still long before the evil had reached this height, men felt the oppression of
the priests and sighed for deliverance. The priests themselves had perceived,
that if they did not apply a remedy, their usurped power would be lost, and,
therefore, they invented the system of barter, so well known under the name of
Indulgences. What they said was this:—“You penitents are not able to fulfil the
tasks which are enjoined you? Well, then, we, priests of God, and your pastors,
will take the heavy burden on ourselves.” For a fast of seven weeks,” says
Regino, Abbot of Prum, “there will be paid by a rich man twentypence, by one
less so tenpence, by the poor threepence, and so in like proportion for other
things.” Bold voices were raised against this traffic, but in vain. The pope
soon discovered the advantages which he might draw from these indulgences. In
the thirteenth century, Alexander Hales, the irrefragable doctor, invented a
doctrine well fitted to secure this vast resource to the Papacy, and a bull of
Clement VII declared it an article of faith. Jesus Christ, it was said, did far
more than was necessary to reconcile God to men; for that a single drop of his
blood would have sufficed; but he shed much blood in order to found a treasury
for his church, a treasury which even eternity should not be able to exhaust.
The supererogatory merits of the saints, i.e. the value of the works which they
did beyond their obligation, served also to augment this treasury, the custody
and administration of which have been intrusted to Christ’s vicar upon earth,
who applies to each sinner for the faults committed after baptism these merits
of Jesus Christ and the saints according to the measure and quantity which his
sins render necessary. Who will venture to attack a practice whose origin is so
holy? This inconceivable traffic soon extends, and becomes more complex. The
philosophers of Alexandria speak of a fire in which souls are to be made pure.
This philosophical opinion, which several ancient doctors had adopted, Rome
declared to be a doctrine of the Church. The pope, by a bull, annexed purgatory
to his domain. He decreed that man should there expiate what he might not be
able to expiate here below, but that indulgences could deliver souls from that
intermediate state in which their sins must otherwise detain them. This dogma is
expounded by Thomas Aquinas in his famous theological Summa. Nothing was spared
to fill the mind with terror. The torments which the purifying fire inflicts on
those who become its victims were painted in dreadful colours. Even at the
present day, in many Catholic countries, we see pictures exhibited in churches,
or in the public streets, in which poor souls in the midst of burning flames are
calling in agony for relief. Who could refuse the redemption-money which, on
falling into the treasury of Rome, was to ransom the soul from such sufferings?
In order to give regularity to this traffic, there was shortly after drawn up
(probably by John 22,) the famous and scandalous taxation of indulgences, of
which there have been more than forty editions.

Ears the least delicate would be offended were we to repeat all the horrible
things contained in it.

Incest will cost, if it is not known, five groschen, if known, six; so much will
be paid for murder, so much for infanticide, adultery, perjury, house-breaking,
etc. “Shame upon Rome,” exclaims Claudius Esperse, a Roman theologian, and we
add, Shame upon human nature! for we cannot reproach Rome with anything which
does not recoil upon man himself. Rome is humanity magnified in some of its evil
propensities. We say this for the sake of truth, and we also say it for the sake
of justice.

Boniface VIII, the boldest and most ambitious of the popes after Gregory VII,
outstripped all his predecessors. In the year 1300 he published a bull, by which
he announced to the Church, that every hundred years all persons repairing to
Rome would there obtain a plenary indulgence. Crowds flocked from Italy, Sicily,
Sardinia, Corsica, France, Spain, Germany, Hungary, and all quarters. Old men of
sixty and seventy set out, and there was counted at Rome in one month to the
number of two hundred thousand pilgrims. All these strangers bringing rich
offerings, the pope and the Romans saw their treasury filled.

Roman avarice soon fixed each jubilee at fifty years, next at thirty-three, and
at last at twenty-five. Then for the greater convenience of buyers, and the
greater profit of sellers, the jubilee and its indulgences were transported from
Rome to all parts of Christendom. There was no occasion to leave home. What
others had gone to seek beyond the Alps, each might purchase at his own door.
The evil could not go farther.

Then the Reformer arose.

We formerly saw what became of the principle which should rule the history of
Christianity, and we have now seen what became of that which should rule its
doctrine; both were lost. To establish a mediating caste between man and God,
and insist that the salvation which God gives shall be purchased by works,
penances, and money, is the Papacy. To give to all by Jesus Christ without a
human mediator, and without that power, which is called the Church, free access
to the great gift of eternal life, which God bestows on man, is Christianity and
the Reformation. The Papacy is an immense wall raised between man and God by the
labour of ages. Whosoever would pass it must lay his account with paying or
suffering. And yet will it not be passed? The Reformation is the power which
threw down this wall, restored Christ to man, and levelled the path by which he
may come to his Creator. The Papacy interposes the Church between God and man.
Christianity and the Reformation make them meet face to face. The Papacy
separates—the Gospel unites them.

Having thus traced the history of the decay and extinction of the two great
principles which distinguish the religion of God from all the religions of man,
let us attend to some of the results of this vast alteration.

First, however, let us pay some tribute of respect to this Church of the middle
ages which succeeded that of the Apostles and Fathers, and preceded that of the
Reformers. The Church, although decayed, and always more and more enslaved,
still was the Church, that is to say, still remained the most powerful friend
that man possessed. Her hands, though tied, could still bless. During those
ages, great servants of Jesus Christ, men, who in essential doctrines were true
Protestants, shed a benign light, and in the most humble convent or the most
obscure parish, were found poor monks and poor priests to solace deep griefs.
The Catholic Church was not the Papacy. The latter acted the part of oppressor,
the former that of the oppressed. The Reformation, which declared war on the one
came to deliver the other. And yet, truth to tell, the Papacy itself was
sometimes, in the hands of God, who brings good out of evil, a necessary
counterpoise to the power and ambition of princes.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 5: CHAPTER III
========================================================================

Religion—Relics—Easter Merriment—Manners—Corruption—Dissorderly Lives of
Priests, Bishops, and Popes—A Priest’s Family—Education—Ignorance—Ciceronians.

Let us now attend to the State of the Church before the Reformation. The people
of Christendom no longer expecting the gratuitous gift of eternal life from the
true and living God, it was necessary, in order to obtain it, to have recourse
to all the methods which a superstitious, timid, and frightened conscience could
invent. Heaven is full of saints and mediators who can solicit the favour. Earth
is full of pious works, sacrifices, observances, and ceremonies, which can merit
it. Such is the picture of the religion of this period, as drawn by one who was
long a monk, and afterwards a fellow-worker with Luther.

Myconius says, “The sufferings and merits of Christ were as a vain tale, or as
the Fables of Homer. Not a word was said of the faith by which the righteousness
of the Saviour, and the inheritance of eternal life, are secured. Christ was a
severe judge, ready to condemn all who did not recur to the intercession of
saints, or the indulgences of popes. Instead of him there figured as
intercessors, first the Virgin Mary, like the Diana of Paganism, and after her
saints, of whom the popes were continually enlarging the catalogue. These
mediators gave the benefit of their prayers only to those who had deserved well
of the orders founded by them. For this it was necessary to do not what God
commands in his word, but a great number of works which monks and priests had
devised, and which brought in large sums of money. These were, Ave-Marias,
prayers of St. Ursula, and St. Bridget. It was necessary to chant and cry night
and day. There were as many places of pilgrimage as there were mountains,
forests, or valleys. But these toils might be bought off with money. Money,
therefore, and every thing that had any value, chickens, geese, ducks, eggs,
wax, straw, butter, and cheese, were brought to the convents and to the priests.
Then chants resounded, and bells were rung, perfumes filled the sanctuary, and
sacrifices were offered; kitchens were stuffed, glasses rattled, and masses
winding up threw a cover over all these pious works. The bishops did not preach,
but they consecrated priests, bells, monks, churches, chapels, images, books,
cemeteries, all these things yielding large returns. Bones, arms, and feet, were
presented in gold and silver boxes. They were given out to be kissed during
mass, and this too yielded a large profit.”

“All these folks maintained, that the pope being in the place of God, (2
Thessalonians 2:4) could not be deceived, and they would not hear of any thing
to the contrary.” In the Church of All Saints at Wittemberg were shown a piece
of Noah’s Ark, a small portion of soot from the furnace of the Three Young Men,
a bit of the manger in which our Saviour was laid, hair from the beard of the
great Christopher, and nineteen thousand other relics of greater or less value.
At Schaffhausen was shown the breath of St. Joseph, which Nicodemus had received
into his glove. In Wurtemberg, a vender of indulgences was seen selling his
wares, and having his head adorned with a large feather, plucked from the wing
of the archangel Michael. But there was no occasion to go to a distance in quest
of these precious treasures. Persons with hired relics travelled the country,
and hawked them about, as has since been done with the Holy Scriptures. The
faithful, having them thus brought to their houses, were spared the trouble and
expence of pilgrimage. Relics were exhibited with great ceremony in the
churches, while those travelling hawkers paid a fixed sum to the owners, and
also gave them so much percentage on their returns. The kingdom of heaven had
thus disappeared, and men, to supply its place on the earth, had opened a
disgraceful traffic. In this way, a profane spirit had invaded religion, and the
most sacred seasons of the Church, those which, most forcibly and powerfully
invited the faithful to self-examination and love, were dishonoured by
buffoonery and mere heathen blasphemies. The “Easter Drolleries” held an
important place in the acts of the Church. As the festival of the resurrection
required to be celebrated with joy, every thing that could excite the laughter
of the hearers was sought out, and thrust into sermons. One preacher imitated
the note of the cuckoo, while another hissed like a goose. One dragged forward
to the altar a layman in a cassock; a second told the most indecent stories; a
third related the adventures of the Apostle Peter, among others, how, in a
tavern, he cheated the host by not paying his score. The inferior clergy took
advantage of the occasion to turn their superiors into ridicule. The churches
were thus turned into stages, and the priests into mountebanks.

If such was the state of religion, what must that of morals have been? It is
true, and equity requires we should not forget, that, at this time, corruption
was not universal. Even when the Reformation took place, much piety,
righteousness, and religious vigour, were brought to light. Of this, the mere
sovereignty of God was the cause; but still, how can it be denied, that He had
previously deposited the germs of this new life in the bosom of the Church? In
our own day, were all the immoralities and abominations which are committed in a
single country brought together, the mass of corruption would undoubtedly fill
us with alarm. Still it is true, that, at this period, evil presented itself in
a form, and with a universality, which it has never had since. In particular,
the abomination of desolation was seen standing in the holy place, to an extent
which has not been permitted since the period of the Reformation. With faith
morality had decayed. The glad tidings of eternal life is the power of God for
the regeneration of man. But take away the salvation which God gives, and you
take away purity of heart and life. This was proved by the event. The doctrine
and the sale of indulgences operated on an ignorant people as a powerful
stimulus to evil. It is no doubt true, that, according to the doctrine of the
Church, indulgences were of use only to those who promised to amend, and
actually kept their promise. But what was to be expected of a doctrine which had
been invented with a view to the profit which it might be made to yield? The
venders of indulgences, the better to dispose of their wares, were naturally
disposed to present them in the most winning and seductive form. Even the
learned were not too well informed on the subject, while the only thing seen by
the multitude was, that indulgences gave them permission to sin. The merchants
were in no haste to disabuse them of an error so greatly in favour of the trade.
In those ages of darkness, what disorders and crimes must have prevailed when
impunity could be purchased with money! What ground could there be for fear when
a trifling contribution to build a church procured exemption from punishment in
the world to come! What hope of renovation, when all direct communication
between men and their God had ceased—when, estranged from him, their spirit and
life, they moved to and fro among frivolous ceremonies and crude observances in
an atmosphere of death! The priests were the first to yield to the corrupting
influence. In wishing to raise, they had lowered themselves. They had tried to
steal from God a ray of his glory, that they might place it in their own bosom;
but, instead of this, had only placed in it some of the leaven of corruption,
stolen from the Evil one. The annals of the period teem with scandalous stories.
In many places people were pleased to see their priest keeping a mistress, in
the hope that it might secure their wives from seduction. How humbling the scene
which the house of such a priest must have presented! The unhappy man maintained
the woman and the children she might have borne him, out of tithes and alms.2
His conscience upbraided him. He blushed before his people, his servants, and
his God. The woman fearing, that, in the event of the priest’s death, she might
become destitute, sometimes made provision beforehand, and played the thief in
her own house. Her honour was gone, and her children were a living accusation
against her. Objects of universal contempt, both parties rushed into quarrelling
and dissipation. Such was the home of a priest!… In these fearful scenes, the
people read a lesson of which they were not slow to avail themselves. The rural
districts became the theatre of numerous excesses. The places where priests
resided were often the abodes of dissoluteness. Corneille Adrian at Bruges, and
Abbot Trinkler at Cappel,5 imitated the manners of the East, and had their
harems. Priests associating with low company, frequented taverns and played at
dice, crowning their orgies with quarrels and blasphemy. The Council of
Schaffhausen issued an order forbidding priests to dance in public except at
marriages, or to carry more than one kind of weapon. They, moreover, ordered
that such priests as were found in houses of bad fame should be stript of their
cassocks.7 In the archbishopric of Mayence, they leapt the walls at night, and
then shouted and revelled in all sorts of debauchery within taverns and inns.
Doors and locks were not secure from their attacks. In several places, each
priest was liable to the bishop in a certain tax for the female he kept, and for
every child she bore him. One day, a German bishop, who was attending a great
festival, openly declared that in a single year, the number of priests who had
been brought before him for this purpose amounted to eleven thousand. This
account is given by Erasmus.9

Among the higher orders of the priesthood, the corruption was equally great. The
dignitaries of the Church preferred the turmoil of camps to chanting at the
altar, and to take lance in hand, and reduce those around them to obedience, was
one of the first qualities of a bishop. Baldwin of Tours, who was constantly
warring with his vassals and neighbours, razed their castles, built others of
his own, and thought of nothing but enlarging his territory. It is told of a
certain bishop of Eichstadt, that when he sat in his court, he had a
coat-of-mail under his gown, and a large sword in his hand. One of his sayings
was, that in fair fight he was not afraid of five Bavarians. The bishops and the
inhabitants of the towns where they resided were perpetually at war. The
burghers demanded freedom, while the priests insisted on absolute obedience.
When the latter proved victorious, they punished revolt, and satiated their
vengeance with numbers of victims; but the flame of insurrection burst forth at
the very moment when they imagined they had suppressed it. And what a spectacle
was presented by the pontifical throne at the period immediately preceding the
Reformation! To say the truth, even Rome was not often witness to such infamy.

Roderigo Borgia, after he had lived with a lady of Rome, continued the same
illegitimate intercourse with her daughter, Rosa Vanozza, and had five children
by her. This man, a cardinal and an archbishop, was living at Rome with Vanozza,
and other females besides, frequenting churches and hospitals, when the
pontifical chair became vacant by the death of Innocent VIII. Borgia secured it
by buying each cardinal for a regular price. Four mules loaded with gold
publicly entered the palace of Cardinal Sforza, the most influential among them.
Borgia became Pope under the name of Alexander VI, and was delighted at having
thus reached the pinnacle of pleasure. On his coronation-day, he appointed his
son Cæsar, a youth of ferocious temper and dissolute habits, Archbishop of
Valentia and Bishop of Pampeluna. Then, when his daughter Lucretia was married,
he celebrated the occasion in the Vatican with fêtes which were attended by his
mistress, Julia Bella, and enlivened by comedies and obscene songs. “All the
ecclesiastics,” says a historian, “had mistresses, and all the convents of the
capital were houses of bad fame.” Cæsar Borgia espoused the faction of the
Guelphs, and when, by their assistance, he had destroyed the Ghibelins, he
turned round upon the Guelphs, and, in like manner, destroyed them. But he was
unwilling that any should share the spoil with him, and, therefore, after
Alexander had, in 1497, made his eldest son Duke of Benevento, the Duke
disappeared. George Schiavoni, a dealer in wood on the banks of the Tiber, one
night saw a dead body thrown into the river, but said nothing; such occurrences
were common. The dead body proved to be that of the Duke, who had been murdered
by his brother Cæsar. Nor was this enough. Having taken offence at his
brother-in-law, he made him be stabbed on the stair of the pontifical palace.
The wounded man, covered with blood, was carried to his apartment, where he was
constantly watched by his wife and sister, who, dreading Cæsar’s poison,
prepared his food with their own hands. Alexander placed sentinels at his door,
but Cæsar laughed at their precautions, and as the pope was going to see his
son-in-law, Cæsar said to him, “What is not done at dinner will be done at
supper.” In short, he one day forced his way into the room, drove out the wife
and sister, and calling in his executioner, Michilotto, the only person to whom
he showed any confidence, looked on while his brother-in-law was strangled.2
Alexander had a favourite, named Peroto. The pope’s partiality for him offended
the young Duke. He pursued him, and Peroto, taking refuge under the pontifical
mantle, clasped the pope in his arms. Cæsar stabbed him, and the blood of his
victim sprung into the pontiff’s face. “The pope,” adds a contemporary witness
to these scenes, “loves his son the Duke, and is much afraid of him.” Cæsar was
the handsomest and most powerful man of his age. He fought with six wild bulls,
and despatched them with ease. Every morning at Rome persons were found who had
been assassinated during the night, while poison carried off those whom the
sword could not reach. Men dared not to move or breathe in Rome, every one
trembling till his own turn should arrive. Cæsar Borgia was the hero of crime.
The spot of earth where iniquity attained this dreadful height was the
pontifical throne. When once man has given himself over to the powers of
darkness, the higher the station he pretends to occupy in the sight of God, the
deeper he sinks into the abysses of hell. The dissolute fêtes which were given
in the pontifical palace by the pope, his son Cæsar, and his daughter Lucretia,
cannot be described, or even thought of, without horror. The impure groves of
antiquity, perhaps, never saw the like. Historians have accused Alexander and
Lucretia of incest, but the proof seems defective. The pope had prepared poison
for a rich cardinal, in a small box of comfits which were to be served after a
sumptuous repast. The cardinal being put on his guard, bribed the steward, and
the poisoned box was placed before Alexander, who ate of it and died. The whole
city ran to see the dead viper, and could not get enough of the sight.2 Such was
the man who occupied the pontifical see at the beginning of the century in which
the Reformation commenced. The clergy having thus brought religion and
themselves into disrepute, a powerful voice might well exclaim, “The
ecclesiastical state is opposed to God and to his glory. The people well know
this, and but too well do they show it, by the many songs, proverbs, and jests,
against priests, which are current among the lower classes, and by all those
caricatures of monks and priests which we see on all the walls, and even on
playing cards. Every man feels disgust when he sees or when he hears of an
ecclesiastic.” These are Luther’s words. The evil had spread through all ranks.
A spirit of error had been sent to men, corruption of manners kept pace with
corruption of faith, and a mystery of iniquity lay like an incubus on the
enslaved Church of Jesus Christ.

There was another consequence which necessarily resulted from the oblivion into
which the fundamental doctrine of the gospel had fallen. Ignorance was the
companion of corruption. The priests having taken into their own hands the
distribution of a salvation which belongs only to God, deemed this a sufficient
title to the respect of the people. What occasion had they to study sacred
literature? Their business was not to expound the Scriptures, but to give
diplomas of indulgence—a ministry which called not for the laborious acquisition
of extensive knowledge. In the rural districts, says Wimpheling, the persons
selected for preachers were miserable creatures, who had been previously raised
from beggary, cast-off cooks, musicians, huntsmen, grooms, and still worse. The
higher clergy were often sunk in deep ignorance. A Bishop of Dunfeld
congratulated himself that he had never learned either Greek or Hebrew, while
the monks contended that all heresies sprung out of these languages, and
especially out of the Greek. “The New Testament,” said one of them, “is a book
full of briers and serpents. “The Greek,” continued he, “is a new language
recently invented, and of it we ought specially to beware. As to Hebrew, my dear
brethren, it is certain that all who learn it, that very instant become Jews.”
We quote from Heresbach, a friend of Erasmus, and a respectable writer. Thomas
Linacer, a learned and celebrated ecclesiastic, had never read the New
Testament. In the last days of his life, (in 1524,) he caused a copy of it to be
brought, but immediately dashed it from him with an oath, because, on opening
it, he had lighted on these words, “I say unto you, Swear not at all.” Now he
was a great swearer. “Either this is not the gospel,” said he, “or we are not
Christians.” Even the Theological Faculty of Paris did not hesitate at this time
to say, in presence of the Parliament, “It is all over with religion if the
study of Greek and Hebrew is allowed.” If, among ecclesiastics, there were a
scattered few who had made some attainments, it was not in sacred literature.
The Ciceronians of Italy affected great contempt for the Bible because of its
style. Men calling themselves priests of the Church of Jesus Christ, translated
the writings of holy men inspired by the Spirit of God into the style of Virgil
and Horace, in order to adapt them to the ears of good society. Cardinal Bembo,
instead of the Holy Spirit, wrote the breath of the heavenly zephyr; instead of
to forgive sins,—to bend the manes and the Sovereign God; and instead of Christ
the Son of God,—Minerva sprung from the forehead of Jupiter. Having one day
found the respectable Sadolet engaged in translating the Epistle to the Romans,
he said to him, “Leave off this child’s play; such trifling ill becomes a man of
gravity.”

Such are some of the consequences of the system under which Christendom then
groaned. Our picture, undoubtedly, proves both the corruption of the Church and
the necessity of a Reformation; and it was this we proposed in sketching it. The
vital doctrines of Christianity had almost entirely disappeared, and with them
the light and life which constitute the essence of genuine religion. The
strength of the Church had been wasted, and its body, enfeebled and exhausted,
lay stretched almost without life, over the whole extent which the Roman empire
had occupied.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 6: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

Imperishable nature of Christianity—Two Laws of God—Apparent Power of
Rome—Hidden Opposition—Decay—Threefold Opposition—Kings and Subjects—The Pope
judged in Italy—Discoveries by Kings and Subjects—Frederick the Wise—His
Moderation—His Anticipation. The evils which then afflicted Christendom, viz.,
superstition, infidelity, ignorance, vain speculation, and corruption of
manners—all natural fruits of the human heart—were not new upon the earth. Often
had they figured in the history of states. In the East, especially, various
religions which had had their day of glory, but had become enervated, had been
attacked by them, and, yielding to the assault, had fallen under it, never again
to rise. Is Christianity to experience the same fate? Will she be destroyed like
these ancient popular religions? Will the blow which gave them death be strong
enough to deprive her of life? Is there nothing that can save her? Will those
hostile powers that now oppress her, and which have already overthrown so many
other forms of worship, be able to seat themselves without opposition on the
ruins of the Church of Jesus Christ?

No! There is in Christianity what there was not in any of those popular
religions. It does not, like them, present certain abstract ideas, interwoven
with traditions and fables, destined to fall, sooner or later, under the attacks
of human reason. It contains pure truth, founded on facts capable of standing
the scrutiny of every upright and enlightened mind. Christianity does not aim
merely at exciting certain vague religious sentiments, which, when they have
once lost their charm, cannot be again revived. Its end is to satisfy, and it,
in fact, does satisfy, all the religious wants of human nature, whatever the
degree of refinement to which it may have attained. It is not the work of man,
whose labours fade and are effaced; it is the work of God, who sustains what he
creates; and the pledge of its duration is the promise of its divine Head.

It is impossible that human nature can ever rise so high as to look down on
Christianity, or if, for a time, human nature do think herself able to dispense
with it, it soon appears with renewed youth and life, as alone fit for curing
souls. Degenerate nations then return with new ardour to those ancient, simple,
and powerful truths, which, in the hour of their infatuation, they had turned
from with disdain.

Christianity, in fact, displayed in the sixteenth century the same regenerating
power which it had exerted in the first. After fifteen centuries the same truths
produced the same results. In the days of the Reformation, as in those of Paul
and Peter, the Gospel, with invincible force, overthrew the mightiest obstacles.
Its sovereign power was manifested from north to south among nations differing
most widely from each other in manners, character, and intellectual development.
Then, as in the days of Stephen and James, it lighted up the fire of enthusiasm
and devotedness in nations which seemed almost extinguished, and exalted them
even to the height of martyrdom.

How was this revival of the Church and of the world accomplished? The observer
might then have seen the operation of two laws by which God governs the world at
all times.

First, as He has ages to act in, he begins his preparations leisurely, and long
before the event which He designs to accomplish.

Then, when the time is come, he produces the greatest results by the smallest
means. It is thus he acts in nature and in history. When he wishes an immense
tree to grow, he deposits a little grain in the earth; and, when he wishes to
renew his Church, he employs the humblest instrument to accomplish what emperors
and all the learned and eminent in the Church were unable to perform. By and by
we will search for and we will discover this little seed which a Divine hand
deposited in the earth in the days of the Reformation; but at present, let us
endeavour to ascertain the various means by which God prepared this great event.
At the period when the Reformation was ready to burst forth, Rome appeared to be
in peace and safety. One would even have said that nothing could disturb her
triumph after the great victories which she had gained. General Councils—those
Upper and Lower Houses of Catholicity—had been subdued. The Vaudois and the
Hussites had been suppressed. No University, with the exception, perhaps, of
that of Paris, which sometimes raised its voice when its kings gave the signal,
doubted the infallibility of the oracles of Rome. Each seemed to have accepted
his alloted share in her power. The higher clergy deemed it better to give a
distant chief the tenth part of their revenues, and quietly consume the other
nine, than to hazard all for an independence which would cost much and yield
little. The lower clergy, decoyed by the perspective of rich benefices, which
ambition made them fancy and discover in the distance, were willing, by a little
slavery, to realise the flattering hopes which they entertained. Besides, they
were almost everywhere so oppressed by the chiefs of the hierarchy, that they
could scarcely struggle under their powerful grasp, far less rise boldly and
hold up their heads. The people knelt before the Roman altar, and kings
themselves, though they began in secret to despise the Bishop of Rome, durst not
venture to attack his power with a hand which the age would have deemed
sacrilegious. But opposition, if it seemed externally to have slackened, or even
ceased, when the Reformation burst forth, had more inward strength. A nearer
view of the edifice will disclose to us more than one symptom which presaged its
downfall. General Councils, though vanquished, had diffused their principles
throughout the Church, and carried division into the enemy’s camp. The defenders
of the hierarchy were divided into two parties, viz., those who maintained the
system of absolute Papal domination, on the principles of Hildebrand, and those
who were desirous of a constitutional Papal government, offering guarantees and
giving liberty to the churches. Nor was this the whole. Faith in the
infallibility of the Roman bishop was greatly shaken among all parties; and, if
no voice was raised in opposition to it, it was because every one rather desired
anxiously to retain the little faith in it which he still had. The least shock
was dreaded, because it might overturn the edifice. Christendom held in its
breath; but it was to prevent a disaster by which its own existence might have
been endangered. From the moment when man trembles at the thought of abandoning
a long venerated belief, it has lost its influence over him, and even the
appearance of respect which he may be desirous to keep up will not be long
maintained. The Reformation had been gradually prepared in three different
worlds—the political, the ecclesiastical, and the literary. Political bodies,
private Christians, and theologians, the literary and the learned, all
contributed to the revolution of the sixteenth century. Let us take a survey of
this triple opposition, concluding with the literary class, though, at the
period immediately preceding the revolution, it was perhaps the most powerful of
all.

First, among political bodies, Rome had lost much of its ancient credit. Of this
the Church herself was the primary cause; for, properly speaking, it was not the
errors and superstitions which she had introduced into Christianity that gave
the fatal blow. Before Christendom could have been able to condemn her on this
account, it must have stood higher than the Church, in respect of intellectual
and religious development. But there was a class of things which the laity well
understood, and it was by these they judged the Church. She had become of the
“earth, earthy.” The sacerdotal empire, which tyrannised over the nations,
existed solely by the illusions of its subjects; and having a halo for its
crown, had forgotten its nature, and left heaven, with his spheres of light and
glory, to plunge into the vulgar interests of burghers and princes. Though
representing those who are born of the Spirit, the priests had exchanged the
Spirit for the flesh. They had abandoned the treasures of knowledge, and the
spiritual power of the Word, for the brute force and tinkling of the age. The
thing happened naturally enough. At first the Church pretended that her object
was to defend spiritual order. But in order to protect it from the opposition
and assaults of the people, she had resorted to earthly means, to vulgar
weapons, which a false prudence had induced her to take up. When the Church had
once begun to handle such weapons, her spirituality was at an end. Her arm could
not become temporal without rendering her heart temporal also. The appearance
presented soon became the reverse of what it had been at the outset. At first
she had thought proper to employ the earth in defending heaven; now she employed
heaven to defend the earth. Theocratic forms became in her hands merely a mean
of accomplishing worldly interests. The offerings which the people laid at the
feet of the sovereign pontiff of Christendom were expended in maintaining the
luxury of his court and the soldiers of his armies. His spiritual power served
him as a ladder on which to climb, and then put the kings and nations of the
earth under his feet. The charm broke, and the power of the Church was lost as
soon as the men of the world could say, “She is become as one of us.” The great
were the first to examine the titles of this imaginary power. This examination
might, perhaps, have been sufficient to overthrow Rome; but, happily for her,
the education of princes was everywhere in the hands of her adepts. These
inspired their august pupils with sentiments of veneration for the Roman
pontiff. The rulers of the people grew up within the sanctuary, and princes of
ordinary capacity could never entirely quit it. Several even had no other
ambition than to be found in it at the hour of death. They preferred to die
under a cassock rather than a crown.

Italy, that apple of discord in Europe, perhaps contributed most to open the
eyes of kings. Having occasion to communicate with popes on matters which
concerned the temporal prince of the States of the Church, and not the Bishop of
bishops, they were greatly astonished when they saw them ready to sacrifice
rights which appertained to the pontiff, in order to secure certain advantages
to the prince. They discovered that these pretended organs of truth had recourse
to all the petty wiles of politics, to deceit, dissimulation, and perjury. Then,
at length, the bandage, which education had tied upon the eyes of princes, fell
off. Then wily Ferdinand of Arragon tried stratagem against stratagem. Then the
impetuous Louis XII caused a medal to be struck with this inscription, “Perdam
Babylonis nomen.”2 And honest Maximilian of Austria, grieved to the heart on
learning the treachery of Leo X, declared openly, “Henceforth this pope, too, is
to me nothing better than a villain; now I can say that throughout my life not
one pope has kept faith with me, or been true to his word. If it please God, I
hope that this one will be the last.”

Kings and states began, moreover, to feel impatient under the heavy burden which
the popes imposed on them, and to demand that Rome should free them from
contributions and annats which wasted their resources. Already had France
opposed Rome with the pragmatic sanction, and the heads of the empire claimed to
share in it. In 1511 the emperor took part in the Council of Pisa, and had even
at one time an idea of seizing the popedom for himself. But, among the rulers of
the people none were so useful to the Reformation as the prince in whose states
it was to commence. Of all the Electors of that period, the most powerful was
Frederick of Saxony, surnamed the Wise. Having succeeded, in 1487, to the
hereditary states of his family, he had received the electoral dignity from the
emperor, and in 1493 undertook a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, where he was dubbed
“Knight of the Holy Sepulchre.” His power and influence, his riches and
liberality, raised him above all his equals. God chose him to be the tree under
whose shelter the seed of truth might be able to push forth its first blade,
without being uprooted by storms from without. No man was better fitted for this
noble service. Frederick possessed the general esteem, and, in particular, had
the entire confidence of the emperor, whom he even represented in his absence.
His wisdom consisted not in the dexterous arts of a wily politician, but in an
enlightened and foreseeing prudence, the first maxim of which was never to offer
violence, from interested motives, to the laws of honour and religion. At the
same time, he felt in his heart the power of the word of God. One day when
Staupitz, the Vicar-General, was with him, the conversation turned upon those
who entertained the people with vain declamation. “All discourses,” said the
Elector, “which are filled only with subtleties and human traditions, are
wondrously cold, nerveless, and feeble. It is impossible to advance one subtlety
which another subtlety cannot destroy. The Holy Scriptures alone are clothed
with such power and majesty, that, destroying all our learned logical
contrivances, they press us home, and constrain us to exclaim, ‘Never man so
spake.’ ” Staupitz having signified that he was entirely of this opinion, the
Elector shook him cordially by the hand, and said, “Promise me that you will
always think so.”

Frederick was just the prince required at the outset of the Reformation. Too
much feebleness on the part of its friends might have allowed it to be
strangled, while too much haste might have caused the storm, which at the very
first began with hollow murmuring sound to gather against it, to burst too soon.
Frederick was moderate but strong. He had that Christian virtue which God always
requires in those who would adore his ways—he waited upon God. He put in
practice the wise counsel of Gamaliel, “If this counsel or this work be of men,
it will come to nought; but if it be of God ye cannot overthrow it.” Acts
5:38-39. “Matters,” said this prince to Spengler of Nuremberg, one of the most
enlightened men of his time; “matters are come to such a point, that there is
nothing more which men can do in them; God alone must act. To His mighty hand,
therefore, we commit these great events, which are too difficult for us.”
Providence made an admirable choice in selecting such a prince to protect his
work in its infancy.


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  CHAPTER 7: CHAPTER V
========================================================================

The People—The Empire—Providential Preparations—Impulse of the
Reformation—Peace—Middle Classes—National Character—Yoke of the Pope—State of
the Empire—Opposition to Rome—The Burghers—Switzerland—Valour—Liberty—Small
Cantons—Italy—Obstacles to
Reform—Spain—Obstacles—Portugal—France—Preparations—Hopes
Deceived—Netherlands—England—Scotland—The North—Russia—Poland—Bohemia—Hungary.
The discoveries made by kings had gradually extended to their subjects. The wise
began to habituate themselves to the idea that the Bishop of Rome was only a
man, and sometimes even a very bad man. They had a suspicion that he was no
holier than the bishops, whose reputation was very equivocal. The licentiousness
of the popes roused the indignation of Christendom, and hatred of the Roman name
rankled in the heart of the nations.

Numerous causes concurred in facilitating the deliverance of the different
countries of the West. Let us glance at these countries. The empire was a
confederation of different states, with an emperor at their head, each state
having supreme authority within its own territory. The Imperial Diet, composed
of all the princes or sovereign states, legislated for the whole Germanic body.
It belonged to the emperor to ratify the laws, decrees, or resolutions of the
assembly, and to see them applied and carried into execution, while the seven
most powerful princes under the title of Electors, had the disposal of the
imperial crown. The north of Germany, inhabited chiefly by the ancient Saxon
race, had acquired the greatest degree of freedom. The emperor, incessantly
attacked by the Turks in his hereditary possessions, was obliged to court those
princes and bold nations whose aid was then necessary to him. Free towns in the
north, west, and south of the empire, had, by their trade, their manufactures,
and exertions of every description, risen to a high degree of prosperity, and
thereby of independence, but the powerful house of Austria, then invested with
the imperial crown, held the greater part of the southern states of Germany
under its control, and closely watched their movements. It was preparing to
extend its dominion over the whole empire, and even beyond it, when the
Reformation interposed a mighty barrier to its encroachments, and saved the
independence of Europe. As Judea, when Christianity arose, was in the centre of
the ancient world, so Germany was in the centre of Christendom, looking at once
toward the Netherlands, England, France, Switzerland, Italy, Hungary, Bohemia,
Poland, Denmark, and all the North. It was in the heart of Europe that the
principle of life was to be developed, and the beatings of this heart were to
circulate through all the arteries of the body the noble blood which was to give
animation to all its members. The particular constitution which the empire had
received conformably to the dispensation of Providence, favoured the propagation
of new ideas. Had Germany been a monarchy properly so called, like France or
England, the arbitrary will of the monarch might have been able long to arrest
the progress of the gospel. But it was a confederation. Truth attacked in one
state might be received with favour in another. The internal peace which
Maximilian had just secured for the empire was not less favourable to the
Reformation. For a long time the numerous members of the Germanic body had taken
pleasure in tearing each other. Nought had been seen but trouble and discord,
war incessantly renewed, neighbour against neighbour, town against town, and
noble against noble. Maximilian had given a solid basis to public order, by
erecting the Imperial Chamber, with power to decide in all questions between
different states. The inhabitants of Germany, after all their troubles and
disquietudes, saw the commencement of a new era of security and repose.
Nevertheless, when Luther appeared, Germany still presented to the observing eye
that kind of motion which agitates the sea after long protracted storms. The
calm was uncertain. More than one example of this will be seen as we proceed. By
giving an entirely new impulse to the Germanic nations, the Reformation put an
end for ever to all the former causes of agitation. Destroying the system of
barbarism, which had till then been paramount, it put Europe in possession of a
new system.

Christianity had, at the same time, exercised a peculiar influence on Germany.
The middle classes had made rapid improvement. Throughout the different quarters
of the empire, and more especially in the free towns, were numerous institutions
well fitted to improve the great mass of the population. In these arts
flourished. The burghers, devoting themselves in security to the calm toils and
sweet relations of social life, became more and more accessible to knowledge,
and in this way were continually acquiring new influence and authority. The
foundation of the Reformation in Germany was not to be laid by magistrates, who
must often shape their conduct according to political exigencies, nor by nobles
fired with the love of military glory, nor by a greedy and ambitious clergy,
working religion for profit, as if it were their exclusive property. The task
was reserved for the citizens, the commonalty, the great body of the people. The
national character of the Germans was specially fitted to adapt itself to a
religious Reformation. No spurious civilisation had enervated it. The precious
seed, which the fear of God deposits in the bosom of a people, had not been
thrown to the winds. Ancient manners yet existed, displaying themselves in that
integrity and fidelity, that love of labour, that perseverance, that serious
temper, which is still to be seen, and gives presage of greater success to the
gospel, than the jeering levity, or boorish temper of some other European
nations. The people of Germany were indebted to Rome for the great instrument of
modern civilisation, viz., faith, polish, learning, laws, all save their courage
and their arms, had come from the sacerdotal city, and, in consequence, Germany
had ever after been in close alliance with the Papacy. The one was a kind of
spiritual conquest by the other, and we all know to what purposes Rome has
invariably applied her conquests. Nations which were in possession of faith and
civilisation before a Roman pontiff existed, always maintained in regard to him,
a greater measure of independence. Still the more thorough the subjugation of
the German, the more powerful will the reaction be when the period of awakening
shall arrive. When Germany does open her eyes, she will indignantly break loose
from the chains which have so long held her captive. The bondage she has had to
endure will make her more sensible of her need of deliverance; and freedom, and
bold champions of the truth, will come forth from this house of hard labour and
bondage, in which all her people have, for ages, been confined.

There was, at that time, in Germany, what the politicians of our days call a
“see-saw system.” When the emperor was of a resolute character, his power
increased; when, on the contrary, he was of a feeble character, the influence
and power of the princes and electors were enlarged. Never had these felt
themselves stronger in regard to their chief than in the time of Maximilian, at
the period of the Reformation; and as he took part against it, it is easy to
understand how favourable the circumstance of his comparative weakness must have
been to the propagation of the gospel.

Moreover, Germany was tired of what the Romans derisively styled “the patience
of the Germans.” They had indeed, shown much patience from the days of Louis of
Bavaria, when the emperors laid down their arms, and the tiara was placed,
without opposition, above the crown of the Cæsars. The contest, however, had
done little more than change its place, by descending several steps. The same
struggles which the emperors and popes had exhibited to the world were soon
renewed on a smaller scale, in all the towns of Germany, between the bishops and
the magistrates. The burghers took up the sword which the emperors had allowed
to drop from their hands. As early as 1329 the burghers of Frankfort on the Oder
had intrepidly withstood all their ecclesiastical superiors. Excommunicated for
having continued faithful to the Margrave Louis, they had been left for
twenty-eight years without mass, baptism, marriage, or Christian burial; and,
when the monks and priests made their re-entry, they laughed at it as a comedy
or farce,—sad symptoms, doubtless, but symptoms of which the clergy were the
cause. At the period of the Reformation this opposition between the magistrates
and ecclesiastics had increased. The privileges of the former, and the temporal
pretensions of the latter, were constantly causing jostling and collision
between the two bodies. But burgomasters, councillors, and secretaries of towns,
were not the only persons among whom Rome and the clergy found opponents. Wrath
was at the same time fermenting among the people, and broke out as early as
1502, when the peasantry, indignant at the grinding yoke of their ecclesiastical
sovereigns, entered into a combination which goes under the name of the
Shoe-Alliance.

Thus everywhere, both in the upper and lower regions of society, a grumbling
sound was heard,—a precursor of the thunder which was soon to burst. Germany
seemed ripe for the work which the sixteenth century had received as its task.
Providence, which moves leisurely, had every thing prepared, and the very
passions which God condemns were to be overruled by his mighty hand for the
accomplishment of his designs.

Let us see how other nations were situated.

Thirteen small republics, placed with their confederates in the centre of Europe
among mountains, forming, as it were, its citadel, contained a brave and simple
people. Who would have gone to those obscure valleys in quest of persons who,
with the sons of Germany, might be the deliverers of the Church? Who would have
thought that petty unknown towns, just emerging from barbarism, hid behind
inaccessible mountains, at the extremity of nameless lakes, would, in point of
Christianity, take precedence of Jerusalem, Antioch, Ephesus, Corinth, and Rome?
Nevertheless, it so pleased Him who wills that one spot of earth be watered with
dew, and that another spot on which the rain has not descended shall remain
parched, (Amos.)

There were other circumstances besides which might have been expected to throw
numerous obstacles in the way of the Reformation among the Helvetic Republics.
If, in a monarchy, the impediments of power were to be dreaded, the thing to be
feared in a democracy was the precipitation of the people. But Switzerland had
also had its preparations. It was a wild but noble tree, which had been
preserved in the bosom of the valleys, in order that a valuable fruit might one
day be engrafted on it. Providence had diffused among this new people principles
of independence and freedom, destined to display their full power whenever the
signal for contest with Rome should be given. The pope had given the Swiss the
title of Protectors of the Liberty of the Church; but they seem to have taken
the honourable appellation in a very different sense from the pontiff. If their
soldiers guarded the pope in the vicinity of the ancient Capitol, their
citizens, in the bosom of the Alps, carefully guarded their religious liberties
against the assaults of the pope and the clergy. Ecclesiastics were forbidden to
apply to a foreign jurisdiction. The “Letter of the Priests” (Pfaffenbrief,
1370) was an energetic protestation of Swiss liberty against the abuses and
power of the clergy. Amongst these states, Zurich was distinguished for its
courageous opposition to the pretensions of Rome. Geneva, at the other extremity
of Switzerland, was at war with its bishop. These two towns particularly
signalised themselves in the great struggle which we have undertaken to
describe. But if the Swiss towns, accessible to every kind of improvement, were
among the first to fall in with the movement of reform, it was otherwise with
the inhabitants of the mountains. The light had not yet travelled so far. These
cantons, the founders of Swiss freedom, proud of the part which they had
performed in the great struggle for independence, were not readily disposed to
imitate their younger brethren of the plains. Why change the faith with which
they had chased Austria, and which had by its altars consecrated all the scenes
of their triumph? Their priests were the only enlightened guides to whom they
could have recourse. Their worship and their festivals gave a turn to the
monotony of their tranquil life, and pleasantly broke the silence of their
peaceful retreats. They remained impervious to religious innovation. On crossing
the Alps, we find ourselves in that Italy which was in the eyes of the majority
the Holy Land of Christendom. Whence should Europe have expected the good of the
Church if not from Italy, if not from Rome? Might not the power which by turns
raised so many different characters to the pontifical chair, one day place in it
a pontiff who would become an instrument of blessing to the heritage of the
Lord? Or if pontiffs were to be despaired of, were there not bishops and
councils, who might reform the Church? Nothing good comes out of Nazareth; but
out of Jerusalem, out of Rome!… Such might be the thoughts of men, but God
thought otherwise. He said, “Let him who is filthy, be filthy still,”
(Revelation 22:1-21) and abandoned Italy to her iniquities. This land of ancient
glory was alternately a prey to intestine wars and foreign invasion. The wiles
of politics, the violence of faction, the turmoil of war, seemed to have sole
sway, and to banish far away both the gospel and its peace.

Besides, Italy, broken, dismembered, and without unity, seemed little fitted to
receive a common impulse. Each frontier was a new barrier where truth was
arrested. And if the truth was to come from the North, how could the Italians,
with a taste so refined, and a society in their eyes so exquisite, condescend to
receive any thing at the hands of barbarous Germans? Were men who admired the
cadence of a sonnet more than the majesty and simplicity of the Scriptures, a
propitious soil for the seed of the divine word? But be this as it may, in
regard to Italy, Rome was still to continue Rome. Not only did the temporal
power of the popes dispose the different Italian factions to purchase their
alliance and favour at any price, but in addition to this, the universal
ascendancy of Rome presented various attractions to the avarice and vanity of
the ultramontane states. The moment that the question of emancipating the rest
of the world from Rome should be raised, Italy would again become Italy;
domestic quarrels would not prevail to the advantage of a foreign system.
Attacks on the head of the Peninsular family would at once revive affections and
common interests which had long been in abeyance. The Reformation had therefore
little chance in that quarter. And yet there did exist, beyond the mountains,
individuals who had been prepared to receive the gospel light, and Italy was not
entirely disinherited.

Spain had what Italy had not—a grave, noble, and religiously disposed people. At
all times has it numbered men of piety and learning among its clergy, while it
was distant enough from Rome to be able easily to shake off the yoke. There are
few nations where one might have more reasonably hoped for a revival of that
primitive Christianity which Spain perhaps received from St. Paul himself. And
yet Spain did not raise her head among the nations. She was destined to fulfil
the declaration of Divine wisdom, “The first shall be last.” Various
circumstances led to this sad result.

Spain, in consequence of its isolated position, and its distance from Germany,
must have felt only slight shocks of the great earthquake which so violently
heaved the empire. It was moreover, engrossed with treasures very different from
those which the word of God then offered to the nations. The new world eclipsed
the eternal world. A land altogether new, and apparently silver and gold,
inflamed all imaginations. An ardent desire for riches left no room in a Spanish
heart for nobler thoughts. A powerful clergy, with scaffolds and treasures at
its disposal, ruled the Peninsula. The Spaniard willingly yielded a servile
obedience to his priests, who, disburdening him of the prior claims of spiritual
occupation, left him free to follow his passions, and to run the way of riches,
discoveries, and new continents. Victorious over the Moors, Spain had, at the
expence of her noblest blood, pulled down the crescent from the walls of
Grenada, and many other cities, and, in its place, planted the cross of Jesus
Christ. This great zeal for Christianity, which seemed to give bright hopes,
turned against the truth. Why should Catholic Spain, which had vanquished
infidelity, not oppose heresy? How should those who had chased Mahomet from
their lovely country allow Luther to penetrate into it? Their kings did even
more. They fitted out fleets against the Reformation, and in their eagerness to
vanquish it, went to seek it in Holland and England. But these attacks
aggrandised the nations against which they were directed, and their power soon
crushed Spain. In this way, these Catholic regions lost, through the
Reformation, even that temporal prosperity which was the primary cause of their
rejection of the spiritual liberty of the gospel. Nevertheless, it was a brave
and generous people that dwelt beyond the Pyrenees. Several of their noble sons
with the same ardour, but with more light than those who had shed their blood in
Moorish dungeons, came to lay their life, as an offering, on the faggot piles of
the Inquisition.

It was nearly the same with Portugal as with Spain. Emmanuel the Happy gave it
an age of gold, which must have unfitted it for the self-denial which the gospel
demands. The Portuguese, rushing into the recently discovered routes to the East
Indies and Brazil, turned their backs on Europe and the Reformation.

Few nations might have been thought more disposed than France to receive the
gospel. Almost all the intellectual and spiritual life of the middle ages
centred in her. One would have said that the paths were already beaten for a
great manifestation of the truth. Men who were the most opposed to each other,
and who had the greatest influence on the French people, felt that they had some
affinity with the Reformation. St. Bernard had given an example of that
heart-felt faith, that inward piety, which is the finest feature of the
Reformation, while Abelard had introduced into the study of theology that
reasoning principle, which, incapable of establishing truth, is powerful in
destroying falsehood. Numerous heretics, so called, had rekindled the flames of
the word of God in the French provinces. The University of Paris had withstood
the Church to the face, and not feared to combat her. At the beginning of the
fifteenth century, the Clemangis and the Gersons had spoken out boldly. The
pragmatic sanction had been a great act of independence, and promised to prove
the palladium of the Gallican liberties. The French nobility, so numerous and so
jealous of their precedence, and who, at this period, had just seen their
privileges gradually suppressed to the extension of the influence of the crown,
must have felt favourably disposed towards a religious revolution, the effect of
which might be to restore a portion of the independence which they had lost. The
people, lively, intelligent and open to generous emotions, were accessible to
the truth in a degree as great, if not greater, than any other people. The
Reformation might have promised to be, in this nation, the birth that was to
crown the long travail of many ages. But the Church of France, which seemed for
so many generations to have been rushing in the same direction, turned suddenly
round at the moment of the Reformation, and took quite a contrary direction.
Such was the will of Him who guides nations and their rulers. The prince who
then sat in the chariot and held the reins, and who, as a lover of letters,
might have been thought likely to be the first to second reform, threw his
people into another course. The symptoms of several centuries proved fallacious,
and the impulse given to France struck and spent itself on the ambition and
fanaticism of its kings. The Valois took the place which she ought to have
occupied. Perhaps, if she had received the gospel, she would have become too
powerful. God was pleased to take the feeblest nations, nations that as yet were
not, to make them the depositaries of his truth. France, after having been
almost reformed, ultimately found herself again become Roman Catholic. The sword
of princes thrown into the scale, made it incline towards Rome. Alas! another
sword, that of the reformed themselves, completed the ruin of the Reformation.
Hands habituated to the sword, unlearned to pray. It is by the blood of its
confessors, and not by that of its enemies, that the gospel triumphs. At this
time the Netherlands was one of the most flourishing countries in Europe. It
contained an industrious population, enlightened by the numerous relations which
it maintained with the different quarters of the world, full of courage, and
zealous to excess for its independence, its privileges, and its freedom. Placed
on the threshold of Germany, it must have been one of the first to hear the
sound of the Reformation. Two parties, quite distinct from each other, occupied
these provinces. The more Southern one was surfeited with wealth, and submitted.
How could all those manufactures, carried to the highest perfection—how could
that boundless traffic by land and sea—how could Bruges, the great entrepot of
the trade of the North—how could Antwerp, that queen of commercial cities,
accommodate themselves to a long and sanguinary struggle for points of faith? On
the contrary, the northern provinces defended by their sands, the sea, and their
inland waters, and still more, by the simplicity of their manners, and their
determination to lose all sooner than the gospel, not only saved their
franchises, their privileges, and their faith, but also conquered their
independence, and a glorious national character.

England scarcely seemed to promise what she has since performed. Repulsed from
the Continent, where she had so long been obstinately bent on conquering France,
she began to throw her eye towards the ocean, as the domain which was to be the
true scene of her conquests, and which was reserved for her inheritance. Twice
converted to Christianity, once under the ancient Britons, and the second time
under the Anglo-Saxons, she very devoutly paid to Rome the annual tribute of St.
Peter. But she was reserved for high destinies. Mistress of the ocean, and
present at once in all the different quarters of the globe, she, with the
nations that were to spring from her, was one day to be the hand of God in
shedding the seeds of life over the remotest islands and the largest continents.
Already several circumstances gave a presentiment of her destiny. Bright lights
had shone in the British Isles, and some glimmerings still remained. A multitude
of foreigners, artists, merchants, and mechanics, arriving from the Netherlands,
Germany, and other countries, filled their cities and their sea-ports. The new
religious ideas must have been conveyed easily and rapidly. In fine, the
reigning monarch was an eccentric prince, who, possessed of some knowledge and
great courage, was every moment changing his projects and ideas, and turning
from side to side, according to the direction in which his violent passions
blew. It was possible that one of the inconsistencies of Henry VIII might prove
favourable to the Reformation.

Scotland was at this time agitated by factions. A king five years old, a queen
regent, ambitious nobles, and an influential clergy, kept this bold nation in
constant turmoil. It was, nevertheless, one day to hold a first place among
those that received the Reformation. The three kingdoms of the North, Denmark,
Sweden, and Norway, were united under a common sceptre. These rude and warlike
nations seemed to have little in common with the doctrine of love and peace. And
yet, by their very energy, they were, perhaps, more disposed than the people of
the South to receive the evangelical doctrine in its power. But, the descendants
of warriors and pirates, they brought, it would seem, too warlike a character to
the Protestant cause; at a later period, their sword defended it with heroism.

Russia, retired at the extremity of Europe, had few relations with other states,
and belonged, moreover, to the Greek communion. The Reformation effected in the
Western exerted little or no influence on the Eastern Church.

Poland seemed well prepared for a reform. The vicinity of the Christians of
Bohemia and Moravia had disposed it to receive, while the vicinity of Germany
must have rapidly communicated, the evangelical impulse. So early as 1500, the
nobility of Poland Proper had demanded the cup for the laity, appealing to the
usage of the primitive Church. The liberty enjoyed by its towns, and the
independence of its nobles, made it a safe asylum for Christians persecuted in
their own country, and the truth which they brought thither was received with
joy by a great number of its inhabitants. In our days, however, it is one of the
countries which has the smallest number of confessors. The flame of reformation,
which had long gleamed in Bohemia, had been almost extinguished in blood.
Nevertheless, precious remains which had escaped the carnage, still survived to
see the day of which John Huss had a presentiment.

Hungary had been torn by intestine wars under the government of princes without
character and without experience, and who had at last yoked the fate of their
people to Austria, by giving this powerful House a place among the heirs of the
crown.

Such was the state of Europe at the beginning of the sixteenth century, which
was destined to produce so mighty a transformation in Christian society.


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  CHAPTER 8: CHAPTER VI
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Roman Theology—Remains of Life—Justification by Faith—Witnesses for the
Truth—Claude—The Mystics—The
Vaudois—Valdo—Wickliffe—Huss—Prediction—Protestantism before the
Reformation—Arnoldi—Utenheim—Martin—New Witnesses in the Church—Thomas
Conecte—The Cardinal of Crayn—Institoris—Savonarola—Justification by Faith—John
Vitraire—John Laillier—John of Wessalia—John of Goch—John Wessel—Protestantism
before the Reformation—The Bohemian Brethren—Prophecy of Proles—Prophecy of the
Franciscan of Isenach—Third Preparative—Literature.

Having pointed out the state of nations and princes, we now proceed to the
preparation for Reform, as existing in Theology and in the Church. The singular
system of Theology which had been established in the Church must have powerfully
contributed to open the eyes of the rising generation. Made for an age of
darkness, as if such an age had been to exist for ever, it seemed destined to
become obsolete and defective in all its parts as soon as the age should have
improved. Such was the actual result. The popes had from time to time made
various additions to Christian doctrine. They had changed or taken away whatever
did not accord with their hierarchy, while any thing not contrary to their
system was allowed to remain till further orders. This system contained true
doctrines, such as redemption, and the influence of the Holy Spirit; and these
an able theologian, if any such then existed, might have employed to combat and
overthrow all the rest. The pure gold, mingled with the worthless lead in the
treasury of the Vatican, made it easy to detect the imposition. It is true, that
when any bold opponent called attention to it, the fanner of Rome immediately
threw out the pure grain. But these very proceedings only increased the
confusion. This confusion was unbounded, and the pretended unity was only a heap
of disunion. At Rome there were doctrines of the Court, and doctrines of the
Church. The faith of the metropolis differed from the faith of the provinces;
while in the provinces, again, the variation was endless. There was a faith for
princes, a faith for the people, and a faith for religious orders. Opinions were
classed as belonging to such a convent, such a district, such a doctor, such a
monk.

Truth, in order to pass peacefully through the time when Rome would have crushed
her with an iron sceptre, had done, like the insect which with its threads forms
the chrysalis in which it shuts itself up during the cold season. And strange
enough, the instruments which divine truth had employed for the purpose were the
so much decried schoolmen. These industrious artisans of thought had employed
themselves in unravelling all theological ideas, and out of the numerous threads
had made a veil under which the ablest of their contemporaries must have found
it difficult to recognise the truth in its original purity. It seems a sad
thing, that an insect full of life, and sometimes glowing with the most
brilliant colours, should enclose itself, apparently without life, in its dark
cocoon; and yet it is the shroud that saves it. It was the same with truth. Had
the selfish and sinister policy of Rome, in the days of her ascendancy, met the
truth in naked simplicity, she would have destroyed, or at least tried to
destroy it, but disguised as it was, by the theologians of the time, under
subtleties and endless distinctions, the popes either saw it not, or thought
that, in such a state, it could not do them harm. They accordingly patronised
both the workmen and their work. But spring might come, and then forgotten truth
might lift her head, and throw aside her shroud. In her seeming tomb, having
acquired new strength, she might now again prove victorious over Rome and all
its errors. This spring arrived. At the moment when the absurd trappings of the
schoolmen were falling off under the attack of skilful hands, and amid the jeers
of the new generation, truth made her escape, and came forth all young and
beautiful. But not merely did the writings of the schoolmen bear powerful
testimony in favour of truth. Christianity had everywhere imparted a portion of
her own life to the life of the people. The Church of Christ was like a building
which had fallen into ruin; in digging among its foundations, a portion of the
solid rock on which it had been originally founded was discovered. Several
institutions, which dated from the pure times of the Church, were still
existing, and could not fail to suggest to many minds evangelical ideas utterly
at variance with the prevailing superstitions. Moreover, the inspired writers
and ancient doctors of the Church, whose writings were extant in many libraries,
occasionally sent forth a solitary voice; and may we not hope that this voice
was listened to in silence by more than one attentive ear? Let us not doubt,
(and how sweet the thought!) Christians had many brothers and many sisters in
those monasteries, in which we are too ready to see nothing but hypocrisy and
dissoluteness. The Church had fallen in consequence of having lost the grand
doctrine of Justification by faith in the Saviour; and hence, before she could
rise, it was necessary that this doctrine should be restored. As soon as it was
re-established in Christendom, all the errors and observances which had been
introduced, all that multitude of saints, pious works, penances, masses,
indulgences, etc., behoved to disappear. As soon as the one Mediator and his one
sacrifice were recognised, all other mediators and other sacrifices were done
away. “This article of justification,” says one whom we may regard as divinely
illumined on the subject, “is that which creates the Church, nourishes, builds
up, preserves, and defends her. No man can teach well in the Church, or
successively resist an adversary, unless he hold fast by this truth. This,” adds
the writer from whom we quote, “is the heel which bruises the Serpent’s head.”

God, who was preparing his work, raised up during the revolution of ages a long
series of witnesses to the truth. But the truth to which those noble men bore
testimony, they knew not with sufficient clearness, or at least were unable to
expound with sufficient distinctness. Incapable of accomplishing the work, they
were just what they should have been in order to prepare it. We must add,
however, that if they were not ready for the work, the work was not ready for
them. The measure was not yet filled up. Ages had not accomplished their
destined course, and the need of a true remedy was not generally felt. No sooner
had Rome usurped power than a powerful opposition was formed against her,—an
opposition which extended across the middle ages. In the ninth century,
Archbishop Claude of Turin, and in the twelfth century, Peter of Bruges, his
disciple Henry, and Arnold of Brescia, in France and in Italy endeavour to
establish the worship of God in spirit and in truth. Generally, however, in
searching for this worship, they confine it too much to the exclusion of images
and external observances. The Mystics, who have existed in almost all ages,
seeking in silence for holiness of heart, purity of life, and tranquil communion
with God, cast looks of sadness and dismay on the desolation of the Church.
Carefully abstaining from the scholastic brawls and useless discussions under
which true piety had been buried, they endeavoured to withdraw men from the vain
mechanism of external worship, and from the mire and glare of ceremonies, that
they might lead them to the internal repose enjoyed by the soul which seeks all
its happiness in God. This they could not do without coming at every point into
collision with accredited opinions, and without unveiling the sores of the
Church. Still they had no clear view of the doctrine of justification by faith.
The Vaudois, far superior to the Mystics in purity of doctrine, form a long
chain of witnesses to the truth. Men enjoying more freedom than the rest of the
Church, appear to have inhabited the heights of the Alps in Piedmont from
ancient times; and their numbers were increased, and their doctrine purified, by
the followers of Valdo. From their mountain tops the Vaudois, during a long
series of ages, protest against the superstitions of Rome. “They contend for the
living hope which they have in God through Christ, for regeneration, and inward
renewal by faith, hope, and charity, for the merits of Jesus Christ, and the
all-sufficiency of his righteousness and grace.”2

Still, however, this primary truth of a sinner’s justification, this capital
doctrine, which ought to have risen from the midst of their doctrines, like Mont
Blanc from the bosom of the Alps, has not due prominence in their system. Its
top is not high enough. In 1170, Peter Vaud, or Valdo, a rich merchant of Lyons,
sells all his goods and gives to the poor. He, as well as his friends, seem to
have had it in view practically to realise the perfection of primitive
Christianity. He, accordingly, begins in like manner with the branches, and not
the root. Nevertheless, his word is powerful, because of his appeal to
Scripture, and shakes the Roman hierarchy to its very foundations. In 1360,
Wickliffe appears in England, and appeals from the pope to the word of God, but
the real internal sore of the Church is, in his eyes, only one of the numerous
symptoms of disease.

John Huss lifts his voice in Bohemia, a century before Luther lifts his in
Saxony. He seems to penetrate farther than his predecessors into the essence of
Christian truth. He asks Christ to give him grace to glory only in his cross,
and in the inestimable weight of his sufferings, but his attention is directed
less against the errors of the Roman Church, than the scandalous lives of its
clergy. He was, however, if we may so speak, the John Baptist of the
Reformation. The flames of his martyrdom kindled a fire in the Church, which
threw immense light on the surrounding darkness, and the rays of which were not
to be so easily extinguished.

John Huss did more; prophetic words came forth from the depth of his dungeon. He
had a presentiment, that the true Reformation of the Church was at hand. So
early as the period when chased from Prague, he had been forced to wander in the
plains of Bohemia, where his steps were followed by an immense crowd of eager
hearers, he had exclaimed, “The wicked have begun to lay perfidious nets for the
Bohemian goose; but if even the goose, which is only a domestic fowl, a peaceful
bird, and which never takes a lofty flight into the air, has, however, broken
their toils, other birds of loftier wing will break them with much greater
force. Instead of a feeble goose, the truth will send eagles and falcons, with
piercing eye.”

2 The Reformers fulfilled this prediction. And after the venerable priest had
been summoned before the Council of Constance, after he had been thrown into
prison, the chapel of Bethlehem, where he had proclaimed the Gospel and the
future triumphs of Jesus Christ, occupied him more than his defence. One night,
the holy martyr thought he saw, in the depth of his dungeon, the features of
Jesus Christ, which he had caused to be painted on the walls of his study,
effaced by the pope and the bishops. The dream distresses him, but next day he
sees several painters employed in restoring the pictures in greater number and
splendour. Their task finished, the painters, surrounded by a great multitude,
exclaim, “Now, let popes and bishops come, they never shall efface them more.”
John Huss adds, “Many people in Bethlehem rejoiced, and I among them.” “Think of
your defence, rather than of dreams,” said his faithful friend, Chevalier de
Chlum, to whom he had communicated the dream. “I am not a dreamer,” replied
Huss; “but this I hold for certain—the image of Christ will never be effaced.
They wished to destroy it, but it will be painted anew in men’s hearts by far
abler preachers than I. The nation which loves Jesus Christ will rejoice; and I,
awaking among the dead, and, so to speak, rising again from the tomb, will
thrill with joy.” A century elapsed, and the torch of the Gospel, rekindled by
the Reformers, did, in fact, illumine several nations which rejoiced in its
light. But in those ages, a word of life is heard not only among those whom Rome
regards as its adversaries; Catholicity itself—let us say it for our
comfort—contains in its bosom numerous witnesses to the truth. The primitive
edifice has been consumed; but a noble fire is slumbering under its ashes, and
we see it from time to time throwing out brilliant sparks.

It is an error to suppose that, up to the Reformation, Christianity existed only
under the Roman Catholic form, and that, at that period only, a part of that
church assumed the form of Protestantism.

Among the doctors who preceded the sixteenth century, a great number, doubtless,
inclined to the system which the Council of Trent proclaimed in 1562, but
several also inclined to the doctrines professed at Augsburgh in 1530 by the
Protestants; the majority, perhaps, vibrated between the two.

Anselm of Canterbury lays down the doctrines of the incarnation and expiation as
of the essence of Christianity. And in a treatise in which he teaches how to
die, he says to the dying person, “Look only to the merits of Jesus Christ.” St.
Bernard with powerful voice proclaims the mystery of redemption. “If my fault
comes from another,” says he, “why should not my righteousness also be derived?
Certainly, it is far better for me to have it given me, than to have it
innate.”3 Several schoolmen, and after them chancellor Gerson, forcibly attack
the errors and abuses of the Church.

But, above all, let us think of the thousands of obscure individuals unknown to
the world, who, however, possessed the true life of Christ. A monk named
Arnoldi, daily in his quiet cell utters this fervent exclamation, “O Jesus
Christ my Lord! I believe that thou alone art my redemption and my
righteousness.”

Christopher of Utenheim, a pious bishop of Bâsle, causes his name to be written
on a picture painted on glass, and surrounds it with this inscription, that he
may have it always under his eye, “The cross of Christ is my hope; I seek grace,
and not works.”

Friar Martin, a poor Carthusian, wrote a touching confession, in which he says,
“O most loving God! I know there is no other way in which I can be saved and
satisfy thy justice, than by the merit, the spotless passion, and death of thy
well-beloved Son. Kind Jesus! All my salvation is in thy hands. Thou canst not
turn the arms of thy love away from me, for they created, shaped, and ransomed
me. In great mercy, and in an ineffable manner, thou hast engraved my name with
an iron pen on thy side, thy hands, and thy feet,” etc. Then the good Carthusian
places his confession in a wooden box, and deposits the box in a hole which he
had made in the wall of his cell. The piety of Friar Martin would never have
been known had not the box been found, 21st December, 1776, in taking down an
old tenement which had formed part of the Carthusian Convent at Bâsle. But this
touching faith these holy men had only for themselves, and knew not how to
communicate to others. Living in retreat, they might more or less say, as in the
writing which Friar Martin put into his box, “Et si hæc prædicta confiteri non
possim lingua, confiteor tamen corde et scripto.” “And these things aforesaid,
if I cannot confess with the tongue, I, however, confess with the heart and in
writing.” The word of truth was in the sanctuary of some pious souls, but, to
use a Scripture expression, it had not “free course” in the world. Still, if the
doctrine of salvation was not always confessed aloud, there were some in the
very bosom of the Church of Rome who, at least, feared not to declare openly
against the abuses which dishonoured it.

Scarcely had the Councils of Constance and Bâsle, which condemned Huss and his
followers, been held, than the noble series of witnesses against Rome, to which
we have been pointing, again appears with greater lustre. Men of a noble spirit,
revolting at the abominations of the Papacy, rise up like the prophets under the
Old Testament, like them sending forth a voice of thunder, and with a similar
fate. Their blood reddens the scaffold, and their ashes are thrown to the wind.

Thomas Conecte, a Carmelite, appears in Flanders, and declares, “that
abominations are done at Rome, that the Church has need of reformation, and
that, in the service of God, one must not fear the excommunications of the
pope.” Flanders listens with enthusiasm, but Rome burns him in 1432, and his
contemporaries exclaim that God has exalted him to heaven.

André, Archbishop of Crayn, and a Cardinal, being at Rome as the ambassador of
the emperor, is amazed when he sees that the holiness of the pope, in which he
had devoutly believed, is only a fable; and in his simplicity he addresses
evangelical representations to Sextus IV. He is answered with mockery and
persecution. Then (1482) he wishes a new Council to be assembled at Bâsle. “The
whole Church,” exclaims he, “is shaken by divisions, heresies, sins, vices,
iniquities, errors, and innumerable evils, so much so, that it is on the eve of
being swallowed up by the devouring abyss of condemnation. This is my only
reason for proposing a General Conncil for the Reformation of the Catholic
faith, and the amendment of manners.” The Archbishop of Bâsle was thrown into
the prison of that town, and there died. Henry Institoris, the inquisitor, who
first moved against him, used these remarkable words, “The whole world is crying
out and demanding a council; but no human power can reform the Church by means
of a Council. The Almighty will find another method, which is now unknown to us,
though it is at the door; and, by this method the Church will be brought back to
its primitive condition.”

4 This remarkable prophecy, pronounced by an inquisitor, at the very period of
Luther’s birth, is the finest apology for the Reformation. The Dominican, Jerome
Savonarola, shortly after he had entered the order at Bologna in 1475, devotes
himself to constant prayer, fasting, and macerations, and exclaims, “O thou who
art good, in thy goodness teach me thy righteousness.” Translated to Florence in
1489, he preaches with effect; his voice is thrilling, his features animated,
his action beautifully attractive. “The Church,” exclaims he, “must be renewed.”
And he professes the grand principle which alone can restore life to it. “God,”
says he, “forgives man his sin, and justifies him in the way of mercy. For every
justified person existing on the earth, there has been an act of compassion in
heaven; for no man is saved by his works. None can glory in themselves; and if
in the presence of God, the question were put to all the righteous, ‘Have you
been saved by your own strength?’ they would all with one voice exclaim, ‘Not
unto us, O Lord, but unto thy name be the glory.’ Wherefore, O God, I seek thy
mercy, and I bring thee not my own righteousness: the moment thou justifiest me
by grace, thy righteousness belongs to me; for grace is the righteousness of
God. So long, O man, as thou believest not, thou art, because of sin, deprived
of grace. O God, save me by thy righteousness, that is, by thy Son, who alone
was found righteous among men.” Thus the great and holy doctrine of
justification by faith gladdens the heart of Savonarola. In vain do the prelates
of the Church oppose him;2 he knew that the oracles of God are superior to the
visible church, and that he must preach them with her, without her, or in spite
of her.—“Fly far from Babylon,” exclaims he. It is Rome he thus designates. Rome
soon answers him in her own way. In 1497 the infamous Alexander launches a brief
at him, and in 1498 torture and faggot do their work on the Reformer. A
Franciscan, named John Vitraire, of Tournay, whose monastic spirit seems not of
a very elevated description, nevertheless, declaims forcibly against the
corruption of the Church. “It were better for a man,” says he, “to cut his
child’s throat than put it into a religion not reformed. If your curate, or any
other priest, keep women in his house, you ought to go and drag the women by
force, or in any other way, pell-mell, out of the house. There are some persons
who say prayers to the Virgin Mary, in order that, at the hour of death, they
may see the Virgin Mary. Thou shalt see the devil, and not the Virgin Mary.” The
monk was ordered to retract, and he did so in 1498.

John Laillier, a Doctor of Sorbonne, declares, in 1484, against the tyrannical
domination of the hierarchy. “All ecclesiastics,” says he, “have received equal
power from Christ. The Roman Church is not the head of other churches. You ought
to keep the commandments of God and the Apostles; and, in regard to the command
of all the bishops and other lords of the Church, care no more for it than you
would for a straw; they have destroyed the Church by their tricks. The priests
of the Eastern Church sin not in marrying; and, believe me, neither shall we in
the Western Church if we marry. Since St. Sylvester the Church of Rome has been,
not a church of Christ, but a church of State and money. We are no more bound to
believe the legends of the saints than the Chronicles of France.”

John of Wessalia, a doctor of theology at Erfurt, a man of great spirit and
intellect, attacks the errors on which the hierarchy rests, and proclaims the
holy Scriptures to be the only source of faith. “It is not religion” (that is,
the monastic state) “that saves us,” says he to some monks, “but the grace of
God. God has from all eternity kept a book in which he has entered all his
elect. Whosoever is not entered there will not, through eternity; and whosoever
is, will never see his name erased. It is solely by the grace of God that the
elect are saved. He whom God is pleased to save, by giving him grace, will be
saved, though all the priests in the world were to condemn and excommunicate
him. And he whom God sees meet to condemn, though these should all wish to save
him, will be made to feel his condemnation. How audacious in the successors of
the apostles to order, not what Christ has prescribed in his holy books, but
what they themselves devised, when carried away, as they now are, by a thirst
for money, or a rage for power. I despise the pope, the Church, and the
Councils, and I extol Jesus Christ.” Wessalia, who had gradually arrived at
those convictions, boldly announces them from the pulpit, and enters into
communication with deputies from the Hussites. Feeble, bent with age, and wasted
by disease, the courageous old man, with tottering step, appears before the
Inquisition, and, in 1482, dies in its dungeons.

About the same time, John de Goch, prior at Malines, extolled Christian liberty
as the soul of all the virtues. He charged the received doctrine with
Pelagianism, and surnamed Thomas Aquinas the “Prince of Error.” “Canonical
Scripture alone,” said he, “deserves full faith, and has an irrefragable
authority. The writings of the ancient fathers are of authority only in so far
as they are conformable to canonical truth.—There is truth in the common byword,
‘What a monk dares undertake, Satan would blush to think.’ ” But the most
remarkable of the forerunners of the Reformation was undoubtedly John Wessel,
surnamed “The Light of the World,” a man full of courage and love for the truth,
who taught theology successively at Cologne, Louvain, Paris, Heidelberg, and
Gröningen. Luther said of him, “Had I read his works sooner, it might have been
said, Luther has drawn everything from Wessel; so much do his spirit and mine
accord.” “St. Paul and St. James,” says Wessel, “say different but not contrary
things. Both hold that the just live by faith, but a faith which works by love.
He who understanding the gospel believes, desires, hopes, confides in the good
news, and loves Him who justifies and blesses him, gives himself entirely to Him
whom he loves, and attributes nothing to himself, knowing that in himself he has
nothing.2 The sheep should distinguish between the things on which they feed,
and avoid a hurtful food, though it should be offered by the shepherd. The
people ought to follow their shepherds to the pastures, but when they lead them
to what is not pasture, they are no more shepherds; and because they are not in
their duty, the flock is no longer bound to obey them. Nothing is more effectual
in destroying the Church than a corrupt clergy. All Christians, even the meanest
and simplest, are bound to resist those who destroy the Church. The commands of
prelates and doctors ought to be performed only in the manner prescribed by St.
Paul, (1 Thessalonians 5:21) namely, in so far as, sitting in the chair of
Moses, they speak according to Moses. We are the servants of God, and not of the
pope, according as it is said, ‘Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him
only shalt thou serve.’ The Holy Spirit has reserved to himself to foster,
quicken, preserve, and enlarge the unity of the Church, and not abandoned it to
the Roman Pontiff, who often gives himself no concern about the matter. Even sex
does not hinder a woman, if she is faithful and prudent, and has love shed
abroad in her heart, from feeling, judging, approving, and concluding, by a
judgment which God ratifies.”

Thus, as the Reformation approaches, the voices which proclaim the truth are
multiplied. One would say the Church is bent on demonstrating that the
Reformation had an existence before Luther. Protestantism was born into the
Church, the very day that the germ of the Papacy appeared in it, just as in the
political world conservative principles began to exist the very moment that the
despotism of the great or the disorders of the factious showed open front.
Protestantism was even sometimes stronger than the Papacy in the ages preceding
the Reformation. What had Rome to oppose to all these witnesses for the truth at
the moment when their voice was heard through all the earth? But this was not
all. The Reformation existed not in the teachers only; it existed also among the
people. The doctrines of Wickliffe, proceeding from Oxford, had spread over
Christendom, and had preserved adherents in Bavaria, Swabia, Franconia, and
Prussia. In Bohemia, from the bosom of discord and war, ultimately came forth a
peaceful Christian community, which resembled the primitive Church, and bore
lively testimony to the great principle of Evangelical opposition, viz., “That
Christ himself, not Peter and his successor, is the rock on which the Church is
built.” Belonging equally to the German and Slavonian racès, these simple
Christians had missionaries among the different nations who spoke their tongues,
that they might without noise gain adherents to their opinions. At Rostoch,
which had been twice visited by them, Nicolas Kuss began in 1511 to preach
publicly against the pope.

It is important to attend to this state of things. When wisdom from above will
with loud voice deliver her instructions, there will everywhere be intellects
and hearts to receive it. When the sower, who has never ceased to walk over the
Church, will come forth for a new and extensive sowing, the earth will be ready
to receive the grain. When the trumpet, which the Angel of the covenant has
never ceased to blow, will cause it to sound louder and louder, many will make
ready for battle. The Church already feels that the hour of battle is
approaching. If, during the last century, more than one philosopher gave
intimation of the revolution with which it was to close, can we be astonished,
that, at the end of the fifteenth century, several doctors foresaw the impending
Reformation which was to renovate the Church?

André Prolés, provincial of the Augustins, who, for more than half a century,
presided over this body, and with unshaken courage maintained the doctrines of
Augustine within his order, when assembled with his friars in the Convent of
Himmelspforte, near Wernigerode, often stopped during the reading of the word of
God, and addressing the listening monks, said to them “Brethren, you hear the
testimony of holy Scripture. It declares, that by grace we are what we are—that
by it alone we have all that we have. Whence, then, so much darkness, and so
many horrible superstitions?… Oh! brethren, Christianity has need of a great and
bold reformation, and I already see its approach.” Then the monks exclaimed,
“Why don’t you yourself begin this reformation, and oppose all their errors?”
“You see, my brethren,” replied the old provincial, “that I am weighed down with
years, and feeble in body, and possess not the knowledge, talent, and eloquence,
which so important a matter requires. But God will raise up a hero, who, by his
age, his strength, his talents, his knowledge, his genius, and eloquence, will
occupy the first rank. He will begin the reformation, he will oppose error, and
God will give him such courage that he will dare to resist the great.” An old
monk of Himmelspforte, who had often heard these words, related them to Flacius.
In the very order of which Prolés was provincial, the Christian hero thus
announced by him was to appear. In the Franciscan Convent at Isenach, in
Thuringia, was a monk named John Hilten. He was a careful student of the Prophet
Daniel, and the Apocalypse of St. John; he even wrote a Commentary on these
Books, and censured the most crying abuses of monastic life. The enraged monks
threw him into prison. His advanced age, and the filthiness of his dungeon,
bringing on a dangerous illness, he asked for the friar superintendant, who had
no sooner arrived, than, without listening to the prisoner, he began to give
vent to his rage, and to rebuke him harshly for his doctrine, which (adds the
chronicle) was at variance with the monk’s kitchen. The Franciscan, forgetting
his illness, and fetching a deep sigh, exclaims, “I calmly submit to your
injustice for the love of Christ; for I have done nothing to shake the monastic
state, and have only censured its most notorious abuses. But,” continued he,
(this is the account given by Melancthon in his Apology for the Confession of
Augsburg,) “another will come in the year of the Lord one thousand five hundred
and sixteen; he will destroy you, and you will not be able to resist him.” John
Hilten, who had announced the end of the world in the year 1651, was not so much
mistaken in the year in which the future Reformer was to appear. He was born not
long after at a short distance from Hilten’s dungeon, commenced his studies in
the same town where the monk was prisoner, and publicly engaged in the
Reformation only a year later than the Franciscan had mentioned.


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  CHAPTER 9: CHAPTER VII
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Letters—Revival—Remembrance of Antiquity in Italy—Influence of the
Humanists—Christianity of Dante—Valla—Infidelity in Italy—Platonic
Philosophy—Rise of Literature in Germany—Youth in Schools—Printing—Character of
German Literature—Literati and Schoolmen—A New World—Reuchlin—Reuchlin in
Italy—His Works—His Influence in Germany—Mystics—Struggle with the Dominicans.

Thus princes and people, the living members of the Church, and the theologians,
laboured, each in their sphere, to prepare the work which the sixteenth century
was about to carry into effect. But there was another auxiliary which was to
lend its aid to the Reformation,—I mean Literature. The human mind was
expanding—a circumstance which must of itself have led to its emancipation. If a
small seed fall close to an old wall, as it grows into a tree it will push down
the wall. The Pontiff of Rome had become tutor to the nations, and his superior
intelligence had made the task easy to him. He had long kept them in a state of
minority, but resistance now broke forth on all sides. This venerable tutelage,
which had been primarily established by the principles of eternal life, and of
civilisation which Rome had imparted to barbarous nations, could no longer be
exercised without opposition. A formidable adversary had met her in the face,
and was prepared to control her. The natural tendency of the human mind to
expand, to investigate, and acquire knowledge, had given birth to this new
power. Man opened his eyes, and at every step questioned the proceedings of that
long respected guide under whose direction, while blindfolded, he had moved on
without saying a word. In regard to the nations of new Europe, the age of
infancy had passed away, and that of manhood had begun. To the childlike
simplicity, which believed everything, had succeeded a spirit of curiosity, an
intellect not to be satisfied without sifting everything to the utmost. It was
asked for what end God had spoken to the world, and whether men had a right to
station themselves as mediators between God and their brethren.

There was only one thing which could have saved the Church, and this was to
raise herself still higher above the people. To keep on a level with them was
not enough. But so far from this, she was even found to be far beneath them,
having begun to descend at the same time that they began to rise. At the period
when mankind began to ascend to the regions of intellect, the priesthood was
grovelling below among earthly pursuits and worldly interests. This phenomenon
has repeatedly appeared in history. The wings of the eaglet were full fledged,
and what hand was high enough to prevent it from taking its flight? The human
mind made its first start in Italy.

Scholasticism and romantic poetry had at no time reigned unopposed. Italy never
entirely lost the remembrance of antiquity; and this remembrance having been
strongly awakened towards the end of the middle ages, soon gave the mind a new
impulse.

Even in the fourteenth century, Dante and Petrarch restored the honour of the
ancient Roman poets, at the same time that the former gave the most powerful
popes a place in his hell, and the latter boldly protested for the primitive
constitution of the Church. At the beginning of the fifteenth century, John of
Ravenna taught Latin literature with applause at Padua and Florence, while
Chrysoloras, at Florence and Pavia, interpreted the beautiful writers of Greece.

While in Europe light was thus coming forth from the prisons in which it had
been confined, the East was sending new beams to the West. The standard of the
Osmanlis, planted in 1453 on the walls of Constantinople, had put the learned to
flight. They had, in consequence, transported the literature of Greece into
Italy, where the torch of the ancients rekindled minds which had lain smothered
for so many ages. George of Trebisond, Argyropolos, Bessarion, Lascaris,
Chalcondylas, and many others, inspired the West with their love of Greece and
its noblest productions. The patriotic feelings of the Italians were thus
stimulated, and a great number of learned men appeared in Italy. Of these, the
most illustrious were Gasparino, Aretin, Poggio, and Valla, who strove to
restore the honour of Roman antiquity, and place it on a footing with that of
Greece. In this way, a great flood of light had appeared, and Rome could not but
suffer by it. The passion for antiquity, which took possession of the Humanists,
had a great effect in weakening the attachment to the Church in minds of the
highest order; for “no man can serve two masters.” At the same time, the studies
in which the learned were engaged put them in possession of a new class of
instruments, which were unknown to the schoolmen, and by means of which they
could test and decide upon the lessons of the Church. Finding that beauties
which charmed them in classical authors existed in profusion in the Bible, and
not in the works of theologians, the Humanists were quite prepared to give the
Bible precedence before the Doctors. By reforming taste, they prepared a
reformation in faith. The Literati, it is true, loudly protested that their
pursuits were not at variance with the belief of the Church; but yet they had
assailed the schoolmen long before the Reformers began to do it, and played off
their wit on these barbarians—those “Teutons who living, lived not.” Some even
proclaimed doctrines of the gospel, and assailed Rome in the objects of her
dearest affection. Already Dante, while adhering to many Roman dogmas, had
proclaimed the power of faith in terms similar to those which the first
Reformers employed. “It is true faith,” he said, “that makes us citizens of
heaven.2 Faith, according to the gospel doctrine, is the principle of life; it
is the feeble spark which, spreading always wider and wider, at length becomes a
living flame, and shines within us like a star in heaven. Without faith, no good
works, no honesty of life, can give us aid. How great soever our sins may be,
the arms of divine grace are greater still, and wide enough to embrace whatever
turns towards God. The soul is not lost by the anathema of the pontiffs; and
eternal love can always reach it, so long as there remains one bloom of hope.4
From God, from God alone, through faith our justice comes.” And speaking of the
Church, Dante exclaims, “O my bark! how ill loaded thou art! O Constantine! what
mighty evil was engendered, I will not say by thy conversion, but by that
offering which the rich father then received from thee!” At a later period,
Laurentius Valla, applying the study of antiquity to the opinions of the Church,
denies the authenticity of the correspondence between Christ and King Abgarus,
rejects the tradition as to the origin of the Apostles’ Creed, and saps the
foundation of the pretended inheritance which the popes held of Constantine.

Still, however, the great light which the study of antiquity threw out in the
fifteenth century, was fitted only to destroy, and not to build up. The honour
of saving the Church could not be given either to Homer or Virgil. The revival
of letters, sciences, and arts did not found the Reformation. The Paganism of
the poets, on reappearing in Italy, rather strengthened the Paganism of the
heart. The scepticism of the school of Aristotle, and a contempt of everything
not connected with philology, took possession of many of the Literati, and
engendered an infidelity which, while it affected submission to the Church, in
reality attacked the most important truths of religion. Peter Pomponatius, the
most famous representative of this impious tendency, taught at Bologna and
Padua, that the immortality of the soul and providence are only philosophical
problems. John Francis Pica, nephew of Pica de la Mirandôla, tells of a pope who
did not believe a God,2 and of another who, having confessed to one of his
friends, that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul, appeared one
night after his death to the same friend, and said to him, “Ah! the eternal fire
that consumes me, makes me but too sensible of the immortality of that soul,
which, according to the view I held, was to die with the body.” This reminds us
of the celebrated words which Leo X is alleged to have said to his Secretary
Bembo, “All ages know well enough of what advantage this fable about Christ has
been to us and ours.” … Frivolous superstitions were attacked, but their place
was supplied by infidelity, with its disdainful sneering laugh. To laugh at
things, however sacred, was fashionable, and a proof of wit; and if any value
was set on religion, it was merely as a mean of governing the people. “I have a
fear,” exclaimed Erasmus in 1516, “and it is, that, with the study of ancient
literature, ancient Paganism will reappear.

It is true that then, as after the sarcasms of the age of Augustus, and as in
our own times, after those of the last century, a new Platonic philosophy sprung
up and attacked that irrational incredulity, seeking, like the philosophy of the
present day, to inspire some respect for Christianity, and restore the religious
sentiment to the heart. The Medici at Florence favoured these efforts of the
Platonics. But no philosophical religion will regenerate the Church and the
world. Proud, disdaining the preaching of the cross, and pretending to see
nothing in Christian doctrines but figures and symbols, which the majority of
men cannot comprehend, it may bewilder itself in a mystical enthusiasm, but will
always prove powerless, either to reform or to save.

What then must have happened, had not true Christianity re-appeared in the
world, and had not faith filled the hearts of men anew with its power and its
holiness? The Reformation saved religion, and with it society, and, therefore,
if the Church of Rome had had the glory of God and the good of the people at
heart, it would have welcomed the Reformation with delight. But what were such
things as these to Leo X?

However, a torch could not be lighted in Italy without sending its beams beyond
the Alps. The affairs of the Church established a constant intercourse between
the Italian Peninsula and the other parts of Christendom, and the barbarians
being thus soon made to feel the superiority and pride of the Italians, began to
blush for the imperfection of their language and their style. Some young
noblemen, a Dalberg, a Langen, a Spiegelberg, inflamed with an eager desire of
knowledge, passed over into Italy, and on their return to Germany, brought back
learning, grammar, and the classics, now so eagerly sought after, and
communicated them to their friends. Shortly after, Rodolph Agricola, a man of
distinguished genius, appeared, and was held in as high veneration for his
learning and genius, as if he had lived in the age of Augustus or Pericles. The
ardour of his mind, and the fatigues of the school, wore him out in a few years;
but not till noble disciples had been trained, through intimate intercourse with
him, to carry their master’s fire all over Germany. Often, when assembled around
him, they had together deplored the darkness of the Church, and asked why Paul
so often repeats that men are justified by faith and not by works.2

Around the feet of these new teachers soon gathered rustic youths, who lived by
alms and studied without books, and who, divided into sections of priests of
Bacchus, arquebusiers, and many more besides, moved in disorderly bands from
town to town, and school to school. No matter; these strange bands were the
commencement of a literary public. The masterpieces of antiquity began gradually
to issue from the presses of Germany, supplanting the schoolmen; and the art of
printing, discovered at Mayence in 1440, multiplied the energetic voices which
remonstrated against the corruption of the Church, and those voices, not less
energetic, which invited the human mind into new paths. The study of ancient
literature had, in Germany, very different effects from those which it had in
Italy and France. Her study was combined with faith. In the new literary
culture, Germany turned her attention to the advantage which religion might
derive from it. What had produced in some a kind of intellectual refinement, of
a captious and sterile nature, penetrated the whole life of others, warmed their
hearts, and prepared them for a better light. The first restorers of letters in
France were characterised by levity, and often even by immorality of conduct. In
Germany, their successors, animated by a spirit of gravity, zealously devoted
themselves to the investigation of truth. Italy offering her incense to profane
literature and science, saw an infidel opposition arise. Germany, occupied with
a profound theology, and turned inwardly upon herself, saw the rise of an
opposition based on faith. The one sapped the foundations of the Church, and the
other repaired them. Within the empire was formed a remarkable union of free,
learned, and noble-minded men, among whom princes were conspicuous, who
endeavoured to render science useful to religion. Some brought to their studies
the humble faith of children, while others brought an enlightened and
penetrating intellect, disposed, perhaps, to exceed the bounds of legitimate
freedom and criticism; both, however, contributed to clear the pavement of the
temple from the obstructions produced by so many superstitions. The monkish
theologians perceived their danger, and began to clamour against the very
studies which they had tolerated in Italy and France, because in those countries
they had gone hand in hand with levity and dissoluteness. They entered into a
conspiracy to oppose the study of language and science, because they had caught
a glimpse of faith following in their rear. A monk was putting some one on his
guard against the heresies of Erasmus. “In what,” it was asked, “do they
consist?” He confessed that he had not read the work of which he was speaking,
but one thing he knew, viz., that Erasmus had written in too good Latin. The
disciples of literature, and the scholastic theologians, soon came to an open
rupture. The latter were in dismay when they saw the movement which was taking
place in the domain of intellect, and thought that immobility and darkness were
the best safeguards of the Church. Their object in contending against the
revival of letters was to save Rome, but they helped to ruin it. Here Rome had
much at stake. Forgetting herself for an instant under the pontificate of Leo X,
she abandoned her old friends, and clasped her young adversaries in her arms.
The papacy and letters formed an intimacy which seemed destined to break up the
ancient alliance between monasticism and the hierarchy. At the first glance the
popes perceived not that what they had taken for a whip was a sword capable of
inflicting a mortal wound. In the same way, during the last century, princes
were seen receiving at their court political and philosophic systems, which, if
carried into full effect, would have overturned their thrones. The alliance was
not of long duration. Literature advanced without troubling itself about the
injury which it might do to the power of its patron. The monks and schoolmen
were aware that to abandon the pope was just to abandon themselves; and the
pope, notwithstanding of the passing patronage which he gave to the fine arts,
was not the less active when he saw the danger, in adopting measures, how much
opposed soever they might be to the spirit of the time. The universities
defended themselves as they best could against the invasion of new light.
Cologne expelled Rhagius; Leipsic, Celtes; Rostoch, Herman von dem Busch. Still
the new doctors, and with them the ancient classics, gradually and often even by
the aid of princes, made good their footing in these public schools. Societies
of grammarians and poets were soon established in spite of the schoolmen, and
every thing, even to the name of the Literati, behoved to be converted into
Latin and Greek; for how could the friends of Sophocles and Virgil have such
names as Krachenberger or Schwarzerd? At the same time, a spirit of independence
breathed in all the universities. Students were no longer seen in schoolboy
fashion, with their books under their arms, walking sagely and demurely with
downcast eye behind their masters. The petulance of a Martial and an Ovid had
passed into the new disciples of the Muses. It was transport to them to hear the
sarcasms which fell in torrents on the dialectical theologians, and the heads of
the literary movement were sometimes accused of favouring, and even of exciting,
the disorderly proceedings of the students.

Thus a new world, emerging out of antiquity, was formed in the very heart of the
world of the middle ages. The two parties could not avoid coming to blows, and
the struggle was at hand. It began with the greatest champion of literature,
with an old man on the eve of finishing his peaceful career. To secure the
triumph of truth, the first thing necessary was to bring forth the weapons by
which she was to conquer, from the arsenals where they had lain buried for ages.
These weapons were the holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments. It was
necessary to revive in Christendom a love and study of sacred literature, both
Greek and Hebrew. John Reuchlin was the individual whom divine Providence
selected for this purpose. A very fine boy’s voice was remarked in the choir of
the church of Pforzheim, and attracted the attention of the Margrave of Baden.
It was that of John Reuchlin, a young boy of agreeable manners and a lively
disposition, son of an honest burgher of the place. The Margrave soon took him
entirely under his protection, and in 1473 made choice of him to accompany his
son Frederick to the University of Paris. The son of the bailiff of Pforzheim
arrived with the prince, his heart exuberant with joy at being admitted to this
school, the most celebrated of all the West. Here he found the Spartan
Hermonymos and John Wessel, surnamed “The Light of the World,” and had an
opportunity of engaging under skilful masters in the study of Greek and Hebrew,
which had not then a single professor in Germany, and of which he was one day to
be the restorer in the country of the Reformation. The poor young German made
copies of the poems of Homer, and the speeches of Isocrates, for wealthy
students, and in this way gained the means of continuing his studies and buying
books. But what he hears from the mouth of Wessel is of a different nature, and
makes a deep impression on his mind. “The popes may be mistaken. All human
satisfactions are blasphemy against Christ, who has perfectly reconciled and
justified the human race. To God alone belongs the power of giving full
absolution. There is no necessity for confessing our sins to a priest. There is
no purgatory, at least if it be not God himself, who is a devouring fire, and
purges away every defilement.” Reuchlin, when scarcely twenty, teaches
Philosophy, Greek, and Latin, at Bâsle, and a German (a thing then regarded as a
wonder) is heard speaking Greek. The partizans of Rome begin to feel uneasy on
seeing noble spirits at work among these ancient treasures. “The Romans,” says
Reuchlin, “are making mouths and raising an outcry, pretending that all these
literary labours are hostile to Roman piety, inasmuch as the Greeks are
schismatics. Oh! what toils and sufferings must be endured to bring Germany back
to wisdom and knowledge!”

Shortly afterward, Eberhard of Wurtemberg invited Reuchlin to Tubingen, that he
might be the ornament of this rising university, and in 1483 took him with him
into Italy. At Florence his companions and friends were Chalcondylas, Aurispa,
and John Pica de Mirandola. At Rome, when Eberhard received a solemn audience of
the pope, surrounded by his cardinals, Reuchlin delivered an address in such
pure and elegant Latin, that the assembly, who expected nothing of the kind from
a barbarous German, were filled with the greatest astonishment, while the pope
exclaimed, “Assuredly this man deserves to take his place beside the best
orators of France and Italy.”

Ten years later Reuchlin was obliged to take refuge in Heidelberg, at the court
of the Elector Philip, to escape the vengeance of Eberhard’s successor. Philip,
in concert with John of Dalberg, Bishop of Worms, his friend and chancellor,
exerted himself to spread the light which was beginning to peep forth from all
parts of Germany. Dalberg had founded a library, to which all the learned had
free access, and Reuchlin, in this new sphere, made great efforts to remove the
barbarism of his countrymen.

Having been sent to Rome by the elector in 1498, on an important mission, he
availed himself of all the time and all the money he could spare to make new
progress in Hebrew, under the learned Israelite, Abdias Sphorne, and purchased
all the Greek and Hebrew manuscripts which he could find, with the view of
employing them as so many torches to increase the light which was beginning to
dawn in his native country.

Argyropolos, a distinguished Greek, was at this time in the metropolis
explaining the ancient marvels of the literature of his country to a numerous
audience. The learned ambassador repairs with his suite to the hall where the
teacher was lecturing, and, after bowing to him, deplores the misery of Greece,
expiring under the blows of the Ottomans. The astonished Hellenist asks the
German, “Who are you? Do you understand Greek?” Reuchlin replies, “I am a
German, and know something of your tongue.” At the request of Argyropolos he
reads and explains a passage of Thucydides, which the professor had at the
moment before him. Then Argyropolos, filled with astonishment and grief,
exclaims, “Alas! Alas! Greece, oppressed and obliged to flee, has gone and hid
herself beyond the Alps!”

Thus the sons of rude Germany, and those of ancient learned Greece, met in the
palaces of Rome, and the East and West shook hands in this rendezvous of the
world—the one pouring into the lap of the other those intellectual treasures
which had with difficulty been saved from the barbarism of the Ottomans. God,
when his designs require it, employs some great catastrophe to break down the
barrier, and instantly bring together those who seemed to be for ever parted.

Reuchlin, on his return to Germany, was able to go back to Wurtemberg, and
proceeded, at this time especially, to execute those works which proved so
useful to Luther and the Reformation. This individual, who, as Count Palatine,
held an eminent station in the empire, and who as a philosopher, contributed to
humble Aristotle and exalt Plato—made a Latin Dictionary, which supplanted those
of the Schoolmen—composed a Greek Grammar, which greatly facilitated the study
of that language—translated and expounded the penitential Psalms—corrected the
Vulgate, and was the first in Germany (this constitutes his highest merit and
glory) who published a Hebrew Grammar and Dictionary. By this work Reuchlin
opened the long sealed books of the Old Testament, and reared “a monument,” as
he himself expresses it, “more durable than brass.”

It was not merely by his writings, but also by his life, that Reuchlin sought to
advance the reign of truth. Tall in stature, of commanding appearance, and
affable address, he instantly gained the confidence of all with whom he had any
intercourse. His thirst for knowledge was equalled only by his zeal in
communicating it. He spared neither money nor labour to introduce the editions
of the classics into Germany as they issued from the presses of Italy; and in
this way the son of a bailiff did more to enlighten his countrymen than rich
municipalities or powerful princes. His influence over youth was great; and, in
this respect, who can calculate how much the Reformation owes to him? We will
give only one example. His cousin, a young man named Schwarzerd, son of an
artisan, who had acquired celebrity as an armourer, came to lodge with his
sister, Elizabeth, in order to study under his direction. Reuchlin, delighted at
the genius and application of his young pupil, adopted him. Advice, presents of
books, examples, nothing, in short, he spared to make his relative useful to the
Church and to his country. He rejoiced to see his work prospering under his eye;
and, thinking the name Schwarzerd too barbarous, translated it into Greek, and
named the young student Melancthon. It was Luther’s illustrious friend. But
grammatical studies did not satisfy Reuchlin. Like his masters, the Jewish
doctors, he began to study the hidden meaning of the Word; “God,” said he, “is a
Spirit, the Word is a breath,—man breathes, God is the Word. The names which he
has given himself are an echo of eternity.” Like the Cabalists, he hoped to
“pass from symbol to symbol, from form to form, till he arrived at the last and
purest of all forms—that which regulates the power of the Spirit.”2

While Reuchlin was bewildering himself in these quiet and abstruse researches,
the enmity of the Schoolmen forced him suddenly, and much against his will, into
a fierce war, which was one of the preludes of the Reformation.

There was at Cologne a baptized Rabbin, named Pfefferkorn, who was intimately
connected with the inquisitor Hochstraten. This man and the Dominicans solicited
and procured from the emperor, Maximilian, (it may have been with good
intentions,) an order, in virtue of which the Jews were to bring all their
Hebrew books (the Bible excepted) to the town-house of the place where they
resided. There the books were to be burned. The motive alleged was, that they
were full of blasphemies against Jesus Christ. It must be confessed that they
were, at least, full of absurdities, and that the Jews themselves would not have
lost much by the intended execution. The emperor desired Reuchlin to give his
opinion of the books. The learned doctor expressly singled out all the books
which were written against Christianity, leaving them to their destined fate,
but he tried to save the others. “The best method of converting the Israelites,”
added he, “would be to establish two Hebrew professors in each University, who
might teach theologians to read the Bible in Hebrew, and thus refute the Jewish
doctors.” The Jews, in consequence of this advice, obtained restitution of their
books. The proselytes and the inquisitors, like hungry ravens which see their
prey escape, sent forth cries of fury. Picking out different passages from the
writings of Reuchlin, and perverting their meaning, they denounced the author as
a heretic, accused him of a secret inclination to Judaism, and threatened him
with the fetters of the Inquisition. Reuchlin was at first taken by surprise;
but these men always becoming more and more arrogant, and prescribing
dishonourable terms, he, in 1513, published a “Defence against his Detractors of
Cologne,” in which he painted the whole party in vivid colours. The Dominicans
vowed vengeance, and hoped, by an act of authority, to re-establish their
tottering power. Hochstraten, at Mayence, drew up a charge against Reuchlin, and
the learned works of this learned man were condemned to the flames. The
Innovators, the masters and disciples of the new school, feeling that they were
all attacked in the person of Reuchlin, rose as one man. Times were
changed,—Germany and literature were very different from Spain and the
Inquisition. The great literary movement had created a public opinion. Even the
dignified clergy were somewhat influenced by it. Reuchlin appeals to Leo X, and
that pope, who had no great liking for ignorant monks and fanatics, remits the
whole affair to the Bishop of Spires, who declares Reuchlin innocent, and
condemns the monks in the expences of process. The Dominicans, those props of
the papacy, filled with rage, recur to the infallible decision of Rome, and Leo,
not knowing how to act between the two hostile powers, issues a mandate
superseding the process. The union of letters with faith forms one of the
characteristic features of the Reformation, and distinguishes it, both from the
introduction of Christianity, and the religious revival of the present day. The
Christians, who were contemporary with the Apostles, had the refinement of their
age against them, and, with some few exceptions, it is the same now; but the
majority of literary men were with the Reformers. Even public opinion was
favourable to them. The work thereby gained in extent, but perhaps it lost in
depth.

Luther, sensible of all that Reuchlin had done, wrote to him shortly after his
victory over the Dominicans, “The Lord has acted through you, in order that the
light of Holy Scripture may again begin to shine in this Germany, where, for
many ages, alas! it was not only smothered, but almost extinguished.”


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  CHAPTER 10: CHAPTER VIII
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Erasmus—Erasmus a Canon—At Paris—His Genius—His Reputation—His Influence—Popular
Attack—Praise of Folly—Tatters—Church People—Saints—Folly and the Popes—Attack
on Science—Principle—The Greek New Testament—His Profession of Faith—His
Writings and Influence—His Failings—A Reform without Shocks—Was it possible—The
Church without Reform—His timidity—His Indecision—Erasmus loses himself with all
Parties. But a man had now appeared, who regarded it as the great business of
his life to attack the scholasticism of the universities and convents, and was
the great writer of the opposition at the commencement of the sixteenth century.

Reuchlin was not twelve years old when this first genius of the age was born. A
man of great vivacity and talent, by name Gerard, a native of Gouda, in the
Netherlands, loved a physician’s daughter, named Marguerite. The principles of
Christianity did not regulate his life, or at least passion silenced them. His
parents, and nine brothers, would have constrained him to embrace the monastic
state. He fled, leaving the object of his affection about to become a mother,
and repaired to Rome. Frail Marguerite gave birth to a son. Gerard heard nothing
of it, and some time after having received intimation from his parents, that the
object of his affection was no more, he, in a paroxysm of grief, turned priest,
and consecrated himself for ever to the service of God. On his return to
Holland, she was still alive! Marguerite would not many another, and Gerard,
remaining faithful to his sacerdotal vows, their affection became concentrated
on their little son. His mother had tended him with the greatest care, and his
father, after his return, sent him to school, though he was only four years of
age. He was not thirteen, when his teacher, Sinthemius, of Deventer, clasping
him rapturously in his arms, exclaimed, “This child will reach the highest
pinnacles of science.” It was Erasmus of Rotterdam.

About this time his mother died, and his father, broken-hearted, was not long in
following her to the grave.

Young Erasmus, left alone in the world, showed the greatest aversion to become a
monk, a state of life which his guardians were for compelling him to adopt, but
to which, from the circumstances of his birth, he may be said to have been
always opposed. Ultimately he was prevailed upon to enter a convent of canons
regular, but he had no sooner done it than he felt, as it were, borne down by
the weight of his vows. Recovering a little liberty, he is soon seen, first at
the Court of the Archbishop of Cambray, and afterwards at the University of
Paris, where he prosecuted his studies in extreme poverty, but with the most
indefatigable diligence. As soon as he could procure any money, he employed the
first part of it in the purchase of Greek books, and the remainder in the
purchase of clothes. Often did the poor Dutchman make fruitless application to
his guardians, and to this probably it was owing, that, in after life, one of
his greatest pleasures was to give assistance to poor students. Engaged without
intermission in the pursuit of truth and knowledge, he gave a reluctant
attendance on scholastic disputes, and revolted from the study of theology,
afraid that he might discover some errors in it, and be, in consequence,
denounced as a heretic.

It was at this time Erasmus began to feel his strength. By the study of the
ancients, he acquired a perspicuity and an elegance of style, which placed him
far above the most distinguished Literati of Paris. His employment as a teacher
procured him powerful friends, while the works which he published attracted
general admiration and applause. He well knew how to please the public, and
shaking off the last remnants of the school and the cloister, devoted himself
entirely to literature, displaying in all his writings those ingenious
observations, and that correct, lively, and enlightened spirit, which at once
amuse and instruct. The laborious habits which he acquired at this period he
retained through life. Even in his journeys, which were usually made on
horseback, he was never idle. He composed while he was rambling across the
fields, and, on arriving at his inn, committed his thoughts to writing. It was
in this way, while travelling from Italy to England, he composed his Praise of
Folly.

Erasmus, early in life, acquired a high reputation among the learned, but the
enraged monks owed him a grudge, and vowed vengeance. He was much courted by
princes, and was inexhaustible in finding excuses to evade their invitations,
liking better to gain his livelihood in correcting books with the printer
Frobenius, than to live surrounded by luxury and honour, at the magnificent
courts of Charles V, Henry VIII, and Francis I, or to encircle his head with the
Cardinal’s hat which was offered him.

He taught in Oxford from 1509 to 1516, and then left it for Bâsle, where he
fixed his residence in 1521.

What was his influence on the Reformation?

It has been overrated by some and underrated by others. Erasmus never was, and
never could have been, a Reformer, but he paved the way for others. Not only did
he diffuse among his contemporaries a love of science, and a spirit of research
and examination, which led others much farther than he went himself, but he was
also able, through the protection of distinguished prelates and mighty princes,
to expose the vices of the Church, and lash them with the most cutting satire.

Erasmus, in fact, attacked monks and abuses in two ways. First, there was his
popular attack. That little fair-haired man, whose peering blue eyes keenly
observed whatever came before him, and on whose lips a somewhat sarcastic smile
was always playing, though timid and embarrassed in his step, and apparently so
feeble that a breath of air might have thrown him down, was constantly pouring
out elegant and biting sarcasms against the theology and superstition of his
age. His natural character and the events of his life had made this habitual to
him. Even in writings where nothing of the kind was to have been expected, his
sarcastic humour is ever breaking out, and, as with needle points, impaling
those schoolmen and ignorant monks against whom he had declared war. There are
many features of resemblance between Erasmus and Voltaire. Previous authors had
given a popular turn to that element of folly which mingles with all the
thoughts and all the actions of human life. Erasmus took up the idea, and
personifying Folly, introduces her under the name of Moria, daughter of Plutus,
born in the Fortunate Islands, nursed on intoxication and impertinence, and
swaying the sceptre of a mighty empire. Giving a description of it, she paints,
in succession, all the states of the world which belong to her, dwelling,
especially, on church folks, who refuse to own her kindness, although she loads
them with her favours. She directs her jibes and jests against the labyrinth of
dialectics, in which the theologians wander bewildered, and the grotesque
syllogisms by which they pretend to support the Church. She also unveils the
disorders, the ignorance, the impurity, and absurd conduct of the monks.

“They are all mine,” says she, “those people who have no greater delight than to
relate miracles, or hear monstrous lies, and who employ them to dissipate the
ennui of others, and, at the same time, to fill their own purses, (I allude,
particularly, to priests and preachers.) Near them are those who have adopted
the foolish, yet pleasing persuasion, that if they cast a look at a bit of wood
or a picture representing Polyphemus or Christopher, they will, at least,
outlive that day.”—“Alas! what follies,” continues Moria, “follies at which even
I myself can scarcely help blushing! Do we not see each country laying claim to
its particular saint? Each misery has its saint and its candle. This one
relieves you in toothache, that one gives assistance at childbirth, a third
restores your stolen goods, a fourth saves you in shipwreck, and a fifth keeps
watch over your flocks. Some of these are all-powerful in many things at once.
This is particularly the case with the Virgin, the mother of God, to whom the
vulgar attribute almost more than to her Son. In the midst of all these follies,
if some odious sage arise, and, giving a counter-note, exclaim, (as in truth he
may,) ‘You will not perish miserably if you live as Christians. You will redeem
your sins, if to the money which you give you add hatred of the sins themselves,
tears, vigils, prayers, fastings, and a thorough change in your mode of life.
Yon saint will befriend you if you imitate his life.’—If some sage, I say,
charitably duns such words into their ears, Oh! of what felicity does he not
deprive their souls, and into what trouble, what despondency, does he not plunge
them! The mind of man is so constituted that imposture has a much stronger hold
upon it than truth.2 If there is any saint more fabulous than another, for
instance, a St. George, a St. Christopher, or a St. Barbara, you will see them
adored with much greater devotion than St. Peter, St. Paul, or Christ himself.”

Folly, however, does not stop here; she applies her lash to the bishops
themselves, “who run more after gold than after souls, and think they have done
enough when they make a theatrical display of themselves, as Holy Fathers, to
whom adoration is due, and when they bless or anathematise.” The daughter of
“the Fortunate Isles” has the hardihood even to attack the Court of Rome, and
the pope himself, who, spending his time in diversion, leaves Peter and Paul to
perform his duty. “Are there,” says she, “more formidable enemies of the Church
than those impious pontiffs, who, by their silence, allow Jesus Christ to be
destroyed, who bind him by their mercenary laws, falsify him by their forced
interpretations, and strangle him by their pestilential life?”

Holbein appended to the Praise of Folly, most grotesque engravings, among which
the pope figures with his triple crown. Never, perhaps, was a work so well
adapted to the wants of a particular period. It is impossible to describe the
impression which it produced throughout Christendom. Twenty-seven editions were
published in the lifetime of Erasmus; it was translated into all languages, and
served more than any other to confirm the age in its antisacerdotal tendency.
But to this attack by popular sarcasm, Erasmus added the attack of science and
erudition. The study of Greek and Latin literature had opened up a new prospect
to the modern genius which began to be awakened in Europe. Erasmus entered with
all his heart into the idea of the Italians, that the school of the ancients was
that in which the sciences ought to be studied, that, abandoning the inadequate
and absurd books which had hitherto been used, it was necessary to go to Strabo
for geography, to Hippocrates for medicine, to Plato for philosophy, to Ovid for
mythology, and to Pliny for natural history. But he took a farther step, the
step of a giant, destined to lead to the discovery of a new world, of more
importance to humanity than that which Columbus had just added to the old world.
Following out his principle, Erasmus insisted that men should no longer study
theology in Scotus and Thomas Aquinas, but go and learn it from the Fathers of
the Church, and, above all, from the New Testament. He showed that it was not
even necessary to keep close to the Vulgate, which swarmed with faults, and he
rendered an immense service to truth, by publishing his critical edition of the
Greek text of the New Testament, a text as little known in the West as if it
never had existed. This edition appeared at Bâsle in 1516, the year before the
Reformation. Erasmus thus did for the New Testament what Reuchlin had done for
the Old. Theologians were thenceforth able to read the word of God in the
original tongues, and at a later period to recognise the purity of doctrine
taught by the Reformers.

“I wish,” said Erasmus on publishing his New Testament, “to bring to its level
that frigid, wordy, disputatious thing, termed Theology. Would to God the
Christian world may derive advantage from the work, proportioned to the pain and
toil which it has cost.” The wish was accomplished. It was in vain for the monks
to exclaim, “He is trying to correct the Holy Spirit.” The new Testament of
Erasmus sent forth a living light. His paraphrases on the Epistles and Gospels
of St. Matthew and St. John; his editions of Cyprian and Jerome; his
translations of Origen, Athanasius, and Chrysostom; his “True Theology.” his
“Preacher;”2 his Commentaries on several of the Psalms, contributed greatly to
spread a taste for the word of God and pure theology. The effect of his labours
even went farther than his intentions. Reuchlin and Erasmus restored the Bible
to the learned; Luther restored it to the people. We have not yet described all
that Erasmus did. When he restored the Bible, he called attention to its
contents. “The highest aim of the revival of philosophical studies,” said he,
“should be to give a knowledge of the pure and simple Christianity of the
Bible.” An admirable sentiment! Would to God the organs of philosophy, in our
day, were as well acquainted with their calling! “I am firmly resolved,”
continued he, “to die studying the Scriptures; it is my joy and my peace.” “The
sum of all Christian philosophy,” he elsewhere says, “is reduced to this: To
place all our hope in God, who through grace without our merits, gives us
everything by Jesus Christ: To know that we are ransomed by the death of his
Son: To die to worldly lusts, and walk conformably to his doctrine and his
example, not only doing no injury to any, but, on the contrary, doing good to
all: To bear trials patiently, in the hope of future recompence: in fine, to
claim no credit to ourselves because of our virtues, but give thanks to God for
all our faculties, and all our works. These are the feelings which ought to
pervade the whole man, until they have become a second nature.”2

Then raising his voice against the great mass of ecclesiastical injunctions,
regarding dress, fasts, feast-days, vows, marriage, and confessions, by which
the people were oppressed, and the priest was enriched, Erasmus exclaims, “In
churches, the interpretation of the gospel is scarcely thought of. The better
part of sermons must meet the wishes of the commissaries of indulgences. The
holy doctrine of Christ must be suppressed, or interpreted contrary to its
meaning, and for their profit. Cure is now hopeless, unless Christ himself turn
the hearts of kings and pontiffs, and awaken them to enquire after true piety.”
The works of Erasmus rapidly succeeded each other. He laboured incessantly, and
his writings were read just as they came from his pen. That spirit, that native
life, that rich, refined, sparkling and bold intellect, which, without
restraint, poured out its treasures before his contemporaries, carried away and
entranced vast numbers of readers, who eagerly devoured the works of the
philosopher of Rotterdam. In this way he soon became the most influential man in
Christendom, and saw pensions and crowns raining down upon him from all
quarters. When we contemplate the great revolution, which, at a later period,
renewed the Church, it is impossible not to own that Erasmus was used by many as
a kind of bridge, over which they passed. Many who would have taken alarm at
evangelical truths, if presented in all their force and purity, yielded to the
charm of his writings, and ultimately figured among the most zealous promoters
of the Reformation. But the very circumstance of his being good in preparing,
prevented him from being good at performing. “Erasmus knows very well how to
expose error,” says Luther, “but he knows not how to teach the truth.” The
gospel was not the fire which warmed and sustained his life, the centre around
which his activity radiated. He was, first of all, a learned, and, in the second
place only, a Christian man. He was too much under the influence of vanity to
have a decided influence on his age. He anxiously calculated the effect which
every step he took might have on his reputation, and there was nothing he liked
so much to talk of as himself and his fame. “The pope,” wrote he to an intimate
friend with puerile vanity, at the period when he became the declared opponent
of Luther, “the pope has sent me a letter full of kindness and expressions of
respect. His secretary solemnly vows that the like was never heard of, and that
it was written word for word at the pope’s own dictation.”

Erasmus and Luther are the representatives of two great ideas on the subject of
reform, and of two great parties of their own age, and of all ages. The one is
composed of men, whose leading characteristic is a prudential timidity; the
other of men of courage and resolution. These two parties were, at this period,
personified in these two distinguished heads. The men of prudence thought that
the cultivation of theological science might lead gradually, and without
disruption, to the reformation of the Church. The men of action thought that the
diffusion of more correct ideas among the learned would not put a stop to the
superstitions of the people, and that the correction of particular abuses was of
little avail, unless the whole life of the Church were renewed.

“A disadvantageous peace,” said Erasmus, “is far better than the justest war.”
He thought (and how many Erasmuses have been and still are in the world?) that a
Reformation which shook the Church might run a risk of overturning it; and he
was therefore terrified when, on looking forward, he saw the passions of men
excited, saw evil everywhere mingling itself with any little good that could be
accomplished, existing institutions destroyed in the absence of others to supply
their place, and the vessel of the Church leaking in every part, and at length
engulfed amid the storm. “Those who bring the sea into new lagoons,” said he,
“are often deceived in the result; the formidable element, once introduced, does
not take the direction which they wished to give it, but rushes where it
pleases, and causes great devastation. “Be this as it may,” continued he, “let
disturbances be by all means avoided. Better put up with wicked princes than by
innovations enthrone evil.”2 But the courageous among his contemporaries were
prepared with their answer. History had clearly enough demonstrated, that a
frank exposition of the truth, and a mortal struggle with falsehood, could alone
secure the victory. Had temporising and politic artifices been resorted to, the
wiles of the papal court would have extinguished the light in its first
glimmerings. Had not all sorts of mild methods been tried for ages? Had not
Council been held after Council, with the view of reforming the Church? Yet all
had been useless. Why pretend to repeat an experiment that had so often failed?
No doubt a fundamental reform might be effected without disruption. But when did
anything great and good make its appearance among men without causing agitation?
This fear of seeing evil mingle with good, if legitimate, would arrest the
noblest and holiest enterprises. We must not fear the evil which may be heaved
up in the course of great agitation, but be strong in combating and destroying
it.

Besides, is there not an entire difference between the commotion which human
passions produces and that which emanates from the Spirit of God? The one shakes
society, the other consolidates it. How erroneous to imagine, like Erasmus, that
in the state in which Christianity then was, with that mixture of opposite
elements, truth and falsehood, life and death, violent shocks might still be
prevented! As well might you try to shut the crater of Vesuvius, when the angry
elements are actually at war in its bosom! The middle ages had seen more than
one violent commotion in an atmosphere less loaded with storms than at the
period of the Reformation. The thing wanted at such a time is not to arrest and
suppress, but to direct and guide.

If the Reformation had not burst forth, who can tell the fearful ruin by which
its place might have been supplied? Society, a prey to a thousand elements of
destruction, and destitute of regenerating and conservative elements, would have
been dreadfully convulsed. Assuredly it would not have been a reform to the
taste of Erasmus, or such an one as many moderate but timid men in our day dream
of, that would then have overtaken society. The people, devoid of that light and
piety which the Reformation carried down into the humblest ranks, giving
themselves up to the violence of their passions, and to a restless spirit of
revolt, would have burst forth like a wild beast broken loose from its chain,
after having been goaded to madness. The Reformation was nothing but an
interposition of the Spirit of God among men, a setting of the world in order by
the hand of God. No doubt, it might stir up the fermenting elements which lie
hidden in the human heart; but God was there to overrule them. Evangelical
doctrine, heavenly truth, penetrating the masses of the population, destroyed
what deserved to perish, but, at the same time, gave new strength to all that
deserved to remain. The Reformation exerted itself in building up, and it is
mere prejudice to allege that it destroyed. “The ploughshare, too,” it has been
truly said, in speaking of the Reformation, “might think it hurts the earth,
because it cuts it asunder, whereas it only makes it productive.” The great
principle of Erasmus was, “Give light, and the darkness will disappear of
itself.” The principle is good, and Luther acted on it. But when the enemies of
the light strive to extinguish it, or to force the flambeau out of the hand
which carries it is it necessary, from a love of peace, to let them do so? ought
not the wicked to be resisted?

Erasmus was deficient in courage. Now, courage is indispensable, whether it be
to effect a Reformation, or to storm a town. There was much timidity in his
character. From a boy the very name of death made him tremble. He was
excessively anxious about his health, and would grudge no sacrifice in order to
escape from a place where some contagious malady prevailed. His love of the
comforts of life was greater even than his vanity, and hence his rejection, on
more than one occasion, of the most brilliant offers.

Accordingly, he made no pretensions to the character of a Reformer. “If the
corruptions of the Court of Rome demand some great and prompt remedy,” said he,
“it is no affair of mine, or of those like me.” He had not the strong faith
which animated Luther. While the latter was always prepared to yield up his life
for the truth, Erasmus candidly declared, “Others may aspire to martyrdom; as
for me, I deem not myself worthy of the honour. Were some tumult to arise, I
fear I would play the part of Peter.”

Erasmus, by his writings and his sayings, had done more than any other man to
prepare the Reformation; but, when he saw the tempest, which he himself had
raised, actually come, he trembled. He would have given anything to bring back
the calm of other days, even though accompanied with its dense fogs. It was no
longer time. The embankment had burst, and it was impossible to arrest the flood
which was destined at once to purify and fertilise the world. Erasmus was
powerful as an instrument of God, but when he ceased to be so, he was nothing.

Ultimately, Erasmus knew not for which party to declare. He was not pleased with
any, and he had his fears of all. “It is dangerous to speak,” said he, “and it
is dangerous to be silent.” In all great religious movements we meet with those
irresolute characters, which, though respectable in some points of view, do
injury to the truth, and, in wishing not to displease any, displease all.

What would become of the truth did not God raise up bolder champions to defend
it? The following is the advice which Erasmus gave to Viglius Zuichem,
(afterwards President of the Supreme Court at Brussels,) as to the manner in
which he ought to conduct himself towards the sectaries—(this was the name by
which he had already begun to designate the Reformers)—“My friendship for you
makes me desirous that you should keep far aloof from the contagion of the
sects, and not furnish them with any pretext for saying, ‘Zuichem is ours.’ If
you approve their doctrine, at least disguise it, and, above all, do not enter
into discussion with them. A lawyer should finesse with these people as a dying
man once did with the devil. The devil asked him, ‘What believest thou?’ The
dying man, afraid that if he made a confession of his faith, he might be
surprised into some heresy, replied, ‘What the Church believes.’ The devil
rejoined, ‘What does the Church believe?’ The man again replied, ‘What I
believe.’ The devil, once more, ‘And what dost thou believe?’—‘What the Church
believes.’ ” Duke George of Saxony, a mortal enemy of Luther, receiving an
equivocal answer from Erasmus to a question which he had put to him, said, “My
dear Erasmus, wash the fur for me, and do not merely wet it.” Secundus Curio, in
one of his works, describes two heavens—the Papistical and the Christian heaven.
He does not find Erasmus in either, but discovers him moving constantly between
them in endless circles.

Such was Erasmus. He wanted that internal liberty which makes a man truly free.
How different he would have been if he had abandoned himself, and sacrificed all
for truth! But after trying to effect some reforms with the approbation of the
Church, and for Rome deserting the Reformation when he saw the two to be
incompatible, he lost himself with all parties. On the one hand, his palinodes
could not suppress the rage of the fanatical partisans of the Papacy. They felt
the mischief which he had done them, and they did not forgive it. Impetuous
monks poured out reproaches on him from the pulpit,—calling him a second
Lucian,—a fox, which had laid waste the vineyard of the Lord. A doctor of
Constance had the portrait of Erasmus hung up in his study, that he might have
it in his power at any moment to spit in his face. On the other hand, Erasmus,
by deserting the standard of the gospel, deprived himself of the affection and
esteem of the noblest men of the period in which he lived, and must, doubtless,
have forfeited those heavenly consolations which God sheds in the hearts of
those who conduct themselves as good soldiers of Jesus Christ. At least we have
some indication of this in his bitter tears—his painful vigils, and troubled
sleep—his disrelish for his food—his disgust with the study of the muses, once
his only solace—his wrinkled brow—his pallid cheek—his sad and sunken eye—his
hatred of a life to which he applies the epithet of cruel—and those longings for
death which he unbosoms to his friends. Poor Erasmus! The enemies of Erasmus
went, we think, somewhat beyond the truth when they exclaimed, on Luther’s
appearance, “Erasmus laid the egg, and Luther has hatched it.”


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  CHAPTER 11: CHAPTER IX
========================================================================

The nobles—Different Motives—Hütten—Literary League—Letters of some Obscure
Men—Their Effect—Luther’s Opinion—Hütten at Brussels—His
Letters—Seckingen—War—His Death—Cronberg—Hans Sachs—General Fermentation. The
same symptoms of regeneration, which we have seen among princes, bishops, and
the learned, existed among the men of the world, among nobles, knights, and
warriors. The German nobility performed an important part in the Reformation.
Several of the most illustrious sons of Germany entered into close alliance with
the Literati, and inflamed with an ardent, sometimes even an excessive zeal,
laboured to deliver their countrymen from the yoke of Rome.

Various causes must have contributed to procure friends for the Reformation
among the ranks of the nobility. Some, by their attendance at the universities,
had been warmed with the same flame that animated the learned. Others, whose
education had trained them to generous feelings, had their minds predisposed in
favour of the beautiful doctrines of the gospel. To several, the Reformation
seemed to present something of a chivalrous character, which fascinated them,
and bore them along in its train. Lastly, it must be acknowledged, that not a
few had a grudge at the clergy, who had powerfully contributed in the reign of
Maximilian, to deprive the nobles of their ancient independence, and bring them
under subjection to their sovereigns. They, in their enthusiasm, considered the
Reformation as the prelude of a great political renovation. They thought they
saw the empire emerging from this crisis with new splendour, and hailed the
better state, brilliant with the purest glory, which was on the eve of being
established in the world by chivalrous swords, not less than by the word of God.

Ulrich de Hütten, who, on account of his philippics against the Papacy, has been
surnamed the Demosthenes of Germany, forms, as it were, the link which united
the chevaliers and men of letters. He distinguished himself by his writings, as
much as by his sword. Descended from an ancient family in Franconia, he was sent
at eleven years of age, to the Convent of Foulda, with the view of his becoming
a monk. But Ulrich, who had no inclination for this state, ran off from the
convent when he was sixteen, and repaired to the University of Cologne, where he
devoted himself to the study of languages. Afterwards leading an unsettled life,
he was in the ranks as a common soldier at the siege of Padua, in 1513, saw Rome
in all its disorder, and there sharpened the arrows which he afterwards shot at
her. On his return to Germany, Hütten wrote a pamphlet against Rome, entitled
“The Roman Trinity,” in which he unveils all the disorders of that court, and
shows the necessity of pulling down her tyranny by main force. A traveller named
Vadiscus, who figures prominently in the piece, says, “There are three things
which are usually brought back from Rome,—a sore conscience, a disordered
stomach, and an empty purse. There are three things which Rome does not
believe,—the immortality of the soul, the resurrection of the dead, and hell.
There are three things in which Rome carries on a trade,—the grace of Christ,
ecclesiastical benefices, and women.” The publication of this work obliged
Hütten to quit the court of the Archbishop of Mayence, where he was residing
when he composed it. The affair of Reuchlin with the Dominicans was the signal
which brought forward all the literati, magistrates, and nobles, who were
opposed to the monks. The defeat of the inquisitors, who, it was said, had only
saved themselves from a regular and absolute sentence of condemnation by money
and intrigue, gave encouragement to all their adversaries. Counsellors of the
empire, and magistrates of the most considerable towns—Pirckheimer of Nuremberg,
Peutinger of Augsburg, Stuss of Cologne, distinguished preachers, such as Capito
and Œcolampadius, doctors of medicine, historians, all the literati, orators,
and poets, at the head of whom, Ulrich de Hütten was conspicuous, formed the
army of Reuchlinists, of whom a list was even published. The most remarkable
production of this league was the famous popular satire, entitled, “Letters of
some Obscure Men.” This production was principally written by Hütten, and one of
his university friends, Crotus Robianus, but it is difficult to say with which
of the two the idea originated, if, indeed, it was not with the learned printer,
Angst. It is even doubtful if Hütten had any hand in the first part of the work.
Several Humanists, who had met in the fortress of Ebernbourg, appear to have
contributed to the second part. It is a picture in bold characters, a caricature
sometimes coarsely painted, but full of truth and vigour, a striking likeness in
colours of fire. The effect was immense. Monks, who are adversaries of Reuchlin,
and the supposed authors of the letters, discourse on the affairs of the time,
and on theological subjects after their own manner, and in their barbarous
Latin. They address to their correspondent, Ortuin Gratius, professor at
Cologne, and friend of Pfefferkorn, the silliest and most useless questions.
They give the most amusing proof of the excessive ignorance and incredulity,
their superstition, their low and vulgar spirit, their coarse gluttony in making
a god of their belly, and, at the same time, their pride, their fanatical and
persecuting zeal. They inform him of several of their droll adventures, their
escapes, their dissoluteness, and a variety of scandals in the lives of
Hochstraten, Pfefferkorn, and other leaders of their party. The tone of these
letters, sometimes hypocritical and sometimes childish, gives them a very comic
effect, and yet the whole is so natural, that the Dominicans and Franciscans of
England received the work with high approbation, believing that it really was
composed on the principles of their order, and in defence of it. A prior of
Brabant, in his credulous simplicity, purchased a great number of copies, and
presented them to the most distinguished among the Dominicans. The monks,
irritated more and more, applied to the pope for a stringent bull against all
who should dare to read these epistles, but Leo X refused to grant it. They were
accordingly obliged to put up with the general laugh, and gulp down their rage.
No work gave a stronger blow to these pillars of Papism. But it was not by
jesting and satire that the gospel was to triumph. Had this course been
persisted in; had the Reformers, instead of attacking the Reformation with the
weapons of God, had recourse to the jeering spirit of the world, the cause had
been lost. Luther loudly condemned these satires. A friend having sent him one
of them, entitled, “ The Tenor of the Supplication of Pasquin,” he wrote in
answer, “The foolish things you sent me appear to be written by a mind which is
under no control. I submitted them to a meeting of friends, and they have all
given the same opinion.” And speaking of the same work, he writes to another of
his correspondents, “This Supplication appears to me to be by the same hand as
the Letters of some Obscure Men. I approve of his wishes, but I approve not of
his work, for he does not refrain from injury and insult.” This sentence is
severe, but it shows what kind of spirit was in Luther, and how superior he was
to his contemporaries. It must be added, however, that he was not at all times
observant of these wise maxims.

Ulrich having been obliged to renounce the protection of the Archbishop of
Mayence, applied for that of Charles V, who had at this time quarrelled with the
pope, and accordingly repaired to Brussels, where Charles was holding his court.
But so far from obtaining anything, he learned that the pope had required the
emperor to send him to Rome bound hand and foot. The inquisitor, Hochstraten,
Reuchlin’s persecutor, was one of those whom Rome had charged to pursue him.
Ulrich, indignant that such a demand should have been made to the emperor,
quitted Brabant. When a short way from Brussels, he met Hochstraten on the
highroad. The inquisitor, frightened out of his wits, falls on his knees, and
commends his soul to God and the saints. “No,” said the knight, “I will not soil
my sword with such blood as yours!” and giving him several strokes with the flat
of his sword, allowed him to depart.

Hütten took refuge in the castle of Ebernbourg, where Francis de Seckingen
offered an asylum to all who were persecuted by the Ultramontanists. It was here
that his ardent zeal for the emancipation of his country dictated the remarkable
letters which he addressed to Charles V, Frederick Elector of Saxony, Albert
Archbishop of Mayence, and the princes and nobles, and which entitle him to a
place among the most distinguished authors. Here too, he composed all those
works which, being read and comprehended by the people, inspired Germany with a
hatred of Rome and a love of freedom. Devoted to the cause of the Reformers, his
object was to induce the nobility to take up arms in favour of the gospel, and
fall with the sword on that Rome which Luther only wished to destroy by the
Word, and by the invincible force of truth.

Still, amid all this fondness for war, we are pleased at finding tenderness and
delicacy of sentiment in Hütten. On the death of his parents, though he was the
eldest son, he gave up all the family property to his brothers, and prayed them
not to write him or send him any money, lest, notwithstanding their innocence,
they might be brought into trouble by his enemies, and fall into the ditch along
with him.

If the truth cannot own Hütten for one of her children, (for her companions are
ever holiness of life and purity of heart,) she will, at least, make honourable
mention of him, as one of the most readoubtable adversaries of error. A similar
testimony may be borne to François de Seckingen, his illustrious friend and
patron. This noble chevalier, whom several of his contemporaries deemed worthy
of the imperial crown, holds first place among the warriors who were the
antagonists of Rome. While delighting in the noise of arms, he had an ardent
love of science, and a high veneration for its professors. When at the head of
an army which threatened Wurtemberg, he gave orders, in the event of Stuttgard
being taken by assault, to spare the property and house of the celebrated
scholar, John Reuchlin. He afterwards invited him to his camp, and, embracing
him, offered to assist him in his quarrel with the monks of Cologne. For a long
time chivalry had gloried in despising literature, but this period presents us
with a different spectacle. Under the massy cuirass of the Seckingens and
Hüttens, we perceive the intellectual movement which is beginning to be
everywhere felt. The first fruits which the Reformation gives to the world are
warriors enamoured with the arts of peace.

Hütten, who, on his return from Brussels, had taken refuge in the castle of
Seckingen, invited the valorous knight to study the evangelical doctrine, and
make him acquainted with the foundations on which it rests. “And is there any
one,” exclaimed Seckingen in astonishment, “who dares to overturn such an
edifice? Who could do it?”

Several individuals, who afterwards became celebrated as Reformers, found an
asylum in this castle; among others, Martin Bucer, Aquila, Schwebel, and
Œcolampadius, so that Hütten justly styled Ebernbourg “the hotel of the just.”
Œcolampadius had to preach daily in the castle, but the warriors there assembled
began to weary hearing so much of the meek virtues of Christianity, and the
sermons of Œcolampadius, though he laboured to shorten them, seemed too long.
They, indeed, repaired to the church almost every day, but, for the most part,
only to hear the blessing and offer a short prayer. Hence Œcolampadius
exclaimed, “Alas! the Word is here sown on stony ground.”

Seckingen, longing to serve the cause of truth in his own way, declared war on
the Archbishop of Treves, “in order,” as he said, “to open a door for the
gospel.” In vain did Luther, who had by this time appeared, endeavour to
dissuade him; he attacked Treves with five thousand knights and a thousand
common soldiers, but the bold archbishop, aided by the Elector Palatine and the
Landgrave of Hesse, forced him to retreat. The following spring, the allied
princes attacked him in his castle of Landstein. After a bloody assault,
Seckingen, having been mortally wounded, was forced to surrender. The three
princes, accordingly, make their way into the fortress, and, after searching
through it, at last find the indomitable knight on his death-bed, in a
subterraneous vault.

He stretches out his hand to the Elector Palatine, without seeming to pay any
attention to the other princes, who overwhelm him with questions and reproaches:
“Leave me at rest,” said he to them; “I am now preparing to answer a mightier
than you!…” When Luther heard of his death he exclaimed, “The Lord is just, yet
wonderful! It is not with the sword that he means to propagate the gospel!”

Such was the sad end of a warrior, who, as emperor or elector, might, perhaps,
have raised Germany to high renown, but who, confined within a limited circle,
wasted the great powers with which he was endowed. It was not in the tumultuous
spirit of these warriors that Divine truth, which had come down from heaven, was
to take up her abode. Theirs were not the weapons by which she was to conquer;
God, in annihilating the mad projects of Seckingen, gave a new illustration of
the saying of St. Paul, “The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty
through God.”

Another chevalier, Harmut of Cronberg, a friend of Hütten and Seckingen, appears
to have had more wisdom and more knowledge of the truth. He wrote with great
moderation to Leo X, beseeching him to give up his temporal power to its
rightful possessor, viz., the emperor. Addressing his dependants like a father,
he endeavoured to make them comprehend the doctrines of the gospel, and exhorted
them to faith, obedience, and confidence in Jesus Christ, “who,” added he, “is
the sovereign Lord of all.” He resigned a pension of two hundred ducats into the
hands of the emperor, “because he was unwilling,” as he expressed it, “to
continue in the service of one who lent his ear to the enemies of the truth.” I
have somewhere met with a beautiful saying of his, which seems to place him far
above Hütten and Seckingen. “The Holy Spirit, our heavenly Teacher, is able,
when he pleases, to teach us more of the faith of Christ in one hour than we
could learn in ten years at the University of Paris.”

Those who look for the friends of reformation only on the steps of thrones, or
in cathedrals and academies, and maintain that no such friends exist among the
people, are under a serious mistake. God, while preparing the heart of the wise
and powerful, was also preparing, in retirement, many simple and humble-minded
men, who were one day to become obedient to the Word. The history of the period
gives evidence of the fermentation which was then going on among the humbler
classes. The popular literature, previous to the Reformation, had a tendency
directly opposed to the spirit which was prevalent in the Church. In the
“Eulenspiegel,” a celebrated popular poetical collection of the period, the
laugh is incessantly kept up at priests, beasts, and gluttons, who keep
full-stocked cellars, fine horses, and well-lined pantries. In the “Renard
Reinecke,” the households of priests, with their little children, play an
important part. Another popular writer thunders with all his might against those
ministers of Christ who ride splendid horses, but won’t fight the infidels; and
John Rosenblut, in one of his carnival games, brings the Grand Turk upon the
stage, to preach a seasonable sermon to all the states of Christendom.

It was unquestionably in the bowels of the people that the Reformation, which
was soon to break out, was fermenting. Not only from this class were youths seen
coming forth, who were afterwards to occupy the first stations in the Church,
but even individuals, who continued all their lives to labour in the humblest
professions, contributed powerfully to the great awakening of Christendom. It
may be proper to give some traits in the life of one of them. On the 5th
November 1494, a tailor of Nuremberg, by name Hans Sachs, had a son born to him.
The son, named Hans (John) like his father, after having received some
schooling, was apprenticed to a shoemaker. Young Hans availed himself of the
liberty of thought, which this humble profession afforded, to penetrate into the
higher world, in which his soul delighted. Songs, after they ceased in the
castles of chivalry, seem to have sought, and to have found, an asylum among the
burghers of the joyous cities of Germany. A singing-school was held in the
Church of Nuremberg. The performances which took place there, and in which young
Hans was accustomed to join, opened his heart to religious impressions, and
helped to awaken a taste for poetry and music. The genius of the youth could not
long brook confinement within the walls of his workshop. He wished to see with
his own eyes that world of which he had read so much, and been told so many
stories by his comrades, and which his imagination peopled with wonders. In 1511
he bundles up his effects, and sets out in the direction of the South. The young
traveller, falling in with gay comrades, students roaming the country, and many
dangerous temptations soon feels a serious struggle within. The lusts of the
world and his pious resolutions war with each other. Trembling for the result,
he takes flight, and, in 1513, hides himself in the little town of Wels in
Austria, where he lives in retirement, devoting himself to the study of the fine
arts. The emperor, Maximilian, happens to pass through the town with a brilliant
suite, and the young poet is quite fascinated with the splendour of the court.
The prince receives him into his hunting train, and Hans once more forgets
himself, under the noisy vaults of the palace of Insprüch. But his conscience
again sounds the alarm, and the young huntsman, immediately throwing aside his
brilliant uniform, takes his departure, and arrives at Schwatz near Munich.
There, in 1514, at the age of twenty, he composed his first hymn, “In Honour of
God,” setting it to a remarkable air. It was received with great applause. In
the course of his journeys, he was witness to many sad proofs of the abuses
under which religion groaned. On his return to Nuremberg, Hans commences
business, marries, and becomes the father of a family. When the Reformation
breaks out he turns a listening ear. He cordially welcomes the Holy Scripture,
which had already endeared itself to him as a poet, and he no longer searches it
for images and hymns, but for the light of truth. To this truth he consecrates
his lyre. From a humble stall in front of one of the gates of the imperial city
of Nuremberg, come forth notes which re-echo over Germany, and everywhere excite
a deep interest in the great revolution which is going forward. The spiritual
songs of Hans Sachs, and his Bible turned into verse, greatly aided the work.
Indeed, it would be difficult to say which of the two did most for it—the
elector of Saxony, vicegerent of the empire, or the shoemaker of Nuremberg.

Thus, then, there was something in all classes which announced a Reformation. On
all sides signs appeared, and events pressed forward threatening to overthrow
the work of ages of darkness, and introduce men to a period in which “all things
were to become new.” The hierarchical form, which several ages had been employed
in stamping upon the world, was on the eve of being effaced. The light which had
just been discovered had, with inconceivable rapidity, introduced a number of
new ideas into all countries, and all classes of society gave signs of new life.
“O age!” exclaims Hütten, “studies flourish, and minds awake: Mere life is joy!”
… The human intellect, which had been slumbering for so many generations, seemed
desirous, by its activity, to redeem the time which it had lost. To have left it
in idleness, without nourishment, or to have given it no better food than that
which had long maintained its languid existence, would have been to mistake the
nature of man. The human mind having at length perceived what it was, and what
it ought to be, looked boldly at these two states, and scanned the immense abyss
which lay between them. Great princes were on the throne, the ancient colossus
of Rome was tottering under its own weight, and the old spirit of chivalry was
taking leave of the earth to make way for a new spirit, which breathed at once
on the sanctuaries of knowledge, and on the dwellings of the poor. The printed
Word had taken wing, and been carried, as the wind does certain seeds, to the
most distant regions. The discovery of the two Indies had enlarged the world …
Every thing announced that a great revolution was at hand. But whence will the
blow come which is to strike down the ancient edifice, that a new edifice may
arise out of its ruins? Nobody could say. Who had more wisdom than Frederick?
More science than Reuchlin? More talent than Erasmus? More spirit and
versatility than Hütten? More valour than Seckingen? More virtue than Cronberg?
And yet, neither Frederick, nor Reuchlin, nor Erasmus, nor Seckingen, nor
Hütten, nor Cronberg.… Learned men, princes, warriors, the Church herself, had
sapped some of the foundations; but there they had stopped. The powerful hand
which God had designed to employ was nowhere to be seen.

All, however, felt that it must soon make its appearance, while some even
pretended to have seen indications of it in the stars. One class, seeing the
miserable state of religion predicted the near approach of Antichrist. Another
class, on the contrary, predicted a speedy Reformation. The world was waiting …
Luther appeared.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 12: BOOK SECOND
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Youth, Conversion, and First Labours of Luther

1483–1517


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 13: CHAPTER I
========================================================================

Luther’s Descent—His Parents—His Birth—Poverty—The Paternal Roof—Strict
Discipline—First Lessons—The School of Magdebourg—Wretchedness—Isenach—The
Shunammite—The House of Cotta—The Arts—Remembrance of those Times—His
Studies—Trebonius—The University.

All was ready. God takes ages to prepare his work, but when the hour is come,
accomplishes it by the feeblest instruments. To do great things by small means,
is the law of God. This law, which appears in every department of nature, is
found also in history. God took the Reformers of the Church, where he had taken
the Apostles. He selected them from that humble class which, without containing
the meanest of the people, is scarcely the length of citizenship. Every thing
must manifest to the world that the work is not of man, but of God. The Reformer
Zuinglius comes forth from the hut of a shepherd of the Alps, Melancthon, the
Theologian of the Reformation, from the workshop of an armourer, and Luther from
the cottage of a poor miner. The first stage in a man’s life, that in which he
is formed and moulded under the hand of God, is always important, and was so
especially in the case of Luther. There, even at that period, the whole
Reformation existed. The different phases of that great work succeeded each
other in the soul of him who was the instrument of accomplishing it, before it
was actually accomplished. The knowledge of the Reformation which took place in
Luther’s heart is the only key to the Reformation of the Church. We must study
the particular work, if we would attain to a knowledge of the general work.
Those who neglect the one will never know more than the form and exterior of the
other. They may acquire a knowledge of certain events and certain results, but
the intrinsic nature of the revival they cannot know, because the living
principle which formed the soul of it, is hidden from them. Let us then study
the Reformation in Luther, before studying it in events which changed the face
of Christendom. In the village of Mora, towards the forests of Thuringia, and
not far from the spot where Boniface, the Apostle of Germany, began to proclaim
the gospel, there existed, and, undoubtedly, had existed for ages, an ancient
and numerous family of the name of Luther. The eldest son, as usual with the
peasantry of Thuringia, always succeeded to the house and the paternal plot,
while the younger members of the family set out in quest of a livelihood. John
Luther having married Margaret Lindemann, daughter of an inhabitant of Neustadt,
in the bishopric of Warzburg, the married couple removed from the plains of
Isenach, and fixed their residence in the little town of Eisleben, in Saxony, in
order to gain their bread by the sweat of their brow.

Seckendorff relates, on the testimony of Robhan, superintendant of Isenach in
1601, that Luther’s mother, thinking she was still far from her time, had gone
to the fair of Eisleben, and there, unexpectedly, gave birth to a son.
Notwithstanding of the credit due to such a man as Seckendorff, this account
appears not to be correct. In fact, none of the older biographers of Luther make
any mention of it. Besides, Mora is more than twenty-four leagues distant from
Eisleben, and persons in the circumstances in which Luther’s mother then was
seldom are disposed to take such long journeys to go to the fair. In fine, the
account seems quite at variance with Luther’s own statement.

John Luther was an upright, straightforward, hard-working man, with a firmness
of character bordering on obstinacy. Of a more cultivated mind than usual with
persons of his class, he was a great reader. Books were then rare. But he never
let pass any opportunity of procuring them. They were his relaxation in the
intervals of repose from hard and long-continued labour. Margaret possessed the
virtues which adorn honest and pious women. She was remarked, in particular, for
her modesty, her fear of God, and her spirit of prayer. The mothers of the place
regarded her as a model whom they ought to imitate.

It is not exactly known how long this couple had been fixed at Eisleben, when,
on the 10th November, an hour before midnight, Margaret gave birth to a son.
Melancthon often questioned the mother of his friend as to the period of his
birth. “I remember the day and the hour very well,” would she reply; “but for
the year, I am not certain of it.” Luther’s brother, James, an honest and
upright man, has stated, that, in the opinion of all the family, Martin was born
in the year of Christ 1483, on the 10th November, being St. Martin’s eve. The
first thought of the pious parents was to take the infant which God had given
them, and dedicate it to God in holy baptism. On the following day, which
happened to be a Tuesday, the father, with gratitude and joy, carried his son to
St. Peter’s church, where he received the seal of his dedication to the Lord. He
was named Martin in honour of the day.

Young Martin was not six months old when his parents quitted Eisleben for
Mansfeld, which is only five leagues distant. The mines of Mansfeld were then
much famed, and John Luther, a labouring man, feeling that he might perhaps be
called to rear a numerous family, hoped he might there more easily gain a
livelihood. It was in this town that the intellect and powers of young Luther
received their first development; here his activity began to be displayed, and
his disposition to be manifested by what he said and did. The plains of
Mansfeld, the banks of the Wipper, were the scenes of his first sports with his
playmates. The commencement of their residence at Mansfeld was attended with
painful privations to honest John and his wife; for they lived some time in
great poverty. “My parents,” says the Reformer, “were very poor. My father was a
poor wood-cutter, and my mother often carried his wood on her back to procure
subsistence for us children. The toil they endured for us was severe, even to
blood.” The example of parents whom he respected, and the habits in which they
trained him, early accustomed Luther to exertion and frugality. Often,
doubtless, he accompanied his mother to the wood, and made up his little faggot
also.

Promises are given to the just man’s labour, and John Luther experienced the
reality of them. Having become somewhat more easy in his circumstances, he
established two smelting furnaces at Mansfeld. Around these furnaces young
Martin grew up; and the return which they yielded enabled his father, at a later
period, to provide for his studies. “The spiritual founder of Christendom,” says
worthy Mathesius, “was to come forth from a family of miners, an image of what
God purposed, when he employed him to cleanse the sons of Levi, and purify them
in his furnaces like gold.” Universally respected for his integrity, his
blameless life, and good sense, John Luther was made a counsellor of Mansfeld,
the capital of the county of that name. Too great wretchedness might have
weighed down the spirit of the child, but the easy circumstances of the paternal
roof expanded his heart, and elevated his character.

John availed himself of his new situation to cultivate the society which he
preferred. He set great value on educated men, and often invited the clergymen
and teachers of the place to his table. His house presented an example of one of
those societies of simple citizens which did honour to Germany at the
commencement of the sixteenth century, and, as a mirror, reflected the numerous
images which succeeded each other on the troubled stage of that time. It was not
lost on the child. The sight of men to whom so much respect was shown in his
father’s house must, doubtless, on more than one occasion, have awakened in
young Martin’s heart an ambitious desire one day to become a schoolmaster or a
man of learning. As soon as he was of an age to receive some instruction, his
parents sought to give him the knowledge and inspire him with the fear of God,
and train him in Christian virtues. Their utmost care was devoted to his primary
domestic education. This, however, was not the sole object of their tender
solicitude. His father, desirous of seeing him acquire the elements of knowledge
for which he himself had so much esteem, invoked the Divine blessing on his
head, and sent him to school. As Martin was still a very little boy, his father
or Nicolas Emler, a young man of Mansfeld, often carried him in their arms to
the house of George Emilius, and went again to fetch him. Emler afterwards
married one of Luther’s sisters. The piety of the parents, their activity and
strict virtue, gave a happy impulse to the boy, making him of a grave and
attentive spirit. The system of education which then prevailed employed fear and
punishment as its leading stimulants. Margaret, though sometimes approving the
too strict discipline of her husband, often opened her maternal arms to Martin,
to console him in his tears. She herself occasionally carried to excess that
precept of Divine wisdom, which says, “He that spareth the rod hateth his son.”
The impetuous temper of the child often led to frequent reproof and correction.
“My parents,” says Luther, in after life, “treated me harshly, and made me very
timid. My mother one day chastised me about a filbert till the blood came. They
believed with all their heart they were doing right, but they could not
discriminate between dispositions, though this is necessary in order to know
when and how punishments should be inflicted.” The poor child’s treatment at
school was not less severe. His master one morning beat him fifteen times in
succession. “It is necessary,” said Luther, when mentioning the fact, “it is
necessary to chastise children; but it is necessary, at the same time, to love
them.” With such an education, Luther early learned to despise the allurements
of a sensual life. “He who is to become great must begin with little,” justly
remarks one of his earliest biographers; “and if children are brought up with
too much delicacy and tenderness, it does them harm all the rest of their life.”

Martin learned something at school. He was taught the heads of the Catechism,
the Ten Commandments, the Apostles’ Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, hymns, forms of
prayer, and the Donat. This last was a Latin grammar, composed in the fourth
century by Donatus, St. Jerome’s master; and having been improved in the
eleventh century by a French monk, named Remigius, was long in high repute as a
school-book. He moreover conned the Ciseo-Janus, a very singular almanac,
composed in the tenth or eleventh century. In short, he learned all that was
taught in the Latin school of Mansfeld. But the child seems not to have been
brought to God. The only religious sentiment which could be discovered in him
was that of fear. Whenever he heard Jesus Christ mentioned he grew pale with
terror; for the Saviour had been represented to him as an angry Judge. This
servile fear, so foreign to genuine religion, perhaps predisposed him for the
glad tidings of the gospel, and for the joy which he afterwards experienced when
he became acquainted with him who is meek and lowly in heart.

John Luther longed to make his son a learned man. The new light, which began to
radiate in all directions, penetrated even the cottage of the miner of
Mansfield, and there awakened ambitious thoughts. The remarkable disposition,
and persevering application of his son, inspired John with the most brilliant
hopes. Accordingly, in 1497, when Martin had completed his fourteenth year, his
father resolved to part with him, and send him to a school of the Franciscans at
Magdebourg. Margaret behoved, of course, to consent, and Martin prepared to quit
the paternal roof.

Magdebourg was like a new world to Martin. Amid numerous privations, (for he had
scarcely the means of subsistence,) he read and attended lectures; André Prolés,
provincial of the Augustine Order, was then preaching with great fervour on the
necessity of reforming religion and the Church. He, however, was not the person
who deposited in the yonng man’s soul the first germ of those ideas which
afterwards expanded in it. This period was a kind of severe apprenticeship to
Luther. Launched upon the world at fourteen, without friend or patron, he
trembled in presence of his masters, and, during the hours of recreation,
painfully begged his food with children as poor as himself. “I and my comrades,”
says he, “begged a little food for our subsistence. One day, at the season when
the Church celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ, we were in a body scouring the
neighbouring villages, going from house to house, and, in four parts, singing
the ordinary hymns on the Babe at Bethlehem. We stopped before a peasant’s
cottage, which stood by itself at the extremity of a village. The peasant,
hearing us singing our Christmas carols, came out with some provisions which he
meant to give us, and asked, in a gruff voice, and a harsh tone, ‘Where are you,
boys?’ His tones frightened us, and we took to our heels. We had no cause for
fear; for the peasant was sincere in his offer of assistance: but our hearts
were, no doubt, made timid by the menaces and tyranny with which masters at this
period oppressed their scholars; hence the sudden fright which seized us. At
last, however, the peasant still continuing to call us, we stopped, laid aside
our fear, and, running up to him, received the food which he intended for us.”
“In the same way,” adds Luther, “are we wont to tremble and flee when our
conscience is guilty and alarmed. Then we are afraid even of the assistance
which is offered to us, and of those who are friendly to us, and would do us all
sorts of kindness.” A year had scarcely passed, when John and Margaret, on being
made aware of the difficulties which their son had in living in Magdebourg, sent
him to Isenach, where there was a celebrated school, and they had a number of
relations. They had other children; and though their circumstances had improved,
they were unable to maintain their son in a strange town. The forges and late
hours of John Luther did no more than keep the family at Mansfield. It was hoped
that Martin would find a livelihood more easily at Isenach, but he was not more
successful. His relations in the town did not trouble themselves about him.
Perhaps their own poverty made them unable to give him any assistance. When the
scholar felt the gnawings of hunger he had no resource but to do as at
Magdebourg,—to join his fellow-students, and sing with them before the houses
for a morsel of bread. This custom of the time of Luther has been preserved,
even to our day, in several towns of Germany, where the voices of the boys
sometimes produce a most harmonious chant. Instead of bread, poor modest Martin
often received only hard words. Then, overcome with sadness, he shed many tears
in secret, unable to think of the future without trembling.

One day, in particular, he had been repulsed from three houses, and was
preparing, without having broken his fast, to return to his lodging, when, on
arriving at St. George’s Square, he halted, and, absorbed in gloomy thoughts,
stood motionless before the house of an honest burgher. Will it be necessary,
from want of bread, to give up study, and go and work with his father in the
mines of Mansfeld? Suddenly a door opens, and a female is seen on the
threshold,—it was the wife of Conrad Cotta, the daughter of the burgomaster of
Ilefeld. Her name was Ursula. The Chronicles of Isenach call her “the pious
Shunammite,” in allusion to her who so earnestly pressed the prophet Elisha to
eat bread with her. Previous to this the Christian Shunammite had more than once
observed young Martin in the assemblies of the faithful, and been touched by the
sweetness of his voice, and his devout behaviour.4 She had just heard the harsh
language addressed to the poor scholar, and seeing him in sadness before her
door, she came to his assistance, beckoned him to enter, and set food before him
to appease his hunger.

Conrad approved of the benevolence of his wife, and was even so much pleased
with the society of young Luther, that some days after he took him home to his
house. From this moment his studies were secure. He will not be obliged to
return to the mines of Mansfeld, and bury the talent with which God has
entrusted him. When he no longer knew what was to become of him God opened to
him the heart and the home of a Christian family. This event helped to give him
that confidence in God which in after life the strongest tempests could not
shake. In the house of Cotta, Luther was introduced to a mode of life very
different from that which he had hitherto known. He there led an easy existence,
exempt from want and care. His mind became more serene, his disposition more
lively, and his heart more open. His whole being expanded to the mild rays of
charity, and began to beat with life, joy, and happiness. His prayers were more
ardent, and his thirst for knowledge more intense. He made rapid progress. To
literature and science he added the charms of art. Those who are designed by God
to act upon their contemporaries are themselves, in the first instance, seized
and carried along by all the tendencies of their age. Luther learned to play on
the flute and the lute. The latter instrument he often accompanied with his fine
counter voice, thus enlivening his heart in moments of sadness. He took pleasure
also in employing his notes to testify his gratitude to his adopted mother, who
was very fond of music. His own love of it continued to old age, and both the
words and the music of some of the finest anthems which Germany possesses are
his composition. Some have even been translated into our language.

Happy time for the young man! Luther always remembered it with emotion. Many
years after, a son of Conrad having come to study at Wittemberg, when the poor
scholar of Isenach had become the doctor of his age, he gladly received him at
his table and under his roof. He wished to pay back to the son part of what he
had received from the parents. It was while thinking of the Christian woman who
gave him food when all besides repulsed him, that he gave utterance to this fine
expression, “Earth has nothing gentler than the female heart in which piety
dwells.”

Luther was never ashamed of the days when, pressed by hunger, he was under the
necessity of begging for his studies and his maintenance. So far from this, he,
on the contrary, reflected with gratitude on the great poverty of his youth. He
regarded it as one of the means which God had employed to make him what he
afterwards became, and he felt thankful for it. The poor youths who were obliged
to follow the same course touched his heart. “Do not,” said he, “despise the
boys who sing before your houses, and ask ‘panem propter Deum,’ bread for the
love of God; I have done it myself. It is true that at a later period, my
father, with great love and kindness, kept me at the University of Erfurt,
maintaining me by the sweat of his brow; still I once was a poor beggar. And now
by means of my pen, I am come thus far, that I would not change situations with
the Grand Turk himself. Nay, more, were all the goods of the world piled up one
above another, I would not take them in exchange for what I have. And yet, I
should not be where I am, if I had not been at school and learned to write.”
Thus, in these first humble beginnings this great man traced the origin of his
fame. He fears not to remind us that that voice whose accents made the empire
and the world to tremble, had once begged a morsel of bread in the streets of a
poor city. The Christian takes pleasure in such recollections, as reminding him
that it is in God he must glory. The strength of his intellect, and the
liveliness of his imagination, soon enabled him to outstrip all his
fellow-students. His progress was particularly rapid in ancient languages,
eloquence, and poetry. He wrote essays and made verses. Lively, complaisant, and
what is called good-hearted, he was a great favourite with his masters and his
comrades.

Among the professors, he attached himself particularly to John Trebonius, a
learned man of pleasing manners, who showed youth those attentions which are so
well fitted to encourage them. Martin had remarked, that when Trebonius entered
the class, he took off his hat, and bowed to the students;—great condescension
in those pedantic times! This had pleased the young man, and made him feel that
he was not a mere cipher. The respect of the master had made the pupil rise in
his own estimation. The colleagues of Trebonius, who had not the same custom of
taking off their hats, having one day expressed their astonishment at his
extreme condescension, he replied, (and the reply made no less impression on
young Luther,) “Among these youths are men whom God will one day make
burgomasters, chancellors, doctors, and magistrates; and though you do not yet
see them with their badges of office, it is right, however, to show them
respect.” No doubt, the young student listened with pleasure to these words, and
even then, perhaps, saw himself with a doctor’s cap on his head.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 14: CHAPTER II
========================================================================

Scholasticism and the Classics—Luther’s Piety—Discovery—The
Bible—Sickness—Master of Arts—Conscience—Death of
Alexis—Thunderstorm—Providence—Adieus—Entrance into a Convent.

Luther had attained his eighteenth year. He had tasted the pleasures of
literature, and burning with eagerness to learn, he sighed after a university,
and longed to repair to one of those fountains of science, at which he might
quench his thirst for knowledge. His father wished him to study law, and already
saw him filling an honourable station among his fellow-citizens, gaining the
favour of princes, and making a figure on the theatre of the world. It was
resolved that the young student should repair to Erfurt.

Luther arrived at this university in the year 1501. Jadocus, surnamed the Doctor
of the Isenach, was then teaching the scholastic philosophy with much success.
Melancthon regrets that the only thing then taught at Erfurt should have been a
dialectics bristling with difficulties. He thinks that if Luther had found other
professors there, if he had been trained in the milder and calmer discipline of
true philosophy, it might have moderated and softened the vehemence of his
nature. The new scholar began to study the philosophy of the middle ages in the
writings of Occam, Scotus, Bonaventura, and Thomas Aquinas. At a later period he
had a thorough disgust for all this scholasticism. The very name of Aristotle,
pronounced in his hearing, filled him with indignation; and he even went the
length of saying, that if Aristotle was not a man, he would have no hesitation
in taking him for the devil. But his mind, in its eagerness for learning, stood
in need of better nourishment, and he began to study the splendid monuments of
antiquity, the writings of Cicero and Virgil, and the other classics. He was not
contented, like the common run of students, with committing the productions of
these writers to memory. He endeavoured, above all, to enter into their
thoughts; to imbue himself with the spirit which animated them; to appropriate
their wisdom; to comprehend the end of their writings; and enrich his
understanding with their weighty sentiments and brilliant images. He often put
questions to his professors, and soon outstripped his fellow students. Possessed
of a retentive memory and a fertile imagination, whatever he read or heard
remained ever after present to his mind, as if he had actually seen it. “So
shone Luther in his youth. The whole university,” says Melancthon, “admired his
genius.”2 But even at that period this young man of eighteen did not confine his
labours to the cultivation of his intellect. He had that serious thought, that
uplifted heart, which God bestows on those whom he destines to be his most
faithful servants. Luther felt that he was dependent on God—a simple, yet
powerful, conviction—the source at once of profound humility and great
achievements. He fervently invoked the Divine blessing on his labours. Each
morning he began the day with prayer, then he went to church, and on his return
set to study, losing not a moment during the course of the day. “To pray well,”
he was wont to say, “is more than the half of my study.”

Every moment which the young student could spare from his academical labours was
spent in the library of the university. Books were still rare, and he felt it a
great privilege to be able to avail himself of the treasures amassed in this
vast collection. One day (he had then been two years at Erfurt, and was twenty
years of age) he opens several books of the library, one after the other, to see
who their authors were. One of the volumes which he opens in its turn attracts
his attention. He has never before seen one like it. He reads the title, … it is
a Bible! a rare book, at that time unknown. His interest is strongly excited; he
is perfectly astonished to find in this volume any thing more than those
fragments of gospels and epistles which the Church has selected to be read
publicly in the churches every Sabbath day. Hitherto he had believed that these
formed the whole word of God. But here are so many pages, chapters, and books,
of which he had no idea! His heart beats as he holds in his hand all this
divinely-inspired Scripture, and he turns over all these divine leaves with
feelings which cannot be described. The first page on which he fixes his
attention tells him the history of Hannah and young Samuel. He reads, and his
soul is filled with joy to overflowing. The child whom his parents lend to
Jehovah for all the days of his life; the song of Hannah, in which she declares
that the Lord lifts up the poor from the dust, and the needy from the dunghill,
that he may set him with princes; young Samuel growing up in the presence of the
Lord; the whole of this history, the whole of the volume which he has
discovered, make him feel in a way he has never done before. He returns home,
his heart full. “Oh!” thinks he, “would it please God one day to give me such a
book for my own!” Luther as yet did not know either Greek or Hebrew; for it is
not probable that he studied these languages during the first two or three years
of his residence at the university. The Bible which had so overjoyed him was in
Latin. Soon returning to his treasure in the library, he reads and re-reads, and
in his astonishment and joy returns to read again. The first rays of a new truth
were then dawning upon him. In this way God has put him in possession of His
word. He has discovered the book of which he is one day to give his countrymen
that admirable translation in which Germany has now for three centuries perused
the oracles of God. It was perhaps the first time that any hand had taken down
this precious volume from the place which it occupied in the library of Erfurt.
This book, lying on the unknown shelves of an obscure chamber, is to become the
book of life to a whole people. The Reformation was hid in that Bible. This
happened the same year that Luther obtained his first academical degree, viz.,
that of Bachelor. The excessive fatigue which he had undergone in preparing for
his trials brought on a dangerous illness. Death seemed to be approaching, and
solemn thoughts occupied his mind. He believed that his earthly course was about
to terminate. There was a general lamentation for the young man. What a pity to
see so many hopes so soon extinguished! Several friends came to visit him in his
sickness; among others a priest, a venerable old man, who had with interest
followed the student of Mansfeld in his labours and academic life. Luther was
unable to conceal the thought which agitated him. “Soon,” said he, “I will be
called away from this world.” But the old man kindly replied, “My dear bachelor,
take courage; you will not die of this illness. Our God will yet make you a man,
who, in his turn, will console many other men. For God lays his cross on him
whom he loves, and those who bear it patiently acquire much wisdom.” These words
made a deep impression on the sick youth. When so near death he hears the lips
of a priest reminding him that God, as Samuel’s mother had said, lifts up the
miserable. The old man has poured sweet consolation into his heart and revived
his spirits; he will never forget him. “This was the first prediction the Doctor
heard,” says Mathesius, Luther’s friend, who relates the fact; “and he often
mentioned it.” It is easy to understand what Mathesius means by calling it a
prediction. When Luther recovered, something within him had undergone a change.
The Bible, his illness, and the words of the old priest, seemed to have made a
new appeal to him. As yet, however, there was nothing decided in his mind. He
continued his studies, and, in 1505, took his degree of Master of Arts, or
Doctor in Philosophy. The University of Erfurt was then the most celebrated in
Germany,—the others in comparison with it being only inferior schools. The
ceremony was, as usual, performed with great pomp. A procession with torches
came to do homage to Luther. The fête was superb, and all was joy. Luther,
encouraged, perhaps, by these honours, was disposed to devote himself entirely
to law, agreeably to his father’s wish. But God willed otherwise. While Luther
was occupied with other studies, while he began to teach the physics and ethics
of Aristotle, and other branches of philosophy, his heart ceased not to cry to
him that piety was the one thing needful, and that he ought above all to make
sure of his salvation. He was aware of the displeasure which God testifies
against sin; he remembered the punishments which he denounces against the
sinner; and he asked himself in fear, whether he was sure of possessing the
Divine favour. His conscience answered, No! His character was prompt and
decided; he resolved to do all that might be necessary to give him a sure hope
of immortality. Two events, which happened in succession, shook his soul, and
precipitated his determination.

Among his friends at the university was one named Alexis, with whom he was very
intimate. One morning it was rumoured in Erfurt that Alexis had been
assassinated. Deeply moved at the sudden loss of his friend, he puts the
question to himself—What would become of me were I called thus suddenly? The
question fills him with the greatest dismay. This was in the summer of 1505.
Luther, left at liberty by the ordinary recess of the university, resolved on a
journey to Mansfeld, to revisit the loved abodes of his infancy, and embrace his
parents. Perhaps he also wished to open his heart to his father, and sound him
as to the design which was beginning to form in his mind, and obtain a consent
to his embracing another calling. He foresaw all the difficulties which awaited
him. The indolent habits of the majority of priests displeased the active miner
of Mansfeld. Besides, ecclesiastics were little esteemed in the world; most of
them had but scanty incomes, and the father, who had made many sacrifices to
maintain his son at the university, and who saw him at twenty a public teacher
in a celebrated school, was not disposed to renounce the hopes which his pride
was cherishing.

We know not what passed during Luther’s visit at Mansfeld. Perhaps the decided
wish of his father made him afraid to open his heart to him. He again quitted
the paternal roof to go and take his seat on the benches of the university, and
had reached within a short distance of Erfurt, when he was overtaken by one of
those violent storms which are not unfrequent among these mountains. The thunder
bursts, and strikes close by his side. Luther throws himself on his knees. It
may be his hour is come, Death, judgment, and eternity, surround him with all
their terrors, and speak to him with a voice which he can no longer resist.
“Wrapt in agony, and in the terror of death,” as he himself describes it, he
makes a vow, if he is delivered from this danger to abandon the world, and give
himself entirely to God. After he had risen from the ground, still continuing to
see that death which must one day overtake him, he examines himself seriously,
and asks what he ought to do.3 The thoughts which formerly agitated him return
with full force. He has endeavoured, it is true, to fulfil all his duties. But
in what state is his soul? Can he appear with a polluted heart before the
tribunal of a God so greatly to be feared? He must become holy, and,
accordingly, he now thirsts for holiness as he had thirsted for science. But
where is it to be found? How shall he acquire it? The university has furnished
him with the means of satisfying his desire of knowledge. Who will extinguish
the agony, the flame which is consuming him? To what school of holiness must he
bend his steps? He will go into a cloister; the monastic life will save him. How
often has he heard tell of its power to transform a heart, to sanctify a sinner,
to make a man perfect! He will enter a monastic order. He will then become holy,
and in that way secure eternal life.

Such was the event which changed the calling and all the destinies of Luther. We
here recognise the finger of God. It was his mighty hand which threw down on the
high road this young Master of Arts, this candidate for the bar, this future
lawyer, in order to give an entirely new direction to his life. Rubianus, one of
Luther’s friends, wrote to him at a later period:—“Divine Providence had a view
to what you were one day to become, when, as you were returning from your
parents, the fire of heaven made you fall to the ground like another Paul, near
the town of Erfurt, and carrying you off from our society, threw you into the
Order of Augustine.” Analogous circumstances thus signalised the conversion of
Paul and Luther, the two greatest instruments which Divine Providence has
employed in the two greatest revolutions which have taken place upon the earth.

Luther again enters Erfurt. His resolution is immovable, and yet it is not
without a pang he is going to break ties which are dear to him. He gives no hint
to any one of his intentions. But one evening he invites his friends in the
university to a cheerful and frugal repast. Music once more enlivens their
social intercourse. It is Luther’s adieu to the world. Henceforth, instead of
those loved companions of pleasure and toil—monks; instead of those cheerful and
intellectual conversations—the silence of the cloister; instead of that
enchanting music—the grave notes of the tranquil chapel. God demands it; all
must be sacrificed. Yet, for this last time, once more the joys of youth. His
friends are full of glee. Luther even leads them on. But at the moment when they
are abandoning themselves to mirth and frolic, the young man becomes unable any
longer to restrain the serious thoughts which occupy his heart. He speaks … He
makes known his intention to his astonished friends, who endeavour, but in vain,
to combat it. That same night, Luther, afraid perhaps of importunate
solicitation, quits his lodgings, leaving behind him all his effects and all his
books, with the exception of Virgil and Plautus, (as yet he had no Bible.)
Virgil and Plautus! Epic and Comedy! singular representation of Luther’s mind.
In fact, there was in him a whole epic, a beautiful, splendid, and sublime poem;
but being naturally inclined to gayety, pleasantry, and broad humour, he mingled
more than one familiar trait with the solemn and magnificent groundwork of his
life.

Furnished with these two books he proceeds alone, in the dark, to the convent of
the Eremites of St. Augustine, and asks to be received. The door opens and
closes, and he is separated for ever from his parents, his fellow-students, and
the world. This took place on the 17th August 1505, when Luther’s age was
twenty-one years and nine months.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 15: CHAPTER III
========================================================================

His Father’s Anger—Pardon—Servile Employments—The Bag and the Cell—Courage—St.
Augustine—D’Ailly—Oceam—Gerson—The Bible—Hebrew and Greek—The
Hours—Asceticism—Agony—Luther during Mass—Agony—Useless Observances—Luther in a
Faint. At length he was with God. His soul was in safety. This holiness, so
earnestly longed for, he was now to find. At the sight of this young doctor, the
monks were all admiration, and extolled him for his courage and contempt of the
world. Luther, meanwhile, did not forget his friends. He wrote to take leave of
them and the world, and the next day despatched these letters, with the clothes
he had hitherto worn, and his diploma of Master of Arts, which he returned to
the university, that nothing might in future remind him of the world which he
had abandoned. His friends at Erfurt were thunderstruck. Must so distinguished a
genius go and hide himself in this monastic life—more properly, a kind of death?
In deep sorrow they hastened to the convent, in the hope of inducing Luther to
retrace the distressing step which he had taken; but all was useless. The gates
were closed, and a month passed before any one was permitted to see or speak to
the new monk.

Luther had hastened to acquaint his parents with the great change which had just
occurred in his life. His father was thunderstruck. He trembled for his son,—so
Luther himself informs us in his book on Monastic Vows, which he dedicated to
his father. His weakness, his youth, the ardour of his passions, everything, in
short, made him fear that after the first moment of enthusiasm, the indolence of
the cloister would make the youth fall either into despair, or into grievous
faults. He knew that this mode of life had proved fatal to many. Besides, the
counsellorminer of Mansfield had other views for his son. He was proposing a
rich and honourable marriage for him—and, lo! all his ambitious projects are in
one night overthrown by this imprudent action.

John wrote his son a very angry letter, in which, as Luther himself tells us, he
thou’d him whereas he had you’d him ever since he had taken his degree of Master
of Arts. He withdrew all his favour from him, and declared him disinherited of a
father’s affection. In vain did the friends of John Luther, and doubtless his
wife also, endeavour to mollify him; in vain did they say to him, “If you are
willing to make some sacrifice to God, let it be the best and dearest thing that
you have—your son—your Isaac.” The inexorable counsellor of Mansfeld would hear
nothing.

Some time after, (the statement is given by Luther in a sermon which he preached
at Wittemberg, 20th January 1544,) the plague broke out, and deprived John
Luther of two of his sons. On the back of these bereavements, while the father’s
heart was torn with grief, some one came and told him, “The monk of Erfurt also
is dead!” His friends took advantage of the circumstance to bring back the
father’s heart to the novice. “If it is a false alarm,” said they, “at least
sanctify your affliction by consenting sincerely to your son’s being a monk.”
“Well, well!” replied John Luther, his heart broken, and still half rebellious;
“and God grant him all success.” At a later period, when Luther, who had been
reconciled to his father, told him of the event which had led him to rash into
monastic orders,—“God grant,” replied the honest miner, “that what you took for
a sign from heaven may not have been only a phantom of the devil!” At this time
Luther was not in possession of that which was afterwards to make him the
Reformer of the Church. His entrance into the convent proves this. It was an
action done in the spirit of an age out of which he was soon to be instrumental
in raising the Church. Though destined to become the teacher of the world, he
was still its servile imitator. A new stone was placed on the edifice of
superstition by the very hand which was soon to overturn it. Luther was seeking
salvation in himself, in human practices and observances, not knowing that
salvation is wholly of God. He was seeking his own righteousness and his own
glory, and overlooking the righteousness and glory of the Lord. But what he as
yet knew not he soon afterwards learned. That immense change which substituted
God and His wisdom in his heart for the world and its traditions, and which
prepared the mighty revolution of which he was the most illustrious instrument,
took place in the cloister of Erfurt.

Martin Luther, on entering the convent, changed his name to that of Augustine.
The monks had received him with joy. It was no small satisfaction to their
self-love to see the university abandoned for a house of their order, and that
by one of the most distinguished teachers. Nevertheless, they treated him
harshly, and assigned him the meanest tasks. They wished to humble the doctor of
philosophy, and teach him that his science did not raise him above his brethren.
They thought, moreover, they would thus prevent him from spending his time in
studies from which the convent could not reap any advantage. The ci-devant
Master of Arts behoved to perform the functions of watchman, to open and shut
the gates, wind up the clocks, sweep the church, and clean up the rooms. Then
when the poor monk, who was at once porter, sacristan, and house-hold servant to
the cloister, had finished his task—“Cum sacco per civitatem”—“To the town with
the bag,” exclaimed the friars; and then, with his bread-bag on his shoulders,
he walked up and down over all the streets of Erfurt, begging from house to
house, obliged, perhaps, to present himself at the doors of those who had been
his friends or inferiors. On his return, he had either to shut himself up in a
low narrow cell, looking out on a plot only a few yards in extent, or to resume
his menial offices. But he submitted to all. Disposed by temperament to give
himself entirely to whatever he undertook, when he turned monk he did it with
his whole soul. How, moreover, could he think of sparing his body, or of having
regard to what might satisfy the flesh? That was not the way to acquire the
humility and holiness in quest of which he had come within the walls of the
cloister. The poor monk, worn out with fatigue, was eager to seize any moment
which he could steal from his servile occupations, and devote it to the
acquisition of knowledge. Gladly did he retire into a corner, and give himself
up to his beloved studies. But the friars soon found him out, gathered around
him, grumbled at him, and pushed him away to his labours, saying, “Along! along!
it is not by studying, but by begging bread, corn, eggs, fish, flesh, and money,
that a friar makes himself useful to his convent.” Luther submitted, laid aside
his books, and again took up his bag. Far from repenting of having subjected
himself to such a yoke, his wish was to bring it to a successful result. At this
period, the inflexible perseverance with which he ever after followed out the
resolutions which he had once formed, began to be developed. The resistance
which he made to rude assaults gave strong energy to his will. God exercised him
in small things that he might be able to stand firm in great things. Besides, in
preparing to deliver his age from the miserable superstitions under which it
groaned, it was necessary that he should feel the weight of them. In order to
empty the cup he behoved to drink it to the dregs. This severe apprenticeship,
however, did not last so long as Luther might have feared. The prior of the
convent, on the intercession of the university of which Luther was a member,
relieved him from the mean functions which had been imposed on him, and the
young monk resumed his studies with new zeal. The writings of the Fathers,
particularly those of Augustine, engaged his attention; the Commentary of this
illustrious doctor on the Psalms, and his treatise “On the Letter and the
Spirit,” being his special favourites. Nothing struck him more than the
sentiments of this Father on the corruption of the human will, and on Divine
grace. His own experience convincing him of the reality of this corruption, and
the necessity of this grace, the words of Augustine found a ready response in
his heart; and could he have been of any other school than that of Jesus Christ,
it had doubtless been the school of the doctor of Hippo. The works of Peter
D’Ailly and Gabriel Biel he almost knew by heart. He was struck with a remark of
the former—that had not the Church decided otherwise, it would have been much
better to admit that in the Lord’s Supper bread and wine are truly received, and
not mere accidents.

He likewise carefully studied the theologians, Occam and Gerson, who both
express themselves so freely on the authority of the popes. To this reading he
joined other exercises. In public discussions he was heard unravelling the most
complicated reasonings, and winding his way through labyrinths where others
could find no outlet. All who heard him were filled with admiration. But he had
entered the cloister, not to acquire the reputation of a great genius, but in
quest of the food of piety. These labours he accordingly regarded as
supernumerary. But the thing in which he delighted above all others was to draw
wisdom at the pure fountain of the word of God. In the convent he found a Bible
fastened to a chain, and was ever returning to this chained Bible. He had a very
imperfect comprehension of the Word, but still it was his most pleasant reading.
Sometimes he spent a whole day in meditating on a single passage; at other times
he learned passages of the Prophets by heart. His great desire was, that the
writings of the apostles and prophets might help to give him a knowledge of the
will of God, increase the fear which he had for his name, and nourish his faith
by the sure testimony of the Word.

Apparently at this period he began to study the Scriptures in the original
tongues, and thereby lay the foundation of the most perfect and the most useful
of his labours, the translation of the Bible. He used a Hebrew Lexicon which
Reuchlin had just published. His first guide was probably John Lange, a friar of
the convent, versed in Greek and Hebrew, and with whom he always maintained a
close intimacy. He also made great use of the learned Commentaries of Nicolas
Lyra, who died in 1340, and hence the saying of Pflug, afterwards Bishop of
Naumbourg, “Had not Lyra played the lyre, Luther had never danced.

Si Lyra non lyrasset, Lutherus non saltasset.” The young monk studied so closely
and ardently that he often omitted to say his Hours during two or three weeks.
Then becoming alarmed at the thought of having transgressed the rules of his
order, he shut himself up to make amends for his negligence, and commenced
conscientiously repeating all the omitted Hours, without thinking of meat or
drink. On one occasion his sleep went from him for seven weeks.

Earnestly intent on acquiring the holiness in quest of which he had entered the
cloister, Luther addicted himself to the ascetic life in its fullest rigour,
seeking to crucify the flesh by fastings, macerations, and vigils. Shut up in
his cell as in a prison, he struggled without intermission against the evil
thoughts and evil propensities of his heart. A little bread and a herring were
often all his food. Indeed, he was naturally very temperate. Often when he had
no thought of purchasing heaven by abstinence, have his friends seen him content
himself with the coarsest provisions, and even remain four days in succession
without eating or drinking.2 We have this on the testimony of a very credible
witness, Melancthon, and we may judge from it what opinion to form of the fables
which ignorance and prejudice have circulated concerning Luther’s intemperance.
At the period of which we treat there is no sacrifice he would have declined to
make, in order to become holy and purchase heaven. When Luther, after he had
become Reformer, says that heaven is not purchased, he well knew what he meant.
“Truly,” wrote he to George, Duke of Saxony, “truly I was a pious monk, and
followed the rules of my order more strictly than I can tell. If ever monk had
got to heaven by monkery, I had been that monk. In this all the monks of my
acquaintance will bear me witness. Had the thing continued much longer I had
become a martyr unto death, through vigils, prayer, reading, and other
labours.”4

We are touching on the period which made Luther a new man, and which, revealing
to him the immensity of the Divine love, fitted him for proclaiming it to the
world. The peace which Luther had come in search of he found neither in the
tranquillity of the cloister nor in monastic perfection. He wished to be assured
of his salvation; it was the great want of his soul, and without it he could
have no repose. But the fears which had agitated him when in the world, followed
him into his cell. Nay, they were even increased; the least cry of his heart
raising a loud echo under the silent vaults of the cloister. God had brought him
thither that he might learn to know himself, and to despair of his own strength
and virtue. His conscience, enlightened by the Divine word, told him what it was
to be holy; but he was filled with alarm at not finding, either in his heart or
his life, that image of holiness which he had contemplated with admiration in
the word of God; a sad discovery made by every man who is in earnest! No
righteousness within, no righteousness without, everywhere omission, sin,
defilement.… The more ardent Luther’s natural disposition was the more strongly
he felt the secret and unceasing resistance which human nature opposes to
goodness. This threw him into despair. The monks and theologians of the day
invited him to do works in order to satisfy the Divine justice. But what works,
thought he, can proceed from such a heart as mine! How should I be able with
works polluted in their very principle, to stand in presence of my holy Judge?
“I felt myself,” says he, “to be a great sinner before God, and deemed it
impossible to appease him by my merits.”

He was agitated, and, at the same time, gloomy, shunning the silly and coarse
conversation of the monks, who, unable to comprehend the tempests of his soul,
regarded him with astonishment, and reproached him for his gloom and
taciturnity. It is told by Cochlœus, that one day, when they were saying mass in
the chapel, Luther had come with his sighs, and stood amid the friars in sadness
and anguish. The priest had already prostrated himself, the incense had been
placed on the altar, the Gloria had been chanted, and they were reading the
Gospel, when the poor monk, no longer able to contain his agony, exclaimed, in a
piercing tone, while throwing himself on his knees, “Not I! not I!” Every one
was in amazement, and the service was for a moment interrupted. Perhaps Luther
thought he had heard himself reproached with something of which he knew he was
innocent; perhaps he meant to express his unworthiness to be one of those to
whom the death of Christ brought eternal life. Cochlœus says that they were
reading the passage of Scripture which tells of the dumb man out of whom Christ
expelled a demon. If this account is correct, Luther’s cry might have a
reference to this circumstance. He might mean to intimate that though dumb like
the man, it was owing to another cause than the possession of a demon. In fact,
Cochlœus informs us that the friars sometimes attributed the agonies of their
brother to occult commerce with the devil, and he himself is of the same
opinion. A tender conscience led Luther to regard the smallest fault as a great
sin. No sooner had he discovered it than he strove to expiate it by the severest
mortifications. This, however, had no other effect than to convince him of the
utter inefficacy of all human remedies. “I tormented myself to death,” says he,
“in order to procure peace with God to my troubled heart and agitated
conscience; but, surrounded with fearful darkness, I nowhere found it.” The acts
of monastic holiness which lulled so many consciences, and to which he himself
had recourse in his agony, soon appeared to Luther only the fallacious cures of
an empirical and quack religion. “At the time when I was a monk, if I felt some
temptation assail me, I am lost! said I to myself, and immediately resorted to a
thousand methods, in order to suppress the cries of my heart. I confessed every
day, but that did me no good. Thus oppressed with sadness, I was tormented by a
multiplicity of thoughts. ‘Look!’ exclaimed I, ‘there you are still envious,
impatient, passionate! It is of no use then, for you, O wretch, to have entered
this sacred order.’ ” And yet Luther, imbued with the prejudices of his day, had
from his youth up considered the acts, whose impotence he now experienced, as
sure remedies for diseased souls. What was he to think of the strange discovery
which he had just made in the solitude of the cloister? It is possible, then, to
dwell in the sanctuary, and still carry within oneself a man of sin! He has
received another garment, but not another heart. His hopes are disappointed.
Where is he to stop? Can it be that all these rules and observances are only
human inventions? Such a supposition appears to him at one time a suggestion of
the devil, and at another time an irresistible truth. Struggling alternately
with the holy voice which spoke to his heart, and with venerable institutions
which had the sanction of ages, Luther’s life was a continual combat. The young
monk, like a shade, glided through the long passages of the cloister, making
them echo with his sad groans. His body pined away and his strength left him; on
different occasions he remained as if he were dead.

Once, overwhelmed with sadness, he shut himself up in his cell, and for several
days and nights allowed no one to approach him. Lucas Edemberger, one of his
friends, feeling uneasy about the unhappy monk, and having some presentiment of
the state in which he actually was, taking with him several boys, who were
accustomed to chant in choirs, went and knocked at the door of his cell. No one
opens or answers. Good Edemberger, still more alarmed, forces the door. Luther
is stretched on the floor insensible, and showing no signs of life. His friend
tries in vain to revive him, but he still remains motionless. The young boys
begin to chant a soft anthem. Their pure voices act like a charm on the poor
monk, who had always the greatest delight in music, and he gradually recovers
sensation, consciousness, and life. But if music could for some moments give him
a slight degree of serenity, another and more powerful remedy was wanted to cure
him effectually—that soft and penetrating sound of the gospel, which is the
voice of God himself. He was well aware of this, and, accordingly, his sorrows
and alarms led him to study the writings of the apostles and prophets with
renewed zeal.3


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  CHAPTER 16: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

Pious Men in Cloisters—Staupitz—His Piety—His Visitation—Conversation—The Grace
of Christ—Repentance—Power of Sin—Sweetness of
Repentance—Election—Providence—The Bible—The Old Monk—The Remission of
Sins—Consecration Dinner—The Fête Dieu—Call to Wittemberg.

Luther was not the first monk who had passed through similar struggles. The
cloisters often shrouded within the obscurity of their walls abominable vices,
at which if they had been brought to light, every honest mind would have
shuddered; but they often also concealed Christian virtues which were there
unfolded in silence, and which, if they had been placed before the eyes of the
world, would have excited admiration. These virtues, possessed by those who
lived only with themselves and with God, attracted no attention, and were often
even unknown to the modest convent within which they were contained. Leading a
life known to God only, these humble solitaries fell occasionally into that
mystical theology, sad malady of noblest minds, which formerly constituted the
delight of the first monks on the banks of the Nile, and which uselessly
consumes those who fall under its influence.

Still, when one of these men happened to be called to an eminent station, he
there displayed virtues whose salutary influence was long and widely felt. The
candle being placed on the candlestick gave light to all the house. Several were
awakened by this light, and hence those pious souls, propagated from generation
to generation, kept shining like solitary torches at the very time when
cloisters were often little better than impure receptacles of the deepest
darkness. A young man had in this way attracted notice in one of the convents of
Germany. He was named John Staupitz, and was of a noble family in Misnia. From
his earliest youth, having a taste for science and a love of virtue, he longed
for retirement, in order to devote himself to literature; but soon finding that
philosophy and the study of nature could do little for eternal salvation, he
began to study theology, making it his special object to join practice with
knowledge. For, says one of his biographers, it is vain to deck ourselves with
the name of theologian, if we do not prove our title to the honourable name by
our life.2 The study of the Bible, and of the theology of St. Augustine, the
knowledge of himself, and the war which he, like Luther, had to wage against the
wiles and lusts of his heart, led him to the Redeemer, through faith in whom he
found peace to his soul. The doctrine of the election of grace had, in
particular, taken a firm hold of his mind. Integrity of life, profound science
and eloquence, combined with a noble appearance and a dignified address,
recommended him to his contemporaries. The Elector of Saxony, Frederick the
Wise, made him his friend, employed him on different embassies, and under his
direction founded the University of Wittemberg. This disciple of St. Paul and
St. Augustine was the first Dean of the Faculty of Theology in that school which
was one day to send forth light to enlighten the schools and churches of so many
nations. He attended the council of Lateran, as deputy from the Archbishop of
Salzbourg, became provincial of his order in Thuringia and Saxony, and
ultimately vicar-general of the Augustins all over Germany.

Staupitz lamented the corruption of manners and the errors in doctrine which
were laying waste the Church. This is proved by his writings on the love of God,
on Christian faith, on resemblance to Christ in his death, and by the testimony
of Luther. But he considered the former of these evils as greatly the worse of
the two. Besides, the mildness and indecision of his character, and his desire
not to go beyond the sphere of action which he thought assigned to him, made him
fitter to be the restorer of a convent than the Reformer of the Church. He could
have wished to confer important stations only on distinguished men, but not
finding them, he was contented to employ others. “We must plough with horses,”
said he, “if we can find them; but if we have no horses, we must plough with
oxen.”

We have seen the anguish and inward wrestlings to which Luther was a prey in the
convent of Erfurt. At this time a visit from the vicar-general was announced,
and Staupitz accordingly arrived to make his ordinary inspection. The friend of
Frederick, the founder of the University of Wittemberg, the head of the
Augustins, took a kind interest in the monks under his authority. It was not
long ere one of the friars of the convent attracted his attention. This was a
young man of middle stature, whom study, abstinence, and vigils, had so wasted
away, that his bones might have been counted. His eyes, which at a later period
were compared to those of the falcon, were sunken, his gait was sad, and his
looks bespoke a troubled soul, the victim of numerous struggles, yet still
strong and bent on resisting. His whole appearance had in it something grave,
melancholy, and solemn. Staupitz, whose discernment had been improved by long
experience, easily discovered what was passing in the soul of the young friar,
and singled him out from those around him. He felt drawn towards him, had a
presentiment of his high destiny, and experienced the interest of a parent for
his subaltern. He, too, had struggled like Luther, and could therefore
understand his situation. Above all, he could show him the way of peace, which
he himself had found. The information he received of the circumstances which had
brought the young Augustin to the convent increased his sympathy. He requested
the prior to treat him with great mildness, and availed himself of the
opportunities which his office gave him to gain the young friar’s confidence.
Going kindly up to him, he took every means to remove his timidity, which was
moreover increased by the respect and reverence which the elevated rank of
Staupitz naturally inspired. The heart of Luther, till then closed by harsh
treatment, opened at last, and expanded to the mild rays of charity. “As in
water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.” The heart of Staupitz
answered to the heart of Luther. The vicar-general understood him; and the monk,
in his turn, felt a confidence in Staupitz which no one had hitherto inspired.
He revealed to him the cause of his sadness, depicted the fearful thoughts which
agitated him, and then in the cloister of Erfurt commenced a conversation full
of wisdom and instruction.

“In vain,” said Luther despondingly to Staupitz; “in vain do I make promises to
God; sin has always the mastery.”

“O my friend,” replied the vicar-general, thinking how it had been with himself,
“more than a thousand times have I sworn to our holy God to live piously, and I
have never done so. Now I no longer swear; for I know I should not perform.
Unless God be pleased to be gracious to me for the love of Christ, and to grant
me a happy departure when I leave this world, I shall not be able with all my
vows and all my good works to stand before him. I must perish.” The young monk
is terrified at the thought of the Divine justice, and lays all his fears before
the vicar-general. The ineffable holiness of God, and his sovereign majesty,
fill him with alarm. Who will be able to support the day of his advent—who to
stand when he appeareth?

Staupitz resumes. He knows where he has found peace, and his young friend will
hear it. “Why torment thyself,” said he to him, “with all these speculations and
high thoughts? Look to the wounds of Jesus Christ, to the blood which he has
shed for thee; then thou shalt see the grace of God. Instead of making a martyr
of thyself for thy faults, throw thyself into the arms of the Redeemer. Confide
in him, in the righteousness of his life, and the expiation of his death. Keep
not back; God is not angry with thee; it is thou who art angry with God. Listen
to the Son of God, who became man in order to assure thee of the Divine favour.
He says to thee, ‘Thou art my sheep; thou hearest my voice; none shall pluck
thee out of my hand.’ ” But Luther does not here find the repentance which he
believes necessary to salvation. He replies, and it is the ordinary reply of
agonised and frightened souls, “How dare I believe in the favour of God, while
there is nothing in me like true conversion? I must be changed before he can
receive me.” His venerable guide shows him that there can be no true conversion
while God is dreaded as a severe Judge. “What will you say then,” exclaims
Luther, “of the many consciences, to which a thousand unsupportable observances
are prescribed as a means of gaining heaven?”

Then he hears this reply from the vicar-general, or rather his belief is, that
it comes not from man, but is a voice sounding from heaven. “No repentance,”
says Staupitz, “is true, save that which begins with the love of God and of
righteousness.3 What others imagine to be the end and completion of repentance
is, on the contrary, only the commencement of it. To have a thorough love of
goodness, thou must, before all, have a thorough love of God. If thou wouldest
be converted, dwell not upon all these macerations and tortures; ‘Love him who
first loved thee.’ ”

Luther listens and listens again. These consoling words fill him with unknown
joy, and give him new light. “It is Jesus Christ,” thinks he in his heart. “Yes,
it is Jesus Christ himself who consoles me so wonderfully by these sweet and
salutary words.”

These words, in fact, penetrated to the inmost heart of the young monk, like the
sharp arrow of a mighty man. In order to repent, it is necessary to love God.
Illumined with this new light, he proceeds to examine the Scriptures, searching
out all the passages which speak of repentance and conversion. These words, till
now so much dreaded, become, to use his own expressions, “an agreeable sport,
and the most delightful recreation. All the passages of Scripture which
frightened him seem now to rise up from all sides, smiling, and leaping, and
sporting with him.”

“Hitherto,” exclaims he, “though I carefully disguised the state of my heart,
and strove to give utterance to a love which was only constrained and
fictitious, Scripture did not contain a word which seemed to me more bitter than
that of repentance. Now, however, there is none sweeter and more agreeable. Oh!
how pleasant the precepts of God are, when we read them not only in books, but
in the precious wounds of the Saviour.”3

Meanwhile, Luther, though consoled by the words of Staupitz was still subject to
fits of depression. Sin manifested itself anew to his timorous conscience, and
then the joy of salvation was succeeded by his former despair. “O my sin! my
sin! my sin!” one day exclaimed the young monk in presence of the vicar-general,
in accents of the deepest grief. “Ah!” replied he, “would you only be a sinner
on canvass, and also have a Saviour only on canvass?” Then Staupitz gravely
added, “Know that Jesus Christ is the Saviour even of those who are great, real
sinners, and every way deserving of condemnation.”

What agitated Luther was not merely the sin which he felt in his heart. The
upbraidings of his conscience were confirmed by arguments drawn from reason. If
the holy precepts of the Bible frightened him, some of its doctrines likewise
increased his terror. Truth, which is the great means by which God gives peace
to man, must necessarily begin by removing the false security which destroys
him. The doctrine of election, in particular, disturbed the young man, and threw
him into a field which it is difficult to traverse. Must he believe that it was
man who, on his part, first chose God? or that it was God who first chose man?
The Bible, history, daily experience, and the writings of Augustine, had shown
him that always, and in every thing, in looking for a first cause, it was
necessary to ascend to the sovereign will by which every thing exists, and on
which every thing depends. But his ardent spirit would have gone farther. He
would have penetrated into the secret counsel of God, unveiled its mysteries,
seen the invisible, and comprehended the incomprehensible. Staupitz interfered,
telling him not to pretend to fathom the hidden purposes of God, but to confine
himself to those of them which have been made manifest in Christ. “Look to the
wounds of Christ,” said he to him, “and there see a bright display of the
purposes of God towards man. It is impossible to comprehend God out of Jesus
Christ. In Christ you will find what I am, and what I require, saith the Lord.
You can find him nowhere else, either in heaven or on the earth.” The
vicar-general went farther. He convinced Luther of the paternal designs of
Providence, in permitting the various temptations and combats which the soul has
to sustain. He exhibited them to him in a light well fitted to revive his
courage. By such trials God prepares those whom he destines for some important
work. The ship must be proved before it is launched on the boundless deep. If
this education is necessary for every man, it is so particularly for those who
are to have an influence on their generation. This Staupitz represented to the
monk of Erfurt; “It is not without cause,” said he to him, “that God exercises
you by so many combats; be assured he will employ you in great things as his
minister.”

These words, which Luther hears with astonishment and humility, fill him with
courage, and give him a consciousness of powers, whose existence he had not even
suspected. The wisdom and prudence of an enlightened friend gradually reveal the
strong man to himself. Nor does Staupitz rest here. He gives him valuable
directions as to his studies, exhorting him in future to lay aside the systems
of the school, and draw all his theology from the Bible. “Let the study of the
Scriptures,” said he, “be your favourite occupation.” Never was good advice
better followed. But what, above all, delighted Luther, was the present of a
Bible from Staupitz. Perhaps it was the Latin Bible bound in red leather, which
belonged to the convent, and which it was the summit of his desire to possess,
that he might be able to carry it about with him wherever he went, because all
its leaves were familiar to him, and he knew where to look for every passage. At
length this treasure is his own. From that time he studies the Scriptures, and
especially the Epistles of St. Paul, with always increasing zeal. The only
author whom he admits along with the Bible is St. Augustine. Whatever he reads
is deeply imprinted on his soul, for his struggles had prepared him for
comprehending it. The soil had been ploughed deep, and the incorruptible seed
penetrates far into it. When Staupitz left Erfurt, a new day had dawned upon
Luther.

Nevertheless, the work was not finished. The vicar-general had prepared it, but
its completion was reserved for a humbler instrument. The conscience of the
young Augustin had not yet found repose, and, owing to his efforts and the
stretch on which his soul had been kept, his body at length gave way. He was
attacked by an illness which brought him to the gates of death. This was in the
second year of his residence in the convent. All his agonies and terrors were
awakened at the approach of death. His own pollution and the holiness of God
anew distracted his soul. One day, when overwhelmed with despair, an old monk
entered his cell, and addressed him in consoling terms. Luther opened his heart
to him, and made him aware of the fears by which he was agitated. The
respectable old man was incapable of following him into all his doubts as
Staupitz had done; but he knew his Credo, and having found in it the means of
consoling his own heart, he could apply the same remedy to the young friar.
Leading him back to the Apostles’ Creed, which Luther had learned in infancy at
the school of Mansfield, the old monk good-naturedly repeated the article, “I
believe in the forgiveness of sins.” These simple words, which the pious friar
calmly repeated at this decisive moment, poured great consolation into the soul
of Luther. “I believe,” oft repeated he to himself on his sick-bed, “I believe
in the forgiveness of sins.” “Ah!” said the monk, “the thing to be believed is
not merely that David’s or Peter’s sins are forgiven; this the devils believe:
God’s command is, to believe that our own sins are forgiven.” How delightful
this command appeared to poor Luther! “See what St. Bernard says in his sermon
on the annunciation,” added the old friar; “the witness which the Holy Spirit
witnesseth with our spirit is, ‘Thy sins are forgiven thee.’ ” From this moment
light sprung up in the heart of the young monk of Erfurt. The gracious word has
been pronounced, and he believes it. He renounces the idea of meriting
salvation, and puts implicit confidence in the grace of God through Jesus
Christ. He does not see all the consequences of the principle which he has
admitted; he is still sincere in his attachment to the Church, and yet he has no
longer need of her. He has received salvation immediately from God himself; and
from that moment Roman Catholicism is virtually destroyed in him. He goes
forward and searches the writings of the apostles and prophets, for every thing
that may strengthen the hope which fills his heart. Each day he invokes help
from above, and each day also the light increases in his soul. The health which
his spirit had found soon restores health to his body, and he rises from his
sick-bed, after having, in a double sense, received a new life. During the feast
of Noel, which arrived shortly after, he tasted abundantly of all the
consolations of faith. With sweet emotion he took part in the holy solemnities,
and when in the middle of the gorgeous service of the day, he came to chant
these words:—“O beata culpa, quœ talem meruisti Redemptorem!” his whole being
said Amen, and thrilled with joy.

Luther had been two years in the cloister, and must now be consecrated priest.
He had received much, and he looked forward with delight to the prospect which
the priesthood presented of enabling him freely to give what he had freely
received. Wishing to avail himself of the occasion to be fully reconciled to his
father, he invited him to be present, and even asked him to fix the day. John
Luther, though not yet entirely appeased, nevertheless accepted the invitation,
and named Sabbath the 2nd May, 1507. In the list of Luther’s friends was the
vicar of Isenach, John Braun, who had been his faithful adviser when he resided
in that town. Luther wrote him on the 22nd April. It is the Reformer’s earliest
letter, and bears the following address:—“To John Braun, Holy and Venerable
Priest of Christ and Mary.” It is only in the two first letters of Luther that
the name of Mary occurs.

“God, who is glorious and holy in all his works,” says the candidate for the
priesthood, “having designed to exalt me exceedingly,—me, a miserable and every
way unworthy sinner, and to call me solely out of his abundant mercy, to his
sublime ministry, it is my duty in order to testify my gratitude for a goodness
so divine and so magnificent, (as far at least as dust can do it,) to fulfil
with my whole heart the office which is entrusted to me.” At length the day
arrived. The miner of Mansfield failed not to be present at the consecration of
his son.… He even gave him an unequivocal mark of his affection and generosity,
by making him a present of twenty florins on the occasion. The ceremony took
place, Jerome, Bishop of Brandebourg, officiating. At the moment of conferring
on Luther the right to celebrate mass, he put the chalice into his hand,
uttering these solemn words, “Accipe potestatem sacrificandi pro vivis et
mortuis”—“Receive power to sacrifice for the living and the dead.” Luther then
listened complacently to these words, which gave him the power of doing the very
work appropriated to the Son of God; but they afterwards made him shudder. “That
the earth did not swallow us both,” said he, “was more than we deserved, and was
owing to the great patience and long-suffering of the Lord.” The father
afterwards dined at the convent with his son, the friends of the young priest
and the monks. The conversation turned on Martin’s entrance into the cloister,
the friars loudly extolling it as one of the most meritorious of works. Then the
inflexible John, turning towards his son, said to him, “Hast thou not read in
Scripture to obey thy father and thy mother?” These words struck Luther; they
gave him quite a different view of the action which had brought him into the
convent, and for a long time continued to echo in his heart. By the advice of
Staupitz, Luther, shortly after his ordination, made short excursions on foot
into the neighbouring parishes and convents, both for relaxation, to give his
body the necessary exercise, and to accustom himself to preaching. The Fête Dieu
was to be celebrated with splendour at Eisleben, where the vicar-general was to
be present. Luther repaired thither. He had still need of Staupitz, and missed
no opportunity of meeting with this enlightened conductor who was guiding him
into the way of life. The procession was numerous and brilliant. Staupitz
himself carried the holy sacrament, and Luther followed in his sacerdotal dress.
The thought that it was truly Jesus Christ that the vicar-general was
carrying—the idea that Christ was there in person actually before him—suddenly
struck Luther’s imagination, and filled him with such amazement that he could
scarcely move forward. The perspiration fell from him in drops; he shook, and
thought he would have died with agony and terror. At length the procession
ceased. This host which had so awakened the fears of the monk was solemnly
deposited in the sanctuary, and Luther, as soon as he was alone with Staupitz,
threw himself into his arms, and told him of his consternation. Then the worthy
vicar-general, who had long known that Saviour who breaketh not the bruised
reed, said to him mildly, “It was not Jesus Christ, my brother. Jesus Christ
does not alarm—he consoles merely.”

Luther was not to remain hid in an obscure convent. The time had arrived for his
being transported to a larger theatre. Staupitz, with whom he was in constant
correspondence, was well aware that the soul of the young monk was too active to
be confined within so narrow a circle. He mentioned him to Frederick of Saxony,
and this enlightened prince, in 1508, probably towards the close of the year,
invited him to a chair in the university of Wittemberg. Wittemberg was a field
on which he was to fight hard battles; and Luther felt that his vocation was
there. Being required to repair promptly to his new post, he answered the appeal
without delay; and, in the hurry of his removal, had not even time to write him
whom he called his master and beloved father—John Braun, curate of Isenach. Some
months after, he wrote—“My departure was so sudden, that those I was living with
scarcely knew of it. I am far away, I confess: but the better part of me is
still with you.” Luther had been three years in the cloister of Erfurt.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 17: CHAPTER V
========================================================================

The University of Wittemberg—First Employment—Biblical
Lectures—Sensation—Preaching at Wittemberg—The Old Chapel—Impression. In the
year 1502, the Elector Frederick had founded a new university at Wittemberg,
declaring, in the act by which he confirmed it, that he and his people would
turn to it as towards an oracle. He thought not at the time that these words
would be so magnificently realised. Two men belonging to the opposition which
had been formed against the scholastic system, viz., Pollich of Mellerstadt,
doctor of medicine, law, and philosophy, and Staupitz, had great influence in
founding this school. The university declared St. Augustine its patron; and even
this choice was a presage of good. In possession of great freedom, and regarded
as a tribunal to which, in cases of difficulty, the supreme decision belonged,
this new institution, which was in every way fitted to become the cradle of the
Reformation, powerfully contributed to the development of Luther and his work.
On his arrival at Wittemberg, Luther repaired to the convent of Augustins, where
a cell was alloted him; for though professor, he ceased not to be monk. He was
appointed to teach philosophy and dialectics. In assigning him these
departments, regard had, no doubt, been had to the studies which he had
prosecuted at Erfurt, and to his degree of Master of Arts. Thus Luther, who was
hungering and thirsting for the word of life, saw himself obliged to give his
almost exclusive attention to the scholastic philosophy of Aristotle. He had
need of the bread of life which God gives to the world, and he must occupy
himself with human subtleties. How galling! How much he sighed! “I am well, by
the grace of God,” wrote he to Braun, “were it not that I must study philosophy
with all my might. Ever since I arrived at Wittemberg, I have eagerly desired to
exchange this study for that of theology: but,” added he, lest it should be
thought he meant the theology of the time, “the theology I mean is that which
seeks out the kernel of the nut, the heart of the wheat, and the marrow of the
bone. Howbeit God is God,” continues he, with that confidence which was the soul
of his life, “man is almost always deceived in his judgment; but he is our God,
and will conduct us by his goodness for ever and ever.” The studies in which
Luther was at this time obliged to engage were afterwards of great service to
him in combating the errors of the schoolmen.

Here, however, he could not stop. The desire of his heart must be accomplished.
The same power which formerly pushed him from the bar into the monastic life now
pushed him from philosophy towards the Bible. He zealously commenced the study
of ancient languages, especially Greek and Hebrew, that he might be able to draw
science and learning at the fountain-head. He was all his life an indefatigable
student. Some months after his arrival at the university he applied for the
degree of Bachelor in Divinity, and obtained it in the end of March 1509, with a
special injunction to devote himself to biblical theology, ad Biblia.

Every day at one, Luther had to lecture on the Bible,—a precious employment both
for the professor and his pupils—giving them a better insight into the divine
meaning of those oracles which had so long been lost both to the people and the
school.

He began his lectures with an exposition of the Psalms, and shortly after
proceeded to the Epistle to the Romans. It was especially when meditating upon
it that the light of truth entered his heart. After retiring to his quiet cell
he spent hours in the study of the Divine Word—the Epistle of St. Paul lying
open before him. One day, coming to the seventeenth verse of the first chapter,
he read these words of the prophet Habakkuk, “ The just shall live by faith.” He
is struck with the expression. The just, then, has a different life from other
men, and this life is given by faith. These words, which he receives into his
heart as if God himself had there deposited them, unveils the mystery of the
Christian life to him, and gives him an increase of this life. Long after, in
the midst of his numerous labours, he thought he still heard a voice saying to
him, “The just shall live by faith.”

Luther’s lectures, thus prepared, had little resemblance to those which had
hitherto been delivered. It was not a declamatory rhetorician, or a pedantic
schoolman that spoke; it was a Christian who had felt the power of revealed
truth—truth which he derived from the Bible, and presented to his astonished
hearers, all full of life, as it came from the treasury of his heart. It was not
a lesson from man, but a lesson from God. This novel exposition of the truth was
much talked of. The news spread far and wide, and attracted a great number of
foreign students to the recently founded university. Even some of the professors
attended the lectures of Luther, among others, Mellerstadt, often surnamed, “The
Light of the World.” He was the first rector of the university, and had
previously been at Leipsic, where he had vigorously combated the ridiculous
lessons of the schoolmen, and denying that “the light of the first day of
creation could be theology,” had maintained that this science ought to be based
on the study of literature. “This monk,” said he, “will send all the doctors to
the right about. He will introduce a new doctrine, and reform the whole Church,
for he founds upon the word of God; and no man in the world can either combat or
overthrow this word, even though he should attack it with all the weapons of
philosophy, the sophists, Scotists, Albertists, Thomists, and the whole
fraternity.”

Staupitz, who was the instrument in the hand of Providence to unfold the gifts
and treasures hidden in Luther, invited him to preach in the church of the
Augustins. The young professor recoiled at this proposal. He wished to confine
himself to his academic functions, and trembled at the thought of adding to them
that of preacher. In vain did Staupitz urge him. “No, no,” replied he, “it is no
light matter to speak to men in the place of God.” Touching humility in this
great Reformer of the Church! Staupitz insisted; but the ingenious Luther, says
one of his biographers, found fifteen arguments, pretexts, and evasions, to
excuse himself from this calling. The chief of the Augustins, still continuing
his attack, Luther exclaimed, “Ah! doctor, in doing this, you deprive me of
life. I would not be able to hold out three months.” “Very well,” replied the
vicar-general, “so be it in God’s name. For up yonder, also, our Lord has need
of able and devoted men.” Luther behoved to yield. In the middle of the public
square of Wittemberg was a wooden chapel, thirty feet long by twenty wide, whose
sides, propped up in all directions, were falling to decay. An old pulpit made
of fir, three feet in height, received the preacher. In this miserable chapel
the preaching of the Reformation commenced. God was pleased that that which was
to establish his glory should have the humblest origin. The foundation of the
church of the Augustins had just been laid, and until it should be finished this
humble church was employed. “This building,” adds the contemporary of Luther who
relates these circumstances, “may well be compared to the stable in which Christ
was born. It was in this miserable inclosure that God was pleased, so to speak,
to make his beloved Son be born a second time. Among the thousands of cathedrals
and parish churches with which the world abounded, there was then one only which
God selected for the glorious preaching of eternal life.”

Luther preaches, and every thing is striking in the new preacher His expressive
countenance, his noble air, his clear and sonorous voice, captivate the hearers.
The greater part of preachers before him had sought rather to amuse their
auditory than to convert them. The great seriousness which predominates in
Luther’s preaching, and the joy with which the knowledge of the gospel has
filled his heart, give to his eloquence at once an authority, a fervour, and an
unction which none of his predecessors had. “Endowed,” says one of his
opponents, “with a keen and acute intellect, and a retentive memory, and having
an admirable facility in the use of his mother tongue, Luther, in point of
eloquence, yielded to none of his age. Discoursing from the pulpit as if he had
been agitated by some strong passion, and suiting his action to his words, he
produced a wonderful impression on the minds of his hearers, and like a torrent,
carried them along whithersoever he wished. So much force, gracefulness, and
eloquence, are seldom seen in the people of the north.” “He had,” says Bossuet,
“a lively and impetuous eloquence, which hurried people away and entranced
them.” In a short time the little chapel could not contain the hearers who
crowded to it. The council of Wittemberg then made choice of Luther for their
preacher, and appointed him to preach in the town church. The impression which
he produced here was still greater. The power of his genius, the eloquence of
his diction, and the excellence of the doctrines which he announced, equally
astonished his hearers. His reputation spread far and wide, and Frederick the
Wise himself once came to Wittemberg to hear him.

Luther had commenced a new life. The uselessness of the cloister had been
succeeded by great activity. The liberty, the labour, the constant activity to
which he could devote himself at Wittemberg, completely restored his internal
harmony and peace. He was now in his place, and the work of God was soon to
exhibit its majestic step.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 18: CHAPTER VI
========================================================================

Journey to Rome—A Convent on the Pô—Sickness at Bologna—Remembrances in
Rome—Superstitious Devotion—Profaneness of the Clergy—Conversation—Disorders in
Rome—Biblical Studies—Pilate’s Stair—Influence on his Faith and on the
Reformation—The Gate of Paradise—Luther’s Confession.

Luther was teaching both in his academic chair and in the church, when his
labours were interrupted. In 1510, or, according to some, not till 1511 or 1512,
he was sent to Rome. Seven convents of his order having differed on certain
points with the vicar-general, the activity of Luther’s mind, the power of his
eloquence, and his talent for discussion, made him be selected to plead the
cause of these seven monasteries before the pope. This Divine dispensation was
necessary to Luther, for it was requisite that he should know Rome. Full of the
prejudices and illusions of the cloister, he had always represented it to
himself as the seat of holiness.

He accordingly set out and crossed the Alps, but scarcely had he descended into
the plains of rich and voluptuous Italy, than he found at every step subjects of
astonishment and scandal. The poor German monk was received in a rich convent of
Benedictines, situated upon the Pô in Lombardy. This convent had thirty-six
thousand ducats of revenue. Of these, twelve thousand were devoted to the table,
twelve thousand to the buildings, and twelve thousand to the other wants of the
monks. The gorgeousness of the apartments, the beauty of the dresses, and the
rarities of the table, all astonished Luther. Marble and silk, and luxury under
all its forms! How new the sight to the humble friar of the poor convent of
Wittemberg! He was astonished and said nothing, but when Friday came, how
surprised was he to see abundance of meat still covering the table of the
Benedictines! Then he resolved to speak out. “The Church and the pope,” said he
to them, “forbid such things.” The Benedictines were indignant at this reprimand
from the rude German, but Luther having insisted, and perhaps threatened to make
their disorders known, some of them thought that the simplest plan was to get
rid of their troublesome guest. The porter of the convent having warned him that
he ran a risk in staying longer, he made his escape from this epicurean
monastery, and arrived at Bologna, where he fell dangerously sick.3 Some have
seen in this sickness the effects of poison, but it is simpler to suppose that
it was the effect which a change of living produced in the frugal monk of
Wittemberg, whose principal food was wont to be bread and herrings. This
sickness was not to be unto death, but for the glory of God. Luther’s
constitutional sadness and depression again overpowered him. To die thus far
from Germany, under this burning sky in a foreign land, what a fate! The agonies
which he had felt at Erfurt returned with all their force. The conviction of his
sins troubled, while the prospect of the judgment-seat of God terrified him. But
at the moment when these terrors were at the worst, the passage of St. Paul
which had struck him at Wittemberg, “The just shall live by faith,” (Romans
1:17) presented itself to his mind, and illumined his soul as with a ray of
light from heaven. Revived and comforted, he soon recovered his health, and
resumed his journey to Rome, expecting he should there find quite a different
life from that of the Lombard convents, and impatient by the sight of Roman
holiness to efface the sad impressions which had been left upon his mind by his
residence on the Pô. At length, after a painful journey under the burning sky of
Italy in the beginning of summer, he drew near to the city of the seven hills.
His heart was moved, and his eyes looked for the queen of the world, and of the
Church. As soon as he obtained a distant view of the eternal city, the city of
St. Peter and St. Paul, and the metropolis of Catholicism, he threw himself on
the ground, exclaiming, “Holy Rome, I salute thee.”

Luther is in Rome; the professor of Wittemberg is in the midst of the eloquent
ruins of the Rome of the consuls and emperors—the Rome of the confessors and
martyrs. Here lived that Plautus and Virgil, whose works he had taken with him
into the cloister, and all those great men whose exploits had always caused his
heart to beat. He perceives their statues, and the wrecks of monuments which
attest their glory. But all this glory and all this power are past, and his foot
treads on their dust. At every step he calls to mind the sad forebodings of
Scipio shedding tears at the sight of Carthage in ruins, its burned palaces and
broken walls, and exclaiming, “Thus, too, will it be with Rome!” “And in fact,”
says Luther, “the Rome of the Scipios and Cæsars has been changed into a corpse.
Such is the quantity of ruins, that the foundations of the modern houses rest
upon the roofs of the old. “There,” added he, casting a melancholy look on the
ruins, “there were the riches and treasures of the world.” All this rubbish,
which he strikes with his foot, tells Luther, within the walls of Rome herself,
that what is strongest in the eyes of men is easily destroyed by the breath of
the Lord. But he remembers that with profane ashes holy ashes are mingled. The
burial-place of the martyrs is not far from that of the generals and triumphing
heroes of Rome, and Christian Rome, with her sufferings, has more power over the
heart of the Saxon monk than Pagan Rome with her glory. It was here the letter
arrived in which Paul wrote, “The just is justified by faith,” and not far off
is the Appii Forum and the Three Taverns. There was the house of Narcissus—here
the palace of Cæsar, where the Lord delivered the apostle from the mouth of the
lion. Oh, what fortitude these recollections give to the heart of the monk of
Wittemberg!

Rome then presented a very different aspect. The pontifical chair was occupied
by the warlike Julius II, and not by Leo X, as it has been said by some
distinguished historians of Germany, no doubt through oversight. Luther often
told an anecdote of this pope. When news was brought him of the defeat of his
army by the French before Ravenna, he was reading his Hours. He dashed the book
upon the ground, and said, with a dreadful oath, “Very well, so you have turned
Frenchman. Is this the way in which you protect your Church?” Then turning in
the direction of the country to whose aid he meant to have recourse, he
exclaimed, “Holy Switzer, pray for us.” Ignorance, levity, and dissoluteness, a
profane spirit, a contempt of all that is sacred, and a shameful traffic in
divine things; such was the spectacle which that unhappy city presented, and yet
the pious monk continued for some time in his illusions.

Having arrived about the feast of St. John, he hears the Romans about him
repeating a proverb which was then common among the people: “Happy,” said they,
“is the mother whose son says a mass on the eve of St. John.” “Oh! how I could
like to make my mother happy!” said Luther. The pious son of Margaret
accordingly sought to say a mass on that day, but could not; the press was too
great.

Ardent and simple-hearted, he went up and down, visiting all the churches and
chapels, believing all the lies that were told him, and devoutly performing the
requisite acts of holiness; happy in being able to do so many pious works, which
were denied to his countrymen. “Oh! how much I regret,” said the pious German to
himself, “that my father and mother are still alive. What delight I should have
had in delivering them from the fire of purgatory, by my masses, my prayers, and
many other admirable works.” He had found the light, but the darkness was still
far from being entirely banished from his understanding. His heart was changed,
but his mind was not fully enlightened. He possessed faith and love, but not
knowledge. It was work of no small difficulty to escape from the dark night
which had for so many ages covered the earth.

Luther repeatedly said mass at Rome, taking care to do it with all the unction
and dignity which the service seemed to him to require. But how grieved was the
heart of the Saxon monk, at seeing the profane formality of the Roman priests in
celebrating the sacrament of the altar. The priests, on their part, laughed at
his simplicity. One day when he was officiating, he found that at the altar next
to him seven masses bad been read before he got through a single one. “Get on,
get on,” cried one of the priests to him; “make haste, and send Our Lady back
her Son,” making an impious allusion to the transubstantiation of the bread into
the body and blood of Jesus Christ. On another occasion, Luther had only got as
far as the Gospel, when the priest beside him had finished the whole mass. “On,
on,” said his companion; “make haste, make haste; are ye ever to have done?” His
astonishment was still greater when, in the dignitaries of the Church, he
discovered the same thing that he had found in common priests. He had hoped
better of them.

It was fashionable at the papal court to attack Christianity, and, in order to
pass for a complete gentleman, absolutely necessary to hold some erroneous or
heretical opinion on the doctrines of the Church. When Erasmus was at Rome, they
had attempted to prove to him, by passages from Pliny, that there was no
difference between the soul of man and that of the brutes;3 and young courtiers
of the pope maintained that the orthodox faith was merely the result of crafty
inventions by some saints.

Luther’s employment, as envoy of the Augustins of Germany, caused him to be
invited to several meetings of distinguished ecclesiastics. One day, in
particular, he happened to be at table with several prelates, who frankly
exhibited themselves to him in their mountebank manners and profane
conversation, and did not scruple to commit a thousand follies in his presence,
no doubt believing him to be of the same spirit as themselves. Among other
things they related, in presence of the monk, laughing and making a boast of it,
how when they were saying mass, instead of the sacramental words, which should
transform the bread and wine into the Saviour’s flesh and blood, they parodied
them, and said, “

Panis es, et panis manebis; vinum es, et vinum manebis:” Bread thou art, and
bread wilt remain; wine thou art, and wine wilt remain. Then, continued they, we
raise the ostensorium, and all the people worship it. Luther could scarcely
believe his ears. His spirit, which was lively and even gay in the society of
his friends, was all gravity when sacred things were in question. He was
scandalised at the profane pleasantries of Rome. “I was,” said he, “a young
monk, grave and pious, and these words distressed me greatly. If they speak thus
in Rome at table, freely and publicly, thought I to myself, what will it be if
their actions correspond to their words, and if all, pope, cardinals, courtiers,
say mass in the same style? And I, who have devoutly heard so large a number
read, how must I have been deceived!”

Luther often mingled with the monks and the citizens of Rome. If some extolled
the pope and his court, the great majority gave free utterance to their
complaints and their sarcasms. What tales they told of the reigning pope, of
Alexander VI, and of many others! One day his Roman friends told him how Cæsar
Borgia, after having fled from Rome, was apprehended in Spain. When they were
going to try him he pleaded guilty in prison, and requested a confessor. A monk
having been sent, he slew him, and, wrapping himself up in his cloak, made his
escape. “I heard that at Rome, and it is quite certain,” said Luther. One day
passing through a public street which led to St. Peter’s, be stopped in
amazement before a statue, representing a pope under the form of a woman holding
a sceptre, clad in the papal mantle, and carrying an infant in her arms. It is a
girl of Mentz, said they to him, whom the cardinals chose for pope, and who had
a child at this spot. Hence no pope ever passes through this street. “I am
astonished,” said Luther, “how the popes allow the statue to remain.”3

Luther had expected to find the edifice of the church in strength and splendour,
but its gates were forced, and its walls consumed with fire. He saw the
desolations of the sanctuary, and started back in dismay. He had dreamed of
nothing but holiness, and he discovered nothing but profanation.

He was not less struck with the disorders outside the churches. “The Roman
police,” says he, “is strict and severe. The judge or captain every night makes
a round of the town on horseback, with three hundred attendants, and arrests
every person he finds in the streets. If he meets any one armed he hangs him up,
or throws him into the Tiber; and yet the city is full of disorder and murder,
whereas, when the word of God is purely and rightly taught, peace and order are
seen to reign, and there is no need of law and its severities.” “It is almost
incredible what sins and infamous actions are committed at Rome,” says he, on
another occasion; “one would require to see it and hear it in order to believe
it. Hence, it is an ordinary saying, that if there is a hell, Rome is built upon
it. It is an abyss from whence all sins proceed.”2 This sight made a strong
impression on Luther’s mind at the time, and the impression was deepened at a
later period. “The nearer we approach Rome the more bad Christians we find,”
said he several years after. “There is a common saying, that he who goes to
Rome, the first time seeks a rogue, the second time finds him, and the third
time brings him away with him in his own person; but now people are become so
skilful, that they make all the three journeys in one.” A genius, one of the
most unhappily celebrated, but also one of the most profound of Italy,
Machiavelli, who was living at Florence when Luther passed through it on his way
to Rome, has made the same remark: “The strongest symptom,” says he, “of the
approaching ruin of Christianity, (he means Roman Catholicism,) is, that the
nearer you come to the capital of Christendom the less you find of the Christian
spirit. The scandalous examples and crimes of the court of Rome are the cause
why Italy has lost every principle of piety and all religious sentiment. We
Italians,” continues the great historian, “are chiefly indebted to the Church
and the priests for our having become a set of profane scoundrels.” At a later
period Luther was fully aware how much he had gained by his journey “I would not
take a hundred thousand florins,” said he, “not to have seen Rome.”4 The journey
was also of the greatest advantage to him in a literary view. Like Reuchlin,
Luther availed himself of his residence in Italy to penetrate farther into the
knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. He took lessons in Hebrew from a celebrated
rabbi named Elias Levita; and thus, at Rome, partly acquired the knowledge of
that Divine word under whose blows Rome was destined to fall. But there was
another respect in which the journey was of great importance to Luther. Not only
was the veil torn away and the sardonic smile, and mountebank infidelity which
lurked behind the Roman superstitions, revealed to the future Reformer, but,
moreover, the living faith which God had implanted in him was powerfully
strengthened.

We have seen how he at first entered devotedly into all the vain observances, to
which, as a price, the Church has annexed the expiation of sins. One day, among
others, wishing to gain an indulgence which the pope had promised to every one
who should on his knees climb up what is called Pilate’s Stair, the Saxon monk
was humbly crawling up the steps, which he was told had been miraculously
transported to Rome from Jerusalem. But while he was engaged in this meritorious
act, he thought he heard a voice of thunder which cried at the bottom of his
heart, as at Wittemberg and Bologna, “The just shall live by faith.” These
words, which had already on two different occasions struck him like the voice of
an angel of God, resounded loudly and incessantly within him. He rises up in
amazement from the steps along which he was dragging his body. Horrified at
himself, and ashamed to see how far superstition has abased him, he flies far
from the scene of his folly. In regard to this mighty word there is something
mysterious in the life of Luther. It proved a creating word both for the
Reformer and for the Reformation. It was by it that God then said, “Let light
be, and light was.”

It is often necessary that a truth, in order to produce its due effect on the
mind, must be repeatedly presented to it. Luther had carefully studied the
Epistle to the Romans, and yet, though justification by faith is there taught,
he had never seen it so clearly. Now he comprehends the righteousness which
alone can stand in the presence of God; now he receives from God himself, by the
hand of Christ, that obedience which he freely imputes to the sinner as soon as
he humbly turns his eye to the God-Man who was crucified. This is the decisive
period in the internal life of Luther. The faith which has saved him from the
terrors of death becomes the soul of his theology, his fortress in all dangers,
the stamina of his discourse, the stimulant of his love, the foundation of his
peace, the spur of his labours, his consolation in life and in death. But this
great doctrine of a salvation which emanates from God and not from man, was not
only the power of God to save the soul of Luther, it also became the power of
God to reform the Church; a powerful weapon which the apostles wielded, a weapon
too long neglected, but at length brought forth in its primitive lustre from the
arsenal of the mighty God. At the moment when Luther stood up in Rome, all moved
and thrilling with the words which Paul had addressed fifteen centuries before
to the inhabitants of this metropolis, truth, till then a fettered captive
within the Church, rose up also, never again to fall.

Here we must let Luther speak for himself. “Although I was a holy and
irreproachable monk, my conscience was full of trouble and anguish. I could not
bear the words, ‘Justice of God.’ I loved not the just and holy God who punishes
sinners. I was filled with secret rage against him and hated him, because, not
satisfied with terrifying us, his miserable creatures, already lost by original
sin, with his law and the miseries of life, he still further increased our
torment by the gospel.… But when, by the Spirit of God, I comprehended these
words; when I learned how the sinner’s justification proceeds from the pure
mercy of the Lord by means of faith, then I felt myself revive like a new man,
and entered at open doors into the very paradise of God.2 From that time, also,
I beheld the precious sacred volume with new eyes. I went over all the Bible,
and collected a great number of passages which taught me what the work of God
was. And as I had previously, with all my heart, hated the words, ‘Justice of
God,’ so from that time I began to esteem and love them, as words most sweet and
most consoling. In truth, these words were to me the true gate of paradise.”

Accordingly, when called on solemn occasions to confess this doctrine, Luther
always manifested his enthusiasm and rude energy. “I see,” said he on a critical
occasion, “that the devil is incessantly attacking this fundamental article by
the instrumentality of his doctors, and that, in this respect, he cannot rest or
take any repose. Very well, I, Doctor Martin Luther, unworthy evangelist of our
Lord Jesus Christ, hold this article—that faith alone, without works, justifies
in the sight of God; and I declare that the emperor of the Romans, the emperor
of the Turks, the emperor of the Tartars, the emperor of the Persians, the pope,
all the cardinals, bishops, priests, monks, nuns, princes, and nobles, all men
and all devils, must let it stand, and allow it to remain for ever. If they will
undertake to combat this truth, they will bring down the flames of hell upon
their heads. This is the true and holy gospel, and the declaration of me, Doctor
Luther, according to the light of the Holy Spirit.… Nobody,” continues he, “has
died for our sins but Jesus Christ the Son of God. I repeat it once more; should
the world and all the devils tear each other, and burst with fury, this is,
nevertheless, true. And if it be He alone who takes away sin, it cannot be
ourselves with our works; but good works follow redemption, as the fruit appears
on the tree. This is our doctrine; and it is the doctrine which the Holy Spirit
teaches with all true Christians. We maintain it in the name of God. Amen.”

It was thus Luther found what all doctors and reformers, even the most
distinguished, had, to a certain degree at least, failed to discover. It was in
Rome that God gave him this clear view of the fundamental doctrine of
Christianity. He had come to the city of the pontiffs seeking the solution of
some difficulties relative to a monastic order, and he carried away in his heart
the safety of the Church.


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  CHAPTER 19: CHAPTER VII
========================================================================

Return—Doctor’s Degree—Carlstadt—Luther’s Oath—Principle of Reform—Luther’s
Courage—First Views of Reformation—The Schoolmen—Spalatin—Affair of Reuchlin.

Luther quitted Rome and returned to Wittemberg, his heart full of sadness and
indignation. Turning away his eyes in disgust from the pontifical city, he
directed them in hope to the Holy Scriptures, and to that new light of which the
word of God seemed then to give promise to the world. This word gained in his
heart all that the Church lost in it. He detached himself from the one and
turned towards the other. The whole Reformation was in that movement. It put God
where the priest had hitherto been.

Staupitz and the elector did not lose sight of the monk whom they had called to
the university of Wittemberg. It would seem that the vicar-general had a
presentiment of the work that was to be done in the world, and, feeling it too
much for himself, wished to urge on Luther. There is nothing more remarkable,
and perhaps more mysterious, than this personage, who is ever found hurrying on
the monk into the path to which God calls him; and who himself ultimately goes
and sadly ends his days in a convent. The preaching of the young professor had
made an impression on the prince. He had admired the vigour of his intellect,
the nervousness of his eloquence, and the exellence of his expositions. The
elector and his friend, wishing to advance a man who gave such high hopes,
resolved to make him take the honourable degree of Doctor of Divinity. Staupitz
repairing to the convent, led Luther into the garden, and there alone with him,
under a tree which Luther was afterwards fond of showing to his disciples,2 the
venerable father said to him—“It is now necessary, my friend, that you become a
doctor of the Holy Scriptures.” Luther recoiled at the idea; the high honour
frightened him. “Look out,” replied he, “for a more worthy person; as for me, I
cannot consent to it.” The vicar-general insisted, “The Lord God has much to do
in the Church, and has need at present of young and vigorous doctors.” These
words, adds Melancthon, were perhaps used half in jest, and yet the event
realised them. Many omens ordinarily precede great revolutions. It is not
necessary to suppose that Melancthon here speaks of miraculous predictions. The
most incredulous age—that which preceded our own—saw this sentiment verified.
There was no miracle; and yet how many presages announced the revolution with
which it closed?

“But I am weak and sickly,” replied Luther, “and have not long to live. Seek a
strong man.” “The Lord,” replied the vicar-general, “has work in heaven as well
as on the earth; dead or alive, God has need of you in his counsel.”

“None but the Holy Spirit can make a doctor of theology,” exclaimed the monk,
still more alarmed. “Do what your convent asks,” said Staupitz, “and what I,
your vicar-general, command. You promised to obey us.” “But my poverty,” replied
the friar. “I have no means of paying the expences attendant on such promotion.”
“Give yourself no trouble about them,” said his friend. “The prince has been
graciously pleased to take all the expences on himself.” Luther, thus urged, saw
it his duty to yield. This was towards the end of the summer of 1512. Luther set
out for Leipsic to receive the money necessary for his promotion from the
elector’s treasures. But according to the usages of courts, the money came not.
The friar getting impatient would have left, but monastic obedience detained
him. At length, on the 4th of October, he received fifty florins from Pfeffinger
and John Doltzig, and gave them his receipt for it, in which he designates
himself merely as a monk. “I, Martin,” says he, “friar of the order of
Eremites.” Luther hastened back to Wittemberg.

Andrew Bodenstein was then Dean of the Faculty of Theology, and is best known
under the name of Carlstadt, being that of his native town. He was also called
A. B. C. It was Melancthon who first gave him this designation, which is taken
from the three initial letters of his name. Bodenstein acquired the first
elements of literature in his native place. He was of a grave and gloomy temper,
perhaps inclined to jealousy, and of a restless intellect, eagerly bent,
however, on acquiring knowledge, and endowed with great ability. He attended
different universities in order to increase his acquirements, and studied
theology even at Rome. On his return from Italy into Germany he established
himself at Wittemberg, and became doctor in divinity. “At this period,” says he
himself afterwards, “I had not read the Holy Scriptures.” This account gives a
very just idea of what the theology of that day was. Carlstadt, besides being a
professor, was a canon and archdeacon. This is the person who was at a later
period to make a rent in the Reformation. In Luther at that time, he only saw an
inferior, but the Augustin soon became an object of jealousy to him. “I am not
willing,” said he one day, “to be a smaller man than Luther.”

3 When Carlstadt conferred the highest university degree on his future rival, he
was far from foreseeing the celebrity which the young professor was destined to
obtain. On the 18th of October, 1512, Luther was admitted a licentiate in
theology, and took the following oath:—“I swear to defend evangelical truth by
every means in my power.” The following day, Bodenstein, in presence of a
numerous assembly, formally delivered to him the insignia of doctor of theology.
He was made Biblical doctor, not doctor of sentences, and in this way was called
to devote himself to the study of the Bible, and not to that of human
tradition.5 The oath, then, which he took was, as he relates, to his
well-beloved Holy Scripture. He promised to preach it faithfully, to teach it
purely, to study it during his whole life, and to defend it by discussion and by
writing, as far as God should enable him to do so. This solemn oath was Luther’s
call to be the Reformer. In laying it upon his conscience freely to seek, and
boldly to announce Christian truth, this oath raised the new doctor above the
narrow limits to which his monastic vow might perhaps have confined him. Called
by the university and by his sovereign, in the name of the emperor, and of the
See of Rome itself, and bound before God, by the most solemn oath, he was
thenceforth the intrepid herald of the word of life. On this memorable day,
Luther was dubbed knight of the Bible.

Accordingly, this oath taken to the Holy Scriptures, may be regarded as one of
the causes of the renovation of the Church. The infallible authority of the word
of God alone was the first and fundamental principle of the Reformation. All the
reformations in detail which took place at a later period, as reformations in
doctrine, in manners, in the government of the Church, and in worship, were only
consequences of this primary principle. One is scarcely able at the present time
to form an idea of the sensation produced by this elementary principle, which is
so simple in itself, but which had been lost sight of for so many ages. Some
individuals of more extensive views than the generality, alone foresaw its
immense results. The bold voices of all the Reformers soon proclaimed this
powerful principle, at the sound of which Rome is destined to crumble
away:—“Christians, receive no other doctrines than those which are founded on
the express words of Jesus Christ, his apostles, and prophets. No man, no
assembly of doctors, are entitled to prescribe new doctrines.” The situation of
Luther was changed. The call which the Reformer had received became to him like
one of these extraordinary calls which the Lord addressed to the prophets under
the Old Dispensation, and to the apostles under the New. The solemn engagement
which he undertook made so deep an impression on his mind, that, in the sequel,
the remembrance of this oath was sufficient to console him amid the greatest
dangers and the sharpest conflicts. And when he saw all Europe agitated and
shaken by the word which he had announced; when it seemed that the accusations
of Rome, the reproaches of many pious men, and the doubts and fears of his own
easily agitated heart, would make him hesitate, fear, and give way to despair,
he called to mind the oath which he had taken, and remained firm, tranquil, and
full of joy. “I have advanced in the name of the Lord,” said he, on a critical
occasion, “and I have put myself into his hands. His will be done. Who asked him
to make me a doctor? If He made me, let him sustain me; or if he repents of
having made me, let Him depose me!… This tribulation terrifies me not. I seek
one thing only, and it is to have the Lord favourable to me in all that he calls
me to do.” Another time he said, “He who undertakes any thing without a divine
call, seeks his own glory; but I, Doctor Martin Luther, was compelled to become
a doctor. Papism sought to stop me in the discharge of my duty, and you see what
has happened to it; and still worse will happen. They will not be able to defend
themselves against me. I desire, in the name of the Lord, to tread upon the
lions, and trample under foot the dragons and vipers. This will commence during
my life, and be finished after my death.” From the hour when he took the oath
Luther sought the truth solely for itself and for the Church. Still deeply
impressed with recollections of Rome, he saw indistinctly before him a course
which he determined to pursue with all the energy of his soul. The spiritual
life which had hitherto been manifested within him was now manifested outwardly.
This was the third period of his development. His entrance into the convent had
turned his thoughts towards God: the knowledge of the forgiveness of sins and of
the righteousness of faith, had emancipated his soul; and his doctor’s oath gave
him that baptism of fire by which he became the Reformer of the Church. His
thoughts were soon directed in a general way to the subject of reformation. In a
discourse which he had written apparently with a view to its being announced by
the Provost of Litzkau, at the Council of Lateran, he affirmed that the
corruption of the world was occasioned by the priests, who, instead of preaching
the pure word of God, taught so many fables and traditions. According to him the
word of life alone had power to accomplish the spiritual regeneration of man.
Hence, even at this period, he made the salvation of the world depend on the
re-establishment of sound doctrine, and not on a mere reformation of manners.
Luther was not perfectly consistent with himself; he entertained contradictory
opinions; but a powerful intellect was displayed in all his writings. He boldly
broke the links by which the systems of the schools chained down human thought,
passed beyond the limits to which past ages had attained, and formed new paths
for himself. God was in him. The first opponents whom he attacked were those
famous schoolmen whom he had so thoroughly studied, and who then reigned as
sovereigns in all universities. He accused them of Pelagianism; and, forcibly
assailing Aristotle, the father of the school, and Thomas Aquinas, undertook to
tumble both of them from the throne on which they sat, the one ruling
philosophy, and the other theology. “Aristotle, Porphyry, the theologians of
sentences,” (the schoolmen,) wrote he to Lange, “are the lost studies of our
age.2 There is nothing I more ardently long for than to expose this player, who
has sported with the Church by wrapping himself up in a Greek mask, and to make
his disgrace apparent to all.” In all public disputations he was heard to say,
“the writings of the apostles and prophets are more certain and more sublime
than all the sophisms and all the theology of the school.” Such sayings were
new, but people gradually became accustomed to them. About a year after he could
triumphantly write—“God works. Our theology and St. Augustine make wonderful
progress, and reign in our university. Aristotle is on the decline, and is
already tottering to his speedy and eternal overthrow. The lessons on the
sentences are admirable for producing a yawn. No man can hope to have an
audience if he does not profess Biblical theology.” Happy the university to
which such a testimony can be given. At the same time that Luther attacked
Aristotle, he took the part of Erasmus and Reuchlin against their enemies. He
entered into communication with these great men and others of the learned, such
as Pirckheimer, Mutian, and Hütten, who belonged more or less to the same party.
At this period he formed another friendship also, which was of great importance
to him during his whole life.

There was then at the court of the elector a man distinguished for wisdom and
candour, named George Spalatin. Born at Spalatus or Spalt, in the bishopric of
Eichstadt, he had at first been curate of the village of Hohenkirch, near the
forest of Thuringia, and was afterwards selected by Frederick the Wise to be his
secretary and chaplain, and also tutor to his nephew, John Frederick, who was
one day to wear the electoral crown. Spalatin retained his simplicity in the
midst of the court. He appeared timid on the eve of great events, circumspect
and prudent like his master, when contrasted with the impetuous Luther, with
whom he was in daily correspondence. Like Staupitz he was made for peaceful
times. Such men are necessary, somewhat resembling those delicate substances in
which we wrap up jems and trinkets to protect them from injury in travelling.
They seem useless, and yet without them the precious jewels would have been
broken and destroyed. Spalatin was not fitted to do great things, but he
faithfully and unostentatiously acquitted himself of the task which had been
assigned to him. He was at first one of the principal assistants of his master
in collecting those relics of saints, of which Frederick was long an amateur,
but gradually, along with the prince, turned toward the truth. The faith which
was then re-appearing in the Church did not take the firm hold of him that it
did of Luther. He proceeded at a slower pace. He became Luther’s friend at
court, the minister through whom all affairs between the Reformer and the
princes were transacted, the mediator between the Church and the State. The
elector honoured Spalatin with his friendship; when on a journey they always
travelled in the same carriage.2 In other respects, the air of the court often
half suffocated the good chaplain. He took fits of melancholy, and would have
liked to quit all his honours, and be again a simple pastor in the woods of
Thuringia; but Luther consoled him, and exhorted him to remain firm at his post.
Spalatin acquired general esteem; the princes and the learned of his time
testifying the sincerest regard for him. Erasmus said, “I inscribe the name of
Spalatin not only among those of my principal friends, but also amongst those of
my most venerated patrons; and this not on paper but on my heart.” The affair of
Reuchlin and the monks was then making a great noise in Germany. The most pious
men were often at a loss as to the party which they ought to embrace; for the
monks wished to destroy Jewish books which contained blasphemies against Christ.
The doctor of Wittemberg being now in high repute, the elector ordered his
chaplain to consult him on this subject. The following is Luther’s reply. It is
the first letter which he addressed to the preacher of the court.

“What shall I say? These monks pretend to drive out Beelzebub, but not by the
finger of God. For this I cease not to lament and groan. We Christians begin to
be wise abroad, and we are void of sense at home. On all the places of Jerusalem
are blasphemies a hundred times worse than those of the Jews. The world is
filled with spiritual idols. Inspired with a holy zeal, we should put away and
destroy these internal enemies, whereas we leave the matter which is most
pressing; the devil himself persuading us to abandon our own business at the
same time that he prevents us from amending what belongs to others.”


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  CHAPTER 20: CHAPTER VIII
========================================================================

Faith—Popular Declamations—Academical Instruction—Moral Purity of Luther—German
Theology or Mysticism—The Monk Spenlein—Justification by Faith—Luther on
Erasmus—Faith and Works—Erasmus—Necessity of Works—Practice of Works.

Luther did not lose himself in this quarrel. Living faith in Christ filled his
heart and his life. “In my heart,” said he, “faith in my Lord Jesus Christ
reigns sole, and sole ought to reign. He alone is the beginning, the middle, and
the end, of all the thoughts which occupy my mind night and day.” He was always
heard with admiration when he spoke of this faith in Christ, whether in the
professor’s chair or in the church. His lessons diffused light, and men were
astonished at not having sooner perceived truths which in his mouth appeared so
evident. “The desire of justifying ourselves,” said he, “is the source of all
anguish of heart, whereas he who receives Jesus Christ as a Saviour has peace,
and not only peace, but purity of heart. Sanctification of the heart is entirely
a fruit of faith; for faith is in us a Divine work, which changes us, and gives
us a new birth, emanating from God himself. It kills Adam in us by the Holy
Spirit, which it communicates to us, giving us a new heart, and making us new
men. “It is not by hollow speculation,” exclaimed he again, “but by this
practical method that we obtain a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ.”2 At this
time Luther preached discourses on the Ten Commandments, which have come down to
us under the name of Popular Declamations. Undoubtedly there are errors in them;
for Luther himself was enlightened only by degrees. “The path of the just is
like the shining light, which shineth more and more unto the perfect day.” But
in these discourses what truth! what simplicity! what eloquence! How easy to
conceive the effect which the new preacher must have produced upon his audience
and his age! We will quote only one passage taken from the commencement.

Luther goes up into the pulpit of Wittemberg, and gives out these words, “Thou
shalt have no other god before me.” Then addressing himself to the people who
filled the church, he says, “All the sons of Adam are idolators, and guilty of
violating this First Commandment.” This strange assertion no doubt surprises his
hearers. He must therefore justify it, and accordingly proceeds:—“There are two
kinds of idolatry, the one without, the other within.

“The one without is, when man worships wood and stone, beasts and stars.

“The one within is, when man, fearing punishment or seeking his ease, does not
give worship to the creature, but loves it internally, and confides in it.

“What religion is this? You do not bend the knee before riches and honours, but
you offer them your heart, the noblest part of you. Ah! you worship God with the
body, and with the spirit you worship the creature.

“This idolatry reigns in every man until he is cured of it freely by the faith
which is in Jesus Christ.

“And how is this cure performed?

“In this way. Faith in Christ strips you of all confidence in your own wisdom,
your own righteousness, your own strength. It tells you that if Christ had not
died for you, and so saved you, neither yourself nor any creature could have
done it. Then you learn to despise all those things which remained useless to
you.

“There now remains to you only Jesus; Jesus alone; Jesus fully sufficient for
your soul. No longer having any hopes in the creatures, you have now Christ
only, in whom you hope all, and whom you love above all. Now Jesus is the sole,
the only, the true God. When you have him for God you have no longer other
gods.”

It is thus Luther shows how, by the gospel, the soul is brought back to God its
sovereign good, agreeably to the words of Jesus Christ, “I am the way; no man
cometh unto the Father but by me.” The man who speaks thus to his age is not
merely desirous to overthrow some abuses; he is first of all desirous to
establish true religion. His work is not negative merely—it is primarily
positive.

Luther afterwards directs his discourse against the superstitions with which
Christendom then abounded, against signs and mysterious characters, observations
of certain days and certain months, familiar demons, ghosts, the influence of
the stars and wizards, metamorphoses, incubuses and succubuses, the patronage of
saints, etc. etc. He attacks these idols one after the other, and vigorously
casts down these false gods. But it was at the university especially, in
presence of enlightened youths, eager for truth, that Luther laid open all the
treasures of the word of God. “His mode of explaining the Scriptures,” says his
illustrious friend, Melancthon, “was such, that in the judgment of all pious and
enlightened men it was as if a new light had risen upon doctrine after a long
dark night. He pointed out the difference between the Law and the Gospel. He
refuted the error then prevalent in churches and schools, that men merit the
forgiveness of sins by their own works, and are rendered righteous before God by
means of external discipline. He thus brought back the hearts of men to the Son
of God. Like John the Baptist, he pointed to the Lamb of God, who had taken away
the sins of the world. He explained how sins are pardoned freely for the sake of
the Son of God, and how man receives the blessing through faith. He made no
change in ceremonies; on the contrary, the established discipline had not, in
his order a more faithful observer and defender. But he laboured more and more
to make all comprehend the great and essential doctrines of conversion, of the
forgiveness of sins, of faith, and the true consolation which is to be found in
the cross. The pious were charmed and penetrated with the sweetness of this
doctrine, while the learned received it gladly.2 One would have said that
Christ, the apostles and prophets, were coming forth from darkness and a
loathsome dungeon.” The firmness with which Luther fortified himself by
Scripture gave great authority to his teaching, while other circumstances added
to his power. His life corresponded to his words—his discourses were not merely
from the life, they came from the heart, and were exemplified in all his
conduct. And when the Reformation burst forth many influential men, who were
much grieved at seeing the rents that were made in the Church, won over by the
Reformer’s purity of conduct, and his admirable talents, not only did not oppose
him, but even embraced the doctrine to which his works bore testimony. The more
they loved Christian virtue the more they inclined to the Reformer. All honest
theologians were in his favour.2 Such is the testimony of those who knew him, in
particular of Melancthon, the wisest man of his age, and Erasmus, Luther’s
celebrated opponent. Yet prejudice has dared to speak of his debauchery.
Wittemberg was changed by this preaching of faith, and became the focus of a
light which was soon to illumine Germany, and diffuse itself over all the
Church. In 1516, Luther published a treatise by an anonymous mystic theologian,
(probably Ebland, priest at Frankfort,) entitled German Theology, wherein the
author shows how man may attain perfection by the three methods of purification,
illumination, and communion. Luther never plunged into mystical theology, but he
received a salutary impression from it. It confirmed him in the disgust which he
felt for dry scholastics—in his contempt for the works and observances so much
dwelt upon by the Church—in his conviction of man’s spiritual impotence, and of
the necessity of grace, and in his attachment to the Bible. “To the schoolmen,”
wrote he to Staupitz, “I prefer the Mystics and the Bible;” thus placing the
Mystics by the side of the inspired writers. Perhaps the German Theology also
assisted him in forming a sounder idea of the sacraments, and especially of the
mass. For the author of that work insists that the Eucharist gives Christ to
man, but does not offer Christ to God. Luther accompanied this publication with
a preface, in which he declared, that next to the Bible and St. Augustine, there
was no book he had ever met with, from which he had learned more respecting God,
Christ, man, and all things. Already several doctors had begun to inveigh
against the Professors of Wittemberg, and to accuse them of innovation. “One
would suppose,” continues Luther, “that there never were men before us who
taught as we do; yea, verily, there were. But the wrath of God, which our sins
have deserved, did not permit us to see them, and to hear them. For a long time
the universities kept the word of God lying in a corner. Let them read this
book, and then tell me if our theology is new; for this book is not new.” But if
Luther took all the good that was in mystical theology, he took not the bad that
was in it. The great error in mysticism is, to overlook a free salvation. We are
going to see a remarkable example of the purity of Luther’s faith.

Luther, possessed of a tender and affectionate heart, was desirous to see those
whom he loved in possession of the light which had guided him into the paths of
peace; and availed himself of all the opportunities which he had, as professor,
preacher, and monk, as well as of his extensive correspondence, to communicate
his treasure to others. One of his old brethren of the convent of Erfurt, the
monk George Spenlein, was then in the convent of Memmingen. After having spent
some time at Wittemberg, Spenlein had asked the doctor to sell different
articles which he had left, viz., a tunic of Brussels cloth, a work of a doctor
of Isenach, and a monk’s frock. Luther carefully executed this commission. “I
have received,” said he to Spenlein, in a letter, 7th April 1516, “a florin for
the tunic, half a florin for the book, and a florin for the frock, and have
remitted the whole to the father-vicar,” to whom Spenlein owed three florins.
But Luther passes quickly from this account of monastic spoils to a more
important subject.

“I should like much,” says he to friar George, “to know how it is with your
soul. Is it not weary of its own righteousness? does it not breathe at length
and confide in the righteousness of Christ? In our day pride seduces many,
especially those who do their utmost to become righteous. Not comprehending the
righteousness which is freely given us of God in Christ Jesus, they would stand
before him by their merits. But that cannot be. When you lived with us you were
in this error, as I also was. I am still constantly fighting with it; and have
not yet completely triumphed.

“O my dear brother, learn to know Christ and Christ crucified Learn to sing unto
him a new song; to despair of thyself, and say, ‘Thou, O Lord Jesus! thou art my
righteousness, and I am thy sin! Thou hast taken what is mine, and given me what
is thine. What thou wert not thou hast become, in order that what I was not I
might become.’ Take care, O my dear George, not to pretend to such a purity as
will make you unwilling to acknowledge yourself a sinner; for Christ dwells in
sinners only. He came down from heaven, where he dwelt among the righteous, that
he might dwell also among sinners. Meditate carefully on this love of Christ,
and thou wilt derive ineffable blessing from it. If our labours and our
afflictions could give us peace of conscience, why should Christ have died? Thou
wilt find peace only in him, by despairing of thyself and of thy works, and
learning with what love he opens his arms to thee, takes upon him all thy sins,
and gives thee all his righteousness.”

Thus the powerful doctrine which had already saved the world in the days of the
Apostles, and which was to save it a second time in the days of the Reformers,
was expounded by Luther with force and clearness. Stretching over numerous ages
of ignorance and superstition, he here shook hands with St. Paul.

Spenlein was not the only person whom he sought to instruct in this fundamental
doctrine. He felt uneasy at the little truth which he discovered in this respect
in the writings of Erasmus. It was of importance to enlighten a man whose
authority was so great, and whose genius was so admirable. But how was he to do
it? His friend at court, the elector’s chaplain, was respected by Erasmus; and
it is to him Luther addresses himself. “My dear Spalatin, the thing which
displeases me in Erasmus, that man of vast erudition, is, that by the
righteousness of works or of the law, of which the apostle speaks, he
understands the fulfilment of the ceremonial law. The justification of the law
consists not in ceremonies only, but in all the works of the Decalogue. When
these works are performed without faith in Christ, they may, it is true, make
Fabriciuses, Reguluses, and other men of strict integrity in the eyes of the
world, but then they as little deserve to be called righteousness, as the fruit
of a medlar to be called a fig. For we do not become righteous, as Aristotle
pretends, by doing works of righteousness; but when we have become righteous we
do such works. The man must first be changed, and then the works. Abel was first
pleasing to God, and then his sacrifice.” Luther continues, “I pray you, fulfil
the duty of a friend and of a Christian, by making Erasmus acquainted with those
things.” This letter is dated “In haste, from the corner of our convent, 19th
Oct., 1516.” It gives a true view of the footing on which Luther stood with
Erasmus, and shows the sincere interest which he felt in whatever he thought
truly advantageous to this distinguished writer. No doubt, at a later period,
the opposition of Erasmus to the truth forced Luther to combat him openly, but
it was only after he had sought to enlighten his opponent. At length those views
on the nature of goodness were propounded which were at once clear and profound,
and the great truth was distinctly proclaimed, that the real goodness of a work
consists not in its external form, but in the spirit in which it is done. Thus
giving a mortal blow to all the superstitious observances, which had for ages
choked the Church, and prevented Christian virtues from growing and flourishing
in it.

“I read Erasmus,” again writes Luther, “but he is every day losing his credit
with me. I like to see him, with so much skill and firmness, rebuking priests
and monks for their loathsome ignorance, but I fear he will not do great service
to the doctrine of Jesus Christ. What is of man has more hold on his heart than
what is of God. We live in dangerous times. A man is not a good and judicious
Christian because he understands Greek and Hebrew. Jerome, who knew five
languages, is inferior to Augustine, who only knew one, though Erasmus thinks
differently. I am very careful to conceal my sentiments concerning Erasmus, lest
I should give an advantage to his opponents. It may be the Lord will give him
understanding in his own time.”2 The impotence of man, and the omnipotence of
God, were the two truths which Luther wished to re-establish. It is a sad
religion and a sad philosophy which throws man back upon his natural powers.
Ages have made trial of these boasted powers, and while man has of himself
succeeded wonderfully in things which concern his earthly existence, he has
never been able to dissipate the darkness which hides the true knowledge of God
from his mind, nor to change a single inclination of his heart. The highest
degree of wisdom attained by ambitious intellects, or minds inflamed with ardent
longings after perfection, has only plunged them into despair. The doctrine,
therefore, which unveils to us our impotence, in order to acquaint us with a
Divine power, which shall enable us to do all things, is a generous, consoling,
and perfectly true doctrine; and the reformation which exhibits the glory of
heaven on the earth, and pleads the rights of Almighty God with men, is a great
reformation. But nobody was better aware than Luther of the intimate and
indissoluble tie which unites the gratuitous salvation of God with the free
works of man. Nobody showed better than he that it is only by receiving all from
Christ that man can give much to his brethren. He always presented the two acts,
that of God and that of man, in the same picture. Thus, after having explained
to friar Spenlein wherein saving righteousness consists, he adds “If you believe
these things firmly as you ought to do, (for cursed is he who believeth not,)
receive thy still ignorant and erring brethren as Jesus Christ has received
thee. Bear with them patiently, make their sins thy own, and if thou hast any
thing good, communicate it unto them. Receive one another, saith the Apostle, as
Christ hath received us to the glory of God. It is a sad righteousness which
will not bear with others, because it finds them wicked, and which thinks only
of seeking the solitude of the desert, instead of doing them good by patience,
prayer, and example. If thou art the lily and the rose of Christ, know that thy
dwelling is among the thorns. Only take care that thou do not by thy impatience,
thy rash judgments, and thy hidden pride, become thyself a thorn. Christ reigns
in the midst of his enemies. Had he been pleased to live only among the good,
and to die only for those who loved him, for whom, I ask, would he have died,
and among whom would he have lived?”

It is touching to see how Luther himself carried these precepts of charity into
practice. An Augustin of Erfurt, named George Leiffer, was subjected to severe
trials. Luther learned it, and eight days after he had written the letter to
Spenlein, went up to him kindly, and said—“I learn that you are agitated by many
tempests, and that your spirit is tossed up and down upon the billows.… The
cross of Christ is portioned out over all the earth, and each one receives his
part. Do not you, then, reject that which is fallen to you. Rather receive it as
a holy relic, not in a vessel of gold and of silver, but what is far better, in
a heart of gold—a heart full of meekness. If the wood of the cross has been so
sanctified by the blood and flesh of Christ, that we consider it to be the most
venerable relic, how much more ought we to regard the injuries, persecutions,
inflictions, and hatred of men as holy relics, since they have not only been
touched by the flesh of Christ, but embraced, kissed, and blessed by his
boundless love?”


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 21: CHAPTER IX
========================================================================

First Theses—The Old Man and Grace—Visit to the
Convents—Dresden—Erfurt—Tornator—Peace and the Cross—Results of the
Journey—Labours—The Plague. The instructions of Luther bore fruit. Several of
his disciples already felt themselves urged publicly to profess the truths which
the lessons of their master had revealed to them. Among his hearers was a
learned youth, named Bernard of Feldkirchen, professor of the physics of
Aristotle in the university, and who, five years afterwards, was the first of
the evangelical ecclesiastics who entered into the bond of matrimony.

Luther, while he was presiding, desired Feldkirchen to maintain theses in which
his principles were expounded. The doctrines professed by Luther thus acquired
new publicity. The disputation took place in 1516, and was Luther’s first attack
on the reign of the sophists and the Papacy. However feeble it was, it gave him
considerable uneasiness. “I allow these propositions to be printed,” said he,
many years after, on publishing them in his works, “principally in order that
the greatness of my cause, and the success with which God has crowned it, may
not puff me up. For they fully manifest my shame; that is to say, the infirmity
and ignorance, the fear and trembling, with which I commenced this struggle. I
was alone, and had imprudently plunged into this affair. Not being able to draw
back, I conceded several important points to the pope, and even adored him.” The
following are some of these propositions:— “The old man is vanity of vanities—he
is wholly vanity, and renders all other creatures vain, how good soever they be.

“The old man is called the flesh, not only because he is led by sensual lusts,
but also because, even though he were chaste, prudent, and just, he is not born
anew of God by the Spirit.

“A man who is without the grace of God cannot observe the commands of God, nor
prepare himself, in whole or in part, to receive grace, but necessarily remains
under sin.

“The will of man without grace is not free, but enslaved, and that voluntarily.

“Jesus Christ, our strength and our righteousness, who trieth the hearts and
reins, is alone the Searcher and Judge of our merits.

“Since everything is possible through Christ to him who believeth, it is
superstitious to seek other aid, whether in the will of man or in the saints.”
This disputation made a great noise, and has been considered as the commencement
of the Reformation. The moment approached when this reformation was to burst
forth. God was hastening to prepare the instrument which he meant to employ. The
elector having built a new church at Wittemberg, to which he gave the name of
“All-Saints,” sent Staupitz into the Netherlands to collect the relics with
which he was desirous to enrich it. The vicar-general ordered Luther to take his
place during his absence, and in particular to pay a visit to forty monasteries
in Misnia and Thuringia.

Luther repaired first to Grimma, and thence to Dresden, everywhere labouring to
establish the truths which he had ascertained, and to enlighten the members of
his own order. “Don’t attach yourself to Aristotle, or to other teachers of a
deceitful philosophy,” said he to the monks, “but diligently read the word of
God. Seek not your salvation in your own strength, and your own good works, but
in the merits of Christ, and in Divine grace.” An Augustin monk of Dresden had
run off from his convent, and was living at Mayence, where the prior of the
Augustins had received him. Luther wrote to the prior to demand restitution of
the lost sheep, and added these words, which are full of truth and charity, “I
know that offences must come. It is no wonder that man falls; but it is a wonder
he rises again, and stands erect. Peter fell, in order that he might know that
he was a man; and we still see the cedar of Lebanon fall. Angels even (a thing
which surpasses our comprehension) fell in heaven, and Adam fell in paradise.
Why then be astonished when a reed is shaken by the wind, and the smoking flax
is quenched?” From Dresden, Luther proceeded to Erfurt, to do the duties of
vicar-general in the very convent where, eleven years before, he had wound up
the clock, opened the door, and swept the Church. He appointed his friend,
bachelor John Lange, a learned and pious, but austere man, prior of the convent,
exhorting him to affability and patience. Shortly after he wrote him, “Show a
spirit of meekness towards the prior of Nuremberg. This is fitting, inasmuch as
the prior has put on a sour and bitter spirit. Bitter is not expelled by bitter,
that is to say, devil by devil; but sweet expels bitter, that is to say, the
finger of God casts out demons.”3 It must perhaps be regretted, that on
different occasions Luther did not remember this excellent advice. At Neustadt
on Orla there was nothing but division. Quarrelling and disturbance reigned in
the convent. All the monks were at war with the prior, and assailed Luther with
their complaints. The prior, Michael Dressel, or Tornator, as Luther calls him,
translating his name into Latin, on his part explained all his grievances to the
doctor. “Peace! peace!” said he. “You seek peace,” replied Luther, “but you seek
the peace of the world, and not that of Christ. Know you not that our God has
placed his peace in the midst of war? He whom nobody troubles has no peace. But
he who, troubled by all men, and by all the things of life, bears all calmly and
joyfully, possesses true peace. You say, with Israel, Peace, peace; and there is
no peace. Say rather with Christ, The cross, the cross; and there will be no
cross. For the cross ceases to be a cross as soon as we can sincerely say with
joy, O blessed cross, there is no wood like thine!” After his return to
Wittemberg, Luther, wishing to put an end to these divisions allowed the monks
to elect another prior.

Luther returned to Wittemberg after an absence of six weeks. He was grieved at
all that he had seen, but the journey gave him a better acquaintance with the
Church and the world; gave him more confidence in his intercourse with men and
furnished him with numerous opportunities of founding schools, and urging this
fundamental truth, that “the Holy Scripture alone shows us the way to heaven,”
and to exhort the brethren to live together holily, chastely, and peacefully.
Doubtless, much seed was sown in the different Augustin convents during this
journey of the Reformer. The monastic orders, which had long been the stay of
Rome, perhaps did more for the Reformation than against it. This is true
especially of the order of Augustins. Almost all pious men of a free and exalted
spirit who were in cloisters, turned to the gospel, and a new and noble blood
soon circulated in their orders, which were in a manner the arteries of German
Catholicity. The world knew nothing of the new ideas of the Augustin of
Wittemberg, after they had become the great subject of conversation in chapters
and monasteries. In this way, more than one cloister was a seminary of
reformers. At the moment when the great blow was struck, pious and brave men
came forth from their obscurity, and abandoned the retreat of the monastic life,
for the active career of ministers of the word of God. Even during the
inspection of 1516, Luther by his words awoke many slumbering spirits, and hence
this year has been called “the morning star of the gospel day.”

Luther resumed his ordinary avocations. At this period he was oppressed with
work; it was not enough that he was professor, preacher, and confessor; he had,
moreover, a variety of temporal business connected with his order and his
convent. “I almost constantly require two clerks,” wrote he; “for I do little
else the whole day than write letters. I am preacher to the convent, chaplain at
table, pastor and parish minister, director of studies, vice-prior, which means
prior eleven times over, inspector of the ponds of Litzkau, advocate of the inns
of Herzberg at Torgau, reader of St. Paul, commentator on the Psalms.… I have
seldom time to say my Hours and chant,—to say nothing of my combat with flesh
and blood, the devil and the world.… See how lazy a man I am.”

About this time the plague broke out in Wittemberg, and a great part of the
students and teachers left the town. Luther remained. “I don’t well know,” wrote
he to his friend at Erfurt, “if the plague will allow me to finish the Epistle
to the Galatians. Prompt and brisk, it makes great ravages, especially among the
young. You advise me to flee. Whither shall I flee? I hope the world will not go
to wreck though friar Martin fall. If the plague makes progress, I will disperse
the friars in all directions, but for myself I am stationed here, and obedience
permits me not to flee, till he who has called me recall me. Not that I do not
fear death, (for I am not the Apostle Paul, I am only his commentator;) but I
hope the Lord will deliver me from fear.” Such was the firmness of the doctor of
Wittemberg. Will he, whom the plague could not force to recoil one step, recoil
before Rome? Will he yield to the power of the scaffold?


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 22: CHAPTER X
========================================================================

Relations of Luther with the Elector—Luther and the Elector—Counsels to the
Chaplain—Duke George—His Character—Luther before the Court—Dinner at
Court—Emser’s Supper. The same courage which Luther displayed in presence of
most formidable evils, he displayed in presence of the great. The elector was
much pleased with the vicar-general, who had made a good collection of relics in
the Netherlands. Luther gives an account of it to Spalatin. There is something
curious in this affair of relics occurring at the moment when the Reformation is
about to commence. Assuredly the Reformers had little idea of the point at which
they were to arrive. A bishopric seemed to the elector only a fit recompence to
the vicar-general. Luther, to whom Spalatin wrote on the subject, strongly
disapproved of it. “Many things,” replied he, “please your prince, which,
however, displease God. I deny not his ability in the affairs of the world, but
in what concerns God and the salvation of souls, I account him seven-fold blind
as well as his counsellor Pfeffinger. I say not this behind their backs like a
slanderer; don’t hide it from them, for I am ready to say it personally to both.
Why,” continues he, “would you environ this man with all the whirlwinds and
tempests of episcopal cares?” The elector did not take Luther’s frankness in bad
part. “The prince,” says Spalatin in a letter to him, “often speaks of you, and
with much respect.” Frederick sent the monk stuff to make a cassock of very fine
cloth. “It would be too fine,” said Luther, “were it not the gift of a prince. I
am unworthy that any man should think of me, far less that a prince should, and
so great a prince. The most useful persons to me are those who think the most
ill of me. Return thanks to our prince for his favour; but know that I desire
not to be praised by you, or by any man—all praise of man being vain, and the
praise which cometh from God alone being true.” The excellent chaplain did not
wish to confine himself to his court functions. He desired to render himself
useful to the people; but, like many of all times, he wished to do it without
giving offence. He not only wished not to irritate any one, but, on the
contrary, to conciliate general favour. “Point out,” says he to Luther, “some
work which I may translate into our mother tongue, a work which will please
generally, and at the same time be useful.” “Agreeable and useful!” replies
Luther; “the request is beyond me. The better things are, the less they please.
What is more salutary than Jesus Christ? And yet to most he is a savour of
death. You will tell me that you wish to be useful to those who love what is
good. In that case, just let the voice of Christ be heard. You will be agreeable
and useful, depend upon it; but it will be to a very small number: for the sheep
are rare in this region of wolves.”

Luther, however, recommended to his friend the sermons of Tauler. “I have never
seen,” said he, “either in Latin or our own tongue a sounder theology, or one
more agreeable to the gospel. Taste and see how sweet the Lord is; but be it
after you have tasted and seen how bitter every thing is that is ours.”

It was in the course of the year 1517 that Luther entered into communication
with Duke George of Saxony. The House of Saxony had then two heads. The princes,
Ernest and Albert, carried off in their youth from the castle of Altenbourg by
Kunz of Kaufungen, had, by the treaty of Leipsic, become the founders of the two
houses which still bear their name. The Elector Frederick, the son of Ernest, at
the period of which we write, was the chief of the Ernestine branch, while his
brother, Duke George, was chief of the Albertine branch. Dresden and Leipsic
were in the states of the duke, who had his residence in the former of these
cities. His mother, Sidonia, was daughter of George Podiebrad, King of Bohemia.
The long struggle which Bohemia had maintained with Rome, from the days of John
Huss, had had some influence on the prince of Saxony, and he had often shown a
desire for a reformation. “He has sucked it from his mother,” it was said: “he
is by birth an enemy of the clergy.” He in various ways annoyed the bishops,
abbots, canons, and monks, in so much that his cousin, the elector, was more
than once obliged to interpose in their behalf. It might have been supposed that
Duke George would be a warm partisan of the Reformation. Devout Frederick, on
the contrary, who had once put on the spurs of Gregory in the Holy Sepulchre,
girt himself with the great ponderous sword of the conqueror of Jerusalem, and
taking an oath to combat for the Church, like a bold knight, might have been
expected to prove one of the most eager champions of Rome. But when the gospel
is in question, the anticipations of human wisdom are often at fault. The result
was the opposite of what might have been supposed. The duke would have taken
pleasure in humbling the Church, and those connected with it, and lowering the
bishops, whose princely train far surpassed his own; but to receive into his
heart the evangelical doctrine which must have humbled it, to acknowledge
himself a guilty sinner, incapable of being saved, unless through grace, was
quite a different matter. He would willingly have reformed others, but he had no
desire to reform himself. He would, perhaps, have assisted in obliging the
bishop of Mentz to be contented with a single bishopric, and have no more than
fourteen horses in his stable, as he himself repeatedly expressed it;3 but when
he saw another than himself appear as reformer,—when he saw a mere monk
undertake the work,—and the Reformation gaining numerous adherents among the
humbler classes,—the haughty grandson of the Hussite king became the most
violent adversary of the reform of which he had at first promised to be a
partisan. In July 1517, Duke George asked Staupitz to send him a learned and
eloquent preacher. Staupitz sent Luther representing him as a man of great
learning and irreproachable character. The prince invited him to preach at
Dresden, in the chapel of the castle on the feast of St. James the Elder. On the
day fixed the duke and his court proceeded to the chapel to hear the preacher of
Wittemberg.

Luther gladly seized the occasion to bear testimony to the truth before such an
assembly. He took for his text the gospel of the day, “Then came to him the
mother of Zebedee’s children with her sons.” (Matthew 20:20-25) He preached on
the wishes and rash prayers of men; then dwelt strongly on the assurance of
salvation, making it rest on this foundation, viz., That those who hear the word
of God with faith are the true disciples, whom Jesus Christ has elected unto
eternal life. He next treated of eternal election, showing that this doctrine,
when exhibited in connection with the work of Christ, is well fitted to calm the
terrors of conscience, and so, instead of disposing men to flee from God,
allures them to seek their refuge in Him. In conclusion, he brought forward a
parable of three virgins, and drew a very instructive improvement from it. The
word of truth made a deep impression on the hearers. Two in particular appeared
to give earnest attention to the discourse of the monk of Wittemberg. The one
was a respectable looking lady who sat in one of the court pews, and whose
features bespoke deep emotion. It was Madam de la Sale, grand mistress to the
duchess. The other was Jerome Emser, a licentiate in canon law, and secretary
and counsellor to the duke. Emser was a man of talent and extensive information.
A courtier and able politician, his wish would have been to please both parties
at once; to pass at Rome for a defender of the papacy, and at the same time
figure in Germany among the learned men of the age. But under this flexible
spirit a violent temper lay concealed. Thus Luther and Emser, who were
afterwards repeatedly to break a lance, met for the first time in the chapel of
the castle of Dresden. The dinner-bell having rung for the inmates of the
castle, the ducal family and the persons attached to the court were soon seated
at the table. The conversation naturally turned on the preacher of the morning.
“How did you like the sermon?” said the duke to Madam de la Sale. “Could I again
hear such another discourse,” replied she, “I could die in peace.” “And I,”
replied George, angrily, “would give a good sum not to have heard it. Such
discourses are good only to make people sin with confidence.” The master having
thus stated his opinion, the courtiers proceded without restraint to express
their dissatisfaction. Every one was ready with his remark. Some alleged, that
in the parable of the three virgins, Luther had had three ladies of the court in
his eye. On this the talk was endless. They rallied the three ladies whom they
affirmed that Luther had intended. He is an ignorant blockhead, said one. He is
a proud monk, said another. Each had his comment on the sermon, making the
preacher say whatever he pleased. The truth had fallen into the midst of a court
ill prepared to receive it. Every one tore it at pleasure. But while the word of
God was to many an occasion of stumbling, to the grand mistress it was a stone
“elect and precious.” Falling sick about a month after, she confidently embraced
the grace of the Saviour, and died rejoicing.2 In regard to the duke, perhaps
the testimony which he had heard given to the truth was not in vain. However
much he opposed the Reformation during his life, it is known that in his last
moments he declared, that his only hope was in the merits of Jesus Christ.

It naturally fell to Emser to do the honours to Luther in his master’s name. He
accordingly invited him to supper. Luther refused; but Emser insisted and
constrained him to come. Luther only expected to meet a few friends, but he soon
perceived that a trap had been laid for him. A master of arts from Leipsic, and
several Dominicans, were with the prince’s secretary. The master of arts, who
had an overweening opinion of himself, and a deep hatred of Luther, accosted him
with a bland and friendly air; but he soon broke out, and screamed at full
pitch.

4 The battle began. “The discussion,” says Luther, “turned on the absurdities of
Aristotle and St. Thomas.” At last Luther challenged the master of arts, with
all the erudition of the Thomists, to define what it was to fulfil the
commandments of God. The master of arts, though embarrassed, put on a good
countenance. “Pay me my fees,” says he, stretching out his hand, “da pastum.”
One would have said, he was going to give a lesson in form, mistaking the guests
for his pupils. “At this foolish reply,” adds the Reformer, “we all burst a
laughing, and the party broke up.”

During the conversation, a Dominican had been listening at the door, and would
fain have come in to spit in Luther’s face. He refrained, however, though he
afterwards made a boast of it. Emser, who had been delighted at seeing his
guests battling, while he seemed to hold a due medium, hastened to apologise to
Luther for the manner in which the party had gone off.2 Luther returned to
Wittemberg.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 23: CHAPTER XI
========================================================================

Return to Wittemberg—Theses—Nature of Man—Rationalism—Demand at Erfurt—Eck—Urban
Regius—Luther’s Modesty.

Luther zealously resumed his labours. He was preparing six or seven young
theologians, who were forthwith to undergo an examination in order to obtain a
licence to teach. And what most delighted him was, that their promotion was to
be to Aristotle’s disgrace. “I should like,” said he, “to multiply his enemies
as fast as possible.” With that view, he at this time published Theses, which
deserve attention. The leading topic which he discussed was liberty. He had
already glanced at it in the theses of Feldkirchen, but now went deeper into it.
Ever since Christianity began, there has been a struggle, more or less keen,
between the opposite doctrines of the freedom and the slavery of man. Some
schoolmen had taught, like Pelagius and others, that man possessed in himself
the liberty or power of loving God and doing good. Luther denied this liberty,
not to deprive man of it, but, on the contrary, to make him obtain it. The
struggle, then, in this great question, is not, as is usually said, between
liberty and servitude; but between a liberty proceeding from man, and a liberty
proceeding from God. Some who call themselves the advocates of liberty, say to
man, “You have the power of doing good, and require a greater liberty.” Others,
who have been called advocates of slavery, say to him, on the contrary, “You
have no true liberty; but God offers it to you in the gospel.” The one party
speaks of liberty, but a liberty which must end in slavery; while the other
speaks of slavery, in order to give liberty. Such was the struggle in the time
of St. Paul, in the time of Augustine, and in the time of Luther. Those who say
“Change nothing!” are champions of slavery. Those who say “Let your fetters
fall!” are champions of liberty.

It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that the whole Reformation can be
summed up in this particular question. It is one of the many doctrines which the
Wittemberg doctor maintained—that is all. It would, above all, be a strange
illusion to hold, that the Reformation was fatalism, or an opposition to
liberty. It was a magnificent emancipation of the human mind. Bursting the
numerous bands with which thought had been bound by the hierarchy, and reviving
the ideas of liberty, right, and examination, it delivered its own age, and with
it ours also, and the remotest posterity. And let it not be said that the
Reformation, while it freed man from human despotism, enslaved him by
proclaiming the sovereignty of grace. No doubt, it wished to bring back the
human will to the Divine, to subordinate the one, and completely merge it in the
other; but what philosopher knows not that entire conformity to the will of God
alone constitutes sovereign, perfect freedom; and that man will never be truly
free, until supreme righteousness and truth have sole dominion over him? The
following are some of the Ninety-nine Propositions which Luther sent forth into
the Church, in opposition to the Pelagian rationalism of scholastic theology.

“It is true that man, who is become a corrupt tree, can only will and do what is
evil.

“It is not true that the will, when left to itself, can do good as well as evil;
for it is not free but captive.

“It is not in the power of the will of man to choose or reject whatever is
presented to it.

“Man cannot naturally wish God to be God. His wish is that he himself were God,
and that God were no God.

“The excellent, infallible, and sole preparation for grace, is the eternal
election and predestination of God.

“It is false to say that when man does all he can, he clears away the obstacles
to grace.

“In one word, nature possesses neither a pure reason nor a good will.

“On the part of man, there is nothing which precedes grace, unless it be
impotence and even rebellion.

“There is no moral virtue without pride or sullenness, that is to say, without
sin.

“From the beginning to the end we are not the masters of our actions, but the
slaves of them.

“We do not become righteous by doing what is righteous, but having become
righteous we do what is righteous.

“He who says that a theologian who is not a logician is a heretic and an
adventurer, maintains an adventurous and heretical proposition.

“There is no form of reasoning (syllogism) which accords with the things of God.

“If the form of the syllogism could be applied to divine things, we should know
the article of the Holy Trinity, and should not believe it.

“In one word, Aristotle is to theology as darkness to light.

“Man is more hostile to the grace of God than he is to the law itself.

“He who is without the grace of God sins incessantly, even though he neither
kills, nor steals, nor commits adultery.

“He sins, for he does not fulfil the law spiritually.

“Not to kill, and not to commit adultery, externally, and in regard to action,
merely, is the righteousness of hypocrites.

“The law of God and the will of man are two adversaries, who, without the grace
of God, can never agree.

“What the law wishes the will never wishes; only from fear it may make a show of
wishing.

“The law is the hangman of the will, and is subject only to the Child who has
been born unto us. (Isaiah, 9:6.) “The law makes sin abound; for it irritates
and repulses the will.

“But the grace of God makes righteousness abound, through Jesus Christ, who
makes us love the law.

“Every work of the law appears good externally, but internally is sin.

“The will, when it turns toward the law without the grace of God, does so only
for its own interest.

“Cursed are those who do the works of the law.

“Blessed are all those who do the works of the grace of God.

“The law, which is good, and in which we have life, is the law of the love of
God, shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Spirit, (Romans 5:5)

“Grace is not given in order that works may be done more frequently and more
easily, but because without grace there cannot be any work of love.

“To love God is to hate oneself, and know nothing out of God.” In this way
Luther attributes to God all the good that man can do. The thing to be done is
not to repair, or, so to speak, to patch up the will of man; an entirely new
will must be given him. God alone could say this; for God alone could perform
it. This is one of the greatest and most important truths that the will of man
can acknowledge. But Luther, while proclaiming the impotence of man, did not
fall into the opposite extreme. He says in the eighth thesis, “It follows not
that the will is naturally bad, that is to say, that its nature is of the
essence of evil, as the Manichees taught.” Originally the nature of man was
essentially good; but it turned aside from goodness, that is, God, and is
inclined to evil. Still its origin remains holy and glorious, and is capable, by
the power of God, of regaining its original. The object of Christianity is to
restore it. The gospel, it is true, exhibits man in a state of degradation and
impotence, but as placed between two glories and two grandeurs,—a past glory,
from which he has been precipitated, and a future glory, to which he is called.
This is the truth, and man knows it to be the truth; and how little soever he
thinks of it, he easily discovers that all which is told him of his actual
purity, power, and glory, is only a lie, designed to cradle his pride and rock
it asleep.

Luther, in his theses, attacked not only the pretended goodness of man’s will,
but also the pretended light of his understanding in regard to divine things. In
fact, scholasticism had exalted reason as well as the will. This theology, in
the hands of some of its teachers, was, at bottom, only a species of
rationalism. The propositions which we have enumerated indicate this; for they
look as if directed against the rationalism of our own day. In the theses, which
were the signal of the Reformation, Luther attacked the Church and the popular
superstitions which to the gospel had added indulgences, purgatory, and
numberless abuses. In those which we have just given he attacked the school and
the rationalism which had robbed the gospel of the doctrine of the sovereignty
of God, his revelation and his grace. The Reformation attacked rationalism
before it attacked superstition. It proclaimed the rights of God before lopping
off the excrescences of man. It was positive before it was negative. This has
not been sufficiently attended to, and yet, without attending to it, it is
impossible duly to appreciate the character of this religious revolution. Be
this as it may, the truths which Luther thus expressed with so much energy were
quite new. To maintain these theses at Wittemberg had been an easy matter. There
his influence was paramount, and it would have been said that he had chosen a
field of battle where he knew no combatant could appear. In offering battle in
another university he gave them a greater publicity; and it was by publicity
that the Reformation was effected. He turned his eyes towards Erfurt, where the
theologians had shown themselves so exasperated against him.

He, accordingly, sent his theses to John Lange, prior of Erfurt, and wrote him
as follows: “My anxiety for the decision which you will give as to these theses
is great, extreme, too great, perhaps, and keeps me on the rack. I much suspect
that your theologians will consider as paradoxical and kakodoxical, what I must
henceforth regard as most orthodox. Tell me how it is, and as soon as you
possibly can. Have the goodness to make known to the Faculty of Theology, and to
all, that I am ready to come and publicly maintain these propositions either in
the university or the monastery.” It does not seem that Luther’s challenge was
accepted. The monks of Erfurt contented themselves with intimating that his
theses had incurred their high displeasure. But he was desirous to send them to
some other part of Germany; and with that view bethought him of a man who plays
an important part in the history of the Reformation, and with whom the reader
must be made acquainted. A distinguished professor, named John Meyer, was then
teaching in the university of Ingolstadt, in Bavaria. He was a native of Eck, a
village in Swabia, and was commonly called Doctor Eck. He was a friend of
Luther, who respected his talents and acquirements. Full of intellect, he had
read much, and was possessed of a very retentive memory. To erudition he added
eloquence. His voice and gesture bespoke the vivacity of his genius. In regard
to talent, Eck was in the south of Germany what Luther was in the north. They
were the two most distinguished theologians of the period, though of very
different views. Ingolstadt was almost the rival of Wittemberg. The reputation
of these two doctors attracted crowds of eager students from all quarters to the
universities in which they taught; their personal qualities not less than their
abilities endearing them to their pupils. The character of Doctor Eck has been
assailed, but an anecdote in his history will show that at this period, at
least, his heart was not closed against generous impressions.

Among the students whom his fame had attracted to Ingolstadt was a young man,
named Urban Regius, from the banks of an Alpine lake. He had first studied at
the university of Fribourg in Brisgau. On his arrival at Ingolstadt, to which he
had been attracted by the fame of Doctor Eck, Urban engaged in his course of
philosophy, and gained the favour of his master. Requiring to provide for his
maintenance, he was under the necessity of taking charge of some young noblemen,
and had not only to superintend their studies and their conduct, but also to
purchase on his own account whatever books and clothes they required. The youths
dressed in style, and kept a good able. Regius becoming embarrassed prayed the
parents to recall their sons. “Never fear,” was the answer. His debts increased,
his creditors became pressing, and he was at his wit’s end. The emperor was
raising an army against the Turks, and a recruiting party having arrived at
Ingolstadt, Urban in despair enlisted. Clothed in military attire, he appeared
in the ranks at the time when the review took place, previous to their
departure. Doctor Eck coming up at that instant with several of his colleagues,
was greatly surprised to discover his student among the recruits. “Urban
Regius!” said he, fixing his keen eye on him. “Here,” replied the recruit.
“What, pray, is the cause of this?” The young man told his story. “I take the
matter upon myself,” replied Eck, and setting his halberd aside, bought him off
from the recruiting party. The parents, threatened by the Doctor with the
displeasure of the prince, sent the necessary funds to defray the expences of
their children, and Urban Regius was saved to become at a later period one of
the pillars of the Reformation.

Doctor Eck occurred to Luther as the proper person to publish his theses on
Pelagianism and scholastic rationalism in the south of the empire. He did not,
however, send them to the professor of Ingolstadt directly, but employed a
mutual friend, the excellent Christopher Scheurl, secretary to the town of
Nuremberg, praying him to send them to Eck at Ingolstadt, which is at no great
distance from Nuremberg. “I send you,” says he, “my paradoxical, and even
kakistodoxical (κακιστόδοξας) propositions, as many think them. Communicate them
to our dear friend, the very learned and talented Eck, that I may learn and know
what he thinks of them.” These were the terms in which Luther then spoke of
Doctor Eck; such was the friendship then subsisting between them. It was not
Luther who broke it off.

Ingolstadt, however, was not the field on which the battle was to be fought. The
doctrines on which these theses turned were perhaps of greater importance than
those which, two months after, set the Church in a blaze; and yet,
notwithstanding of Luther’s challenges, they passed unnoticed. At most, they
were read within the circle of the school, and produced no sensation beyond it.
The reason was, because they were only university propositions and theological
doctrines, whereas the subsequent theses related to an evil which had grown up
in the midst of the people, and was then causing devastation in all parts of
Germany. So long as Luther was contented with reviving forgotten doctrines, all
was silence; but when he attacked abuses which were universally felt, every one
turned to listen.

Nevertheless, all that Luther proposed in either case was to produce one of
those theological discussions which were then so common in universities. To this
circle his views were confined. He was humble, and his humility amounted even to
distrust and anxiety. “Considering my ignorance,” said he, “all I deserve is to
be hid in a corner, without being known by any one under the sun.” But a mighty
hand drew him out of this corner in which he wished to remain unknown to the
world. A circumstance, independent of Luther’s will, threw him into the field of
battle, and the war commenced. This providential circumstance we are now called
upon to relate.


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  CHAPTER 24: BOOK THIRD
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The Indulgences and Theses

1517, 1518


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  CHAPTER 25: CHAPTER I
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Cortége—Tezel—Tezel’s Discourse—Confession—Four Graces—Sale—Public Penance—A
Letter of Indulgences—Exceptions—Feasting and Debauchery. At this period the
people of Germany were all in motion. The Church had opened a vast market on the
earth. From the crowd of customers, and the noise and pleasantry of the sellers,
one would have thought it a fair, only a fair held by monks. The merchandise
which they were showing off, and selling a bargain, was, as they said, the
salvation of souls. The merchants travelled the country in a fine carriage,
accompanied by three mounted attendants, journeying in grand style, and living
at great expence. One would have said it was some high Mightiness with his suite
and officers, and not a vulgar dealer or mendicant monk. When the cortêge
approached a town, a messenger was despatched to the magistrate to say, “The
grace of God and of St. Peter is at your gates.” Immediately the whole place was
in motion. Clergy, priests, nuns, the council, schoolmasters and their scholars,
the incorporations with their colours, men and women, old and young, went out to
meet the merchant with lighted tapers in their hand, amid the sound of music and
the ringing of bells, “insomuch,” says a historian, “that God himself could not
have been received with greater honour.” After the formalities were over the
whole body proceeded to the church. The Bull of Grace by the pontiff was carried
in front, on a velvet cushion or cloth of gold. Next came the chief of the
indulgence merchants, carrying a large wooden cross, painted red. The whole
procession moved forward, amid hymns, prayers, and the smoke of incense. The
merchant monk and his attendants were received at the church by the pealing
organ and thrilling music. The cross was placed in front of the altar, and over
it the pope’s arms were suspended. All the time it remained there the clergy of
the place, the penitentiaries and sub-commissaries, came each day after vespers
or before the salute, to do obeisance to it with white wands in their hands.
This grand affair produced a lively sensation in the quiet cities of Germany. At
these sales one personage in particular drew the attention of the spectators. It
was he who carried the great red cross, and played the principal character. He
was clothed in the dress of a Dominican, and had an arrogant air. His voice was
Stentorian, and though in his sixty-third year, he seemed still in full vigour.
This man, the son of one Diez, a jeweller of Leipsic, was called John Diezel, or
Tezel. He had studied in his native town, became bachelor in 1487, and two years
after entered the Dominican order. Numerous honours had accumulated on his head.
Bachelor in theology, prior of the dominicans, apostolic commissary, inquisitor,
hæreticæ pravitatis inquisitor, he had discharged the office of commissary of
indulgences, without intermission, from 1502. The skill which he had acquired as
subaltern soon raised him to the office of commissary-in-chief. He had eighty
florins a month, and all his expences paid, together with a carriage and three
horses; but his perquisites (it is easy to comprehend what they were) far
exceeded his salary. In 1507 at Freiberg he gained two thousand florins in two
days. If he discharged the functions, he had also the manners of a quack.
Convicted of adultery and shameful misconduct at Inspruck, his vices had almost
cost him his life. The Emperor Maximilian had ordered him to be put into a sack
and thrown into the river; but the Elector Frederick happening to arrive,
obtained his pardon. The lesson which he thus received had not given him more
modesty; for he had two of his children along with him.

Miltitz, the pope’s legate, mentions the fact in one of his letters. It would
have been difficult to find in all the cloisters of Germany a man better fitted
for the traffic with which he was entrusted. To the theology of a monk, to the
zeal and temper of an inquisitor, he united the greatest effrontery; but the
thing which, above all, made the task easy to him, was his skill in inventing
extraordinary stories to captivate the minds of the people. To him all means
were good that filled his coffers. Raising his voice, and giving free vent to
his vulgar eloquence, he offered his indulgences to every comer, and knew better
than any dealer at a fair how to set off his merchandise.

After the cross was erected, and the arms of the pope suspended over it, Tezel
mounted the pulpit, and with a tone of assurance began to extol the value of the
indulgences in presence of the crowd who had been attracted to the church by the
ceremony. The people listened and stared on hearing the wondrous virtues of
which he told them. A Jesuit historian, speaking of the Dominicans with whom
Tezel was associated, says, “Some of these preachers failed not, as usual, to
outrage the subject which they treated, and so to exaggerate the value of the
indulgences as to make people suppose they were certain of their own salvation,
and of the deliverance of souls from purgatory as soon as the money was paid.”
If such were the scholars, we may judge what the master was. Let us listen to
one of his harangues after setting up the cross.

“Indulgences are the most precious and most sublime gift of God.

“This cross (pointing to the red cross) has the very same efficacy as the actual
cross of Jesus Christ.

“Come, and I will give you letters under seal, by which even the sins which you
may have a desire to commit in future will all be forgiven.

“I would not exchange my privileges for that of St. Peter in heaven; for I have
saved more souls by my indulgences than the apostle by his sermons.

“There is no sin too great for an indulgence to remit; and even should any one
(the thing, no doubt, is impossible) have done violence to the Holy Virgin Mary,
mother of God, let him pay, let him only pay well, and it will be forgiven him.

“Think, then, that for each mortal sin you must, after confession and
contrition, do penance for seven years, either in this life or in purgatory.
Now, how many mortal sins are committed in one day, in one week? How many in a
month, a year, a whole life? Ah! these sins are almost innumerable, and
innumerable sufferings must be endured for them in purgatory. And now, by means
of these letters of indulgence, you can at once, for life, in all cases except
four, which are reserved to the Apostolic See, and afterwards at the hour of
death, obtain a full remission of all your pains and all your sins.”

Tezel even made financial calculations on the subject.

“Do you not know,” said he, “that when a man proposes to go to Rome, or to any
other country where travellers are exposed to danger, he sends his money to the
bank, and for every five hundred florins that he means to have, gives five, or
six at most, in order that, by means of letters from the bank, he may receive
the money safely at Rome or elsewhere … And, you, for the fourth of a florin,
will not receive these letters of indulgence, by means of which you might
introduce into the land of paradise, not worthless money, but a divine and
immortal soul, without exposing it to the smallest risk.”

Tezel next passed to another subject.

“But more than this,” said he; “indulgences not only save the living: they also
save the dead.

“For this repentance is not even necessary.

“Priest! noble! merchant! wife! young girls! young men! hear your departed
parents and your other friends, crying to you from the bottom of the abyss, ‘We
are enduring horrible torments! A little alms would deliver us; you can give it,
and yet will not!’ ”

These words, uttered by the formidable voice of the charlatan monk, made his
hearers shudder.

“At the very instant,” continued Tezel, “when the piece of money chinks on the
bottom of the strong box, the soul comes out of purgatory, and, set free, flies
upward into heaven.”

“O imbecile and brutish people, who perceive not the grace which is so richly
offered to you!… Now heaven is everywhere open!… Do you refuse at this hour to
enter? When, then, will you enter? Now you can ransom so many souls!
Hard-hearted and thoughtless man, with twelve pence you can deliver your father
out of purgatory, and you are ungrateful enough not to save him! I will be
justified on the day of judgment, but you, you will be punished so much the more
severely, for having neglected so great salvation. I declare to you, that though
you had only a single coat, you would be bound to take it off and sell it, in
order to obtain this grace.… The Lord our God is no longer God. He has committed
all power to the pope.”

Then, trying to avail himself of other weapons still, he added, “Know you why
our most holy Lord is distributing so great a grace? His object is to raise up
the ruined church of St. Peter and St. Paul, so that it may not have its equal
in the universe. That church contains the bodies of the holy apostles Peter and
Paul, and of a multitude of martyrs. Owing to the actual state of the building,
these holy bodies are now, alas! beaten, flooded, soiled, dishonoured, and
reduced to rottenness, by the rain and the hail.… Ah! are these sacred ashes to
remain longer in mud and disgrace?” This picture failed not to make an
impression on many who felt a burning desire to go to the help of poor Leo X,
who had not wherewith to shelter the bodies of St. Peter and St. Paul from the
rain.

Then the orator opened on the arguers and traitors who opposed his work. “I
declare them excommunicated,” exclaimed he.

Afterwards addressing docile souls, and making a profane use of Scripture,
“Happy are the eyes which see what you see; for I tell you, that many prophets
and many kings have desired to see the things which you see, and have not seen
them; and to hear the things which you hear, and have not heard them.” And at
last, showing the strong box in which the money was received, he usually
concluded his pathetic discourse with this triple appeal to the people, “Bring!
bring! bring!” “These words,” says Luther, “he uttered with such horrible
bellowing, that one might have thought it was a mad bull making a rush at
people, and striking them with his horns.” When his discourse was ended, he came
down from the pulpit, ran towards the chest, and in presence of the people
chucked a piece of money into it, taking care to make it give a very loud
tinkle.

3 Such were the discourses which astonished Germany, heard in the days when God
was preparing Luther. At the termination of the discourse, the indulgence was
understood “to have established its throne in the place in due form.”
Confessionals were set up adorned with the pope’s arms. The sub-commissaries,
and the confessors whom they selected, were considered to represent the
apostolical penitentiaries of Rome at the jubilee, and on each of these
confessionals were posted, in large characters, their names, surnames, and
designations.

Then a crowd pressed forward to the confessor, each coming with a piece of money
in his hand. Men, women, and children, the poor, even those who lived on alms,
all found means of procuring money. The penitentiaries, after having anew
explained the greatness of the indulgence to each individual, asked, “How much
money can you afford to part with, in order to obtain so complete a
forgiveness?” “This question,” says the Instruction of the Archbishop of Mentz
to the commissaries; “this question ought to be put at this moment, that the
penitents may thereby be the better disposed to contribute.”

Four valuable graces were promised to those who aided in building the basilisk
of St. Peter. “The first grace which we announce to you,” said the commissaries,
according to their Letter of Instruction, “is the complete pardon of all sins.”
After this came three other graces,—first, the right of choosing a confessor,
who, whenever the hour of death should seem to be at hand, would give absolution
from all sins, and even from the greatest crimes reserved for the Apostolic See;
second, a participation in all the blessings, works, and merits of the Catholic
Church, in prayers, fastings, alms, and pilgrimages; and, third, the redemption
of the souls which are in purgatory. To obtain the first of these graces, it was
necessary to have contrition of heart and confession of the lips, or, at least,
the intention of confessing. But for the three others, they could be obtained
without contrition or confession, merely by paying. Previous to this,
Christopher Columbus, extolling the value of gold, had said quite gravely, “He
who possesses it may introduce souls into paradise.” Such was the doctrine
taught by the Archbishop-Cardinal of Mentz, and the commissaries of the pope.
“As to those,” said they, “who would deliver souls from purgatory, and procure
for them pardon of all their offences, let them throw money into the chest. It
is not necessary for them to have contrition of the heart or confession of the
lips. Let them only hasten with their money; for they will thus do a work most
useful to the souls of the departed, and to the erection of the Church of St.
Peter.” Greater blessings could not be offered at a cheaper rate. When the
confession was over, and it did not take long, the faithful hastened towards the
seller. One only had charge of the sale, and kept his counter near the cross. He
carefully eyed those who approached him, examining their air, bearing, and
dress, and asked a sum proportioned to the appearance which each presented.
Kings, queens, princes, archbishops, bishops, were, according to the regulation,
to pay twenty-five ducats for an ordinary indulgence. Abbots, counts, and
barons, paid ten. Others of the nobility, rectors, and all who had an income of
five hundred florins, paid six. Those who had two hundred florins a-year paid
one; others, only a half. Moreover, when the tax could not be followed to the
letter, full powers were given to the commissary-apostolic, who was to arrange
everything in accordance with the dictates of “sound reason,” and the generosity
of the donor. For particular sins, Tezel had a particular tax. Polygamy paid six
ducats; theft in a church, and perjury, nine ducats; murder, eight ducats;
magic, two ducats. Samson, who carried on the same traffic in Switzerland as
Tezel in Germany, had a somewhat different tax. For infanticide he charged four
livres tournois; for parricide or fratricide, a ducat. The apostolic
commissaries sometimes encountered difficulties in carrying on their trade. It
often happened, both in towns and villages, that husbands were opposed to the
whole concern, and prohibited their wives from giving any thing to these
merchants. What, then, were devout spouses to do? “Have you not your dowry, or
some other property, at your own disposal?” asked the dealers. “In that case we
may dispose of part for so sacred a purpose, even against the will of your
husbands. The hand which had given the indulgence could not receive the money.
This was prohibited under the severest penalties; for there might be good reason
to suspect that that hand would not have been faithful. The penitent himself
behoved to deposit the price of his pardon in the chest. Angry looks were given
to those who were audacious enough not to open their purses.5

If among those who pressed forward to the confessionals, there happened to be
any one whose crime was publicly known, though of a kind which the civil law
could not reach, he behoved, first of all, to do public penance. For this
purpose they first led him to a chapel or sacristy, where they stripped him of
his clothes, and took off his shoes, leaving him nothing but his shirt. His arms
were crossed upon his breast, a light placed in one hand, and a rod in the
other. Then the penitent walked at the head of the procession which proceeded to
the red cross. He remained on his knees till the chant and the collect was
finished. Then the commissary gave out the Psalm, Miserere mei. The confessors
immediately approached the penitent, and led him across the church towards the
commissary, who, taking the rod from his hand, and gently striking him thrice on
the back with it, said to him, “The Lord have pity on thee, and forgive thy
sin.” He then gave out the Kyrie Eleison. The penitent was led back to the front
of the cross, and the confessor gave him the apostolic absolution, and declared
him restored to the company of the faithful. Sad mummery, concluded with a holy
expression, which, at such a moment, was mere profanation!

It is worth while to know the contents of one of those diplomas of absolution
which led to the Reformation of the Church. The following is a specimen:—“May
our Lord Jesus Christ have pity on thee, N. N., and absolve thee by the merit of
his most holy passion. And I, in virtue of the apostolic power entrusted to me,
absolve thee from all ecclesiastical censures, judgments, and penalties, which
thou mayest have deserved; moreover, from all the excesses, sins, and crimes,
which thou mayest have committed, how great and enormous soever they may have
been, and for whatever cause, even should they have been reserved to our most
holy Father the pope, and to the apostolic see. I efface all the marks of
disability, and all the notes of infamy which thou mayest have incurred on this
occasion. I remit the pains which thou shouldest have to endure in purgatory. I
render thee anew a partaker in the sacraments of the church. I again incorporate
thee into the communion of saints, and re-establish thee in the innocence and
purity in which thou wert at the hour of thy baptism; so that, at the moment of
thy death, the gate of entrance to the place of pains and torments will be shut
to thee, and, on the contrary, the gate which leads to the heavenly paradise,
will be opened to thee. If thou art not to die soon, this grace will remain
unimpaired till thy last hour arrive. In the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Friar John Tezel, commissary, has signed it with his own hand.”

How dexterously presumptuous and lying words are here intermingled with holy
Christian expressions!

All the faithful required to come and confess at the place where the red cross
was erected. The only exceptions were the sick, the aged, and pregnant women.
If, however, there happened to be in the neighbourhood some noble in his castle,
or some great personage in his palace, there was an exemption for him; for he
might not care to mingle with the crowd, and his money was worth the going for.

If there happened to be a convent whose heads were opposed to the traffic of
Tezel, and prohibited their monks from visiting the places where the indulgence
had erected its throne, means were still found to remedy the evil by sending
them confessors, who were commissioned to absolve them against the will of their
order and the will of their heads. There was not a vein in the mine, however
small, which they did not find means of working. At length they arrived at the
object and end of the whole affair, the summing up of the cash. For greater
security, the strong box had three keys—one in the hands of Tezel, the second in
those of the treasurer, appointed by the firm of Fugger of Augsburg, who had
been appointed agents in this vast enterprise, while the third was entrusted to
the civil authority. When the moment arrived, the counters were opened in the
presence of a notary-public, and the whole was duly counted and recorded. Must
not Christ arise and drive these profane sellers from the temple? The mission
being closed, the dealers relaxed from their labours. It is true the
instructions of the commissary-general forbade them to frequent taverns and
suspicious places; but they cared little for this prohibition. Sin must have
appeared a very trivial matter to people who had such an easy trade in it. “The
mendicants,” says a Roman Catholic historian, “led a bad life, expending in
taverns, gaming-houses, and places of infamy, what the people retrenched from
their necessities.”4 It is even averred, that in taverns they sometimes played
at dice for the salvation of souls.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 26: CHAPTER II
========================================================================

The Franciscan Confessor—The Soul in the Burying-Ground—The Shoemaker of
Hagenau—The Students—Myconius—Conversation with Tezel—Stratagem by a
Gentleman—Conversation of the Wise and of the People—A Miner of Schneeberg. But
let us look at some of the scenes which then took place in Germany during this
sale of the pardon of sins; for we here meet with anecdotes which, by themselves
alone, give a picture of the times. As we proceed with our narrative we deem it
best to let men speak for themselves. At Magdebourg Tezel refused to absolve a
wealthy female, unless she would pay him one hundred florins in advance. She
consulted her ordinary confessor, who was a Franciscan. “God,” replied he,
“gives the remission of sins freely, and does not sell it.” However, he begged
her not to tell Tezel what advice he had given her. But the merchant having
somehow or other heard of words so injurious to his interest, exclaimed, “Such
an adviser deserves to be banished or burned.”

Tezel rarely found men enlightened enough, and still more rarely men bold
enough, to resist him. For the most part he had a good market from the
superstitious crowd. He had erected the red cross of indulgences at Zwickau, and
the good parishioners had hastened to make the money which was to deliver them
chink on the bottom of the chest. He was going away with a well-filled purse.
The evening before his departure the chaplains and their attendants applied to
him for a farewell entertainment. The request was reasonable; but how was it
possible to comply with it? the money was already counted and sealed up. The
next morning he orders the large bell to be rung. Crowds hastened to the church,
every one thinking that something extraordinary must have happened, as the
station was closed. “I had resolved,” said he, “to depart this morning, but last
night was awoke by groans. On listening I found they came from the
burying-ground. Alas! it was a poor soul calling and entreating me instantly to
deliver it from the torment by which it was consumed. I have, therefore,
remained one day more, in order to stir up the compassion of Christian hearts in
favour of this unhappy soul. I am willing myself to be the first to give, and
whosoever does not follow my example will deserve damnation.” What heart would
not have responded to such an appeal? Who knew, moreover, whose soul it was that
was crying in the burying-ground? The people contributed freely, and Tezel gave
the chaplains and their attendants a jovial entertainment, defraying the expence
by the offerings which he had received in favour of the soul of Zwickau. The
indulgence merchants had fixed their station at Hagenau in 1517. A shoemaker’s
wife, taking advantage of the authority of the instruction of the
commissary-general, had, contrary to the will of her husband, procured a letter
of indulgence, and paid a gold florin for it. She died shortly after. The
husband not having caused mass to be said for the repose of her soul, the curate
charged him with contempt of religion, and the judge of Hagenau summoned him to
appear. The shoemaker put his wife’s indulgence in his pocket and repaired to
the court. “Is your wife dead?” asked the judge. “Yes,” replied he. “What have
you done for her?” “I have buried her body, and commended her soul to God.” “But
have you caused a mass to be said for the salvation of her soul?” I have not; it
was unnecessary. She entered heaven the moment of her death.” “How do you know
that?” “Here is the proof.” So saying, he takes the indulgence out of his
pocket, and the judge, in presence of the curate, reads in as many words that
the woman who received it would not enter purgatory, but go straight to heaven.
“If the reverend curate maintains that a mass is still necessary, my wife has
been cheated by our most holy father the pope. If she was not cheated, then it
is the reverend curate who is cheating me.” This was unanswerable, and the
accused was acquitted. Thus the good sense of the people did justice to these
pious frauds.

One day when Tezel was preaching at Leipsic, and introducing into his sermons
some of those stories of which we have given a sample, two students feeling
quite indignant, rose up and left the church, exclaiming, “It is impossible for
us to listen longer to the drolleries and puerilities of this monk.” One of
them, it is said, was young Camerarius, afterwards the intimate friend of
Melancthon, and his biographer. But of all the young men of the period, he on
whom Tezel made the strongest impression unquestionably was Myconius, afterwards
celebrated as a Reformer, and historian of the Reformation. He had received a
Christian education. His father, a pious man of Franconia, was wont to say to
him, “My son, pray frequently, for all things are freely given to us by God
alone. The blood of Christ,” added he, “is the only ransom for the sins of the
whole world. O, my son! were there only three men that could be saved by the
blood of Christ, believe, and believe with confidence, that thou art one of the
three. It is an insult to the blood of the Saviour to doubt if it saves.” Then
cautioning his son against the traffic which was beginning to be established in
Germany—“The Roman indulgences,” said he to him, “are nets which fish for money,
and deceive the simple. The forgiveness of sins and of eternal life are not
things for sale.” At the age of thirteen Frederick Myconius was sent to the
school of Annaberg to finish his studies. Shortly after, Tezel arrived in the
town, and remained in it for two years. The people flocked in crowds to his
sermon. “There is no other method,” exclaimed Tezel in his voice of thunder;
“there is no other method of obtaining eternal life than the satisfaction of
works; but this satisfaction is impossible for man, and, therefore, all he can
do is to purchase it from the Roman pontiff.” When Tezel was about to quit
Annaberg, his addresses became more urgent. “Soon,” exclaimed he, in a
threatening tone, “soon will I take down the cross, shut the gate of heaven,2
and quench the lustre of that sun of grace which is now shining in your eyes.”
Then resuming the gentle accent of persuasion, “Now,” said he, “is the accepted
time, now is the day of salvation.” Then raising his voice anew, the pontifical
Stentor, who was addressing the inhabitants of a rich mineral district, loudly
exclaimed, “Bring your money, burghers of Annaberg, contribute largely in behalf
of the indulgences, and your mines and your mountains will be filled with pure
silver.” In conclusion, he declared that at Pentecost he would distribute his
letters to the poor gratuitously, and for the love of God.

Young Myconius being among the number of Tezel’s hearers, felt an eager desire
to avail himself of this offer. Going up to the commissaries, he said to them in
Latin, “I am a poor sinner, and need a gratuitous pardon!” The merchants
replied, “Those alone can have part in the merits of Jesus Christ who lend a
helping hand to the Church, in other words, who give money.” “What is the
meaning then,” said Myconius, “of those promises of free gift, which are posted
up on the walls and doors of the churches?” “Give at least a shilling,” said
Tezel’s people who had gone to their master, and interceded with him for the
young man, but without effect. “I am not able.” “Only Sixpence.” “I have not
even so much.” The dominicans then began to fear that he wished to entrap them.
“Listen,” said they to him, “we will make you a present of the sixpence.” The
young man, raising his voice in indignation, answered, “I want no indulgences
that are purchased. If I wished to purchase, I would only have to sell one of my
school-books. I want a free pardon, given purely for the love of God, and you
will have to give account to God for having allowed the salvation of a soul to
be lost for a sixpence.” “Who sent you to entrap us?” exclaimed the merchants.
“Nothing but the desire of receiving the grace of God could have tempted me to
appear before such mighty lords,” replied the young man, and withdrew.

“I was much grieved,” said he, “at being sent thus pitilessly away; but I still
felt within myself a Comforter, who told me that there was a God in heaven, who,
without money and without price, pardons repenting sinners for the love of his
Son Jesus Christ. As I was taking leave of those people, I melted into tears,
and, sobbing, prayed, ‘O God! since these men have refused me the forgiveness of
my sins, because I had no money to pay for it, do thou, O Lord, have pity on me,
and forgive my sins in pure mercy! I went to my lodging, and taking up my
crucifix, which was lying on my desk, laid it on my chair, and prostrated myself
before it. I cannot describe what I felt. I asked God to be my Father, and to do
with me whatsoever he pleased. I felt my nature changed, converted, and
transformed. What formerly delighted me now excited my disgust. To live with
God, and please him, was my strongest, my only desire.” Thus Tezel himself
contributed to the Reformation. By crying abuses he paved the way for a purer
doctrine, and the indignation which he excited in a generous youth was one day
to break forth mightily. We may judge of this by the following anecdote. A Saxon
gentleman, who had heard Tezel at Leipsic, felt his indignation aroused by his
falsehoods, and going up to the monk, asked him whether he had power to pardon
the sins which were intended to be committed? “Assuredly,” replied Tezel. “I
have full power from the pope to do so.” “Well then,” resumed the knight, “there
is one of my enemies on whom I should like to take a slight revenge without
doing him any deadly injury, and I will give you ten crowns in return for a
letter of indulgence, which will completely acquit me.” Tezel made some
objections; at last, however, they came to an agreement for thirty crowns. Soon
after the monk quits Leipsic. The gentleman accompanied by his servants, waited
for him in a wood between Jüterboch and Treblin, and rushing out upon him, and
giving him some blows with a stick, carried off the rich indulgence chest, which
the inquisitor had with him. Tezel cries out robbery, and carries his complaint
before the judges, but the gentleman shows the letter with Tezel’s own
signature, exempting him beforehand from all punishment. Duke George, who had at
first been very angry, on seeing the document ordered the accused to be
acquitted. This traffic everywhere occupied men’s thoughts, and was everywhere
talked of. It was the subject of conversation in castles, in academies, and at
the firesides of the citizens, as well as in inns and taverns, and all places of
public resort. Opinions were divided, some believing, and others expressing
indignation. The sensible portion of the community rejected the whole system of
indulgences with disgust. It was so contrary to Scripture and to morality, that
all who had any knowledge of the Bible, or any natural light, condemned it in
their hearts, and only waited for a signal to declare their opposition to it. On
the other hand, scoffers found ample materials for raillery. The people, who had
for many years been irritated by the misconduct of the priests, and whom nothing
but the fear of punishment induced to keep up a certain show of respect, gave
free vent to their hatred. Complaints and sarcasms were everywhere heard on the
avarice of the clergy. Nor did they stop here. They even attacked the power of
the keys, and the authority of the sovereign pontiff. “Why,” said they, “does
not the pope deliver all souls from purgatory at once from a holy charity, and
in consideration of the sad misery of these souls, seeing he delivers so great a
number for the love of perishable money, and of the cathedral of St. Peter? Why
do feasts and anniversaries of the dead continue to be celebrated? Why does not
the pope restore or allow others to resume the benefices and prebends which have
been founded in favour of the dead, since it is now useless, and even
reprehensible, to pray for those whom indulgences have for ever delivered?”
“What kind of new holiness in God and the pope is this—from a love of money to
enable a wicked profane man to deliver a pious soul beloved of the Lord from
purgatory, rather than deliver it themselves gratuitously from love, and because
of its great wretchedness.” The gross and immoral conduct of the traffickers in
indulgences was much talked of. “In paying carriers for transporting them with
their goods, the innkeepers with whom they lodge, or any one who does any piece
of work for them, they give a letter of indulgence for four, five, or any number
of souls, as the case may be.” In this way, the diplomas of salvation were
current in inns and in markets like bank bills or paper money. “Bring! Bring!”
said the common people, “is the head, the belly, the tail, and the whole body of
the sermon.” A miner of Schneeberg, meeting a seller of indulgences, asked,
“Must we indeed give credit to what you have often said of the power of the
indulgence, and of the authority of the pope, and believe it possible, by
throwing a penny into the box, to ransom a soul from purgatory?” The merchant
assured him it was true. “Ah!” resumed the miner, “what an unmerciful man the
pope must be, for a paltry penny to leave a miserable soul so long crying in the
flames. If he has no ready money, let him borrow some hundred thousand crowns,
and deliver all these people at once. We poor folks will willingly pay him both
the interest and the capital.” Thus Germany was weary of the shameful traffic
which was going on in the midst of her, and could no longer tolerate the
impostures of these master-swindlers of Rome, as Luther calls them. Yet no
bishop, no theologian, durst oppose their quackery and their fraud. The minds of
men were in suspense, and asked whether God would not raise up some mighty man
for the work which required to be done? This man nowhere appeared.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 27: CHAPTER III
========================================================================

Leo X—Necessities of the Pope—Albert—His Character—Favours the Indulgences—The
Franciscans and the Dominicans. The pope then on the pontifical throne was not a
Borgia but Leo X, of the illustrious house of Medici. He was able, frank, kind,
and gentle. His address was affable, his liberality without bounds, and his
morals, superior to those of his court. Cardinal Pallavicini, however,
acknowledges that they were not altogether irreproachable. To this amiable
character he joined several of the qualities of a great prince. He showed
himself friendly to science and art. The first Italian comedies were represented
in his presence; and there are few of his day which he did not see performed. He
was passionately fond of music. Musical instruments resounded every day in his
palace; and he was often heard humming the airs which had been performed before
him. He was fond of magnificence, and spared nothing when fêtes, games,
theatricals, presents or rewards, were in question. No court surpassed that of
the sovereign pontiff in splendour and gayety. Accordingly, when it was learned
that Julian Medicis was proposing to reside at Rome with his young bride, “God
be praised,” exclaimed Cardinal Bibliena, the most influential counsellor of Leo
X, “the only thing we wanted was a female court.” A female court was necessary
to complete the court of the pope. To religious sentiment Leo was completely a
stranger. “His manners were so pleasing,” says Sarpi, “that he would have been
perfect if he had had some acquaintance with religious matters, and been
somewhat more inclined to piety, which seldom, if ever, gave him any concern.”2

Leo was greatly in want of money. He had to provide for his immense expenditure,
supply all his liberalities, fill the purse of gold which he daily threw to the
people, keep up the licentious exhibitions of the Vatican, satisfy the numerous
demands of his relations and voluptuous courtiers, give a dowry to his sister,
who had been married to Prince Cibo, a natural son of Pope Innocent VIII, and
meet the expenditure occasioned by his taste for literature, arts, and pleasure.
His cousin, Cardinal Pucci, as skilful in the art of hoarding as Leo in that of
lavishing, advised him to have recourse to indulgences. Accordingly, the pope
published a bull, announcing a general indulgence, the proceeds of which were,
he said, to be employed in the erection of the church of St. Peter, that
monument of sacerdotal magnificence. In a letter, dated at Rome, under the seal
of the Fisherman, in November, 1517, Leo applies to his commissary of
indulgences for one hundred and forty-seven gold ducats, to pay a manuscript of
the thirty-third book of Livy. Of all the uses to which he put the money of the
Germans, this was, doubtless, the best. Still it was strange to deliver souls
from purgatory in order to purchase a manuscript history of the wars of the
Roman people.

There was at this time in Germany a young prince who might be regarded as in
many respects a living image of Leo X. This was Albert, a younger brother of the
elector, Joachim of Brandenburg. At twenty-four years of age he had been
appointed Archbishop and Elector of Mentz and of Magdeburg, and two years after
made a cardinal. Albert had neither the virtues nor the vices which are often
met with in the high dignitaries of the church. Young, fickle, worldly, but not
without some generous feelings, he was perfectly aware of many of the abuses of
Catholicism, and cared little for the fanatical monks by whom he was surrounded.
His equity disposed him, in part at least, to acknowledge the justice of what
the friends of the gospel demanded. In his secret heart he was not much opposed
to Luther. Capito, one of the most distinguished Reformers, was long his
chaplain, counsellor, and confidant. Albert regularly attended his sermons. “He
did not despise the gospel,” says Capito; “on the contrary, he highly esteemed
it, and for a long time would not allow the monks to attack Luther.” But he
would have liked Luther not to compromise him, and to take good care while
exposing the doctrinal errors and vices of the inferior clergy, not to disclose
the faults of bishops and princes. In particular, he was most anxious that his
name should not be mixed up with the affair. His confidant, Capito, who had
imposed upon himself, as men often do in situations similar to his, thus
addressed Luther: “Look to the example of Jesus Christ and the apostles; they
rebuked the Pharisees and the incestuous man of Corinth, but they never
expressly named them. You know not what is passing in the hearts of the bishops;
and, perhaps, there is more good in them than you suppose.” But the fickle and
profane spirit of Albert, still more than the susceptibilities and fears of his
self-love, estranged him from the Reformation. Affable, clever, handsome,
extravagant, and wasteful, delighting in the pleasures of the table, in rich
equipages, splendid buildings, licentious pleasures, and literary society, this
young Archbishop-Elector was in Germany what Leo X was at Rome. His court was
one of the most magnificent in the empire, and he was prepared to sacrifice to
pleasure and grandeur all the sentiments of truth which, perhaps, might have
insinuated themselves into his heart. Nevertheless, his better convictions
continued even to the last to exercise some degree of influence over him, and he
repeatedly gave indications of moderation and equity.

Albert, like Leo, was in want of money. The Fuggers, rich merchants in Augsburg,
had made him advances which he behoved to repay, and hence, though he had
managed to secure two archbishoprics and a bishopric, he was unable to pay Rome
for his Pallium. This ornament of white wool, bespangled with black crosses and
blessed by the pope, who sent it to the archbishops as a token of their dignity,
cost them twenty-six, or, some say, thirty thousand florins. In order to obtain
money, Albert, naturally enough, bethought himself of having recourse to the
same methods as the pope. He accordingly applied to him for the general farming
of the indulgences, or, as they expressed it at Rome, “of the sins of the
Germans.” The popes sometimes kept the indulgences in their own hands, and at
other times farmed them out, in the same way as some governments still do
gaming-houses. Albert made an offer to Leo to share the profits with him, and
Leo, in agreeing to the bargain, stipulated for immediate payment of the
Pallium. Albert had been counting on paying it out of the indulgences, and
therefore applied anew to the Fuggers, who, thinking the security good, agreed,
on certain conditions, to make the advance required, and were appointed bankers
to the concern. They were the bankers of the princes of this period, and were
afterwards made counts in return for the services which they had rendered. The
pope and the archbishop having thus, by anticipation, shared in the spoils of
the good souls of Germany, the next matter was to select the persons who were to
carry the affair into effect. It was first offered to the Franciscan order,
whose guardian was conjoined with Albert. But, as it was already in bad odour
with honest people, these monks were not anxious to have anything to do with it.
The Augustins, who were more enlightened than the other religious orders, would
have been less inclined to undertake it. The Franciscans, however, being afraid
of offending the pope, who had just sent their chief, De Forli, a cardinal’s
hat, a hat which had cost this poor mendicant order thirty thousand florins, the
guardian deemed it more prudent not to refuse openly, but, at the same time,
threw all sorts of difficulties in Albert’s way. They could never understand
each other, and, accordingly, when the proposal was made to the Elector to
undertake the whole charge, he eagerly closed with it. The Dominicans, on the
other hand, longed for a share in the general collection which was about to
commence. Tezel, who was already famous in the trade, hastened to Mentz to offer
his services to the Elector. In consideration of the talent which he had
displayed in publishing the indulgences for the knights of the Teutonic order of
Prussia and Livonia, his proposals were accepted, and in this way, the whole
traffic passed into the hands of his order.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 28: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

Tezel approaches—Luther at the Confessional—Tezel’s Rage—Luther without a
Plan—Jealousy among the Orders—Luther’s Discourse—The Elector’s Dream. In so far
as we know, Luther heard of Tezel, for the first time, at Grimma, in 1516, when
he was on the eve of beginning his visit to the churches. While Staupitz was
still with Luther, it was told him that an indulgence merchant was making a
great noise at Vürzen. Even some of his extravagant sayings were quoted.
Luther’s indignation was roused, and he exclaimed, “Please God, I’ll make a hole
in his drum.”

Tezel, on his return from Berlin, where he had met with a most friendly
reception from the elector Joachim, brother of the farmer-general, took up his
head-quarters at Juterboch. Staupitz, availing himself of his influence with the
elector Frederick, had often represented to him the abuses of the indulgences,
and the scandalous proceedings of the mendicants, and the princes of Saxony
feeling indignant at the shameful traffic, had forbidden the merchant to enter
their territory. He was, accordingly, obliged to remain on those of the
Archbishop of Magdeburg, but at the same time came as near to Saxony as he
could, Juterboch being only four miles from Wittemberg. “This great thresher of
purses,” says Luther, “set about threshing3 the country in grand style, so that
the money began to leap, tumble, and tinkle, in his chest.” The people of
Wittemberg went in crowds to the indulgence market of Juterboch. At this period
Luther had the highest respect for the church and for the pope. “I was then,”
said he, “a monk, a most bigoted Papist, so intoxicated and imbued with the
doctrines of Rome, that if I had been able I would willingly have lent a hand in
killing any one audacious enough to refuse obedience to the pope in the minutest
matter. I was a real Saul, as many still are.” But, at the same time, his heart
was ready to declare in favour of all that he believed to be truth, and against
all that he believed to be error. “I was a young doctor just of the irons,
ardent and rejoicing in the word of the Lord.”5

One day when Luther had taken his seat in the confessional at Wittemberg,
several citizens of the town came before him, and one after another confessed
the grossest immoralities. Adultery, libertinism, usury, ill-gotten wealth, were
the crimes with which the minister of the word was entertained by persons of
whose souls he was one day to give account. He rebukes, corrects, and instructs
them; but what is his astonishment when these people tell him that they don’t
choose to abandon their sins?… Quite amazed, the pious monk declares, that since
they refuse to promise amendment, he cannot give them absolution. The wretched
creatures then appealed to their letters of indulgence, exhibiting them and
extolling their virtues. But Luther replied, that he cared little for the paper
which they had shown him, and added, unless you repent, you will all perish.
They made an outcry, and expostulated, but the doctor was immovable; “they must
cease to do evil, and learn to do well, … otherwise no absolution.” “Beware,”
added he, “of lending an ear to the harangues of the venders of indulgences; you
might be better employed than in buying those licences which are sold you for
the most paltry sum.”

Much alarmed, these inhabitants of Wittemberg hastened back to Tezel to tell him
how his letters were disregarded by an Augustin monk. Tezel, on hearing this,
became red with fury, crying, and stamping, and cursing in the pulpit. To strike
a deeper terror into the people, he repeatedly kindled a fire in the
market-place, declaring he had received orders from the pope to burn all
heretics who should dare to oppose his holy indulgences.

Such is the circumstance, which was not the cause, but the first occasion of the
Reformation. A pastor seeing the sheep of his flock in a path which must lead
them to destruction, makes an effort to deliver them. As yet, he has no thought
of reforming the church and the world. He has seen Rome and its corruptions, but
he declares not against Rome. He perceives some of the abuses under which
Christianity is groaning, but has no thought of correcting these abuses. He has
no desire to become Reformer. He has no plan for the reformation of the Church
any more than he had had one for himself. God intends reform, and for reform
selects Luther. The same remedy which had proved so powerful in curing his own
wretchedness, the hand of God will employ by him to cure the miseries of
Christendom. He remains quiet in the sphere which is assigned to him, walking
merely where his Master calls him, and fulfilling his duties as professor,
preacher, and pastor, at Wittemberg. While seated in the church, his hearers
come and open their hearts to him. Evil makes an assault upon him, and error
seeks him out, of her own accord. He is interfered with in the discharge of his
duty, and his conscience, which is bound to the word of God, resists. Is it not
God that calls him? To resist is a duty, and being a duty, is also a right. He
has no alternative but to speak. In this way were events ordered by that God who
was pleased, says Mathesius, “to restore Christendom by means of the son of a
forge master, and to purify the impure doctrine of the church, by making it pass
through his furnaces.”

Having given this detail, it must be unnecessary to refute a false imputation
invented by some of Luther’s enemies, but not till after his death. Jealousy for
his order, it has been said, grief at seeing a shameful and condemned traffic
entrusted to the Dominicans in preference to the Augustins, who had hitherto
enjoyed it, led the doctor of Wittemberg to attack Tezel and his doctrines. The
well known fact that this traffic was first offered to the Augustins, who
refused it, is sufficient to refute this fable, which has been repeated by
writers who have copied each other; even Cardinal Pallavicini states that the
Augustins never had discharged this office. Besides, we have seen the travail of
Luther’s soul. His conduct needs no other explanation. It was impossible for him
not to make open profession of the doctrine to which he owed his happiness. In
Christianity, every man who finds a blessing longs to make others partakers in
it. In our day it is time to abandon those puerile explanations which are
unworthy of the great revolution of the sixteenth century. To lift a world, a
more powerful lever was required. The Reformation existed not in Luther only; it
was the offspring of his age.

Luther impelled equally by obedience to the truth of God, and by charity towards
men, mounted the pulpit. He forewarned his hearers; but, as he himself says, he
did it gently. His prince had obtained particular indulgences from the pope for
the church of the castle of Wittemberg, and it was possible that some of the
blows which he was going to level at the indulgences in question might fall on
those of the Elector. No matter; he will run the risk. If he sought to please
men, he would not be the servant of Christ.

“No man can prove by Scripture,” says the faithful minister of the Word to the
people of Wittemberg, “that the justice of God exacts a penalty or satisfaction
from the sinner; the only duty which it imposes upon him is true repentance,
sincere conversion, a resolution to bear the cross of Jesus Christ, and to be
diligent in good works. It is a great error to think we can ourselves satisfy
the justice of God for our sins. He always pardons them gratuitously by his
inestimable grace.

“The Christian Church, it is true, requires something from the sinner, and
consequently has the power of remitting what she so requires, but that is all.
Even these indulgences of the Church are tolerated, only on account of indolent
and imperfect Christians, who will not zealously exercise themselves in good
works. For they stimulate none to sanctification, but leave all in
imperfection.”

Then adverting to the pretext under which the indulgences were published, he
continues:—“It would be much better to contribute to the erection of St. Peter’s
church from love to God, than to purchase indulgences in this view.… But you
ask, Are we then never to purchase them? I have already said, and I repeat it;
my advice is, Don’t purchase. Leave them to sleepy Christians, but do you walk
apart in your own path. The faithful must be diverted from indulgences, and
urged to do the works which they neglect.” At last, glancing at his adversaries,
Luther concludes thus:—“If some cry out that I am a heretic, (for the truth
which I preach is very hurtful to their strong box,) their clamour gives me
little concern. They are dull and sickly brains, men who never felt the Bible,
never read Christian doctrine, never comprehended their own teachers, and who
turn to rottenness, wrapped up in the tatters of their vain opinions, … God
grant them and us a sound mind. Amen.” After these words, the doctor descended
from the pulpit, leaving his hearers in astonishment at his bold language. This
sermon was printed, and made a deep impression on all who read it. Tezel
answered it, and Luther replied; but these discussions did not take place till a
later period, (1518). The feast of All Saints drew near. The chronicles of that
day here relate a circumstance, which, though not important to the history of
the period, may, however, serve to characterise it. It is a dream of the
Elector, which in substance is unquestionably authentic, though several
circumstances may have been added by those who have related it. It is mentioned
by Seckendorf, who observes, that the fear of giving their adversaries ground to
say that the doctrine of Luther was founded upon dreams, has perhaps prevented
several historians from speaking of it. The Elector Frederick of Saxony, say the
chronicles of the time, was at his castle of Schweinitz, six leagues from
Wittemberg. On the morning of the 31st October, being in company with his
brother Duke John, who was then co-regent, and became sole elector after his
death, and with his chancellor, the Elector said to the Duke,

“Brother, I must tell you a dream which I had last night, and the meaning of
which I should like much to know. It is so deeply impressed on my mind, that I
will never forget it, were I to live a thousand years. For I dreamed it thrice,
and each time with new circumstances.”

Duke John.—“Is it a good or a bad dream?” The Elector.—“I know not; God knows.”

Duke John.—“Don’t be uneasy at it; but be so good as tell it to me.” The
Elector.—“Having gone to bed last night, fatigued and out of spirits, I fell
asleep shortly after my prayer, and slept quietly for about two hours and a
half; I then awoke, and continued awake till midnight, all sorts of thoughts
passing through my mind. Among other things, I thought how I was to observe the
feast of All Saints. I prayed for the poor souls in purgatory, and supplicated
God to guide me, my counsels, and my people, according to truth. I again fell
asleep, and then dreamed that Almighty God sent me a monk, who was a true son of
the Apostle Paul. All the saints accompanied him by order of God, in order to
bear testimony before me, and to declare that he did not come to contrive any
plot, but that all that he did was according to the will of God. They asked me
to have the goodness graciously to permit him to write something on the door of
the church of the castle of Wittemberg. This I granted through my chancellor.
Thereupon the monk went to the church, and began to write in such large
characters, that I could read the writing at Schweinitz. The pen which he used
was so large that its end reached as far as Rome, where it pierced the ears of a
lion that was couching there, and caused the triple crown upon the head of the
pope to shake. All the cardinals and princes running hastily up, tried to
prevent it from falling. You and I, brother, wished also to assist, and I
stretched out my arm.… but at this moment I awoke, with my arm in the air, quite
amazed, and very much enraged at the monk for not managing his pen better. I
recollected myself a little: it was only a dream.

“I was still half asleep, and once more closed my eyes. The dream returned. The
lion, still annoyed by the pen, began to roar with all his might, so much so
that the whole city of Rome and all the states of the holy empire, ran to see
what the matter was. The pope requested them to oppose this monk, and applied
particularly to me, on account of his being in my country. I again awoke,
repeated the Lord’s Prayer, entreated God to preserve his Holiness, and once
more fell asleep.

“Then I dreamed that all the princes of the empire, and we among them, hastened
to Rome, and strove one after another to break the pen; but the more we tried
the stiffer it became, sounding as if it had been made of iron. We at length
desisted. I then asked the monk (for I was sometimes at Rome and sometimes at
Wittemberg) where he got this pen, and why it was so strong. ‘The pen,’ replied
he, ‘belonged to an old goose of Bohemia, a hundred years old. I got it from one
of my old school-masters. As to its strength, it is owing to the impossibility
of depriving it of its pith or marrow, and I am quite astonished at it myself.’
Suddenly I heard a loud noise; a large number of other pens had sprung out of
the long pen of the monk.… I awoke a third time; it was daylight.…”

Duke John.—“Chancellor, what is your opinion? Would we had a Joseph or a Daniel
enlightened by God!”

Chancellor.—“Your Highnesses know the common proverb, that the dreams of young
girls, learned men, and great lords, have usually some hidden meaning. The
meaning of this dream, however, we will not be able to know for some time; not
till the things to which it relates have taken place. Wherefore, leave the
accomplishment to God, and place it wholly in his hand.”

Duke John.—“I am of your opinion, Chancellor; ’tis not fit for us to annoy
ourselves in attempting to discover the meaning; the God will overrule all for
his glory.”

Elector.—“May our faithful God do so; yet I will never forget this dream. I have
indeed thought of an interpretation, but I keep it to myself. Time, perhaps,
will show if I have been a good diviner.”

Thus, according to the manuscript of Weimar, the morning of 31st of October was
spent at Schweinitz. Let us see how the evening was spent at Wittemberg. We
again return to the province of History.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 29: CHAPTER V
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Feast of All Saints—The Theses—Their Force—Moderation—Providence—Letter to
Albert—Indifference of the Bishops—Dissemination of the Theses. The words of
Luther had produced little effect. Tezel, without troubling himself, continued
his traffic and his impious harangues. Will Luther submit to these crying
abuses, and keep silence? As a pastor, he has earnestly exhorted those who have
had recourse to his ministry, and, as a preacher, he has lifted his warning
voice in the pulpit. It still remains for him to speak as a theologian—to
address, not individuals in the confessional, not the assembly of the faithful
in the church of Wittemberg, but all who, like himself, are teachers of the word
of God. His resolution is taken.

He has no thought of attacking the Church, or of putting the pope on his
defence. On the contrary, it is his respect for the pope that will not allow him
to be any longer silent with regard to claims by which he is injured. He must
take the part of the pope against audacious men, who dare to associate his
venerable name with their disgraceful traffic. Far from thinking of a revolution
which is to destroy the primacy of Rome, Luther expects to have the pope and
Catholicism for his allies against impudent monks. The feast of All Saints was
an important day for Wittemberg, and especially for the church which the Elector
had there erected and filled with relics. On that day these relics, adorned with
silver and gold, and precious stones, were brought out and exhibited to the eyes
of the people, who were astonished and dazzled by their magnificence. Whoever on
that day visited the church and confessed in it obtained a valuable indulgence.
Accordingly, on this great occasion, pilgrims came in crowds to Wittemberg. On
the 31st of October, 1517, Luther, who had already taken his resolution, walks
boldly towards the church to which the superstitious crowds of pilgrims were
repairing, and puts up on the door of this church ninety-five Theses or
propositions against the doctrine of indulgences. Neither the Elector, nor
Staupitz, nor Spalatin, nor any, even the most intimate of his friends, had been
previously informed of this step. In these theses, Luther declares, in a kind of
preamble, that he had written them with the express desire of setting the truth
in the full light of day. He declares himself ready to defend them on the morrow
at the university, against all and sundry. The attention which they excite is
great; they are read and repeated. In a short time the pilgrims, the university,
the whole town is ringing with them. The following are some of these
Propositions, written with the pen of the monk, and fixed on the door of the
church of Wittemberg.

1. “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ says ‘repent,’ he means that the whole
life of his followers on the earth is a constant and continual repentance.

2. “This expression cannot be understood of the sacrament of penitence, (that is
to say, of confession and satisfaction,) as administered by the priest.

3. “Still the Lord intends not to speak merely of internal repentance. Internal
repentance is null, if it does not manifest itself externally by the
mortification of the flesh.

4. “Repentance and sorrow—that is to say, true penitence—continue so long as a
man is displeased with himself—that is, until he passes from this life into life
eternal.

5. “The pope is not able, and does not wish to remit any other penalty than that
which he has imposed of his own good pleasure, or conformably to the canons,
that is to say, the papal ordinances.

6. “The pope cannot remit any condemnation, but only declare and confirm the
remission which God himself has given. At least he can only do it in cases which
belong to him. If he does otherwise, the condemnation remains exactly as before.

8. “The laws of ecclesiastical penance ought to be imposed on the living only,
and have nothing to do with the dead.

21. “The commissaries of indulgence are mistaken when they say that the pope’s
indulgence delivers from all punishment and saves.

25. “The same power which the pope has over purgatory throughout the Church,
each bishop has individually in his own diocese, and each curate in his own
parish.

27. “It is the preaching of human folly to pretend, that at the very moment when
the money tinkles in the strong box, the soul flies off from purgatory.

28. “This much is certain; as soon as the money tinkles, avarice and the love of
gain arrive, increase, and multiply. But the aids and prayers of the Church
depend only on the will and good pleasure of God.

32. “Those who imagine they are sure of salvation by means of indulgences will
go to the devil, with those who teach them so.

35. “It is an antichristian doctrine to pretend, that, in order to deliver a
soul from purgatory, or to purchase an indulgence, there is no need of either
sorrow or repentance.

36. “Every Christian who truly repents of his sins has entire forgiveness of the
penalty and the fault, and, so far, has no need of indulgence.

37. “Every true Christian, dead or alive, participates in all the blessings of
Christ and of the Church by the gift of God and without a letter of indulgence.

38. “Still the dispensation and pardon of the pope must not be despised; for his
pardon is a declaration of the pardon of God.

40. “Genuine sorrow and repentance seek and love punishment; but the mildness of
indulgence takes off the fear of punishment, and begets hatred against it.

42. “Christians must be told that the pope has no wish and no intention that
they should in any respect compare the act of purchasing indulgences with any
work of mercy.

43. “Christians must be told that he who gives to the poor, or lends to the
needy, does better than he who buys an indulgence:

44. “For the work of charity makes charity increase, and renders a man more
pious; whereas the indulgence does not make him better, but only gives him more
self-confidence, and makes him more secure against punishment.

45. “Christians must be told that he who sees his neighbour want, and, instead
of helping him, purchases an indulgence, purchases not the indulgence of the
pope, but incurs the Divine displeasure.

46. “Christians must be told that if they have no superfluity, they are bound to
keep what they have, in order to procure necessaries for their families, and not
to lavish it on indulgences.

47. “Christians must be told that to purchase an indulgence is optional, not
obligatory.

48. “Christians must be told that the pope having more need of prayer offered up
in faith than of money, desires the prayer more than the money when he dispenses
indulgences.

49. “Christians must be told that the indulgence of the pope is good provided
they do not place their confidence in it, but that nothing is more hurtful if it
diminishes piety.

50. “Christians must be told that if the pope knew of the extortions of the
preachers of indulgences, he would rather that the metropolis of St. Peter were
burned and reduced to ashes, than see it built with the skin, flesh, and bones,
of his sheep.

51. “Christians must be told that the pope, as is his duty, would dispense his
own money to the poor people whom the preachers of indulgences are now robbing
of their last penny, were he, for that purpose, even to sell the metropolis of
St. Peter.

52. “To hope to be saved by indulgences is an empty and lying hope even should
the commissary of indulgences, nay, the pope himself, be pleased to pledge his
own soul in security of it.

53. “Those who, on account of the preaching of indulgences, forbid the preaching
of the word of God, are enemies of the pope and of Jesus Christ.

55. “The pope cannot have any other thought than this:—If the indulgence, which
is the lesser matter, is celebrated with bell, pomp, and ceremony, it is
necessary, à fortiori, to honour and celebrate the gospel, which is the greater
matter, with a hundred bells, a hundred pomps, and a hundred ceremonies.

62. “The true and precious treasure of the Church is the holy gospel of the
glory and grace of God.

65. “The treasures of the gospel are nets, which once caught the rich, and those
who were at ease in their circumstances:

66. “But the treasures of indulgence are nets, in which, now-a-days, they catch,
not rich people, but the riches of people.

67. “It is the duty of bishops and pastors to receive the commissaries of
apostolic indulgences with all respect:

68. “But it is still more their duty to use their eyes and their ears, in order
to see that the said commissaries do not preach the dreams of their own
imaginations instead of the orders of the pope.

71. “Cursed be he who speaketh against the indulgence of the pope.

72. “But blessed be he who speaks against the foolish and impudent words of the
preachers of indulgences.

76. “The indulgence of the pope cannot take away the smallest daily sin, in
regard to the fault or delinquency.

79. “To say that a cross adorned with the arms of the pope is as powerful as the
cross of Christ is blasphemy.

80. “Bishops, pastors, and theologians, who allow such things to be said to the
people, will be called to account for it.

81. “This shameful preaching, these impudent eulogiums on indulgences make it
difficult for the learned to defend the dignity and honour of the pope against
the calumnies of the preachers, and the subtile and puzzling questions of the
common people.

86. “Why, say they, does not the pope, whose wealth is greater than that of rich
Crœsus, build the metropolis of St. Peter with his own money rather than with
that of poor Christians?

92. “Would, then, that we were discumbered of all the preachers who say to the
church of Christ, Peace! Peace! when there is no peace!

94. “Christians should be exhorted to diligence in following Christ their head
through crosses, death, and hell.

95. “For it is far better to enter the kingdom of heaven through much
tribulation, than to acquire a carnal security by the flattery of a false
peace.”

Here, then, was the commencement of the work. The germ of the Reformation was
contained in these theses of Luther. The abuses of indulgence were attacked in
them, (and this was their most striking feature,) but behind those attacks there
was, moreover, a principle which although it attracted the attention of the
multitude far less, was destined one day to overthrow the edifice of the papacy.
The evangelical doctrine of a free and gratuitous remission of sins was here
publicly professed for the first time. Henceforth the work must grow. In fact,
it was evident that any man who had faith in the remission of sins as preached
by the doctor of Wittemberg; any one who had this conversion and sanctification,
the necessity of which, he urged, would no longer concern himself about human
ordinances, but would escape from the swaddling-bands of Rome, and secure the
liberty of the children of God. All errors behoved to give way before this
truth. By it light had at first entered Luther’s own mind, and by it, in like
manner, light is to be diffused in the Church. What previous reformers wanted
was a clear knowledge of this truth; and hence the unfruitfulness of their
labours. Luther himself was afterwards aware that, in proclaiming justification
by faith, he had laid the axe to the root of the tree. “This is the doctrine,”
said he, “which we attack in the followers of the papacy. Huss and Wickliff only
attacked their lives, but in attacking their doctrine, we take the goose by the
neck. All depends on the Word which the pope took from us and falsified. I have
vanquished the pope, because my doctrine is according to God, and his is
according to the devil.

We too have in our day forgotten the capital doctrine of justification by faith,
though, in a sense, the reverse of that of our fathers. “In the time of Luther,”
says one of our contemporaries, “the remission of sins at least cost money, but
in our day every one supplies himself gratis.” These two extremes are very much
alike. Perhaps there is even more forgetfulness of God in our extreme, than in
that of the sixteenth century. The principle of justification by the grace of
God, which brought the Church out of so much darkness at the time of the
Reformation, is also the only principle which can renew our generation, put an
end to its doubts and waverings, destroy the canker of egotism, establish the
reign of morality and justice, and, in one word reunite the world to God, from
whom it has been separated. But if the theses of Luther were mighty in virtue of
the truth which they proclaimed, they were not less so through the faith of
their declared defender. He had boldly unsheathed the sword of the Word, and he
had done it trusting to the power of truth. He had felt, that in leaning on the
promises of God he could, in the language of the world, afford to risk
something. Speaking of this bold attack, he says, “Let him who would begin a
good enterprise undertake it, trusting to its own merits, and not (of this let
him beware) to the help and countenance of man. Moreover, let not men, nor even
the whole world, deter him. For these words will never deceive:—‘It is good to
trust in the Lord; and none that trust in him shall be confounded.’ But let him
who neither is able nor willing to hazard something through trust in God, beware
of undertaking any thing.” Doubtless, Luther, after putting up his theses on the
door of the church of All Saints, retired to his tranquil cell, in full
possession of the peace and joy imparted by an action done in the name of the
Lord, and for the sake of eternal truth.

These theses, notwithstanding of their great boldness, still bespeak the monk,
who refuses to allow a single doubt as to the authority of the See of Rome. But
in attacking the doctrine of indulgences, Luther had, without perceiving it,
assailed several errors, the exposure of which could not be agreeable to the
pope, seeing that they tended, sooner or later, to bring his supremacy in
question. Luther, at the time, did not see so far; but he felt all the boldness
of the step which he had just taken, and, consequently, thought himself bound to
temper it in so far as was consistent with the respect due to truth. He,
accordingly, presented his theses only as doubtful propositions on which he was
anxious for the views of the learned; and, conformably to the established
custom, annexed to them a solemn protestation, declaring that he wished not to
say or affirm any thing not founded on Holy Scripture, the Fathers of the
Church, and the rights and decretals of the See of Rome.

Often, in the sequel, on contemplating the immense and unlooked-for consequences
of this courageous attack, Luther was astonished at himself, and could not
understand how he had ventured upon it. An invisible hand, mightier than his
own, held the leading reins, and pushed him into a path which he knew not, and
from the difficulties of which he would, perhaps, have recoiled, if he had known
them, and been advancing alone and of himself. “I engaged in this dispute,” says
he, “without premeditated purpose, without knowing it or wishing it; and was
taken quite unprepared. For the truth of this I appeal to the Searcher of
hearts.”

Luther had become acquainted with the source of these abuses. He had received a
little book, ornamented with the arms of the Archbishop of Mentz and Magdeburg,
and containing the regulations to be observed in the sale of indulgences. It was
this young prelate, therefore, this accomplished prince, who had prescribed, or
at least sanctioned, all this quackery. In him Luther only sees a superior to
whom he owes fear and reverence; and wishing not to beat the air, but to address
those entrusted with the government of the Church, he sends him a letter,
distinguished at once by its frankness and humility. Luther wrote this letter to
Albert the same day on which he put up his theses.

“Pardon me, most reverend Father in Christ, and most illustrious Prince,” says
he to him, “if I, who am only the dregs of mankind, have the presumption to
write your High Mightiness. The Lord Jesus is my witness, that, feeling how
small and despicable I am, I have long put off doing it.… Will your Highness,
however, be pleased to let fall a look on a grain of dust, and, in accordance
with your episcopal meekness, graciously receive my petition.

“There are people who are carrying the papal indulgence up and down the country
in the name of your Grace. I do not so much blame the declamation of the
preachers, (I have not heard them,) as the erroneous ideas of unlearned and
simple people, who imagine that by buying indulgences they secure their
salvation …

“Good God! souls entrusted to your care, most venerable Father, are conducted to
death, and not to life. The just and strict account which will be required of
you grows and augments from day to day.… I have not been able to continue longer
silent. Ah! man is not saved by works, or by the performances of his bishop.…
Even the righteous scarcely is saved; and the way that leadeth unto life is
strait. Why, then, do the preachers of indulgences by vain fables inspire the
people with a false security?

“According to them, indulgence alone ought to be proclaimed, ought to be
extolled.… What! Is it not the chief and only duty of bishops to instruct the
people in the gospel and the love of Jesus Christ? Jesus Christ has nowhere
ordered the preaching of indulgence; but has strongly enjoined the preaching of
the gospel.2 How dreadful, then and how perilous, for a bishop to allow the
gospel to be passed in silence, and nothing but the sound of indulgence to be
incessantly dunned into the ears of his people.…

“Most worthy Father in God, in the Instruction of the commissaries, which has
been published in name of your Grace, (doubtless without your knowledge,) it is
said that the indulgence is the most precious treasure,—that it reconciles man
to God, and enables those who purchase it to dispense with repentance.

“What then, can I, what ought I to do, most venerable Bishop, most serene
Prince? Ah! I supplicate your Highness, by the Lord Jesus Christ, to turn upon
this business an eye of paternal vigilance, to suppress the pamphlet entirely,
and ordain preachers to deliver a different sort of discourses to the people. If
you decline to do so, be assured you will one day hear some voice raised in
refutation of these preachers, to the great dishonour of your most serene
Highness.”

Luther at the same time sent his theses to the archbishop, and, in a postscript,
asked him to read them, that he might be convinced how little foundation there
was for the doctrine of indulgences.

Thus Luther’s whole desire was, that the watchmen of the Church should awake,
and exert themselves in putting an end to the evils which were laying it waste.
Nothing could be more noble and more respectful than this letter from a monk to
one of the greatest princes of the Church and the empire. Never was there a
better exemplification of the spirit of our Saviour’s precept—“Render unto Cæsar
the things which are Cæsar’s, and unto God the things which are God’s.” This is
not the course of violent revolutionists, who contemn powers and blame
dignities. It is a cry proceeding from the conscience of a Christian and a
priest, who gives honour to all, but in the first place fears God. However, all
prayers and supplications were useless. Young Albert, engrossed by his pleasures
and ambitious designs, made no reply to this solemn appeal. The Bishop of
Brandebourg, Luther’s ordinary—a learned and pious man, to whom, also, he sent
his theses—replied that he was attacking the power of the Church, that he would
involve himself in great trouble and vexation, that the thing was beyond his
strength, and that his earnest advice to him was to keep quiet. The princes of
the Church shut their ears against the voice of God, thus energetically and
affectingly declared by the instrumentality of Luther. They would not comprehend
the signs of the times; they were struck with that blindness which has been the
ruin of so many powers and dignities. “Both thought,” says Luther afterwards,
“that the pope would be too many for a miserable mendicant like me.” But Luther
was better able than the bishops to perceive the disastrous effects which the
indulgences had upon the manners and lives of the people; for he was in direct
correspondence with them. He had constantly a near view of what the bishops
learned only by unfaithful reports. If the bishops failed him, God did not fail
him. The Head of the Church, who sits in heaven, and to whom has been given all
power upon the earth, had himself prepared the ground, and deposited the grain
in the hands of his servant. He gave wings to the seed of truth, and sent it in
an instant over the whole length and breadth of his Church.

Nobody appeared at the university next day to attack the propositions of Luther.
The traffic of Tezel was too much in discredit, and too disgraceful for any
other than himself, or some one of his creatures, to dare to take up the
gauntlet. But these theses were destined to be heard in other places than under
the roof of an academical hall. Scarcely had they been nailed to the door of the
castle church of Wittemberg, than the feeble strokes of the hammer were followed
throughout Germany by a blow which reached even to the foundations of proud
Rome, threatening sudden ruin to the walls, the gates, and the pillars of the
papacy, stunning and terrifying its champions, and at the same time awakening
thousands from the sleep of error.

These theses spread with the rapidity of lightning. A month had not elapsed
before they were at Rome. “In a fortnight,” says a contemporary historian, “they
were in every part of Germany, and in four weeks had traversed almost the whole
of Christendom; as if the angels themselves had been the messengers, and carried
them before the eyes of all men. Nobody can believe what a noise they made.”
They were afterwards translated into Dutch and Spanish, and a traveller even
sold them at Jerusalem. “Every one,” says Luther, “was complaining of the
indulgences; and as all the bishops and doctors had kept silence, and nobody had
ventured to bell the cat, poor Luther became a famous doctor, because, as they
expressed it, one had at length come who dared to do it. But I liked not this
glory; the music seemed to me too lofty for the words.”

2

Some of the pilgrims, who had flocked from different countries to Wittemberg for
the feast of All Saints, instead of indulgences carried home with them the
famous theses of the Augustin monk, and thus helped to circulate them. All read,
pondered, and commented on them. They occupied the attention of all convents and
all universities. All pious monks who had entered the cloister to save their
soul, all upright and honest men, rejoiced in this striking and simple
confession of the truth, and wished with all their heart that Luther would
continue the work which he had begun. At length a monk had had the courage to
undertake this perilous contest. It was a reparation made to Christendom, and
the public conscience was satisfied. In these theses piety saw a blow given to
all kinds of superstition; the new theology hailed in them the defeat of the
scholastic dogmas; princes and magistrates regarded them as a barrier raised
against the encroachments of ecclesiastical power; while the nations were
delighted at seeing the decided negative which this monk had given to the
avarice of the Roman chancery. Erasmus, a man very worthy of credit, and one of
the principal rivals of the Reformer, says to Duke George of Saxony, “When
Luther attacked this fable, the whole world concurred in applauding him.” “I
observe,” said he on another occasion to Cardinal Campeggi, “that those of the
purest morals, and an evangelical piety, are the least opposed to Luther. His
life is lauded even by those who cannot bear his faith. The world was weary of a
doctrine containing so many childish fables, and was thirsting for that living
water, pure and hidden, which issues from the springs of the evangelists and the
apostles. The genius of Luther was fitted to accomplish these things, and his
zeal must have animated him to the noble enterprise.”


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  CHAPTER 30: CHAPTER VI
========================================================================

Reuchlin—Erasmus—Flek—Bibra—The Emperor—The Pope—Myconius—The
Monks—Apprehensions—Adelman—An Old Priest—The Bishop—The Elector—The Inhabitants
of Erfurt—Luther’s Reply—Trouble—Luther’s Moving Principle.

We must follow these propositions wherever they penetrated; to the studies of
the learned, the cells of monks, and the palaces of princes, in order to form
some idea of the various but wonderful effects which they produced in Germany.

Reuchlin received them. He was weary of the hard battle which he had been
obliged to fight against the monks. The power which the new combatant displayed
in his theses revived the spirit of the old champion of letters, and gave joy to
his saddened heart. “Thanks be to God,” exclaimed he, after he had read them,
“now they have found a man who will give them so much to do, that they will be
obliged to let me end my old age in peace.” The prudent Erasmus was in the
Netherlands when the theses reached him. He was inwardly delighted at seeing his
secret wishes for the reformation of abuses expressed with so much boldness, and
commended their author, only exhorting him to more moderation and prudence.
Nevertheless, some persons in his presence blaming Luther’s violence, he said,
“God has given men a cure which cuts thus deep into the flesh, because otherwise
the disease would be incurable.” And at a later period when the Elector of
Saxony asked his opinion as to Luther’s affair, he replied with a smile, “I am
not at all astonished at his having made so much noise, for he has committed two
unpardonable faults; he has attacked the tiara of the pope and the belly of the
monks.”

Dr. Flek, prior of the cloister of Steinlausitz, had for some time given up
reading mass, but had not told any one his reason. He one day found the theses
of Luther posted up in the refectory of his convent. He went up and began to
read them, but had only perused a few, when unable to contain his joy, he
exclaimed, “Well, well, he whom we have been so long looking for is come at
last; and this you monks will see.” Then reading in the future, says Mathesius,
and playing upon the word Wittemberg, he said, “Everybody will come to seek
wisdom at this mountain, and will find it.” He wrote to the doctor to persevere
courageously in his glorious combat. Luther calls him a man full of joy and
consolation. The ancient and celebrated episcopal see of Würzburg was then held
by Lowrence de Bibra, a man, according to the testimony of his contemporaries,
pious, honest, and wise. When a gentleman came to intimate to him that he
intended his daughter for the cloister, “Give her rather a husband,” said he;
and then added, “Are you in want of money for that purpose? I will lend you.”
The emperor and all the princes held him in the highest esteem. He lamented the
disorders of the Church, and especially those of convents. The theses having
reached his palace also, he read them with great delight, and publicly declared
his approbation of Luther. At a later period he wrote to the Elector Frederick,
“Don’t part with pious Dr. Martin Luther; for he has been wronged.” The Elector
delighted at this testimony, wrote the Reformer with his own hand to acquaint
him with it. The Emperor Maximilian, predecessor of Charles V, also read and
admired the theses of the monk of Wittemberg. He perceived his talents, and
foresaw that this obscure Augustin might, indeed, become a powerful ally of
Germany in her struggle with Rome. Accordingly, he instructed his envoy to say
to the Elector of Saxony, “Take good care of the monk Luther, for the time may
come when we shall have need of him;” and shortly after, being at a diet with
Pfeffinger, the Elector’s confidential councillor, he said to him, “Well what is
your Augustin doing? Assuredly his propositions are not to be despised; he will
give the monks enough to do.”3 At Rome even, and in the Vatican, the theses were
not so ill received as might have been supposed. Leo X judged of them as a
friend of letters, rather than a pope. The amusement which they gave him made
him overlook the severe truths which they contained; and when Sylvester
Prierias, the master of the sacred palace, who had the office of examining new
works, urged him to treat Luther as a heretic, he replied, “This Friar, Martin
Luther, is a great genius; all that is said against him is mere monkish
jealousy.”

There were few on whom the theses of Luther produced a deeper impression than on
the scholar of Annaberg, whom Tezel had so pitilessly repulsed. Myconius had
entered a convent, and the very first evening dreamed he saw an immense field
quite covered with ripe corn. “Cut,” said the voice of his guide to him; and
when he excused himself for want of skill, his guide showed him a reaper, who
was working with inconceivable rapidity. “Follow, and do like him,” said the
guide. Myconius, eager for holiness as Luther had been, devoted himself when in
the convent to vigils, fasts, macerations, and all the works invented by men;
but at length he despaired of ever attaining the objects of his efforts. He
abandoned study, and spent his whole time in manual labour. Sometimes he bound
books, sometimes used the turning-lathe, and sometimes did any other kind of
work. Still, however, this external labour did not appease his troubled
conscience. God had spoken to him, and he could not fall back into his former
slumber. This state of agony lasted for several years. It is sometimes supposed
that the paths of the Reformers were quite smooth, and that after they renounced
the observances of the Church, their remaining course was easy and pleasant. It
is not considered that they arrived at the truth by means of internal struggles,
a thousand times more painful than the observances to which servile minds easily
submitted. At length the year 1517 arrived. The theses of Luther were published,
and, traversing Christendom, arrived also at the convent where the scholar of
Annaberg was residing. He hid himself in a corner of the cloister, with John
Voit, another monk, that they might be able to read them without interruption.
They contained the very truth of which his father had told him. His eyes were
opened, he felt a voice within him responding to that which was then sounding
throughout Germany, and great consolation filled his heart. “I see plainly,”
said he, “that Martin Luther is the reaper whom I saw in my dream, and who
taught me to gather the ears of corn.” He immediately began to profess the
doctrine which Luther had proclaimed. The monks, alarmed when they heard him,
argued with him, and declaimed against Luther and against his convent. “That
convent,” replied Myconius, “is like our Lord’s sepulchre; they wish to prevent
Christ from rising again, but will not succeed.” At last his superiors, seeing
they could not convince him, interdicted him for a year and a half from all
intercourse with the world, not permitting him even to write or to receive
letters, and threatening him with perpetual imprisonment. However, for him also
the hour of deliverance arrived. Being afterwards appointed pastor at Zwickau,
he was the first who declared against the papacy in the churches of Thuringia.
“Then,” says he, “I could work with my venerable father Luther at the Gospel
harvest.” Jonas describes him as a man as able as he was willing.

Doubtless, there were others also to whom Luther’s theses were the signal of
life. They kindled a new light in many cells, cottages, and palaces. “While
those who had entered convents in quest of good fare and indolence, or rank and
honours,” says Mathesius, “began to load the name of Luther with reproaches, the
monks who lived in prayer, fasting, and mortification, thanked God as soon as
they heard the cry of the eagle, announced by John Huss, a century before.” Even
the people who did not well understand the theology of the question, and who
only knew that Luther was assailing the empire of mendicants and lazy monks,
received it with bursts of joy. An immense sensation was produced in Germany by
his bold propositions. However, some of the Reformer’s contemporaries, who
foresaw the consequences to which they might lead, and the numerous obstacles
which they were destined to encounter, loudly expressed their fears, or at most
rejoiced with trembling.

“I am much afraid,” wrote the excellent canon of Augsburg, Bernard Adelman, to
his friend Pirckeimer, “that the worthy man must yield at last to the avarice
and power of the partizans of indulgences. His representations have had so
little effect, that the Bishop of Augsburg, our primate and metropolitan, has
just ordered new indulgences, in the name of the pope, for St. Peter’s at Rome.
Let him hasten to seek the aid of princes. Let him beware of tempting God; for
it were to show an absolute want of sense to overlook the imminent danger to
which he is exposed.” Adelman was greatly delighted when it was rumoured that
Henry VIII had invited Luther to England. “There,” thought he, “he will be able
to teach the truth in peace.” Several thus imagined that the doctrine of the
gospel was to be supported by the power of princes, not knowing that it advances
without this power, and is often trammelled and weakened by the possession of
it. The celebrated historian, Albert Kranz, was at Hamburg on his deathbed, when
Luther’s theses were brought to him. “You are right, friar Martin,” he
exclaimed, “but you will not succeed … Poor monk! Go into your cell and cry,
‘Lord, have mercy on me!’ ” An old priest of Hexter in Westphalia, having
received and read the theses in his presbytery, said in Low German, shaking his
head, “Dear friar Martin! if you succeed in overthrowing this purgatory and all
these paper merchants, assuredly you are a mighty segnior!” Erbenius, a century
later, wrote beneath these words the following stanza:— “Quid vero nunc si
viveret, Bonus iste clericus diceret?”

What then would the good clerk say, Were he alive to see this day. Not only did
many of Luther’s friends entertain fears as to the step which he had taken, but
several even testified their disapprobation. The Bishop of Brandenburg,
distressed at seeing his diocese the scene of so important a contest, was
anxious to suppress it. He resolved to take the gentle method, and employed the
Abbot of Lenin to say to Luther, in his name, “I don’t find any thing in the
theses contradictory of Catholic truth. I myself condemn these indiscreet
proclamations; but for the love of peace and deference to your bishop, cease
writing on the subject.” Luther was confounded at being thus humbly addressed by
so great an abbot and so great a bishop, and led away by the feelings of the
moment, replied, “I consent. I would rather obey than work miracles, were it in
my power.” The Elector was grieved at the commencement of a contest which was no
doubt legitimate, but the end of which it was impossible to foresee. No prince
was more desirous than Frederick for the maintenance of public peace. Now, what
an immense fire might this small spark not kindle? What discord, what rending of
nations, might this quarrel of monks not produce? The Elector repeatedly made
Luther aware how much he was annoyed.

Even in his own order and his own convent of Wittemberg, Luther met with
disapprobation. The prior and sub-prior, terrified at the clamour of Tezel and
his companions, repaired in fear and trembling to the cell of friar Martin, and
said, “Do not, we entreat you, bring shame on our order. The other orders, and
especially the Dominicans, are overjoyed to think that they are not to be alone
in disgrace.” Luther was moved by these words, but soon recovering himself, he
replied, “Dear fathers, if the thing is not done in the name of God it will
fail, but if it is, let it proceed.” The prior and sub-prior said no more. “The
thing proceeds even now,” adds Luther, after relating this anecdote, “and please
God, always will proceed better and better, even to the end. Amen.”

Luther had many other attacks to sustain. At Erfurt he was accused of violence
and pride in his manner of condemning the opinions of others—the charge usually
brought against those who act under the strong conviction which the word of God
gives. He was also charged with precipitation and fickleness.

“They call upon me for moderation,” replied Luther, “and they themselves, in the
judgment which they pass upon me, trample it under foot!… We see the mote in our
brother’s eye, and observe not the beam in our own … Truth will no more gain by
my moderation than it will lose by my presumption. I desire to know,” continued
he, addressing Lange, “what errors you and your theologians have found in my
theses? Who knows not that a new idea is seldom advanced without an appearance
of arrogance, and an accusation of disputatiousness? Were humility herself to
undertake something new, those of an opposite opinion would charge her with
pride. Why were Christ and all the martyrs put to death? Because they were
deemed proud despisers of the wisdom of the time, and advanced new truths
without previously taking counsel of the organs of ancient opinion.”

“Let not the wise of the present day, then, expect of me humility, or rather
hypocrisy enough, to ask their opinion before publishing what duty calls me to
say. What I do will be done, not by the prudence of men, but by the counsel of
God. If the work is of God, who can arrest it? If it is not of God, who can
advance it?… Not my will, nor theirs, nor ours, but Thy will be done, O Holy
Father who art in heaven!” In these words what courage, what noble enthusiasm,
what confidence in God, and, above all what truth, truth fitted to all times!

Still the reproaches and accusations which assailed Luther from all quarters,
failed not to make some impression on his mind. His hopes were disappointed. He
had expected to see the heads of the church, and the most distinguished scholars
of the nation, publicly uniting with him; but it was otherwise. A word of
approbation, allowed to escape at the first moment of enthusiasm, was all that
the best disposed gave him, while several of those whom he had till then most
highly venerated were loud in censuring him. He felt himself alone in the whole
Church, alone against Rome, alone at the foot of that ancient and formidable
edifice, whose foundations lay deep in the bowels of the earth, whose
battlements reached the clouds, and at which he had just struck a daring blow.
He was troubled and depressed. Doubts which he thought he had surmounted
returned with new force. He trembled at the thought of having the authority of
the whole Church against him, of withdrawing from that authority and resisting
that voice which nations and ages had humbly obeyed, of setting himself in
opposition to that church which he had from infancy been accustomed to venerate
as the mother of the faithful.… He a paltry monk … the effort was too great for
man.2 No step cost him more than this, and, accordingly, it was the step which
decided the Reformation. The struggle which took place in his soul cannot be
better described than in his own words. “I began this affair,” says he, “with
great fear and trembling. Who was I, a poor, miserable, despicable friar, liker
a corpse than a living man;—who was I, to oppose the majesty of the pope, before
whom not only the Kings of the earth and the whole world, but also, if I may so
speak, heaven and hell trembled, compelled to yield obedience to his nod? Nobody
can imagine what my heart suffered during those two first years, and into what
depression, I might say what despair, I was often plunged. No idea of it can be
formed by those proud spirits who afterwards attacked the pope with great
boldness, although with all their ability they could not have done him the least
harm, had not Jesus Christ, by me his feeble and unworthy instrument, given him
a wound which never will be cured. But while they were contented to look on, and
leave me alone in danger, I was not so joyful, so tranquil, or so sure about the
business; for at that time I did not know many things which, thank God, I know
now. It is true, several pious Christians were much pleased with my
Propositions, and set a great value upon them, but I could not own and regard
them as the organs of the Holy Spirit. I looked only to the pope, the cardinals,
bishops, theologians, jurisconsults, monks, and priests. That was the direction
from which I expected the Spirit to come. Still having, by means of Scripture,
come off victorious over all contrary arguments, I have at length, by the grace
of Christ, though after much pain, travail, and anguish, surmounted the only
argument which arrested me, viz., that it is necessary to listen to the Church;
for from the bottom of my heart I honoured the church of the pope as the true
church, and did so with much more sincerity and veneration, than those shameless
and infamous corrupters who are now so very forward in opposing me. Had I
despised the pope as much as he is despised in the hearts of those who praise
him so loudly with their lips, I would have dreaded that the earth would
instantly open and swallow me up as it did Corah and his company!”

How honourable these misgivings are to Luther! How well they display the
sincerity and uprightness of his soul! And how much more worthy of respect do
those painful assaults which he had to sustain, both within and without, prove
him to be, than mere intrepidity without any such struggle, could have done! The
travail of his soul clearly displays the truth and divinity of his work. We see
that their origin and principle were in heaven. After all the facts which we
have stated, who will presume to say that the Reformation was an affair of
politics? No, assuredly; it was not the effect of human policy, but of the power
of God. Had Luther been urged by human passions only, he would have yielded to
his fears; his miscalculations and scruples would have smothered the fire which
had been kindled in his soul, and he would only have thrown a transient gleam
upon the Church, in the same way as the many zealous and pious men, whose names
have come down to us. But now God’s time had arrived; the work was not to be
arrested; the emancipation of the Church was to be accomplished. Luther was
destined at least to prepare that complete emancipation and those extensive
developments which are promised to the kingdom of Christ. Accordingly, he
experienced the truth of the magnificent promise, “The strong men shall faint
and be weary, and the young men utterly fail; but they who wait upon the Lord
shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles.” This
Divine power which filled the heart of the doctor of Wittemberg, and which had
engaged him in the combat, soon gave him back all his former resolution.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 31: CHAPTER VII
========================================================================

Tezel’s Attack—Luther’s Reply—Good Works—Luther and Spalatin—Study of
Scripture—Scheurl and Luther—Doubts on the Theses—Luther for the People—A New
Suit. The reproaches, timidity, or silence, of Luther’s friends had discouraged
him; the attacks of his enemies had the very opposite effect. This frequently
happens. The adversaries of the truth, while thinking by their violence to do
their own work, often do that of God himself. The gauntlet which had been thrown
down was taken up by Tezel with a feeble hand. Luther’s sermon, which had been
to the people what his theses had been to the learned, was the subject of his
first reply. He refuted it point by point, in his own way, and then announced
that he was preparing to combat his adversary at greater length in theses which
he would maintain at the university of Frankfort on the Oder. “Then,” said he,
adverting to the conclusion of Luther’s sermon; “then every one will be able to
judge who is heresiarch, heretic, schismatic, erroneous, rash, and calumnious.
Then will it be manifest to the eyes of all who has a dull brain, who has never
felt the Bible, read Christian doctrines, understood his own teachers.… In
maintaining the propositions which I advance, I am ready to suffer all things,
prison, cudgel, water, and fire.”

One thing which strikes us in reading this production of Tezel is the difference
between his German and that of Luther. One would say that an interval of several
ages is between them. A foreigner, especially, sometimes finds it difficult to
comprehend Tezel, whereas the language of Luther is almost the same as that of
our day. A comparison of the two is sufficient to show that Luther is the
creator of the German language. No doubt, this is one of his least merits, but
still it is one.

Luther replied without naming Tezel; Tezel had not named him. But there was
nobody in Germany who could not have placed at the head of their publications
the name which they had judged it expedient to suppress. Tezel tried to confound
the repentance which God demands with the penance which the Church imposes, in
order to give a higher value to his indulgences. Luther made it his business to
clear up this point.

“To avoid many words,” said he, in his graphic style, “I give to the wind
(which, besides, has more leisure than I have) his other words, which are only
sheets of paper and withered leaves; and I content myself with examining the
foundations of his house of bur-thistle.

“The penitence which the holy father imposes cannot be that which Jesus Christ
demands; for whatever the holy father imposes he can dispense with; and if these
two penitences were one and the same, it would follow that the holy father takes
away what Jesus appoints, and thereby makes void the commandment of God.… Ah! if
it so pleases him, let him maltreat me,” continues Luther, after quoting other
false interpretations of Tezel; “let him call me heretic, schismatic,
calumniator, or anything he likes; I will not on that account be his enemy, but
will pray for him as for a friend. But it is not possible to allow him to treat
the Holy Scriptures, our consolation, (Romans 15:4) as a sow treats a sack of
corn.”

We must accustom ourselves to Luther’s occasional use of expressions too harsh
and homely for our age,—it was the custom of the time; and under those words
which in our days would violate the proprieties of language, there is usually a
force and justice which disposes us to pardon their rankness. He continues
thus:—

“He who buys indulgences, say our adversaries, does better than he who gives
alms to a poor man not absolutely in extremity. Now, let them tell us that the
Turks are profaning our churches and crosses, we will be able to hear it without
a shudder; for we have amongst ourselves Turks a hundred times worse, who
profane and annihilate the only true sanctuary, the word of God, which
sanctifies all things.… Let him who would follow this precept take good care not
to give food to the hungry, nor clothing to the naked, before they give up the
ghost, and, consequently, have no need of his assistance.”

It is important to contrast the zeal which Luther thus manifests for good works
with what he says of justification by faith. Indeed, no man who has any
experience, or any knowledge of Christianity, needs this new proof of a truth of
which he is fully assured; viz., that the more we adhere to justification by
faith, the more strongly we feel the necessity of works, and the more diligently
we practise them; whereas lax views as to the doctrine of faith necessarily lead
to laxity of conduct. Luther, as St. Paul before, and Howard after him, are
proofs of the former; all men without faith (and with such the world is filled)
are proofs of the latter.

Luther comes next to the insulting language of Tezel, and pays him back in his
own way. “At the sound of these invectives methinks I hear a large ass braying
at me. I am delighted at it, and would be very sorry that such people should
give me the name of a good Christian.” We must give Luther as he is with all his
foibles. This turn for pleasantry, coarse pleasantry, was one of them. The
Reformer was a great man, undoubtedly a man of God; but he was a man, not an
angel, and not even a perfect man. Who is entitled to call upon him for
perfection?

“For the rest,” adds he, challenging his opponents to the combat, “although it
is not usual to burn heretics for such points, here, at Wittemberg, am I, Doctor
Martin Luther! Is there any inquisitor who pretends to chew fire, and make rocks
leap into the air? I give him to know, that he has a safe-conduct to come here,
an open door, and bed and board certain, all by the gracious care of our
admirable Duke Frederick, who will never protect heresy.”

We see that Luther was not deficient in courage. He trusted to the word of God—a
rock which never gives way in the tempest. But God in faithfulness gave him
still further aid. The bursts of joy with which the multitude had hailed
Luther’s theses were soon succeeded by a gloomy silence. The learned had timidly
drawn back on hearing the calamities and insults of Tezel and the Dominicans.
The bishops, who had previously been loud in condemnation of the abuses of
indulgences, seeing them at length attacked, had not failed, with an
inconsistency of which there are but too many examples, to find that at that
time the attack was inopportune. The greater part of the Reformer’s friends were
frightened. Several of them had fled. But when the first terror was over, the
minds of men took an opposite direction. The monk of Wittemberg soon saw himself
again surrounded with a great number of friends and admirers.

There was one who, although timid, remained faithful to him throughout this
crisis, and whose friendship at once solaced and supported him. This was
Spalatin. Their correspondence was not interrupted. “I thank you,” says he, when
speaking of a particular mark of friendship which he had received from him; “but
what do I not owe you?” It was on the 11th November, just fifteen days after the
publication of the theses, and consequently when the minds of men were in a
state of the greatest fermentation, that Luther thus delights to unbosom his
gratitude to his friend. In the same letter to Spalatin, it is interesting to
see the strong man, who had just performed a most daring exploit, declaring from
what source he derives his strength. “We can do nothing of ourselves; we can do
everything by the grace of God. By us all ignorance is invincible, but no
ignorance is invincible by the grace of God. The more we endeavour of ourselves
to attain to wisdom, the nearer we approach to folly. It is not true that this
invincible ignorance excuses the sinner; were it so there would be no sin in the
world.”

Luther had not sent his propositions, either to the prince or to any of his
courtiers. The chaplain seems to have expressed some surprise at this, and
Luther answers:—“I did not wish my theses to reach our illustrious prince or any
of his court, before those who think themselves specially addressed had received
them, lest it should be thought that I had published them by order of the prince
or to gain his favour, or from opposition to the Bishop of Mentz. I hear there
are already several who dream such things. But now I can swear in all safety
that my theses were published without the knowledge of Duke Frederick.”

If Spalatin solaced his friend, and supported him by his influence, Luther on
his part was desirous to meet the requests of the modest chaplain. The latter,
among other questions, asked one which is frequently repeated in our day, “What
is the best method of studying the Holy Scriptures?”

“Till now, my dear Spalatin,” replied Luther, “you have asked questions which I
could answer. But to direct you in the study of the Scriptures is more than I am
able to do. However, if you would absolutely know my method, I will not hide it
from you.

“It is most certain that we cannot succeed in comprehending the Scripture either
by study or mere intellect. Your first duty, then, is to begin with prayer.
Entreat the Lord that he will in his great mercy deign to grant you the true
knowledge of his Word. There is no other interpreter of the word of God than the
Author of that word according as it is said, ‘They will all be taught of God.’
Hope nothing from your works, nothing from your intellect. Trust only in God,
and in the influence of his Spirit. Believe one who is speaking from
experience.”

We here see how Luther attained possession of the truth of which he was a
preacher. It was not, as some pretend, by confiding in a presumptuous reason,
nor, as others maintain, by abandoning himself to hateful passions. The source
from which he drew it was the purest, holiest, and most sublime—God himself
consulted in humility, confidence, and prayer. Few in our day imitate him, and
hence few comprehend him. To a serious mind these words of Luther are in
themselves a justification of the Reformation.

Luther likewise found comfort in the friendship of respectable laymen.
Christopher Scheurl, the excellent secretary of the imperial city of Nuremberg,
gave him gratifying marks of his friendship. We know how pleasant expressions of
sympathy are to the man who feels himself assailed from all quarters. The
secretary of Nuremberg did more; he tried to make friends to his friend. He
urged him to dedicate one of his works to a then celebrated lawyer of Nuremberg,
named Jerome Ebner:—“You have a high idea of my studies,” modestly replied
Luther; “but I have the poorest idea of them myself. Nevertheless, I was
desirous to meet your wishes. I have searched …; but in all my store, which I
never found so meagre, nothing presented itself which seemed at all worthy of
being dedicated to so great a man by so little a man.” Striking humility! It is
Luther who speaks thus, and the person with whom he contrasts himself is Doctor
Ebner, who is altogether unknown to us. Posterity has not ratified Luther’s
judgment.

Luther, who had done nothing to circulate his theses, had not sent them to
Scheurl any more than to the Elector and his courtiers. The secretary of
Nuremberg expressed his surprise. “I had no intention,” replies Luther, “to give
my theses so much publicity. I wished only to confer on their contents with some
of those who reside with us or near us; intending, if they condemned, to
destroy, and if they approved, to publish them. But now they are printed,
reprinted, and spread far and wide, beyond my expectation; so much so that I
repent of their production.4 Not that I have any fear of the truth being known
by the people, (for this was all I sought,) but this is not the way of
instructing them. There are questions in the theses as to which I have still my
doubts; and if I had thought that they were to produce such a sensation, there
are things which I would have omitted, and others which I would have affirmed
with greater confidence.” Luther afterwards thought differently. Far from
fearing he had said too much, he declared that he ought to have said still more.
But the apprehensions which Luther expresses to Scheurl do honour to his
sincerity. They show that he had nothing like a premeditated plan, had no party
spirit, no overweening conceit, and sought nothing but the truth. When he had
fully discovered the truth, his language was different. “You will find in my
first writings,” said he, many years after, “that I very humbly made many
concessions to the pope, and on points of great importance; concessions which I
now detest, and regard as abominable and blasphemous.”

Scheurl was not the only layman of importance who, at this time, testified his
friendship for Luther. The celebrated painter, Albert Durer, sent him a present,
(perhaps one of his pictures,) and the doctor expressed his sense of the
obligation in the warmest terms.

Thus Luther had practical experience of the truth of that saying of Divine
wisdom:—“A friend loveth at all times; and a brother is born for adversity.”
These words he remembered for the sake of others also, and accordingly pleaded
the cause of the whole population. The Elector had just levied a tax, and it was
confidently alleged that he was going to levy another, probably on the advice of
his counsellor Pfeffinger, against whom Luther often throws out cutting
sarcasms. The doctor boldly placed himself in the breach. “Let not your
Highness,” said he, “despise the prayer of a poor mendicant. In the name of God
I entreat you not to order a new tax. My heart is broken, as well as that of
several of your most devoted servants, at seeing how much the last has injured
your fair fame, and the popularity which your Highness enjoyed. It is true that
God has endowed you with profound intellect, so that you see much farther into
things than I, or doubtless all your subjects, do. But, perhaps, it is the will
of God that a feeble intellect instruct a great one, in order that no one may
trust in himself, but only in the Lord our God. May be deign to keep your body
in health for our good, and destine your soul to life eternal. Amen.” In this
way it is that the gospel, while it makes us honour kings, makes us also plead
the cause of the people. While it tells them of their duties, it, at the same
time, reminds the prince of their rights. The voice of a Christian such as
Luther, raised in the cabinet of a sovereign, might often supply the place of a
whole assembly of legislators. In this letter, in which Luther addresses a harsh
lesson to the Elector, he fears not to present a request to him, or rather to
remind him of a promise, viz., to give him a new suit. This freedom of Luther,
at a moment when he might have feared he had given offence to Frederick, is
equally honourable to the prince and to the Reformer. “But,” adds he, “if it is
Pfeffinger who has the charge of it, let him give it in reality, and not in
protestations of friendship. He knows very well how to weave a web of good
words, but no good cloth ever comes out of it.” Luther thought, that, by the
faithful counsel which he had given to his prince, he had well deserved his
court dress. Be this as it may, two years later he had not received it, and
renewed his request.2 This seems to indicate that Frederick was not so much
under the influence of Luther as has been said.


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  CHAPTER 32: CHAPTER VIII
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Disputation at Frankfort—Tezel’s Theses—Menaces—Opposition of Knipstrow—Luther’s
Theses Burnt—The Monks—Luther’s Peace—Tezel’s Theses Burnt—Luther’s Vexation.
The minds of men had thus gradually recovered from their first alarm. Luther
himself was disposed to declare that his words did not mean so much as had been
imagined. New circumstances might divert public attention, and the blow struck
at Roman doctrine might, as had been the case with so many others, spend itself
in the air. The partisans of Rome prevented this result. They fanned the flame
instead of smothering it.

Tezel and the Dominicans replied haughtily to the attack which had been made
upon them. Burning with eagerness to crush the audacious monk who had disturbed
their traffic, and to gain the favour of the Roman pontiff, they uttered cries
of rage. They maintained that to attack the indulgence ordered by the pope was
to attack the pope himself, and they called in the aid of all the monks and
theologians of their school. In fact, Tezel felt that an opponent like Luther
was too much for him single-handed. Quite disconcerted, but more especially
enraged at the doctor’s attack, he quitted the environs of Wittemberg, and
repaired to Frankfort on the Oder, where he arrived as early as November, 1517.
The university of that town, like that of Wittemberg, was of recent date. One of
the professors was Conrad Wimpina, a man of much eloquence, an old rival of
Pollich of Mellerstadt, and one of the most distinguished theologians of the
time. Wimpina’s envy was excited both by the doctor and by the university of
Wittemberg; for their reputation obscured his. Tezel applied to him for a reply
to Luther’s theses, and Wimpina wrote two series of antitheses, the former to
defend the doctrine of indulgences, and the latter to defend the authority of
the pope. This disputation, which had been long prepared and loudly advertised,
and of which Tezel entertained the highest hopes, took place on the 20th
January, 1518. Tezel having beaten up for recruits, monks had been sent from all
the neighbouring cloisters, and assembled to the number of more than three
hundred. Tezel read his theses, one of which declared, “that whosoever says that
the soul does not fly away from purgatory as soon as the money tinkles on the
bottom of the strong box, is in error.”

But, above all, he maintained propositions, according to which, the pope
appeared to be truly, as the apostle expresses it, seated as God in the temple
of God. It was convenient for this shameless merchant to take refuge under the
pope’s mantle, with all his disorders and scandals. In presence of the numerous
assembly in which he stood, he declared himself ready to maintain as follows:—

3. “Christians must be taught that the pope, by the greatness of his power, is
above the whole universal Church and all councils. His orders ought to be
implicitly obeyed.

4. “Christians must be taught that the pope alone is entitled to decide in
matters of Christian faith; that he, and none but he, has the power to explain
the meaning of Scripture in his own sense, and to approve or condemn all words
or works of others.

5. “Christians must be taught that the judgment of the pope in things which
concern Christian faith, and which are necessary to the salvation of the human
race, cannot possibly err.

6. “Christians must be taught that in matters of faith they ought to lean and
rest more upon the opinion of the pope, as manifested by his decisions, than on
the opinion of all wise men, as drawn by them out of Scripture.

8. “Christians must be taught that those who attack the honour and dignity of
the pope are guilty of the crime of lese-majesty, and deserve malediction.

17. “Christians must be taught that there are many things which the Church
regards as authentic articles of universal truth, although they are not found
either in the canon of Scripture or in ancient doctors.

44. “Christians must be taught to regard those as obstinate heretics, who, by
their words, their actions, or their writings, declare that they would not
retract their heretical propositions were excommunication after excommunication
to rain or hail upon them.

48. “Christians must be taught that those who protect heretics in their error,
and who, by their authority, prevent them from being brought before the judge
who is entitled to try them, are excommunicated; that if, in the space of a
year, they desist not from doing so, they will be declared infamous, and
severely punished with various punishments, in terms of law, and to the terror
of all men.

50. “Christians must be told that those who spoil so many books and so much
paper, and who preach or dispute publicly and wickedly on the confession of the
mouth, the satisfaction of works, the rich and great indulgences of the Bishop
of Rome, and on his power; that those who ally themselves with those so
preaching or writing, who take pleasure in their writings, and circulate them
among the people and in the world; that those, in fine, who secretly speak of
those things in a contemptuous and irreverent manner, may well tremble at
incurring the pains which have just been named, and of precipitating themselves
and others with them, at the last day, into eternal condemnation, and even here
below into great disgrace. For every beast that toucheth the mountain shall be
stoned.”

We see that Luther was not the only person whom Tezel attacked. In the
forty-eighth thesis he had probably the Elector of Saxony in view. These
propositions savour much of the Dominican. To threaten every contradictor with
severe punishment was an inquisitor’s argument, and scarcely admitted of a
reply. The three hundred monks whom Tezel had brought together gaped and stared
in admiration of his discourse. The theologians of the university were too much
afraid of being classed with the abettors of heresy, or were too much attached
to the principles of Wimpina, candidly to adopt the extraordinary theses which
had just been read. The whole affair, about which so much noise had been made,
seemed destined to be only a sham fight; but among the crowd of students present
at the disputation was a young man of about twenty, named John Knipstrow. He had
read the theses of Luther, and found them conformable to the doctrines of
Scripture. Indignant at seeing the truth publicly trampled under foot, while no
one appeared to defend it, this young man rose up, to the great astonishment of
the whole assembly, and attacked the presumptuous Tezel. The poor Dominican, who
had not counted on such opposition, was quite disconcerted. After some efforts,
he quitted the field of battle, and gave place to Wimpina, who made a more
vigorous resistance; but Knipstrow pressed him so closely, that, to put an end
to a contest, which in his eyes was so unbecoming, Wimpina, who presided,
declared the discussion closed, and proceeded forthwith to confer the degree of
doctor on Tezel, in recompence of this glorious combat. Wimpina, to disencumber
himself of the young orator, caused him to be sent to the convent of Pyritz in
Pomerania, with orders that he should be strictly watched. But this dawning
light was only removed from the banks of the Oder that it might afterwards shed
a bright effulgence in Pomerania. When God sees it meet, he employs scholars to
confound teachers.

Tezel, wishing to repair the check which he had received, had recourse to the
ultima ratio of Rome and the inquisitors,—I mean the faggot. On a public walk in
one of the suburbs of Frankfort, he caused a pulpit and a scaffold to be
erected, and repaired thither in solemn procession with his insignia of
inquisitor. Mounting the pulpit, he let loose all his fury. He darted his
thunder, and with his Stentorian voice exclaimed, that the heretic Luther ought
to be burned alive. Then placing the doctor’s theses and sermon on the scaffold,
he burned them. He was better acquainted with this kind of work than with the
defence of theses. Here he met with no opponents, and his victory was complete.
The impudent Dominican returned in triumph to Frankfort. When parties in power
are vanquished, they have recourse to certain demonstrations which must be
conceded to them as a kind of consolation to their disgrace. The second theses
of Tezel form an important epoch in the Reformation. They changed the locality
of the dispute, transporting it from the indulgence market to the halls of the
Vatican, and diverting it from Tezel to the pope. Instead of the contemptible
creature whom Luther had taken in his fist, they substituted the sacred person
of the Head of the church. Luther was stunned at this. It is probable that he
would himself have taken the step at a later period, but his enemies spared him
the trouble. Thenceforward the question related not merely to a disreputable
traffic, but to Rome; and the blow by which a bold hand had tried to demolish
the shop of Tezel, shook the very foundations of the pontifical throne

Tezel’s theses were only a signal to the Roman troops. A cry against Luther
arose among the monks, who were infuriated at the appearance of an adversary
more formidable than either Erasmus or Reuchlin had been. The name of Luther
resounded from the pulpits of the Dominicans, who addressed themselves to the
passions of the people, and inveighed against the courageous doctor, as a
madman, a deceiver, and a demoniac. His doctrine was denounced as the most
dreadful heresy. “Wait only for a fortnight, or four weeks at farthest,” said
they, “and this noted heretic will be burned.” Had it depended only on the
Dominicans, the fate of the Saxon doctor had soon been that of Huss and Jerome,
but his life was destined to accomplish what the ashes of Huss had begun. Each
does the work of God, one by his death, and another by his life. Several now
began to cry out that the whole university of Wittemberg was tainted with
heresy, and pronounced it infamous. “Let us pursue the villain, and all his
partisans,” continued they. In several places these exclamations had the effect
of stirring up the passions of the people. Those who shared the opinions of the
Reformer had the public attention directed towards them; and in every place
where the monks were strongest, the friends of the gospel felt the effects of
their hatred. Thus, in regard to the Reformation, the Saviour’s prediction began
to be accomplished, “They will revile you and persecute you, and say all manner
of evil against you falsely, for my sake.” This is a recompence which the world
at no time fails to bestow on the decided friends of the gospel. When Luther was
made acquainted with Tezel’s theses, and with the general attack of which they
were the signal, his courage rose. He felt that it was necessary to withstand
such adversaries to the face; and his intrepid zeal had no difficulty in
resolving so to do. At the same time, their feebleness made him aware of his own
strength, and told him what he was.

He did not, however, allow himself to give way to those emotions of pride which
are so natural to the heart of man. “It gives me more difficulty,” he writes to
Spalatin, “to refrain from despising my adversaries, and so sinning against
Jesus Christ, than it would give me to vanquish them. They are so ignorant in
things human and divine, that one is ashamed at having to fight with them; and
yet it is their very ignorance which gives them their inconceivable audacity and
face of brass.” But the most powerful support to Luther’s heart, in the midst of
this universal opposition, was the deep conviction that his cause was the cause
of truth. “Let it not surprise you,” he writes to Spalatin, at the beginning of
the year 1518, “that I am so much insulted. I am delighted with these insults.
Did they not curse me, I could not believe so firmly that the cause which I have
undertaken is God’s own cause. Christ has been set up for a sign to be spoken
against. I know,” added he, that from the beginning of the world the nature of
the word of God has been such, that every one who has preached it to the world,
has been obliged, like the apostles, to leave all and lay his account with
death. Were it otherwise, it would not be the word of Jesus Christ.”3 This peace
in the midst of agitation is a thing unknown to the world’s heroes. Men placed
at the head of a government, or of a political party, are seen to give way under
their labours and their vexations. The Christian in his struggles usually
acquires new strength, because he has access to a mysterious source of repose
and courage, unknown to those whose eyes are closed to the gospel.

One thing, however, sometimes distressed Luther, viz., the thought of the
dissensions which his courageous opposition might produce. He knew that a single
word might be sufficient to set the world in a flame; and when he foresaw prince
against prince, and perhaps nation against nation, his patriotic heart was
saddened, and his Christian charity alarmed. His wish was for peace; but he
behoved to speak out. So God required. “I tremble,” said he, “I shudder at the
thought of being the cause of discord among such mighty princes.”

He still kept silence in regard to Tezel’s propositions concerning the pope. Had
he been carried away by passion, he would doubtless have made an impetuous
assault on the extraordinary doctrine under which his opponents sought to take
shelter. He did not do so; and there is in this delay, reserve, and silence,
something grave and solemn, which sufficiently explains the spirit by which he
was animated. He waited, but not through weakness; for when he struck he gave a
heavier blow.

Tezel, after his auto da fe at Frankfort on the Oder, had hastened to send his
theses into Saxony. There, thought he, they will serve as an antidote to those
of Luther. A man from Halle, employed by the inquisitor to circulate his
propositions, arrived at Wittemberg. The students of the university, still
indignant at Tezel for having burned the theses of their master, no sooner heard
of the messenger’s arrival, than they sought him out, and, gathering round,
jostled and frightened him. “How dare you bring such things here?” demanded
they. Some purchasing part of the copies with which he was provided, and others
seizing the rest, they got possession of his whole stock, amounting to eight
hundred copies. Then, unknown to the Elector, the senate, the rector, Luther,
and all the other professors, they put up the following notice on the boards of
the university:—“Whosoever is desirous to be present at the burning and funeral
of Tezel’s theses, let him repair at two o’clock to the market-place.”

Crowds assembled at the hour, and committed the propositions of the Dominican to
the flames, amid loud acclamations. One copy which escaped, Luther afterwards
sent to his friend, Lange of Erfurt. These generous but imprudent youths
followed the old precept, “Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth,” and not that of
Jesus Christ; but after the example which doctors and professors had given at
Frankfort, can we be astonished that young students followed it at Wittemberg?
The news of this academical execution spread throughout Germany, and made a
great noise. Luther was extremely vexed at it.

“I am astonished,” he writes to his old master, Jodocus, at Erfurt, “how you
could think it was I that burned Tezel’s theses. Do you think that I am so
devoid of sense? But what can I do? When I am the subject of remark, every thing
seems to be believed. Can I tie up the tongues of the whole world? Very well!
Let them say, let them hear, let them see, let them pretend whatever they
please; I will act as long as the Lord gives me strength, and with his help will
fear nothing.” “What will come out of it,” says he to Lange, “I know not, unless
it be that my danger is much increased.”2 The act of the students shows how much
their hearts already burned for the cause which Luther defended. This was an
important symptom; for a movement among the young of necessity soon extends to
the whole nation. The theses of Tezel and Wimpina, though little esteemed,
produced a certain effect. They heightened the dispute, widened the rent which
had been made in the mantle of the Church, and brought questions of the highest
interest into the field. Accordingly, the heads of the Church began to look more
narrowly at the matter, and to declare decidedly against the Reformer. “Verily,
I know not in whom Luther confides,” said the Bishop of Brandenburg, “when he
dares thus attack the power of bishops.” Perceiving that this new circumstance
called for new proceedings, the bishop came in person to Wittemberg; but he
found Luther animated with the inward joy which a good conscience imparts, and
determined to give battle. The bishop felt that the Augustin monk was obeying an
authority superior to his, and returned to Brandenburg in a rage. One day, in
the winter of 1518, when sitting at his fireside, he turned to those who were
about him and said, “I will not lay down my head in peace till I have thrown
Martin into the fire, as I do this brand,” throwing one into the grate. The
revolution of the sixteenth century was not to be accomplished by the heads of
the Church any more than that of the first century had been by the Sanhedrim and
the synagogue. In the sixteenth century, the heads of the Church were opposed to
Luther, the Reformation, and its ministers, in the same way as they were opposed
to Jesus Christ, the gospel, and his apostles, and as they too often are at all
times to the truth. “The bishops,” says Luther, in speaking of the visit which
the Bishop of Brandenburg had paid him, “begin to perceive that they ought to
have done what I am doing, and they are consequently ashamed. They call me proud
and audacious, and I deny not that I am so. But they are not the people to know
either what God is, or what we are.”


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  CHAPTER 33: CHAPTER IX
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Prierio—System of Rome—The Dialogue—System of Reform—Reply to Prierio—The
Word—The Pope and the Church—Hochstraten—The Monks—Luther replies—Eck—The
School—The Obelisks—Luther’s Sentiments—The Asterisks—Rupture. A more serious
resistance than that of Tezel was already opposed to Luther. Rome had answered.
A reply had issued from the walls of the sacred palace. It was not Leo X who had
taken it into his head to speak theology. “A quarrel of monks,” he had one day
said. “The best thing is not to meddle with it.” And on another occasion, “It is
a drunken German who has written these theses; when he recovers from his wine he
will speak differently.” A Dominican of Rome, Sylvester Mazolini de Prierio or
Prierias, master of the sacred palace, exercised the functions of censor, and in
this character was the first man in Italy who knew of the Saxon monk’s theses. A
Roman censor and the theses of Luther! What a rencounter! Liberty of speech,
liberty of investigation, liberty of faith, come into collision in Rome, with
that power which pretends to have in its hands a monopoly of intelligence, and
to open and shut the mouth of Christendom at its pleasure. The struggle between
Christian liberty, which begets children of God, and pontifical despotism, which
begets slaves of Rome, is, as it were, personified during the first days of the
Reformation, in the encounter between Luther and Prierio. The Roman censor,
prior-general of the Dominicans, employed to determine what Christendom must
say, or not say, and know or not know, hastened to reply, and published a tract,
which he dedicated to Leo X. He spoke contemptuously of the German monk, and
declared, with a self-sufficiency altogether Roman, “that he was anxious to know
whether this Martin had a nose of iron, or a head of brass, which could not be
broken.” Then, in the form of a dialogue, he attacked the theses of Luther,
employing alternately, ridicule, insult, and threatening. The combat between the
Augustin of Wittemberg and the Dominican of Rome took place on the very question
which lies at the foundation of the Reformation; viz., “What is the sole
infallible authority to Christians?” The following is the system of the Church,
as expounded by its most independent organs. The letter of the written Word is
dead without the spirit of interpretation, which alone unfolds its hidden
meaning. Now this spirit is not granted to every Christian, but to the Church;
in other words, to the priests. It is great presumption to maintain, that he who
promised to be with his Church always to the end of the world, could abandon it
to the power of error. It will be said, perhaps, that the doctrine and
constitution of the Church are not the same as we find them in the sacred
oracles. This is true; but the change is only apparent, relating to the form,
and not to the substance. Moreover, the change is an advance. The living power
of the Spirit has given reality to what exists in Scripture only in idea; it has
embodied the sketches of the Word, put a finishing hand to these sketches, and
completed the work of which the Bible had furnished only the first outlines.
Scripture ought, therefore, to be understood in the sense determined by the
Church, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Here the Catholic doctors are
divided. General councils, say some, and Gerson among the number, are the
representatives of the Church. The pope, says others, is the depositary of the
Spirit of interpretation; and no man is entitled to understand Scripture in a
sense differing from that of the Roman pontiff. This was the opinion of Prierio.

Such was the doctrine which the master of the sacred palace opposed to the
rising Reformation. On the power of the pope and the Church he advanced
propositions at which the most shameless flatterers of the court of Rome would
have blushed. The following is one of the points which he maintains at the
commencement of his tract:—“Whoever rests not in the doctrine of the Roman
Church, and the Roman pontiff, as the infallible rule of faith, from which the
Holy Scripture itself derives its force and authority, is a heretic.”

Then in a dialogue, in which Luther and Sylvester are the speakers, the latter
tries to refute the doctor’s propositions. The sentiments of the Saxon monk were
quite new to a Roman censor. Accordingly, Prierio shows that he understood
neither the emotions of his heart, nor the motives of his conduct. To the
teacher of truth he applied the little standards of the valets of Rome. “Dear
Luther!” says he, “were you to receive a bishopric and a plenary indulgence for
the repair of your Church from our lord the pope, you would proceed more gently,
and would even prose in favour of the indulgence which you are now pleased to
blacken!” The Italian, so proud of the elegance of his manners, sometimes
assumes the most scurrilous tone. “If the property of dogs is to bite,” says he
to Luther, “I fear your father must have been a dog.” The Dominican begins at
last to be almost astonished at his own condescension in speaking to a
rebellious monk; and concludes with showing his opponent the cruel teeth of an
inquisitor. “The Roman Church,” says he, “having in the pope the summit of
spiritual and temporal power, may, by the secular arm, constrain those who after
receiving the faith, stray from it. She is not bound to employ arguments for the
purpose of combating and subduing the rebellious.”2

These words traced by the pen of one of the dignitaries of the Roman court had a
very significant meaning. They failed, however, to terrify Luther. He believed,
or feigned to believe, that this dialogue was not by Prierio, but by Ulrich von
Hütten, or by some other of the authors of “The Letters of some Obscure Men,”
who (said he in his sarcastic strain) had, in order to stir up Luther against
Prierio, compiled this mass of absurdity. He had no desire to see the court of
Rome in arms against him. However, after remaining for some time silent, his
doubts, if he had any, having been dispelled, he set to work, and in two days
after was prepared with his reply.4 The Bible had produced the Reformer and
begun the Reformation. Luther, in believing, had no need of the testimony of the
Church. His faith was derived from the Bible itself; from within, and not from
without. His thorough conviction that the evangelical doctrine was immovably
founded on the word of God made him regard all external authority as useless.
Luther’s experience, in this respect, opened a new prospect to the Church. The
living spring which had burst forth before the monk of Wittemberg, was destined
to become a stream at which nations would quench their thirst. The Church had
said that, in order to understand the Word, the Spirit of God must interpret it,
and so far the Church was right. But her error consisted in regarding the Holy
Spirit as a monopoly conferred on a certain caste, and in thinking that it could
be appropriated exclusively to certain assemblies and colleges, to a city or a
conclave. “The wind bloweth where it listeth,” were the words of the Son of God,
when speaking of the Spirit of God; and, on another occasion, “They will all be
taught of God.” The corruption of the Church, the ambition of pontiffs, the
animosities of councils, the squabbles of the clergy, and the pomp of prelates,
had made this Holy Spirit, this breath of humility and peace, eschew the
dwelling of the priesthood. He had deserted the assemblies of the proud, and the
palaces of the princes of the Church, and gone to live in retirement among
simple Christians and modest priests. He had shunned a domineering hierarchy,
which often forced blood from the poor, whom it trampled under foot; he had
shunned a proud and ignorant clergy, whose chiefs were skilled, not in the
Bible, but in the sword; and he was found sometimes among despised sects, and
sometimes among men of talents and learning. The holy cloud, withdrawing from
proud basilisks and gorgeous cathedrals, had descended on the obscure dwellings
of the humble, or on chambers where studious men calmly pursued their
conscientious labours. The Church, degraded by her love of power and riches,
dishonoured in the eyes of the people by the venal use which she made of the
doctrine of life; the Church which sold salvation in order to fill a treasury,
for luxury and debauchery to empty, had lost all respect. Men of sense no longer
set any value on her testimony, but, despising an authority so degraded, turned
with joy, towards the Divine word, and its infallible authority, as toward the
only refuge which remained to them in the general confusion. The age, therefore,
was prepared. The bold movement by which Luther changed the point on which the
human heart rested its highest hopes, and with a mighty hand transferred those
hopes from the walls of the Vatican to the rock of the word of God, was hailed
with enthusiasm. This was the work which the Reformer had in view in his reply
to Prierio.

Putting aside the axioms which the Dominican had placed at the head of his work,
he says, “After your example, I, too, am going to lay down some axioms.”

“The first is the saying of St. Paul, ‘Should we, or an angel from heaven,
preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let
him be accursed.’ ” The second is the following passage of St. Augustine,
addressed to St. Jerome:—“I have learned to pay to the canonical books alone the
honour of believing very firmly that none of them has erred; as to others, I
believe not what they say, for the simple reason, that it is they who say it.”

Luther then vigorously proceeds to lay down the fundamental principles of the
Reformation,—the word of God, the whole word of God, and nothing but the word of
God. “If you understand these principles,” continues he, “you will also
understand that your whole dialogue is completely overturned; for you have done
nothing else than adduce the words and opinions of St. Thomas.” Next, attacking
the axioms of his opponent, he frankly declares his opinion that popes and
councils may err. He complains of the flattery of the Roman courtiers in
attributing to the pope the alleged infallibility of both popes and councils,
and declares that the Church exists virtually only in Christ, and
representatively only in Councils. Coming afterwards to the supposition which
Prierio had made, he says, “No doubt you judge me by yourself, but if I aspired
to a bishopric, assuredly I would not use language which sounds so hateful in
your ears. Do you imagine I am ignorant how bishoprics and the popedom are
procured at Rome? Do not the very children in the streets sing the well known
words— ‘Rome now-a-days is more unclean, Than ought that in the world is seen?’
” This was among the stanzas current in Rome before the election of one of the
last popes. Nevertheless, Luther speaks of Leo with respect. “I know,” says he,
“that in him we have, as it were, a Daniel in Babylon; his integrity has
repeatedly endangered his life.” He concludes with a few words in reply to the
menaces of Prierio: “In fine, you say that the pope is at once pontiff and
emperor, and that he has power to constrain by the secular arm. Are you
thirsting for murder? Take my word for it, your rhodomontades and your
loud-sounding threats cannot terrify me. Though I be killed, Christ lives,
Christ my Lord, and the Lord of all, blessed for ever and ever. Amen.”

Thus Luther with a strong arm assails the infidel altar of the papacy, opposing
to it the altar of the word of God, alone holy, alone infallible, before which
he would have every knee to bow, and on which he declares himself ready to
sacrifice his life.

Prierio published a reply, and after it a third treatise on “the Irrefragable
Truth of the Church and of the Roman Pontiff,” in which, founding on
ecclesiastical law, he says, that though the pope were to send the people and
himself to the devil en masse, he could not for so doing be either judged or
deposed. The pope was at length obliged to impose silence on Prierio. A new
opponent soon entered the list. He too was a Dominican. James Hochstraten,
inquisitor at Cologne, whom we have already seen assailing Reuchlin and the
friends of letters, was furious when he saw Luther’s boldness. It was indeed
necessary that darkness and monkish fanaticism should engage in close fight with
him who was to give them their death-blow. Monkism was formed after primitive
truth had begun to decay, and from that period downward, errors and monks had
gone hand in hand. The man who was to hasten their ruin had appeared; but these
sturdy champions would not quit the field without a fierce combat. This combat
they continued to wage with him throughout his whole life, though the proper
personification of it is in Hochstraten; Hochstraten and Luther—the one, the
free and intrepid Christian, and the other, the blustering slave of monkish
superstition. Hochstraten unchains his rage, and, with loud cries, demands the
death of the heretic.… His wish is to secure the triumph of Rome by means of the
flames. “It is high treason against the Church,” exclaims he, “to let so
execrable a heretic live another single hour. Let a scaffold be instantly
erected for him!” This sanguinary counsel was, alas! but too well followed in
many countries; the voice of numerous martyrs, as in the first days of the
Church, bore testimony to the truth in the midst of the flames. But in vain were
fire and sword invoked against Luther. The angel of Jehovah constantly encamped
around him and shielded him.

Luther replied to Hochstraten briefly, but very energetically. “Go,” says he to
him, when concluding; “go, delirious murderer, whose thirst can only be quenched
by the blood of the brethren. My sincere desire is, that you guard against
calling me a Christian and a believer, and that, on the contrary, you never
cease to denounce me as a heretic. Understand these things well, you bloody man,
you enemy of the truth; and if your furious rage impel you to devise mischief
against me, do it with circumspection, and time your measures well. God knows
what I purpose if he grants me life. My hope and expectation (God willing) will
not deceive me.” Hochstraten was silent. A more painful attack awaited the
Reformer. Dr. Eck, the celebrated professor of Ingolstadt, who procured the
liberty of Urban Regius, Luther’s friend, had received the famous theses. Eck
was not the man to defend the abuses of indulgences, but he was a doctor of the
school, and not of the Bible, being well versant in scholastics, but not in the
word of God. If Prierio had represented Rome, and Hochstraten had represented
the monks, Eck represented the School. The School which, for about five
centuries, had ruled Christendom, far from yielding to the first blows of the
Reformer, proudly rose up to crush the man who dared to assail it with floods of
contempt. Eck and Luther, the School and the Word, came to blows on more than
one occasion; but the present was the occasion on which the combat commenced.

Eck must have regarded several of Luther’s assertions as erroneous; for nothing
obliges us to question the sincerity of his convictions. He defended the
scholastic opinions with enthusiasm, just as Luther defended the declarations of
the word of God. We may even suppose that he was somewhat pained at seeing
himself obliged to oppose his old friend, and yet it would seem, from the mode
of attack, that passion and jealousy had some share in his determination.

He gave the name of Obelisks to his remarks on the theses of Luther. Wishing at
first to save appearances, he did not publish his work, but contented himself
with communicating it confidentially to his ordinary, the Bishop of Eichstädt.
Soon, however, whether through the indiscretion of the bishop, or of Eck
himself, the Obelisks were circulated in all quarters. A copy having fallen into
the hands of a friend of Luther, Link, preacher at Nuremberg, he lost no time in
sending it to the Reformer. Eck was a much more formidable opponent than Tezel,
Prierio, and Hochstraten; his work was the more dangerous the more it surpassed
theirs in knowledge and subtlety. He affected pity for his “feeble opponent,”
(knowing well that pity injures more effectually than anger,) and insinuated
that the propositions of Luther contained Bohemian poison, and savoured of
Bohemia. By these malicious insinuations he threw upon Luther the obloquy and
hatred which in Germany attached to the name of Huss and the schismatics of his
country. The malice which shone through this treatise roused Luther’s
indignation, while the thought that the blow was given by an old friend, was
still more distressing. However, he must sacrifice his affections in defending
the truth. Luther unbosomed his heart and its sadness, in a letter to Egranus,
pastor at Zwickau—“I am called in the Obelisks a venomous man, a Bohemian, a
heretic, seditious, insolent, and presumptuous.… I say nothing of milder
epithets, such as sleepy, imbecile, ignorant, contemner of the sovereign
pontiff, etc. This book is full of the grossest insults, and yet the author is a
distinguished man, alike remarkable for learning and talent; and (it is this
that grieves me most) a man with whom I had recently contracted a close
friendship, viz., John Eck, doctor in theology, and chancellor of Ingolstadt, a
celebrated and illustrious author. Did I not know the thoughts of Satan, I would
be astonished at the furious manner in which this man has broken off a
friendship at once so pleasant and so recent;2 and this without giving me any
warning—without writing or saying a single word.” But if Luther’s heart be
wounded, his courage is not destroyed. On the contrary, he girds himself for the
combat. “Rejoice, my brother,” says he to Egranus, whom a violent enemy had also
attacked; “rejoice, and be not alarmed at all these flying leaves. The more
furious my adversaries become, the more I advance. I leave the things which are
behind, that they may bark after them, and follow those which are before, that
they may in like manner bark after them in their turn.”

Eck felt how shameful his conduct had been, and endeavoured to justify it in a
letter to Carlstadt, in which he calls Luther “their common friend;” and throws
all the blame on the Bishop of Eichstädt, at whose instigation he pretended that
he had written the work. His intention, he said, was not to publish the
Obelisks; but for this he would have had more regard for the friendship
subsisting between him and Luther; and he requested that Luther, instead of
coming to open rupture with him, would turn his arms against the theologians of
Frankfort. The professor of Ingolstadt, who had not feared to strike the first
blow, began to be alarmed at the power of the opponent whom he had imprudently
attacked, and would willingly have evaded the contest. It was too late.

All these fine words did not persuade Luther, who was, however, disposed to be
silent, and said, “I will patiently swallow this morsel, though fit for
Cerberus.” But his friends were of a different opinion, and urged, or rather
constrained him to answer. He, accordingly, replied to the Obelisks by his
Asterisks, opposing (as he says, playing upon the word) to the rust and lividity
of Obelisks the light and dazzling brightness of the stars of heaven. In this
work he treats his new opponent less harshly than those whom he had previously
combated; but his indignation is seen peeping through his words.

He showed that in the chaos of the Obelisks there was nothing from the holy
Scriptures, nothing from the Fathers of the Church, and nothing from the
ecclesiastical canons; that they contained only scholastic glosses, and opinion
after opinion, many of them mere dreams; in a word, contained the very things
which Luther had attacked. The Asterisks are full of spirit and life. The
author’s indignation rises at the errors of his friend’s book, but he shows pity
to the man.2 He reiterates the fundamental principle which he had laid down in
his reply to Prierio:—“The sovereign pontiff is a man, and may be led into
error; but God is truth, and cannot be deceived.” Then employing the argumentum
ad hominem against the scholastic doctor, he says to him, “It is certainly
impudent in any one to teach, as the philosophy of Aristotle, any dogma which
cannot be proved by his authority. You grant this. Well, then, it is a fortiori,
the most impudent of all things to affirm in the Church and among Christians
anything that Jesus Christ himself has not taught. Now in what part of the Bible
is it said that the treasure of Christ’s merits is in the hands of the pope?”

He adds, “As to the malicious charge of Bohemian heresy, I patiently bear the
reproach for the love of Jesus Christ. I live in a celebrated university, a
distinguished town, an important bishopric, and a powerful duchy, where all are
orthodox, and where, doubtless, no toleration would be given to so wicked a
heretic.”

Luther did not publish The Asterisks; he only communicated them to his friends.
It was not till a later period that they were given to the public. This rupture
between the doctor of Ingolstadt and the doctor of Wittemberg made a sensation
in Germany. They had common friends. Scheurl, in particular, by whose
instrumentality their friendship appears to have been originally formed, was
exceedingly annoyed. He was one of those who longed to see a reform throughout
the whole Germanic church, produced through the medium of its most distinguished
organs. But If in matters of principle the most eminent theologians of the
period came to open rupture, and while Luther advanced in a new path, Eck put
himself at the head of those who kept to the old path, what disruption must
inevitably ensue? Would not numerous adherents gather around each of the two
chiefs, and form two hostile camps in the heart of the empire?

Scheurl exerted himself to reconcile Eck and Luther. The latter declared that he
was willing to forget every thing; that he loved the genius, and admired the
erudition of Dr. Eck, and that the proceedings of his old friend had caused him
more grief than anger. “I am ready,” says he, “either for peace or war; but I
prefer peace. Do you then set about it. Grieve with us, that the devil has
thrown among us this beginning of strife, and then rejoice that Christ in his
mercy hath removed it.”2 About the same time, he addressed a most friendly
letter to Eck, who, however, not only did not answer it, but did not even send
him a verbal message.” It was too late for reconciliation; and the breach became
wider and wider. The pride of Eck, and his unforgiving temper, soon completely
broke any remaining ties of friendship.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 34: CHAPTER X
========================================================================

Popular Writings—Our Father—Thy Kingdom Come—Thy Will be Done—Our Daily
Bread—Sermon on Repentance—Forgiveness through Christ.

Such were the struggles which the champion of the word of God had to maintain at
the outset of his career. But these combats with the leaders of society, these
academical disputes, are of small account with the Christian. Human doctors
imagine they have gained the noblest of triumphs if they succeed in filling some
newspapers and some saloons with the noise of their systems. As it is with them
more an affair of self-love, or party spirit, than of good to humanity, this
worldly success satisfies them. Accordingly, their labours are only a smoke,
which, after blinding us, passes off and leaves no trace behind. Neglecting to
introduce their fire among the masses of the population, they do nothing more
than make it skim along the surface of society.

It is not so with the Christian. His object is not success in a coterie, or an
academy, but the salvation of souls. He therefore willingly avoids the brilliant
skirmishing, which he might carry on at his ease with the champions of the
world, and prefers the obscure labours which carry life and light into rural
cottages, and the lanes of cities. Thus did Luther, or rather according to the
precept of his Master, he did the one, without leaving the other undone. While
combating inquisitors, university chancellors, and masters of the sacred palace,
he strove to diffuse sound religious knowledge among the multitude. With that
view, he at this time published different popular writings, such as his
Discourses on the Ten Commandments, delivered two years before in the church of
Wittemberg, and which we have already noticed; and his Exposition of the Lord’s
Prayer, for simple and ignorant laymen. Who would not like to know how the
Reformer then addressed the people?

We will quote some of the words which he sent, as he says, in the preface to the
second of these works, “to course the country.”

Prayer, that inward act of the heart, will doubtless ever be one of the points
with which a reformation in heart and life must commence, and, accordingly, it
early engaged the attention of Luther. It is impossible, in a translation, to
keep up his energetic style, and the vigour of a language which was formed so to
speak, as it fell from his pen; however, we will try.

“When you pray,” says he, “have few words, but many thoughts and affections,
and, above all, let these be profound. The less you speak, the better you pray.
Few words and many thoughts make the Christian, many words and few thoughts, the
pagan.

“Seeming and bodily prayer is that muttering of the lips, that external babble,
which comes forth without attention, striking the eyes and ears of men; but
prayer in spirit and in truth is the inward desire, the emotions, and sighs
which proceed from the depths of the heart. The former is the prayer of
hypocrites, and of all who trust in themselves. The latter is the prayer of the
children of God, who walk in his fear.”

Then coming to the first words of our Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father,” he thus
expresses himself:—“Among all the names of God, there is none which inclines
more toward him than the name of Father. We should not have so much happiness
and consolation in calling him Lord, or God, or Judge.… By this name of father
his bowels of compassion are moved; for there is no voice more lovely or
touching than that of a child to its father.

“Who art in heaven. He who confesses that he has a Father in heaven owns himself
to be, as it were, an orphan on the earth. Hence his heart feels an ardent
desire like that of a child living out of its father’s country, among strangers,
in wretchedness and sorrow. It is as if he said, ‘Alas! my father! thou art in
heaven, and I, thy miserable child, am on the earth, far from thee, in all sorts
of dangers, necessities, and sorrows.’

“Hallowed be thy name! He who is passionate and envious, who curses or slanders,
dishonours God, in whose name he was baptized. Applying the vessel which God has
consecrated to profane uses, he resembles a priest who should use the holy cup
to give drink to a sow, or to gather manure.

“Thy kingdom come. Those who amass wealth, who erect magnificent buildings, who
seek after all that the world can give, and with the lips repeat this prayer,
are like the large pipes of a church organ, which sounds and cries at full
pitch, and without ceasing, but has neither words, nor sense, nor reason.” …

Farther on, Luther attacks the error of pilgrimages, which was then so general.
“One goes to Rome, another to St. James; one builds a chapel, another founds an
endowment, in order to reach the kingdom of God; but all neglect the essential
point, which is to become themselves his kingdom. Why do you go beyond seas in
quest of the kingdom of God?… Your heart is the place in which it ought to rise.

“It is a dreadful thing,” continues he, “to hear us utter this prayer, ‘Thy will
be done.’ Where in the Church do we see this will done?… Bishop rises against
bishop, and church against church. Priests, monks, and nuns, quarrel and fight;
throughout there is nothing but discord. And yet all parties exclaim that they
have a good will and an upright intention; and so to the honour and glory of God
they altogether do the work of the devil.…

“Why do we say our bread?” continues he, “explaining these words, “Give us this
day our daily bread,” “Because we pray, not for the ordinary bread which pagans
eat, and which God gives to all men, but for our bread—bread to us, children of
the heavenly Father.

“And what, then, is this bread of God? It is Jesus Christ our Lord; ‘I am the
living bread which came down from heaven, and give life to the world.’ Wherefore
let us not deceive ourselves. Sermons and instructions which do not represent to
us, or give us the knowledge of Jesus Christ, cannot be the daily bread and food
of our souls.…

“What avails it that such a bread is prepared for us, if it is not served out to
us, and we cannot taste it?… It is as if a magnificent feast were prepared, and
there were nobody to hand the bread, bring the dishes, and pour out the liquor;
so that the guests would be left to feed by the eye and the smell … This is the
reason why it is necessary to preach Christ, and Christ alone.

“But what, then, you ask, is it to know Jesus Christ, and what profit is gained
by it? Answer:—To learn to know Jesus Christ is to comprehend what the Apostle
says—Christ has of God been made unto us wisdom, and righteousness, and
sanctification, and redemption. Now, you comprehend this when you perceive that
your wisdom is culpable folly, your righteousness damnable iniquity, your
holiness damnable pollution; your redemption miserable condemnation—when you
feel that, before God and all the creatures, you are truly a fool, a sinner, an
impure and condemned man—and when you show, not only by your words, but from the
bottom of your heart, and by your works, that there remains to you no comfort
and no salvation, save Jesus Christ. To believe is nothing else than to eat this
bread of heaven.”

Thus Luther faithfully fulfilled his resolution to open the eyes of a people
whom priests had blindfolded, and were leading at their pleasure. His writings,
which in a short time spread over all Germany, caused new light to arise, and
shed the seeds of truth in abundance on a soil well prepared to receive it. But
while thinking of those at a distance, he did not forget those who were near.
The dominicans from their pulpits denounced him as an infamous heretic. Luther,
the man of the people, and who, had he been so disposed, could with a few
sentences have set them in commotion, always disdained such triumphs, and made
it his sole aim to instruct his hearers. His reputation, which was continually
extending, and the courage with which he raised the banner of Christ in the
midst of an enslaved Church, made his sermons be followed with increasing
interest. Never had the confluence been so great. Luther went straight to the
point. One day, having mounted the pulpit of Wittemberg, he undertook to
establish the doctrine of repentance. The discourse pronounced on this occasion
afterwards became very celebrated, and contains several of the fundamental
principles of evangelical doctrine. At first he contrasts the pardon of men with
the pardon of heaven. “There are,” says he, “two remissions—the remission of the
penalty, and the remission of the fault. The former reconciles man externally
with the Church; the latter, which is the heavenly indulgence, reconciles man
with God. If a man has not within himself that tranquil conscience, that
cheerful heart which God’s remission gives, no indulgence can aid him were he to
buy all that ever have been on the earth.”

He afterwards continues thus: “They wish to do good works before their sins are
pardoned, whereas sins must be pardoned before good works can be done. Works do
not banish sin; but banish sin, and you will have works. Good works should be
done with a cheerful heart and a good conscience toward God; in other words,
with the forgiveness of sins.”

He then comes to the principal object of his sermon, an object which was
identified with that of the whole Reformation. The Church had put herself in the
place of God and his word; he objects to this, and makes every thing depend on
faith in the word.

“The remission of the fault,” says he, “is not in the power of the pope, or the
bishop, or the priest, or any man whatever, but rests solely on the word of
Christ, and your own faith. For Christ did not choose to build our comfort or
our salvation on a word or work of man, but only on himself, on his own work and
word. Your repentance and your works may deceive you, but Christ your God will
never deceive, will never waver; and the devil cannot overthrow his words.”

“A pope or a bishop has no more power than the humblest priest where the
remission of the fault is in question. And even where there is no priest, each
Christian, were it a woman or a child, can do the same thing. For if a simple
Christian says to you, ‘God pardons sin in the name of Jesus Christ,’ and you
receive the saying with firm faith, as if God himself had spoken, you are
acquitted.

“If you believe not that your sins are pardoned, you make your God a liar, and
declare that you put greater confidence in your vain thoughts than in God and
his word.

“Under the Old Testament neither priest, nor king, nor prophet, had power to
proclaim the forgiveness of sins; but under the New Testament every believer has
this power. The Church is quite replete with the remission of sins. If a pious
Christian comforts your conscience by the word of the cross, be it man or woman,
young or old, receive the comfort with a faith so firm, that you would sooner
submit to many deaths than doubt that it is ratified in the presence of God.…
Repent, and do all the works that you can do; but let the faith which you have
in the pardon of Jesus Christ stand in the front rank, and have sole command on
the field of battle.”

Thus spoke Luther to his astonished and enraptured hearers. All the scaffoldings
which impudent priests had, for their own profit, reared between God and the
soul of man, were thrown down, and man brought face to face with his Maker. The
word of pardon came down pure from on high, without passing through a thousand
corrupting channels. It was no longer necessary that the testimony of God, in
order to be available, should previously be stamped by men with their false
seal. The monopoly of the sacerdotal caste was abolished, and the Church
emancipated.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 35: CHAPTER XI
========================================================================

Apprehensions of Luther’s friends—Journey to Heidelberg—Bibra—The Palatine
Castle—Rupture—The Paradoxes—Dispute—The
Hearers—Bucer—Brentz—Snepf—Conversations with Luther—Labours of the Young
Doctors—Effects on Luther—The Old Professor—The True Light—Arrival.

Meanwhile, the fire which had been kindled at Wittemberg behoved to be kindled
elsewhere. Luther, not contented with announcing the truth in the place of his
residence, whether to the academic youth or to the people, was desirous to shed
the seeds of sound doctrine in other places. The Augustin order were to hold
their general chapter at Heidelberg, in the spring of 1518. Luther, as one of
the most distinguished men of the order, was invited to attend; but his friends
did all they could to dissuade him from undertaking the journey. In fact, the
monks had laboured to render the name of Luther odious in all the places through
which he had to pass. To insult they had added threatening; and a small matter
might have sufficed to excite a popular tumult of which he might have been made
the victim. “Or even,” said his friends, “what they may not dare to do by
violence, they will accomplish by fraud and stratagem.” But in the discharge of
a duty, Luther did not allow himself to be arrested by the fear of any danger,
however imminent. He therefore turned a deaf ear to the timid suggestions of his
friends, and directed them to Him in whom his confidence was placed, and under
whose protection he desired to undertake the perilous journey. After the feast
of Easter he quietly set out on foot, on the 13th April 1518.

He had with him a guide named Urban, who carried his small bundle, and was to
accompany him as far as Wurzburg. How many thoughts must have occupied the heart
of the servant of the Lord during this journey! At Weissenfels, the pastor,
though not of his acquaintance, instantly recognised him as the doctor of
Wittemberg, and gave him a hearty reception. At Erfurt, he was joined by two
other Augustin friars. At Judenbach, the three fell in with Degenard Pfeffinger,
the Elector’s confidential councillor, who entertained them at the inn. “I have
had the pleasure,” wrote Luther to Spalatin, “of making this rich lord some
shillings poorer. You know how I like to take every occasion of making a hole in
the purses of the rich for the benefit of the poor, especially if the rich are
my friends.”3 He arrived at Coburg, worn out with fatigue. “All goes well by the
grace of God,” wrote he; “only, I confess I have sinned in undertaking the
journey on foot. But for this sin I presume I will have no need of the remission
of indulgences, for my contrition is perfect, and my satisfaction complete. I am
knocked up with fatigue, and all the conveyances are full. Is not this enough,
or rather more than enough of penitence, contrition, and satisfaction?” The
Reformer of Germany, not finding a place in the public conveyances, nor any one
who was willing to yield him his place, was obliged next morning,
notwithstanding of his fatigue, humbly to resume his journey on foot. He arrived
at Wurzburg on the evening of the second Sabbath after Easter, and sent back his
guide.

Bishop Bibra, who had received the theses with so much delight, lived in this
town, and Luther had a letter for him from the Elector of Saxony. The bishop,
overjoyed at the opportunity of becoming personally acquainted with this bold
champion of the truth, hastened to invite him to the episcopal palace. He went
out to receive him, spoke to him in the kindest terms, and offered to furnish
him with a guide as far as Heidleberg. But at Wurzburg, Luther had fallen in
with his two friends, the vicar-general Staupitz, and Lange, the prior of
Erfurt, who offered him a place in their carriage. He therefore thanked Bibra
for his offer, and next day the three friends set out from Wurzburg. They
travelled thus for three days, conversing together, and on the 21st April
arrived at Heidelberg. Luther went to lodge at the Augustin convent. The Elector
of Saxony had given him a letter to Count Palatine Wolfgang, Duke of Bavaria.
Luther repaired to his magnificent castle, the site of which is still the
admiration of strangers. The monk of the plains of Saxony had a heart to admire
the position of Heidelberg, where the two lovely valleys of the Rhine and the
Necker unite. He delivered his letter to James Simler, steward of the court.
Simler having read it, said, “Truly you have here a valuable letter of credit.”
The Count Palatine received him with much kindness, and often invited him, as
well as Lange and Staupitz, to his table. This friendly reception added greatly
to Luther’s comfort. “We relax and amuse ourselves with an agreeable and
pleasant chit-chat,” says he, “eating and drinking, and surveying all the
magnificence of the Palatine palace, admiring its ornaments, its armoury, and
cuirasses; in short, every thing remarkable in this distinguished and truly
royal castle.”

However, Luther had other work to do. He behoved to work while it was day.
Transported to an university which exercised great influence on the west and
south of Germany, he was there to strike a blow which should shake the churches
of those countries. He, accordingly, began to write theses which he proposed to
maintain in a public discussion. Such discussions were of ordinary occurrence;
but Luther felt, that in order to make his useful, it was necessary to give it a
peculiar interest. His disposition, moreover, inclined him to present the truth
under a paradoxical form. The professors of the university would not allow the
discussion to take place in their public hall, and it became necessary to hold
it in a hall of the Augustin convent. The 26th of April was the day on which it
was to take place.

Heidelberg, at a later period, received the gospel, and even at this discussion
in the convent, an observer might have augured that good would result from it.
The reputation of Luther attracted a large concourse of hearers; professors,
courtiers, citizens, and students, crowded to it. The doctor gave the name of
Paradoxes to his theses, and it is, perhaps, the name which might still be
applied to them in the present day. It would be easy, however, to translate them
into evident propositions. The following are some of the Paradoxes:—

1. “The law of God is a salutary rule of life. Nevertheless, it cannot aid man
in his search after righteousness; on the contrary, it impedes him.

3. “Works of man, how fair and good soever they may be, are to all appearance,
only mortal sins.

4. “Works of God, how deformed and bad soever they may appear, have always an
immortal merit.

7. “The works of the just themselves would be mortal sins, did they not, through
holy reverence for the Lord, fear that their works would in fact be mortal sins.

9. “To maintain that works done without Christ are dead, but not mortal, is
dangerous forgetfulness of the fear of God.

13. “Since the fall of man, free will exists only in name, and when man does all
that is possible for him to do, he sins mortally.

16. “A man who expects to attain to grace by doing all that it is possible for
him to do, adds sin to sin, and doubles his guilt.

18. “It is certain that man, to become capable of receiving the grace of Christ,
must entirely despair of himself.

21. “An honorary theologian calls evil good, and good evil; but a theologian of
the cross speaks according to truth.

22. “The wisdom which teaches man to know the invisible perfections of God in
his works, inflates, blinds, and hardens him.

23. “The law excites the wrath of God, kills, curses, accuses, judges, and
condemns, whatever is not in Christ.

24. “Still this wisdom (§ 22) is not bad; and the law (§ 23) is not to be
rejected; but the man who does not study the knowledge of God under the cross,
changes its good into evil.

25. “He is not justified who does many works; but he who, without works,
believes much in Jesus Christ.

26. “The law says, Do this! And what it commands is never done. Grace says,
Believe in him! And, lo! all things are accomplished.

28. “The love of God finds nothing in man, but creates in him what it loves. The
love of man proceeds from self-love.”

Five doctors of theology attacked these theses. They had read them with the
astonishment which novelty excites. The theology seemed to them very strange.
Yet according to Luther’s own testimony, they discussed them with a courtesy
which he could not but esteem; and, at the same time, with force and
discernment.

Luther, on his part, displayed an admirable mildness in his replies,
incomparable patience in listening to the objections of his opponents, and all
the liveliness of St. Paul in solving the difficulties which were started. His
answers, which were short, but replete with the word of God, filled all the
hearers with admiration. “He very much resembles Erasmus,” said several; “but in
one thing he surpasses him,—he professes openly what Erasmus is contented only
to insinuate.” The discussion was drawing to a close. Luther’s opponents had
retired with honour from the field of battle, the youngest of them, Doctor
George Niger, alone continuing the struggle with the mighty combatant. Amazed at
the bold propositions of the Augustin monk, and feeling utterly at a loss for
arguments to refute them, he exclaimed, in an agitated tone,—“Were our peasants
to hear such things, they would stone you to death.” At these words there was a
general laugh throughout the audience.

Never had hearers listened more attentively to a theological disputation. The
first words of the Reformer had awakened men’s minds, and questions which
shortly before had met with indifference, were now full of interest. Several
countenances gave visible expression to the new ideas which the bold assertions
of the Saxon doctor had suggested to their minds.

Three youths in particular were strongly moved. One of them, named Martin Bucer,
was a Dominican, of about twenty-seven years of age, who, notwithstanding of the
prejudices of his order, seemed unwilling to lose a single word which fell from
the doctor. Born in a little town of Alsace, he had entered a convent at
sixteen, and soon displayed such talents that the monks entertained the highest
hopes of him. “He will one day be an ornament to our order,” said they. His
superiors had sent him to Heidelberg that he might devote himself to the study
of philosophy, theology, Greek, and Hebrew. At this period Erasmus having
published several of his works, Bucer read them with avidity.

Shortly after, the first works of Luther appeared, and the Alsatian student
hastened to compare the Reformer’s doctrine with the holy Scriptures. Some doubt
as to the truth of the popish religion arose in his mind. This was the way in
which light was diffused in those days. The Elector Palatine took notice of the
young man. His strong and sonorous voice, his pleasing address, his eloquence,
and the freedom with which he attacked prevailing vices, made him a
distinguished preacher. He was appointed chaplain to the court, and was acting
in this capacity when Luther’s journey to Heidelberg was announced. Bucer was
greatly delighted; nobody repaired with greater eagerness to the hall of the
Augustin convent. He had provided himself with paper, pens, and ink, wishing to
write down whatever the doctor should say. But while his hand was rapidly
tracing the words of Luther, the hand of God was writing the great truths which
he heard in more ineffaceable characters on his heart. The rays of the doctrine
of grace beamed upon his soul on this memorable occasion. The Dominican was
gained over to Christ. Not far from Bucer sat John Brentz or Brentius, then
about nineteen years of age. Brentz, who was the son of a magistrate of a town
in Swabia, had, at thirteen, been enrolled among the students of Heidelberg.
None of them showed such application. As soon as the hour of midnight struck,
Brentz rose and commenced his labours. This practice became so habitual to him,
that, during the rest of his life, he could never sleep beyond that hour. At a
later period he devoted these still moments to meditation on the Scriptures.
Brentz was one of the first to perceive the new light which then rose on
Germany, and he received it into his soul in the full love of it. He read the
writings of Luther with avidity, and must have been overjoyed at the prospect of
hearing him personally at Heidelberg. Young Brentz was particularly struck with
one of the doctor’s propositions, viz., “Not he who does many works is justified
before God, but he who, without works, believes much in Jesus Christ.” A pious
woman of Heilbronn, on the Necker, wife of a councillor of that town, named
Snepf, had, after the example of Hannah, dedicated her first born to the Lord,
earnestly desiring to see him devote himself to theology. The young man, who was
born in 1495, made rapid progress in literature, but whether from taste or
ambition, or compliance with his father’s wishes, he devoted himself to the
study of law. The pious mother was grieved when she saw her son Ehrhard
following another course than that to which she had dedicated him; she warned
and urged him, and always concluded by reminding him of the vow which she had
made at his birth. At length, overcome by his mother’s perseverance, Ehrhard
Snepf yielded, and soon felt such delight in his new studies, that nothing in
the world could have diverted him from them.

He was in terms of intimacy with Bucer and Brentz, and they remained friends all
their lives; “for,” says one of their biographers, “friendships founded on the
love of literature and virtue are never extinguished.” He was present with his
two friends at the Heidelberg discussion. The Paradoxes and the bold struggle of
the Wittemberg doctor gave Snepf a new impulse. Rejecting the vain dogma of
human merit, he embraced the doctrine of free justification. The next day Bucer
paid a visit to Luther. “I conversed with him,” says he, “and without witnesses;
and had a most exquisite repast, not from the viands, but from the truths which
were set before me. Whatever objections I stated, were readily answered by the
doctor, who explained every thing with the utmost clearness. O! that I had time
to write yon more about it.” Luther himself was touched with the sentiments of
Bucer. “He is the only friar of his order,” wrote he to Spalatin, “who is in
good faith. He is a young man of great promise; he received me with simplicity,
and conversed with me with earnestness; he is deserving of our confidence and
our love.”3

Brentz, Snepf, and others also, urged by the new truths which began to dawn upon
their minds, in like manner visited Luther, speaking and conferring with him,
and asking explanations of any thing which they might not have comprehended. The
Reformer, in his answers, founded upon the Bible. At every word that fell from
him fresh light arose, and his visitors saw a new world opening before them.

After Luther’s departure these noble-minded men began to teach at Heidelberg. It
was necessary to follow out what the man of God had begun, and not allow the
torch which he had kindled to be extinguished. The scholars will speak should
the masters be silent. Brentz, although he was still so youthful, explained St.
Matthew, at first in his own room, and afterwards, when it could not contain his
hearers, in the hall of philosophy. The theologians, filled with envy at seeing
the great concourse which he drew together, were much offended.

Brentz next took orders, and transferred his lectures to the college of the
Canons of the Holy Spirit. In this way the fire which had already been kindled
in Saxony was kindled also in Heidelberg. The light radiated from numerous foci.
This period has been designated the seed-time of the Palatinate. But the fruits
of the Heidelberg discussion were not confined to the Palatinate. These bold
friends of the truth soon became luminaries in the Church. They all occupied
eminent stations, and took part in the numerous discussions, to which the
Reformation gave rise. Strasburg, and at a later period England, were indebted
to the labours of Bucer, for a purer knowledge of the truth. Snepf taught first
at Marburg, then at Stutgard, Tubingen, and Jena. Brentz, after teaching at
Heidelberg, long continued to labour at Halle, in Swabia, and at Tubingen. These
three individuals will again come before us. This discussion caused Luther
himself to advance. He grew daily in the knowledge of the truth. “I am one of
those,” said he, “who have made progress by writing and by instructing others;
and not one of those, who, from nothing, become all at once great and learned
doctors.”

He was delighted at seeing the avidity with which youth in schools received the
growing truth; and this consoled him when he saw how deeply the old doctors were
rooted in their opinions. “I have the glorious hope,” said he, “that, in like
manner as Christ, when rejected by the Jews, went to the Gentiles, we will now
see true theology, though rejected by these old men of vain and fantastical
opinions, welcomed by the rising generation.” The Chapter being closed, Luther
thought of returning to Wittemberg. The Count Palatine gave him a letter to the
Elector, in which he said that “Luther had displayed so much ability in the
discussion as to reflect great glory on the university of Wittemberg.” He was
not permitted to return on foot. The Augustins of Nuremberg conducted him as far
as Wurzburg, and from thence he proceeded to Erfurt with the friars belonging to
it. As soon as he arrived he called on his old master Jodocus. The venerable
professor, who had been much concerned and shocked at the career which his pupil
had followed, was accustomed to put a theta (θ) before all Luther’s
sentences,—that being the letter which the Greeks used to express condemnation.
He had written to the young doctor, censuring his conduct, and he was anxious to
answer by word of mouth. Not having been received, he wrote Jodocus:—“The whole
university, with the exception of a single licentiate, thinks as I do. Nay,
more; the prince, the bishop, several other prelates, and all our enlightened
citizens, declare, with one voice, that hitherto they have neither known nor
understood Jesus Christ and his gospel. I am ready to receive your correction,
and though it should be harsh I will think it pleasant. Unbosom your heart then
without fear, disburden yourself of your anger. I have no wish, I am not able to
be angry with you. God and my conscience bear witness.”2 The aged doctor was
touched by the sentiments of his old pupil, and wished to see if there was no
means of removing the condemnatory theta. They had an explanation; but nothing
resulted from it. “I have at least,” said Luther, “made him understand, that all
their sentences are like the beast which is said to eat itself. But it is vain
to speak to the deaf. The doctors cling obstinately to their petty distinctions,
although they confess that they have nothing to support them but what they term
the light of natural reason—a dark chaos to us who proclaim no other light than
Jesus Christ, the only true light.”

Luther quitted Erfurt in the carriage of the convent. He was thus brought to
Eisleben, and from thence the Augustins of the place, proud of a doctor who
threw so much lustre on their order and on their town which had given him birth,
caused him to be conveyed to Wittemberg with their own horses, and at their own
expence. All were desirous to testify affection and esteem for the extraordinary
man who was rising at every step.

He arrived on Saturday after the Ascension. The journey had done him good. His
friends found him stronger and healthier looking than before his departure, and
were delighted with all he told them. Luther reposed for some time from the
fatigues of his campaign and the discussion at Heidelberg, but this repose was
only a preparation for more severe exertions.


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  CHAPTER 36: BOOK FOURTH
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Luther Before the Legate may–december, 1518


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  CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER I
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Repentance—The Pope—Leo X—Luther to his Bishop—Luther to the Pope—Luther to the
Vicar-General—Rovere to the Elector—Discourse on Excommunication—Influence and
Power of Luther.

Truth had at length raised her head in the bosom of Christendom. Victorious over
the inferior organs of the papacy, she behoved to have a struggle with its
chief. We are going to see Luther at close quarters with Rome. This step was
taken on his return from Heidelberg. His first theses on indulgences had been
misunderstood, and he determined to explain their meaning with greater
clearness. The outcry raised by the blind hatred of his enemies had convinced
him how important it was to gain the most enlightened part of the nation in
favour of truth, and he resolved to appeal to its judgment by calling attention
to the foundation on which his convictions rested. It was, indeed, necessary for
once to appeal to the decision of Rome; and he hesitates not to send all his
explanations. Presenting them with one hand to the enlightened and impartial
among his countrymen, he with the other lays them before the throne of the
sovereign pontiff.

These explanations of his theses, which he denominated Solutions, were written
with great moderation. Luther tried to soften the passages which had caused most
irritation, and gave proof of genuine modesty. At the same time, he showed that
his convictions were immovable; and he courageously defended all the
propositions which truth obliged him to maintain. He again repeated, that every
Christian who truly repents possesses the remission of sins without indulgence;
that the pope, like the humblest of priests, can only declare simply what God
has already pardoned; that the treasure of the merits of the saints administered
by the pope was a chimera, and that Holy Scripture was the only rule of faith.
Let us hear himself on some of these points.

He begins with establishing the nature of true penitence, and contrasts the
divine act, which renews man, with the mummery of the Romish Church. “The Greek
word μετανοειτε,” says he, “signifies—be clothed with a new spirit and new
feelings; have a new nature; so that, ceasing to be earthly, you may become
heavenly.… Christ is a teacher of the spirit and not of the letter, and his
words are spirit and life.” He, therefore, inculcates, not those external
penances which the proudest sinners can perform without being humbled, but a
repentance according to spirit and truth—a repentance which may be fulfilled in
all the situations of life, under the purple of kings, the cassock of priests,
and the coronet of princes, amid the magnificence of Babylon, where a Daniel
lived, as well as under a monk’s frock and a beggar’s tatters.

Farther on we meet with these bold words, “I give myself no trouble as to what
pleases or displeases the pope. He is a man like other men. There have been
several popes who loved not only errors and vices, but even things still more
extraordinary. I listen to the pope as pope, that is when he speaks in the
canons, according to the canons, or when he decides some article with a council,
but not when he speaks out of his own head. If I did otherwise, would I not be
bound to say with those who know not Jesus Christ, that the horrible massacres
of Christians of which Julius II was guilty, were the kind acts of an
affectionate shepherd towards the Lord’s sheep?”

“I cannot but be astonished,” continues he, “at the simplicity of those who have
said that the two swords of the gospel represent, the one the spiritual power,
and the other the temporal. Yes, the pope holds a sword of steel, and so
exhibits himself to Christendom, not as a tender father, but as a formidable
tyrant. Ah! God in his anger has given us the sword we wished, and withdrawn
that which we despised. In no quarter of the world have there been more dreadful
wars than among Christians.… Why did the ingenious intellect which discovered
this fine commentary, not with equal subtlety interpret the history of the two
keys committed to St. Peter, and in that way make it an established dogma of the
Church, that the one serves to open the treasures of heaven, and the other the
treasures of the world.”

“It is impossible,” he again says, “that a man can be a Christian without having
Christ; and if he has Christ, he at the same time has all that belongs to
Christ. The thing which gives peace to our conscience is, that by faith our sins
are no longer ours, but Christ’s, on whom God has laid them; and that, on the
other hand, all the righteousness of Christ is ours, to whom God has given it.
Christ puts his hand upon us, and we are cured. He throws his mantle over us and
we are covered; for he is the glorious Saviour, blessed for ever and ever.” With
such views of the riches of salvation by Jesus Christ, there was no need of
indulgences.

Luther, while attacking the papacy, speaks honourably of Leo X. “The times in
which we live are so bad,” says he, “that even the greatest personages cannot
come to the help of the Church. We have now a very good pope in Leo X. His
sincerity and knowledge fill us with joy. But what can one man, though amiable
and agreeable, do by himself alone? He certainly deserved to be pope in better
times. We, in our day, deserve only such popes as Julius II, and Alexander VI.”

He afterwards comes to the crowning point. “I wish to say the thing in a few
words and boldly. The Church stands in need of a reformation; and this cannot be
the work either of a single man, like the pope, or of many men, like the
cardinals, and fathers of councils; but it must be that of the whole world, or,
rather, it is a work which belongs to God only. As to the time in which such a
reformation ought to begin, He alone who created time can tell.… The embankment
is broken down, and it is no longer in our power to arrest the torrents which
are rushing impetuously along.”

Such are some of the thoughts and declarations which Luther addressed to the
enlightened among his countrymen. The Feast of Pentecost was at hand; and, at
this period, when the apostles rendered the first testimony of their faith to
the risen Saviour, Luther, a new apostle, published this enlivening book in
which he expressed his earnest longings for a resurrection of the Church.
Saturday, 22nd May, 1518, being Pentecost eve, he sent his work to his ordinary,
the Bishop of Brandenburg, with the following letter:—

“Most worthy Father in God,—Some time ago, when a novel and unheard-of doctrine,
touching the apostolic indulgences, began to make a noise in these countries,
both learned and ignorant felt concerned; and many persons, some of them known
to me, and others whom I did not even know by face, urged me to publish, by word
of mouth, or by writing, what I thought of the novelty, I am unwilling to say,
the impudence of this doctrine. At first I was silent, and kept back. But at
length matters came to such a point, that the holiness of the pope was
compromised.

“What was I to do? I thought it best neither to approve nor to condemn these
doctrines; but to establish a discussion on this important point, until the Holy
Church should decide.

“Nobody having come forward to this combat, to which I had invited all the
world, and my theses having been considered not as materials for discussion, but
positive assertions, I feel myself obliged to publish an explanation of them.
Deign, then, most gracious Bishop, to receive these trifles2 at my hand. And
that all the world may see I am not acting presumptuously, I supplicate your
reverence to take pen and ink, and blot out, or even throw into the fire and
burn, whatever in them displeases you. I know that Jesus Christ has no need of
my labours and my services, and that he can very well, without me, publish good
tidings to his Church. Not that the bulls and menaces of my enemies deter me;
very much the contrary. If they were not so impudent and so shameless, nobody
would hear a word from me; I would shut myself up in a corner, and there study
by myself for myself. If this affair is not of God, it certainly cannot be my
affair, nor that of any man, but a thing of nought. Let the glory and honour be
ascribed to Him to whom alone they belong.”

Luther had still the greatest respect for the head of the Church. He supposed
that there was justice in Leo X, and a sincere love of truth. He resolved,
therefore, to apply to him also; and eight days after, on Trinity Sunday, 30th
May, 1518, addressed him in a letter, of which we give the following extracts:—
“To the Most Blessed Father, Leo X, Sovereign Bishop, “Friar Martin Luther,
Augustin, wishes eternal salvation!

“I learn, most Holy Father, that evil reports are current with regard to me, and
that my name is brought into bad odour with your Holiness. I am called heretic,
apostate, traitor, and a thousand other opprobrious epithets; what I see
astonishes, what I hear amazes me. But the only foundation of my tranquillity
remains, and that is a pure and peaceful conscience. Be pleased to listen to me,
most Holy Father, to me, who am only an ignorant child.”

Luther relates the origin of the whole affair, and continues thus:—

“In all taverns, nothing was heard but complaints of the avarice of priests, and
attacks on the power of the keys and the sovereign pontiff. This all Germany can
testify. On hearing these things, my zeal for the glory of Christ was moved, (so
I thought,) or if they will explain it otherwise, my young and boiling blood was
inflamed.

“I warned several of the princes of the Church, but some mocked me, and others
turned a deaf ear. All seemed paralysed by the terror of your name. Then I
published the discussion, “And this, most Holy Father! this is the fire which is
said to have set the whole world in flames!

“Now, what must I do? I cannot retract, and I see that this publication is
subjecting me to inconceivable hatred in all quarters. I love not to stand forth
in the midst of the world; for I am without knowledge, without talent, and far
too feeble for such great things, especially in this illustrious age, in which
Cicero himself, were he alive, would be obliged to hide in some obscure corner.

“But in order to appease my adversaries, and respond to numerous solicitations,
I here publish my thoughts. I publish them, Holy Father, that I may place myself
in safety under the shadow of your wings. All who are willing will thus be able
to understand with what simplicity of heart I have asked the ecclesiastical
authority to instruct me, and what respect I have shown for the power of the
keys. If I had not managed the affair in a becoming manner, it is impossible
that the most serene lord Frederick, Duke and Elector of Saxony, who shines
among the friends of apostolical and Christian truth, would ever have tolerated
in his university of Wittemberg a man so dangerous as I am represented to be.

“Wherefore, most Holy Father, I throw myself at the feet of your Holiness, and
submit to you with all I have, and all I am. Destroy my cause, or embrace it;
decide for me, or decide against me; take my life, or restore it to me, just as
you please. I will recognise your voice as the voice of Jesus Christ, who
presides and speaks by you. If I have deserved death I refuse not to die. The
earth belongs unto the Lord, and all that it contains. Let him be praised to all
eternity. Amen. May he sustain you for ever and ever. Amen.

“On the day of the Holy Trinity, in the year 1518.

“Friar Martin Luther, Augustin.”

What humility and truth in this fear, or rather in this confession of Luther,
that his young and boiling blood had perhaps been too quickly inflamed! We here
recognise the man of sincerity, who, not presuming on himself, fears the
influence of passion even in those of his actions which are most conformable to
the word of God. There is a wide difference between this language and that of a
proud fanatic. We see in Luther an earnest desire to gain over Leo to the cause
of truth, to prevent all disruption, and make this reformation, the necessity of
which he proclaims, come from the very pinnacle of the Church. Assuredly, he is
not the person who ought to be charged with destroying in the West that unity,
the loss of which was afterwards so much regretted. He sacrificed every thing in
order to maintain it; every thing but truth. It was not he, but his adversaries,
who, by refusing to acknowledge the fulness and sufficiency of the salvation
wrought out by Jesus Christ, are chargeable with having rent the Saviour’s robe
at the foot of the cross.

After writing this letter, Luther, the very same day, addressed his friend
Staupitz, vicar-general of his order. It was through him he wished his
“Solutions” and his epistle to reach Leo.

“I pray you,” says he to him, “kindly to accept the miserable things which I
send you, and transmit them to the excellent pope, Leo X. Not that I would
thereby drag you into the perils to which I am exposed. I wish to take all the
danger to myself. Jesus Christ will see whether what I have said comes from him
or comes from me—Jesus Christ, without whose will neither the tongue of the pope
can move, nor the hearts of kings resolve.

“To those who threaten me I have no answer to give, unless it be the remark of
Reuchlin, ‘The poor man has nothing to fear, for he has nothing to lose.’ I have
neither money nor goods, and I ask none. If I once possessed some honour and
some reputation, let him that has begun to strip me of them finish his work. I
have nothing left but this miserable body, enfeebled by so many trials; let them
kill it by force or fraud, to the glory of God. In this way they will, perhaps,
shorten my life an hour or two. Enough for me to have a precious Redeemer, a
powerful Priest, Jesus Christ the Lord! I will praise him while I have a breath
of life; and if none will praise him with me, how can I help it?”

These words enable us to read Luther’s heart.

While he was thus looking with confidence towards Rome, Rome had thoughts of
vengeance towards him. On the 3rd of April, Cardinal Raphael De Rovere had
written to the Elector Frederick in the pope’s name, stating that suspicions
were entertained of his faith, and that he ought to beware of protecting Luther.

“Cardinal Raphael,” says Luther, “would have had great pleasure in seeing me
burned by Duke Frederick.” Thus Rome began to whet her arms against Luther, and
the first blow which she aimed at him was through the mind of his protector. If
she succeeded in destroying the shelter under which the monk of Wittemberg was
reposing, he would become an easy prey. The German princes attached much
importance to their reputation as Christian princes. The slightest suspicion of
heresy filled them with alarm, and the court of Rome had shrewdly availed itself
of this feeling. Frederick, moreover, had always been attached to the religion
of his fathers, and Raphael’s letter made a very strong impression on his mind.
But it was a principle with the Elector not to act hastily in any thing. He knew
that truth was not always on the side of the strongest. The transactions of the
empire with Rome had taught him to distrust the selfish views of that court; and
he was aware that in order to be a Christian prince, it was not necessary to be
the pope’s slave.

“He was not,” says Melancthon, “one of those profane spirits who wish to stifle
all changes in their first beginnings. Frederick resigned himself to God. He
carefully read the writings which were published, and what he judged true he
allowed no one to destroy.”3 He had power to do so. Supreme in his own States,
he was respected in the empire at least as highly as the emperor himself.

It is probable that Luther learned something of this letter of Cardinal Raphael,
which was sent to the Elector on the 7th of July. Perhaps it was the prospect of
excommunication which this Roman missive seemed to presage, that led him to
mount the pulpit of Wittemberg on the 15th of the same month, and on this
subject deliver a discourse which made a profound impression. He distinguished
between internal and external excommunication; the former excluding from
communion with God, and the latter excluding only from the ceremonies of the
Church. “Nobody,” says he, “can reconcile a lapsed soul with God save God
himself. Nobody can separate man from communion with God unless it be man
himself by his own sins! Happy he who dies unjustly excommunicated! While for
righteousness’ sake he endures a heavy infliction on the part of man, he
receives the crown of eternal felicity from the hand of God.”

Some highly applauded this bold language, while others were more irritated by
it. But Luther was no longer alone; and although his faith needed no other
support than that of God, a phalanx of defence against his enemies was formed
around him. The Germans had heard the voice of the Reformer. His discourses and
his writings sent forth flashes which awoke and illumined his contemporaries.
The energy of his faith fell in torrents of fire on slumbering hearts. The life
which God had infused into this extraordinary soul was imparted to the dead body
of the Church; and Christendom, which had for so many ages been motionless, was
animated with a religious enthusiasm. The devotedness of the people to the
superstitions of Rome diminished every day, and the number of hands which
offered money for the purchase of pardon became fewer and fewer, while at the
same time Luther’s fame continued to increase. People turned towards him, and
hailed him with love and respect as the intrepid defender of truth and liberty.

2 No doubt the full depth of the doctrines which he announced was not perceived.
It was enough for the greater number to know that the new doctor withstood the
pope, and that the empire of priests and monks was shaken by his powerful word.
To them the attack of Luther was like one of those fires which are kindled on
mountain tops, as the signal for a whole nation to rise and burst its chains.
Before the Reformer suspected what he had done, all the generous hearted among
his countrymen had already acknowledged him for their leader. To many, however,
the appearance of Luther was something more. The word of God, which he wielded
with so much power, pierced their minds like a sharp two-edged sword; and their
hearts were inflamed with an ardent desire to obtain the assurance of pardon and
eternal life. Since primitive times the Church had not known such hungering and
thirsting after righteousness. If the preaching of Peter the Hermit and Bernard
so aroused the population of the middle ages as to make them take up a
perishable cross, the preaching of Luther disposed those of his time to embrace
the true cross, the truth which saves. The framework which then lay with all its
weight on the Church had smothered everything; the form had destroyed the life.
But the powerful word given to Luther caused a quickening breath to circulate
over the soil of Christendom. At the first glance the writings of Luther were
equally captivating to believers and unbelievers,—to unbelievers, because the
positive doctrines afterwards to be established were not yet fully developed in
them; and to believers, because they contained the germ of that living faith
which they so powerfully express. Hence the influence of these writings was
immense; they spread almost instantaneously over Germany and the world. The
prevailing impression of men every where was, that they were assisting, not at
the establishment of a sect, but at a new birth of the Church and of society.
Those who were born of the Spirit of God ranged themselves around him who was
its organ. Christendom was divided into two camps,—the one leagued with the
spirit against the form, and the other with the form against the spirit. It is
true that on the side of the form were all the appearances of strength and
grandeur, and on the side of the spirit those of feebleness and insignificance.
But the form, devoid of the spirit, is a lifeless body, which the first breath
may upset. Its appearance of power only provokes hostility and accelerates its
downfall. In this way the simple truth had placed Luther at the head of a mighty
army.


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  CHAPTER 38: CHAPTER II
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Diet at Augsburg—The Emperor to the Pope—The Elector to Rovere—Luther cited to
Rome—Luther’s Peace—Intercession of the University—Papal Brief—Lather’s
Indignation—The Pope to the Elector. This army was needed; for the great began
to move. Both the empire and the Church were uniting their efforts to rid
themselves of this troublesome monk. Had the imperial throne been occupied by a
brave and energetic prince, he might have profited by these religious
agitations, and, throwing himself on God and the nation, given new force to the
former opposition to the papacy. But Maximilian was too old, and was determined,
moreover, to sacrifice every thing to what he regarded as the end of his
existence,—the aggrandisement of his house, and through it the exaltation of his
grandson. The Emperor Maximilian at this time held a diet at Augsburg. Six
Electors attended in person, and all the Germanic States were represented at it,
while the kings of France, Hungary, and Poland, sent their ambassadors. All
these princes and envoys appeared in great splendour. The war against the Turks
was one of the subjects for which the diet had assembled. The legate of Leo X
strongly urged the prosecution of it; but the States, instructed by the bad use
which had formerly been made of their contributions, and sagely counselled by
the Elector Frederick, contented themselves with declaring that they would take
the matter into consideration, and at the same time, produced new grievances
against Rome. A Latin discourse, published during the Diet, boldly called the
attention of the German princes to the true danger. “You wish,” said the author,
“to put the Turk to flight. This is well; but I am much afraid that you are
mistaken as to his person. It is not in Asia, but in Italy, that you ought to
seek him.”

Another affair of no less importance was to occupy the Diet. Maximilian was
desirous that his grandson Charles, already king of Spain and Naples, should be
proclaimed king of the Romans, and his successors in the imperial dignity. The
pope knew his interest too well to wish the imperial throne to be occupied by a
prince whose power in Italy might prove formidable to him. The Emperor thought
he had already gained the greater part of the electors and states, but he found
a strenuous opponent in Frederick. In vain did he solicit him, and in vain did
the ministers and best friends of the Elector join their entreaties to those of
the Emperor. Frederick was immovable, and proved the truth of what has been said
of him, that when once satisfied of the justice of a resolution, he had firmness
of soul never to abandon it. The Emperor’s design failed. From this time the
Emperor sought to gain the good will of the pope, in order to render him
favourable to his plans; and as a special proof of his devotedness, on the 5th
August, wrote him the following letter:—“Most Holy Father, we learned some days
ago that a friar of the Augustin order, named Martin Luther, has begun to
maintain divers propositions as to the commerce in indulgences. Our displeasure
is the greater because the said friar finds many protectors, among whom are
powerful personages. If your Holiness and the very reverend fathers of the
Church, (the Cardinals,) do not forthwith employ their authority to put an end
to these scandals, not only will these pernicious doctors seduce the simple, but
they will involve great princes in their ruin. We will take care that whatever
your Holiness may decide on this matter, for the glory of Almighty God, shall be
observed by all in our empire.” This letter must have been written after some
rather keen discussion between Maximilian and Frederick. The same day, the
Elector wrote to Raphael de Rovere. He had doubtless learned that the Emperer
was addressing the Roman pontiff, and to parry the blow he put himself in
communication with Rome.

“I can have no other wish,” said he, “than to show myself submissive to the
universal Church. Accordingly, I have never defended the writings and sermons of
Doctor Martin Luther. I understand, moreover, that he has always offered to
appear with a safe-conduct before impartial, learned, and Christian judges, in
order to defend his doctrine, and submit, in the event of being convinced by
Scripture itself.”

Leo X, who had hitherto allowed the affair to take its course, aroused by the
cries of theologians and monks, instituted an ecclesiastical court, which was to
try Luther at Rome, and in which Sylvester Prierio, the great enemy of the
Reformer, was at once accuser and judge. The charge was soon drawn up, and
Luther was summoned by the court to appear personally in sixty days.

Luther was at Wittemberg, calmly awaiting the good effect which his humble
letter to the pope was, as he imagined, to produce, when, on the 7th of August,
only two days after the despatch of the letters of Maximilian and Frederick, he
received the citation from the Roman tribunal. “At the moment,” says he, “when I
was expecting the benediction, I saw the thunder burst upon me. I was the lamb
troubling the water to the wolf. Tezel escapes, and I must allow myself to be
eaten.” This citation threw Wittemberg into consternation; for whatever course
Luther might adopt, he could not avert the danger. If he repaired to Rome he
must there become the victim of his enemies. If he refused to go, he would, as a
matter of course, be condemned for contumacy, without being able to escape; for
it was known that the legate had received orders from the pope to do everything
he could do to irritate the Emperor and the German princes against him. His
friends were in dismay. Must the teacher of truth go with his life in his hand
to that great city, drunk with the blood of the saints and martyrs of Jesus? Is
it sufficient to ensure any man’s destruction that he has raised his head from
the bosom of enslaved Christendom? Must this man, whom God appears to have
formed for resisting a power which hitherto nothing has been able to resist, be
also overthrown? Luther, himself, saw no one who could save him unless it were
the Elector, but he would rather die than endanger his prince. His friends at
last fell on an expedient which would not compromise Frederick. Let him refuse a
safe-conduct, and Luther will have a legitimate cause for refusing to appear at
Rome. On the 8th of August Luther wrote to Spalatin, praying that the Elector
would employ his influence to have him cited in Germany. He also wrote to
Staupitz, “See what ambuscades they use to ensnare me, and how I am surrounded
with thorns. But Christ lives and reigns, to-day, yesterday, and for ever. My
conscience assures me that what I have taught is the truth, though it becomes
still more odious when I teach it. The Church is like the womb of Rebecca. The
children must struggle together so as even to endanger the life of the mother.
As to what remains, entreat the Lord that I may not have too much joy in this
trial. May God not lay the sin to their charge.” The friends of Luther did not
confine themselves to consultation and complaint. Spalatin, on the part of the
Elector, wrote to Renner, the Emperor’s secretary, “Dr. Martin is very willing
that his judges shall be all the universities of Germany, with the exception of
those of Erfurt, Leipsic, and Frankfort on the Oder, which he has ground to
suspect. It is impossible for him to appear personally at Rome.” The university
of Wittemberg wrote a letter of intercession to the pope himself, and thus spoke
of Luther,—“The feebleness of his body, and the dangers of the journey, make it
difficult and even impossible for him to obey the order of your Holiness. His
distress and his prayers dispose us to have compassion on him. We, then, as
obedient sons, entreat you, most Holy Father, to be pleased to regard him as a
man who has never taught doctrines in opposition to the sentiments of the Roman
Church.” On the same day the university, in its anxiety, addressed Charles de
Miltitz, a Saxon gentleman, the chamberlain, and a great favourite of the pope,
and bore testimony to Luther in terms still stronger than those which it had
ventured to insert in the former letter. “The worthy father, Martin Luther,
Augustin, is the noblest and most honourable man of our university. For several
years we have seen and known his ability, his knowledge, his high attainments in
arts and literature, his irreproachable manners, and his altogether Christian
conduct.” This active charity on the part of all who were about Luther is his
finest eulogium.

While the issue was anxiously waited for, the affair terminated more easily than
might have been supposed. The Legate de Vio, chagrined at not having succeeded
in the commission which he had received to prepare a general war against the
Turks, was desirous to give lustre to his embassy in Germany by some other
brilliant exploit; and thinking that if he extinguished heresy he would reappear
at Rome with glory, he asked the pope to remit the affair to him. Leo felt
himself under obligation to Frederick, for having so strenuously opposed the
election of young Charles, and was aware that he might still want his
assistance. Accordingly, without adverting to the citation, he charged his
legate by a brief, dated 23rd of August, to examine the affair in Germany. The
pope lost nothing by this mode of proceeding; and, at the same time, if Luther
could be brought to a retractation, the noise and scandal which his appearance
at Rome might have occasioned were avoided.

“We charge you,” said he, “to bring personally before you, to pursue and
constrain without delay, and as soon as you receive this our letter, the said
Luther, who has already been declared heretic by our dear brother, Jerome,
Bishop of Asculan.”

Then the pope prescribes the severest measures against Luther.

“For this purpose invoke the arm and assistance of our very dear son in Christ,
Maximilian, the other princes of Germany, and all its commonalties,
universities, and powers ecclesiastical or secular; and if you apprehend him,
keep him in safe custody, in order that he may be brought before us.”

We see that this indulgent concession of the pope was little else than a surer
method of dragging Luther to Rome. Next follow the gentle measures:—

“If he returns to himself, and asks pardon for his great crime, asks it of
himself, and without being urged to do it, we give you power to receive him into
the unity of Holy Mother Church.” The pope soon returns to malediction.

“If he persists in his obstinacy, and you cannot make yourself master of his
person, we give you power to proscribe him in all parts of Germany, to banish,
curse, and excommunicate all who are attached to him, and to order all
Christians to shun their presence.”

Still this is not enough. The pope continues:—

“And in order that this contagion may be the more easily extirpated, yon will
excommunicate all prelates, religious orders, communities, counts, dukes, and
grandees, except the Emperor Maximilian, who shall refuse to seize the said
Martin Luther and his adherents, and send them to you, under due and sufficient
guard. And if (which God forbid) the said princes, communities, universities,
grandees, or any one belonging to them, offer an asylum to the said Martin and
his adherents, in any way, and give him, publicly or in secret, by themselves or
others, aid and counsel, we lay under interdict these princes, communities, and
grandees, with their towns, burghs, fields, and villages, whither said Martin
may flee, as long as he shall remain there, and for three days after he shall
have left.” This audacious chair, which pretends to be the representative on
earth of Him who has said, God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the
world, but that the world through him might be saved, continues its anathemas;
and, after having denounced penalties against ecclesiastics, proceeds:—

“In regard to the laity, if they do not obey your orders instantly, and without
any opposition, we declare them infamous, (with the exception of the most worthy
Emperor,) incapable of performing any lawful act, deprived of Christian burial,
and stript of all fiefs which they may hold, whether of the apostolic see, or of
any other superior whatsoever.”

Such was the fate which awaited Luther. The monarch of Rome has leagued for his
destruction, and to effect it, spared nothing, not even the peace of the tomb.
His ruin seems inevitable. How will he escape this immense conspiracy? But Rome
had miscalculated; a movement produced by the Spirit of God was not to be
quelled by the decrees of its chancery.

Even the forms of a just and impartial inquest had not been observed. Luther had
been declared heretic, not only without having been heard, but even before the
expiry of the period named for his compearance. The passions (and nowhere do
they show themselves stronger than in religious discussions) overleap all the
forms of justice. Strange proceedings, in this respect, occur, not only in the
Church of Rome, but in Protestant churches also, which have turned aside from
the gospel; in other words, in all places where the truth is not, every thing
done against the gospel is deemed lawful. We often see men who, in any other
case, would scruple to commit the smallest injustice, not hesitating to trample
under foot all forms and all rights when the matter in question is Christianity,
and the testimony borne to it. When Luther was afterwards made acquainted with
this brief, he expressed his indignation. “Here,” says he, “is the most
remarkable part of the whole affair. The brief is dated on the 23rd of August,
and I was cited for the 7th of August; so that between the citation and the
brief there is an interval of sixteen days. Now, make the calculation, and you
will find that my Lord Jerome, Bishop of Asculan, has proceeded against me,
given judgment, condemned, and declared me heretic, before the citation could
have reached me, or at most sixteen days after it had been despatched to me.
Now, I ask, where are the sixty days given me in the citation? They commenced on
the 7th August, and were to end on the 7th October. Is it the style and fashion
of the court of Rome to cite, admonish, accuse, judge, and pronounce sentence of
condemnation, all in one day, against a man who is at such a distance from Rome,
that he knows nothing at all of the proceedings? What answer would they give to
this? Doubtless, they forgot to purge themselves with hellebore before
proceeding to such falsehoods.” But at the same time that Rome was secretly
depositing her thunders in the hands of her legate, she was endeavouring, by
smooth and flattering words, to detach the prince whose power she most dreaded
from Luther’s cause. The same day, 25th August 1518, the pope wrote the Elector
of Saxony. Recurring to those wiles of ancient policy which we have already
pointed out, he endeavoured to flatter the prince’s self-love:

“Dear son,” said the Roman pontiff, “when we think on your noble and honourable
race, and on yourself, its head and ornament; when we recollect how you and your
ancestors have always desired to maintain Christian faith, and the honour and
dignity of the Holy See, we cannot believe that a man who abandons the faith can
trust to the favour of your Highness, in giving loose reins to his wickedness.
And yet it is told us from all quarters that a certain friar, Martin Luther,
Eremite of the order of St. Augustine, has, like a child of malice, and a
contemner of God, forgotten his habit and his order, which consist in humility
and obedience, and is boasting that he fears neither the authority nor the
punishment of any man, because assured of your favour and protection.

“But, as we know that he is mistaken, we have thought good to write to your
Highness, and exhort you, according to the Lord, to be vigilant for the honour
of your name as a Christian prince, and to defend yourself from these
calumnies—yourself the ornament, the glory, and sweet savour of your noble
race—and to guard, not only against a fault so grave as that which is imputed to
you, but also against even the suspicion which the insensate hardihood of this
friar tends to excite against you.”

Leo X, at the same time, announced to Frederick that he had charged Cardinal
Saint Sixtus to examine the affair, and he enjoined him to put Luther into the
hands of the legate, “lest,” added he, returning again to his favourite
argument, “lest the pious people of our time, and of future times, may one day
lament and say, The most pernicious heresy with which the Church of God has been
afflicted was excited by the favour and support of this high and honourable
House.”

Thus Rome had taken all her measures. With one hand she diffused the perfume of
praise, which is always so intoxicating, while the other held terrors and
vengeance.

All the powers of the earth, emperor, pope, princes, and legates, began to move
against this humble friar of Erfurt, whose internal combats we have already
traced. “The kings of the earth stood up, and the rulers took counsel together
against the Lord and against his anointed.”


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  CHAPTER 39: CHAPTER III
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The Armourer Schwarzerd—His Wife—Philip—His Genius—His Studies—The Bible—Call to
Wittemberg—Melancthon’s Departure and Journey—Leipsic—Mistake—Luther’s
Joy—Parallel—Revolution in Education—Study of Greek. The letter and brief had
not reached Germany, and Luther was still fearing that he would be obliged to
appear at Rome, when a happy event gave comfort to his heart. He needed a friend
to whom he could unboscm his sorrows, and whose faithful love would solace him
in his hours of depression. All this God gave him in Melancthon. On the 14th
February 1497, George Schwarzerd, a skilful armour-master of Bretten, a small
town in the Palatinate, had a son born to him, who was named Philip, and who
afterwards distinguished himself under the name of Melancthon. Patronised by the
Palatine princes, and those of Bavaria and Saxony, George was a man of
unimpeachable integrity. He often refused the price which purchasers offered
him, and on learning that they were poor, insisted on returning their money. He
rose regularly at midnight, and on his knees offered up a prayer. If on any
occasion morning arrived without his having done it, he felt dissatisfied with
himself the whole day. Barbara, Schwarzerd’s wife, was daughter of an honourable
magistrate named John Reuter. She was of a gentle temper, somewhat inclined to
superstition, but otherwise remarkable for wisdom and prudence. From her we have
the old well-known German rhymes— The giving of alms impoverisheth not;

Attendance at Church impedeth not;

Greasing the wheel retardeth not;

Ill-gotten gear enricheth not; The Book of God deceiveth not. And again— Those
who are pleased more to expend Than their fields can render, Must come to ruin
in the end, It may be to a halter.

Young Philip was not eleven when his father died. Two days before, George called
his son to his bed-side, and exhorted him to have the thought of God always
present. “I foresee,” said the dying armourer, “that dreadful storms are coming
to shake the world. I have seen great things, but greater are in preparation.
May God guide and direct you!” Philip, after receiving his father’s blessing,
was sent to Spires, that he might not be present at his death. He departed
crying bitterly. The young boy’s grandfather, the worthy bailie Reuter, who had
also a son, acted as a father to him, and took him, together with his brother,
George, under his own roof. Shortly after he gave the three boys for tutor John
Hungarus, an excellent man, who afterwards, and at a very advanced age, became a
powerful preacher of the gospel. He let nothing pass in the young man, punishing
him for every fault, yet with discretion. “In this way,” says Melancthon in
1554, “he made me a grammarian. He loved me as a son, I loved him as a father,
and we will meet, I trust, in eternal life.”

Philip was remarkable for the excellence of his understanding, and for his
facility in learning, and expounding what he had learned. He could not endure
idleness, and always sought out some one with whom he might discuss what he had
heard. It often happened that educated strangers passed through Bretten, and
visited Reuter. The bailie’s grandson instantly accosted them, entered into
conversation with them, and so pressed them in discussion as to excite the
wonder of those present. To a powerful genius he joined great sweetness of
temper, and was hence a general favourite. He had a stammer, but, like the
celebrated orator of the Greeks, made such exertions to overcome it, that it
afterwards completely disappeared. His grandfather having died, Philip was sent
with his brother and his young uncle, John, to the school of Pforzheim. The boys
resided with one of their relatives, the sister of the famous Reuchlin. Eager
for knowledge, Philip, under the tuition of George Simler, made rapid progress
in science, and especially in the study of Greek, for which he had a real
passion. Reuchlin often came to Pforzheim, and having become acquainted with his
sister’s young boarders, was soon struck with Philip’s answers, and gave him a
Greek grammar and a Bible. These two books were to be the study of his whole
life. When Reuchlin returned from his second journey into Italy, his young
relative, then twelve years of age, with some friends, performed a Latin comedy
of his own composition before him, in honour of his arrival. Reuchlin, in
raptures with the talents of the youth, embraced him tenderly, called him his
dear son, and jocularly gave him the red bonnet which he had received on being
made doctor. It was at this time Reuchlin changed his name of Schwarzerd into
that of Melancthon. Both words, the one German and the other Greek, mean black
earth. It was a general custom with the learned thus to change their names into
Greek or Latin.

Melancthon, at twelve, repaired to the university of Heidelberg, and began to
gratify his eager thirst for knowledge. He was admitted Bachelor at fourteen. In
1512 Reuchlin invited him to Tubingen, which contained a great number of
distinguished literary men. Here he attended at the same time lectures on
theology, medicine, and jurisprudence. There was no branch of knowledge which he
did not think it his duty to study. His object was not praise, but the
possession of science and the benefits of it. The Holy Scriptures particularly
occupied him. Those who frequented the church of Tubingen had often observed a
book in his hands, which he studied between the services. This unknown volume
seemed larger than the common prayer-books, and the report spread that Philip
when in church read profane books. It turned out that the object of their
suspicion was a copy of the Holy Scriptures, printed a short time before at
Bâsle by John Frobenius. This volume he studied through life with unwearied
application. He had it always with him, carrying it to all the public meetings
to which he was invited. Rejecting the vain system of the schoolmen, he devoted
himself to the simple word of the Gospel. Erasmus at this time wrote to
Œcolampadius, “Of Melancthon I have the highest opinion, and the highest hopes.
Jesus grant that this young man may have a long life! He will completely eclipse
Erasmus.”2 Melancthon, nevertheless, shared in the errors of his age. “I
shudder,” says he, in advanced life, “when I think of the honour which I paid to
images when I was still in the papacy.” In 1514, he was made doctor in
philosophy, and began to teach. His age was seventeen. The grace and
attractiveness which he gave to his lectures formed a striking contrast to the
insipid method which the doctors, and especially the monks, had hitherto
pursued. He took an active part in the combat in which Reuchlin was engaged with
the Obscurants of his age. His agreeable conversation, his gentle and elegant
manners, gaining him the love of all who knew him, he soon acquired great
authority, and a solid reputation in the world. At this time, the Elector
Frederick having conceived the idea of inviting some distinguished professor of
ancient languages to his university of Wittemberg, applied to Reuchlin who
suggested Melancthon. Frederick saw all the lustre which this young Hellenist
might shed on an institution which was so dear to him; and Reuchlin, delighted
at seeing so fine a field opened to his young friend, addressed him in the words
of Jehovah to Abraham,—“Come out from thy country, and thy kindred, and thy
father’s house, and I will render thy name great, and thou shalt be blessed.”
“Yes,” continues the old man, “I hope it will be so with thee, my dear Philip,
my work and my comfort.” In this invitation, Melancthon saw a call from God. The
university was grieved to part with him, and yet he was not without envious
rivals and enemies. He left his native country, exclaiming, “The will of the
Lord be done.” He was then twenty-one years of age.

Melancthon made the journey on horseback, in company with some Saxon merchants,
in the same way in which caravans travel in the desert; for, says Reuchlin, he
knew neither the towns nor the roads. At Augsburg he did homage to the Elector,
who happened to be there. At Nuremberg he saw the excellent Pirckheimer, whom he
already knew, and at Leipsic formed an intimacy with the learned Hellenist,
Mosellanus. In this last town the university gave a fete in honour of him. It
was a truly academic repast. The dishes were numerous, and as each made its
appearance, a professor rose and addressed Melancthon in a Latin discourse
previously prepared. He immediately gave an extempore reply. At length, worn out
with so much eloquence, “Most illustrious friends,” said he, “allow me to reply
once for all to your addresses; for not being prepared, I cannot put as much
variety into my replies as you into your addresses.” Thereafter the dishes
arrived without the accompaniment of a discourse.

Reuchlin’s young relative arrived at Wittemberg, 25th August, 1518, two days
after Leo X had signed the brief addressed to Cajetan, and the letter to the
Elector. The professors of Wittemberg did not receive Melancthon with so much
favour as those of Leipsic had done. The first impression which he made upon
them did not correspond to their expectations. They saw a young man, who seemed
still younger than he really was, of small stature, and a feeble, timid air. Is
this the illustrious doctor whom the greatest men of the age, Erasmus and
Reuchlin, extol so loudly?… Neither Luther, with whom he first was made
acquainted, nor his colleagues, conceived high hopes of him, when they saw his
youth, his embarrassment, and whole appearance.

Four days after his arrival (29th August) he delivered his inaugural address.
The whole university was assembled. The boy, as Luther calls him, spoke such
elegant Latin, and displayed so much knowledge, a mind so cultivated, and a
judgment so sound, that all his hearers were filled with admiration. At the
termination of the address, all pressed forward to congratulate him, but none
felt more joy than Luther, who hastened to communicate to his friends the
feelings with which his heart was overflowing. Writing Spalatin, 31st August, he
says, “Melancthon, four days after his arrival, delivered an address so
beautiful and so learned, that it was listened to with universal approbation and
astonishment. We have soon got the better of the prejudices which his stature
and personal appearance had produced. We praise and admire his eloquence; we
thank the prince and you for the service you have done us. I ask no other Greek
master. But I fear that his delicate body will not be able to digest our food,
and that, on account of the smallness of his salary, we shall not keep him long.
I hear that the Leipsic folks are already boasting of being able to carry him
off from us. Oh, my dear Spalatin, beware of despising his age and personal
appearance. He is a man worthy of all honour.

Melancthon immediately began to explain Homer, and St. Paul’s Epistle to Titus.
He was full of ardour. “I will do my utmost,” wrote he to Spalatin, “to bring
Wittemberg into favour with all who love literature and virtue.” Four days after
the inauguration, Luther again wrote to Spalatin, “I recommend to you most
particularly the very learned and very amiable Greek, Philip. His class-room is
always full. All the theologians in particular attend him. He sets all classes
from the highest to the lowest, to the learning of Greek.”3

Melancthon was able to return the affection of Luther, in whom he soon
discovered a goodness of heart, a strength of intellect, a courage and a wisdom,
which he had not previously found in any man. He venerated and loved him. “If
there is any one,” said he, “whom I love strongly, and whom my whole soul
embraces, it is Martin Luther.”

Thus met Luther and Melancthon, and they were friends till death. We cannot
sufficiently admire the goodness and wisdom of God in uniting two men so
different, and yet so necessary to each other. What Luther had in warmth,
elasticity, and force, Melancthon had in perspicuity, wisdom, and gentleness.
Luther animated Melancthon; Melancthon moderated Luther. They were like the two
forms of electric matter, the positive and the negative, which modify each
other. Had Luther been without Melancthon, the stream had perhaps overflowed its
bank; and, on the other hand, Melancthon, when without Luther, hesitated, and
even yielded, where he ought to have stood firm. Luther did much by vigour, and
Melancthon perhaps did not less by pursuing a slower and calmer course. Both
were upright, open, and generous, and both, smitten with the love of the word of
eternal life, served it with a fidelity and devotedness which formed the
distinguishing feature of their lives. The arrival of Melancthon produced a
revolution, not only at Wittemberg, but throughout Germany and the learned
world. His study of the Greek and Latin classics, and of philosophy, had given
him an order, perspicuity, and precision of thought, which shed new light and
inexpressible beauty on all the subjects which he discussed. The mild spirit of
the gospel fertilized and enlivened his meditations, and the driest subjects
when he expounded them were invested with a grace which fascinated all his
hearers. The sterility which scholasticism had spread over education ceased, and
a new mode of instruction and study commenced. “Thanks to Melancthon,” says a
distinguished German historian, “Wittemberg became the national school.”

It was, indeed, of great importance, that a man thoroughly versed in Greek
should teach in this university, where the new developments of theology called
masters and scholars to study the primitive documents of the Christian faith in
the original languages. Thenceforth Luther set himself zealously to this task.
Often did the meaning of a Greek term, which had previously been unknown to him,
throw sudden light on his theological views. For example, Low great his
satisfaction and delight when he saw that the Greek word, μετάνοια, which
according to the Latin church, meant a penance, a satisfaction enacted by the
Church, meant in Greek a transformation or conversion of heart. A thick mist all
at once disappeared from before his eyes. The two meanings given to this word
are sufficient to characterise the two churches. The impulse which Melancthon
gave to Luther, in regard to the translation of the Bible, is one of the most
remarkable circumstances in the friendship of these two great men. As early as
1517, Luther had made some attempts at translation, and procured as many Greek
and Latin books as he could. Now, aided by his dear Philip, his task received a
new impetus. Luther obliged Melancthon to take part in his researches, by
consulting him on difficult passages, and the work, destined to be one of the
greatest works of the Reformer, advanced more surely and more rapidly.

Melancthon, on his part, became acquainted with a new theology. The beautiful
and profound doctrine of justification by faith filled him with astonishment and
joy. Still, in receiving the system Luther professed, he acted independently,
moulding it according to the particular form of his own intellect; for, although
he was only twenty-one years of age, he was one of those precocious minds which
enter early into possession of all their powers, and are themselves from the
very outset. The zeal of the masters was soon transfused into the scholars. It
was proposed to reform the course of study. With the concurrence of the Elector,
certain branches, only of scholastic importance, were suppressed, and at the
same time a new impulse was given to classic pursuits. The school of Wittemberg
underwent a transformation, and the contrast between it and other universities
became still more prominent. Still, however, the landmarks of the Church were
observed, though all felt that they were on the eve of a great battle with the
pope.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 40: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

Sentiments of Luther and Staupitz—Order to Appear—Alarms and Courage—The Elector
with the Legate—Departure for Augsburg—Sojourn at Weimar—Nuremberg. The arrival
of Melancthon, doubtless, gave a pleasant turn to Luther’s thoughts at this very
critical moment; and, doubtless, in the sweet intercourse of a growing
friendship, and amid the biblical labours to which he devoted himself with new
zeal, he sometimes forgot Prierio, Leo, and the ecclesiastical court before
which he behoved to plead. Still, these were only fleeting moments, and his
thoughts were ever recurring to the formidable tribunal before which implacable
enemies had summoned him to appear. What terrors would not this thought have
thrown into a mind which was seeking aught else than the truth! But Luther
trembled not! Confiding fully in the faithfulness and power of God, he remained
firm, and was quite ready to expose himself single-handed to the rage of enemies
mightier than those who had lighted the fire for John Huss. A few days after the
arrival of Melancthon, and before the pope’s resolution transferring the
citation of Luther from Rome to Augsburg could be known, Luther wrote
Spalatin:—“I ask not our sovereign to do any thing whatever for the defence of
my theses. I am willing to be delivered up and thrown single into the hands of
my adversaries. Let him allow the whole storm to burst upon me. What I have
undertaken to defend, I hope I shall be able, with the assistance of Christ, to
maintain. Violence, indeed, must be submitted to; but still without abandoning
the truth.” The courage of Luther communicated itself to others. Men of the
greatest gentleness and timidity, on seeing the danger which threatened the
witness for the truth, found words full of energy and indignation. The prudent
and pacific Staupitz, on the 7th September, wrote to Spalatin: “Cease not to
exhort the prince, your master and mine, not to be alarmed at the roaring of the
lions. Let him defend the truth without troubling himself about Luther, or
Staupitz, or the order. Let there be a place where men can speak freely and
without fear. I know that the plague of Babylon—I had almost said of Rome—breaks
forth against all who attack the abuses of those traffickers in Jesus Christ. I
have myself seen a preacher of the truth thrown headlong from the pulpit; I have
seen him, though on a festival, bound and dragged to a dungeon. Others have seen
still greater cruelties. Therefore, my dear friend, strive to make his Highness
persevere in his sentiments.” The order to appear at Augsburg before the
cardinal legate at length arrived. Luther had now to do with one of the princes
of the Church. All his friends entreated him not to go. They feared that on the
journey snares might be laid for him, and an attempt made on his life. Some
employed themselves in looking out for an asylum to him. Staupitz himself, the
timid Staupitz, felt moved at the thought of the dangers which threatened that
friar Martin whom he had drawn from the obscurity of the cloister, and placed on
the troubled stage where his life was now in peril. Ah! would it not have been
better if the poor friar had remained for ever unknown? It was too late. Still,
at least, he would do everything to save him. Accordingly, on the 15th September
he wrote him from his convent of Salzburg, urging him to flee and seek an asylum
beside himself. “It seems to me,” said he, “that the whole world is enraged, and
in coalition against the truth. In the same way crucified Jesus was hated. I see
not that you have anything to expect but persecution. Shortly, no man will be
able without the permission of the pope, to sound the Scriptures, and search for
Jesus Christ in them, though this Christ himself enjoins. You have only a few
friends; and would to God that the fear of your adversaries did not prevent
those few from declaring in your favour. The wisest course is to quit Wittemberg
for a time and come to me. Thus we will live and die together. This is also the
prince’s opinion,” adds Staupitz. From different quarters Luther received the
most alarming notices. Count Albert of Mansfeld sent a message to him to beware
of setting out, for some great barons had sworn to make themselves masters of
his person, and to strangle or drown him. But nothing could deter him. He never
thought of availing himself of the vicar-general’s offer. He will not go and
hide himself in the obscurity of the convent of Salzburg, but will faithfully
remain on the stormy scene on which the hand of God has placed him. It is by
persevering in the face of adversaries, and proclaiming the truth with loud
voice in the midst of the world, that the reign of truth advances. Why, then,
should he flee? He is not one of “those who draw back to perdition; but of those
who believe to the saving of the soul.” The words of the Master whom he serves,
and loves better than life, are incessantly echoing in his heart, “Whosoever
will confess me before men, him will I also confess before my Father who is in
heaven.” In Luther and in the Reformation we uniformly meet with that intrepid
courage, that high-toned morality, that boundless charity, which the first
preaching of Christianity manifested to the world. “I am like Jeremiah,” says
Luther, at the period of which we are now speaking; “Jeremiah, the man of
quarrel and discord; but the more they multiply their menaces the more they
increase my joy. My wife and children are well provided, (of course, meaning he
had none;) my fields, my houses, and all my goods, are in order. They have
already torn my honour and my reputation to shreds. The only thing left me is my
poor body, and let them take it; they will only shorten my life some few hours.
My soul they cannot take from me. He who would publish the word of Christ in the
world must expect death every hour; for our bridegroom is a bridegroom of
blood.”

3 The Elector was then at Augsburg. A short time before quitting that town after
the Diet, he had of his own accord paid a visit to the legate. The cardinal,
greatly flattered by this mark of respect from so illustrious a prince, promised
that if the monk presented himself he would listen to him like a father, and
kindly dismiss him. Spalatin, on the part of the prince, wrote to his friend
that the pope had named a commission to try him in Germany; that the Elector
would not allow him to be dragged to Rome; and that he must prepare to set out
for Augsburg. Luther resolved to obey; but the warning which he had received
from Count Mansfeld made him apply to Frederick for a safe-conduct. Frederick
replied that it was unnecessary, and merely gave him recommendations to some of
the leading counsellors of Augsburg. He also sent him some money for the
journey. The Reformer, poor and defenceless, set out on foot to place himself in
the hands of his adversaries.

What must have been his feelings on quitting Wittemberg, and directing his steps
towards Augsburg, where the legate of the pope was waiting for him! The object
of this journey was not like that of Heidelberg, a friendly meeting. He was
going to appear in presence of the legate of Rome without a safe-conduct;
perhaps he was going to death. But in him faith was not a mere matter of show.
Being a reality it gave him peace, and in the name of the Lord of Hosts he could
advance without fear to bear testimony to the Gospel.

He arrived at Weimar on the 28th of September, and lodged in the convent of the
Cordeliers. One of the monks was unable to withdraw his eyes from him. It was
Myconius. This was the first time he had seen Luther, and he longed to approach
him, and tell that he owed the peace of his soul to him, and that his whole
desire was to labour with him. But Myconius being closely watched by his
superiors, was not permitted to speak to Luther. The elector of Saxony was then
holding his court at Weimar, and this is probably the reason why the Cordeliers
gave admittance to the doctor. The day after his arrival the feast of St.
Michael was celebrated. Luther said mass, and was even invited to preach in the
church of the castle. It was a mark of favour which the prince wished to give
him. He, accordingly, in presence of the court, preached a long sermon, on the
text of the day, which is taken from the Gospel of St. Matthew, (Matthew
18:1-11) He spoke forcibly against hypocrites, and those who boast of their own
righteousness; but he did not speak of the angels, though this was the customary
topic on St. Michael’s day. The courage of the doctor of Wittemberg, in calmly
setting out on foot to obey a summons, which in the case of so many before him
had issued in death, astonished those who saw him. Interest, admiration, and
compassion, succeeded each other in their minds. John Kestner, superintendant to
the Cordeliers, alarmed at the idea of the dangers which awaited his guest, said
to him, “Brother, you will find at Augsburg Italians, men of learning, and
subtle antagonists, who will give you much to do. I fear you will not be able to
defend your cause against them. They will cast you into the fire, and with their
flames consume you.” Luther replied gravely, “Dear friend, pray to our Lord God,
who is in heaven, and present a Pater noster for me, and his dear child, Jesus,
whose cause my cause is, that he may be gracious toward me. If he maintain his
cause, mine is maintained. But if he pleases not to maintain it, assuredly it is
not I who can maintain it; and it is he who will bear the affront.”

Luther continued his journey on foot, and arrived at Nuremberg. He was going to
present himself before a prince of the Church, and wished his dress to be
suitable; but his clothes were old, and, besides, had suffered much by the
journey. He borrowed a frock from his faithful friend, Winceslaus Link, preacher
at Nuremberg.

Luther, doubtless, did not confine his visit to Link, but also saw his other
friends in Nuremberg, secretary Scheurl, the celebrated painter, Albert Durer,
to whom Nuremberg is now erecting a statue, and many others. He strengthened
himself by intercourse with the excellent of the earth, while many monks and
laymen expressed alarm, and endeavoured to shake him by representing the
difficulties in his way. Letters which he wrote from this town show the spirit
by which he was animated. “I have met,” says he, “with pusillanimous men, who
would persuade me not to go to Augsburg; but I have determined on going. The
will of the Lord be done. Even at Augsburg, even in the midst of his enemies,
Jesus Christ reigns. Let Christ live; let Luther and every sinner die. According
as it is written: Let the God of my salvation be exalted! Behave well,
persevere, stand firm; for we must not be reproved either by men or by God; God
is true, and man a liar.”

Link and an Augustin monk could not consent to allow Luther to travel alone and
meet the dangers which threatened him. They were acquainted with his bold and
fearless character, and suspected he would fail in due precaution. They,
therefore, accompanied him. When they were about five leagues from Augsburg,
Luther, exhausted, no doubt, by the fatigue of travelling, and the varied
emotions of his heart, was seized with violent pains in the stomach. He thought
he was dying, and his friends becoming very uneasy, hired a car to transport
him. They arrived at Augsburg on the evening of Friday the 7th of October, and
lighted at the Augustin convent. Luther was greatly fatigued, but soon
recovered: his faith and mental energy speedily recruiting his exhausted body.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 41: CHAPTER V
========================================================================

Arrival at Augsburg—De Vio—His Character—Serra-Longa—Preliminary
Conversation—Visit of the Counsellors—Return of Serra-Longa—The Prior—Luther’s
Wisdom—Luther and Serra-Longa—The Safe-Conduct—Luther to Melancthon. The instant
he was at Augsburg, and before he had seen any one, Luther, wishing to pay all
due respect to the legate, begged Winceslaus Link to go and announce his
arrival. Link did so, and humbly declared to the cardinal, on the part of the
doctor of Wittemberg, that he was ready to appear at his order. The legate was
delighted with the news. At last he had a hold of this boisterous heretic, who,
he assured himself, would not quit the walls of Augsburg as he had entered. At
the same time, when Link went to the legate, the monk Leonard set out to
announce Luther’s arrival to Staupitz. The vicar-general had written the doctor,
that he would certainly come as soon as he should know of his being in the town,
and Luther was unwilling to lose an instant in giving him intimation. The Diet
was closed, and the Emperor and the electors had already separated. The Emperor,
it is true, had not left but was hunting in the neighbourhood. The ambassador of
Rome was thus at Augsburg alone. Had Luther come during the Diet, he would have
found powerful protectors, but now it seemed that every thing must bend under
the weight of papal authority. The name of the judge before whom Luther had to
appear was not fitted to increase his confidence. Thomas de Vio surnamed
Cajetan, from the town of Gaeta, in the kingdom of Naples, where he was born,
had, from his youth, given great hopes. Having at sixteen entered the Dominican
order, against the express wish of his parents, he afterwards became general of
his order, and a cardinal of the Roman Church. But what was worse for Luther,
this learned doctor was one of the most zealous defenders of the scholastic
theology, which the Reformer had always treated so unmercifully. His mother was
said to have dreamt during her pregnancy, that St. Thomas would in person
educate the child to which she was to give birth, and introduce him to heaven.
Hence De Vio, on becoming Dominican, had changed his name from James to Thomas.
He had zealously defended the prerogatives of the papacy, and the doctrines of
Thomas Aquinas, whom he regarded as the most perfect of theologians. A lover of
pomp and show, he almost gave a literal meaning to the Roman maxim that legates
are above kings, and surrounded himself with great state. On the first of
August, he had celebrated a solemn mass in the cathedral of Augsburg, and in
presence of all the princes of the empire, had placed the cardinal’s hat on the
head of the Archbishop of Mentz while kneeling before the altar, and had
delivered to the Emperor himself the hat and sword consecrated by the pope. Such
was the man before whom the monk of Wittemberg was going to appear, clothed in a
frock which was not even his own. Besides, the acquirements of the legate, the
austerity of his disposition, and the purity of his morals, gave him in Germany
an influence and authority which other Roman courtiers would not have easily
obtained. To this reputation for sanctity he doubtless owed his mission. Rome
saw that he would serve her purposes admirably. Thus the personal qualities of
Cajetan made him still more formidable. Moreover, the business entrusted to him
was not complicated. Luther had already been declared a heretic.2 If he refused
to retract, the duty of the legate was to put him in prison; or if he escaped,
to launch excommunication at every one who should dare to give him an asylum.
This was all that Rome required to be done by the legate before whom Luther was
cited.

Luther had recovered strength during the night, and on Saturday morning 8th
October, being somewhat rested from his journey, began to consider his strange
situation. He felt resigned, and waited till the will of God should be
manifested by the event. He had not long to wait. A personage who was unknown to
him sent in a message, as if he had been entirely devoted to his service, to say
that he was coming to wait upon him, and that Luther must take good care not to
appear before the legate without having seen him. This message came from an
Italian named Urban of Serra-Longa, who had often been in Germany, as envoy of
the Margrave of Montferrat. He was known to the Elector of Saxony, to whom he
had been accredited, and after the death of the Margrave had attached himself to
Cardinal de Vio. The finesse and manners of this man formed a very striking
contrast to the noble frankness and generous integrity of Luther. The Italian
shortly after arrived at the Augustin convent. The cardinal had sent him to
sound the Reformer, and prepare him for the retractation which he was expected
to make. Serra-Longa imagined that his residence in Germany gave him great
advantages over the other courtiers in the suite of the legate, and he hoped to
have good sport with the German monk.

He arrived attended by two servants, and pretended to have come of his own
accord, because of the friendship which he felt for a favourite of the Elector
of Saxony, and because of his attachment to the Holy Church. After paying his
respects to Luther in the warmest terms, the diplomatist added, in an
affectionate manner,—

“I come to give you sage and good advice. Re-attach yourself to the Church.
Submit unreservedly to the cardinal. Retract your injurious expressions.
Remember the Abbot Joachim of Florence. He, you know, had said heretical things,
and yet was declared not heretical, because he retracted his errors.”

Luther spoke of defending himself.

Serra-Longa.—“Beware of doing so!… Would you pretend to fight with the legate of
his holiness, as if you were tilting at a tournay?”

Luther.—“When it is proved that I have taught anything contrary to the Roman
Church I will pass judgment on myself, and retract instantly. The whole question
will be, Whether the legate leans more upon St. Thomas than the faith authorises
him to do? If he does, I will not yield to him.”

Serra-Longa.—“Ah! Ah! Do you pretend, then, to break lances?”

Then the Italian began to say things which Luther designates horrible. He
pretended that false propositions might be maintained, provided they produced
money and filled the strong box—that the universities must take good care not to
dispute on the authority of the pope—that their duty, on the contrary, was to
maintain that the pope can, at his beck, alter or suppress articles of faith;
adding other things of the same nature. But the wily Italian soon perceived that
he was forgetting himself. Returning to soft words, he strove to persuade Luther
to submit to the legate in every thing, and retract his doctrines, his oaths,
and his theses. The doctor, who, at the outset, had given some credit to the
fine protestations of orator Urban, (as he designates him in his account of the
interview,) was now convinced that they were of very little value, and that
Serra-Longa was much more on the legate’s side than on his. He, therefore,
became less communicative, and contented himself with saying that he was quite
disposed to exercise humility, give proof of obedience, and make satisfaction in
whatever matters he had been mistaken. At these words Serra-Longa, overjoyed,
exclaimed, “I am off to the legate, and you will follow me; everything will go
off most admirably; it will be soon finished.…”

He went off. The Saxon monk, who had more discernment than the Roman courtier,
thought within himself, “This wily Sinon has come along ill-prepared and
ill-instructed by his Greeks.” Luther was suspended between hope and fear; hope,
however, predominating. The visit and the strange assertions of Serra-Longa,
whom at a later period he calls an inexpert mediator,3 made him resume courage.
The counsellors and other inhabitants of Augsburg, to whom the Elector had
recommended Luther, hastened to visit the monk, whose name was now resounding
throughout all Germany. Peutinger, counsellor of the empire, who was one of the
most distinguished patricians of the town, and often invited Luther to his
table, counsellor Langemantel, Dr. Auerbach of Leipsic, the two brothers
Adelmann, both canons, and several others besides, repaired to the convent of
the Augustins, and gave a cordial welcome to the extraordinary man, who had
journeyed so far to come and place himself in the hands of the creatures of
Rome. “Have you a safe-conduct?” they asked. “No!” replied the intrepid monk.
“What hardihood!” exclaimed they. “It was, indeed,” says Luther, “a fit term to
designate my rash folly.” All with one voice entreated him not to go to the
legate until he had obtained a safe-conduct from the Emperor himself. It is
probable that the public had already heard of the papal brief of which the
legate was the bearer.

“But,” replied Luther, “I came to Augsburg without a safe-conduct, and have
arrived in good health.”

“The Elector having recommended you to us, you ought to obey us, and do what we
tell you,” rejoined Langemantel, kindly but firmly. Dr. Auerbach seconded his
remonstrances. “We know,” says he, “that the cardinal, at the bottom of his
heart, is in the highest degree incensed against you. No trust can be put in the
Italians.”5

Canon Adelmann likewise insisted, “You have been sent defenceless, and it has
been forgotten to furnish you with the precise thing which you required.” These
friends engaged to obtain the necessary safe-conduct from the Emperor. They
afterwards told Luther how many persons even of elevated rank, were inclined in
his favour. “Even the minister of France, who quitted Augsburg a few days ago,
spoke of you in the most honourable terms.”2 This statement struck Luther, and
he afterwards remembered it. Thus, the most respectable citizens in one of the
first cities of the empire were already gained to the Reformation.

They were still conversing when Serra-Longa re-appeared. “Come,” said he to
Luther, “the cardinal is waiting for you and I myself am going to conduct you to
his presence. Listen while I tell you how you are to appear. When you enter the
hall where he is, you will prostrate yourself before him with your face on the
ground; when he tells you to rise, you will get up on your knees, and not stand
erect, but wait till he bids you. Recollect that it is before a prince of the
Church that you are going to appear. For the rest fear nothing; the whole will
be finished soon, and without difficulty.”

Luther, who had promised this Italian that he would be ready to follow at his
call, felt embarrassed. Yet he hesitated not to inform him of the advice which
he had received from his Augsburg friends, and spoke to him of a safe-conduct.

“Beware of asking one,” immediately replied Serra-Longa; “you have no need of
it. The legate is well-disposed, and quite ready to finish the thing amicably.
If you ask a safe-conduct you will totally spoil your affair.”

“My gracious lord, the Elector of Saxony,” replied Luther, “has recommended me
to several honourable men of this town, who counsel me to undertake nothing
without a safe-conduct. I must follow their advice, for, were I not to do so,
and were anything to happen, they would write to the Elector, my master, that I
had refused to listen to them.”

Luther persisted in his resolution, and Serra-Longa saw himself obliged to
return to his chief, to announce the obstacle which his mission had encountered
at the moment when he was flattering himself with seeing it crowned with
success.

Thus terminated the conferences of that day with the orator of Montferrat.

Another invitation was given to Luther. John Frosch, the prior of the
Carmelites, who was an old friend of his, and two years before, as a licentiate
of theology, had maintained theses under the presidency of Luther, paid him a
visit, and earnestly begged he would come and reside with him. He claimed the
honour of having the doctor of Germany for his guest. Men at length feared not
to do homage to him in presence of Rome; the feeble had already become strong.
Luther accepted, and left the Augustin convent for that of the Carmelites. The
day did not close without serious reflection. The eagerness of Serra-Longa, and
the fears of the counsellors, equally served to acquaint him with the difficulty
of his position. Nevertheless, God in heaven was his protector, and under his
guardianship he could sleep without fear. The next day, being Sunday, gave him
somewhat more repose. He had, however, to endure a different kind of fatigue.
The whole talk of the town was about Dr. Luther, and, as Melancthon expresses
it, every body was desirous to see “this new Erostratus, who had kindled so
immense a conflagration.”2 The people pressed around him, and the good doctor,
no doubt smiled at their eagerness. But he had to submit to another kind of
importunity. If the people were desirous to see him, they were still more so to
hear him, and he was requested on all hands to preach. Luther had no greater
delight than in proclaiming the word, and would have been happy to preach Jesus
Christ in this great city, in the solemn circumstances in which he was placed.
But on this occasion, as on many others, he showed a strong sense of propriety,
and profound respect for his superiors, and refused to preach, lest the legate
might suppose that he did it in order to give him pain, and by way of defiance.
This moderation and wisdom were undoubtedly of as much value as a sermon. The
cardinal’s creatures, however, did not leave him in tranquillity, but returned
to the charge. “The Cardinal,” said they, “assures you of his entire grace and
favour. What do you fear?” They alleged a thousand reasons in order to induce
him to go. “He is a father full of mercy, said one of these envoys; but another
approaching, whispered in his ear, “Don’t believe what is told you—he does not
keep his word.” Luther adhered to his resolution. On Monday morning, 10th
October, Serra-Longa returned to the charge. The courtier had made it a point of
honour to succeed in his negotiation. As soon as he entered, he exclaimed in
Latin, “Why do you not come to the cardinal? He is waiting for you with the most
indulgent feelings. The whole matter may be summed up in six letters:—Revoca,
Retract. Come, you have nothing to fear.”

Luther thought within himself, these six are important letters; but, without
entering into discussion on the subject, said, “As soon as I have obtained the
safe-conduct I will appear.”

Serra-Longa broke out on hearing these words. He insisted, and remonstrated, but
found Luther immovable. Becoming more and more irritated, he exclaimed, “You
imagine, doubtless, that the Elector will take up arms in your behalf, and for
your sake run the risk of losing the territories handed down to him from his
fathers.”

Luther.—“God forbid.”

Serra-Longa.—“Abandoned by all, where will your refuge be?”

Luther.—(Looking upwards with the eye of faith,) “Under heaven.”

Serra-Longa, struck with this sublime reply, for which he was not prepared,
remained a moment silent, and then continued:— “What would you do if you had the
pope, the legate, and all the cardinals, in your hands, as they have you in
theirs?”

Luther.—“I would pay them all honour and respect. But in my view, the word of
God takes precedence of all.”

Serra-Longa.—(Laughing, and wagging one of his fingers as the Italians do.)
“Hem! Hem! all honour.… I don’t believe a word of it.…”

He then went out, leapt into his saddle, and disappeared.

Serra-Longa returned no more to Luther; but he long remembered both the
resistance which he had met with from the Reformer, and that which his master
also was soon to experience. At a later period, we shall see him with loud cries
demanding Luther’s blood.

Serra-Longa had not long left the doctor when the safe-conduct arrived. His
friends had obtained it from the counsellor of the empire, who, it is probable,
had previously consulted with the Emperor, as he was not far from Augsburg. It
would even seem, from a remark afterwards made by the cardinals that, to avoid
offending him, his consent had been asked. This may have been his reason for
employing Serra-Longa to work upon Luther; for to have openly opposed the giving
of a safe-conduct would have been to reveal intentions which he was desirous to
conceal. It was safer to induce Luther himself to desist from his demand. It was
soon seen, however, that the Saxon monk was not made of pliable materials.

Luther is going to appear. While demanding a safe-conduct, he did not trust to a
carnal arm; for he knew very well that a safe-conduct did not save John Huss
from the flames. He only wished to do his duty by submitting to the advice of
his master’s friends. Jehovah will decide. If he requires him to give back his
life, he is ready to give it joyfully. At this solemn moment, he feels a longing
for converse with his friends, especially with Melancthon, now so dear to his
heart, and avails himself of a moment of retirement to write him.

“Comport yourself like a man,” says he to him, “as you always do. Teach our dear
youth what is right and agreeable to God. For me, I am ready to be sacrificed
for you and for them, if it is the Lord’s will. Sooner than retract what I was
bound to teach, I would die, and even (what would be to me the greatest
misfortune) be deprived for ever of your delightful society, thus losing
(perhaps by my fault) the excellent studies to which we are now devoted.

“Italy, like Egypt of old, is plunged in darkness, so thick that it may be felt.
Nobody knows anything of Christ, or of what relates to him; and yet these people
are our lords and masters in faith and manners. Thus the wrath of God is
fulfilled upon us, as the prophet speaks: ‘I will give them youths for
governors, and babes will rule over them.’ Conduct yourself as in presence of
the Lord, my dear Philip, and avert the divine wrath by pure and fervent
prayer.” The legate, informed that Luther was next day to appear before him,
assembled the Italians and Germans, in whom he had the greatest confidence, in
order to consider what was necessary to be done with the Saxon monk. Opinions
were divided. “He must,” says one, “be compelled to retract.” “He must be
seized,” says another, “and imprisoned.” A third thought that it was better to
get quit of him; and a fourth that an attempt should be made to gain him by
kindness and lenity. This last advice the cardinal seems at first to have
determined to adopt.


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  CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER VI
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First appearance—First Words—Conditions of Rome—Propositions to Retract—Luther’s
reply—He withdraws—Impressions on both sides—Arrival of Staupitz. The day of
conference at length arrived. The legate, knowing that Luther had declared his
readiness to retract what could be proved contrary to the truth, had great hopes
of success. He doubted not that it would be easy for a man of his rank and
knowledge to bring back this monk to the obedience of the Church.

Luther repaired to the legate, accompanied by the prior of the Carmelites, (his
host and friend,) two friars of the convent, Dr. Link, and an Augustin, probably
the one who had come with him from Nuremberg. Scarcely had he entered the palace
of the legate, than all the Italians in the suite of the prince of the Church
rushed forward. Every one wished to see the famous doctor, and pressed so upon
him that he could scarcely advance. Luther found the Apostolical Nuncio, and
Serra-Longa, in the hall where the cardinal was waiting. The reception was cold
but polite, and conformable to Roman etiquette. Luther, following the
instructions which Serra-Longa had given him, prostrated himself before the
cardinal; when told to rise, he put himself on his knees; and, on a new order
from the legate, stood erect. Several of the most distinguished Italians in the
service of the legate pushed forward into the hall to be present at the
interview. They desired above all to see the German monk humbling himself before
the representative of the pope. The legate remained silent. Hating Luther as an
adversary of the theological supremacy of St. Thomas, and as the head of an
active opposition in a rising university, whose very first steps had greatly
disquieted the Thomists, he was pleased at seeing him lying before him, and
thought, says a contemporary, that Luther was going to sing a palinode. Luther,
on his part, waited till the prince should address him; but seeing he did not,
he took his silence for an invitation to begin, and spoke as follows:—

“Most Worthy Father,—On the citation of his Papal Holiness, and at the request
of my most gracious lord, the Elector of Saxony, I appear before you as a
submissive and obedient son of the holy Christian Church, and I acknowledge that
I published the Propositions and Theses in question. I am ready to listen in all
obedience to the charge brought against me, and to allow myself, if I am
mistaken, to be instructed in the way of truth.” The cardinal, who had resolved
to assume the air of a tender father, full of compassion for an erring child,
now spoke in the most friendly tone, praised the humility of Luther, expressed
all the joy it gave him, and said:—“My dear son, you have stirred up all Germany
by your dispute on indulgences. I am told that you are a very learned doctor in
the Scriptures, and have many disciples. Wherefore, if you would be a member of
the Church, and find in the pope a most gracious lord, listen to me.”

After this exordium, the legate did not hesitate to disclose to him at once all
that he expected of him—so confident was he of his submission. “Here,” said he,
“are three articles which, by the order of our most holy father, Leo X, I have
to lay before you; First, You must retrace your steps, acknowledge your faults,
and retract your errors, propositions, and discourses: Secondly, You must
promise to abstain in future from circulating your opinions; and, Thirdly, You
must engage to be more moderate, and to avoid every thing that might grieve or
upset the Church.”

Luther.—“I request, most worthy father, that you will communicate to me the
brief of the pope, in virtue of which you have received full power to dispose of
this affair.”

Serra-Longa, and the other Italians in the cardinal’s suite, stared on hearing
this request; and although the German monk had already appeared to them a very
odd man, they could scarcely recover from the astonishment produced by so bold a
speech. Christians, accustomed to ideas of justice, desire just procedure in the
case of others as well as of themselves, but those who act habitually in an
arbitrary manner are quite surprised when they are told to proceed in regular
form, according to law.

De Vio.—“This request, my dear son, cannot be granted. You must acknowledge your
errors, take care of your words in future, and not return to your vomit, so that
we may be able to sleep without trouble and anxiety; thereafter, conformably to
the order and authority of our most holy father the pope, I will arrange the
affair.”

Luther.—“Have the goodness, then, to tell me in what I have erred.” At this new
request the Italian courtiers, who had expected to see the poor German on his
knees crying mercy, were struck with still greater astonishment. Not one of them
would have thought of condescending so far as to answer so impertinent a
question. But De Vio, who considered it ungenerous to crush the cative monk with
the whole weight of his authority, and who, besides, was confident that his
superior knowledge would give him an easy victory, consented to tell Luther of
what he was accused, and even to enter into discussion with him. In justice to
this general of the Dominicans, it must be admitted that he had more equity, a
better sense of propriety, and less passion, than have been shown on many
occasions since, in similar affairs. He assumed a tone of condescension, and
said:—

“Very dear son!—Here are two propositions which you have advanced, and which you
must first of all retract: First, The treasury of indulgences does not consist
of the merits and sufferings of our Lord Jesus Christ: Second, The man who
receives the Holy Sacrament must have faith in the grace which is offered to
him.” In fact, both of these propositions gave a mortal blow to the Roman
traffic. If the pope had not the power to dispose at pleasure of the merits of
the Saviour; if those who received the bills which the courtiers of the Church
were negotiating did not receive part of this infinite righteousness, the paper
lost all its value, and was worth no more than if it had been blank. It was the
same with the sacraments. Indulgences were to some extent an extraordinary
branch of the commerce of Rome, whereas the sacraments were of the nature of an
ordinary branch. The returns which they yielded were far from being
insignificant. To maintain that faith was necessary before the sacraments could
confer a real benefit on a Christian soul, was to deprive them of all interest
in the eyes of the people; faith being a thing which the pope did not give,
which was beyond his power, and came from God only. To declare it necessary was
to wrest out of the hands of Rome both speculation and profit. Luther, in
attacking these two dogmas, had imitated Jesus Christ, when at the commencement
of his ministry he overthrew the tables of the money-changers, and drove the
buyers and sellers out of the temple, saying, Make not my Father’s house a house
of merchandise.

“I will not, in order to combat these errors,” continued Cajetan, “invoke the
authority of St. Thomas and the other scholastic doctors; I will found only on
the authority of Holy Scripture, and speak with you in all friendship.” But
scarcely had De Vio begun to unfold his proofs than he deviated from the rule
which he had declared his intention to follow. He combated Luther’s first
proposition by an extravagant1 of Pope Clement, and the second by all sorts of
scholastic dogmas. The discussion commenced on this constitution of the pope in
favour of indulgences. Luther, indignant at the authority which the legate
ascribed to a decree of Rome, exclaimed:—

“I cannot receive such constitutions as sufficient proofs in so important
matters. For they wrest the Holy Scripture, and never quote it appositely.”

De Vio.—“The pope has authority and power over all things.”

Luther, (keenly.)—“Save Scripture.”

De Vio, (ironically.)—“Save Scripture!… The pope, know you not, is above
Councils? Even recently he condemned and punished the Council of Bâsle.”

Luther.—“The university of Paris appealed.”

De Vio.—These Parisian gentry will pay the penalty.” The discussion between the
cardinal and Luther afterwards turned on the second point, viz., on faith. This
Luther declared to be necessary, in order to receive benefit from the
sacraments, and, according to his custom, quoted several passages of Scripture
in favour of the opinion which he maintained, but the legate received them with
loud laughter. “It is of general faith you speak, then,” said he.—“No!” replied
Luther. One of the Italians, master of the ceremonies to the legate, out of all
patience at Luther’s opposition and his answers, was burning with eagerness to
speak. He was constantly trying to break in, but the legate enjoined silence,
and at last was obliged to reprimand him so sharply, that the master of the
ceremonies left the hall in confusion.

“As to indulgences,” said Luther, “if it can be shown that I am mistaken, I am
quite willing to be instructed. One may pass over that point without being a bad
Christian, but on the article of faith, were I to yield a whit, I should be
denying Jesus Christ. With regard to it, then, I am neither able nor willing to
yield, and by the grace of God never shall.”

De Vio, (beginning to lose temper.)—“Whether you will or not, you must this very
day retract that article; otherwise for that article alone, I will reject and
condemn all your doctrine.”

Luther.—“I have no will apart from that of the Lord; He will do with me what
pleases him. But had I five heads, I would lose them all sooner than retract the
testimony which I have borne to holy Christian faith.”

De Vio.—“I did not come here to reason with you. Retract, or prepare to suffer
the pains which you have deserved.”

Luther saw plainly that it was impossible to settle the matter by a conference.
His opponent sat before him as if he were the pope himself, and insisted on his
receiving humbly, and with submission, whatever he said, while his answers, even
when founded on the Holy Scriptures, were received with a shrug of his
shoulders, and all sorts of irony and contempt. He thought the wisest course
would be to answer the cardinal in writing. This method, thought he, leaves at
least some consolation to the oppressed. Others will be able to form a judgment
of the affair, and the unjust adversary, who, by clamour, remains master of the
field of battle, may be deterred by it.

Luther having signified his intention to withdraw, the legate said to him, “Do
you wish me to give you a safe-conduct to Rome?”

Nothing would have been more agreeable to Cajetan than the acceptance of this
offer, as it would have disencumbered him of a task, the difficulties of which
he began to comprehend. But the Reformer, who saw all the difficulties with
which he was surrounded even at Augsburg, took good care not to accept a
proposal the effect of which could only have been to give him over, bound hand
and foot, to the vengeance of his enemies. He rejected it as often as De Vio was
pleased to renew it, and this was frequently. The legate disguised the pain
which he felt at Luther’s refusal, and, wrapping himself up in his dignity,
dismissed the monk with a smile of compassion, under which he tried to conceal
his disappointment, and at the same time the politeness of one who hopes he may
succeed better another time. No sooner was Luther in the court of the palace
than the talkative Italian, the master of the ceremonies, whom his master’s
reprimands had obliged to quit the hall of conference, delighted at being able
to speak out of sight of Cajetan, and burning with eagerness to confound the
abominable heretic by his luminous reasons, ran after him, and continuing to
walk, began to retail his sophisms. But Luther, weary of this foolish personage,
answered him with one of those cutting expressions which he had so much at
command, and the poor master of the ceremonies left off, and returned in
confusion to the cardinal’s palace.

Luther did not carry away a very high opinion of his opponent. He had heard from
him, as he afterwards wrote to Spalatin, propositions which were quite at
variance with theology, and in the mouth of any other person would have been
regarded as archheretical. And yet De Vio was considered the most learned of the
Dominicans. Second to him was Prierias. “From this,” says Luther. “we may infer
what those must have been who were tenth or hundredth.” On the other hand, the
noble and resolute bearing of the Wittemberg doctor had greatly surprised the
cardinal and his courtiers. Instead of a poor monk humbly begging pardon, they
had found a free man, a decided Christian, an enlightened teacher, who insisted
that unjust accusations should be supported by proof, and who defended his
doctrine triumphantly. All the inmates of Cajetan’s palace inveighed against the
pride, obstinacy, and effrontery of this heretic. Luther and De Vio had mutually
learned to know each other, and both prepared for their second interview. A very
agreeable surprise awaited Luther on his return to the convent of the
Carmelites. The vicar-general of the Augustin order, his friend, his father
Staupitz, had arrived at Augsburg. Not having been able to prevent Luther from
coming to this city, Staupitz gave his friend a new and touching proof of his
attachment by coming personally in the hope of being useful to him. This
excellent man foresaw that the conference with the legate would lead to very
serious consequences. He was equally agitated by his fears and his friendship
for Luther, who, after his painful sederunt, felt it refreshing to clasp so
valuable a friend in his arms. Having told him that it had been impossible for
him to get an answer worth any thing, and how the legate had been contented to
demand a retractation without trying to convince him—“It is absolutely
necessary,” said Staupitz, “to give the legate a written answer.”

After what he had heard of the first interview, Staupitz hoped nothing from the
others, and, therefore, determined on a proceeding which he deemed necessary. He
resolved to loose Luther from obedience to his order. By this Staupitz hoped to
gain two ends. If, as all anticipated, Luther fell in the struggle, the disgrace
of his condemnation would not fall on the whole order; or if the cardinal
ordered Staupitz to oblige Luther to silence or retractation, he would have an
excuse for not doing it. The ceremony, which took place in the usual form, made
Luther aware of all that he had thenceforth to expect. He felt exceedingly at
seeing the ties which he had formed in the enthusiasm of his youth, thus broken.
The order of his choice rejects him. His natural protectors stand aloof, and he
becomes a stranger to his brethren. But though his heart is filled with sadness
at the thought, he recovers all his joy on turning to the promises of a faithful
God, who has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” The counsellors of
the empire having intimated to the legate, through the Bishop of Trent, that
Luther was provided with an imperial safe-conduct, and having caused it to be
declared at the same time, that nothing was to be attempted against the doctor’s
person, De Vio became angry, and sharply replied in words characteristically
Roman, “Very well, but I will do what the pope commands.” We know what this was.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 43: CHAPTER VII
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Communication to the Legate—Second Appearance—Luther’s Declaration—The Legate’s
Reply—The Legate’s Volubility—Luther’s Request. The next day both parties
prepared for the second interview, which promised to be decisive. The friends of
Luther, who had resolved to accompany him to the legate, repaired to the convent
of the Carmelites. The dean of Trent, and Peutinger, both counsellors of the
emperor, and Staupitz, arrived in succession. Shortly after the doctor had the
pleasure to see them joined by the Chevalier Philip von Feilitsch, and Doctor
Ruhel, counsellors of the Elector, who had been ordered by their master to
attend the conferences, and protect the liberty of Luther. They had arrived the
previous evening, and were, says Mathesius, to stand at his side, as at
Constance the Chevalier de Chlum stood at the side of John Huss. The doctor,
moreover, took a notary, and accompanied with all these friends, proceeded to
the legate. At this moment Staupitz came up to him; he thoroughly comprehended
Luther’s situation, and knew that if he did not fix his eye solely on the Lord,
who is the deliverer of his people, he must succumb. “My dear brother,” said he
to him seriously, “constantly remember that you have begun these things in the
name of the Lord Jesus Christ.” Thus God surrounded his humble servant with
consolation and encouragement.

Luther, on arriving at the cardinal’s, found a new opponent. This was the prior
of the Dominicans of Augsburg, who was seated at the side of his chief. Luther,
agreeably to the resolution which he had formed, had written his reply, and,
after the usual salutations, with a firm voice read the following declaration:—

“I declare that I honour the holy Roman Church, and that I will continue to
honour it. I have sought the truth in public discussions; and all that I have
said I regard, even at this hour, as just, true, and Christian. Still I am a
man, and may be mistaken. I am, therefore, disposed to receive instruction and
correction in the things in which I may have erred. I declare myself ready to
reply, by word of mouth or by writing, to all the objections and all the charges
which my lord the legate may bring against me. I declare myself ready to submit
my theses to the four universities of Bâsle, Friburg in Brisgau, Louvain, and
Paris; and to retract what they declare to be erroneous. In a word, I am ready
to do all that may be demanded of a Christian. But I protest solemnly against
the course which is sought to be given to this affair, and against the strange
pretension of constraining me to retract without having refuted me.”

Undoubtedly, nothing could be more equitable than these proposals of Luther, and
yet they must have been very embarrassing to a judge whose decision had been
prescribed to him beforehand. The legate, who had not expected this
protestation, sought to conceal his uneasiness by pretending to laugh at it, and
assuming an exterior of gentleness, said to Luther, smiling, “This protestation
is unnecessary. I will not dispute with you either in public or in private, but
I purpose to arrange the affair kindly, and like a father.” The whole policy of
the cardinal consisted in putting aside the strict forms of justice, which
afford protection to those who are prosecuted, and in treating the affair only
as one of administration between superior and inferior;—a commodious method, in
as much as it opens up a wide field for arbitrary procedure.

Still maintaining the most affectionate manner, “My dear friend,” said De Vio,
“abandon, I pray you, a useless design. Rather return to yourself, acknowledge
the truth, and I am ready to reconcile you with the Church and the sovereign
bishop. Whether you will or not, it matters little. It will be hard for you to
kick against the pricks.…”

Luther, who saw himself treated as if he were already proved a rebellious child,
rejected of the Church, exclaimed, “I cannot retract; but I offer to answer, and
in writing. We had enough of debating yesterday.”

De Vio was irritated at this expression, which reminded him that he had not
acted with sufficient prudence; but he recovered himself, and said with a smile,
“Debating, my dear son! I did not debate with you. I have no wish to debate; but
in order to please the most serene Elector Frederick, I am willing to hear you,
and exhort you amicably and paternally.”

Luther did not comprehend why the legate should have been so much offended at
the expression which he had used; for, thought he, if I had not wished to speak
politely, I would have said, not debated, but disputed, and wrangled,—for that
was truly what we did.

Still De Vio, who felt that before the respectable witnesses who were present at
the conference it was at least necessary to seem to try to convince Luther to
return to the two propositions, which he had singled out as fundamental errors,
thoroughly resolved to let the Reformer speak as little as possible. Strong in
his Italian volubility he overwhelms him with objections, to which he does not
wait for a reply. Sometimes he jests, sometimes he scolds; he declaims with
impassioned heat, mixes up the most heterogeneous subjects, quotes St. Thomas
and Aristotle, cries, and gets into a passion with all who differ with him in
opinion, and then apostrophises Luther. Luther, more than ten times, tries to
speak, but the legate instantly interrupts him, and showers down menaces upon
him. Retractation! retractation! is the whole sum of his demand; he thunders,
and domineers, and insists on having all the talk to himself. Staupitz
interferes to stop the legate. “Have the goodness,” says he, “to give Doctor
Martin time to answer.” But the legate recommences his discourse, quotes the
extravagants and the opinions of St. Thomas, determined to harangue during the
whole interview. If he cannot convince, and if he dares not strike, he at least
can stun.

Luther and Staupitz saw clearly that they must abandon the hope, not only of
enlightening De Vio by discussion, but also of making a useful profession of
faith. Luther, therefore, resumed the request which he had made at the
commencement, and which the cardinal had then evaded. Since he was not permitted
to speak, he asked that he might, at least, be allowed to write, and send his
written reply to the legate. Staupitz supported him; several others who were
present joined their entreaties, and Cajetan, notwithstanding of all his
repugnance for what was written, (for he remembered that what is written
remains,) at last consented. The meeting broke up. The hope of terminating the
affair at this interview was adjourned, and it became necessary to await the
result of a subsequent conference. The permission which the general of the
Dominicans gave Luther to prepare an answer, and to answer in writing, the two
distinct and articulate accusations which he had made, touching indulgences and
faith, was nothing more than justice demanded, and yet we are obliged to De Vio
for it, as a mark of moderation and impartiality.

Luther left the cardinal’s palace delighted that his request had been granted.
In going and returning he was the object of public attention. All enlightened
men were interested in his case, as if it had been their own, for it was felt
that the cause then pleaded at Augsburg was the cause of the gospel, justice,
and liberty. The lowest of the people alone were with Cajetan; and of this he
doubtless gave some significant hints to the Reformer, who afterwards spoke of
them.

It became more and more evident that the legate had no wish to hear any more
from Luther than the words “I retract;” and these Luther was resolved not to
pronounce. What will be the issue of this unequal struggle? How can it be
imagined that the whole power of Rome, brought to bear on a single man, will not
succeed in crushing him? Luther sees this. Feeling the weight of the terrible
hand under which he is placed, he gives up the hope of ever returning to
Wittemberg, revisiting his dear Philip, and again finding himself in the midst
of the generous youths into whose hearts he loved so much to shed the seeds of
life. He sees excommunication hanging over his head, and has no doubt that it
must shortly fall upon him. These prospects afflict his soul, but do not
overwhelm it. His confidence in God is not shaken. God may break the instrument
which he has been pleased till now to employ, but the truth will be maintained.
Whatever happens, Luther must defend it to the last. He accordingly, begins to
prepare the protestation which he is to present to the legate. It appears that
he devoted to it part of the 13th October.


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  CHAPTER 44: CHAPTER VIII
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Third Appearance—Treasury of Indulgences—Faith—Humble Request—Legate’s
Reply—Luther’s Reply—Legate’s Rage—Luther Retires—First Defection. On Friday the
14th October, Luther returned to the cardinal, accompanied by the counsellors of
the Elector. The Italians pressed around him as usual, and were present at the
conference in great numbers. Luther advanced, and presented his protestation to
the legate. The cardinal’s people looked with astonishment at a writing which,
in their eyes, was so audacious. The following is the doctor of Wittemberg’s
declaration to their master:—

“You attack me on two points. First, you oppose to me the Constitution of Pope
Clement VI, in which it is said, that the treasury of indulgences is the merit
of Jesus Christ and the saints; whereas I deny this in my theses.

“Panormitanus, (Luther thus designates Ives, author of the famous collection of
ecclesiastical law, entitled Panormia, and Bishop of Chartres at the end of the
eleventh century,) Panormitanus declares, in his First Book, that in regard to
holy faith, not only a General Council, but every believer is superior to the
pope, if he produces declarations of Scripture, and better arguments than the
pope.

“The voice of our Lord Jesus Christ rises far above all the voices of men,
whatever be the names they bear.

“What gives me the greatest pain and uneasiness is, that this Constitution
contains doctrines quite opposed to the truth. It declares that the merits of
the saints is a treasure, while all Scripture testifies that God recompenses far
more richly than we deserve. The prophet exclaims, ‘Lord, enter not into
judgment with thy servant; for in thy sight can no living man be justified.’
‘Woe to men, however honourable and laudable their life may be,’ says St.
Augustine, ‘were judgment passed upon it without mercy.’4

“Hence the saints are not saved by their merits, but only by the mercy of God,
as I have declared. I maintain this, and adhere firmly to it. The words of holy
Scripture, which declare that the saints have not enough of merit, must take
precedence of the words of men, who affirm that they have too much; for the pope
is not above, but beneath the word of God.”

Luther does not stop here, but shows that if indulgences cannot be the merit of
saints, no more are they the merit of Christ. He observes, that indulgences are
barren and without fruit, since they have no other effect than to exempt men
from doing good works, such as prayers and alms. “No,” exclaims he, “the merit
of Christ is not a treasure of indulgences, which exempts from well-doing; but a
treasure of grace, which gives life. The merit of Christ is applied to believers
without indulgences, without keys, by the Holy Spirit only, and not by the pope.
If any one has a better founded opinion than mine,” adds he, in concluding this
first point, “let him show it, and then I will retract.”

“I have affirmed,” says he, in coming to the second article, “that no man can be
justified before God unless it be by faith, and hence that it is necessary for
man to believe with full assurance that he has obtained grace. To doubt of this
grace is to reject it. The righteousness and life of the righteous is his
faith.”

Luther proves his proposition by a multitude of quotations from Scripture.

“Be pleased, then, to intercede for me with our most holy lord, Pope Leo X,”
adds he, “in order that he may not treat me with so much disfavour … My soul
seeks the light of truth. I am not so proud, so desirous of vain-glory, as to be
ashamed to retract if I have taught what is false. My greatest joy will be to
see the triumph of whatever accords with the will of God. Only let them not
force me to do anything which is contrary to the cry of my conscience.” The
legate had taken the declaration from Luther’s hands, and after having perused
it, said to him coldly, “You have here useless verbiage, you have written many
vain words; you have answered the two articles foolishly, and blotted your paper
with a number of passages of holy Scripture which have no reference to the
subject.” Then, with a disdainful air, De Vio threw down the protestation, as
setting no value upon it, and resuming the tone which he had found tolerably
successful at the last interview, began to cry at full pitch that Luther must
retract. Luther was immovable. “Friar! friar!” exclaims De Vio in Italian, “last
time you were very good, but to-day you are very naughty.” Then the cardinal
begins a long discourse, drawn from the writings of St. Thomas, again loudly
extols the Constitution of Clement VI, and persists in maintaining, that, in
virtue of this Constitution, the very merits of Jesus Christ are distributed to
the faithful by means of indulgences. He thinks he has silenced Luther, who
sometimes begins to speak, but De Vio scolds, thunders away without ceasing, and
insists on having the whole field of battle to himself. This method might have
had some success a first time, but Luther was not the man to suffer it a second.
His indignation at length burst forth; it is his turn to astonish the
spectators, who deem him already vanquished by the volubility of the prelate. He
raises his powerful voice, seizes the favourite objection of the cardinal, and
makes him pay dear for his temerity in having entered the lists with him.
“Retract! retract!” repeated De Vio, showing the Constitution of the pope.
“Well,” replied Luther, “if it can be proved by this Constitution that the
treasure of indulgences is the merit of Jesus Christ, I consent to retract
according to the will and good pleasure of your Eminence …” The Italians, who
expected nothing of the kind, stared at these words, and could scarcely contain
their joy at seeing the enemy at length caught in the net. The cardinal was, as
it were, out of himself; he laughed outright, but with a laugh in which anger
and indignation mingled; darting forward, he lays hold of the volume containing
the famous Constitution, looks it out, pounces upon it, and, quite proud of his
victory, reads it aloud, with boiling and heaving breast. The Italians exult;
the Elector’s counsellors are uneasy and embarrassed: Luther is waiting for his
opponent. At length, when the cardinal comes to the words, “The Lord Jesus
Christ has acquired this treasure by his sufferings,” Luther stops him, “Most
worthy father,” says he, “be so good as consider and carefully meditate this
expression, ‘has acquired.’ Christ has acquired a treasure by his merits; the
merits, therefore, are not the treasure; for, to speak philosophically, cause
and effect are different things. The merits of Christ have acquired authority to
the pope to grant such indulgences to the people, but what the hand of the pope
distributes is not the merits themselves. Thus, then my conclusion is true, and
the Constitution, which you invoke with so much noise, bears testimony with me
to the truth which I proclaim.”

De Vio still holds the book in his hand; his eyes are still riveted on the fatal
passage, but he has nothing to reply. Thus he is taken in the net which he
himself had laid, and Luther with strong hand keeps him in, to the inexpressible
astonishment of the Italian courtiers around him. The legate would have evaded
the difficulty, but could not. He had long abandoned the testimony of Scripture
and the authority of the Fathers; he had taken refuge in this Extravagant of
Clement VI, and there he is caught. Still he has too much finesse to let his
embarrassment appear. Wishing to hide his shame, the prince of the Church
suddenly changes the subject, and rushes violently to other articles. Luther who
perceives the adroit manœuvre, allows him not to escape; he grasps and
completely closes the net which he has thrown over the cardinal, and makes
evasion impossible. “Most reverend father!” says he, with an irony clothed in
the form of respect, “your Eminence cannot surely think that we Germans do not
know grammar; to be a treasure, and to acquire a treasure, are very different
things.”

“Retract!” says De Vio; “retract, or, if you don’t, I send you to Rome, to
appear there before the judges entrusted with the cognisance of your cause. I
excommunicate you; you, all your partizans, all who are or may become favourable
to you, and I reject them from the Church. Full authority in this respect has
been given me by the holy apostolic See. Think you your protectors can stop me?
Do you imagine that the pope cares for Germany? The little finger of the pope is
stronger than all the German princes.”2 “Deign,” replies Luther, “to send the
written reply which I handed you to pope Leo X, with my very humble prayers.” At
these words, the legate, glad to find a moment’s respite, again wraps himself up
in a feeling of his dignity, and proudly and passionately says to Luther:—
“Retract, or return not.”

Luther is struck with the expression. This time he gives no verbal answer, but
bows and takes his leave, followed by the Elector’s counsellors. The cardinal
and his Italians, left alone, stare at each other, confounded at the issue of
the debate.

Thus the Dominican system, clad in the Roman purple, had proudly dismissed its
humble opponent. But Luther felt that there is a power, viz., Christian
truth—truth, which no authority, secular or spiritual, can ever subdue. Of the
two combatants, he who withdrew was master of the field. This is the first step
by which the Church detached herself from the papacy.

Luther and De Vio never saw each other again; but the Reformer had made a
powerful impression on the legate, an impression which was never entirely
effaced. What Luther had said on faith, and what De Vio read in the subsequent
writings of the doctor of Wittemberg, greatly modified the cardinal’s views. The
theologians of Rome were surprised and displeased at his statements on
justification in his Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans. The Reformer did
not recoil, did not retract; but his judge, he who never ceased exclaiming,
Retract! changed his views, and indirectly retracted his errors. In this way was
the Reformer’s unshaken fidelity rewarded.

Luther returned to the convent where he had met with hospitality. He had stood
firm, had borne testimony to the truth and done his part. God will do the rest.
His heart was filled with peace and joy.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 45: CHAPTER IX
========================================================================

De Vio and Staupitz—Staupitz and Luther—Luther and Spalatin—Luther to
Carlstadt—Communion—Link and De Vio—Departure of Staupitz and Link—Luther to
Cajetan—The Cardinal’s Silence—Luther’s Farewell—Departure—Appeal to the Pope.

Still the news brought to him were not at all satisfactory. The rumour in the
town was, that if he would not retract, he was to be seized and immured in a
dungeon. The vicar-general of the order, Staupitz himself, it was confidently
said, had been obliged to consent to it. Luther cannot believe what is told him
of his friend. No! Staupitz will not betray him. As to the designs of the
cardinal, judging by his own words, it is difficult to doubt. Still he is
unwilling to flee before the danger; his life, like truth herself, is in mighty
hands; and, notwithstanding of the danger which threatens him, he resolves not
to quit Augsburg. The legate soon repented of his violence. He felt that he had
gone out of his course, and he was desirous to return to it. Scarcely had
Staupitz finished dinner, (it was the morning when the interview had taken
place, and the dinner-hour was mid-day,) when he received a message from the
cardinal to wait upon him. Staupitz was accompanied by Winceslaus Link. The
vicar-general found the legate alone with Serra-Longa. De Vio immediately went
up to Staupitz, and, in the mildest accents said to him:—“Try, then, to persuade
your monk, and induce him to make a retraction. Of a truth I am otherwise
satisfied with him, and he has not a better friend than I.”

Staupitz.—“I have done so already, and will still counsel him to submit to the
Church in all humility.”

De Vio.—“You must answer the arguments which he draws from holy Scripture.”

Staupitz.—“I must confess to you, my lord, that that is beyond my strength; for
Dr. Martin is my superior both in talent and in knowledge of the holy
Scriptures.” The cardinal doubtless smiled at the vicar-general’s frankness. He
himself knew, besides, wherein lay the difficulty of convincing Luther. He
continued, and said to Link:— “Are you aware, that, as partizans of a heretical
doctrine, you are yourselves liable to the pains of the Church?”

Staupitz.—Deign to resume the conference with Luther. Appoint a public
discussion of the controverted points.”

De Vio, (terrified at the very idea.)—“I won’t have any further discussion with
that beast. For it has in its head piercing eyes and strange speculations.”

Staupitz at last obtained the cardinal’s promise to give Luther a written
statement of what he was to retract. The vicar-general went immediately to
Luther, and, shaken by the cardinal’s representations, tried to bring about some
arrangement. “Refute then,” says Luther, “the passages of Scripture which I have
brought forward.” “It is above my power,” said Staupitz. “Well,” said Luther,
“it is against my conscience to retract, so long as no other explanation can be
given of these passages.” “What!” continued he, “the cardinal pretends, as you
assure me, that he is desirous to arrange the affair without shame or
disadvantage to me. Ah! these are Roman words, and signify in good German that
it would be my disgrace and eternal ruin. What else has he to expect, who, from
fear of man and against the voice of his conscience, abjures the truth?”

Staupitz did not insist; he merely intimated that the cardinal had consented to
give him a written statement of the points of which he demanded a retractation.
Then, doubtless, he informed him of his resolution to leave Augsburg, where he
had nothing more to do, and Luther imparted to him a design which he had formed
with a view to comfort and strengthen their souls.

Staupitz promised to return, and they separated for a short time.

Luther, left alone in his cell, turned his thoughts towards friends who were
dear to his heart. He transported himself to Weimar and Wittemberg. He was
desirous to inform the Elector of what was passing; and, afraid of compromising
the prince by addressing him directly, wrote to Spalatin, and begged him to
inform his master how matters stood. He related the whole affair, even to the
promise of the legate to give him a written statement of the controverted
points, and concluded:—“Thus matters are; but I have neither hope nor confidence
in the legate. I will not retract a single syllable. I will publish the reply
which I have sent him, in order that, if he proceeds to violence, his shame may
extend over all Christendom.” The doctor next availed himself of some moments
still left him to communicate with his friends at Wittemberg.

“Peace and felicity!” wrote he to Doctor Carlstadt. “Accept these few lines as
if they were a long letter; for time and events are pressing on me. Another time
I will write you and others at greater length. For three days my affair has been
under discussion, and things are now come to this, that I have no hope of
returning to you, and expect nothing but excommunication. The legate is
absolutely determined that I shall have no discussion, either public or private.
He says, he wishes not to be my judge but my father, and yet the only words he
will hear from me are, ‘I retract, and own that I have been mistaken.’ These,
again, are words which I won’t say.

“My cause is in so much the greater peril, that its judges are not only
implacable enemies, but, moreover, men incapable of comprehending it. However,
the Lord God lives and reigns; to his care I commend myself, and I doubt not
that, in answer to the prayers of some pious souls, he will send me assistance;
methinks I feel that I am prayed for.

“Either I shall return to you without having suffered harm, or, struck with
excommunication, will be obliged to seek an asylum elsewhere.

“Be this as it may, comport yourself valiantly, stand firm, exalt Christ
intrepidly and joyfully.…

“The cardinal always calls me his dear son. I know what this amounts to.
Nevertheless, I am persuaded I would be to him the dearest and most agreeable of
men, if I would only pronounce the single word Revoco, I retract. But I will not
become a heretic by retracting the faith which made me become a Christian.
Better be hunted, cursed, burnt, and put to death.…

“Take care of yourself, my dear doctor, and show this letter to our theologians,
to Amsdorff, Philip, Otten, and others, in order that you may pray for me, and
also for yourselves; for the affair which is here discussed is yours also. It is
that of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, and of divine grace.”

Delightful thought! which ever gives full peace and consolation to those who
have borne testimony to Jesus Christ, to his divinity and grace, when the world
from all quarters showers down its censures, ejections, and frowns. “Our cause
is that of faith in our Lord!” And how sweet also the conviction expressed by
the Reformer, “I feel that I am prayed for.” The Reformation was the work of
prayer and piety. The struggle between Luther and De Vio was a struggle between
the religious element re-appearing in full life, and the expiring remains of the
quibbling dialectics of the middle ages.

Such was Luther’s converse with his absent friends. Staupitz soon returned;
Doctor Ruhel and the Chevalier de Ferlitzoch, the Elector’s envoys, also arrived
after they had taken leave of the cardinal. Some other friends of the gospel
joined them; and Luther, seeing the generous men thus assembled on the point of
separating, perhaps separating from himself for ever, proposed that they should
join in celebrating the Lord’s Supper. The proposal was accepted, and this
little flock of believers communicated in the body and blood of Jesus Christ.
What feelings must have filled the hearts of these friends of the Reformer at
this moment when celebrating the Eucharist with him and thinking that it was
perhaps the last time he would be permitted to do so! What joy and love must
have animated Luther’s heart at seeing himself so graciously received by his
Master at an hour when men were repulsing him! How solemn must that supper have
been—how sacred that evening! The next day Luther waited for the articles which
the legate was to send him, but no message arriving, he begged his friend, Dr.
Winceslaus Link, to go to the cardinal. De Vio received Link with the greatest
affability, and assured him that he would act only as a friend. “I no longer,”
says he, “regard Doctor Martin Luther as a heretic. I will not excommunicate him
at this time, at least if I do not receive other orders from Rome. I have sent
his reply to the pope by an express.” Then, to give a proof of his good
intentions, he added, “Would Doctor Martin Luther only retract what relates to
the indulgences, the affair would soon be ended; for, with regard to faith in
the sacrament, it is an article which every one may interpret and understand in
his own way.” Spalatin, who relates these words, adds the sarcastic but just
remark: “It clearly follows, that Rome has more regard for money than for the
purity of the faith and the salvation of souls.”

Link returned to Luther. He found Staupitz with him, and gave an account of his
visit. When he mentioned the legate’s unlooked for concession, “It had been
worth while,” said Staupitz, “for Dr. Winceslaus to have had a notary and
witnesses with him to take down the words, for if such a proposal was known it
would greatly prejudice the cause of the Romans.”

Meanwhile, the smoother the prelate’s words became, the less the honest Germans
trusted him. Several of the worthy men to whom Luther had been recommended
consulted together. “The legate,” said they, “is plotting some mischief by the
courier of whom he speaks; there is good ground to fear that you will all be
seized and cast into prison.”

Staupitz and Winceslaus, therefore, determined to quit the town. Embracing
Luther, who persisted in remaining at Augsburg, they set out in all haste by
different roads for Nuremberg, not without a feeling of great uneasiness as to
the fate of the intrepid witness whom they left behind.

Sunday passed quietly enough. Luther waited in vain for a message from the
legate. But as he did not send him a word, Luther at last resolved to write him.
Staupitz and Link, before their departure, had begged him to make all possible
submission to the cardinal. Luther was yet without experience in Rome and its
envoys; but if submission did not succeed, he would be able to regard it as a
warning. Now, he must at least make the attempt. In so far as concerns himself,
not a day passes in which he does not condemn himself, does not mourn over the
facility with which he allows himself to be hurried into expressions which
exceed the bounds of propriety. Why should he not confess to the cardinal that
which he daily confesses to God? Luther, moreover, had a heart which was easily
touched, and which suspected no evil. He therefore took up the pen, and, under a
feeling of respect and good will, wrote to the cardinal as follows:—

Most worthy Father in God,—I come once more, not with my voice, but by writing,
to supplicate your paternal goodness to give me a favourable hearing. The
reverend Doctor Staupitz, my very dear Father in Christ, has asked me to humble
myself, to renounce my own opinion, and submit it to the judgment of pious and
impartial men. He also has lauded your paternal goodness, and convinced me of
the favourable sentiments with which you are animated towards me. The tidings
filled me with joy.

“Now, then, most worthy father, I confess, as I have already done, that I have
not shown enough of modesty, enough of meekness, enough of respect for the name
of the sovereign pontiff; and although I have been greatly provoked, I perceive
it would have been far better for me to have treated the affair with more
humility, good nature, and reverence, ‘not answering a fool according to his
folly, for fear of being like unto him.’ (Proverbs 26:4)

“This grieves me very much; I ask pardon for it; and I am willing to announce it
to the people from the pulpit, as indeed I have already often done. I will
endeavour, by the grace of God, to speak differently. Moreover, I am ready to
promise, that, unless I am asked, I will not say a single word on the subject of
indulgences after this affair is arranged. But, in like manner, let those who
led me to begin it be obliged hereafter to be moderate in their discourses, or
to be silent.

“As regards the truth of my doctrine, the authority of St. Thomas and other
doctors cannot satisfy me. If I am worthy of it, I must hear the voice of the
spouse, who is the Church. For it is certain that she hears the voice of the
Bridegroom who is Christ.

“With all humility and submission, therefore, I pray your paternal love to refer
the whole of this matter, which to this hour is so uncertain, to our most holy
lord, Leo X, in order that the Church may decide, pronounce, and ordain, thereby
enabling men to retract with a good conscience, or to believe in sincerity.” The
reading of this letter suggests a reflection. It shows us that Luther was not
acting on a premeditated system, but only in virtue of convictions which were
successively impressed on his mind and his heart. So far from having adopted a
fixed system, or calculated opposition, he was sometimes, without suspecting it,
at variance with himself. Old convictions still prevailed in his mind, even
after contrary convictions had taken root. And yet, in these evidences of
sincerity and truth, men have searched for weapons to assail the Reformation;
because it followed the obligatory law of progress invariably imposed on the
human mind, they have written the history of its variations; in the very traits
which attest its sincerity, and consequently do it honour, one of the greatest
geniuses of Christendom has found his strongest objections to it. Inconceivable
is the waywardness of the human mind!

Luther received no answer to his letter. Cajetan and his courtiers, from being
violently agitated, became all at once motionless. What could the reason be?
Might it not be the calm which precedes the storm? Some are of the opinion of
Pallavicini, who observes, that “the cardinal expected that the proud monk
would, like inflated bellows, gradually lose the wind with which he was filled,
and become quite humble.” Others, who thought themselves better acquainted with
the ways of Rome, felt assured that the legate was preparing to seize Luther;
but not daring, of his own accord, to proceed to such extremities in defiance of
the imperial safe-conduct, was waiting for an answer from Rome. Others, again,
could not admit that the cardinal would consent to wait so long. The Emperor,
Maximilian, they said, (and this may indeed have been true,) would have no more
scruple in delivering up Luther to the judgment of the Church, in spite of the
safe-conduct, than Sigismund had in delivering up John Huss to the Council of
Constance. Their conjecture, therefore, was, that the legate was negotiating
with the emperor. The sanction of Maximilian might arrive at any hour. The
greater the opposition he had formerly showed to the pope, the more disposed he
now seemed to flatter him, until he should succeed in encircling the head of his
grandson with the imperial crown. There was not an instant to be lost, “and,
therefore,” said the generous men around Luther, “prepare an appeal to the pope,
and quit Augsburg without delay.”

Luther, whose presence in the town had for four days been quite useless, and
who, by remaining these four days after the departure of the Saxon counsellors
whom the Elector had sent to watch over his safety, had sufficiently
demonstrated that he feared nothing, and was ready to answer every charge, at
length yielded to the urgent entreaties of his friends. Wishing to leave a
notification to De Vio, he wrote him on Tuesday, the evening before his
departure. This second letter is firmer in its tone than the former. It would
seem that Luther, in perceiving that all his advances were vain, began to hold
up his head, and show that he had a due sense both of his own rights, and of the
injustice of his enemies.

“Most worthy Father in God,” wrote he to De Vio, “your paternal goodness has
seen, yes, I say, seen, and distinctly recognised my obedience. I have
undertaken a distant journey, in the midst of great dangers, in much bodily
weakness, and notwithstanding of my extreme poverty, on the order of our most
holy lord, Leo X. I have appeared personally before your Eminence; in fine, I
have thrown myself at the feet of his Holiness, and am now waiting his pleasure,
prepared to acquiesce in his judgment, whether he condemn or acquit me. I thus
feel that I have omitted nothing which becomes an obedient son of the Church.

“Hence, I cannot see it to be my duty uselessly to prolong my sojourn here;
indeed, it is impossible for me to do so. I want means, and your paternal
goodness has commanded me, in peremptory terms, not again to show myself in your
presence, unless I am willing to retract.

“I depart, therefore, in the name of the Lord, desiring, if it be possible, to
repair to some spot where I may be able to live in peace. Several personages, of
greater weight than I am, have urged me to appeal from your paternal goodness,
and even from our most holy lord, Leo X, ill informed, to himself better
informed. Although I know that such an appeal will be much more agreeable to our
most serene Elector than a retractation, nevertheless, if I had only had myself
to consult, I would not have taken it. Having committed no fault, I ought to
have nothing to fear.”

Luther, having written this letter, which was not sent to the legate till after
his departure, prepared to quit Augsburg. God had kept him till this hour, and
his heart praised Him for it; but he must not tempt God. He took leave of his
friends, Peutinger, Langemantel, the Adelmanns, Auerbach, and the prior of the
Carmelites, who had shown him so much Christian hospitality. On Wednesday before
day-break he got up, and was ready to depart. His friends had advised him to use
great precaution, lest his intention should be observed and frustrated, and he
followed their counsels as much as he could. A pony, which Staupitz had left
him, was brought to the gate of the convent, and once more bidding adien to his
brethren, he mounted and set off, without bridle, boots, or spurs, and unarmed.
The magistrates had sent one of their officers on horseback, who was to
accompany him, and who knew the roads perfectly. The servant led him in the
darkness, through the silent streets of Augsburg, towards a small gate which was
pierced in the city wall, and which counsellor Langemantel had given orders
should be opened to him. He is still in the power of the legate, and the hand of
Rome may still reach him. Doubtless, did the Italians know that their prey was
escaping, they would sally forth in fury with hue and cry. Who knows if the
intrepid opponent of Rome will not yet be seized and immured in a dungeon?… At
length Luther and his guide arrive at the little gate, and, passing through it,
are out of Augsburg. Then, putting their horses to the gallop, they make off in
all haste.

Luther, on departing, had left his appeal to the pope in the hands of the prior
of Pomesaw. His friends were of opinion that it should not be sent to the
legate, and the prior was therefore charged to see to its being fixed up, two or
three days after the doctor’s departure, on the gate of the cathedral, in
presence of a notary and witnesses. This was accordingly done. In this document,
Luther declares that he appeals from the most holy father the pope, ill
informed, to the most holy lord and father in Christ, by name Leo X, by the
grace of God, when better informed. This appeal had been regularly drawn up and
executed in due form by Gall de Herbrachtingen, the imperial notary, in presence
of two Augustin monks, Bartholomew Utzmair and Wengel Steinbies. It was dated
16th October. When the cardinal was informed of Luther’s departure, he was
astonished, and even, as he declares in a letter to the Elector, was frightened
and amazed. In fact, he had grounds for irritation. This departure, which put so
abrupt a termination to negotiation, disappointed the hopes which had so long
flattered him. His ambition was to cure the wounds of the Church, and
re-establish the pope’s influence in Germany; and, lo! the heretic has escaped
not only without having been punished, but even without having been humbled. The
conference had only served to bring more prominently into view, on the one hand,
the simplicity, uprightness, and firmness of Luther; and, on the other, the
imperiousness and unreasonable conduct of the pope and his ambassador. Rome,
having gained nothing, must have lost: her authority not having been
strengthened, had, of necessity, experienced a new check. What will be said at
the Vatican? What tidings will arrive at Rome? The difficulties of his situation
will be forgotten, and the failure imputed to his want of skill. Serra-Longa and
the Italians are furious at seeing persons of their ability outwitted by a
German monk. De Vio is scarcely able to conceal his irritation. The affront
cries for vengeance, and we shall soon see him giving vent to his wrath in a
letter to the Elector.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 46: CHAPTER X
========================================================================

Luther’s Flight—Admiration—Luther’s Wish—The Legate to the Elector—The Elector
to the Legate—Prosperity of the University.

Luther continued with his guide to flee from Augsburg. He urged his steed to the
utmost speed that the poor animal’s strength would permit. He thought of the
real or supposed flight of John Huss, the manner in which he was laid hold of,
and the assertion of his adversaries, who pretended that the flight annulled the
Emperor’s safe-conduct, and entitled them to condemn him to the flames. These
uneasy thoughts merely crossed Luther’s mind. Escaped from the town, where he
had passed ten days under the terrible hand of Rome, which had already crushed
so many thousand witnesses of the truth, and drenched herself with blood—now
that he is free, now that he breathes the pure air of the field, and traverses
the villages and plains—now that he sees himself wonderfully delivered—his whole
soul magnifies the Lord. Truly he may now say, “Our soul is escaped as a bird
out of the snare of the fowlers: the snare is broken, and we are escaped. Our
help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” Luther’s heart is
thus filled with joy. But his thoughts also revert to De Vio. “The cardinal,”
says he, “would have liked to have me in his hands to send me to Rome. No doubt
he is chagrined at my escape. He imagined that he was master of me at
Augsburg—he thought he was sure of me; but he had an eel by the tail. Is it not
a shame in these people to set so high a price upon me? They would give many
crowns to have me; whereas, our Lord Jesus Christ was sold for thirty pieces of
silver.”3 The first day Luther travelled fourteen leagues. In the evening, on
arriving at the inn where he was to pass the night, he was so fatigued (his
horse, says one of his biographers, had a very hard trot,) that, on dismounting,
he could not stand erect, and stretched himself out upon the straw. He,
nevertheless, enjoyed some sleep, and the next day continued his journey. At
Nuremberg, he found Staupitz on a visit to the convents of his order, and, for
the first time saw the brief which the pope had sent to Cajetan respecting him.
He was indignant at it. In all probability, if he had read it before his
departure from Wittemberg, he would never have appeared before the cardinal. “It
is impossible to believe,” says he, “that any thing so monstrous could emanate
from a sovereign pontiff.”

Throughout the journey, Luther was an object of general interest. He had not
yielded a whit. Such a victory gained by a mendicant monk over a representative
of Rome, excited universal admiration. Germany seemed avenged for the contempt
of Italy. The eternal Word had been more honoured than the word of the pope; and
that vast power which had domineered over the world for so many ages had
received an important check. Luther’s journey was a triumph. People were
delighted with the obstinacy of Rome, hoping that it would hasten her downfall.
Had she not chosen to keep fast hold of dishonest gains—had she been wise enough
not to despise the Germans—had she reformed clamant abuses—perhaps, according to
human views, things might have returned to the state of death out of which
Luther had aroused them. But the papacy chooses not to yield, and the doctor
will see himself constrained to bring many other errors to light, and to advance
in the knowledge and the manifestation of the truth. On the 26th October Luther
arrived at Græfenthal, situated at the extremity of the forests of Thuringia.
Here he fell in with Count Albert of Mansfeld, who had so strongly dissuaded him
from going to Augsburg. The count laughed heartily on seeing his singular
equipage; and, laying hands on him, obliged him to become his guest. Shortly
after Luther resumed his journey.

He made haste to be at Wittemberg by the 31st October, expecting that the
Elector would be there at the Feast of All Saints, and that he would be able to
see him. The brief which he had read at Nuremberg had made him fully aware of
the danger of his situation. In fact, being already condemned at Rome, he could
not hope either to remain at Wittemberg, or to obtain an asylum in a convent, or
to be in peace and safety any where else. The protection of the Elector might,
perhaps, defend him, but he was far from being able to calculate upon it. He
could not expect any help from the two friends whom he had formerly had at the
court. Staupitz, having lost the favour he long enjoyed, had quitted Saxony,
Spalatin was loved by Frederick, but had no great influence over him. The
Elector himself was not so well acquainted with the gospel as to encounter
manifest perils on account of it. However, Luther saw nothing better which he
could do than return to Wittemberg, and there await the decision of an almighty
and merciful God. If, as several thought, he were left at liberty, his wish was
to devote himself entirely to study and the education of youth.

Luther did arrive at Wittemberg by the 30th October; but his haste had been to
no purpose, for neither the Elector nor Spalatin came to the festival. His
friends were overjoyed on seeing him again among them. The very day of his
arrival he hastened to announce it to Spalatin—“I came back to Wittemberg
to-day, safe and sound, by the grace of God; but how long I shall remain is more
than I know.… I am filled with joy and peace; so much so, that I cannot help
wondering how the trial which I endure appears so great to so many great
personages.”

De Vio did not wait long, after Luther’s departure, to vent all his indignation
to the Elector. His letter breathes vengeance. In an assuming tone he gives
Frederick an account of the conference. “Since friar Martin,” says he, in
conclusion, “cannot be brought by paternal methods to acknowledge his error, and
remain faithful to the Catholic Church, I pray your Highness to send him to
Rome, or banish him from your States. Be assured that this difficult, naughty,
and venomous affair, cannot last longer; for, when I shall have acquainted our
most holy lord with all the craft and malice, there will soon be an end of it.”
In a postscript, in his own hand, the cardinal entreats the Elector not to sully
his own honour, and that of his illustrious ancestors, for a miserable paltry
friar.

Never, perhaps, was the soul of Luther filled with nobler indignation than on
reading the copy of this letter which the Elector sent him. The thought of the
sufferings which he is destined to endure, the value of the truth for which he
is combating, the contempt he feels for the conduct of the legate of Rome, at
once fill his heart. His reply, written under the influence of those feelings,
is full of the courage, dignity, and faith, which he always manifested in the
most difficult crisis of his life. He, in his turn, gives an account of the
conference of Augsburg, and then, after exposing the conduct of the cardinal
continues:— “I should like to answer the legate in the Elector’s stead.

“Prove that you speak with knowledge,” I would say to him; “let the whole affair
be committed to writing; then I will send Friar Martin to Rome, or rather, I
myself will cause him to be seized and put to death. I will take care of my
conscience and my honour, and allow no stain to sully my fame. But as long as
your certain knowledge shuns the light, and manifests itself only by clamour, I
cannot give credit to darkness.

“This, most excellent prince, would be my answer.

“Let the reverend legate, or the pope himself, give a written specification of
my errors; let them explain their reasons; let them instruct me who desire, who
ask, and wish, and wait for instruction, in so much that even a Turk would not
refuse to give it. If I retract not, and condemn myself after they shall have
proved to me that the passages which I have cited ought to be understood
differently from what I have done, then, O most excellent Elector, let your
Highness be the first to pursue and chase me, let the university discard me, and
load me with its anger. Nay, more, (and I call heaven and earth to witness,) let
the Lord Jesus Christ reject and condemn me! The words which I speak are not
dictated by vain presumption, but by immovable conviction. I am willing that the
Lord God withdraw his grace from me, and that every creature of God refuse to
countenance me, if, when a better doctrine shall have been shown to me, I
embrace it not.

“If, on account of the humbleness of my condition, they despise me, a poor
paltry mendicant friar, and if they refuse to instruct me in the way of truth,
let your Highness pray the legate to point out to you in writing wherein I have
erred; and, if they refuse this favour even to your Highness, let them write
their views either to his Imperial Majesty, or to some Archbishop of Germany.
What ought I, what can I say more?

“Let your Highness listen to the voice of your honour and your conscience, and
not send me to Rome. No man can command you to do it, for it is impossible I can
be in safety at Rome. The pope himself is not in safety there. It would be to
order you to betray Christian blood. They have paper, pens, and ink, and they
have also notaries without number. It is easy for them to write, and show
wherein and how I have erred. It will cost less to instruct me by writing while
I am absent, than while present to accomplish my death by stratagem.

“I resign myself to exile. My enemies are so ensnaring me on all sides, that I
can no where live in safety. In order that no evil may befall you on my account,
I, in the name of God, abandon your territories; I will go wherever an almighty
and merciful God wishes me to be. Let him do with me as seemeth to him good!

“Thus, then, most serene Elector, with veneration I bid you farewell. I commend
you to Almighty God, and give you immortal thanks for all your kindness towards
me. Whatever the people among whom I shall live in future, I will always
remember you, and gratefully pray, without ceasing, for the happiness of you and
yours. … I am still, thank God, full of joy, and I bless him that Christ his Son
counts me worthy of suffering in so holy a cause. May he eternally guard your
illustrious Highness! Amen!” This letter, so replete with truth, made a profound
impression on the Elector. “He was shaken by a very eloquent letter,” says
Maimbourg. He never would have thought of delivering an innocent man into the
hands of Rome. Perhaps he would have asked Luther to remain for some time in
concealment, but not even in appearance would he have yielded, in any way, to
the menaces of the legate. He wrote to his counsellor Pfeffinger, who happened
to be with the Emperor, to make him acquainted with the real state of matters,
and beg him to request Rome either to put an end to the affair, or at least
leave it to be decided in Germany by impartial judges.

Some days after the Elector replied to the legate:—“Since Doctor Martin appeared
before you at Augsburg, you ought to be satisfied. We did not expect that
without having convicted him you would have thought of constraining him to
retract. None of the learned in our dominions have told us that the doctrine of
Martin is impious, antichristian, and heretical.” The prince then refuses to
send Luther to Rome, or banish him from his states. This letter, which was
communicated to Luther, filled him with joy. “Good God!” wrote he to Spalatin,
“with what joy I have read it and re-read it. I know what confidence may be put
in these words, so admirable at once for vigour and moderation. I fear the
Romans will not comprehend all that is meant by them, but they will at least
comprehend that what they thought already finished is not even begun. Have the
goodness to present my thanks to the prince. It is strange that he, (De Vio,)
who not long ago was a mendicant monk like me, is not afraid to accost the most
powerful princes without respect, to interpel, threaten, and command them, and
treat them with inconceivable pride. Let him learn that the temporal power is of
God, and that it is not permitted him to trample its glory under foot.”

Frederick, in answering the legate in a tone which he had not expected, had
doubtless been encouraged by an address which he had received from the
university of Wittemberg. This university had good reason for declaring in the
doctor’s favour, in as much as it was flourishing more and more, and eclipsing
all the other schools. Crowds of students flocked from all parts of Germany to
hear the extraordinary man whose lessons seemed to open a new era to religion
and science. These youths who came from all the provinces stopped at the moment
when they perceived the steeples of Wittemberg in the distance, and raising
their hands to heaven, thanked God for making the light of truth shine on this
town as formerly on Zion, and send its rays even to the remotest countries. A
life and activity hitherto unknown animated the university. “They ply their
studies here like ants,” wrote Luther.2


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 47: CHAPTER XI
========================================================================

Thoughts of Departure—Adieus to the Church—Critical Moment—Deliverance—Luther’s
Courage—Discontentment at Rome—Bull—Appeal to a Council.

Luther, thinking that he might soon be banished from Germany, employed himself
in preparing the Acts of the Conference of Augsburg for publication. He wished
these Acts to remain as evidence of the struggle which he had maintained with
Rome. He saw the storm ready to burst, but feared it not. Day after day he
expected the anathemas of Rome, and arranged and set every thing in order, that
he might be ready when they arrived. “Having tucked up my coat, and girt my
reins,” said he, “I am ready to depart like Abraham; not knowing whither I shall
go, or rather knowing well, since God is every where.” He intended to leave a
farewell letter behind him. “Have the boldness, then,” wrote he to Spalatin, “to
read the letter of a man cursed and excommunicated.” His friends were in great
fear and anxiety on his account, and begged him to enter himself prisoner in the
hands of the Elector, in order that that prince might somewhere keep him in safe
custody. His enemies could not understand what it was that gave him so much
confidence. One day they were talking of him at the court of the Bishop of
Brandenburg, and asking on what prop he could be leaning. “It must be in
Erasmus,” said they, “or Capito, or some other of the learned, that he
confides.” “No! no!” replied the bishop, “the pope would give himself very
little trouble with such folks as these. His trust is in the university of
Wittemberg and the Duke of Saxony.” Thus both were ignorant of the fortress in
which the Reformer had taken refuge.

Thoughts of departure flitted across Luther’s mind. They arose not from fear,
but from the foresight of continually recurring obstacles which the free
profession of the truth must encounter in Germany. “If I remain here,” said he,
“the liberty of speaking and writing will, as to many things, be wrested from
me. If I depart, I will freely unbosom the thoughts of my heart, and offer my
life to Jesus Christ.”

France was the country in which Luther hoped he would be able, untramelled, to
announce the truth. The liberty which the doctors and university of Paris
enjoyed seemed to him worthy of envy. He was, besides, agreed with them on many
points. What would have happened had he been transported from Wittemberg to
France? Would the Reformation have taken place there as it did in Germany? Would
the power of Rome have been dethroned; and would France, which was destined to
see the hierarchical principles of Rome, and the destructive principles of an
infidel philosophy, long warring in its bosom, have become one great focus of
gospel light? It is useless to indulge in vain conjectures on this subject; but
perhaps Luther at Paris might have somewhat changed the destinies of Europe and
France.

Luther’s soul was powerfully agitated. As he often preached at the town church
in place of Simon Heyens Pontanus, pastor of Wittemberg, who was almost always
sick, he thought it his duty, at all events, to take leave of a people to whom
he had so often preached salvation. “I am,” said he one day in the pulpit, “I am
a precarious and uncertain preacher. How often already have I set out suddenly
without bidding you farewell.… In case the same thing should happen again, and I
not return, here receive my adieus.” After adding a few words more, he thus
meekly and modestly ended:—“I warn you, in fine, not to be alarmed though the
papal censures let loose all their fury on me. Impute it not to the pope, and
wish no ill either to him or any other mortal whatsoever, but commit the whole
matter to God.” The moment seemed to have at length arrived. The prince gave
Luther to understand he was desirous of his removal to a distance from
Wittemberg; and the wishes of the Elector were too sacred for him not to hasten
to comply with them. He accordingly made preparations for his departure, without
well knowing whither he should direct his steps. He wished, however, to have a
last meeting with his friends, and for this purpose invited them to a farewell
repast. Seated at table with them, he was still enjoying their delightful
conversation, their tender and anxious friendship. A letter is brought to him.…
It comes from the court. He opens and reads, and his heart sinks; it is a new
order to depart. The prince asks why he is so long of setting out. His soul was
filled with sadness. Still, however, he took courage, and raising his head and
looking around on his guests, said firmly and joyfully, “Father and mother
forsake me, but the Lord will take me up.” There was nothing for it but to
depart. His friends were deeply moved. What is to become of him? If Luther’s
protector rejects him, who will receive him? And the gospel, and the truth, and
this admirable work …; all doubtless must fall with their illustrious witness.
The Reformation apparently is hanging by a thread; and at the moment when Luther
quits the walls of Wittemberg, will not the thread break? Luther and his friends
spoke little. Stunned with the blow which was directed against their brother,
they melt into tears. But some moments after a second message arrives, and
Luther opens the letter, not doubting he is to find a renewal of the summons to
depart. But, O powerful hand of the Lord! for this time he is saved. The whole
aspect is changed. “As the new envoy of the pope hopes that every thing may be
arranged by means of a conference, remain still.”2 So says the letter. How
important an hour this was; and who can say what might have happened if Luther,
who was always in haste to obey the will of his prince, had quitted Wittemberg
immediately after the first message? Never were Luther and the work of the
Reformation at a lower ebb than at this moment. Their destinies seemed to be
decided; but an instant sufficed to change them. Arrived at the lowest point in
his career, the doctor of Wittemberg rapidly reascended; and thenceforward his
influence ceased not to increase. In the language of a prophet, “The Eternal
commands, and his servants descend into the depths; again they mount up to
heaven.”

Spalatin having, by order of Frederick, invited Luther to Lichtenberg to have an
interview with him, they had a long conversation on the situation of affairs.
“If the censures of Rome arrive,” said Luther, “I certainly will not remain at
Wittemberg.” “Beware,” “of being too precipitate with your journey to France,”
replied Spalatin, who, left telling him to wait till he heard from him. “Only
recommend my soul to Christ,” said Luther to his friends. “I see that my
adversaries are strong in their resolution to destroy me, but at the same time
Christ strengthens me in my resolution not to yield to them.”4

Luther at this time published the “Acts of the Conference at Augsburg.”
Spalatin, on the part of the Elector, had written him not to do it; but it was
too late. After the publication had taken place the prince approved of it.
“Great God!” said Luther in the preface, “what new, what astonishing crime, to
seek light and truth! And more especially to seek them in the Church, in other
words, in the kingdom of truth.” In a letter to Link he says, “I send you my
Acts. They are more cutting, doubtless, than the legate expected; but my pen is
ready to give birth to far greater things. I know not myself whence those
thoughts come. In my opinion the affair is not even commenced; so far are the
grandees of Rome from being entitled to hope it is ended. I will send you what I
have written, in order that you may see whether I have divined well in thinking
that the Antichrist of which the Apostle Paul speaks is now reigning in the
court of Rome. I believe I am able to demonstrate that it is at this day worse
than the very Turks.”

Ominous rumours reached Luther from all quarters. One of his friends wrote to
him, that the new envoy of Rome had received orders to seize him, and deliver
him up to the pope. Another told him, that in travelling he had fallen in with a
courtier, and the conversation having turned on the affairs of Germany, the
courtier declared that he had come under an obligation to deliver Luther into
the hands of the sovereign pontiff. “But,” wrote the Reformer, “the more their
fury and violence increase, the less I tremble.” At Rome there was great
dissatisfaction with Cajetan. The chagrin which they felt at the failure of the
affair at first turned upon him. The Roman courtiers thought themselves entitled
to reproach him with a want of that prudence and finesse which, if they are to
be believed, constitute the first quality of a legate, and with having failed on
so important an occasion, to give pliancy to his scholastic theology. He is
wholly to blame, said they. His lumbering pedantry has spoiled all. Of what use
was it to irritate Luther by insults and menaces, instead of gaining him over by
the promise of a good bishopric, or even of a Cardinal’s hat. These hirelings
judged the Reformer by themselves. However, it was necessary to repair this
blunder. On the one hand, Rome must give her decision, and, on the other, due
court must be paid to the Elector, who might be of great use in the election of
an emperor, an event which must shortly take place. As it was impossible for
Roman ecclesiastics to suspect what constituted the strength and courage of
Luther, they imagined that the Elector was much more implicated in the affair
than he really was. The pope, therefore, resolved to follow another line of
conduct. He caused his legate in Germany to publish a bull, confirming the
doctrine of indulgences in the very points in which they were attacked, but
without mentioning either the Elector or Luther. As the Reformer had always
expressed his readiness to submit to the decision of the Roman Church, the pope
thought that he must now either keep his word, or stand openly convicted as a
disturber of the peace of the Church, and a contemner of the holy Apostolic See.
In either case it seemed that the pope must gain. But nothing is gained by
obstinately opposing the truth. In vain had the pope threatened to excommunicate
every man who should teach otherwise than he ordered; the light was not arrested
by such orders. The wise plan would have been to curb the pretensions of the
venders of indulgences. This decree of Rome was therefore a new blunder. By
legalising clamant errors, it irritated all the wise, and made it impossible for
Luther to return. “It was thought,” says a Roman Catholic historian, a great
enemy of the Reformation, “that this bull had been made solely for the interest
of the pope and the mendicants, who began to find that nobody would give
anything for their indulgences.” The Cardinal de Vio published the bull at
Lintz, in Austria, on the 13th December, 1518, but Luther had already placed
himself beyond its reach. On the 28th November, in the chapel of Corpus Christi
at Wittemberg, he had appealed from the pope to a general council of the Church.
He foresaw the storm which was gathering around him, and he knew that God alone
could avert it. Still he did as duty called him. He must, no doubt, quit
Wittemberg (were it only for the sake of the Elector) as soon as the Roman
anathema should arrive; but he was unwilling to quit Saxony and Germany without
a strong protestation. This he accordingly drew up; and, in order that it might
be ready for circulation the moment the furies of Rome, as he expresses it,
should reach him, he caused it to be printed, under the express condition that
the bookseller should deposit all the copies in his custody. But the bookseller,
in his eagerness for gain, sold almost the whole, while Luther was quietly
waiting to receive them. He felt annoyed, but the thing was done. This bold
protestation spread every where. In it Luther declared anew that he had no
intention to say any thing against the Holy Church, or the authority of the
Apostolic See, or the pope well advised. “But,” continues he, “considering that
the pope, who is the vicar of God upon earth, may, like any other vicar, err,
sin, or lie, and that the appeal to a general council is the only safeguard
against unjust proceedings which it is impossible to resist, I feel myself
obliged to have recourse to it.”

Here, then, we see the Reformation launched on a new course. It is no longer
made to depend on the pope and his decisions, but on an universal council.
Luther addresses the whole Church, and the voice which proceeds from the chapel
of Corpus Christi, must reach the whole members of Christ’s flock. There is no
want of courage in the Reformer, and here he gives a new proof of it. Will God
fail him? The answer will be found in the different phases of the Reformation
which are still to be exhibited to our view.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 48: BOOK FIFTH
========================================================================

The Discussion of Leipsic, 1519


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 49: CHAPTER I
========================================================================

Luther’s Dangers—God saves Luther—The Pope sends a Chamberlain—The Legate’s
Journey—Briefs of Rome—Circumstances favourable to the Reformation—Miltitz with
Spalatin—Tezel’s Terror—Caresses of Miltitz—A Recantation demanded—Luther
refuses, but offers to be silent—Agreement between Luther and the Nuncio—The
Legate’s Embrace—Tezel overwhelmed by the Legate—Luther to the Pope—Nature of
the Reformation—Luther against Separation—De Vio and Miltitz at Trèves—Luther’s
cause extends in different countries—Luther’s writings the commencement of the
Reformation.

Dangers had gathered round Luther and the Reformation. The doctor of
Wittemberg’s appeal to a General Council was a new attack on papal authority. By
a bull of Pius II, the greater excommunication had been denounced even against
emperors who should dare to incur the guilt of such a revolt. Frederick of
Saxony, as yet imperfectly confirmed in evangelical doctrine, was prepared to
send Luther away from his states; and hence a new message from Leo might have
thrown the Reformer among strangers, who would be afraid to compromise
themselves by receiving a monk whom Rome had anathematised. And even should the
sword of some noble be drawn in his defence, mere knights, unable to cope with
the powerful princes of Germany, must soon have succumbed in the perilous
enterprise. But at the moment when all the courtiers of Leo X were urging him to
rigorous measures, and when one blow more might have placed his adversary in his
hands, the pope suddenly changed his course to one of conciliation and apparent
mildness. It may be said, no doubt, that he was under a delusion as to the
Elector’s feelings, and deemed them more decided in Luther’s favour than they
really were. It may also be admitted that the public voice and the spirit of the
age, powers which at this time were altogether new, seemed to throw an
impregnable barrier around the Reformer. It may even be supposed, with one of
Leo’s biographers,2 that he followed the promptings of his mind and heart which
inclined to gentleness and moderation. Still this new mode of action on the part
of Rome, at such a moment, is so extraordinary that it is impossible not to
recognise in it a higher and mightier hand.

There was then at the Court of Rome a Saxon noble who was chamberlain to the
pope and canon of Mentz, Trèves, and Meissen. He had turned his talents to
advantage. As he boasted of being, in some degree, allied to the Saxon princes,
the Roman courtiers sometimes designated him by the title of Duke of Saxony. In
Italy he made an absurd display of his German nobility, while in Germany he aped
the manners and polish of the Italians. He was given to wine—a vice which his
residence at the Court of Rome had increased. Still the Roman courtiers hoped
great things from him. His German extraction—his insinuating address—and his
ability in negotiation—all led them to expect that Charles de Miltitz (this was
his name) would, by his prudence, succeed in arresting the mighty revolution
which was threatening to shake the world.

It was of importance to conceal the true object of the chamberlain’s mission,
and in this there was no difficulty. Four years before, the pious Elector had
applied to the pope for the golden rose. This rose, the fairest of flowers, was
emblematic of the body of Jesus Christ, and being annually consecrated by the
sovereign pontiff, was presented to one of the first princes in Europe. On this
occasion it was resolved to send it to the Elector. Miltitz set out with a
commission to examine into the state of affairs, and to gain over the Elector’s
counsellors, Spalatin and Pfeffinger, for whom he had special letters. Rome
hoped that, by securing the favour of the persons about the prince, she would
soon become mistress of her formidable adversary. The new legate, who arrived in
Germany in December 1518, was careful as he came along to ascertain the state of
public opinion. To his great astonishment he observed, at every place where he
stopped, that the majority of the inhabitants were friendly to the Reformation,
and spoke of Luther with enthusiasm. For one person favourable to the pope,
there were three favourable to the Reformer.2 Luther has preserved an anecdote
of the journey—“What think you of the see (seat) of Rome?” frequently asked the
legate at the mistresses of the inns and their maidservants. One day, one of
these poor women, with great simplicity, replied—“How can we know what kind of
seats you have at Rome, and whether they are of wood or stone?” The mere rumour
of the new legate’s arrival filled the Elector’s court, the university, the town
of Wittemberg, and all Saxony, with suspicion and distrust. “Thank God,” wrote
Melancthon, in alarm, “Martin still breathes.” It was confidently stated that
the Roman chamberlain had received orders to possess himself of Luther’s person,
by force or fraud; and the doctor was advised, on all hands, to be on his guard
against the stratagems of Miltitz. “His object in coming,” said they, “is to
seize you and give you up to the pope. Persons worthy of credit have seen the
briefs of which he is the bearer.” “I await the will of God,” replied Luther.5
In fact, Miltitz brought letters addressed to the Elector and his counsellors,
to the bishops and to the burgomaster of Wittemberg. He was also provided with
seventy apostolic briefs. Should the flattery and the favours of Rome attain
their object, and Frederick deliver Luther into her hands, these seventy briefs
were to serve as a kind of passports. He was to produce and post up one of them
in each of the towns through which he had to pass, and hoped he might thus
succeed in dragging his prisoner, without opposition, all the way to Rome. The
pope seemed to have taken every precaution. The electoral court knew not well
what course to take. Violence would have been resisted, but the difficulty was
to oppose the chief of Christianity, when speaking with so much mildness, and
apparently with so much reason. Would it not be the best plan, it was said, to
place Luther somewhere in concealment until the storm was over?… An unexpected
event relieved Luther, the Elector, and the Reformation, from this difficult
situation. The aspect of affairs suddenly changed. On the 12th of January, 1519,
Maximilian, the Emperor of Germany, died, and Frederick of Saxony, agreeably to
the Germanic constitution, became regent of the empire. From this time the
Elector feared not the schemes of nuncios, while new interests began to engross
the court of Rome—interests which, obliging her to be chary of giving offence to
Frederick, arrested the blow which Miltitz and De Vio were undoubtedly
meditating. The pope earnestly desired to prevent Charles of Austria, already
King of Naples, from ascending the imperial throne. A neighbouring King appeared
to him more formidable than a German monk; and in his anxiety to secure the
Elector, who might be of essential service to him in the matter, he resolved to
give some respite to the monk that he might be the better able to oppose the
king Both, however, advanced in spite of him. In addition to the change thus
produced in Leo, there was another circumstance which tended to avert the storm
impending over the Reformation. The death of the emperor was immediately
followed by political commotions. In the south of the empire the Swabian
confederation sought to punish Ulric of Wurtemberg, for his infidelity to it,
while in the south, the Bishop of Hildesheim proceeded, sword in hand, to invade
the bishopric of Minden, and the territories of the Duke of Brunswick. How could
men in power, amid such disturbances, attach any importance to a dispute
relating to the remission of sins? But, above all, the reputation for wisdom
enjoyed by the Elector, now regent of the empire, and the protection which he
gave to the new teachers, were made subservient by Providence to the progress of
the Reformation. “The tempest,” says Luther, intermitted its fury, and papal
excommunication began to fall into contempt. The gospel, under the shade of the
Elector’s regency, spread far and wide, and in this way great damage was
sustained by the papacy.”

Moreover, the severest prohibitions were naturally mitigated during an
interregnum. In every thing there was more freedom and greater facility of
action. Liberty which began to shed its rays on the infant Reformation, rapidly
developed the still tender plant, and any one might have been able to predict
how favourable political freedom would prove to the progress of evangelical
Christianity.

Miltitz, having arrived in Saxony before the death of Maximilian, lost no time
in visiting his old friend Spalatin; but no sooner did he begin his complaint
against Luther than the chaplain made an attack upon Tezel, acquainting the
nuncio with the lies and blasphemies of the vender of indulgences, and assuring
him that all Germany blamed the Dominican for the division which was rending the
Church.

Miltitz was taken by surprise. Instead of accuser he had become the accused.
Turning all his wrath upon Tezel, he summoned him to appear at Altenburg and
give an account of his conduct. The Dominican, as great a coward as a bully, and
afraid of the people whom he had provoked by his impostures, had ceased his
peregrinations over town and country, and was living in retirement in the
college of St. Paul. He grew pale on receiving the letter of Miltitz. Even Rome
is abandoning, threatening, and condemning him—is insisting on dragging him from
the only asylum in which he feels himself in safety, and exposing him to the
fury of his enemies … Tezel refused to obey the nuncio’s summons. “Assuredly,”
wrote he to Miltitz, on the 31st of December, 1518, “I would not regard the
fatigues of the journey if I could leave Leipsic without endangering my life;
but the Augustin, Martin Luther, has so stirred up men in power, and incensed
them against me that I am not in safety any where. A great number of Luther’s
partizans have conspired my death, and therefore I cannot possibly come to you.”
There was a striking contrast between the two men, the one of whom was then
living in the college of St. Paul at Leipsic, and the other in the cloister of
the Augustins at Wittemberg. In presence of danger the servant of God displayed
intrepid courage—the servant of men despicable cowardice.

Miltitz had orders, in the first instance, to employ the arms of persuasion; and
it was only in the event of failure that he was to produce his seventy briefs,
and at the same time endeavour, by all the favours of Rome, to induce the
Elector to put down Luther. He accordingly expressed a desire to have an
interview with the Reformer. Their common friend, Spalatin, offered his house
for this purpose, and Luther left Wittemberg on the 2nd or 3rd of January to
repair to Altenburg. At this interview Miltitz exhausted all the address of a
diplomatist and a Roman courtier. The moment Luther arrived the nuncio
approached him with great demonstrations of friendship. “O,” thought Luther,
“how completely his violence is turned into gentleness! This new Saul came into
Germany provided with more than seventy apostolic briefs to carry me alive and
in chains to murderous Rome, but the Lord has cast him down on the way.”

“Dear Martin,” said the pope’s chamberlain to him in a coaxing tone, “I thought
you were an old theologian sitting quietly behind your stove, and stuffed with
theological crotchets; but I see that you are still young, and in the full
vigour of life. Do you know,” continued he in a more serious tone, “that you
have stirred up the whole world against the pope and attached it to yourself?”2
Miltitz was aware that to flatter men’s pride is the most effectual mode of
seducing them; but he knew not the man with whom he had to do. “Had I an army of
twenty-five thousand men,” added he, “assuredly I would not undertake to seize
you and carry you off to Rome.” Rome, notwithstanding of her power, felt herself
feeble in presence of a poor monk, and the monk felt strong in presence of Rome.
“God,” said Luther, “arrests the billows of the ocean at the shore, and arrests
them … by the sand.”4 The nuncio, thinking he had thus prepared the mind of his
opponent, continued as follows: “Do you yourself bind up the wound which you
have inflicted on the Church, and which you alone can cure.” “Beware,” added he,
letting a few tears fall, “beware of raising a tempest, which would bring ruin
on Christendom.” He then began gradually to insinuate that a recantation was the
only remedy for the evil; but he at the same time softened the offensiveness of
the term by giving Luther to understand that he had the highest esteem for him,
and by expressing his indignation at Tezel. The net was laid by a skilful hand,
and how was it possible to avoid being taken in it? “Had the Archbishop of Mentz
spoken thus to me at the outset,” said the Reformer afterwards, “this affair
would not have made so much noise.”6

Luther then replied. With calmness, but also with dignity and force, he stated
the just grievances of the Church; expressed all the indignation he felt at the
Archbishop of Mentz, and nobly complained of the unworthy treatment he had
received from Rome, notwithstanding of the purity of his intentions. Miltitz,
though he had not expected this firm language, was able, however, to conceal his
wrath.

Luther resumed, “I offer to be silent in future as to these matters, and let the
affair die out of itself, provided my opponents also are silent; but if they
continue to attack me, a petty quarrel will soon beget a serious combat. My
armour is quite ready. I will do still more,” added he, after a momentary pause,
“I will write his Holiness, acknowledging that I have been somewhat too violent,
and declaring that it was as a faithful child of the Church I combated harangues
which subjected her to mockery and insult from the people. I even consent to
publish a document in which I will request all who read my books not to see any
thing in them adverse to the Roman Church, but to remain subject to her. Yes: I
am disposed to do every thing and bear every thing; but as to retractation never
expect it from me.”

Luther’s decided tone convinced Miltitz that the wisest course was to appear
satisfied with the promise which the Reformer had just made, and he merely
proposed that an archbishop should be appointed arbiter to decide certain points
which might come under discussion. “Be it so,” said Luther, “but I am much
afraid that the pope will not consent to have a judge. In that case no more will
I accept the judgment of the pope, and then the strife will begin anew. The pope
will give out the text, and I will make the commentary.”

Thus terminated the first interview between Luther and Miltitz. They had a
second, in which the truce, or rather peace, was signed. Luther immediately
informed the Elector of what had passed. “Most serene prince and very gracious
lord,” wrote he, “I hasten very humbly to inform your Electoral Highness, that
Charles de Miltitz and I have at length agreed, and have terminated the affair
by means of the two following articles:—

“1st, Both parties are forbidden to preach or write, or to do any thing further
in reference to the dispute which has arisen.

“2ndly, Miltitz will immediately acquaint the holy father with the state of
matters. His holiness will order an enlightened bishop to enquire into the
affair, and specify the erroneous articles which I am required to retract. If I
am found to be in error, I will retract willingly, and never more do any thing
that may be prejudicial to the honour or the authority of the holy Roman
Church.” The agreement being thus made, Miltitz appeared quite delighted. “For a
hundred years,” exclaimed he, “no affair has given the cardinals and Roman
courtiers more anxiety than this. They would have given ten thousand ducats
sooner than consent to its longer continuance.” The chamberlain of the pope made
a great show of feeling before the monk of Wittemberg. Sometimes he expressed
joy, at other times shed tears. This display of sensibility made little
impression on the Reformer, but he refrained from showing what he thought of it.
“I looked as if I did not understand what we meant by these crocodile tears,”
said he. The crocodile is said to weep when it cannot seize its prey.

Luther having accepted an invitation to supper from Miltitz, the host laid aside
the stiffness attributed to his office, while Luther gave full scope to his
natural gaiety. It was a joyous repast, and when the parting hour arrived, the
legate took the heretical doctor in his arms and kissed him.3 “A Judas kiss,”
thought Luther, “I pretended,” wrote he to Staupitz, “not to comprehend all
these Italian manners.” Was this then to be in truth the kiss of reconciliation
between Rome and the dawning Reformation? Miltitz hoped so, and rejoiced at it,
for he had a nearer view than the courtiers of Rome of the fearful results which
the Reformation might produce in regard to the papacy. If Luther and his
opponents are silent, said he to himself, the dispute will be ended, and Rome by
availing herself of favourable circumstances will regain all her ancient
influence. It thus seemed that the debate was drawing to a close: Rome had
stretched out her arms and Luther had apparently thrown himself into them; but
the Reformation was the work not of man but of God. The error of Rome consisted
in seeing the quarrel of a monk where she ought to have seen an awakening of the
Church. The revival of Christendom was not to be arrested by the kisses of a
pope’s chamberlain.

Miltitz, in fulfilment of the agreement which he had just concluded, proceeded
from Altenburg to Leipsic, where Tezel was residing. There was no occasion to
shut Tezel’s month, for, sooner than speak, he would, if it had been possible,
have hidden himself in the bowels of the earth; but the nuncio was determined to
discharge his wrath upon him. Immediately on his arrival at Leipsic Miltitz
summoned the unhappy Tezel before him, loaded him with reproaches, accused him
of being the author of the whole mischief, and threatened him with the pope’s
displeasure. Nor was this all: the agent of the house of Fugger, who was then at
Leipsic, was confronted with him. Miltitz laid before the Dominican the accounts
of that house, together with papers which he himself had signed, and proved that
he had squandered or stolen considerable sums. The poor wretch, who had stickled
at nothing in his day of glory, was overwhelmed by the justice of these
accusations: despair seized him, his health gave way, and he knew not where to
hide his shame. Luther heard of the miserable condition of his old enemy, and
was the only person who felt for him. In a letter to Spalatin he says, “I pity
Tezel.” Nor did he confine himself to such expressions. He had hated not the man
but his misconduct, and, at the moment when Rome was pouring out her wrath upon
him, wrote him in the most consolatory terms. But all was to no purpose. Tezel,
stung by remorse, alarmed at the reproaches of his best friends, and dreading
the anger of the pope, not long after died miserably, and as was supposed of a
broken heart.2 Luther, in fulfilment of his promises to Miltitz, on the 3rd of
March wrote the following letter to the pope:—

“Blessed Father! will your Blessedness deign to turn your paternal ears, which
are like those of Christ himself, towards your poor sheep and kindly listen to
its bleat. What shall I do, Most Holy Father! I am unable to bear the fierceness
of your anger, and know not how to escape from it. I am asked to retract, and
would hasten to do so could it lead to the end which is proposed by it. But,
owing to the persecutions of my enemies, my writings have been circulated far
and wide, and are too deeply engraven on men’s hearts to be effaced. A
recantation would only add to the dishonour of the Church of Rome, and raise an
universal cry of accusation against her. Most Holy Father! I declare before God
and all his creatures, that I have never wished, and do not now wish, either by
force or guile, to attack the authority of the Roman Church or of your Holiness.
I acknowledge that there is nothing in heaven or on the earth which ought to be
put above this Church, unless it be Jesus Christ the Lord of all.”

These words might seem strange and even reprehensible in the mouth of Luther,
did we not reflect that the light did not break in upon him all at once, but by
slow and progressive steps. They show, and this is very important, that the
Reformation was not simply an opposition to the papacy. Its accomplishment was
not effected by warring against this or that form, or by means of this or that
negative tendency. Opposition to the pope was only one of its secondary
features. Its creating principle was a new life, a positive doctrine—“Jesus
Christ, the Lord of all and paramount to all—to Rome herself,” as Luther says in
the conclusion of his letter. To this principle the revolution of the 16th
century is truly to be ascribed.

It is probable that at an earlier period a letter from the monk of Wittemberg,
positively refusing to retract, would not have been allowed by the pope to pass
without animadversion. But Maximilian was dead, the topic of engrossing interest
was the election of his successor, and amid the political intrigues which then
agitated the pontifical city, Luther’s letter was overlooked. The Reformer was
employing his time to better purpose than his powerful antagonist. While Leo X,
engrossed by his interests as a temporal prince, was straining every nerve to
prevent a dreaded neighbour from reaching the Imperial throne, Luther was daily
growing in knowledge and in faith. He studied the Decretals of the popes, and
made discoveries which greatly modified his views. Writing Spalatin he says, “I
am reading the Decretals of the popes, and, let me say it in your ear, I know
not whether the pope is Antichrist himself or only his apostle; to such a degree
in these Decretals is Christ outraged and crucified.”

Still he continued to respect the ancient Church of Rome, and had no thought of
separating from her. “Let the Roman Church,” said he in the explanation which he
had promised Miltitz to publish, “be honoured of God above all others. On this
point there cannot be a doubt. St. Peter, St. Paul, forty-six popes, and several
hundred thousand martyrs, have shed their blood in her bosom, and there
vanquished hell and the world, so that the eye of God specially rests upon her.
Although every thing about her is now in a very sad condition that is no ground
for separating from her. On the contrary the worse things are, the more firmly
we should cling to her. Our separation is not the means by which she can be
improved. We must not abandon God because there is a devil; nor the children of
God who are still at Rome because the majority are wicked. No sin, no
wickedness, can justify us in destroying charity or violating unity; for charity
can do all things, and nothing is difficult to unity.”

It was not Luther that separated from Rome, but Rome that separated from Luther,
and by so doing rejected the ancient catholic faith of which he was then the
representative. Nor was it Luther that deprived Rome of her power and compelled
her bishop to descend from an usurped throne. The doctrines which he announced,
the doctrine of the Apostles, again divinely proclaimed throughout the Church
with great force and admirable purity, alone could prevail against a power by
which the Church had for ages been enslaved.

These declarations, which Luther published at the end of February, did not fully
satisfy Miltitz and De Vio. These two vultures, after both missing their prey,
had retired within the ancient walls of Trèves. There, seconded by the
Prince-archbishop, they hoped jointly to accomplish the object in which they had
failed individually. The two nuncios were aware that nothing more was to be
expected from Frederick, now invested with supreme power in the empire. They saw
that Luther persisted in his refusal of retractation. The only plan, therefore,
was to withdraw the heretical monk from the protection of the Elector, and
entice him into their own neighbourhood. If the Reformer were once in Trèves, in
a state subject to a prince of the Church, he would be dexterous indeed if he
got away without giving full satisfaction to the sovereign pontiff. The scheme
was immediately proceeded with. “Luther,” said Miltitz to the Elector-archbishop
of Trèves, “has accepted your Grace as arbiter; call him therefore before you.”
The Elector of Trèves accordingly (3rd May) wrote to the Elector of Saxony, and
requested him to send Luther. De Vio, and afterwards Miltitz himself, also
wrote, announcing that the rose of gold had arrived at Augsburg, at the house of
Fugger. Now, thought they, is the moment to strike the decisive blow. But things
were changed, and neither Frederick nor Luther felt alarmed. The Elector,
understanding his new position, had no longer any fear of the pope and far less
of his servants. The Reformer, seeing Miltitz and De Vio in concert, had some
idea of the fate which awaited him if he complied with their invitation.
“Everywhere,” says he, “on all hands, and in all ways, they seek my life.”
Besides, he had requested the pope to decide; but the pope, engrossed with
crowns and intrigues, had given no answer. Luther thus wrote to Miltitz: “How
could I undertake the journey, without an order from Rome, amid the troubles
which shake the empire? How could I face so many dangers and subject myself to
so much expence, I who am the poorest of men?” The Elector of Trèves, a man of
wisdom and moderation, and a friend of Frederick, was willing to meet his views.
He had no desire, moreover, to involve himself in the affair without being
positively called upon. He therefore agreed with the Elector of Saxony to defer
the investigation till the next diet. Two years elapsed before this diet
assembled at Worms.

While the hand of Providence successfully warded off all the dangers which
threatened him, Luther was boldly advancing to a result of which he was not
himself aware. His reputation was extending, the cause of truth was gaining
strength, and the number of the students of Wittemberg, among whom were the most
distinguished young men in Germany, rapidly increased. “Our town,” wrote Luther,
“can scarcely contain all who come to it;” and on another occasion, “The number
of students increases out of measure, like a stream overflowing its banks.” But
Germany was no longer the only country in which the voice of the Reformer was
heard. It had passed the frontiers of the empire, and begun to shake the
foundations of the Roman power in the different states of Christendom.
Frobenius, the famous printer of Bâle, had published the collected Works of
Luther, which were rapidly disposed of. At Bâle even the bishop applauded
Luther; and the Cardinal of Sion, after reading his work, exclaimed somewhat
ironically, and punning on his name, “O, Luther, thou art a true Luther!” (a
true purifier, Lauterer.)

Erasmus was at Louvain when Luther’s works arrived in the Netherlands. The prior
of the Augustins of Antwerp, who had studied at Wittemberg, and according to the
testimony of Erasmus, held true primitive Christianity, and many other Belgians
besides, read them with avidity. “But,” says the scholar of Rotterdam, “those
who sought only their own interest, and entertained the people with old wives’
fables, gave full vent to their grovelling fanaticism.” “It is not in my power,”
says Erasmus, in a letter to Luther, “to describe the emotions, the truly tragic
scenes, which your writings have produced.

Frobenius sent six hundred copies of the works into France and Spain. They were
publicly sold at Paris, and, as far as appears, the doctors of Sorbonne then
read them with approbation. “It was time,” said several of them, “that those
engaged in the study of the Holy Scriptures should speak thus freely.” In
England the Works were received with still greater eagerness. Spanish merchants
at Antwerp caused them to be translated into their native tongue, and sent them
into Spain. “Assuredly,” says Pallavicini, “these merchants were of Moorish
blood.”

Calvi, a learned bookseller of Pavia, carried a great number of copies of the
works into Italy, and circulated them in all the transalpine towns. This learned
man was animated not by a love of gain but a desire to contribute to the revival
of piety. The vigour with which Luther maintained the cause of godliness filled
him with joy. “All the learned of Italy,” exclaimed he, “will concur with me,
and we will see you celebrated in stanzas composed by our most distinguished
poets.”

Frobenius, in transmitting a copy of the publication to Luther, told him all
these gladdening news, and added, “I have disposed of all the copies except ten,
and never had so good a return.” Other letters also informed Luther of the joy
produced by his works. “I am glad,” says he, “that the truth gives so much
pleasure, although she speaks with little learning, and in a style so
barbarous.”

Such was the commencement of the revival in the different countries of Europe.
In all countries, if we except Switzerland, and even France where the gospel had
previously been heard, the arrival of Luther’s writings forms the first page in
the history of the Reformation. A printer of Bâle diffused these first germs of
the truth. At the moment when the Roman pontiff entertained hopes of suppressing
the work in Germany, it began in France, the Netherlands, Italy, Spain, England,
and Switzerland; and now, even should Rome hew down the original trunk, what
would it avail? The seeds are already diffused over every soil.


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  CHAPTER 50: CHAPTER II
========================================================================

The War seems ended in Germany—Eck Revives the Contest—Debate between Eck and
Carlstadt—The Question of the Pope—Luther Replies—Alarm of Luther’s
Friends—Luther’s courage—Truth triumphs single-handed—Refusal of Duke
George—Delight of Mosellanus and Fears of Erasmus.

While the combat was only beginning beyond the limits of the empire it seemed to
him almost ceased within it. The most blustering soldiers of Rome, the
Franciscan monks of Jûterbock, after having imprudently attacked Luther, had,
after a vigorous rejoinder from the Reformer, hastened to resume silence. The
partisans of the pope were quiet; and Tezel was unfit for service. Luther’s
friends conjured him not to persist in the contest, and he had promised to
comply. The theses were beginning to be forgotten. By this perfidious peace the
eloquent tongue of the Reformer was completely paralysed; and the Reformation
seemed to be arrested. “But,” says Luther afterwards, when speaking of this
period, “men were imagining vain things, for the Lord had arisen to judge the
nations.” “God,” says he in another place, “does not lead but urges and hurries
me along. I am not my own master. I would fain be at rest, but am precipitated
into the midst of tumult and revolution.”3 The person who renewed the contest
was Eck the schoolman, Luther’s old friend, and the author of the Obelisks. He
was sincerely attached to the papacy, but seems to have been devoid of genuine
religious sentiment, and to have belonged to a class of men, at all times too
numerous, who value learning, and even theology and religion, merely as a means
of gaining a name in the world. Vain glory lurks under the priest’s cassock as
well as the soldier’s helmet. Eck had studied the art of disputation according
to the scholastic rules, and was an acknowledged master in this species of
warfare. While the knights of the middle ages, and the warriors at the period of
the Reformation, sought glory in tournaments, the schoolmen sought it in the
syllogistic disputations, which were often exhibited in universities. Eck, who
was full of himself, stood high in his own opinion, and was proud of his
talents, of the popularity of his cause, and the trophies which he had won in
eight universities in Hungary, Lombardy, and Germany, eagerly longed for an
opportunity of displaying his power and dexterity in debate with the Reformer.
He had spared nothing to secure the reputation of being one of the most
celebrated scholars of the age. He was ever seeking to stir up new discussions,
to produce a sensation, and by means of his exploits procure access to all the
enjoyments of life. A tour which he made in Italy had, by his own account been
only a series of triumphs. The most learned of the learned had been constrained
to subscribe to his theses. A practised bravado, he fixed his eyes on a new
field of battle, where he thought himself secure of victory. That little monk,
who had grown up all at once into a giant, that Luther, whom no one had hitherto
been able to vanquish, offended his pride, and excited his jealousy. It might be
that Eck, in seeking his own glory, might destroy Rome … but scholastic vanity
was not to be arrested by any such consideration. Theologians, as well as
princes, have repeatedly sacrificed the general interest to their individual
glory. Let us attend to the circumstances which gave the doctor of Ingolstadt an
opportunity of entering the lists with his troublesome rival. The zealous but
too ardent Carlstadt was still of one mind with Luther—the special bond of union
between them being their attachment to the doctrine of grace, and their
admiration of St. Augustine. Carlstadt, who was of an enthusiastic temperament,
and possessed little prudence, was not a man to be arrested by the address and
policy of a Miltitz. In opposition to the Obelisks of Dr. Eck, he had published
theses in which he defended Luther and their common faith. Eck had replied, and
Carlstadt, determined not to leave him the last word, had rejoined. The combat
grew warm. Eck, eager to avail himself of so favourable an opportunity, had
thrown down the gauntlet; and the impetuous Carlstadt had taken it up. God
employed the passions of these two men to accomplish his designs. Though Luther
had taken no part in these debates, he was destined to be the hero of the fight.
There are men whom the force of circumstances always brings upon the scene.
Leipsic was fixed upon, and hence the origin of the celebrated discussion which
bears its name.

Eck cared little about combating with Carlstadt, and even vanquishing him.
Luther was the opponent whom he had in view. He accordingly employed every means
to bring him into the field; and with this view published thirteen theses,
directed against the leading doctrines which had been espoused by the Reformer.
The thirteenth was in these terms:—“We deny that the Roman Church was not
superior to other Churches before the time of Pope Sylvester; and we acknowledge
at all times, that he who has occupied the see of St. Peter and professed his
faith,2 is the successor of St. Peter and the vicar of Jesus Christ.” Sylvester
lived in the time of Constantine the Great; and hence Eck, in this thesis,
denied that the primacy which Rome enjoyed was conferred on her by that emperor.

Luther, whose consent to remain silent had not been given without reluctance,
was strongly excited when he read these propositions. He saw that he was the
person aimed at, and felt that he could not, with honour, evade the contest.
“This man,” said he, “names Carlstadt as his antagonist, and at the same time
makes his assault upon me. But God reigns, and knows what result he designs to
bring out of this tragedy. The question is not between Dr. Eck and me. God’s
purpose will be accomplished. Thanks to Eck, this affair, which hitherto has
been mere sport, will at length become serious, and give a fatal blow to the
tyranny of Rome and the Roman Pontiff.”

Rome herself broke the agreement. She did more; when she renewed the signal for
battle, she directed it to a point which Luther had not previously attacked. The
subject which Dr. Eck singled out for his antagonists was the primacy of the
pope. In thus following the dangerous example which Tezel had given, Rome
invited the blows of the champion; and if she left her mangied members on the
arena, she had herself to blame for the punishment inflicted by his mighty arm.
The pontifical supremacy being once overthrown, the whole of the Roman platform
fell to pieces. Hence the papacy was in imminent peril; and yet neither Miltitz
nor Cajetan took any steps to prevent this new contest. Did they imagine that
the Reformation would be vanquished, or were they smitten with that blindness by
which the ruin of the mighty is accomplished?

Luther, who, by his long silence, had given an example of rare moderation,
boldly met the challenge of his antagonist, whose theses he immediately opposed
by counter theses. The last was in these terms:—“The primacy of the Church of
Rome is defended by means of miserable decretals of the Roman pontiffs, composed
within the last four hundred years; whereas this primacy is contradicted by the
authentic history of eleven centuries, the declarations of Holy Scripture, and
the canons of the Council of Nice, which is the purest of all Councils.” At the
same time Luther thus wrote to the Elector:—“God knows it was my firm
determination to be silent; and I rejoiced to see the game at length brought to
a close. So faithfully have I observed the paction concluded with the pope’s
commissioner, that I did not reply to Sylvester Prierias, notwithstanding of the
taunts of adversaries and the counsels of friends. But now Dr. Eck attacks me,
and not only me, but the whole University of Wittemberg besides. I cannot allow
it to be thus covered with obloquy.” At the same time Luther wrote to Carlstadt,
“I am unwilling, excellent Andrew, that you should engage in this quarrel, since
I am the person aimed at.” “I will gladly lay aside my serious labours and enter
into the sports of these flatterers of the Roman pontiff.” Then apostrophising
his adversary with disdain, and calling from Wittemberg to Ingolstadt, he
exclaims—“Now, then, my dear Eck, be courageous, and gird thy sword upon thy
thigh, thou mighty man.4 Having failed to please you as mediator, perhaps I will
please you better as antagonist. Not that I have any thought of vanquishing you,
but after all the trophies which you have gained in Hungary, Lombardy, and
Bavaria, (at least if we are to take your account for it,) I will give you an
opportunity of acquiring the name of the conqueror of Saxony and Misnia, so that
you will be for ever saluted by the glorious title of Augustus.”

All Luther’s friends did not share his courage, for up to this hour none had
been able to withstand the sophistry of Dr. Eck. But what alarmed them most was
the subject of dispute—the primacy of the pope!… How does the poor monk of
Wittemberg dare to encounter this giant who for ages has crushed all his
enemies? The courtiers of the Elector begin to tremble. Spalatin the confidant
of the prince, and intimate friend of the Reformer, is full of anxiety.
Frederick, too, feels uneasy: even the sword of the Knight of the Holy
Sepulchre, with which he had been armed at Jerusalem, would be unequal to this
warfare. Luther alone feels no alarm. His thought is, “The Lord will deliver him
into my hands.” The faith with which he is animated enables him to strengthen
his friends. “I beg of you, my dear Spalatin,” said he, “not to give yourself up
to fear; you know well that if Christ was not with me, all that I have done up
to this hour must have been my ruin. Was it not lately written from Italy, to
the chancellor of the Duke of Pomerania, that I had upset Rome, and that, not
knowing how to appease the tumult, they were purposing to attack me not
according to the forms of justice, but by Roman finesse, (the very words used,)
that is, I presume, by poison, ambush, and assassination?”

“I restrain myself, and from love to the Elector, and the university, keep back
many things which I would employ against Babylon, were I elsewhere. O! my poor
Spalatin! it is impossible to speak of Scripture and of the Church without
irritating the beast. Never, therefore, hope to see me at rest, at least, until
I renounce theology If this work is of God, it will not be terminated before all
my friends have forsaken me, as Christ was forsaken by his disciples. Truth will
endure single-handed, and triumph in virtue of its own prowess, not mine or
yours, or any man’s. If I fall, the world will not perish with me. But, wretch
that I am, I fear I am not worthy to die in such a cause.” “Rome,” he again
wrote about this time, “Rome is burning with eagerness to destroy me, while I
sit quiet and hold her in derision. I am informed that, in the field of Flora at
Rome, one Martin Luther has been publicly burned in effigy, after being loaded
with execrations. I abide their fury.2 The whole world,” continues he, “is in
agitation, heaving to and fro. What will happen? God knows. For my part, I
foresee wars and disasters. The Lord have mercy on us.”

Luther wrote letter after letter to Duke George, in whose states Leipsic is,
entreating permission to repair thither and take part in the debate, but
received no answer. The grandson of the Bohemian king, Podiebrad, alarmed at
Luther’s proposition concerning the pope, and afraid of seeing Saxony involved
in the wars of which Bohemia had so long been the theatre, was unwilling to
grant the doctor’s request. Luther, therefore, determined to publish
explanations of his thirteenth Thesis. But this treatise, far from persuading
Duke George, on the contrary, confirmed him in his resolution. Positively
refusing to give the Reformer authority to debate, he merely allowed him to be
present as a spectator. This was a great disappointment to Luther. Nevertheless,
as he had only one wish, and that was to obey God—he resolved to attend as a
spectator, and await the result. The prince at the same time did every thing in
his power to forward the discussion between Eck and Carlstadt. Duke George was
devoted to the ancient doctrine; but he was upright and sincere, and friendly to
free enquiry, and did not think that an opinion was to be charged with heresy,
merely because it displeased the court of Rome. The Elector, moroever, urged his
cousin to permit the discussion; and the duke, confirmed by Frederick’s
statements, ordered it to take place.

Bishop Adolphus of Merseburg, in whose diocese Leipsic is situated, was more
alive than Miltitz and Cajetan, to the danger of trusting such important
questions to the chances of single combat. Rome could not expose the fruit of
the labours of so many ages to such hazard. All the theologians of Leipsic were
equally alarmed, and implored their bishop to prevent the discussion. Adolphus
accordingly presented most energetic remonstrances to Duke George, who replied
with much good sense. “I am surprised at seeing a bishop so terrified at the
ancient and laudable custom of our fathers in examining doubtful questions as to
matters of faith. If your theologians refuse to defend their doctrines, the
money given to them would be far better employed in the maintenance of aged
women and young children who would be able at least to spin and sing.” This
letter had little effect on the bishop and his theologians. There is in error a
secret consciousness which makes it dread enquiry even when making loud
professions of being favourable to it. After an imprudent advance it makes a
cowardly retreat. Truth did not give the challenge, but firmly stood its ground.
Error gave it, and ran off. Moreover, the prosperity of the university of
Wittemberg, excited the jealousy of that of Leipsic. The monks and priests
inveighed from the pulpits of that city, urging the people to shun the new
heretics, slandering Luther, and painting him, as well as his friends, in the
blackest colours, in order to stir up the fanaticism of the populace against the
Reformers. Tezel, who was still alive, awoke to cry from the depth of his
retreat,—“It is the devil that is forcing on this contest.”2

All the professors of Leipsic, however, did not participate in these
apprehensions. Some belonged to the indifferent class, consisting of persons who
are always ready to laugh at the faults of both parties. Of this class was the
Greek professor Peter Mosellanus, who cared very little for John Eck, Carlstadt,
and Martin Luther, but anticipated great amusement from the strife. Writing to
his friend Erasmus, he says, “John Eck, who is the most illustrious of pen
gladiators and rhapsodists, and like the Socrates of Aristophanes, contemns even
the gods, is to have a turn in debate with Andrew Carlstadt. The battle will end
in uproar, and there will be laughter in it for ten Democratuses.” The timid
Erasmus, on the contrary, was frightened at the idea of a combat, and his
prudence, ever ready to take alarm, would fain have prevented this discussion.
In a letter to Melancthon, he says, “If you will be advised by Erasmus, you will
be more anxious to promote the advancement of sound literature than to attack
the enemies of it. My belief is that, in this way, our progress will be greater.
Above all, while engaged in this struggle, let us not forget that victory must
be obtained, not only by eloquence, but also by moderation and meekness.”
Neither the alarms of priests, nor the prudence of pacificators, could now
prevent the combat. The parties made ready their weapons.


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  CHAPTER 51: CHAPTER III
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Arrival of Eck and the Wittembergers—Amsdorf—The Students—Carlstadt’s
accident—Placard—Eck and Luther—Pleissenburg—Shall Judges be appointed?—Luther
objects. At the time when the Electors met at Frankfort to give an emperor to
Germany, (June, 1519,) theologians met at Leipsic for an act which, though
unnoticed by the world, was destined to be not less important in its results.

Eck was the first who arrived at the place of rendezvous. On the 21st June he
entered Leipsic in company with Poliander, a young man whom he had brought from
Ingolstadt to report the debate. All kinds of honours were paid to the
scholastic doctor, who, on the Fête Dieu, paraded the town in full canonicals,
and at the head of a numerous procession. There was a general eagerness to see
him. According to his own account, all the inhabitants were in his favour.
“Nevertheless,” adds he, “a rumour was current in the town that I was to be
worsted in the encounter.” The day after the fête, viz., Friday, 24th June, (St.
John’s Day,) the Wittembergers arrived. Carlstadt, Eck’s destined opponent, came
first in a chariot by himself. Next, in an open carriage, came Duke Barnim of
Pomerania, who was then studying at Wittemberg under the direction of a tutor,
and had been elected rector of the University. On each side of him sat the two
great theologians, the fathers of the Reformation, Melancthon and Luther.
Melancthon had been unwilling to quit his friend. He had said to Spalatin,
“Martin, the soldier of the Lord, has stirred up this fetid marsh. I cannot
think of the shameful conduct of the pope’s theologians without indignation. Be
firm, and adhere to us.” Luther himself had expressed a desire that his Achates,
as he has been called, should accompany him.

John Lange, vicar of the Augustins, some doctors in law, several masters of
arts, two licentiates in theology, and other ecclesiastics, among whom Nicolas
Amsdorf was conspicuous, closed the rear. Amsdorf, the member of a noble family
in Saxony, disregarding the brilliant career which his birth might have opened
to him, had devoted himself to theology. The theses on indulgences having
brought him to the knowledge of the truth, he had forthwith made a bold
profession of the faith. Vigorous in intellect and vehement in temper, Amsdorf
often pushed on Luther, by nature abundantly ardent, to acts which were perhaps
imprudent. Born to high rank, he was not overawed by the great, and occasionally
addressed them with a freedom bordering on rudeness. “The gospel of Jesus
Christ,” said he one day in an assembly of nobles, “belongs to the poor and
afflicted, and not to you princes, lords, and courtiers, whose lives are passed
in luxury and joy.”3 But we have not yet mentioned the whole train from
Wittemberg. A large body of students accompanied their teachers. Eck affirms
that the number amounted to two hundred. Armed with pikes and halberds, they
walked beside the carriages of the doctors ready to defend them, and proud of
their cause.

Such was the order in which the body of Reformers entered Leipsic. Just as they
passed the Grimma gate, which is in front of St. Paul’s cemetery, one of the
wheels of Carlstadt’s carriage broke down. The archdeacon, who, with great
self-complacency, was enjoying the solemn entry, tumbled into the mire. He was
not hurt, but was obliged to proceed to his lodgings on foot. Luther’s chariot,
which was immediately behind Carlstadt’s, moved rapidly forward, and delivered
the Reformer safe and sound. The inhabitants of Leipsic, who had assembled to
witness the entry of the Wittemberg champions, considered the accident as a bad
omen for Carlstadt; and the inference was soon current over the town, viz., that
he would be defeated in the combat, but that Luther would come off victorious.

Adolphus of Merseberg did not remain idle. As soon as he learned the approach of
Luther and Carlstadt, and even before they had lighted from their carriages, he
caused a notice to be posted up on all the church-doors forbidding the
discussion under pain of excommunication. Duke George, astonished at his
presumption, ordered the town council to tear down the bishop’s placard, and
imprison the individual which had been employed to put it up. The Duke George,
who had come in person to Leipsic, attended by all his court—among others by
Jerôme Emser, with whom Luther spent the famous evening at Dresden, sent the
disputants the usual presents.3 “The duke,” boasted Eck, “presented me with a
fine stag, and gave Carlstadt only a roebuck.”

Eck was no sooner informed of Luther’s arrival than he called upon him—“What!”
said he, “it is said that you refuse to debate with me.”

Luther.—“How can I when the duke forbids me?”

Eck.—“If I cannot debate with you, I am not anxious to have any thing to do with
Carlstadt. It was for you I came here.” Then, after a short pause, he added—“If
I obtain the duke’s permission, will you take the field?”

Luther (joyfully).—“Obtain it, and we shall debate.”

Eck forthwith repaired to the duke, and tried to dissipate his fears,
representing to him that he was certain of victory, and that the authority of
the pope, so far from suffering by the discussion, would come out of it more
glorious. “We must strike at the head. If Luther stands erect, so do all his
adherents—if he falls, they all fall.” George granted permission. The duke had
caused a large hall to be prepared in his palace of Pleissenburg. Two desks had
been erected opposite to each other, tables arranged for the notaries who were
to take down the discussion in writing, and benches for the spectators. The
desks and benches were covered with rich tapestry. At the doctor of Wittemberg’s
desk was suspended the protrait of St. Martin, after whom he was named; and at
that of Dr Eck, the portrait of the knight of St. George. “We shall see,” said
the arrogant Eck, with his eye on the emblem, “whether I do not, with my steed,
trample down my enemies.” Every thing bespoke the importance which was attached
to the combat. On 25th June, the parties met in the castle to arrange the order
of proceeding. Eck, who had more confidence in his declamation and gesture than
in his arguments, exclaimed, “We will debate freely, off hand, and the notaries
will not take down our words in writing.

Carlstadt.—“The agreement was, that the discussion should be written down,
published, and submitted to the judgment of all men.”

Eck.—“To write down every thing is to wear out the spirit of the disputants, and
protract the battle. In that case there can be no hope of the vivacity requisite
in an animated debate. Do not lay an arrest on the flow of eloquence.”

Dr. Eck’s friends supported his proposal, but Carlstadt persisted in his
objection, and Eck was obliged to yield.

Eck.—“Be it so, let there be writing; but, at all events, the debate, when taken
down by the notaries, is not to be published before it has been submitted to the
decision of judges.”

Luther.—“The truth of Dr. Eck and the Eckians fears the light.”

Eck.—“There must be judges.”

Luther.—“And what judges?”

Eck.—“After the debate is over we will agree upon them.” The object of the
partisans of Rome was evident. If the theologians of Wittemberg accepted judges,
their cause was lost. It was obvious beforehand who the persons were whom their
opponents would suggest; and yet the Reformers, if they refused them, would be
covered with obloquy, as it would be circulated every where that they were
afraid of submitting to impartial judges. The judges whom the Reformers desired
were not individuals whose opinion was already declared, but the whole of
Christendom. Their appeal was made to the general voice. It mattered little who
condemned them, if, in pleading their cause in presence of the Christian world,
they succeeded in bringing some individuals to the light. “Luther,” says a Roman
historian, “demanded all the faithful for judges—in other words, demanded a
tribunal so numerous that there could be no urn large enough to hold its votes.”
The meeting broke up. “See their stratagem,” said Luther and his friends to each
other. “They would to a certainty ask to have the pope or the universities for
judges.” In fact, the theologians of Rome, next morning, sent one of their party
to Luther, with a proposal that the judge should be … the pope!… “The pope!”
said Luther, “how could I accept him?”

“Beware,” exclaimed all his friends, “of accepting conditions so unjust.” Eck
and his friends having consulted anew, gave up the pope, and proposed certain
universities. “Don’t take from us the liberty which you have already granted
us,” replied Luther. “We cannot yield this point,” resumed Eck. “Then,”
exclaimed Luther, “I don’t debate.”

They again parted, and what had just passed was talked of over the whole town.
The Romans kept crying every where, “Luther won’t debate—he refuses to accept of
any judge!” Commenting on, and torturing his words, they endeavoured to
represent them in the most unfavourable light. “What! truly? he will not
debate?” say the best friends of the Reformer, and hasten to him to express
their alarm. “You decline the contest,” exclaim they. “Your refusal will bring
eternal disgrace on your university and your cause.” This was to attack Luther
in his most tender point. “Very well,” replied he, his heart filled with
indignation, “I accept the terms which are imposed on me; but I reserve a right
of appeal, and I decline the Court of Rome.”


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  CHAPTER 52: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

The Procession—Mass—Mosellanus—Veni, Sancte Spiritus!—Portraits of Luther and
Carlstadt—Doctor Eck—Carlstadt’s Books—Merit of Congruity—Natural
Powers—Scholastic distinction—Point where Rome and the Reformation
separate—Grace gives man freedom—Carlstadt’s Note-Book—Commotion in the
auditory—Melancthon during the debate—Manœuvres of Eck—Luther Preaches—The
Citizens of Leipsic—Quarrels of Students and quarrels of Teachers. The 27th of
June was the day fixed for the commencement of the discussion. In the morning
the parties met in the hall of the university, and thereafter walked in
procession to the Church of St. Thomas, where high mass was celebrated by the
order and at the expence of the duke. After service, those present proceeded to
the ducal castle. At their head walked Duke George, and the Duke of Pomerania;
next came counts, abbots, knights, and other persons of distinction; and,
lastly, the doctors of the two parties. A guard composed of seventy-six
citizens, carrying halberds, accompanied the procession, with colours flying,
and drums beating, and halted at the castle gate. On the arrival at the palace,
each took his place in the hall where the debate was to take place—Duke George,
the hereditary Prince John, Prince George of Anhalt, a boy of twelve, and the
Duke of Pomerania, occupying the seats allotted to them.

Mosellanus, by order of the duke, mounted a pulpit, to remind the theologians of
the manner in which the discussion was to be carried on. “If you begin to
quarrel,” said the orator to them, “what difference will there be between a
theological disputant and a swaggering duellist? What is victory here but just
to recall a brother from his error?… Each, it would seem, should be more
desirous to be conquered than to conquer.” At the conclusion of the address,
sacred music echoed along the aisles of the Pleissenberg, the whole assembly
knelt down, and the ancient hymn of invocation to the Holy Spirit, “Veni, Sancte
Spiritus,” was sung. Solemn hour in the annals of the Reformation! The
invocation was thrice repeated; and, while the solemn chant was pealing, the
defenders of the ancient, and the champions of the new doctrines, the men of the
Church of the middle ages, and those desirous of re-establishing the Church of
the apostles, mingling together without distinction, in lowly attitude bent
their faces to the ground. The ancient tie of one single communion still united
all these different minds, and the same prayer still proceeded from all these
lips as if a single heart had dictated it.

These were the last moments of external lifeless unity for which a new spiritual
living unity was about to be substituted. The Holy Spirit was invoked in behalf
of the Church, and the Holy Spirit was about to answer by a revival of
Christendom. When the hymn and prayer were finished, the assembly rose up. The
discussion should have now commenced; but, as the hour of noon had arrived,
there was an adjournment of two hours. The leading personages who proposed to
attend the debate, having dined with the duke, returned with him after dinner to
the castle hall, which was filled with spectators. Meetings of this description
were the public assemblies in which the representatives of the age discussed
questions of general and engrossing interest. The orators were soon at their
post. That a better idea may be formed of them, we will give their portraits as
drawn by one of the most impartial witnesses of the debate.

“Martin Luther is of middle size; and so emaciated by hard study that one might
almost count his bones. He is in the vigour of life, and his voice is clear and
sonorous. His learning and knowledge of the Holy Scriptures are beyond compare:
he has the whole word of God at command. In addition to this he has great store
of arguments and ideas. It were perhaps to be wished that he had a little more
judgment in arranging his materials. In conversation he is candid and courteous;
there is nothing stoical or haughty about him; he has the art of accommodating
himself to every individual. His address is pleasing, and replete with good
humour. He displays firmness, and is never discomposed by the menaces of his
adversaries, be they what they may. One is, in a manner, compelled to believe
that, in the great things which he has done, God must have assisted him. He is
blamed, however, for being more sarcastic in his rejoinders than becomes a
theologian, especially when he announces new religious ideas.

“Carlstadt is of smaller stature; his complexion is dark and sallow, his voice
disagreeable, his memory less retentive, and his temper more easily ruffled than
Luther’s. Still however he possesses, though in an inferior degree, the same
qualities which distinguish his friend.

“Eck is tall and broad shouldered. He has a strong and truly German voice, and
such excellent lungs that he would be well heard on the stage, or would make an
admirable town-crier. His accent is rather coarse than elegant, and he has none
of the gracefulness so much lauded by Cicero and Quintilian. His mouth, his
eyes, and his whole features, suggest the idea of a soldier or a butcher, rather
than a theologian. His memory is excellent, and were his intellect equal to it
he would be faultless. But he is slow of comprehension, and wants judgment,
without which all other gifts are useless. Hence, when he debates, he piles up,
without selection or discernment, passages from the Bible, quotations from the
Fathers, and arguments of all descriptions. His assurance, moreover, is
unbounded. When he finds himself in a difficulty he darts off from the matter in
hand, and pounces upon another; sometimes, even, he adopts the view of his
antagonist, and changing the form of expression, most dexterously charges him
with the very absurdity which he himself was defending.”

Such, according to Mosellanus, were the men who drew the eyes of the crowds who
were then thronging into the great hall of Pleissenburg. The discussion was
opened by Eck and Carlstadt.

Eck, for some moments, fixed his eyes on the books which lay on the little table
in front of his opponent’s desk, and seemed to give him uneasiness: they were
the Bible and the Fathers. “I decline the discussion,” exclaimed he suddenly,
“if you are allowed to bring books with you.” A theologian have recourse to his
books in discussion! The astonishment of Dr. Eck was still more astonishing. “It
is merely a fig leaf which this Adam is employing to hide his shame,” said
Luther. “Did Augustine consult no books in combating the Manichees?” No matter!
Eck’s partisans made a great noise. Carlstadt remonstrated. “The man is
altogether devoid of memory,” said Eck. At last it was decided, agreeably to the
desire of the chancellor of Ingolstadt, that each disputant should have the use
only of his memory and his tongue. “Thus then,” said several, “the object in
this debate will not be to discover truth, but to show off the eloquence and
memory of the disputants.” The discussion lasted seventeen days; but as it is
impossible to give the whole of it, we must, as a historian says, imitate
painters who, in representing a battle, place the most distinguished exploits in
front, and leave the others in the back ground. The subject of discussion
between Eck and Carlstadt was important. “Before conversion,” said Carlstadt,
“the will of man is incapable of doing good; every good work comes entirely and
exclusively from God, who gives first the will to do, and afterwards the ability
to perform.” This truth is proclaimed by the Scriptures, which say, “It is God
which worketh in you, both to will and to do of his good pleasure,” and by
Augustine, who, in disputing with the Pelagians, delivers it in almost the very
same terms. Every work in which there is neither love to God nor obedience to
his will, is, in his sight, devoid of the only quality which could render it
truly good, even should it be in other respects dictated by the most honourable
human motives. Now there is in man a natural enmity to God—an enmity which he is
utterly unable to suppress. He has not the power to do so—he even wants the
will. If ever, therefore, it is to be suppressed, it must be by the power of
God. This is the doctrine of free will, so much declaimed against in the world,
and yet so simple. It had been the doctrine of the church. But the schoolmen had
explained it in a manner which caused it to be misunderstood. “No doubt,” said
they, “the natural will of man cannot do any thing which is truly pleasing to
God; but it can do much to render man more capable and more worthy of receiving
divine grace. These preparatives they termed merit of congruity; “because,” as
St. Thomas expressed it, “it is congruous for God to bestow peculiar favour on
those who make a good use of their will.” In regard, again, to the conversion
which man must undergo, it is no doubt true that, according to the schoolmen,
the grace of God behoved to accomplish it, but still without excluding his
natural powers. “These powers,” said they, “have not been annihilated by sin;
sin only puts an obstacle in the way of their development; but as soon as this
obstacle is removed (and this, according to them, was what the grace of God had
to do,) these powers begin again to act.” To use one of their favourite
comparisons—“the bird whose legs are tied does not thereby lose either its
powers, or forget the art of flying, though it must be loosed by some other hand
before it can be able again to use its wings.” “The same,” said they, “is the
case with man.”3

Such was the question discussed between Eck and Carlstadt. At first Eck seemed
to deny Carlstadt’s propositions out and out, but feeling the difficulty of
maintaining his ground, said, “I grant that the will has not power to do a good
work, but receives it from God.” “Confess then,” rejoined Carlstadt, overjoyed
at obtaining such a concession, “that every good work comes entirely from God.”
“Every good work comes indeed from God,” replied the schoolman subtlely, “but
not entirely.” “There,” exclaimed Melancthon, “goes a discovery well worthy of
theological science.” “An apple,” added Eck, “is all produced by the sun, but
not altogether, and without the co-operation of the tree.” Assuredly no man ever
thought of maintaining that an apple is all produced by the sun.

“Very well,” said his opponents, going still deeper into this delicate question,
so important in philosophy and in religion, “let us consider how God acts on
man, and how man conducts himself when so acted on. “I acknowledge,” said Eck,
“that in conversion the first impulse comes from God, and that the human will is
entirely passive.” So far the disputants were agreed. “I acknowledge,” said
Carlstadt, on his part, “that after this first action on the part of God,
something must come from man, something which St. Paul calls the will, and which
the fathers designate by consent.” Here again both parties were agreed—but at
this point the separation began. “This consent of man,” said Eck, “comes partly
from our natural will, and partly from the grace of God.” “No,” said Carlstadt,
“this will in man is entirely created by God.”

4 Hereupon Eck began to express astonishment and indignation at words so well
fitted to impress man with a sense of his utter nothingness. “Your doctrine,”
exclaims he, “makes man a stone or a block, incapable of any counter action.…”
“What,” replied the Reformers, “does not the faculty of receiving the powers
which God produces in him (a faculty which we admit that he possesses)
sufficiently distinguish him from a stone and a block?” “But,” resumed their
antagonist, “by denying man all natural power, you contradict experience.” “We
deny not,” was the reply, “that man possesses certain powers, and has in him a
faculty of reflecting, meditating, and choosing. We only consider these powers
and faculties as mere instruments, incapable of doing any thing that is good
until the hand of God sets them in motion. They are like the saw in the hands of
the sawyer.” The great question of liberty was here debated, and it was easy to
demonstrate that the doctrine of the Reformers did not divest man of the liberty
of a moral agent or make him a passive machine. The liberty of a moral agent
consists in the power of acting conformably to his choice. Every action done
without external constraint, and in consequence of the determination of the mind
itself, is a free action. The mind is determined by motives, but we constantly
see that the same motives act differently on different minds. Many do not act
conformably to the motives which their judgment approves. This inefficiency of
motives is attributable to the obstacles which they meet with in the corruption
of the understanding and the heart. Now, God, by giving a new heart and a new
spirit, removes those obstacles, and thereby so far from depriving man of
freedom, on the contrary, removes what prevented him from acting freely, and in
obedience to the dictates of his conscience. In the language of the gospel it
renders him “free indeed.” (

John 8:36) A slight incident for a short time interrupted the debate. Carlstadt
(this is Eck’s account) had prepared different heads of argument; and, as is
done by many of the orators of our day, read what he had written. Eck saw in
this only a school boy’s tactics, and objected. Carlstadt embarrassed, and
fearing he might be taken at a disadvantage if deprived of his note-book,
insisted on retaining it. “Ah!” said the scholastic doctor, quite proud of the
advantage which he thought he had over him, “his memory is shorter than mine.”
The point having been submitted to arbiters, it was decided that quotations from
the Fathers might be read, but that in other respects the discussion should be
extempore. This first part of the discussion often met with interruption from
the audience. They ruffed and screamed. Any proposition offensive to the ears of
the majority instantly aroused their clamour, and then, as in our day, it was
necessary to call to order. The disputants also occasionally allowed themselves
to be carried away in the heat of discussion.

Melancthon sat near Luther, and attracted almost equal attention. He was of
short stature, and would scarcely have been thought more than eighteen. Luther,
who was a whole head taller, seemed to be united to him by the closest
friendship; they came in, went out, and walked together. “To look at
Melancthon,” says a Swiss theologian, who studied at Wittemberg, “one would
think him a mere boy, but in judgment, learning, and talent he is a giant. It is
difficult to comprehend how so much wisdom and genius can be contained within so
puny a body.” Between the sittings, Melancthon conferred with Carlstadt and
Luther. He assisted them in preparing for the debate, and suggested arguments
drawn from the stores of his vast erudition; but during the discussion he
remained quietly seated among the spectators, giving close attention to every
thing that was said by the theologians. Occasionally, however, he came to the
aid of Carlstadt.2 When the latter was on the point of giving way under the
powerful declamation of the chancellor of Ingolstadt, the young professor
whispered a word in his ear, or slipt a paper to him on which he had noted down
the answer. Eck on one occasion perceived this, and indignant that this
grammarian, as he called him, should presume to intermeddle with the discussion,
turned towards him, and haughtily said, “Be silent, Philip, keep to your own
studies, and give me no disturbance.” Perhaps Eck had already a presentiment of
the formidable adversary he was afterwards to encounter in this young man.
Luther was offended at the rude insult given to his friend; “The judgment of
Philip,” said he, “weighs more with me than that of a thousand doctor Ecks.” The
calm Melancthon easily discerned the weak points of this discussion. “We can
only be surprised,” says he with the wisdom and grace conspicuous in all his
words, “when we think of the violence which was brought to the discussion of
such subjects. How could any advantage be derived from it? The Spirit of God
loves retreat and silence: there dwell those whose hearts he penetrates. The
bride of Christ does not stand in streets and public places, but conducts the
Bridegroom into her mother’s house.”

Both parties claimed the victory. Eck employed all his address to make it appear
that he had gained it. As the points of divergence almost met, he often
exclaimed that he had brought over his opponent to his opinion, or like a new
Proteus, as Luther calls him, turning suddenly round, he stated Carlstadt’s own
opinion in different words, and then asked, with an air of triumph, if he did
not feel constrained to yield. The unskilful, who were unable to detect the
sophist’s manœuvre, applauded and triumphed with him.… In several respects the
match was unequal. Carlstadt was slow, and sometimes left his opponent’s
objections unanswered till next day. Eck, on the contrary, was master of his
subject, and could lay his hand at once on whatever he required. He came forward
with a haughty air, mounted his desk with a firm step, and when there, stamped
with his foot, moved backwards and forwards, made the ceiling ring with his
powerful voice, gave some sort of reply to every argument, and astonished the
audience with his memory and adroitness. Still Eck, without perceiving it,
conceded much more in the discussion than he had intended. His partizans shouted
and laughed at each of his turns, “but,” says Luther, “I strongly suspect they
only made a show of laughing, and were exceedingly vexed at heart when they saw
their chief, who had commenced with so much bravado, quit his standard, abandon
his army, and become a shameless deserter.”

Three or four days after the discussion had commenced, it was interrupted by the
feast of St. Peter and St. Paul. The Duke of Pomerania requested Luther to
preach before him, on the occasion, in his chapel. Luther gladly complied. The
chapel was soon filled, and crowds still arriving, it became necessary to remove
to the great hall of the castle, where the discussion was held. Luther preached
from the text of the day, on the grace of God, and the power of Peter, and gave
a popular exposition of the views which he was wont to maintain before a learned
audience. Christianity causes the light of truth to penetrate alike into the
highest and the humblest intellects, and is in this way distinguished from all
other religions, and from all philosophical systems. The theologians of Leipsic,
who had been present at the sermon, hastened to acquaint Eck with the
expressions which had offended them. “These subtile errors,” exclaimed they,
“must be answered, must be publicly refuted.” This was just what Eck wished. All
the churches were open to him, and on four successive occasions he mounted the
pulpit to declaim against Luther and his sermon. Luther’s friends were
indignant, and demanded that the theologian of Wittemberg should be heard in his
turn. But they demanded in vain. The pulpits were open to the enemies of
evangelical truth, but shut against those who proclaimed it. “I kept silence,”
says Luther, “and was obliged to submit to attacks, insults, and calumnies,
without being able to exculpate and defend myself.” The ecclesiastics were not
the only persons who displayed hostility to the evangelical doctrine: the
citizens of Leipsic were in this respect of one mind with their clergy, and
yielded themselves up with blind fanaticism to the falsehoods and animosities
which were industriously propagated. The principal inhabitants did not visit
either Luther or Carlstadt. They left them unnoticed when they met them in the
street, and tried to prejudice the duke against them. On the other hand they
visited and gave daily entertainments to the doctor of Ingolstadt, who enjoyed
their good cheer, and learnedly discussed the comparative merits of Saxony and
Bavarian beer. His manners, somewhat free, did not indicate a very strict
morality. The only thing offered to Luther was the customary present of wine to
the disputants. Moreover, even those who wished him well were anxious that
others should not know it; several Nicodemites visited him by night or in
secret. There were only two who did themselves honour by publicly declaring
their friendship. These were Dr. Auerback, whom we have already met at Augsburg,
and Dr. Pistor, junior. The greatest excitement prevailed in the town. The two
parties formed, as it were, two hostile camps, and sometimes came to blows. In
taverns, frequent quarrels took place between the students of Leipsic and
Wittemberg. It was openly averred, even at meetings of the clergy, that Luther
carried about with him a devil, confined in a little box. “Whether the devil is
in a box, or only under his frock,” said Eck, maliciously, “I know not; but most
assuredly he is in one or other of them.”

During the discussion several doctors of both parties lodged with the printer
Herbipolis; and the dispute ran so high that the host was obliged to station a
town-officer at the top of the table with a halbert to keep the peace, and
prevent the guests from coming to blows. One day Baumgartner, a vender of
indulgences, had a scuffle with a gentleman, a friend of Luther, and fell into
such a rage that he dropt down dead. Fröschel, who gives the account, says, “I
was one of those who carried him to the grave.” The general agitation which
prevailed was thus manifested. Then, as now, the discourses of the desk were
re-echoed in the drawing-room and in the streets.

Duke George, though very decidedly in favour of Eck, did not betray so much
passion as his subjects. He invited Eck, Luther, and Carlstadt to dine together
with him. He even asked Luther to pay him a visit in private, but soon showed
how strongly he was prejudiced against him. “By your book on the Lord’s Prayer,”
said the duke to him, with bitterness, “you have led many consciences astray.
There are persons who complain of not having been able to say one pater for more
than four days.”


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 53: CHAPTER V
========================================================================

Hierarchy and Rationalism—Two Peasants’ Sons—Eck and Luther begin—The head of
the Church—The primacy of Rome—Equality of Bishops—Peter the Foundation—Christ
the Foundation—Eck insinuates that Luther is a Hussite—Luther on the doctrine of
Huss—Agitation in the audience—Pleasantry of Dr. Eck—The Word alone—The Court
Fool—Luther at Mass—Saying of the Duke—Purgatory—Close of the Discussion. On the
4th of July the debate between Eck and Luther commenced. Every thing announced
that it would be keener, more decisive, and more interesting than that which had
just been concluded, and during which the audience had gradually thinned away.
The two antagonists descended into the arena, resolved not to lay down their
arms till victory should declare in favour of one of them. All were in eager
expectation, for the subject to be debated was the primacy of the pope.
Christianity has two great adversaries: hierarchism and rationalism.
Rationalism, as applied to the doctrine of man’s natural powers, had been
attacked by the Reformation in the former branch of the Leipsic discussion.
Hierarchism, viewed with reference to what is at once its apex, and its base,
viz., the doctrine of the pope, was now to be considered. On the one side
appeared Eck boasting of the debates in which he had been engaged, as a general
boasts of his battles. On the other side stood Luther, to whom the contest
seemed to promise only persecution and obloquy, but who came forward with a good
conscience, a firm resolution to sacrifice everything for the cause of truth,
and a confident expectation founded on faith in God and the deliverance which he
affords. New convictions had sunk deep into his mind; as yet they were not
arranged into a system, but in the heat of debate they flashed forth like
lightning. Grave and intrepid, he manifested a decision which set all trammels
at defiance. His features bore marks of the storms which had raged within his
soul, and of the courage with which he was prepared to face new tempests. Two
peasants’ sons, representatives of the two systems which still divide
Christendom, were on the eve of a contest, the issue of which would go far to
decide the future destiny of the State and the Church. At seven in the morning
the two antagonists were in their desks, in the midst of a numerous and
attentive assembly.

Luther rose and, in the exercise of a necessary precaution, modestly said:—

“In the name of the Lord! Amen. I declare, that the respect which I feel for the
Sovereign Pontiff would have disposed me to avoid this discussion had the
excellent Dr. Eck left me any alternative.”

Eck.—“In thy name, dear Jesus! before I descend into the arena I protest in your
presence, mighty lords, that whatever I shall say is under correction of the
first of all sees, and the master who occupies it.”

After a momentary pause, Eck continued—“There is in the church of God a primacy
derived from Jesus Christ himself. The church militant is an image of the church
triumphant. But the latter is a monarchical hierarchy, rising step by step up to
the sole head, who is God, and, accordingly, Christ has established the same
gradation upon earth. What kind of monster should the Church be if she were
without a head!” …

Luther, (turning towards the audience).—“The doctor is correct in saying that
the universal Church must have a head. If there is any one here who maintains
the contrary, let him stand up? the remark does not at all apply to me.”

Eck.—“If the Church militant has never been without a monarch, I should like to
know who that monarch is, if he is not the pontiff of Rome?”

Luther.—“The head of the Church militant is not a man, but Jesus Christ himself.
This I believe on the testimony of God.” “Christ,” says the Scripture, “must
reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet.” We cannot therefore
listen to those who would confine Christ to the Church triumphant in heaven. His
reign is a reign of faith. We cannot see our Head, and yet we have him.”3

Eck, not admitting that he was beaten, had recourse to other arguments, and
resumed, “According to St. Cyprian, sacerdotal unity is derived from Rome.”

Luther.—“Granted in regard to the Western Church. But is not the Church of Rome
herself a descendant of the Church of Jerusalem, which is properly the mother
and nurse of all the churches?”

Eck.—“St. Jerome declares, that unless an extraordinary power, superior to all
other powers, is given to the pope, churches will have as many schisms as
pontiffs.”

Luther.—“Granted, that is to say, this power might, by human authority, be
attributed to the Roman pontiff, provided all the faithful consent to it. And,
in like manner, I, for my part, deny not that if all the faithful throughout the
world were to concur in acknowledging the bishop, either of Rome, or of Paris,
or of Magdeburg, as prime and sovereign pontiff, it would be necessary to
acknowledge him as such in deference to this universal consent of the Church.
The thing, however, never has been, and never will be seen. Even in our own day
does not the Greek Church refuse her assent to Rome?” At this period Luther was
quite ready to acknowledge the pope as first magistrate of the Church, elected
by her own free choice; but he denied that he was of divine institution. At a
later period he denied that subjection was due to him in any respect, and this
denial he owed to the discussion at Leipsic. Eck had come upon ground which he
did not know so thoroughly as Luther. The latter, it is true, could not maintain
his thesis, that the papacy had not been in existence for more than four
centuries. Eck quoted authorities of an earlier date, and these Luther was
unable to obviate, criticism not having yet attacked the spurious decretals. But
the nearer the discussion was brought to primitive times, the more Luther’s
strength increased. Eck appealed to the Fathers. Luther quoted the Fathers in
reply, and all the hearers were struck with his superiority to his rival.

“That my exposition,” said he, “is that of St. Jerome, I prove by St. Jerome’s
own Epistle to Evagrius, in which he says, “Every bishop, whether at Rome, or
Eugubium, or Constantinople, or Rhegium, or Alexandria, or Tanis, has the same
merit, and the same priesthood. The power of riches, and the humiliation of
poverty, constitute the only precedence or inferiority among bishops.” From the
writings of the Fathers, Luther passed to the decrees of Councils which regard
the bishop of Rome as only a first among equals.

“We read,” says he, “in the decree of the Council of Africa,” “The bishop of the
first see must not be called either prince of the the pontiffs, or sovereign
pontiff, or any other similar name, but only bishop of the first see. Were the
supremacy of the bishop of Rome of divine institution, would not these words be
heretical?”

Eck replied by one of those subtile distinctions which were so familiar to him.

“The bishop of Rome, if you will so have it, is not universal bishop, but bishop
of the universal church.”

Luther.—“I am quite willing to leave this reply unanswered: let our hearers
judge for themselves.”

“Assuredly,” said he, afterwards, “the gloss is worthy of a theologian, and well
fitted to satisfy a disputant thirsting for glory. My expensive sojourn in
Leipsic has not been for nothing, since I have learned that the pope, though not
indeed the universal bishop, is the bishop of the universal church.”

Eck.—“Very well, I come to the essential point. The venerable doctor calls upon
me to prove that the primacy of the church of Rome is of divine institution—I
prove it by these words of Christ: ‘Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will
build my Church.’ St. Augustine, in one of his epistles, has thus expounded the
passage, ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock, that is to say, on this Peter, I
will build my Church.’ It is true, Augustine has elsewhere said that, by this
rock must be understood Christ himself, but he never retracted his former
exposition.”

Luther.—“If the reverend doctor would attack me, he should first reconcile these
contrary statements of Augustine. It is undeniable that St. Augustine has again
and again said that the rock was Christ, and he may perhaps have once said that
it was Peter himself. But even should St. Augustine and all the Fathers say that
the apostle is the rock of which Christ speaks, I would combat their view on the
authority of an apostle, in other words, divine authority; for it is written,
‘No other foundation can any man lay than that is laid, namely, Jesus Christ.’
Peter himself calls Christ, ‘the chief and corner stone on which we are built up
a spiritual house.’ ”

Eck.—“I am astonished at the humility and modesty with which the reverend doctor
undertakes single-handed to combat so many distinguished Fathers, and to know
better than sovereign pontiffs, councils, doctors, and universities.… It would,
certainly, be astonishing that God should have concealed the truth from so many
saints and martyrs … and not revealed it until the advent of the reverend
father!”

Luther.—“The Fathers are not against me. The distinguished doctors, St.
Augustine, and St. Ambrose, speak as I do. ‘Super isto articulo fidei, fundata
est ecclesia,’ says St. Ambrose, when explaining what must be understood by the
rock on which the church is built. Let my opponent then bridle his tongue. To
express himself as he does is to stir up strife, not to discuss like a true
doctor.”

Eck had not expected that his opponent would possess so much knowledge of the
subject, and be able to disentangle himself from the labyrinth in which he tried
to bewilder him. “The reverend doctor,” said he, “has entered the lists after
carefully studying his subject. Your highnesses will excuse me for not
presenting them with such exact researches. I came to debate and not to make a
book.” Eck was astonished, but not beaten. Having no more arguments to give, he
had recourse to a mean and despicable artifice, which, if it did not vanquish
his opponent, would at least subject him to great embarrassment. If the charge
of being a Bohemian, a heretic, a Hussite fastens upon Luther, he is vanquished,
for the Bohemians were detested in the Church. The scene of discussion was not
far from the frontiers of Bohemia. Saxony, which, immediately after the
condemnation of John Huss by the Council of Constance, had been subjected to all
the horrors of a long and ruinous war, was proud of the resistance which she had
then given to the Hussites. The university of Leipsic had been founded to oppose
their tenets, and the discussion was in presence of nobles, princes, and
citizens, whose fathers had fallen in that celebrated struggle. To make out that
Luther was at one with Huss was almost like giving him the finishing blow, and
this was the stratagem to which the doctor of Ingolstadt had recourse. “From
primitive times downwards,” says he, “it was acknowledged by all good
Christians, that the Church of Rome holds its primacy of Jesus Christ himself
and not of man. I must confess, however, that the Bohemians, while obstinately
defending their errors, attacked this doctrine. The venerable father must pardon
me if I am an enemy of the Bohemians, because they are the enemies of the
Church, and if the present discussion has reminded me of these heretics; for, …
according to my weak judgment, … the conclusions to which the doctor has come
are all in favour of their errors. It is even affirmed that the Hussites loudly
boast of this.”

Eck had calculated well. All his partizans received the insinuation with
acclamation, and an expression of applause was general throughout the audience.
“These slanders,” said the Reformer at a later period. “tickled their fancy much
more agreeably than the discussion itself.”

Luther.—“I love not a schism and I never shall. Since the Bohemians, of their
own authority, separate from our unity, they do wrong even were divine authority
decisive in favour of their doctrine; for at the head of all divine authority is
charity and the unity of the Spirit.”

It was at the morning sitting, on the 5th July, that Luther thus expressed
himself. Shortly after, the meeting adjourned for dinner. Luther felt uneasy.
Had he not gone too far in thus condemning the Christians of Bohemia? Have they
not maintained the doctrine which Luther is maintaining at this hour? He sees
all the difficulty of the step before him. Will he declare against the Council
which condemned John Huss, or will he abjure the grand idea of an universal
Christian Church, an idea deeply imprinted on his mind? Resolute Luther
hesitated not. “I must do my duty come what may.” Accordingly, when the assembly
again met at two o’clock, he rose and said firmly:—

“Certain of the tenets of John Huss and the Bohemians are perfectly orthodox.
This much is certain. For instance, ‘That there is only one universal church,’
and again, ‘That it is not necessary to salvation to believe the Roman Church
superior to others.’ Whether Wickliffe or Huss has said so I care not.… It is
the truth.” This declaration of Luther produced an immense sensation in the
audience. The abhorred names of Huss and Wickliffe pronounced with eulogium by a
monk in the heart of a Catholic assembly!… A general murmur was heard. Duke
George himself felt as much alarmed, as if he had actually seen the standard of
civil war, which had so long desolated the states of his maternal ancestors,
unfurled in Saxony. Unable to conceal his emotion, he struck his thigh, shook
his head, and exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by the whole assembly, “The man
is mad!” The whole audience was extremely excited. They rose to their feet, and
every one kept talking to his neighbour. Those who had fallen asleep, awoke.
Luther’s opponents expressed their exultation, while his friends were greatly
embarrassed. Several persons, who till then had listened to him with pleasure,
began to doubt his orthodoxy. The impression produced upon the mind of the duke
by this declaration was never effaced; from this moment he looked upon the
Reformer with an unfavourable eye, and became his enemy.

Luther was not intimidated by this explosion of disapprobation One of his
leading arguments was, that the Greeks had never recognised the pope, and yet
had never been declared heretics; that the Greek Church had subsisted, was
subsisting, and would subsist without the pope, and was a Church of Christ as
much as the Church of Rome. Eck, on the contrary, boldly affirmed that the
Christian Church and the Roman Church were one and the same; that the Greeks and
Orientals, by abandoning the Church, had also abandoned Christian faith, and
unquestionably were heretics. “What!” exclaimed Luther, “Are not Gregory of
Nanzianzen, Basil the Great, Epiphanius, Chrysostom, and an immense number of
other Greek bishops in bliss? and yet they did not believe that the Church of
Rome was superior to other churches!… It is not in the power of the pontiff of
Rome to make new articles of faith. The Christian believer has no other
authority than the Holy Scriptures—they alone constitute divine law. I pray the
illustrious doctor to admit that the pontiffs of Rome were men, and have the
goodness not to make gods of them.”

Eck had recourse to one of those witticisms which at small cost give a little
air of triumph to the person employing them.

“The reverend father,” says he, “not being well versed in the culinary art,
makes an odd mixture of Greek saints and heretics, so that the perfume of
holiness in the one disguises the poison in the other.

Luther—(hastily interrupting Eck.)—“The worthy doctor is impertinent. I do not
hold that there is any communion between Christ and Belial.”

Luther had taken a large step in advance. In 1516, and 1517, he had only
attacked the discourses of the venders of indulgences, and had respected the
decrees of the popes. At a later period he had rejected these decrees, but had
appealed from them to a council. Now he had discarded this last authority also,
declaring that no council can establish a new article of faith, or claim to be
infallible. Thus all human authorities had successively fallen before him. The
sand brought along by the rain and the floods had disappeared; and now, for
building up the ruins of the Lord’s house, there remained only the eternal rock
of the Word of God. “Venerable father!” said Eck to him, “if you believe that a
council, lawfully assembled, can err, you are to me only a heathen man and a
publican.”

Such were the discussions between the two doctors. The audience were attentive
but occasionally began to flag, and hence were pleased with any incident which
enlivened the scene and gave them a momentary relaxation. The gravest matters
have their comic interludes; and so it was at Leipsic.

Duke George, according to the custom of the time, had a court fool, to whom some
wags said, “Luther maintains that a court fool may marry. Eck maintains the
contrary.” On this the fool took a great dislike to Eck, and, every time he came
into the hall with the servants of Duke George, eyed the theologian with a
menacing air. The chancellor of Ingolstadt, not disdaining to descend to
pleasantly, one day shut one eye, (the fool was blind of one,) and with the
other began to squint at the poor creature, who, in a perfect rage, let fly a
volley of abuse. “The whole assembly,” says Peiffer, “burst into laughter.” This
amusing incident somewhat relieved their minds from the stretch on which they
had been kept. At the same time, both in the town and in the churches scenes
occurred which showed how much the partisans of Rome were horrified at Luther’s
bold assertions. An outcry was raised against him, especially in the convents
attached to the pope.

Luther had one day walked into the church of the Dominicans, before high mass.
The only persons present were some monks, saying low mass at the side altars. No
sooner was it told in the cloister that the heretic Luther was in the church
than the monks came down in all haste, laid hold of the ostensorium, and
carrying it into the tabernacle shut it up, carefully watching it, lest the holy
sacrament should be profaned by the heretical eye of the Augustin of Wittemberg.
At the same time, those who were saying mass hastily gathered up their articles,
quitted the altar, ran across the church, and took refuge in the sacristy,
“just,” says a historian, “as if the devil had been at their heels.” The
discussion became the general subject of conversation. In the inns, at the
university, and the court, every one gave his opinion. Duke George, whatever his
irritation may have been, did not obstinately shut his ears against conviction.
One day, when Eck and Luther were dining with him, he interrupted their
conversation, saying, “Let the pope be pope, whether by divine or human law; at
all events he is pope.” Luther was much pleased with the expression. “The
prince,” says he, “never would have uttered it, if my arguments had not made
some impression on him.” The discussion on the primacy of the pope had lasted
during five days. On the 8th of July, the doctrine of purgatory was discussed,
and occupied two days. Luther was still a believer in the existence of
purgatory; but he denied that the doctrine, as held by the schoolmen and his
opponent, was taught either in the Scriptures or by the Fathers. “Our Doctor
Eck,” said he, referring to the superficial knowledge of his opponent, “has
to-day run over the Holy Scriptures almost without touching them, just as an
insect skims the water.” On the 11th July indulgences were discussed. “It was
mere sport and burlesque,” says Luther. “Indulgences gave way at once, and Eck
was almost entirely of my opinion.” Eck himself said, “Had I not disputed with
Doctor Martin on the primacy of the pope, I could almost agree with him.”3 The
discussion afterwards turned on repentance, absolution by the priest, and
satisfactions. Eck, as usual, quoted the schoolmen, the dominicans, and the
canons of the pope. Luther closed the discussion with these words:—

“The reverend doctor flees before the Holy Scriptures, as the devil does before
the cross. For my part, with all due deference to the Fathers, I prefer the
authority of Scripture, and recommend it to our judges.” This closed the debate
between Eck and Luther, but Carlstadt and the doctor of Ingolstadt continued for
two days longer to discuss the subject of human merit and good works. On the
16th July, the whole proceeding, after having lasted twenty days, was closed by
a discourse from the rector of Leipsic. The moment the discourse was finished,
thrilling music burst forth, and the whole concluded with the Te Deum.

But, during this solemn chant, the feelings of the audience no longer were what
they had been during the Veni Spiritus. The presentiments which several persons
had expressed seemed to be actually realised. The blows struck by the champions
of the two systems had made a large wound in the papacy.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 54: CHAPTER VI
========================================================================

Interest felt by the Laity—Luther’s Opinion—Admissions and Boastings of Dr.
Eck—Effects of the Discussion—Poliander—Cellarius—The Young Prince of Anhalt—The
Students of Leipsic—Cruciger—Calling of Melancthon—Emancipation of Luther.

These theological discussions, to which the worldly-minded of the present day
would not devote a few short moments, had been attended and listened to with
eagerness, during twenty days—laymen, knights, and princes, taking a deep
interest in them to the last. Duke Barnim, and Duke George, seemed particularly
attentive, whereas some of the theologians of Leipsic, friends of Dr. Eck,
slept, as an eye-witness expresses it, “quite soundly.” It was even necessary to
awake them on the adjournments, that they might not lose their dinner.

Luther was the first to quit Leipsic, and next Carlstadt. Eck remained several
days after they were gone. No formal decision was given on the points discussed.
Every one spoke as he thought. “There was at Leipsic,” says Luther, “loss of
time, and no investigation of truth. During the two years in which we have been
examining the doctrines of our opponents, we have counted all their bones. Eck,
on the contrary, has hardly skimmed the surface;2 but he cried more in one hour
than we did in two long years.”

Eck, when writing privately to his friends, admitted his defeat to a certain
extent, though he was at no loss for an explanation. “The Wittembergers,” wrote
he to Hochstraten on the 24th July, “defeated me on several points—first,
because they brought books with them—secondly, because they took down the debate
in writing, and examined it at home at their leisure—and thirdly, because they
were more numerous. Two doctors, (Carlstadt and Luther,) Lange, vicar of the
Augustins, two licentiates, Amsdorff, and a very arrogant nephew of Reuchlin,
(Melancthon,) three doctors of law, and several masters of arts, lent their
assistance both in public and private, whereas I stood alone, having nothing but
a good cause for my companion.” Eck forgot Emser, and all the doctors of
Leipsic.

Though these concessions escaped Eck in familiar correspondence, he acted
otherwise in public. The doctor of Ingolstadt, and the theologians of Leipsic,
made a great noise with what they called their victory. They everywhere set
false reports in circulation, while all the tongues of the party reiterated
their expressions of self-complacency. “Eck goes about triumphing,” wrote
Luther. There were disputes, however, in the camp of Rome, in regard to the
laurels. “Had we not come to the help of Eck,” said the theologians of Leipsic,
“the illustrious doctor would have been overthrown.” “The theologians of
Leipsic,” said Eck on his part, “are well enough, but I had hoped too much from
them—I did the whole myself.” “You see,” said Luther to Spalatin, “how they are
chanting a new Iliad, and a new Æneid. They are kind enough to make me a Hector
or a Turnus, while Eck is their Achilles, or Æneas. Their only doubt is whether
the victory was gained by the arms of Eck, or by those of Leipsic. All I can say
to throw light on the matter is, that Eck uniformly kept bawling, and the
Leipsickers as uniformly held their peace.”2

“Eck,” says the elegant, clever, and sagacious Mosellanus “has triumphed in the
estimation of those who do not understand the subject, and who have grown old in
poring over the schoolmen; but, in the estimation of all men of learning,
intellect, and moderation, Luther and Carlstadt are the victors.” The Leipsic
discussion, however, was not destined to vanish into smoke. Every work which is
devoutly performed bears fruit. The words of Luther had penetrated the minds of
his hearers with irresistible force. Several of those who had daily thronged the
castle hall were subdued by the truth, whose leading conquests were made among
her most decided opponents. Even Poliander, the secretary, familiar friend and
disciple of Eck, was gained to the Reformation, and began, in 1522, to preach
the gospel at Leipsic. John Camerarius, professor of Hebrew, one of the keenest
opponents of the Reformation, impressed by the words of the mighty teacher,
began to examine the Holy Scriptures more thoroughly; and, shortly after
throwing up his situation, came to Wittemberg to study at the feet of Luther. He
was afterwards pastor at Frankfort and Dresden.

Among those who had taken their place on the seats reserved for the Court, and
accompanied Duke George, was George of Anhalt, a young prince, twelve years of
age, of a family which had distinguished itself in the wars against the
Saracens. At this time he was studying at Leipsic with his tutor. Great ardour
for science, and a strong attachment to truth, had already become the
characteristics of the illustrious young prince. He was often heard to repeat
the words of Solomon, falsehood ill becomes a prince. The Leipsic discussion
inspired this child with serious reflection, and with a decided leaning to
Luther. Some time after a bishopric was offered to him. His brother, and all his
family, with the view of raising him to high honour in the Church, urged him to
accept it, but he resolutely declined. His pious mother, who was secretly
favourable to Luther, having died, he became possessed of all the Reformer’s
writings. He was constant and fervent in prayer to God, to incline his heart to
the truth; and, often in the solitude of his chamber, exclaimed, with tears,
“Deal mercifully with thy servant, and teach me thy statutes.” His prayers were
heard. Carried forward by his convictions, he fearlessly joined the ranks of the
friends of the gospel. In vain did his guardians, and particularly Duke George,
besiege him with entreaties and remonstrances. He remained inflexible, and the
Duke, half convinced by his pupil’s reasons, exclaimed, “I cannot answer him;
still, however, I will keep by my Church—I am too old a dog to be trained.” We
will afterwards see in this amiable prince one of the finest characters of the
Reformation, one who himself preached the word of life to his subjects, and to
whom the saying of Dion respecting the emperor Marcus Antoninus, has been
applied, “He was through life consistent with himself, he was a good man, a man
free from guile.”3 But Luther’s words met with an enthusiastic reception,
especially from the students. They felt the difference between the spirit and
life of the doctor of Wittemberg, and the sophistical distinctions, and vain
speculations, of the chancellor of Ingolstadt. They saw Luther founding upon the
word of God, and they saw Dr. Eck founding only on human traditions. The effect
was soon visible. The classes of the university of Leipsic almost emptied after
the discussion. One circumstance partly contributed to this. The plague
threatened to make its appearance—but there were many other universities—for
example, Erfurt, or Ingolstadt, to which the students might have repaired. The
force of truth drew them to Wittemberg, where the number of the students was
doubled.

Among those who removed from the one university to the other was a youth of
sixteen, of a melancholy air, who spoke little, and often amid the conversation
and games of his fellow-students seemed absorbed by his own thoughts. His
parents at first thought him of weak intellect, but they soon found him so apt
to learn, and so completely engrossed by his studies, that they conceived high
hopes of him. His integrity, his candour, his modesty, and his piety, made him a
general favourite, and Mosellanus singled him out as a model to all the
university. He was called Gaspard Cruciger, and was originally from Leipsic.
This new student of Wittemberg was afterwards the friend of Melancthon, and the
assistant of Luther in the translation of the Bible. The Leipsic discussion
produced results still more important, in as much as the theologian of the
Reformation then received his call. Modest and silent, Melancthon had been
present at the discussion almost without taking any part in it. Till then his
attention had been engrossed by literature, but the discussion gave him a new
impulse, and gained him over to theology. Henceforth his science did homage to
the word of God. He received the evangelical truth with the simplicity of a
child. His audience heard him expound the doctrines of salvation with a grace
and clearness by which all were charmed. He boldly advanced in this, which was
to him a new career; “for,” said he, “Christ will never leave his people.” From
this moment the two friends walked side by side, contending for liberty and
truth, the one with the energy of St. Paul, and the other with the meekness of
St. John. Luther has admirably expressed the difference of their calling:—“I was
born,” said he, “to enter the field of battle, and contend with factions and
demons. Hence, my writings breathe war and tempest. I must root up the trunks,
remove the thorns and the brambles, and fill up the marshes and pools. I am the
sturdy wood-cutter who must clear the passage and level the ground; but master
Philip advances calmly and softly; he digs and plants, sows, and waters
joyously, in accordance with the gifts which God has, with so liberal a hand,
bestowed upon him.”3

If Melancthon, the quiet sower, was called to the work by the discussion of
Leipsic, Luther, the hardy wood-cutter, felt his arm strengthened, and his
courage still more inflamed by it. The mightiest result of this discussion was
produced in Luther himself. “Scholastic theology,” said he, “sunk entirely in my
estimation, under the triumphant presidency of Dr. Eck.” In regard to the
reformer, the veil which the School and the Church had hung up in front of the
sanctuary was rent from top to bottom. Constrained to engage in new enquiries,
he arrived at unexpected discoveries. With equal astonishment and indignation he
saw the evil in all its magnitude. While poring over the annals of the Church,
he discovered that the supremacy of Rome had no other origin than ambition on
the one hand, and credulous ignorance on the other. The narrow point of view
under which he had hitherto looked at the Church was succeeded by one both
clearer and wider. In the Christians of Greece and the East he recognised true
members of the Catholic Church; and, instead of a visible head, seated on the
banks of the Tiber, he adored, as sole Head of his people, that invisible and
eternal Redeemer, who, according to his promise, is always, and in all parts of
the world, in the midst of those who believe in his name. The Latin Church
Luther no longer regarded as the universal Church. The narrow barriers of Rome
were thrown down; and he shouted for joy when he saw the glorious domain of
Jesus Christ stretching far beyond them. Henceforth he felt that he could be a
member of the Church of Christ without belonging to the Church of the pope. In
particular, the writings of John Huss made a strong impression on him. To his
great surprise, he discovered in them the doctrine of St. Paul and St.
Augustine, the doctrine to which he had himself arrived, after so many
struggles. “I believed,” said he, “and without knowing it, taught all the
doctrines of John Huss. So did Staupitz. In short, without suspecting it, we are
all Hussites, as are also St. Paul and St. Augustine. I am confounded at it, and
know not what to think.… O what dreadful judgments have not men merited from
God! Evangelical truth, when unfolded, and published more than a century ago,
was condemned, burned, and suppressed.… Woe! Woe to the earth!”

Luther disengaged himself from the papacy, regarding it with decided aversion
and holy indignation. All the witnesses, who in every age had risen up against
Rome came successively before him to testify against her, and unveil some of her
abuses or errors. “O darkness!” exclaimed he.

He was not allowed to be silent as to these sad discoveries. The pride of his
adversaries, their pretended triumph, and the efforts which they made to
extinguish the light, fixed his decision. He advanced in the path in which God
was leading him, without any uneasiness as to the result. Luther has fixed upon
this as the moment of his emancipation from the papal yoke—“Learn by me,” said
he, “how difficult it is to disencumber oneself of errors which the whole world
confirms by its example, and which, from long habit, have become a second
nature. For seven years I had been reading, and, with great zeal, publicly
expounding the Holy Scriptures, so that I had them almost entirely by heart.

2 I had also all the rudiments of knowledge and faith in the Lord Jesus
Christ,—that is to say, I knew that we were not justified and saved by our
works, but by faith in Christ: and I even maintained openly, that the pope is
not head of the Christian Church by divine authority. And yet … I could not see
the inference, viz.—that certainly and necessarily the pope is of the devil. For
whatever is not of God must, of necessity, be of the devil.” Further on, Luther
adds—“I no longer vent my indignation against those who are still attached to
the pope, since I myself, after reading the Holy Scriptures so carefully, and
for so many years, still clung to the pope with so much obstinacy.”4

Such were the true results of the discussion of Leipsic—results far more
important than the discussion itself, and resembling those first successes which
discipline an army and inflame its courage.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 55: CHAPTER VII
========================================================================

Eck attacks Melancthon—Melancthon’s defence—Interpretation of Scripture—Luther’s
firmness—The Bohemian Brethren—Emser—Staupitz.

Eck abandoned himself to all the intoxication of what he would fain have passed
off as a victory. He kept tearing at Luther, and heaped accusation upon
accusation against him. He also wrote to Frederick. Like a skilful general, he
wished to take advantage of the confusion which always succeeds a battle, in
order to obtain important concessions from the prince. Preparatory to the steps
which he meant to take against his opponent personally, he invoked the flames
against his writings, even those of them which he had not read. Imploring the
Elector to convene a provincial council, the coarse-minded doctor exclaimed,
“Let us exterminate all this vermin before they multiply out of measure.”6

Luther was not the only person against whom he vented his rage. He had the
imprudence to call Melancthon into the field. Melancthon, who was in terms of
the greatest intimacy with the excellent Œcolampadius, gave him an account of
the discussion, and spoke of Eck in eulogistic terms. Nevertheless, the pride of
the chancellor of Ingolstadt was offended, and he immediately took up the pen
against this “grammarian of Wittemberg, who, it is true,” said he, “was not
ignorant of Latin and Greek, but had dared to publish a letter in which he had
insulted him, Dr. Eck.”2

Melancthon replied. It is his first theological writing, and displays the
exquisite urbanity which characterised this excellent man. Laying down the
fundamental principles of Hermeneutics, he shows that the Holy Scriptures ought
not to be explained according to the Fathers, but the Fathers according to the
Holy Scriptures. “How often,” says he, “did not Jerome commit mistakes, how
often Augustine, how often Ambrose; how often do they differ in opinion, how
often do they retract their own errors; … there is only one volume inspired by
the Spirit of heaven—pure and true throughout.”

“Luther,” it is said, “does not follow some ambiguous expositions of the
ancients, and why should he follow them? When he expounds the passage of St.
Matthew, “Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church,” he agrees
with Origen, who by himself alone is worth a host; with Augustine in his homily,
and Ambrose in his sixth book on St. Luke, to say nothing of others. What, then,
you will say, do the Fathers contradict each other? Is it surprising that they
should? I believe in the Fathers, because I believe in the Holy Scriptures. The
meaning of Scripture is one, and simple, like heavenly truth herself. We arrive
at it by comparing different passages together; we deduce it from the thread and
connection of the discourse.5 There is a philosophy enjoined us in regard to the
Book of God, and it is to employ it as the touch-stone by which all the opinions
and maxims of men must be tried.”

It was a long time since these great truths had been so elegantly expounded. The
Word of God was restored to its proper place, and the Fathers to theirs. The
simple method by which we ascertain the meaning of Scripture was distinctly
traced. The Word had precedence over all the difficulties and the expositions of
the School. Melancthon furnished the answer to those who, like Dr. Eck, would
envelope this subject in the mists of a remote antiquity. The feeble grammarian
had risen up, and the broad and sturdy shoulders of the scholastic gladiator had
bent under the first pressure of his arm. The weaker Eck was, the more noise he
made, as if his rhodomontades and accusations were to secure the victory which
he had failed to obtain in debate. The monks and all the partisans of Rome
re-echoing his clamour, Germany rang with invectives against Luther, who,
however, remained passive. “The more I see my name covered with opprobrium,”
said he in finishing the expositions which he published, on the propositions of
Leipsic, “the prouder I feel; the truth, in other words, Christ, must increase,
but I must decrease. The voice of the Bridegroom and the bride delights me more
than all this clamour dismays me. Men are not the authors of my sufferings, and
I have no hatred against them. It is Satan, the prince of evil, who would
terrify me. But he who is in us is greater than he who is in the world. The
judgment of our contemporaries is bad; that of posterity will be better.”

If the Leipsic discussion multiplied Luther’s enemies in Germany, it also
increased the number of his friends abroad; “What Huss was formerly in Bohemia,
you, O Martin, are now in Saxony,” wrote the brothers of Bohemia to him;
“wherefore pray and be strong in the Lord.”

About this time war was declared between Luther and Emser, now a professor of
Leipsic. The latter addressed a letter to Dr. Zach, a zealous Roman Catholic of
Prague, in which his professed object was to disabuse the Hussites of the idea
that Luther was of their party. Luther could not doubt that under the semblance
of defending him, the learned Leipsicker’s real purpose was to fasten on him a
suspicion of adhering to the Bohemian heresy, and he resolved to tear aside the
veil under which his old Dresden host was endeavouring to shroud his enmity.
With this view he published a letter addressed to the “goat Emser,” Emser’s arms
being a goat. Luther concludes with a sentiment which well delineates his own
character, “To love all, but fear none.”

While new friends and new enemies thus appeared, old friends seemed to draw off
from Luther. Staupitz, who had been the means of bringing the Reformer out of
the obscurity of the cloister of Erfurt, began to show him some degree of
coolness. Luther was rising too high for Staupitz to follow him.—“You abandon
me,” wrote Luther to him. “The whole day I have been exceedingly grieved on your
account, like a child just weaned and weeping for its mother. Last night,”
continues the Reformer, “I dreamed of you, you were keeping aloof from me, and I
was sobbing and shedding tears; then you gave me your hand, and told me to dry
up my tears, for you would return to me.” The pacificator, Miltitz, wished to
make a new attempt at conciliation. But what hold can be had on men while still
under the excitement of the contest? His endeavours led to no result. He brought
the famous rose of gold, but the Elector did not even take the trouble to
receive it in person. Frederick knew the artifices of Rome, and was not to be
imposed upon.3


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  CHAPTER 56: CHAPTER VIII
========================================================================

Epistle to the Galatians—Christ for us—Blindness of Luther’s Adversaries—First
Ideas on the Supper—Is the Sacrament Sufficient without Faith?—Luther a
Bohemian—Eck attacked—Eck sets out for Rome.

Far from drawing back, Luther uniformly continued to advance, and at this time
struck one of his severest blows at error, by publishing his first commentary on
the Epistle to the Galatians. It is true, the second commentary was superior to
the first; but still the first contained a forcible exposition of the doctrine
of justification by faith. Every expression of the new apostle was full of life,
and God employed him to imbue the hearts of the people with divine knowledge.
“Christ gave himself for our sins,” said Luther to his contemporaries.5 “It was
not silver or gold that he gave for us, nor was it a man or angels. He gave
himself—himself, out of whom there is no true greatness; and this incomparable
treasure he gave … for our sins. Where, now, are those who proudly boast of the
powers of our will? where are the lessons of moral philosophy? where the power
and strength of the law? Our sins being so great that they cannot possibly be
taken away without an immense ransom, shall we pretend to acquire righteousness
by the energy of our will, by the power of the law, and the doctrines of men?
What will all these cunning devices, all these illusions, avail us? Ah! we will
only cover our iniquities with a spurious righteousness and convert ourselves
into hypocrites, whom no worldly power can save.” But while Luther thus proves
that man’s only salvation is in Christ, he also shows how this salvation changes
his nature, and enables him to abound in good works. “The man,” says he, who has
truly heard the word of Christ, and keeps it, is immediately clothed with the
spirit of charity. If thou lovest him who has made thee a present of twenty
florins, or done thee some service, or in some way given thee a proof of his
affection, how much more oughtest thou to love him, who, on thy account, has
given not silver or gold, but himself, received so many wounds, endured a bloody
sweat, and even died for thee; in one word, who, in paying for all thy sins, has
annihilated death, and secured for thee a Father full of love in heaven!… If
thou lovest him not, thy heart has not listened to the things which he has done;
thou hast not believed them; for faith works by love.” “This epistle,” said
Luther, in speaking of the Epistle to the Galatians, “is my epistle—I am married
to it.” His opponents caused him to proceed at a quicker pace than he would
otherwise have done. At this time Eck instigated the Franciscans of Juterbock to
make a new attack upon him; and Luther, in his reply, not satisfied with
repeating what he had already taught, attacked errors which he had recently
discovered. “I would fain know,” says he, “in what part of Scripture the power
of canonising saints has been given to the popes; and also what the necessity,
or even the utility is, of canonising them?” … “However,” adds he, ironically,
“let them canonise as they will.”

These new attacks of Luther remained unanswered. The blindness of his enemies
was as favourable to him as his own courage. They passionately defended
secondary matters, and said not a word when they saw the foundations of Roman
doctrine shaking under his hand. While they were eagerly defending some
outworks, their intrepid adversary penetrated into the heart of the citadel, and
there boldly planted the standard of truth; and hence their astonishment, when
they saw the fortress sapped, blazing, and falling to pieces amid the flames, at
the moment when they thought it impregnable, and were hurling defiance at their
assailants. Thus it is that great changes are accomplished. The sacrament of the
Lord’s supper began, at this time, to engage Luther’s attention. He looked for
it in the mass, but in vain. One day, shortly after his return from Leipsic, he
mounted the pulpit. Let us mark his words, for they are the first which he
pronounced, on a subject which afterwards divided the Church and the Reformation
into two parties. “In the holy sacrament of the altar,” says he, “there are
three things which it is necessary to know; the sign, which must be external,
visible, and under a corporal form; the thing signified, which is internal,
spiritual, and within the mind; and faith, which avails itself of both.” Had the
definitions not been pushed farther, unity would not have been destroyed.

Luther continues. “It were good that the Church should, by a general council,
decree that both kinds shall be distributed to all the faithful: not, however,
on the ground that one kind is insufficient, for faith by itself would be
sufficient.” These bold words pleased his audience, though some were astonished
and offended, and exclaimed, “This is false and scandalous.” The preacher
continues. “There is no union closer, deeper, or more inseparable than that
between food and the body which is nourished by it. In the sacrament, Christ
unites himself to us so closely that he acts in us as if he were identified with
us. Our sins attack him. His righteousness defends us.” But Luther, not deeming
it enough to expound the truth, attacks one of the most fundamental errors of
Rome. The Roman Church pretends that the sacrament operates by itself,
independently of the disposition of him who receives it. Nothing can be more
convenient than such an opinion, since to it, both the eagerness with which the
sacrament is sought, and the profits of the clergy are to be ascribed. Luther
attacks this doctrine,4 and maintains its opposite—viz., that faith and a right
disposition of heart are indispensable. This energetic protestation was destined
to overthrow ancient superstitions; but, strange to say, it attracted no
attention. Rome overlooked what might have made her scream in agony, and
impetuously attacked the unimportant observation which Luther threw out at the
commencement of his discourse, concerning communion in two kinds. The discourse
having been published in December, a general cry of heresy was raised. “It is
just the doctrine of Prague unadulterated,” was the exclamation at the Court of
Dresden, where the sermon arrived during the Christmas festivals. “It is
written, moreover, in German, in order to make it accessible to the common
people.” The devotion of the prince was troubled, and on the third day of the
festival he wrote to his cousin Frederick. “Since the publication of this
discourse, the number of persons who receive the sacrament in two kinds has
received an increase of 6000. Your Luther, from being a professor of Wittemberg,
is on the eve of becoming a bishop of Prague, and an arch-heretic.” … The cry
was, “he was born in Bohemia, of Bohemian parents, he was brought up at Prague,
and trained in the writings of Wickliffe.”

Luther judged it right to contradict these rumours in a writing in which he
gravely detailed his parentage. “I was born at Eisleben,” said he, “and was
baptised in St. Peter’s church. The nearest town to Bohemia in which I have ever
been, is Dresden.” The letter of Duke George did not prejudice the Elector
against Luther, for a few days after he invited him to a splendid entertainment
which he gave to the Spanish ambassador, and at which Luther valiantly combated
the minister of Charles. The Elector’s chaplain had, by his master’s order,
requested Luther to use moderation in defending his cause. “Excessive folly
displeases man,” replied Luther to Spalatin, “but excessive wisdom displeases
God. The gospel cannot be defended without tumult and scandal. The word of God
is sword, war, ruin, scandal, destruction, poison;”4 and, hence, as Amos
expresses it, “it presents itself like a bear in the path, and a lioness in the
forest. I ask nothing, I demand nothing. There is one greater than I who asks
and demands. Whether he stands or falls, I am neither gainer nor loser.”

It was obvious that faith and courage were about to become more necessary to
Luther than ever. Eck was forming projects of revenge. Instead of the laurels
which he had counted on gaining, he had become a laughing-stock to all men of
intellect throughout the nation. Cutting satires were published against him. Eck
was cut to the very heart by “An Epistle of Ignorant Canons,” written by
Œcolompadius, and a complaint against him probably by the excellent Pirckheimer
of Nuremberg, exhibiting a combination of sarcasm and dignity of which the
‘Provincial Letters’ of Pascal alone can give some idea.

Luther expressed his dissatisfaction with some of these writings. “It is
better,” said he, “to attack openly than to keep barking behind a hedge.”

How greatly the chancellor of Ingolstadt had miscalculated! His countrymen
abandon him, and he prepares for a journey beyond the Alps, to invoke the aid of
strangers. Wherever he goes he vents his threatenings against Luther,
Melancthon, Carlstadt, and the Elector himself. “From the haughtiness of his
expressions,” says the doctor of Wittemberg, “one would say he imagines himself
to be God Almighty.” Inflamed with rage, and thirsting for vengeance, Eck,
having in February, 1520, published a work on the primacy of St. Peter,—a work
devoid of sound criticism, in which he maintained that this apostle, the first
of the popes, resided for twenty-five years at Rome—set out for Italy in order
to receive the reward of his pretended triumphs, and to forge at Rome, near the
papal capitol, thunders mightier than the frail scholastic arms which had given
way in his hands.

Luther was aware of all the dangers to which the journey of his antagonist would
expose him—but he feared not. Spalatin, alarmed, urged him to make proposals of
peace. “No,” replied Luther, “so long as he clamours, I cannot decline the
contest. I commit the whole affair to God, and leave my bark to the winds and
waves. It is the battle of the Lord. How can it be imagined that Christ will
advance his cause by peace? Did he not combat even unto death, and have not all
the martyrs since done the same?”

Such was the position of the two combatants of Leipsic, at the commencement of
the year 1520. The one was stirring up the whole papacy to strike a blow at his
rival, who, on his part, waited for war as calmly as if he had been waiting for
peace. The year on which we are entering will see the bursting of the storm.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 57: BOOK SIXTH
========================================================================

The bull of rome

1520


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 58: CHAPTER I
========================================================================

Character of Maximilian—The Competitors for the Empire—Charles—Francis
I—Inclination of the Germans—The Crown offered to Frederick—Charles is Elected.
A new character was going to appear upon the stage. God saw meet to place the
monk of Wittemberg in presence of the most powerful monarch who had appeared in
Christendom since Charlemagne. He chose a prince, in the fervid vigour of youth,
to whom every thing presaged a reign of long duration—a prince whose sceptre
extended over a considerable portion both of the old and the new world; so that,
according to a celebrated expression, the sun never set on his vast
dominions—and opposed him to this humble Reformation, which began with the
anguish and sighs of a poor monk, in the obscure cell of a convent at Erfurt.
The history of this monarch and his reign seems to have been destined to give a
great lesson to the world. It was to show the nothingness of all “the power of
man,” when it presumes to contend with “the weakness of God.” Had a prince,
friendly to Luther, been called to the empire, the success of the Reformation
would have been attributed to his protection. Had even an emperor opposed to the
new doctrine, but feeble, occupied the throne, the triumphant success of the
work would have been accounted for by the feebleness of the monarch. But it was
the proud conqueror of Pavia who behoved to humble his pride before the power of
the Divine Word, that all the world might see how he, who had found it easy to
drag Francis I a captive to Madrid, was compelled to lower his sword before the
son of a poor miner. The Emperor Maximilian was dead, and the electors had met
at Frankfort to give him a successor. In the circumstances in which Europe was
placed, this election was of vast importance, and was regarded with deep
interest by all Christendom. Maximilian had not been a great prince; but his
memory was dear to the people, who took a pleasure in remembering his presence
of mind and good-humoured affability. Luther often talked of him to his friends,
and one day related the following anecdote. A beggar had kept running after him
asking charity, and addressing him as his brother; “for,” said he, “we are both
descended from the same father, Adam. I am poor,” continued he, “but you are
rich, and it is your duty to assist me.” At these words the emperor turned round
and said to him—“Hold, there’s a penny: go to your other brothers, and if each
gives you as much, you will soon be richer than I am.” The person about to be
called to the empire was not a good-natured Maximilian. Times were to undergo a
change; ambitious potentates were competing for the imperial throne of the West;
the reins of the empire were to be seized by an energetic hand; profound peace
was to be succeeded by long and bloody wars. At the assembly of Frankfort, three
kings aspired to the crown of the Cæsars. A youthful prince, grandson of the
last emperor, born at the opening of the century, and consequently nineteen
years of age, first presented himself. He was named Charles, and was born at
Ghent. His paternal grandmother, Mary, daughter of Charles the Bold, had left
him Flanders and the rich States of Burgundy. His mother, Joan, daughter of
Ferdinand of Arragon and Isabella of Castile, and wife of Philip, son of the
Emperor Maximilian, had transmitted to him the united kingdoms of Spain, Naples,
and Sicily, to which Christopher Columbus had added a new world, while the
recent death of his grandfather put him in possession of the hereditary States
of Austria. This young prince, who was endowed with great talents. To a turn for
military exercises (in which the dukes of Burgundy had long been
distinguished)—to the finesse and penetration of the Italians—to the reverence
for existing institutions which still characterises the house of Austria, and
promised the papacy a firm defender, he joined a thorough knowledge of public
affairs, acquired under the direction of Chièvres, having from fifteen years of
age taken part in all the deliberations of his cabinet. These diversified
qualities were, in a manner, shrouded under Spanish reserve and taciturnity. In
personal appearance he was tall in stature, and had somewhat of a melancholy
air. “He is pious and tranquil,” said Luther, “and I believe does not speak as
much in a year as I do in a day.”3 Had the character of Charles been formed
under the influence of freedom and Christianity, he would perhaps have been one
of the most admirable princes on record; but politics engrossed his life, and
stifled his great and good qualities. Not contented with all the sceptres which
he grasped in his hand, young Charles aspired to the imperial dignity. “It is
like a sunbeam, which throws lustre on the house which it illumines,” said
several, “but put forth the hand to lay hold of it and you will find nothing.”
Charles, on the contrary, saw in it the pinnacle of all earthly grandeur, and a
means of acquiring a magic influence over the spirit of the nations.

Francis I was the second of the competitors. The young paladins of the court of
this chivalric king were incessantly representing to him that he was entitled,
like Charlemagne, to be the emperor of all the West, and reviving the exploits
of the ancient knights, to attack the crescent which was menacing the empire,
discomfit the infidels, and recover the holy sepulchre.

“It is necessary,” said the ambassadors of Francis to the electors, “it is
necessary to prove to the Dukes of Austria, that the imperial crown is not
hereditary. Besides, in existing circumstances, Germany has need not of a young
man of nineteen, but of a prince who, to an experienced judgment, joins talents
which have already been recognised. Francis will unite the arms of Franco and
Lombardy to those of Germany, and make war on the Mussulmans. Sovereign of the
duchy of Milan, he is already a member of the imperial body.” These arguments,
the French ambassadors supported by four hundred thousand crowns, which they
distributed in purchasing votes and in festivities, by which they endeavoured to
gain over their guests. The third competitor was Henry VIII, who, jealous of the
influence which the choice of the electors might give to Francis or Charles,
also entered the lists, but soon left his powerful rivals sole disputants for
the crown. The electors were not disposed to favour either. Their subjects
thought they would have in Francis a foreign master, and a master who might
deprive the electors themselves of their independence, as he had lately deprived
the nobles of his own dominions. As to Charles, it was an ancient rule with the
electors not to choose a prince who was already playing an important part in the
empire. The pope shared in these fears. He wished neither the king of Naples,
who was his neighbour, nor the king of France, whose enterprising spirit filled
him with alarm; “Choose rather some one from amongst yourselves,” was his
message to the electors. The elector of Trèves proposed Frederick of Saxony, and
the imperial crown was laid at the feet of Luther’s friend. This choice would
have obtained the approbation of all Germany. Frederick’s wisdom, and affection
for his people, were well known. During the revolt of Erfurt, he had been urged
to take the town by assault, and refused, in order to spare blood. “But it will
not cost five men.” “A single man would be too many,” replied the prince. The
triumph of the Reformation seemed on the eve of being secured by the election of
its protector. Ought not Frederick to have regarded the offer of the electors as
a call from God himself? Who could have presided better over the destinies of
the empire than a prince of so much wisdom? Who could have been stronger to
oppose the Turks than an emperor strong in faith? The refusal of the Elector of
Saxony, so much lauded by historians, was perhaps a fault. For the contests
which afterwards tore Germany to pieces he is perhaps partly to blame. But it is
difficult to say whether Frederick deserves censure for his want of faith or
honour for his humility. He thought that even the safety of the empire made it
his duty to refuse the crown.2 “To save Germany,” said this modest and
disinterested prince, “an emperor more powerful than I is requisite.” The legate
of Rome seeing that the choice would fall upon Charles, intimated that the pope
withdrew his objections; and on the 28th of June, the grandson of Maximilian was
elected. “God,” said Frederick afterwards, “gave him to us in mercy and in
anger.” The Spanish envoys sent a present of thirty thousand gold florins to the
Elector of Saxony, as a mark of their master’s gratitude; but the prince refused
it, and charged his ministers not to accept of any present. At the same time he
secured the German liberties by an engagement, to which the envoys of Charles
took an oath in his name. The circumstances in which the latter prince encircled
his head with the imperial crown seemed still better fitted than the oath to
secure the Germanic liberties, and the success of the Reformation. The young
prince was jealous of the laurels which his rival, Francis I, had gained at
Marignan. The struggle was to be continued in Italy, and in the meantime the
Reformation would doubtless be made secure. Charles left Spain in May, 1520, and
was crowned on the 22nd of October, at Aix-la-Chapelle.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 59: CHAPTER II
========================================================================

Luther writes to the Emperor—Luther’s dangers—Instructions of Frederick to the
court of Rome—Luther’s sentiments—Melancthon’s fears—The German nobles
favourable to the Reformation—Schaumburg—Seckingen—Ulric de Hütten—Luther’s
Confidence—Luther’s Greater Freedom—Faith the source of Works—What Faith
gives—Luther judging his own writings.

Luther had foreseen that the cause of the Reformation would soon be brought
before the new emperor; and, when Charles was still at Madrid, addressed a
letter to him, in which he said, “If the cause which I defend is worthy of being
presented before the heavenly Majesty, it cannot be unworthy of engaging the
attention of a prince of this world. O, Charles! prince of the kings of the
earth, I cast myself as a suppliant at the feet of your most serene majesty, and
beseech you to deign to take under the shadow of your wings, not me, but the
very cause of eternal truth, for the defence of which God has entrusted you with
the sword.” The young king of Spain threw aside this odd letter from a German
monk, and returned no answer.

While Luther was turning in vain toward Madrid, the storm seemed gathering
around him. Fanaticism was rekindled in Germany. Hochstraten, indefatigable in
his efforts at persecution, had extracted certain theses from Luther’s writings,
and obtained their condemnation by the universities of Cologne and Louvain. That
of Erfurt, which had always had a grudge at Luther, for having given Wittemberg
the preference, was on the eve of following their example. But the doctor,
having been informed of it, wrote Lange, in terms so energetic that the
theologians of Erfurt took fright, and said nothing. Still, however, there was
enough to inflame the minds of men in the condemnation pronounced by Cologne and
Louvain. More than this; the priests of Misnia who had espoused Emser’s quarrel
said openly (such is Melancthon’s statement) that there would be no sin in
killing Luther. “The time is come,” said Luther, “when men think they will do
Jesus Christ service by putting us to death.” The murderous language of the
priests did not fail of its effect.

“One day,” says a biographer, “when Luther was in front of the Augustin convent,
a stranger, with a pistol hid under his arm, accosted him, and said, Why do you
walk about thus quite alone?” “I am in the hands of God,” replied Luther; “He is
my strength and my shield.” “Thereupon,” adds the biographer, “the stranger grew
pale, and fled trembling.” About the same time Serra Longa, the orator of the
conference of Augsburg, wrote to the Elector, “Let not Luther find any asylum in
the states of your highness, but, repulsed by all, let him be stoned to death in
the face of heaven. This would please me more than a gift of ten thousand
crowns.”2 But the sound of the gathering storm was heard, especially in the
direction of Rome. Valentine Teutleben, a noble of Thuringia, vicar of the
Archbishop of Mentz, and a zealous partisan of the papacy, was the
representative of the Elector of Saxony at Rome. Teutleben, ashamed of the
protection which his master gave to the heretical monk, could not bear to see
his mission paralysed by this imprudent conduct; and imagined that, by alarming
the Elector, he would induce him to abandon the rebel theologian. Writing to his
master, he said, “I am not listened to, because of the protection which you give
to Luther.” But the Romans were mistaken if they thought they could frighten
sage Frederick. He knew that the will of God and the movements of the people
were more irresistible than the decrees of the papal chancery. He ordered his
envoy to hint to the pope that, far from defending Luther, he had always left
him to defend himself, that he had moreover told him to quit Saxony and the
university, that the doctor had declared his readiness to obey, and would not
now be in the electoral states had not the legate, Charles de Miltitz, begged
the prince to keep him near himself, from a fear that in other countries he
would act with still less restraint than in Saxony. Frederick did still more; he
tried to enlighten Rome. “Germany,” continues he, in his letter, “now possesses
a great number of learned men distinguished for scholarship and science; the
laity themselves begin to cultivate their understanding, and to love the Holy
Scriptures. Hence, there is great reason to fear that, if the equitable
proposals of Doctor Luther are not accepted, peace will never be reestablished.
The doctrine of Luther has struck its roots deep in many hearts. If, instead of
refuting it by passages from the Bible, an attempt is made to crush him by the
thunders of ecclesiastical power, great scandal will be given, and pernicious
and dreadful outbreaks will ensue.”

4 The Elector, having full confidence in Luther, caused Teutleben’s letter to be
communicated to him, and also another letter from cardinal St. George. The
Reformer was moved on reading them. He at once saw all the dangers by which he
was surrounded, and for an instant his heart sank. But it was in such moments as
these that his faith displayed its full power. Often, when feeble and ready to
fall into despondency, he rallied again, and seemed greater amid the raging of
the storm. He would fain have been delivered from all these trials; but, aware
of the price that must have been paid for repose, he spurned it with
indignation. “Be silent!” said he, “I am disposed to be so, if I am allowed—that
is to say, if others are silent. If any one envies my situation he is welcome to
it. If any one is desirous to destroy my writings, let him burn them. I am ready
to remain quiet, provided gospel truth is not compelled to be quiet also. I ask
not a cardinal’s hat; I ask neither gold, nor aught that Rome esteems. There is
nothing which I will not concede, provided Christians are not excluded from the
way of salvation.2 All their threatenings do not terrify—all their promises
cannot seduce me.”

Animated by these sentiments, Luther soon resumed his warlike temperament,
preferring the Christian combat to the calmness of solitude. One night was
sufficient to revive his desire of over throwing Rome. “My part is taken,” wrote
he next day. “I despise the fury of Rome, and I despise her favour. No more
reconciliation, nor more communication with her for ever. Let her condemn and
burn my writings! I, in my turn, will condemn and publicly burn the pontifical
law, that nest of all heresies. The moderation which I have shown up to this
hour has been useless, and I have done with it!” His friends were far from
feeling equally tranquil. Great alarm prevailed at Wittemberg. “We are waiting
in extreme anxiety,” said Melancthon. “I would sooner die than be separated from
Luther. Unless God come to our assistance we perish.” Writing a month later, in
his anxiety, he says, “Our Luther still lives, and God grant he long may; for
the Roman sycophants are using every mean to destroy him. Pray for the life of
him who is sole vindicator of sound theology.”5

These prayers were not in vain. The warnings which the Elector had given Rome,
through his envoy, were not without foundation. The word of Luther had been
every where heard, in cottages, and convents, at the firesides of the citizens,
in the castles of nobles, in academies, and in the palaces of kings. He had said
to Duke John of Saxony, “Let my life only have contributed to the salvation of a
single individual, and I will willingly consent that all my books perish.” Not a
single individual, but a great multitude, had found light in the writings of the
humble doctor; and hence, in all quarters, there were men ready to protect him.
The sword which was to attack him was on the anvil of the Vatican; but there
were heroes in Germany who would interpose their bodies as his buckler. At the
moment when the bishops were waxing wroth, when princes were silent, when the
people were awaiting the result, and when the thunder was already grumbling on
the seven hills, God raised up the German nobility, and placed them as a rampart
around his servant. At this time Sylvester of Schaumburg, one of the most
powerful nobles of Franconia, sent his son to Wittemberg with a letter for the
Reformer, in which he said, “Your life is exposed to danger. If the support of
electors, princes, or magistrates fails you, I beg you to beware of going into
Bohemia, where, of old, very learned men had much to suffer; come rather to me;
God willing, I shall soon have collected more than a hundred gentlemen, and with
their help, will be able to keep you free from harm.”

Francis of Seckingen, the hero of his age, whose intrepid courage we have
already seen, loved the Reformer, because he found that he was worthy of love,
and also because he was hated by the monks.4 “My person, my property, and
services, all that I possess,” wrote he to him, “is at your disposal. Your wish
is to maintain Christian truth, and in that I am ready to assist you.” Harmuth
of Cronberg, spoke in similar terms. Ulric von Hütten, the poet and valiant
knight of the sixteenth century, ceased not to speak in commendation of Luther.
But how great the contrast between these two men! Hütten wrote to the
Reformer—“We must have swords, bows, javelins, and bullets, to destroy the fury
of the devil.” Luther, on receiving these letters, exclaimed—“I have no wish
that men should have recourse to arms and carnage In order to defend the gospel.
It was by the Word the world was overcome, by the Word the Church has been
saved, and by the Word will she be re-established.” “I despise not his offers,”
said he on receiving the above letter from Schaumburg, “but still I wish to lean
on none but Christ.” So spake not the pontiffs of Rome when they waded in the
blood of the Vaudois and Albigenses. Hütten was sensible of the difference
between his cause and Luther’s, and accordingly wrote with noble frankness: “I
am occupied with the things of man, but you, rising to a far greater height,
give yourself wholly to those of God.”2 After thus writing, he set out to try,
if possible, to gain over Ferdinand and Charles V to the truth.

Thus, on the one hand, Luther’s enemies assail him, and on the other, his
friends rise up to defend him. “My bark,” says he, “floats here and there at the
pleasure of the winds, … hope and fear reign by turns, but what matters it?”
Still his mind was not uninfluenced by the marks of sympathy which he received.
“The Lord reigns,” said he, “and so visibly as to be almost palpable.”5 Luther
saw that he was no longer alone; his words had proved faithful, and the thought
inspired him with new courage. Now that he has other defenders prepared to brave
the fury of Rome, he will no longer be kept back by the fear of compromising the
Elector. He becomes more free, and, if possible, more decided. This is an
important period in the development of Luther’s mind. Writing at this time to
the Elector’s chaplain, he says, “Rome must be made aware, that though she
should succeed, by her menaces, in exiling me from Wittemberg, she will only
damage her cause. Those who are ready to defend me against the thunders of the
papacy are to be found not in Bohemia, but in the heart of Germany. If I have
not yet done to my enemies all that I am preparing for them, they must ascribe
it neither to my moderation nor to their tyranny, but to my fear of compromising
the name of the Elector, and the prosperity of the university of Wittemberg.
Now, that I have no longer any such fears, I will rush with new impetuosity on
Rome and her courtiers.”

Still Luther’s hope was not placed on the great. He had often been urged to
dedicate a book to Duke John, the Elector’s brother, but had never done it. “I
fear,” he had said, “that the suggestion comes from himself. The Holy Scriptures
must be subservient only to the glory of God’s name.” Luther afterwards laid
aside his suspicions, and dedicated his discourse on good works to Duke John, a
discourse in which he gives a forcible exposition of the doctrine of
justification by faith, a mighty doctrine, whose power he rates far higher than
the sword of Hütten, the army of Seckingen, or the protection of dukes and
electors.

“The first, the noblest, the sublimest of all works,” says he, “is faith in
Jesus Christ. From this work all other works should proceed; they are all the
vassals of faith, and from it alone derive their efficacy.

“If a man’s own heart assures him, that what he is doing is agreeable to God,
the work is good should it be merely the lifting up of a straw, but in the
absence of this assurance the work is not good, though it should be the raising
of the dead. A pagan, a Jew, a Turk, a sinner, can do all other works, but to
trust firmly in the Lord, and feel assured of pleasing him, are works of which
none are capable but the Christian strengthened by grace.

“A Christian, who has faith in God, acts, at all times, with freedom and
gladness, whereas, the man who is not at one with God is full of cares, and is
detained in thraldom; he anxiously asks how many works he ought to do, he runs
up and down interrogating this man and that man, and, nowhere finding any peace,
does everything with dissatisfaction and fear.

“Hence, I have always extolled faith. But it is otherwise in the world: there
the essential point is to have many works, works great and high, and of all
dimensions, while it is a matter of indifference whether or not faith animates
them. Thus men build their peace, not on the good pleasure of God, but on their
own merits, that is to say, on the sand.… (Matthew 7:27)

“To preach faith is, it is said, to prevent good works; but though a single man
should have in himself the powers of all men, or even of all creatures, the mere
obligation of living by faith would be a task too great for him ever to
accomplish. If I say to a sick person, be in health and you will have the use of
your members—will it be said that I forbid him to use his members? Must not
health precede labour? The same holds true in the preaching of faith; it must be
before works, in order that works themselves may exist.

“Where then, you will ask, is this faith found, and how is it received? This,
indeed, is the most important of all questions. Faith comes solely from Jesus
Christ, who is promised, and given gratuitously.

“O, man! represent Christ to thyself, and consider how in him God manifests his
mercy to thee without being anticipated by any merit on thy part. In this image
of his grace receive the faith and assurance that all thy sins are forgiven
thee. Works cannot produce it. It flows from the blood, the wounds, and the
death of Christ, whence it wells up in the heart. Christ is the rock out of
which come milk and honey. (Deuteronomy 32:1-52) Not being able to give an
account of all Luther’s works, we have quoted some short fragments of this
discourse on good works, on account of the opinion which the Reformer himself
had of it. “It is in my judgment,” said he, “the best work that I have
published.” He immediately subjoins this profound observation. “But I know that
when any thing I write pleases myself, the infection of this bad leaven prevents
it from pleasing others.” Melancthon, in sending a copy of this discourse to a
friend, thus expressed himself, “Of all Greek and Latin authors none has come
nearer the spirit of St. Paul than Luther.”


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  CHAPTER 60: CHAPTER III
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The Papacy Attacked—Appeal to the Nobility—The Three Walls—All Christians are
Priests—The Magistrate’s duty to Correct the Clergy—Abuses of Rome—Ruin of
Italy—Dangers of Germany—The Pope—The Legates—The Monks—The Marriage of
Priests—Celibacy—Festivals—The Bohemians—Charity—The Universities—The Empire—The
Emperor must retake Rome—A Book not Published—Luther’s Modesty—Success of the
Address. But the substitution of a system of meritorious works for the idea of
grace and amnesty was not the only evil existing in the Church. A domineering
power had risen up among the humble pastors of Christ’s flock. Luther must
attack this usurped authority. A vague and distant rumour of Eck’s intrigues and
success at Rome awakened a warlike spirit in the Reformer, who, amid all his
turmoil, had calmly studied the origin, progress, and usurpations of the papacy.
His discoveries having filled him with surprise, he no longer hesitated to
communicate them and strike the blow which was destined, like the rod of Moses
of old, to awaken a whole nation out of a lethargy, the result of long bondage.
Even before Rome had time to publish her formidable bull, he published his
declaration of war. “The time of silence,” exclaims he, “is past; the time for
speaking has arrived. The mysteries of Antichrist must at length be unveiled.”
On the 24th June, 1502, he published his famous ‘Appeal to his Imperial Majesty,
and the Christian Nobility of Germany, on the Reformation of Christianity.’ This
work was the signal of the attack which was at once to complete the rupture and
decide the victory.

“It is not from presumption,” says he, at the outset of this Treatise, “that I,
who am only one of the people, undertake to address your lordships. The misery
and oppression endured at this moment by all the States of Christendom, and more
especially by Germany, wring from me a cry of distress. I must call for aid; I
must see whether God will not give his Spirit to some one of our countrymen, and
stretch out a hand to our unhappy nation. God has given us a young and generous
prince, (the Emperor Charles V,) and thus filled our hearts with high hopes. But
we too must, on our own part, do all we can.

“Now, the first thing necessary is, not to confide in our own great strength, or
our own high wisdom. When any work otherwise good is begun in self-confidence,
God casts it down, and destroys it. Frederick I, Frederick II, and many other
emperors besides, before whom the world trembled, have been trampled upon by the
popes, because they trusted more to their own strength than to God. They could
not but fall. In this war we have to combat the powers of hell, and our mode of
conducting it must be to expect nothing from the strength of human weapons—to
trust humbly in the Lord, and look still more to the distress of Christendom
than to the crimes of the wicked. It may be that, by a different procedure, the
work would begin under more favourable appearances, but suddenly in the heat of
the contest confusion would arise, bad men would cause fearful disaster, and the
world would be deluged with blood. The greater the power, the greater the
danger, when things are not done in the fear of the Lord.”

After this exordium, Luther continues:—

“The Romans, to guard against every species of reformation, have surrounded
themselves with three walls. When attacked by the temporal power, they denied
its jurisdiction over them, and maintained the superiority of the spiritual
power. When tested by Scripture, they replied, that none could interpret it but
the pope. When threatened with a council, they again replied, that none but the
pope could convene it.

“They have thus carried off from us the three rods destined to chastise them,
and abandoned themselves to all sorts of wickedness. But now may God be our
help, and give us one of the trumpets which threw down the walls of Jericho. Let
us blow down the walls of paper and straw which the Romans have built around
them, and lift up the rods which punish the wicked, by bringing the wiles of the
devil to the light of day.”

Luther next commences the attack, and shakes to the foundation that papal
monarchy which had for ages united the nations of the West into one body under
the sceptre of the Roman bishop. There is no sacerdotal caste in Christianity.
This truth, of which the Church was so early robbed, he vigorously expounds in
the following terms:—

“It has been said that the pope, the bishops, the priests, and all those who
people convents, form the spiritual or ecclesiastical estate; and that princes,
nobles, citizens, and peasants, form the secular or lay estate. This is a
specious tale. But let no man be alarmed. All Christians belong to the spiritual
estate, and the only difference between them is in the functions which they
fulfil. We have all but one baptism, but one faith, and these constitute the
spiritual man. Unction, tonsure, ordination, consecration, given by the pope or
by a bishop, may make a hypocrite, but can never make a spiritual man. We are
all consecrated priests by baptism, as St. Peter says, ‘You are a royal
priesthood;’ although all do not actually perform the offices of kings and
priests, because no one can assume what is common to all, without the common
consent. But if this consecration of God did not belong to us, the unction of
the pope could not make a single priest. If ten brothers, the sons of one king,
and possessing equal claims to his inheritance, should choose one of their
number to administer for them, they would all be kings, and yet only one of them
would be the administrator of their common power. So it is in the Church. Were
several pious laymen banished to a desert, and were they, from not having among
them a priest consecrated by a bishop, to agree in selecting one of their
number, whether married or not, he would be as truly a priest, as if all the
bishops of the world had consecrated him. In this way were Augustine, Ambrose,
and Cyprian elected.

“Hence it follows that laymen and priests, princes and bishops, or, as we have
said, ecclesiastics and laics, have nothing to distinguish them but their
functions. They have all the same condition, but they have not all the same work
to perform.

“This being so, why should not the magistrate correct the clergy? The secular
power was appointed by God for the punishment of the wicked and the protection
of the good, and must be left free to act throughout Christendom without respect
of persons, be they pope, bishops, priests, monks, or nuns. St. Paul says to all
Christians, ‘Let every soul,’ (and consequently the pope also,) ‘be subject to
the higher powers; for they bear not the sword in vain.’ ”

Luther, after throwing down the other two walls in the same way, takes a review
of all the abuses of Rome. With an eloquence of a truly popular description he
exposes evils which had, for ages, been notorious. Never had a nobler
remonstrance been heard. The assembly which Luther addresses is the Church, the
power whose abuses he attacks is that papacy which had for ages been the
oppressor of all nations, and the Reformation for which he calls aloud is
destined to exercise its powerful influence on Christendom, all over the world,
and so long as man shall exist upon it.

He begins with the pope. “It is monstrous,” says he, “to see him who calls
himself the vicar of Jesus Christ displaying a magnificence, unequalled by that
of any emperor. Is this the way in which he proves his resemblance to lowly
Jesus, or humble Peter? He is, it is said, the lord of the world. But Christ,
whose vicar he boasts to be, has said, ‘My kingdom is not of this world.” Can
the power of a vicegerent exceed that of his prince?…”

Luther proceeds to depict the consequences of the papal domination. “Do you know
of what use the cardinals are? I will tell you. Italy and Germany have many
convents, foundations, and benefices, richly endowed. How could their revenues
be brought to Rome?… Cardinals were created; then, on them, cloisters and
prelacies were bestowed, and at this hour.… Italy is almost a desert—the
convents are destroyed—the bishopricks devoured—the towns in decay—the
inhabitants corrupted—worship dying out, and preaching abolished.… Why? Because
all the revenues of the churches go to Rome. Never would the Turk himself have
so ruined Italy.”

Luther next turns to his countrymen.

“And now that they have thus sucked the blood of their own country, they come
into Germany. They begin gently, but let us be on our guard. Germany will soon
become like Italy. We have already some cardinals. Their thought is—before the
rustic Germans comprehend our design they will have neither bishoprick, nor
convent, nor benefice, nor penny, nor farthing. Antichrist must possess the
treasures of the earth. Thirty or forty cardinals will be elected in a single
day; to one will be given Bamberg, to another the duchy of Wurtzburg, and rich
benefices will be annexed until the churches and cities are laid desolate. And
then the pope will say, ‘I am the vicar of Christ, and the pastor of his flocks.
Let the Germans be resigned.’ ”

Luther’s indignation rises.

“How do we Germans submit to such robbery and concussion on the part of the
pope? If France has successfully resisted, why do we allow ourselves to be thus
sported with and insulted? Ah! if they deprived us of nothing but our goods. But
they ravage churches, plunder the sheep of Christ, abolish the worship and
suppress the word of God.”

Luther then exposes the devices of Rome to obtain money and secure the revenues
of Germany. Annats, palliums, commendams, administrations, expected favours,
incorporations, reservations, etc., all pass in review. Then he says, “Let us
endeavour to put a stop to this desolation and misery. If we would march against
the Turks—let us begin with the worst species of them. If we hang pickpockets,
and behead robbers, let us not allow Roman avarice to escape—avarice, which is
the greatest of all thieves and robbers, and that too in the name of St. Peter
and Jesus Christ. Who can endure it? Who can be silent? Is not all that the pope
possesses stolen? He neither purchased it nor inherited it from St. Peter, nor
acquired it by the sweat of his own brow. Where then did he get it?”

Luther proposes remedies for all these evils, and energetically arouses the
German nobility to put an end to Roman depredation. He next comes to the reform
of the pope himself. “Is it not ridiculous,” says he, “that the pope should
pretend to be the lawful heir of the empire? Who gave it to him? Was it Jesus
Christ, when he said, ‘The kings of the earth exercise lordship over them, but
it shall not be so with you’? (Luke 22:25-26). How can he govern an empire, and
at the same time preach, pray, study, and take care of the poor? Jesus Christ
forbade his disciples to carry with them gold or clothes, because the office of
the ministry cannot be performed without freedom from every other care; yet the
pope would govern the empire, and at the same time remain pope.” …

Luther continues to strip the sovereign pontiff of his spoils. “Let the pope
renounce every species of title to the kingdom of Naples and Sicily. He has no
more right to it than I have. His possession of Bologna, Imola, Ravenna,
Romagna, Marche dʹAncona, etc., is unjust and contrary to the commands of Jesus
Christ. ‘No man,’ says St. Paul, ‘who goeth a warfare entangleth himself with
the affairs of this life,’ (2 Timothy 2:2). And the pope, who pretends to take
the lead in the war of the gospel, entangles himself more with the affairs of
this life than any emperor or king. He must be disencumbered of all this toil.
The emperor should put a bible and a prayer book into the hands of the pope,
that the pope may leave kings to govern, and devote himself to preaching and
prayer.”

Luther is as averse to the pope’s ecclesiastical power in Germany as to his
temporal power in Italy. “The first thing necessary is to banish from all the
countries of Germany, the legates of the pope, and the pretended blessings which
they sell us at the weight of gold, and which are sheer imposture. They take our
money—and why? For legalising ill gotten gain, for loosing oaths, and teaching
us to break faith, to sin, and go direct to hell.… Hearest thou, O, pope! not
pope most holy, but pope most sinful.… May God, from his place in heaven, cast
down thy throne into the infernal abyss!” The Christian tribune pursues his
course. After citing the pope to his bar, he cites all the abuses in the train
of the papacy, and endeavours to sweep away from the Church all the rubbish by
which it is encumbered. He begins with the monks.

“And now I come to a lazy band which promises much, but performs little. Be not
angry, dear Sirs, my intention is good; what I have to say is a truth at once
sweet and bitter; viz., that it is no longer necessary to build cloisters for
mendicant monks. Good God! we have only too many of them, and would they were
all suppressed.… To wander vagabond over the country never has done, and never
will do good.” The marriage of ecclesiastics comes next in course. It is the
first occasion on which Luther speaks of it.

“Into what a state have the clergy fallen, and how many priests are burdened
with women and children and remorse, while no one comes to their assistance? Let
the pope and the bishops run their course, and let those who will, go to
perdition; all very well! but I am resolved to unburden my conscience and open
my mouth freely, however pope, bishops, and others may be offended!… I say,
then, that according to the institution of Jesus Christ and the apostles, every
town ought to have a pastor or bishop, and that this pastor may have a wife, as
St. Paul writes to Timothy, “Let the bishop be the husband of one wife,” (1
Timothy 3:2) and as is still practised in the Greek Church. But the devil has
persuaded the pope, as St. Paul tells Timothy (1 Timothy 4:1-3), to forbid the
clergy to marry. And hence, evils so numerous, that it is impossible to give
them in detail. What is to be done? How are we to save the many pastors who are
blameworthy only in this, that they live with a female, to whom they wish with
all their heart to be lawfully united? Ah! let them save their conscience! let
them take this woman in lawful wedlock, and live decently with her, not
troubling themselves whether it pleases or displeases the pope. The salvation of
your soul is of greater moment than arbitrary and tyrannical laws, laws not
imposed by the Lord.” In this way the Reformation sought to restore purity of
morals within the Church. The Reformer continues:—

“Let feast-days be abolished, and let Sunday only be kept, or if it is deemed
proper to keep the great Christian festivals, let them be celebrated in the
morning, and let the remainder of the day be a working-day as usual. For by the
ordinary mode of spending them in drinking and gaming and committing all sorts
of sins, or in mere idleness, God is offended on festivals much more than on
other days.”

He afterwards attacks the dedications of Churches, (which he describes as mere
taverns,) and after them fasts and fraternities. He desires not only to suppress
abuses, but also to put an end to schisms. “It is time,” says he, “to take the
case of the Bohemians into serious consideration, that hatred and envy may
cease, and union be again established.” He proposes excellent methods of
conciliation, and adds—“In this way must heretics be refuted by Scripture, as
the ancient fathers did, and not subdued by fire. On a contrary system,
executioners would be the most learned of all doctors. Oh! would to God that
each party among us would shake hands with each other in fraternal humility,
rather than harden ourselves in the idea of our power and right! Charity is more
necessary than the Roman papacy. I have now done what was in my power. If the
pope or his people oppose it, they will have to give an account. The pope should
be ready to renounce the popedom, and all his wealth, and all his honours, if he
could thereby save a single soul. But he would see the universe go to
destruction sooner than yield a hair-breadth of his usurped power. I am clear of
these things.”

Luther next comes to universities and schools.

“I much fear the universities will become wide gates to hell, if due care is not
taken to explain the Holy Scriptures, and engrave it on the hearts of the
students. My advice to every person is, not to place his child where the
Scripture does not reign paramount. Every institution in which the studies
carried on lead to a relaxed consideration of the Word of God must prove
corrupting; a weighty sentiment, which governments, literary men, and parents in
all ages would do well to ponder.”

Towards the end of his address he returns to the empire and the emperor.

“The popes,” says he, “unable to lead the ancient masters of the Roman empire at
will, resolved on wresting their title and their empire from them and giving it
to us Germans. This they accomplished, and we have become bondmen to the pope.
For the pope has possessed himself of Rome, and bound the emperor by oath never
to reside in it; and the consequence is, that the emperor is the emperor of Rome
without having Rome. We have the name; the pope has the country and its cities.
We have the title and the insignia of empire; the pope its treasury, power,
privileges, and freedom. The pope eats the fruit, and we amuse ourselves with
the husk. In this way our simplicity has always been abused by the pride and
tyranny of the Romans.

“But now, may God who has given us such an empire, be our aid! Let us act
conformably to our name, our title, our insignia; let us save our freedom, and
give the Romans to know that, through their hands it was committed to us by God.
They boast of having given us an empire. Very well! let us take what belongs to
us. Let the pope surrender Rome, and every part of the empire that he possesses.
Let him put an end to his taxes and extortions. Let him restore our liberty, our
power, our wealth, our honour, our soul, and our body. Let the empire be all
that an empire ought to be; and let the sword of princes no longer be compelled
to lower itself before the hypocritical pretensions of a pope.” In these words
there is not only energy and eloquence, but also sound argument. Never did
orator so speak to the nobility of the empire, and to the emperor himself. Far
from being surprised that so many German states revolted from Rome we should
rather wonder that all Germany did not proceed to the banks of the Tiber, and
there resume that imperial power, the insignia of which the popes had
imprudently placed on the head of their chief.

Luther thus concludes his intrepid address.

“I presume, however, that I have struck too high a note, proposed many things
that will appear impossible, and been somewhat too severe on the many errors
which I have attacked. But what can I do? Better that the world be offended with
me than God!… The utmost which it can take from me is life. I have often offered
to make peace with my opponents, but, through their instrumentality God has
always obliged me to speak out against them. I have still a chant upon Rome in
reserve, and if they have an itching ear, I will sing it to them at full pitch.
Rome! do ye understand me?” … It is probable that Luther here refers to a
treatise on the papacy which he was preparing for publication, but which never
was published. Rector Burkhard, writing at this time to Spengler, says, “There
is, moreover, a short tract, De Execranda Venere Romanorum, but it is kept in
reserve.” The title of the work seems to intimate something which would have
given great offence, and it is pleasing to think that Luther had moderation not
to publish it.

“If my cause is just,” continues he, “it must be condemned on the earth, and
justified only by Christ in heaven. Therefore, let pope, bishops, priests,
monks, doctors, come forward, display all their zeal, and give full vent to
their fury. Assuredly they are just the people who ought to persecute the truth,
as in all ages they have persecuted it.” Where did this monk obtain this clear
knowledge of public affairs, which even the states of the empire often find it
so difficult to unravel? Whence did this German derive this courage which
enables him to hold up his head among his countrymen who had been enslaved for
so many ages, and deal such severe blows to the papacy? By what mysterious
energy is he animated? Does it not seem that he must have heard the words which
God addressed to one of ancient times; “Lo! I have strengthened thy face against
their faces, I have made thy forehead like a diamond, and harder than flint; be
not then afraid because of them”? This exhortation, being addressed to the
German nobility, was soon in the hands of all those for whom it was intended. It
spread over Germany with inconceivable rapidity. Luther’s friends trembled,
while Staupitz, and those who wished to follow gentle methods, thought the blow
too severe. “In our days,” replied Luther, “whatever is treated calmly falls
into oblivion, and nobody cares for it.” At the same time, he displayed
extraordinary simplicity and humility. He was unconscious of his own powers. “I
know not,” writes he, “what to say of myself; perhaps I am the precursor of
Philip (Melancthon). Like Elias, I am preparing the way for him, in spirit and
in power, that he may one day trouble Israel, and the house of Ahab.”2 But there
was no occasion to wait for any other than he who had appeared. The house of
Ahab was already shaken. The Address to the German Nobility was published on the
26th of June, 1520, and, in a short time, 4000 copies were sold, a number at
that period unprecedented. The astonishment was universal, and the whole people
were in commotion. The vigour, spirit, perspicuity, and noble boldness by which
it was pervaded, made it truly a work for the people, who felt that one who
spoke in such terms truly loved them. The confused views which many wise men
entertained were enlightened. All became aware of the usurpations of Rome. At
Wittemberg, no man had any doubt whatever, that the pope was Antichrist. Even
the Elector’s court, with all its timidity and circumspection, did not
disapprove of the Reformer, but only awaited the issue. The nobility and the
people did not even wait. The nation was awakened, and, at the voice of Luther,
adopted his cause, and rallied around his standard. Nothing could have been more
advantageous to the Reformer than this publication. In palaces, in castles, in
the dwellings of the citizens, and even in cottages, all are now prepared, and
made proof, as it were, against the sentence of condemnation which is about to
fall upon the prophet of the people. All Germany is on fire, and the bull, come
when it may, never will extinguish the conflagration.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 61: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

Preparations at Rome—Motives to resist the Papacy—Eck at Rome—Eck gains the
Day—The Pope is the World—God produces the Separation—A Swiss Priest pleads for
Luther—The Roman Consistory—Preamble of the Bull—Condemnation of Luther. At Rome
every thing necessary for the condemnation of the defender of the liberty of the
Church was prepared. Men had long lived there in arrogant security. The monks of
Rome had long accused Leo X of devoting himself to luxury and pleasure, and of
spending his whole time in hunting, theatricals, and music, while the Church was
crumbling to pieces. At last, through the clamour of Dr. Eck, who had come from
Leipsic to invoke the power of the Vatican, the pope, the cardinals, the monks,
all Rome awoke and bestirred themselves to save the papacy.

Rome, in fact, was obliged to adopt the severest measures. The gauntlet had been
thrown down, and the combat was destined to be mortal. Luther attacked not the
abuses of the Roman pontificate, but the pontificate itself. At his bidding, the
pope was humbly to descend from his throne, and again become a simple pastor, or
bishop, on the banks of the Tiber. All the dignitaries of the Roman hierarchy
were required to renounce their riches and worldly glory, and again become
elders or deacons of the churches of Italy. All the splendour and power which
had for ages dazzled the West behoved to vanish away and give place to the
humble and simple worship of the primitive Christians. These things God could
have done, and will one day do, but they were not to be expected from men. Even
should a pope have been disinterested enough, and bold enough to attempt the
overthrow of the ancient and sumptuous edifice of the Romish Church, thousands
of priests and bishops would have rushed forward to its support. The pope had
received power under the express condition of maintaining whatever was entrusted
to him. Rome deemed herself appointed of God to govern the Church; and no
wonder, therefore, that she was prepared with this view to adopt the most
decisive measures. And yet, at the outset, she did show hesitation. Several
cardinals and the pope himself, were averse to severe proceedings. Leo had too
much sagacity not to be aware that a decision, the enforcement of which depended
on the very dubious inclinations of the civil power, might seriously compromise
the authority of the Church. He saw, moreover, that the violent methods already
resorted to had only increased the evil. “Is it impossible to gain this Saxon
monk?” asked the politicians of Rome. “Would all the power of the Church, and
all the wiles of Italy, be ineffectual for this purpose? Negotiation must still
be attempted.”

Eck accordingly encountered formidable obstacles. He neglected nothing to
prevent what he termed impious concessions. Going up and down Rome, he gave vent
to his rage, and cried for vengeance. The fanatical faction of the monks having
immediately leagued with him he felt strong in this alliance, and proceeded with
new courage to importune the pope and the cardinals. According to him all
attempts at conciliation were useless. “The idea of it,” said he, “is only the
vain dream of those who slumber at a distance from the scene. But he knew the
danger; for he had wrestled with the audacious monk. The thing necessary was to
amputate the gangrened limb, and so prevent the disease from attacking the whole
body. The blustering disputant of Leipsic solves objections one after another,
and endeavours, but finds it difficult to persuade the pope. He wishes to save
Rome in spite of herself. Sparing no exertion, he spent whole hours in
deliberation in the cabinet of the pontiff, and made application both to the
court and the cloisters, to the people and the Church. “Eck is calling to the
depth of depths against me,” said Luther, “and setting on fire the forests of
Lebanon.”2 At length he succeeded. The fanatics in the councils of the papacy
vanquished the politicians. Leo gave way, and Luther’s condemnation was
resolved. Eck began again to breathe, and his pride felt gratified by the
thought that his own efforts had procured the ruin of his heretical rival, and
thereby saved the church. “It was well,” said he, “that I came to Rome at this
time, for little was known of Luther’s errors. It will one day be seen how much
I have done in this cause.” No one exerted himself so much in seconding Dr. Eck
as the master of the sacred palace, Sylvester Mazzolini De Prierio, who had just
published a work, in which he maintained, that not only to the pope alone
appertained the infallible decision of all debateable points, but also that
papal ascendancy was the fifth monarchy of Daniel, and the only true monarchy;
that the pope was the prince of all ecclesiastical, and the father of all
secular princes, the chief of the world, and even in substance the world itself.
In another writing he affirmed, that the pope is as much superior to the emperor
as gold is to lead;5 that the pope can appoint and depose emperors and electors,
establish and annul positive rights; and that the emperor, with all the laws and
all the nations of Christendom, cannot decide the smallest matter contrary to
the pope’s will. Such was the voice which came forth from the palace of the
sovereign pontiff, such the monstrous fiction which, in union with scholastic
dogmas, aimed at suppressing reviving truth. Had this fiction not been unmasked,
as it has been, and that even by learned members of the Catholic Church, there
would have been neither true history nor true religion. The papacy is not merely
a lie in regard to the Bible, it is also a lie in regard to the annals of
nations. And hence the Reformation, by destroying its fascinating power, has
emancipated not only the Church, but also kings and nations. The Reformation has
been described as a political work, and in this secondary sense it truly was so.

Thus God sent a spirit of delusion on the doctors of Rome. The separation
between truth and error must now be accomplished, and it is to error that the
task is assigned. Had a compromise been entered into, it must have been at the
expense of truth; for to mutilate truth in the slightest degree is to pave the
way for her complete annihilation. Like the insect, which is said to die on the
loss of one of its antennæ, she must be complete in all her parts, in order to
display the energy which enables her to gain great and advantageous victories,
and propagate herself through coming ages. To mingle any portion of error with
truth is to throw a grain of poison into a large dish of food. The grain
suffices to change its whole nature, and death ensues slowly, it may be; but yet
surely. Those who defend the doctrine of Christ against the attacks of its
adversaries keep as jealous an eye on its farthest outposts as on the citadel
itself, for the moment the enemy gains any footing at all he is on the highway
to conquest. The Roman pontiff determined at the period of which we now treat to
rend the Church; and the fragment which remained in his hand, how splendid
soever it may be, in vain endeavours under pompous ornaments to hide the
deleterious principle by which it is attacked. It is only where the word of God
is, that there is life. Luther, however great his courage was, would probably
have been silent had Rome been so and made some faint show of concession. But
God did not leave the Reformation to depend on a weak human heart. Luther was
under the guidance of a clearer intellect than his own. The pope was the
instrument in the hand of Providence to sever every tie between the past and the
future, and launch the Reformer on a new, unknown, and to him uncertain career,
and the difficult avenues to which he would, if left to himself, have been
unable to find. The papal bull was a writing of divorce sent from Rome to the
pure Church of Jesus Christ, as personified in him who was then her humble but
faithful representative. And the Church accepted the writing on the
understanding that she was thenceforth to depend on none but her heavenly Head.

While at Rome, Luther’s condemnation was urged forward with so much violence, a
humble priest, dwelling in one of the humble towns of Helvetia, and who had
never had any correspondence with the Reformer, was deeply moved when he thought
of the blow which was aimed at him; while even the friends of the Wittemberg
doctor trembled in silence, this mountaineer of Switzerland resolved to employ
every means to stay the formidable bull. His name was Ulrick Zwingle. William
des Faucons, who was secretary to the papal Legate in Switzerland, and managed
the affairs of Rome during the Legate’s absence, was his friend, and a few days
before had said to him, “while I live you may calculate on obtaining from me
everything that a true friend can be expected to give.” The Helvetian priest,
trusting to this declaration, repaired to the Roman embassy. This, at least, may
be inferred from one of his letters. For himself, he had no fear of the dangers
to which evangelical faith exposed him, knowing that a disciple of Jesus Christ
must always be ready to sacrifice his life; “All I ask of Christ for myself,”
said he to a friend to whom he was unbosoming his solicitude on Luther’s
account, “all I ask is to be able to bear like a man whatever evils await me. I
am a vessel of clay in his hands. Let him break or let him strengthen me as
seemeth to him good.” But the Swiss evangelist had fears for the Christian
Church, should this formidable blow reach the Reformer, and he endeavoured to
persuade the representative of Rome to enlighten the pope, and employ all the
means in his power to prevent him from launching an excommunication at Luther.2
“The dignity of the holy see itself,” said he to him, “is here at stake, for if
matters are brought to such a point, Germany, in the height of her enthusiasm
for the gospel, and for its preacher, will despise the pope and his anathemas.”
The efforts of Zwingle were in vain. It appears, indeed, that when he was making
them, the blow had been already struck. Such was the first occasion on which the
paths of the Saxon doctor and the Swiss priest met. The latter we will again
meet with in the course of this history, and will see him gradually expanding
and growing until he obtain a high standing in the Church of the Lord.

After Luther’s condemnation was at last resolved upon, new difficulties arose in
the Consistory. The theologians wished to proceed at once to fulmination,
whereas the lawyers were for beginning with a citation, asking their theological
colleagues, “Was not Adam first cited? ‘Adam, where art thou?’ said the Lord. It
was the same with Cain, the question asked at him was, ‘where is thy brother,
Abel?’ ” These strange arguments, drawn from Scripture, the canonists
strengthened by appealing to the principles of the law of nature. “The certainty
of a crime,” said they, “cannot deprive the criminal of his right of defence.”
It is pleasing to find a sense of justice still existing in a Roman consistory.
But these scruples did not suit the theologians, who, hurried on by passion,
thought only of proceeding to business with despatch. It was at length agreed
that the doctrine of Luther should be immediately condemned, and that a period
of sixty days should be granted to him and his adherents; after which, provided
they did not retract, they should all be, ipso facto, excommunicated. De Vio,
who had returned from Germany in ill health, was carried to the meeting, that he
might not lose this little triumph, which carried with it some degree of
consolation. Having been defeated at Augsburg, he longed to be able at Rome to
condemn the invincible monk, before whom his knowledge, finesse, and authority
had proved unavailing. Luther not being there to reply, De Vio felt himself
strong. A last conference, which Eck attended, was held in presence of the pope
himself, in his villa at Malliano. On the 15th of June the sacred college
resolved on condemnation, and approved of the famous bull.

“Arise, O Lord!” said the Roman pontiff, speaking at this solemn moment as vicar
of God and head of the Church, “arise and be judge in thy own cause. Remember
the insults daily offered to thee by infatuated men. Arise, O Peter, remember
thy holy Roman Church, the mother of all churches, and mistress of the faith!
Arise, O Paul, for here is a new Porphyry, who is attacking thy doctrines and
the holy popes our predecessors! Arise, in fine, assembly of all the saints,
holy Church of God, and intercede with the Almighty!” The pope afterwards quotes
as pernicious, scandalous, and poisonous, forty-one propositions in which Luther
had expounded the holy doctrine of the gospel. Among these propositions we find
the following:— “To deny that sin remains in an infant after baptism, is to
trample St. Paul and our Lord Jesus Christ under foot.”

“A new life is the best and noblest penance.”

“To burn heretics is contrary to the will of the Holy Spirit, etc.” The moment
this Bull is published,” continued the pope, “it will be the duty of the bishops
to make careful search for the writings of Martin Luther, which contain these
errors, and to burn them publicly and solemnly in presence of the clergy and
laity. In regard to Martin himself, good God! what have we not done! Imitating
the goodness of the Almighty, we are ready, even yet, to receive him into the
bosom of the Church, and we give him sixty days to transmit his retractation to
us in a writing sealed by two prelates; or, what will be more agreeable to us,
to come to Rome in person, that no doubt may be entertained as to his
submission. Meanwhile, and from this moment, he must cease to preach, teach, or
write, and must deliver his works to the flames. If, in the space of sixty days,
he do not retract, we, by these presents, condemn him and his adherents as
public and absolute heretics.” The pope afterwards pronounces a multiplicity of
excommunications, maledictions, and interdicts against Luther and all his
adherents, with injunctions to seize their persons and send them to Rome. It is
easy to conjecture what the fate of these noble confessors of the gospel would
have been in the dungeons of the papacy. A thunder storm was thus gathering over
the head of Luther. Some had been able to persuade themselves, after Reuchlin’s
affair, that the Court at Rome would not again make common cause with the
Dominicans and the Inquisitors. These, however, were again in the ascendant, and
the old alliance was solemnly renewed. The Bull was published, and for ages the
mouth of Rome had never pronounced a sentence of condemnation without following
it up with a death blow. This murderous message was about to issue from the
seven hills, and attack the Saxon monk in his cloister. The moment was well
chosen. There were good grounds for supposing that the new emperor, who, for
many reasons, was anxious to obtain the friendship of the pope, would hasten to
merit it by the sacrifice of an obscure monk. Leo X, the cardinals, and all
Rome, were exulting in the belief that their enemy was already in their power.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 62: CHAPTER V
========================================================================

Wittemberg—Melancthon—His Marriage—Catharine—Domestic Life—Beneficence—Good
Humour—Christ and Antiquity—Labour—Love of Letters—His Mother—Outbreak among the
Students.

While the inhabitants of the eternal city were thus agitated more tranquil
events were occurring at Wittemberg, where Melancthon was shedding a soft but
brilliant light. From 1500 to 2000 hearers, who had flocked from Germany,
England, the Netherlands, France, Italy, Hungary, and Greece, often assembled
around him. He was twenty-four years of age, and had not taken orders. Every
house in Wittemberg was open to this learned and amiable young professor.
Foreign universities, in particular Ingolstadt, were desirous to gain him, and
his Wittemberg friends wished to get him married, and thereby retain him among
them. Luther, though he concurred in wishing that his dear Philip should have a
female companion, declared openly that he would give no counsel in the matter.
The task was undertaken by others. The young doctor was a frequent visitor of
Burgomaster Krapp. The burgomaster was of an ancient family, and had a daughter
named Catharine, remarkable for the mildness of her dispositions, and her great
sensibility. Melancthon was urged to ask her in marriage; but the young scholar
was buried among his books, and could talk of nothing else. His Greek authors
and his New Testament were all his delight. He combated the arguments of his
friends; but at length his consent was obtained, and all the arrangements having
been made by others, Catharine became his wife. He received her with great
coolness, and said, with a sigh, “God has willed it; so I must renounce my
studies and my delights, to follow the wishes of my friends.”2 Still he
appreciated the good qualities of Catharine. “The disposition and education of
the girl,” said he, are such as I might have asked God to give her,
δεξιᾷὁΘεὸςτεκμαίροιτο. She certainly deserved a better husband.” The matter was
settled in August. The espousals took place on the 25th of September, and the
marriage was celebrated in the end of November. Old John Luther and his wife
came with their daughters to Wittemberg on the occasion. Many learned and
distinguished persons were also present. The young bride was as warm in her
affection as the young professor was cold. Ever full of anxiety for her husband,
Catharine took the alarm the moment she saw him threatened with even the
semblance of danger. If Melancthon proposed to take any step which might
compromise him, she urged and entreated him to abandon it. “On one of these
occasions,” wrote Melancthon, “I was obliged to yield to her weakness.… It is
our lot.” How much unfaithfulness in the Church has had a similar origin. To the
influence of Catharine ought, perhaps, to be attributed the timidity and fears
with which her husband has often been reproached. Catharine was as fond a mother
as a wife. She gave liberally to the poor. “O God, leave me not in my old age,
when my hair shall begin to turn grey!” Such was the frequent prayer of this
pious and timorous soul. Melancthon was soon won by the affection of his wife.
When he had tasted the pleasures of domestic society he felt how sweet they
were, for he was of a nature to feel them. His happiest moments were beside his
Catharine and her children. A French traveller having one day found the
“preceptor of Germany” rocking his infant with one hand, and with a book in the
other, started back in surprise; but Melancthon, without being discomposed, so
warmly explained to him the value of children in the sight of God, that the
stranger left the house, (to use his own words,) “wiser than he had entered it.”
The marriage of Melancthon gave a domestic hearth to the Reformation. There was,
thenceforth, in Wittemberg, a family whose house was open to all those whom the
principle of a new life now animated. The concourse of strangers was immense.
Melancthon was waited on for a thousand different affairs, and his rule was
never to deny himself to any body.2 The young professor was particularly skilful
in concealing his own good deeds. If he had no more money he secretly carried
his silver plate to some merchant, never hesitating to part with it, provided he
had the means of assisting those who were in distress. “Hence,” says his friend,
Camerarius, “it would have been impossible for him to provide for his own wants
and those of his family had not a divine and hidden blessing from time to time
furnished him with the means.” He carried his good nature to an extreme. He had
some antique medals of gold and silver, which were extremely curious. One day
when showing them to a stranger who was visiting him, Melancthon said, “Take any
one of them you wish.” “I wish them all,” replied the stranger. “I confess,”
says Philip, “I was at first offended at the selfishness of the request; however
I gave them to him. Melancthon’s writings had a savour of antiquity. This,
however, did not prevent them from exhaling the sweet savour of Christ, while it
gave them an inexpressible charm. There is not one of his letters to his friends
which does not contain some very apt allusion to Homer, Plato, Cicero, and
Pliny, while Christ is always brought forward as his master and his God.
Spalatin had asked him for an explanation of our Saviour’s words—“Without me ye
can do nothing,” (John 15:5). Melancthon refers him to Luther—“Cur agam gestum
spectante Roscio? as Cicero expresses it;” and then continues, “This passage
means that we must be absorbed by Christ, so that it is no longer we that act,
but Christ that liveth in us. As in his person the Divine has been incorporated
with the human nature, so must man be incorporated with Jesus Christ by faith.”
The distinguished scholar’s habit was to go to bed shortly after supper, and get
up to his studies at two or three in the morning. During these early hours his
best works were composed. His manuscripts usually lay on his table exposed to
the view of all who came and went, so that several were stolen. When he had a
party of his friends, he asked one or other of them, before they sat down to
table, to read some short composition in prose or verse. During his journeys he
was always accompanied by some young persons with whom he conversed in a manner
at once instructive and amusing. If the conversation flagged, each of them had
to repeat in his turn some passage taken from the ancient poets. He often had
recourse to irony, but always tempered it with great gentleness. “He stings and
cuts,” said he of himself, “but still without doing any harm.” The acquisition
of knowledge was his ruling passion. The aim of his life was to diffuse
literature and instruction. Let us not forget, that with him the first place in
literature was given to the Holy Scriptures, and only a secondary place to the
ancient classics. “My sole object,” said he, “is the defence of literature; we
must, by our example, inspire youth with an admiration of literature, and make
them love it for itself, and not for the pecuniary profit which it may be made
to yield. The downfall of literature involves the destruction of all that is
good—of religion and morals—of things human and divine.3 … The better a man is,
the more ardently does he exert himself in favour of learning, for he knows that
the most pernicious of all pests is ignorance.”

Some time after his marriage, Melancthon went to Bretten, in the Palatinate,
accompanied by Camerarius and other friends, to pay a visit to his affectionate
mother. On coming in sight of his native town, he dismounted from his horse,
threw himself on his knees, and thanked God for permitting him to see it again.
Margaret, on embracing her son, almost fainted with joy. She would have had him
reside at Bretten, and earnestly entreated him to continue in the faith of his
fathers. On this head, Melancthon excused himself, but with great tenderness,
that he might not give offence to the conscientious feelings of his mother; he
had great difficulty in parting with her, and whenever a traveller brought him
news of his native town, he rejoiced, to use his own expression, as if he had
renewed the joys of his childhood. Such was the character of one of the greatest
instruments employed in the religious revolution of the sixteenth century. The
domestic calmness and studious activity of Wittemberg was, however, disturbed by
a commotion, the consequence of a rupture which took place between the students
and the citizens. The Rector betrayed great weakness. One may suppose how deeply
Melancthon was grieved when he saw these disciples of literature committing such
excesses. Luther felt indignant, and had no idea of trying to gain them over by
a false condescension. The disgrace which these disorders brought upon the
university stung him to the heart. Having mounted the pulpit, he inveighed in
strong terms against these commotions, calling upon both parties to submit to
the authorities.2 His discourse produced great irritation; “Satan,” says he,
“unable to attack us from without, is trying to do us mischief from within. Him
I fear not, but I fear lest the wrath of God be kindled against us for not
having duly received his word. During the three last years I have been thrice
exposed to great danger. In 1518, at Augsburg; in 1519, at Leipsic; and now, in
1520, at Wittemberg. It is neither by wisdom nor by arms that the renovation of
the Church will be accomplished, but by humble prayers, and by an intrepid faith
which puts Jesus Christ on our side. O, my friend! unite your prayers to mine,
that the evil spirit may not be able, by means of this small spark, to kindle a
vast conflagration.”


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 63: CHAPTER VI
========================================================================

The Gospel in Italy—Discourse on the Mass—The Babylonish Captivity of the
Church—Baptism—Abolition of Vows—Progress of the Reformation. But fiercer
combats awaited Luther. Rome was brandishing the sword with which she had
resolved to attack the gospel. Her threatened sentence, however, so far from
dispiriting the Reformer increased his courage. The blows of this arrogant power
gave him little concern. He will himself give more formidable blows, and thereby
neutralize those of his adversaries. While Transalpine consistories are
fulminating their anathemas against him, he will, with the sword of the gospel,
pierce to the very heart of the Italian states. Luther having been informed, by
letters from Venice, of the favourable reception which had been given to his
opinions, felt an ardent desire to carry the gospel over the Alps. Evangelists
must be found to transport it. “I wish,” said he, “that we had living books, I
mean preachers, and that we could multiply them, and afford them protection in
all quarters, in order that they might convey the knowledge of holy things to
the people. The prince could not do a work more worthy of him. Were the
inhabitants of Italy to receive the truth our cause would be unassailable.” It
does not appear that this project of Luther was realised. It is true that, at a
later period, evangelists, even Calvin himself, sojourned for a while in Italy,
but at this time the design was not followed out. He had applied to one of the
great ones of the earth. Had he made his appeal to men low in station, but full
of zeal for the kingdom of God, the result might have been very different. The
idea at this period was, that every thing behoved to be done by governments. The
association of private individuals, by which so much is now accomplished in
Christendom, was almost unknown.

If Luther did not succeed in his plans of spreading the truth in a distant
country, he was only the more zealous in proclaiming it himself. At this time
his discourse, ‘On the Holy Mass,’ was delivered at Wittemberg. In it he
inveighed against the numerous sects of the Romish Church, and justly reproached
it with its want of unity. “The multiplicity of spiritual laws,” said he, “has
filled the world with sects and divisions. Priests, monks, and laics, have shown
more hatred of each other than subsists between Christians and Turks. What do I
say? Priests are mortal enemies of priests, and monks of monks. Each is attached
to his particular sect, and despises all others. There is an end of Christian
love and unity.” He then attacks the idea that the mass is a sacrifice, and has
any efficacy in itself. “The best thing in every sacrament, and consequently in
the Supper, is the word and promises of God. Without faith in this word, and
these promises, the sacrament is dead; a body without a soul, a flagon without
wine, a purse without money, a type without an antitype, the letter without the
spirit, a casket without its diamond, a scabbard without its sword.”

Luther’s voice, however, was not confined to Wittemberg; and if he failed to
procure missionaries to carry his instructions to distant lands, God provided
him with a missionary of a new description. The art of printing supplied the
place of evangelists. The press was destined to make a breach in the Roman
fortress. Luther had prepared a mine, the explosion of which shook the Roman
edifice to its very foundations. This was his famous treatise on the Babylonish
Captivity of the Church, which appeared 6th October, 1520. Never had man
displayed such courage in such critical circumstances. In this writing he first
enumerates, with a kind of ironical pride, all the advantages for which he is
indebted to his enemies.

“Whether I will or not,” says he, “I daily become more learned, spurred on as I
am by so many celebrated masters. Two years ago I attacked indulgences, but with
so much fear and indecision, that I am now ashamed of it. But, after all, the
mode of attack is not to be wondered at, for I had nobody who would help me to
roll the stone.” He returns thanks to Prierio, Eck, Emser, and his other
opponents, and continues—“I denied that the papacy was of God, but I granted
that it had the authority of man. Now, after reading all the subtleties by which
these sparks prop up their idol, I know that the papacy is only the kingdom of
Babylon, and the tyranny of the great hunter Nimrod. I therefore beg all my
friends, and all booksellers, to burn the books which I wrote on this subject,
and to substitute for them the single proposition—‘ The papacy is a general
chace, by command of the Roman pontiff, for the purpose of running down and
destroying souls.’ ”

Luther afterwards attacks the prevailing errors on the sacraments, on monastic
vows, etc. The seven sacraments of the Church he reduces to three—viz., baptism,
penitence, and the Lord’s supper. He then proceeds to baptism, and when
discussing it dwells especially on the excellence of faith, and makes a vigorous
attack upon Rome. “God,” says he, “has preserved this single sacrament to us
clear of human traditions. God has said, ‘Whoso believeth, and is baptized,
shall be saved.’ This divine promise must take precedence of all works however
splendid, of all vows, all satisfactions, all indulgences, all that man has
devised. On this promise, if we receive it in faith, all our salvation depends.
If we believe, our heart is strengthened by the divine promise, and though all
else should abandon the believer, this promise will not abandon him. With it he
will resist the adversary who assaults his soul, and will meet death though
pitiless, and even the judgment of God himself. In all trials his comfort will
be to say, ‘God is faithful to his promises, and these were pledged to me in
baptism; if God be for me, who can be against me?’ Oh, how rich the Christian,
the baptized! Nothing can destroy him but his own refusal to believe.”

“It may be that, to my observations on the necessity of faith will be opposed
the baptism of little children. But as the Word of God is powerful to change
even the heart of the wicked, though neither less deaf, nor less impotent than a
little child; so the prayer of the Church, to which all things are possible,
changes the little child by means of the faith which God is pleased to pour into
its soul, and so cleanses and renews it.”

After explaining the doctrine of baptism, Luther employs it as a weapon against
the papacy. In fact, if the Christian finds complete salvation in the renewal
which accompanies the baptism of faith, what need has he of the prescriptions of
Rome?

“Wherefore,” says Luther, “I declare that neither the pope, nor the bishop, nor
any man whatever, is entitled to impose the smallest burden on a Christian—at
least without his consent. Whatsoever is done otherwise is done tyrannically. We
are free of all men. The vow which we made in baptism is sufficient by itself
alone, and is more than all we could ever accomplish.3 Therefore, all other vows
may be abolished. Let every one who enters the priesthood, or a religious order,
consider well that the works of a monk or a priest, how difficult soever they
may be, are, in the view of God, in no respect superior to those of a peasant
labouring in the field, or a woman attending to the duties of her house. God
estimates all these things by the rule of faith. And it often happens that the
simple labour of a man-servant, or a maid-servant, is more agreeable to God than
the fastings and works of a monk, these being deficient in faith.… The Christian
people is the people of God led away into captivity, to Babylon, and there
robbed of their baptism.”

Such were the weapons by which the religious revolution whose history we are
tracing was accomplished. First, the necessity of faith was established, and
then the reformers used it as a hammer to break superstition in pieces. They
attacked error with that divine power which removes mountains. These, and many
similar passages of Luther circulated in towns, convents, and the country, were
the leaven which leavened the whole lump. The conclusion of this famous
production on the captivity of Babylon is in the following terms:—

“I learn that a new papal excommunication has been prepared against me. If so,
the present book may be regarded as part of my future recantation. In proof of
my obedience, the rest will soon follow, and the whole will, with the help of
Christ, form a collection, the like to which Rome never saw or heard before.”


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 64: CHAPTER VII
========================================================================

New Negotiations—Miltitz and the Augustins of Eisleben—Deputation to
Luther—Miltitz and the Elector—Conference at Lichtemberg—Luther’s Letter to the
Pope—Book Presented to the Pope—Union of the Believer with Christ—Freedom and
Bondage.

After this publication, all hope of reconciliation between the pope and Luther
must have vanished. Persons of the least possible discernment must have been
struck with the incompatibility of the Reformer’s belief with the doctrine of
the Church; and yet, at this very moment, new negotiations were about to
commence. In the end of August, 1520, five weeks before the publication of the
‘Captivity of Babylon,’ the general Chapter of the Augustins had assembled at
Eisleben. At this meeting, the venerable Staupitz resigned his office of
vicar-general of his order, and Winceslas Link, he who accompanied Luther to
Augsburg, was invested with it. Suddenly, in the middle of the Chapter, arrived
the indefatigable Miltitz, burning with eagerness to reconcile Luther and the
pope. His avarice, and, above all, his jealousy and hatred, were interested. Eck
and his swaggering had galled him; he knew that the doctor of Ingolstadt had
spoken disparagingly of him at Rome, and there was nothing he would not have
sacrificed in order to defeat the designs of this troublesome rival by means of
a speedily concluded peace. The interest of religion gave him no concern. One
day, by his own account, he was dining with the bishop of Leipsic. After the
guests had drunk very freely, a new work of Luther’s was brought in. On being
opened and read, the bishop flew into a passion, and the official swore, but
Miltitz laughed with all his heart.2 The Reformation was treated by Miltitz as a
man of the world, and by Eck as a theologian.

Aroused by the arrival of Dr. Eck, Miltitz addressed the Chapter of the
Augustins, in a discourse which he delivered with a very marked Italian accent,
thinking thus to overawe his countrymen. “The whole Augustin order is
compromised by this affair.” said he. “Show me some method of silencing
Luther.”2 “We have nothing to do with the doctor,” replied the Fathers, “and we
know not what counsel to give you.” They founded doubtless on what Staupitz had
done at Augsburg, when he loosed Luther from his vows of obedience to the order.
Miltitz insisted, “Let a deputation from this venerable Chapter wait upon
Luther, and solicit him to write a letter to the pope, assuring him that he has
never plotted in any respect against his person. That will be sufficient to
terminate the affair.” The Chapter gave their consent, and assigned the task of
conferring with Luther, no doubt at the nuncio’s request, to the
ex-vicar-general, Staupitz, and his successor Link. The deputation forthwith set
out for Wittemberg with a letter from Miltitz to the doctor filled with
expressions of the highest respect. “There is no time to be lost,” said he, “the
thunder already hovering over the head of the Reformer, will soon burst, and
then all is over.”

Neither Luther nor the deputies, who concurred in his opinions, hoped any thing
from a letter to the pope. That however was a reason for not refusing to write
it, as it would only be a mere matter of form, and might serve to bring out
Luther’s rights. “This Italian of Saxony (Miltitz), “thought Luther,” in making
this demand has doubtless his own particular interest in view. Very well, be it
so, I will write, as I can with truth, that I have never objected to the pope
personally. I will even endeavour to guard against severity in attacking the see
of Rome. Still it shall have its sprinkling of salt.”5

Luther having shortly after been informed of the arrival of the bull in Germany,
declared to Spalatin, on the 3rd of October, that he would not write the pope,
and, on the 6th of the same month, published his book on the ‘Captivity of
Babylon.’ Miltitz did not even yet despair of success. His eagerness to humble
Eck made him believe an impossibility. On the 2nd of October, he had written the
Elector, in high spirits. “Every thing will go well, but, for the love of God,
delay no longer to order payment of the pension which I have had from you and
your brother for some years. I must have money in order to make new friends at
Rome. Write the pope, and do homage to the young cardinals, the relatives of his
holiness, with gold and silver pieces, from the mint of your electoral highness,
and add some for me also, for I was robbed of those which you gave me.”

Even after Luther was acquainted with the bull, the intriguing Miltitz was not
discouraged, and requested a conference with Luther at Lichtemberg. The Elector
ordered Luther to repair thither. But his friends, and especially the
affectionate Melancthon, opposed it.3 “What, thought they, at the moment when a
bull has appeared ordering Luther to be seized and carried off to Rome, to
accept a conference with the pope’s nuncio in a retired spot! Is it not evident
that, because Dr. Eck from having too openly proclaimed his hatred is not able
to approach the Reformer, the wily chamberlain has been employed to ensnare
Luther in his nets?”

These fears could not deter the doctor of Wittemberg. The prince has commanded,
and he will obey. “I am setting out for Lichtemberg,” wrote he, to the chaplain
on the 11th of October, “pray for me.” His friends would not quit him. The same
day, towards evening, Luther entered Lichtemberg on horse-back, amid thirty
horsemen, one of whom was Melancthon. The papal nuncio arrived almost at the
same time with only four attendants. Was this modest escort a stratagem to throw
Luther and his friends off their guard?

Miltitz urged Luther with the most pressing solicitations, assuring him that the
blame would be thrown upon Eck and his foolish boastings, and that every thing
would terminate to the satisfaction of both parties. “Very well,” replied
Luther, “I offer henceforth to keep silence, provided my opponents keep it also.
For the sake of peace I will do every thing that it is possible for me to do.”6

Miltitz was delighted; and accompanying Luther as far as Wittemberg, the
Reformer and the papal nuncio walked arm in arm into this town which Dr. Eck was
now approaching, holding menacingly in his hand the formidable bull which was to
overthrow the Reformation. “We will bring the matter to a happy conclusion,”
wrote Miltitz forthwith to the Elector; “Thank the pope for his rose, and at the
same time send forty or fifty florins to Cardinal Quatuor Sanctorum.”

Luther felt bound to keep his promise of writing the pope. Before bidding Rome
an eternal adieu, he wished once more to tell her important and salutary truths.
Some perhaps will regard his letter only as a piece of irony—a bitter and
insulting satire—but this were to mistake the sentiments by which he was
actuated. He sincerely believed that Rome was to blame for all the evils of
Christendom; and in this view his words are not insults, but solemn warnings.
The more he loved Leo, and the more he loved the Church of Christ, the more he
desired to unfold the full magnitude of the disease. The energy of his
expressions is proportioned to the energy of his feelings. The crisis has
arrived, and he seems like a prophet walking round the city for the last time,
upbraiding it for all its abominations, denouncing the judgments of the
Almighty, and crying aloud, “Still some days of respite.” The letter is as
follows:— “To the Most Holy Father in God, Leo X, Pope at Rome, Salvation in
Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

“From amid the fearful war which I have been waging for three years with
disorderly men, I cannot help looking to you, O Leo, Most Holy Father in God.
And although the folly of your impious flatterers has compelled me to appeal
from your judgment to a future council, my heart is not turned away from your
Holiness, and I have not ceased to pray God earnestly and with profound sighs,
to grant prosperity to yourself and your pontificate.

“It is true I have attacked some antichristian doctrines, and have inflicted a
deep wound on my adversaries because of their impiety. Of this I repent not, as
I have here Christ for an example. Of what use is salt if it have lost its
savour, or the edge of a sword if it will not cut? Cursed be he who does the
work of the Lord negligently. Most excellent Leo, far from having conceived any
bad thoughts with regard to you, my wish is that you may enjoy the most precious
blessings throughout eternity. One thing only I have done: I have maintained the
word of truth. I am ready to yield to all in every thing; but, as to this word,
I will not, I cannot, abandon it.3 He who thinks differently on this subject is
in error.

“It is true that I have attacked the Court of Rome; but neither yourself nor any
man living can deny that there is greater corruption in it than was in Sodom and
Gomorrah, and that the Impiety which prevails makes cure hopeless. Yes; I have
been horrified on seeing how, under your name, the poor followers of Christ were
deceived. I have opposed this, and will oppose it still, not that I imagine it
possible, in spite of the opposition of flatterers, to accomplish any thing in
this Babylon, which is confusion itself; but I owe it to my brethren to
endeavour, if possible, to remove some of them from these dreadful evils.

“You know it; Rome has for many years been inundating the world with whatever
could destroy both soul and body. The Church of Rome, formerly the first in
holiness, has become a den of robbers, a place of prostitution, a kingdom of
death and hell; so that Antichrist himself, were he to appear, would be unable
to increase the amount of wickedness. All this is as clear as day.

“And yet, O Leo, you yourself are like a lamb in the midst of wolves—a Daniel in
the lions’ den. But single-handed, what can you oppose to these monsters? There
may be three or four cardinals who to knowledge add virtue. But what are these
against so many? You should perish by poison even before you could try any
remedy. It is all over with the Court at Rome—the wrath of God has overtaken and
will consume it. It hates counsel—it fears reform—it will not moderate the fury
of its ungodliness; and hence it may be justly said of it as of its mother—

We would have healed Babylon, but she is not healed; forsake her. It belonged to
you and your cardinals to apply the remedy; but the patient laughs at the
doctor, and the horse refuses to feel the bit.… 4

“Cherishing the deepest affection for you, most excellent Leo, I have always
regretted that, formed as you are for a better age, you were raised to the
pontificate in these times. Rome is not worthy of you, and those who resemble
you; the only chief whom she deserves to have is Satan himself, and hence, the
truth is, that in this Babylon he is more king than you are. Would to God, that,
laying aside this glory which your enemies so much extol, you would exchange it
for a modest pastoral office, or live on your paternal inheritance. Rome’s glory
is of a kind fit only for Iscariots.… O, my dear Leo, of what use are you in
this Roman court, unless it be to allow the most execrable men to use your name
and your authority in ruining fortunes, destroying souls, multiplying crimes,
oppressing faith, truth, and the whole Church of God? O Leo, Leo, you are the
most unfortunate of men, and you sit upon the most dangerous of thrones. I tell
you the truth because I wish your good.

“Is it not true, that, under the vast expanse of heaven there is nothing more
corrupt, more hateful, than the Roman Court? In vice and corruption it
infinitely exceeds the Turks. Once the gate of heaven, it has become the mouth
of hell—a wide mouth which the wrath of God keeps open, so that, on seeing so
many unhappy beings thrown headlong into it, I was obliged to lift my voice, as
in a tempest, in order that, at least, some might be saved from the fearful
abyss. Such, O Leo, my father, was the reason why I inveighed against this
death-giving see. Far from attacking your person, I thought I was labouring for
your safety, when I valiantly assaulted this prison, or rather this hell in
which you are confined. To do all sorts of evil to the Court of Rome were to
discharge your own duty; to cover it with shame is to honour Christ; in one
word, to be a Christian is to be anything but a Roman.

“Meanwhile, seeing that in succouring the see of Rome, I was losing my labour
and my pains, I sent her a letter of divorce I said to her, ‘Adieu, Rome! He
that is unjust, let him be unjust still, and he that is filthy, let him be
filthy still;’ and devoted myself to the tranquil and solitary study of the
sacred volume. Then Satan opened his eyes and awoke his servant, John Eck, a
great enemy of Jesus Christ, in order that he might oblige me again to descend
into the arena. Eck’s wish was to establish the primacy not of Peter but of
himself, and, for that purpose, to lead vanquished Luther in triumph. The blame
of all the obloquy which has been cast on the see of Rome rests with him.”

Luther narrates his intercourse with De Vio, Miltitz, and Eck, and then
continues.

“Now, then, I come to you, O Most Holy Father, and, prostrated at your feet,
pray you, if possible, to put a curb on the enemies of the truth. But I cannot
retract my doctrine. I cannot permit rules of interpretation to be imposed on
the Holy Scriptures. The Word of God, the source whence all freedom springs,
must be left free.

“O, Leo, my father! listen not to those flattering Sirens who tell you that you
are not a mere man, but a demi-god, and can ordain what you please. You are the
servant of servants, and the seat which you occupy is of all others the most
dangerous, and the most unhappy. Give credit not to those who exalt, but to
those who humble you. Perhaps I am too bold in giving advice to so high a
majesty, whose duty it is to instruct all men. But I see the dangers which
surround you at Rome, I see you driven hither and thither, tossed as it were
upon the billows of a raging sea. Charity urges me, and I cannot resist sending
forth a warning cry.

“Not to appear empty handed before your Holiness, I present you with a little
book, which has appeared under your name, and which will make you aware of the
subjects to which I will be able to devote myself, if your flatterers permit me.
It is a small matter as regards the size of the volume, but a great one in
regard to its contents, for it comprehends a summary of the Christian life. I am
poor, and have nothing else to offer; besides, you have no want of any thing but
spiritual gifts. I commend myself to your Holiness. May the Lord keep you for
ever and ever, amen.” The little book with which Luther did homage to the pope
was his ‘Treatise on the liberty of the Christian;’ in which he demonstrates
without any polemical discussion, how the Christian, without infringing on the
liberty which faith has given him, may submit to every external ordinance in a
spirit of freedom and love. Two truths form the basis of the whole discourse,
viz., The Christian is free—all things are his: The Christian is a servant
subject to all in every thing. By faith he is free, by love he is subject. At
first he explains the power of faith to make the Christian free. “Faith unites
the soul with Christ, as a bride with the bridegroom. Every thing that Christ
has becomes the property of the believer, every thing that the believer has
becomes the property of Christ. Christ possesses all blessings, even eternal
salvation, and these are thenceforth the property of the believer. The believer
possesses all vices and all sins, and these become, thenceforth, the property of
Christ. A happy exchange now takes place. Christ who is God and man, Christ who
has never sinned, and whose holiness is invincible, Christ, the Omnipotent and
Eternal, appropriating to himself by his wedding ring—that is to say, by faith,
all the sins of the believer; these sins are swallowed up in him and
annihilated; for no sin can exist in presence of his infinite righteousness.
Thus, by means of faith, the soul is delivered from all sins, and invested with
the eternal righteousness of Jesus Christ the bridegroom. O happy union! Jesus
Christ the rich, the noble, the holy bridegroom, takes in marriage this poor,
guilty, contemned bride, delivers her from all evil, and decks her in the
richest robes … Christ, a King, and Priest, shares this honour and glory with
all Christians. The Christian is a king, and consequently possesses all things.
He is a priest, and consequently possesses God. And it is faith, not works,
which procures him this honour. The Christian is free from all things, and above
all things—faith giving him every thing in abundance.” In the second part of the
treatise Luther presents the truth in its other point of view. “Although the
Christian has thus been made free, he voluntarily becomes a servant that he may
act towards his brethren as God has acted towards him through Jesus Christ. I
desire,” said he, “freely, joyfully, and gratuitously, to serve a Father who
hath thus shed upon me all the riches of his goodness. I wish to become every
thing to my neighbour, as Christ has become every thing to me.” … “From faith,”
continues Luther, “flows love to God, and from love a life full of liberty,
charity, and joy. O how noble and elevated a life the life of the Christian is!
But, alas, none know it and none preach it. By faith the Christian rises even to
God: by love he descends to man; still, however, remaining always in God. This
is true liberty, a liberty as far above every other species of liberty as the
heavens are above the earth.”

Such was the treatise which accompanied Luther’s letter to Leo X.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 65: CHAPTER VIII
========================================================================

The Bull in Germany—Eck’s Reception—The Bull at Wittemberg—Interposition of
Zuinglius.

While the Reformer was thus addressing the Roman pontiff for the last time, the
bull which anathematised him was already in the hands of the Germanic Church,
and at Luther’s own door. It would seem that no doubt was entertained at Rome as
to the success of the measure which had thus been adopted against the
Reformation. The pope had charged two high functionaries of his court,
Carracioli and Aleander, to be the bearers of it to the Archbishop of Mentz who
was requested to see to its execution. But Eck himself appeared in Saxony as the
herald and executor of the great pontifical work. No man knew better than the
doctor of Ingolstadt how formidable the blows were which Luther had struck.
Alive to the danger he had stretched forth his hand to sustain the tottering
edifice of Rome. In his own estimation he was the Atlas, destined to support the
ancient Roman world on his robust shoulders, when on the point of falling to
pieces. Proud of the success of his journey to Rome; proud of the charge which
he had received from the sovereign pontiff; proud to appear in Germany with the
new title of protonotary and pontifical nuncio; proud of the bull which he held
in his hand, and which contained the condemnation of his indomitable rival, he
regarded his present mission as a triumph more splendid than all the victories
which he had gained in Hungary, Bavaria, Lombardy, and Saxony, and from which he
had previously derived so much renown. But this pride was soon to be humbled.
The pope, in entrusting the publication of the bull to Eck, had committed a
blunder which was destined to neutralise its effect. The proud distinction
conferred on a man who did not hold high rank in the Church gave offence to
sensitive and jealous spirits. The bishops, accustomed to receive the bulls
directly from the pope, were offended at the publication of this one in their
dioceses by an upstart nuncio. The nation who had hooted the pretended conqueror
of Leipsic at the moment of his flight into Italy, were equally astonished and
indignant when they saw him repass the Alps, decked in the insignia of
pontifical nuncio, and with the power of crushing whomsoever he chose. The
sentence brought by his implacable adversary, Luther regarded as an act of
personal revenge. “He regarded it, says Pallavicini, “as the perfidious poniard
of a mortal enemy, and not as the legitimate act of a Roman lictor.” It was
generally viewed as less the bull of the sovereign pontiff, than of Dr. Eck. In
this way, the blow was obstructed and weakened before-hand by the very person at
whose instigation it was struck. The chancellor of Ingolstadt had hastened back
to Saxony, which, as having been the scene of battle, he was desirous should
also be the scene of his victory. Having arrived he published the bull at
Meissen, Merseburg, and Brandenburg towards the end of September. But in the
first of these towns it was posted up in a place where nobody could read it; and
the bishops of those three sees were in no haste to publish it. Even Duke
George, Eck’s great patron, prohibited the Council of Leipsic from making it
public, before receiving orders from the Bishop of Merseburg, and these orders
did not arrive till the following year. “These are only difficulties of form,”
said John Eck to himself at first, for every thing else seemed to smile upon
him. Duke George sent him a golden cup and some ducats. Even Miltitz, who had
hastened to Leipsic, on learning that his rival had arrived, invited him to
dinner. The two legates were boon companions; and Miltitz thought he could not
have a better opportunity of sounding Eck than over their wine. “After he had
drunk pretty freely, he began,” says the pope’s chamberlain, “to boast in grand
style—he displayed his bull, and told how he meant to bring that droli fellow
Martin to his senses.” But the Ingolstadt doctor soon had occasion to observe
that the wind was veering. The course of a year had produced a great change in
Leipsic. On St. Michael’s day some students posted up placards, in ten different
places, containing a severe attack on the new nuncio, who, in amazement, took
refuge in the cloister of St. Paul, where Tetzel had previously found his
asylum, and declining every visit, induced the rector to call his youthful
opponents to account. By this poor Eck gained little. The students composed a
song upon him, and sang it in the streets. Eck must have heard it in his prison.
On this all his courage failed him, and the redoubtable champion trembled in
every limb. Every day brought him threatening letters. One hundred and fifty
students, who had arrived from Wittemberg, spoke out boldly against the papal
envoy. For once the poor apostolical nuncio could hold out no longer. “I would
not have them kill him,” said Luther, “though I wish his designs to fail.”2 Eck,
quitting his retreat at night, clandestinely escaped from Leipsic to go and hide
himself at Coburg. Miltitz, who gives the account, triumphed more than the
Reformer. His triumph, however, was not of long duration. All the chamberlain’s
projects of conciliation failed, and he came at last to a miserable end. One
day, when drunk, he fell into the Rhine at Mentz, and was drowned.

Eck gradually recovered courage. Repairing to Erfurt, whose theologians had on
more than one occasion betrayed their jealousy of Luther, he insisted on having
his bull published in this town, but the students seized the copies, tore them
to pieces, and threw them into the river, saying, “since it is a bull, let it
swim.” “Now,” said Luther, on being informed of this, “the pope’s paper is a
true bull.” Eck durst not make his appearance at Wittemberg; but he sent the
bull to the rector with a threat, that if it was not conformed to, he would
destroy the university. At the same time he wrote Duke John, Frederick’s
brother, and coregent, “Do not take what I do in bad part, I am acting in behalf
of the faith, and it costs me many cares, great labour, and much money.”4 The
bishop of Brandenburg, supposing him inclined, was not entitled to act at
Wittemberg in his capacity of ordinary, the university being protected by its
privileges. Luther and Carlstadt, who were condemned by the bull, were asked to
take part in the meetings which were held to deliberate on its contents. The
rector declared that, as he had not received a letter from the pope along with
the bull, he declined to publish it. The university had already acquired greater
authority in the surrounding countries than the sovereign pontiff himself. Its
declaration served as a model to the government of the Elector; and thus the
spirit which was in Luther triumphed over the bull of Rome.

While the German mind was thus strongly agitated by this affair, a grave voice
was heard in another quarter of Europe. An individual, foreseeing the immense
rent which the papal bull was about to make in the Church, came forward to give
a solemn warning, and to defend the Reformer. It was that of the Swiss priest,
of whom we have already spoken, viz., Ulrich Zuinglius, who, though not united
to Luther by any friendly tie, published a treatise full of wisdom and dignity,
the first of his numerous writings. A kind of fraternal affection seemed to draw
him towards the doctor of Wittemberg. “The piety of the pontiff,” said he,
“requires that he shall joyfully sacrifice whatever is dearest to him for the
glory of Christ his King, and for the public peace of the Church. Nothing is
more injurious to his dignity than to defend it by pensions or terror. Even
before the writings of Luther were read, he had been calumniated to the people
as a heretic, a schismatic, and as Antichrist himself. Not one gave him warning,
none refuted him. He called for a discussion; but all he could get was a
sentence of condemnation. The bull which is published displeases even those who
honour the majesty of the pope. For it is everywhere regarded as an expression
of the impotent hatred of some monks, and not of the mildness of a pontiff, who
ought to be the vicar of a Saviour full of love. All acknowledge that the true
doctrine of the gospel of Jesus Christ has greatly degenerated, and that a
public and thorough reformation of laws and manners is required.2 Consider all
men of learning and virtue—the more sincere they are, the stronger is their
attachment to evangelical truth, and the less their dissatisfaction with
Luther’s writings. There is not one who does not acknowledge that he has derived
benefit from these books, though he may have met with passages which he was
unable to approve. Let men of sound doctrine and acknowledged probity be
selected. Let three princes above all suspicion—the emperor Charles, the King of
England, and the king of Hungary—name the judges. Let these judges read Luther’s
writings. Let them hear his defence, and then let their decision, whatever it
be, be confirmed. ΝικησατωἡτουΧριστουπαιδειακαιαληθεια” This proposal, which
came from the country of the Swiss, led to no result. It was necessary that the
great divorce should take place. It was necessary that Christendom should be
rent in twain. Her very wounds were destined to be the cure of her diseases.


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  CHAPTER 66: CHAPTER IX
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Luther Examines himself in the presence of God—Luther’s opinion of the Bull—A
neutral Family—Luther on the Bull, and against the Bull of Antichrist—The Pope
prohibits Faith—Effects of the Bull—The faggot pile of Louvain. But what
signified all this resistance by students, rectors, and priests. If the mighty
arm of Charles V is joined to the mighty arm of the pope, will they not crush
these scholars and grammarians? Will any one be able to resist the combined
power of the pontiff of Christendom and of the emperor of the West? The blow has
been struck. Luther is excommunicated, and the gospel seems lost. At this solemn
moment the Reformer does not disguise to himself the magnitude of the danger to
which he is exposed; but he looks upward, and prepares to receive, as from the
hand of the Lord himself, a blow which seems destined to annihilate him. Ho
retires within himself, and meditates at the footstool of the throne of God.
“What the result is to be,” says he, “I know not, and I am not anxious to know;
certain as I am that He who sits in heaven has from all eternity foreseen the
beginning, the progress, and the end of this affair. Wherever the blow is to
strike, I am without fear. The leaf of a tree falls not without our Father’s
will. How much less shall we fall. It is a small matter to die for the Word,
since this Word which became incarnate and that for us has itself first died. If
we die with it, we shall rise again with it; and, passing along the same road by
which it passed, will arrive where it has arrived, and remain with it throughout
eternity.” Sometimes, however, Luther could not restrain the contempt which he
felt for the manœuvres of his enemies. On these occasions he displays his
characteristic combination of sublimity and sarcasm. “I know nothing of Eck,”
says he, “except that he arrived with a long beard, a long bull, and a long
purse.… But I will laugh at his bull.” On the third of October he was made
acquainted with the papal letter. “At length,” says he, “this Roman bull has
arrived. I despise it, and defy it as impious, false, and in all respects worthy
of Eck. It is Christ himself who is condemned. It gives no reasons; it merely
cites me, not to be heard, but simply to sing a palinode. I will treat it as
spurious, though I have no doubt it is genuine. O, if Charles V were a man, and
would, for the love of Christ, attack these demons! I rejoice in having to
endure some hardships for the best of causes. I already feel more liberty in my
heart; for at length I know that the pope is Antichrist, and that his see is
that of Satan himself.”

It was not in Saxony merely that the thunders of Rome had produced alarm. A
quiet family of Swabia, a neutral family, saw its peace suddenly broken up.
Bilibald Pirckheimer, of Nuremberg, one of the most distinguished men of his
age, having early lost his beloved wife Crescentia, was united in the closest
affection with his two young sisters, Charitas, abbess of St. Clair, and Clara,
a nun of the same convent. These two pious females served God in solitude, and
divided their time between study, the care of the poor, and preparation for
eternity. Bilibald, who was a statesman, relaxed from public affairs by
maintaining a correspondence with them. They were learned, read Latin, and
studied the Fathers; but their favourite volume was the Holy Scriptures. They
had never had any other teacher than their brother. The letters of Charitas are
written in a delicate and amiable spirit. Tenderly attached to Bilibald she took
alarm at the least danger which threatened him. Pirckheimer, to dissipate the
fears of this timid spirit, wrote a dialogue between Charitas and Veritas,
(Charity and Truth), in which Veritas tries to strengthen Charitas. Nothing can
be more touching, or better fitted to solace a tender and agonised heart.

What must have been the terror of Charitas when the rumour spread that in the
papal bull Bilibald’s name was posted up beside that of Luther, on the doors of
cathedrals? In fact, Eck, pushed on by blind fury, had associated with Luther
six of the most distinguished men of Germany, viz., Carlstadt, Feldkirchen, and
Egranus, (who gave themselves very little concern about it,) and Adelman,
Pirckheimer, and his friend Spengler, whose public functions made them
particularly alive to the insult. There was great agitation in the Convent of
St. Clair. How shall the disgrace of Bilibald be borne? Nothing affects
relatives more deeply than such trials. In vain did the city of Nuremberg, the
Bishop of Bamberg, and even the dukes of Bavaria interfere in behalf of Spengler
and Pirckheimer; these noble-minded men were obliged to humble themselves before
Dr. Eck, who made them feel all the importance of a Roman protonotary, and
obliged them to write a letter to the pope, declaring that they adhered to the
doctrines of Luther only in so far as they were conformable to Christian faith.
At the same time Adelman, with whom Eck had once had a scuffle on rising up from
table after a discussion on the great question which then occupied all minds,
was required to appear before the bishop of Augsburg and purge himself on oath
of all participation in the Lutheran heresy. Still, however, anger and revenge
had proved bad counsellors to Eck. The names of Bilibald and his friends damaged
the bull. The character of these eminent men and their extensive connections
increased the general irritation.

Luther at first pretended to doubt the authenticity of the bull. “I learn,” says
he in the first work which he published after it, “that Eck has brought from
Rome a new bull, which resembles him so much, is so stuffed with falsehood and
error, that it might well be named Doctor Ech. He gives out that it is the work
of the pope, whereas it is only a work of lies.” After explaining his reasons
for doubting its genuineness, Luther thus concludes, “I must with my own eyes
see the lead, the seal, the tape, the conclusion, the signature of the
bull—every part of it, in short, or I will not estimate all this clamour at the
weight of a straw.” But no man doubted, not even Luther himself, that the bull
was the pope’s. Germany waited to see what the Reformer would do. Would he stand
firm? All eyes were fixed on Wittemberg. Luther did not keep his contemporaries
long in suspense. On the 4th of November, 1520, he replied with a discharge of
thunder, by publishing his treatise ‘Against the Bull of Antichrist.’

“What errors, what impostures,” said he, “have crept in among the poor people
under the cloak of the Church, and the pretended infallibility of the pope! how
many souls have thus been lost! how much blood shed! what murders committed!
what kingdoms ruined!

Further on he ironically says, “I know very well how to distinguish between art
and malice, and set very little value on a malice which has no art. To burn
books is so easy a matter that even children can do it; how much more the Holy
Father and his doctors. It would become them to show greater ability than is
requisite merely to burn books.… Besides, let them destroy my works! I desire
nothing more; for all I wished was to guide men to the Bible, that they might
thereafter lay aside all my writings.2 Good God! if we had the knowledge of
Scripture, what need would there be for my writings?… I am free by the grace of
God, and bulls neither solace nor frighten me. My strength and consolation are
where neither men nor devils can assail them.”

Luther’s tenth proposition, condemned by the pope, was in the following terms:
“No man’s sins are pardoned, if, when the priest absolves him, he does not
believe that they are pardoned.” The pope in condemning it denied that faith was
necessary in the Sacrament. “They maintain,” exclaims Luther, “that we ought not
to believe that our sins are pardoned when we are absolved by the priest. What
then are we to do? Listen now, O! Christians, to a new arrival from Rome.
Condemnation is pronounced against this article of faith which we profess when
we say ‘I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, and the
forgiveness of sins.’ Did I know that the pope had really given this bull at
Rome,” (he did not doubt it,) “and that it was not the invention of the
arch-liar, Eck, I would cry aloud to all Christians that they ought to hold the
pope as the true Antichrist spoken of in Scripture. And if he would not desist
from proscribing the faith of the Church, … then let the temporal sword resist
him even sooner than the Turk!… For the Turks allow belief, but the pope forbids
it.”

While Luther was speaking thus forcibly, his perils were increasing. The scheme
of his enemies was to drive him out of Wittemberg. If Luther and Wittemberg are
separated, both will be destroyed. A single stroke would thus disencumber Rome
of both the heretical doctor and the heretical university. Duke George, the
bishop of Merseburg, and the theologians of Leipsic were labouring underhand at
this work. Luther on being apprised of it said, “I leave this affair in the
hands of God.”4 These proceedings were not without result: Adrian, professor of
Hebrew at Wittemberg, suddenly turned against the doctor. It required great
firmness in the faith to withstand the shock given by the Roman bull. There are
characters which follow the truth only a certain distance, and such was Adrian.
Frightened at the condemnation he quitted Wittemberg, and repaired to Leipsic to
be near Dr. Eck. The bull began to be executed. The voice of the pontiff of
Christendom was not an empty sound. Long had fire and sword taught subjection to
it. Faggot piles were prepared at his bidding, and everything indicated that a
dreadful catastrophe was to put an end to the audacious revolt of the Augustin
monk. In October, 1520, all the copies of Luther’s works in the shops of the
booksellers at Ingolstadt were seized, and put under seal. The
Archbishop-Elector of Mentz, moderate as he was, had to banish Ulric of Hütten
from his court, and imprison his printer. The papal nuncios having laid siege to
the young Emperor, Charles declared that he would protect the ancient religion;
and in some of his hereditary possessions scaffolds were erected, on which the
writings of the heretic were reduced to ashes. Princes of the Church and
magistrates were present at these auto-da-fe. Alcander was quite elated with his
success. “The pope,” said he, in imitation of Pricrio, “may dethrone kings! He
may, if he chooses, say to the emperor, Thou art only a tanner! He knows well
how to bring one or two miserable grammarians to their senses. We will dispose,
moreover, of Duke Frederick also.” To hear the proud nuncio, one would have said
that the pile of Mentz which consumed Luther’s books was “le commencement de la
fin” (the beginning of the end.) These flames, it was said at Rome, will carry
terror into every quarter. Such, in truth, was the effect on many superstitious
and timid spirits; but even in the hereditary states of Charles, where alone it
was ventured to execute the bull, the people, and even the grandees, often
answered these pontifical demonstrations with derision, or expressions of
indignation. “Luther,” said the doctors of Louvain, on presenting themselves
before Margaret, Regent of the Netherlands, “Luther is subverting the Christian
faith.” “Who is this Luther?” asked the Princess. “An ignorant monk.” “Well,
then,” replied she, “do you, who are learned, and in such numbers, write against
him. The world will credit a multitude of learned men sooner than an isolated,
ignorant monk.” The doctors of Louvain preferred an easier method. They caused a
vast pile to be erected at their own expense. The place of execution was covered
with spectators, and students and burghers were seen hastening through the
crowd, their arms filled with large volumes, which they threw into the flames.
Their zeal edified the monks and doctors; but the trick was afterwards
discovered. Instead of the writings of Luther, they had thrown into the fire the
Sermones discipuli, Tartaret, and other scholastic and popish books. The Count
of Nassau, Viceroy of Holland, when the Dominicans were soliciting the favour of
burning the doctor’s books, said to them, “Go and preach the gospel as purely as
Luther, and you will have nobody to complain of.” At a festival, attended by the
leading princes of the empire, the Reformer having become the subject of
conversation, the Baron of Ravenstein said, aloud, “In the space of four
centuries, only one Christian man has dared to lift his head, and the pope is
wishing to put him to death.”

Luther, conscious of the power of his cause, remained tranquil amid the tumult
which the bull had excited. “Did you not urge me so keenly,” said he to
Spalatin, “I would be silent, well knowing that, by the power and counsel of
God, this work must be accomplished.”3 The timid man was anxious for speech, the
strong man wished to be silent. It was because Luther discerned a power not
visible to the eyes of his friend. “Be of good courage,” continues the Reformer;
“Christ began these things, and Christ will accomplish them, though I should be
put to flight or put to death. Jesus Christ is present here, and more powerful
is He who is in us, than he who is in the world.”


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  CHAPTER 67: CHAPTER X
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Decisive steps by the Reformer—Luther’s Appeal to a General Council—Struggle at
close quarters—The Bull burned by Luther—Meaning of this bold act—Luther in the
Academic Chair—Luther against the Pope—New Work by Melancthon—How Luther
encourages his Friends—Progress of the Contest—Melancthon’s Opinion of the
timid—Luther’s Work on the Bible—Doctrine of Grace—Luther’s Recantation. But
duty obliged him to speak, in order to manifest the truth to the world. Rome has
struck, and he will make it known how he receives the blow. The pope has put him
under the ban of the Church, and he will put the pope under the ban of
Christendom. Up to this hour the pope’s word has been omnipotent. Luther will
oppose word to word, and the world will know which is the more powerful of the
two. “I am desirous,” said he, “to set my conscience at rest, by making men
aware of the danger to which they are exposed.” At the same time he prepares to
renew his appeal to an universal council. An appeal from the pope to a council
was a crime, and hence the mode in which Luther attempts to justify himself is a
new act of hostility to papal authority. On the morning of the 17th November, a
notary and five witnesses, of whom Cruciger was one, met at ten o’clock, in one
of the halls of the Augustin convent in which the doctor resided. There the
public officer, Sarctor of Eisleben, having seated himself to draw up the minute
of his protest, the Reformer, in presence of the witnesses, says, with a solemn
tone:

“Considering that a general Council of the Christian Church is above the pope,
especially in all that concerns the faith;

“Considering that the power of the pope is not above, but beneath Scripture, and
that he has no right to worry the sheep of Christ, and throw them into the
wolf’s mouth:

“I, Martin Luther, Augustin, doctor of the Holy Scriptures at Wittemberg, do, by
this writing, appeal for myself, and for all who shall adhere to me, from the
most holy Pope Leo, to a future universal Christian Council.

“I appeal from the said Pope Leo, first, as an unjust, rash, tyrannical judge,
who condemns me without hearing me, and without explaining the grounds of his
judgment; secondly, as a heretic, a strayed, obdurate apostate, condemned by the
Holy Scriptures, inasmuch as he ordains me to deny that Christian faith is
necessary in the use of the sacraments; thirdly, as an enemy, an antichrist, an
adversary, a tyrant of the Holy Scripture, who dares to oppose his own words to
all the words of God; fourthly, as a despiser, a calumniator, a blasphemer of
the holy Christian Church and a free Council, inasmuch as he pretends that a
Council is nothing in itself.

“Wherefore, I most humbly supplicate the most serene, most illustrious,
excellent, generous, noble, brave, sage, and prudent lords, Charles, the Roman
emperor, the electors, princes, counts, barons, knights, gentlemen, counsellors,
towns, and commonalties, throughout Germany, to adhere to my protestation, and
join me in resisting the antichristian conduct of the pope, for the glory of
God, the defence of the Church, and of Christian doctrine, and the maintenance
of free councils in Christendom. Let them do so, and Christ our Lord will richly
recompence them by his eternal grace. But if there are any who despise my
prayer, and continue to obey that impious man, the pope, rather than God, I, by
these presents, shake myself free of the responsibility. Having faithfully
warned their consciences, I leave them, as well as the pope, and all his
adherents, to the sovereign judgment of God.”

Such is Luther’s deed of divorce, such his answer to the papal bull. There is
great seriousness in this declaration. The accusations which he brings against
the pope are very grave, and are not made in a spirit of levity. This
protestation spread over Germany, and was sent to the leading courts of
Christendom.

Though the step which Luther had just taken seemed the very height of daring, he
had a still bolder step in reserve. The monk of Wittemberg will do all that the
pope dares to do. The son of the Medicis, and the son of the miner of Mansfeld,
have descended into the lists, and in this mortal struggle, which shakes the
world, not a blow is given by the one which is not returned by the other. On the
10th December, a notice appeared on the walls of Wittemberg, inviting the
professors and students to meet at nine oʹclock in the morning, at the east
gate, near the holy cross. A great number of teachers and pupils assembled, and
Luther, walking at their head, led the procession to the appointed spot. How
many faggot piles has Rome kindled in the course of ages! Luther desires to make
a better application of the great Roman principle. He only wishes to rid himself
of some old papers, and the fire, he thinks, is the fit instrument for that. A
scaffold had been prepared. One of the oldest masters of arts applied the torch.
At the moment when the flames rose, the redoubted Augustin, dressed in his
frock, was seen to approach the pile, holding in his hands the Canon Law, the
Decretals, the Clementines, the Extravagants of the popes, some writings of Eck
and Emser, and the papal bull. The Decretals having first been consumed, Luther
held up the bull, and saying, “Since thou hast grieved the Lord’s Anointed, let
the eternal fire grieve and consume thee,” threw it into the flames. Never was
war declared with more energy and resolution. Luther quietly took the road back
to the town, and the crowd of doctors, professors, and students, after a loud
cheer, returned with him to Wittemberg. “The Decretals,” said Luther, “resemble
a body with a head as soft as that of a maiden, limbs as full of violence as
those of a lion, and a tail with as many wiles as a serpent. In all the papal
laws, there is not one word to teach us who Jesus Christ is. My enemies,”
continues he, “have been able, by burning my books, to injure the truth in the
minds of the common people, and therefore I have burnt their books in my turn. A
serious struggle has now commenced. Hitherto I have only had child’s play with
the pope. I began the work in the name of God; it will be terminated without me
and by his power. If they burn my books, in which, to speak without vain-glory,
there is more of the gospel than in all the books of the pope, I am entitled, a
fortiori, to burn theirs, in which there is nothing good.” Had Luther commenced
the Reformation in this way, such a proceeding would doubtless have led to fatal
results. Fanaticism would have been able to lay hold of it, and throw the Church
into a course of disorder and violence. But the Reformer’s grave exposition of
Scripture had formed a prelude to his work. The foundations had been wisely
laid, and now the mighty stroke which he had just given would not only expose
him to no hazard, but even accelerate the hour when Christendom would be
delivered from her chains.

Thus solemnly did Luther declare his separation from the pope and his church.
After his letter to Leo he might think this necessary. He accepted the
excommunication which Rome had pronounced. It made the Christian world aware
that there was now mortal war beween him and the pope. On reaching the shore, he
burnt his ships, and left himself no alternative but that of advancing to the
combat.

Luther had returned to Wittemberg. Next day the academic hall was fuller than
usual. Men’s minds were excited. A feeling of solemnity prevailed throughout the
audience, in expectation of an address from the doctor. He commented on the
Psalms, a task which he had commenced in March of the previous year. Having
finished his lecture, he paused a few moments, and then said firmly, “Be on your
guard against the laws and statutes of the pope. I have burned the Decretals,
but it is only child’s play. It is time, and more than time, to burn the pope. I
mean, he instantly resumed, the see of Rome, with all its doctrines and
abominations.” Then, assuming a more solemn tone, he said, “If you do not, with
all your heart, combat the impious government of the pope, you cannot be saved.
Whoever takes pleasure in the religion and worship of the papacy will be
eternally lost in the life to come.”

“If we reject it,” added he, “we may expect all kinds of dangers and even the
loss of life. But it is far better to run such risks in the world than to be
silent! As long as I live I will warn my brethren of the sore and plague of
Babylon, lest several who are with us fall back with the others into the abyss
of hell.”

It is scarcely possible to imagine the effect produced upon the audience by
language, the energy of which still makes us wonder. “None of us,” adds the
candid student to whom we owe the fact, “at least, if he be not a block without
intelligence, (‘as,’ adds he in a parenthesis, ‘all the papists are,’)—none of
us doubts that it contains the simple truth. It is evident to all the faithful,
that Dr. Luther is an angel of the living God, called to feed the long
bewildered sheep of Christ with the divine Word.” This discourse, and the act
which crowned it, mark an important epoch in the Reformation. The Leipsic
discussion had detached Luther inwardly from the pope. But the moment when he
burned the bull was that in which he declared, in the most expressive manner,
his entire separation from the bishop of Rome and his church, and his attachment
to the Church universal, as founded by the apostles of Jesus Christ. After three
centuries the fire which he kindled at the East gate is still burning.

“The pope,” said he, “has three crowns, and they are these: the first is against
God, for he condemns religion,—the second against the emperor, for he condemns
the secular power,—and the third against society, for he condemns marriage.”
When he was reproached with inveighing too violently against the papacy, he
replied, “Ah! I wish every thing I testify against him were a clap of thunder,
and every one of my words were a thunderbolt.”3 This firmness of Luther was
communicated to his friends and countrymen. A whole nation rallied round him.
The university of Wittemberg in particular always became more attached to the
hero to whom it owed its importance and renown. Carlstadt raised his voice
against “the raging lion of Florence,” who tore divine and human laws to pieces,
and trampled under foot the principles of eternal truth. At this time Melancthon
also addressed the States of the empire in a writing characterised by his usual
elegance and wisdom. It was a reply to a treatise attributed to Emser, but
published under the name of Rhadinus, a Roman theologian. Luther himself spoke
not more forcibly, and yet there is a grace in Melancthon’s words which gives
them access to the heart.

After showing, by passages of Scripture, that the pope is not superior to other
bishops; “What prevents us,” says he to the States of the empire, “from
depriving the pope of the privilege which we have given him? It matters little
to Luther that our riches, i.e. the treasures of Europe, are sent to Rome. But
what causes his grief and ours is, that the laws of the pontiffs, and the reign
of the pope, not only endanger the souls of men but utterly destroy them. Every
man can judge for himself, whether or not it suits him to give his money for the
maintenance of Roman luxury, but to judge of the things of religion, and of
sacred mysteries, is beyond the reach of the vulgar. Here, then, Luther implores
your faith and zeal, and all pious men implore with him, some with loud voice
and others with groans and sighs. Remember, princes of the Christian people,
that you are Christians, and rescue the sad wrecks of Christianity from the
tyranny of Antichrist. You are deceived by those who pretend that you have no
authority over priests. The same spirit which animated Jehu against the priests
of Baal urges you, in imitation of that ancient example, to abolish the Roman
superstition—a superstition far more horrible than the idolatry of Baal.” So
spoke mild Melancthon to the princes of Germany.

Some cries of alarm were heard among the friends of the Reformation. Timid
spirits inclined to excessive moderation—Staupitz in particular, expressed the
keenest anguish. “Till now,” said Luther to him, “the whole affair has been mere
sport. You yourself have said, ‘did God not do these things it is impossible
they could by done.’ The tumult becomes more and more tumultuous! and I do not
think it will be quelled before the last day.” Such was Luther’s mode of
encouraging the timid. The tumult has existed for three centuries and is not
quelled!

“The papacy,” continued he, “is not now what it was yesterday and the day
before. Let it excommunicate and burn my writings; … let it kill me! it cannot
arrest what is going forward. Something wonderful is at the door. I burnt the
bull in great trembling, but now I experience more joy from it than from any
action of my life.”4

We stop involuntarily and delight to read in the great soul of Luther all that
the future is preparing. “O! my father,” says he to Staupitz in concluding,
“pray for the word of God and for me. I am heaved on the billows, and as it were
whirled upon them.”

War is thus declared on all sides. The combatants have thrown away their
scabbards. The Word of God has resumed its rights, and deposes him who had gone
the length of usurping God’s place. Society is shaken throughout. No period is
without egotistical men, who would willingly leave human society in error and
corruption, but wise men, even the timid among them, think differently. “We know
well,” says the mild and moderate Melancthon, “that statesmen have a horror at
every thing like innovation; and it must be confessed, that in the sad confusion
called human life, discord, even that which arises from the best of causes, is
always accompanied with evil. Still it is necessary that in the Church the Word
of God take precedence of every thing human. God denounces eternal wrath against
those who strive to extinguish the truth; and therefore, it was a duty incumbent
on Luther—a Christian duty which he could not evade—to rebuke the pernicious
errors which disorderly men were circulating with inconceivable effrontery. If
discord engenders many evils, (to my great grief I see it does, adds sage
Philip,) it is the fault of those who at the beginning circulated errors, and of
those who, filled with diabolic hatred, are seeking at present to maintain
them.”

All, however, were not of the same opinion. Luther was loaded with reproaches;
the storm burst upon him from all sides. “He is quite alone,” said some—“He
teaches novelties,” said others.

“Who knows,” replied Luther, in accordance with the virtue given him from on
high,—“who knows if God has not chosen me, and called me, and if they ought not
to fear that in despising me they may be despising God himself?… Moses was alone
on coming out of Egypt—Elijah alone in the time of King Ahab—Isaiah alone in
Jerusalem—Ezekiel alone at Babylon.… God never chose for a prophet either the
high priest or any other great personage. He usually chose persons who were low
and despised,—on one occasion he even chose a shepherd, (Amos). At all times the
saints have had to rebuke the great—kings, princes, priests, the learned—at the
risk of their lives. And under the New Dispensation has it not been the same?
Ambrose in his day was alone; after him Jerome was alone; later still Augustine
was alone.… I do not say that I am a prophet,3 but I say they ought to fear just
because I am alone and they are many. One thing I am sure of—the Word of God is
with me and is not with them.

“It is said also,” continues he, “that I advance novelties, and that it is
impossible to believe that all other doctors have for so long a period been
mistaken.

“No, I do not preach novelties. But I say that all Christian doctrines have
disappeared, even among those who ought to have preserved them; I mean bishops
and the learned. I doubt not, however, that the truth has remained in some
hearts, should it even have been in infants in the cradle. Poor peasants, mere
babes, now understand Jesus Christ better than the pope, the bishops, and the
doctors.

“I am accused of rejecting the holy doctors of the Church. I reject them not:
but since all those doctors try to prove their writings by Holy Scripture, it
must be clearer and more certain than they are. Who thinks of proving an obscure
discourse by one still more obscure? Thus, then, necessity constrains us to
recur to the Bible, as all the doctors do, and to ask it to decide upon their
writings; for the Bible is lord and master.

“But it is said men in power persecute him. And is it not clear from Scripture
that persecutors are usually in the wrong, and the persecuted in the right; that
the majority are always in favour of falsehood, and the minority in favour of
truth? The truth has, at all times, caused clamour.”

Luther afterwards reviews the propositions condemned in the bull as heretical,
and demonstrates their truth, by proofs drawn from Holy Scripture. With what
force, in particular, does he now maintain the doctrine of grace!

“What,” says he, “will nature be able, before and without grace, to hate sin,
avoid it, and repent of it; while that, even since grace is come, this nature
loves sin, seeks it, desires it, and ceases not to combat grace, and to be
irritated against it; a fact for which all the saints continually do groan!… It
is as if it were said that a large tree, which I am unable to bend by exerting
my utmost strength, bends of itself on my letting it go; or that a torrent,
which walls and dykes cannot arrest, is arrested the instant I leave it to
itself.… No, it is not by considering sin and its consequences that we attain to
repentance, but by contemplating Jesus Christ, his wounds, and boundless love.
The knowledge of sin must result from repentance, and not repentance from the
knowledge of sin. Knowledge is the fruit, repentance is the tree. With us the
fruit grows upon the tree, but it would seem that, in the states of the holy
father, the tree grows upon the fruit.” The courageous doctor, though he
protests, also retracts some of his propositions. Surprise will cease when his
mode of doing it is known. After quoting the four propositions on indulgences,
condemned by the bull, he simply adds,

“In honour of the holy and learned bull I retract all that I have ever taught
touching indulgences. If my books have been justly burned, it must certainly be
because I conceded something to the pope in the doctrine of indulgences;
wherefore, I myself condemn them to the fire.”

He also retracts in regard to John Huss. “I say now, not that some articles, but
all the articles of John Huss, are Christian throughout. The pope, in condemning
Huss, condemned the gospel. I have done five times more than he, and yet I much
fear have not done enough. Huss merely says, that a wicked pope is not a member
of Christendom; but I, were St. Peter himself sitting to-day at Rome, would deny
that he was pope by the appointment of God.”


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  CHAPTER 68: CHAPTER XI
========================================================================

Coronation of Charles V.—The Nuncio Aleander—Will Luther’s Books be
burnt?—Aleander and the Emperor—The Nuncios and the Elector—The Son of Duke John
pleads for Luther—Luther’s calmness—The Elector protects Luther—Reply of the
Nuncios—Erasmus at Cologne—Erasmus with the Elector—Declaration of
Erasmus—Advice of Erasmus—System of Charles V. The powerful words of the
Reformer penetrated all minds, and contributed to their emancipation. The sparks
of light which each word threw out were communicated to the whole nation. But a
great question remained to be solved. Would the prince, in whose states Luther
dwelt, favour the execution of the bull, or would he oppose it? The reply seemed
doubtful. At that time the Elector and all the princes of the empire were at
Aix-la-Chapelle where the crown of Charlemagne was placed upon the head of the
youngest but most powerful monarch of Christendom. Unprecedented pomp and
magnificence were displayed in the ceremony. Charles V, Frederick, the princes,
ministers, and ambassadors, immediately after repaired to Cologne.
Aix-la-Chapelle, where the plague was raging, seemed to empty itself into this
ancient town on the banks of the Rhine.

Among the crowd of strangers who pressed into the city were the two papal
nuncios, Marino Carracioli and Jerome Aleander. Carracioli, who had previously
executed a mission to Maximilian, was appointed to congratulate the new emperor,
and confer with him on matters of state. But Rome had become aware that, in
order to succeed in extinguishing the Reformation, it was necessary to send into
Germany a nuncio specially entrusted with the task, and with a character,
address, and activity fitted to accomplish it. Aleander had been selected. This
man, who was afterwards decorated with the cardinals’ purple, seems to have been
of rather an ancient family, and not of Jewish parentage as has been said. The
guilty Borgia called him to Rome to be secretary to his son, the Cesar, before
whose murderous sword all Rome trembled.2 “Like master like servant,” says a
historian, who thus compares Aleander to Alexander VI. This judgment seems too
severe. After the death of Borgia, Aleander devoted himself to study with new
ardour. His skill in Greek, Hebrew, Chaldee, and Arabic, gave him the reputation
of being the most learned man of his age. He threw his whole soul into whatever
he undertook. The zeal with which he studied languages was not a whit stronger
than that which he displayed in persecuting the Reformation. Leo X took him into
his service. Protestant historians speak of his epicurean habits—Roman
historians of the integrity of his life. He seems to have been fond of luxury,
show, and amusement. “Aleander,” says his old friend Erasmus, “lived in Venice,
in high office, but in low epicureanism.” He is admitted to have been violent in
temper, prompt in action, full of ardour, indefatigable, imperious, and devoted
to the pope. Eck is the blustering, intrepid champion of the school,—Aleander
the proud ambassador of the arrogant court of the pontiffs. He seemed formed to
be a nuncio.

Rome had made every preparation to destroy the monk of Wittemberg. The duty of
assisting at the coronation of the emperor, as representative of the pope, was
to Aleander only a secondary mission, fitted to facilitate his task by the
respect which it secured to him. The essential part of his commission was to
dispose Charles to crush the growing Reformation. In putting the bull into the
hands of the emperor, the nuncio had thus addressed him:—“The pope, who has
succeeded with so many great princes, will have little difficulty in bringing
three grammarians to order.” By these he meant Luther, Melancthon, and Erasmus.
Erasmus was present at this audience. No sooner had Aleander arrived at Cologne,
than he proceeded in concert with Carracioli, to put everything in train for
burning Luther’s heretical writings throughout the empire, but more especially
under the eyes of the princes of Germany who were then assembled. Charles V had
already consented to its being done in his hereditary states. The minds of men
were greatly agitated. “Such measures,” it was said to the ministers of Charles,
and to the nuncios themselves, “far from curing the evil, will only make it
worse. Do you imagine that the doctrine of Luther exists only in the books which
you throw into the flames? It is written where you cannot reach it—on the hearts
of the population. If you will employ force, it must be that of innumerable
swords, drawn to massacre an immense multitude.2 Some billets of wood, collected
for the purpose of consuming some bits of paper, will do nothing; such weapons
become not the dignity either of the emperor or the pontiff.” The nuncio
defended his faggot piles. “These flames,” said he, “are a sentence of
condemnation written in gigantic letters, and understood alike by those who are
near, and those who are at a distance, by the learned and the ignorant, by those
even who cannot read.”

But, in reality the nuncio’s efforts were directed not against papers and books,
but Luther himself. “These flames,” resumed her “are not sufficient to purify
the infected air of Germany. If they deter the simple, they do not correct the
wicked. The thing wanted is an edict from the emperor against Luther’s head.”4
Aleander did not find the emperor so complying on the subject of the Reformer’s
person as on that of his books.

“Having just ascended the throne,” said he to Aleander, “I cannot, without the
advice of my counsellors, and the consent of the princes, strike such a blow at
an immense faction, surrounded by such powerful defenders. Let us first know
what our father, the Elector of Saxony, thinks of the affair; after that, we
shall see what answer to give to the pope.” On the Elector, therefore, the
nuncios proceeded to try their wiles, and the power of their eloquence. On the
first Sunday of November, after Frederick had attended mass in the convent of
the Cordeliers, Carracioli and Aleander requested an audience. He received them
in the presence of the Bishop of Trent, and several of his counsellors.
Carracioli first presented the papal brief. Milder than Aleander, he thought it
best to gain the Elector by flattery, and began to laud him and his ancestors.
“In you,” said he, “we hope for the salvation of the Roman Church and the Roman
empire.” But the impetuous Aleander, wishing to come to the point, came briskly
forward, and interrupted his colleague, who modestly gave way to him. “It is to
me,” said he, “and Eck, that Martin’s affair has been entrusted. See the immense
perils to which this man exposes the Christian commonwealth. If a remedy is not
speedily applied, the empire is destroyed. What ruined the Greeks if it was not
their abandonment of the pope? You cannot remain united to Luther without
separating from Jesus Christ.2 In the name of his Holiness, I ask of you two
things: first, to burn the writings of Luther; secondly, to punish him according
to his demerits, or at least to give him up a prisoner to the pope. The emperor,
and all the princes of the empire have declared their readiness to accede to our
demands; you alone still hesitate …”

Frederick replied, by the intervention of the Bishop of Trent, “This affair is
too grave to be decided on the spur of the moment. We will acquaint you with our
resolution.”

Frederick’s position was difficult. What course will he adopt? On the one side
are the emperor, the princes of the empire, and the chief pontiff of
Christendom, from whose authority the Elector has as yet no thought of
withdrawing; on the other, a monk, a feeble monk; for his person is all that is
asked. The reign of the emperor has just commenced, and will discord be thrown
into the empire by Frederick, the oldest and the wisest of all the princes of
Germany? Besides, can he renounce that piety which led him as far as the
sepulchre of Christ?…

Other voices were then heard. John Frederick, son of Duke John, and nephew of
Frederick, the pupil of Spalatin, a young prince, seventeen years of age, who
afterwards wore the electoral crown, and whose reign was marked by great
misfortunes, had been inspired with a heartfelt love of the truth, and was
strongly attached to Luther. When he saw him struck with the anathemas of Rome,
he embraced his cause with the warmth of a young Christian and a young prince.
He wrote to the doctor, he wrote also to his uncle, soliciting him to protect
Luther against his enemies. At the same time, Spalatin, though indeed he was
often very desponding, Pontanus, and the other counsellors who were with the
Elector at Cologne, represented to him that he could not abandon the Reformer.5

Amid the general agitation, only one man remained tranquil—that man was Luther.
While others were trying to save him by the influence of the great, the monk, in
his cloister at Wittemberg, thought that the great stood more in need of being
saved by him. Writing to Spalatin, he says, “If the gospel was of a nature to be
propagated or maintained by the power of the world, God would not have entrusted
it to fishermen. To defend the gospel appertains not to the princes and pontiffs
of this world. They have enough to do to shelter themselves from the judgments
of the Lord and his Anointed. If I speak, I do it in order that they may obtain
the knowledge of the divine word, and be saved by it.”

Luther’s expectation was not to be deceived. The faith which a convent of
Wittemberg contained exercised its influence in the palaces of Cologne. The
heart of Frederick, shaken perhaps for an instant, became gradually stronger. He
was indignant that the pope, notwithstanding of urgent entreaties to investigate
the matter in Germany, had condemned it at Rome, on the demand of the Reformer’s
personal enemy; and that in his absence that enemy should have dared to publish
in Saxony a bull which threatened the existence of the university and the peace
of his people. Besides, the Elector was convinced that Luther had been wronged.
He shuddered at the thought of delivering an innocent man in to the cruel hands
of his enemies. Justice, rather than the pope, such was the rule he adopted. He
resolved not to yield to Rome. On the 4th November, when the Roman nuncios were
in his presence with the Bishop of Trent, his counsellors announced to them, on
the part of the Elector, that he was much grieved to see how Doctor Eck had
taken the opportunity of his absence to involve in condemnation several persons
not adverted to in the bull; that it might be that, since his departure, an
immense number of the learned and the ignorant, the clergy and the laity, had
united in adhering to the cause and the appeal of Luther; that neither his
Imperial Majesty, nor any person, had shown him that the writings of Luther had
been refuted, and that the only thing now necessary was to throw them into the
fire, that he moreover demanded a safe conduct for Doctor Luther, to enable him
to appear before learned, pious, and important judges.3

After this declaration, Aleander, Carracioli, and their suite, retired to
deliberate. It was the first time the Elector had publicly declared his
intentions with regard to the Reformer. The nuncios had anticipated a very
different result. “Now,” thought they, “that the Elector, by persisting in
playing his part of impartiality, would expose himself to dangers, the full
extent of which cannot he foreseen, he will not hesitate to sacrifice the monk.”
So Rome had reasoned. But her schemes were destined to fail before a power to
which she had not adverted—the love of justice and truth. When again before the
Elector’s counsellors, “I would fain know,” said the imperious Aleander, “what
the Elector would think were one of his subjects to choose the King of France or
some other foreign prince for judge?” Seeing at length that the Saxon
counsellors were not to be shaken, he said, “We will execute the bull; we will
prosecute and burn the writings of Luther. As to his person,” added he,
affecting a disdainful indifference, “the pope has no anxiety to dip his hand in
the blood of the wretch.”

News of the reply which the Elector had given to the nuncios having reached
Wittemberg, Luther’s friends were overjoyed. Melancthon and Amsdorff, in
particular, cherished the most flattering hopes. “The German nobility,” said
Melancthon, “will shape their course by the example of a prince whom they follow
in every thing as their Nestor. If Homer called his hero ‘the wall of the
Greeks,’ why should not Frederick be called ‘the wall of the Germans?’ ”

Erasmus, the oracle of courts, the torch of the schools, the light of the world,
was then at Cologne, having been invited thither by several princes who wished
to consult him. At the period of the Reformation, Erasmus was at the head of the
true middle (juste milieu) party, at least he thought he was, but erroneously;
for when truth and error are in presence of each other, the right side is not
the middle. He was the chief of that philosophical and university party, which
had for ages aspired to correct Rome, without being able to do so; he was the
representative of human wisdom; but this wisdom was too weak to repress the
arrogance of the papacy. The wisdom of God was necessary—that wisdom which the
world often calls folly, but at the bidding of which mountains are crushed.
Erasmus was unwilling either to throw himself into the arms of Luther, or to
seat himself at the feet of the pope. He hesitated, and often vibrated between
these two powers, sometimes attracted towards Luther, and then suddenly repelled
towards the pope. He had declared for Luther in a letter to the Archbishop of
Mentz, in which he had said. “The last spark of Christian piety seems ready to
be extinguished. It is this that has moved Luther’s heart; he cares neither for
money nor honour.” The publication of this letter by the imprudent Ulric von
Hütten, subjected Erasmus to so much annoyance that he resolved to act with more
prudence in future. Besides, he was accused of being in concert with Luther
whose unguarded speeches moreover offended him. “Almost all good people,” said
he, “are for Luther, but I see that we are on the high way to a revolt. I would
not have my name coupled with his. It hurts me and does him no good.”2 “Be it
so,” replied Luther, “since it pains you, I promise never to mention your name,
nor that of any of your friends.” Such was the man to whom both the enemies and
the friends of the Reformer applied. The Elector, aware that the opinion of a
man so much respected as Erasmus would carry great weight, invited the
illustrious Dutchman to come to him. Erasmus complied. This was on the 5th of
December. The friends of Luther saw this step not without secret apprehension.
The Elector was sitting before the fire, with Spalatin beside him, when Erasmus
was introduced. “What think you of Luther?” immediately asked Frederick. The
prudent Erasmus, surprised at the direct question, at first tried to evade it.
He twisted his mouth, bit his lips, and said nothing. Then the Elector, opening
his eyes (says Spalatin,) as he was wont to do when speaking to persons from
whom he wished a precise answer, looked piercingly at Erasmus, who, not knowing
how to disembarrass himself, at last said, half in jest, “Luther has committed
two great faults; he has attacked the pope’s crown and the monks’ belly.” The
Elector smiled, but gave Erasmus to understand that he was in earnest. Then
Erasmus, laying aside his reserve, said, “The source of all this dispute is the
hatred of the monks against letters, and the fear they have of seeing an end put
to their tyranny.4 What have they put in operation against Luther? Clamour,
cabal, hatred, libels. The more virtuous, and the more attached to the doctrines
of the gospel a man is, the less is he opposed to Luther. The harshness of the
bull has excited the indignation of all good men, and nobody has been able to
discover in it the meekness of a vicar of Jesus Christ.6 Out of so many
universities two only have attacked Luther, and even these have only condemned,
not convicted him. Let not people deceive themselves; the danger is greater than
some suppose. Things difficult and arduous are at hand. … To begin the reign of
Charles with an act so hateful as the imprisonment of Luther would be of sad
augury. The world is thirsting for evangelical truth. Let us beware of culpably
resisting it. Let the affair be examined by grave men of sound judgment; this
would be more accordant with the dignity of the pope himself.”

Thus spoke Erasmus to the Elector. The reader will perhaps be astonished at his
frankness; but Erasmus knew to whom he was speaking. Spalatin was delighted, and
going out with Erasmus, accompanied him as far as the house of the Count of
Nuenar, provost of Cologne, where the illustrious scholar was residing. Erasmus,
in a fit of frankness, went into his room, took up the pen and wrote down the
substance of what he had said to the Elector, and gave it to Spalatin. But fear
of Aleander soon took possession of the timid Erasmus, the courage which he had
felt in the presence of the Elector and his chaplain vanished, and he begged
Spalatin to send back his too bold writing lest it should fall into the hands of
the terrible nuncio. It was too late. The Elector, feeling strong in the opinion
of Erasmus, spoke in more decided terms to the emperor. Erasmus himself strove
in nocturnal conferences, like Nicodemus of old, to persuade the counsellors of
Charles that it was necessary to remit the whole affair to impartial judges.
Perhaps he had some hope of being named arbiter in this cause which threatened
to divide the Christian world. His vanity would have been flattered by the
office. But, at the same time, not to lose himself at Rome, he wrote the most
submissive letters to Leo, who replied in kind terms, and thereby put poor
Aleander to the torture.3 From love to the pope, he could have sharply rebuked
the pope. Erasmus communicated the pontiff’s letters because they added to his
credit. The nuncio made a complaint at Rome: “Pretend,” was the answer, “that
you do not observe the naughtiness of that man. Prudence requires it: it is
necessary to leave the door open for repentance.”

Charles V himself embraced a vacillating system, which consisted in flattering
both the pope and the Elector, and in seeming to incline alternately towards the
one or the other according to the wants of the moment. One of his ministers,
whom he had sent to Rome on certain Spanish matters, had arrived at the very
time when Eck was loudly prosecuting Luther’s condemnation. The wily ambassador
instantly saw the advantages which his master might derive from the Saxon monk,
and on the 12th May, 1520, wrote the emperor, who was still in Spain: “Your
Majesty should go into Germany, and there show some favour to one Martin Luther,
who is at the Court of Saxony, and, by his discourses, is giving much uneasiness
to the Court of Rome.” Such, at the outset, was the light in which Charles
viewed the matter. His object was not to know on which side truth or error lay,
or to ascertain what the great interest of Germany demanded. What does policy
require, and by what means can the pope be induced to support the emperor? This
was the whole question, and at Rome was well known to be so. The ministers of
Charles gave Aleander a hint of the plan which their master meant to follow.
“The emperor,” said they, “will act towards the pope as the pope acts towards
the emperor: for he cares not to increase the power of his rivals, and in
particular of the king of France.”

2 At these words the imperious nuncio gave vent to his indignation: “What!”
replied he, “even should the pope abandon the emperor must the emperor abandon
religion? If Charles means thus to take his revenge … let him tremble! This
unprincipled course will turn against himself.” The imperial diplomatists were
not moved by the menaces of the nuncio.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 69: CHAPTER XII
========================================================================

Luther on Confession—True absolution—Antichrist—Rally around
Luther—Satires—Ulrie von Hütten—Lucas Cranach—The Carnival at
Wittemberg—Staupitz intimidated—Luther’s Labours—Luther’s Humility—Progress of
the Reformation.

If the legates of Rome failed with the mighty of the world, the inferior agents
of the papacy succeeded in producing disturbance among the weak. The militia of
Rome had heard the command of their chief. Fanatical priests employed the bull
in alarming consciences, and honest but ill informed ecclesiastics regarded it
as a sacred duty to act conformably to the instructions of the pope. Luther had
begun his struggle against Rome in the confessional, and in the confessional
Rome gave battle to the adherents of the Reformer. The bull, though openly
contemned by the nation, became powerful in these solitary tribunals. “Have you
read the writings of Luther,” demanded the confessors, “do you possess them? do
you regard them as sound or as heretical?” If the penitent hesitated to
pronounce the anathema, the priest refused him absolution. Several consciences
were troubled. The people were strongly agitated. This skilful manœuvre promised
to restore to the papal yoke whole districts already gained to the gospel. Rome
congratulated herself on having, in the thirteenth century, erected a tribunal
destined to bring the free consciences of Christians under subjection to the
priests. While it continues in force her reign is not ended.

Luther became aware of these circumstances. Single handed what will he do to
defeat the manœuvre? The Word—the Word uttered loudly and boldly: such is his
weapon. The Word will search out these alarmed consciences, these frightened
souls, and strengthen them. A powerful impulse was required, and Luther’s voice
was heard addressing penitents with heroic boldness, and a noble disregard of
all secondary considerations. “When you are asked,” says he, “whether or not you
approve my books, answer You are a confessor, and not an inquisitor or a gaoler.
My duty is to confess what my conscience dictates; yours not to probe and
discover the secrets of my heart. Give me absolution, and thereafter dispute
with Luther, the pope, and whomsoever you please; but do not connect the
sacrament of peace with strife and combat.’ If the confessor will not yield,
then,” continues Luther, “I would rather dispense with his absolution. Give
yourself no uneasiness; if man will not absolve you God will absolve you.
Rejoice in that you are absolved by God himself, and present yourself without
fear at the sacrament of the altar. The priest will have to account at the final
judgment for the absolution which he shall have refused you. They may indeed
refuse us the sacrament, but they cannot deprive us of the strength and grace
which God has attached to it.—God has placed salvation neither in their will nor
in their power but in our faith. Leave their sacrament, altar, priest, church:
the Word of God condemned in the bull is more than all these things. The soul
can dispense with the sacrament, but cannot live without the Word. Christ, the
true Bishop, will himself undertake to nourish you spiritually.”

Thus, Luther’s voice found its way into families, and alarmed consciences,
imparting to them courage and faith. But it was not enough for him merely to
defend himself; he felt it his duty to attack and return blow for blow. Ambrose
Catherin, a Roman theologian, had written against him. “I will stir up the bile
of the Italian beast,” said Luther; and he kept his word. In his reply, he
proved by the revelations of Daniel and St. John, by the epistles of St. Paul,
St. Peter, and St. Jude, that the reign of Antichrist, predicted and described
in the Bible, was the papacy. “I know for certain,” says he, in conclusion,
“that our Lord Jesus Christ lives and reigns. Strong in this assurance, I would
not fear several thousands of popes. May God at length visit you according to
his infinite power, and cause the day of the glorious advent of his Son to
shine, that day in which he will destroy the wicked. And let all the people say,
Amen!” And all the people did say, Amen! A holy fear took possession of men’s
souls. They saw Antichrist seated on the pontifical throne. This new idea, an
idea which derived great force from the prophetical description, being thrown by
Luther into the midst of his age, gave Rome a dreadful shock. Faith in the
divine Word was substituted for that, which, till then the Church alone had
obtained, and the power of the pope, which had long been adored by the people,
became the object of their hatred and terror.

Germany replied to the papal bull by surrounding Luther with acclamation. The
plague was in Wittemberg, and yet arrivals of new students daily took place,
while from four to six hundred pupils regularly took their seats in the academic
halls at the feet of Luther and Melancthon. The church of the convent and the
town church were too small for the crowds eager to hear the words of the
Reformer. The prior of the Augustins was in terror lest these churches should
give way under the pressure of the audience. But the movement was not confined
within the walls of Wittemberg: it extended over Germany. Letters full of
consolation and faith, from princes, noble and learned men, reached Luther from
all quarters. He showed the chaplain more than thirty of them.3

One day the Margrave of Brandenburg, with several other princes, arrived at
Wittemberg to visit Luther. “They wished to see the man,” said the Margrave. In
fact all wished to see the man, whose word alarmed the pope, and caused the
pontiff of the West to totter on his throne. The enthusiasm of Luther’s friends
increased from day to day. “Unparalleled folly of Emser!”—exclaimed
Melancthon—“to presume to measure weapons with our Hercules, overlooking the
finger of God in the actions of Luther, as the king of Egypt overlooked it in
the hand of Moses.” The mild Melancthon found strong expressions to excite those
who seemed to him to retrograde or remain stationary. “Luther has stood up for
the truth,” wrote he to John Hess, “and yet you keep silence. He still breathes,
he still prospers, though Leo is indignant and roars with rage. Remember, it is
impossible for Roman impiety to approve of the gospel. How should this unhappy
age be without its Judases, Caiaphases, Pilates, and Herods? Arm yourself then
with the power of the Word of God against such adversaries.”

All the writings of Luther, his Lord’s Prayer, and especially a new edition of
the German theology, were eagerly devoured. Reading societies were formed, for
the purpose of procuring his works, for the use of the members. Friends made new
impressions of them, and circulated them by means of hawkers. They were also
recommended from pulpits. A German church was demanded, one in which no dignity
should in future be conferred on anyone who was not able to preach to the people
in German, and the German bishops of which should every where oppose the papal
power.

Moreover, cutting satires directed against the leading Ultra-Montanists were
circulated throughout the provinces of the empire. The opposition united all its
forces around this new doctrine, which give it precisely what it wanted, by
justifying it in regard to religion. The greater part of the lawyers, weary of
the quirks of the Ecclesiastical tribunals, attached themselves to the
Reformation, but its cause was keenly embraced above all by the Humanists. Ulric
von Hütten was indefatigable. He wrote letters to Luther, to the legates, and
the leading men of Germany. “I tell you, and tell you again, O Marinus!” said he
to the legate, Carracioli, in one of his publications, “the mists with which you
blinded us are cleared away—the gospel is preached—the truth proclaimed—the
absurdities of Rome treated with contempt—your ordinances languish and
die—liberty begins.” Not contenting himself with prose, Hütten had recourse to
verse also. He published his Cry on the Burning by Luther. Appealing to Jesus
Christ, he prayed him to consume, with the brightness of his countenance, those
who dared to deny his power. He began, moreover, to write in German. “Hitherto,”
said he, “I have written in Latin, a language which all could not comprehend,
but now I address myself to my country.” His German ryhmes laid open and enabled
the people to read the shameful and voluminous record of the sins of the Roman
Court. But Hütten was unwilling to confine himself to mere words; he was
impatient to bring his sword into the struggle, for he thought that by the
swords and halberds of the many valiant warriors, of which Germany was proud,
the vengeance of God was to be accomplished. Luther opposed his infatuated
projects. “I would not,” said he, “that men should fight for the gospel by
violence and carnage. I have written so to Hütten. The celebrated painter, Lucas
Cranach, published, under the title of the Passions of Christ and Antichrist,
engravings which represented, on the one hand, the splendour and magnificence of
the pope, and on the other, the humility and sufferings of the Redeemer. Luther
wrote the inscriptions. These engravings, executed with great spirit, produced
an astonishing effect. The people withdrew from a church which appeared so
opposed to the spirit of its Founder. “This work,” said Luther, “is excellent
for the laity.”

Several, in opposing the Papacy, had recourse to arms which ill accorded with
the holiness of the Christian life. Emser, in replying to Luther’s tract,
entitled, ‘To the Goat Emser,’ had published one entitled, ‘To the Bull of
Wittemberg.’ The name was not ill chosen. But at Magdeburg, Emser’s book was
hung on the gallows, with this inscription, “The book is worthy of the place;”
and a rod was placed beside it, to indicate the punishment which the author
deserved. At Doeblin, there was written under the Papal bull, in derision of its
impotent thunders, “The nest is here, but the birds are flown.” At Wittemberg,
the students, taking advantage of the carnival, clothed one of their number in a
dress resembling that of the pope, and paraded him through the streets
“pompously, but rather too ludicrously,” says Luther. On arriving at the public
square they went down to the banks of the river, and some of them, feigning a
sudden attack, seemed to wish to throw the pope into the water; but the pope,
having no liking for such a bath, took to his heels. His cardinals, bishops, and
familiars, followed his example, dispersing over all the quarters of the town,
while the students continued to pursue them. There was not a corner of
Wittemberg where some Roman dignitary did not flee before the shouts and
laughter of the inhabitants, who were all in motion. “The enemy of Christ,” says
Luther, “who sports both with kings and with Christ himself, well deserves to be
thus sported with.” In this we think him in error. Truth is too beautiful, and
ought never to be made to walk through the mire. She ought to fight without such
auxiliaries as songs, caricatures, and carnival frolics. It may be that without
these popular demonstrations, her success would be less apparent, but it would
be more pure, and consequently more durable. Be this as it may, the imprudent
and passionate conduct of the Court of Rome had excited universal antipathy, and
the bull by which the Papacy thought to stifle every thing was itself the cause
of general revolt.

Still the Reformer’s whole course was not one of exultation and triumph. Behind
the car in which he was drawn by his zealous countrymen, transported with
admiration, there was not wanting the slave appointed to remind him of his
frailty. Some of his friends seemed disposed to call a halt. Staupitz, whom he
called his father, seemed shaken. The pope had accused him, and Staupitz had
declared his readiness to submit to the judgment of his Holiness. “I fear,” said
Luther to him, “that in accepting the pope for judge, you will seem to throw off
me and the doctrines which I have maintained. If Christ loves you, he will
constrain you to retract your letter. Christ is condemned, spoiled, blasphemed;
it is time not to fear, but to cry aloud. Wherefore, while you exhort me to
humility, I exhort you to pride; for you have too much humility, just as I have
too much of its opposite. I shall be called proud and avaricious, an adulterer,
a murderer, an antipope, a man guilty of all crimes. It matters not, so long as
they cannot accuse me of having kept an impious silence at the moment when the
Lord was grieved, and said ‘I looked on my right hand, and beheld but there was
no man that would know me.’ (Psalms 142:4) The word of Jesus Christ is not a
word of peace, but a sword. If you will not follow Jesus Christ, I will walk
alone, advance alone, and gain the day.”

Thus Luther, like the commander of an army, kept an eye on the whole field of
battle, and while he urged fresh troops forward into the thickest of the fight,
marked those who appeared faint-hearted and recalled them to their post. His
exhortations were everywhere heard. His letters rapidly succeeded each other.
Three presses were constantly employed in multiplying his writings. His words
had free course among the people, strengthened consciences which the
confessionals had alarmed, raised up those ready to faint in convents, and
maintained the rights of truth in the palaces of princes.

“Amid the tempests which assail me,” wrote he to the Elector, “I always hoped I
would one day find peace. But I now see it was only a man’s thought. Day after
day the wave is rising, and I already stand in the midst of the ocean. The
tempest breaks loose with fearful roar. With one hand I grasp the sword, and
with the other build up the walls of Sion.3 Her ancient links are snapt asunder,
broken by the hand which darted the thunders of excommunication against her.”
“Excommunicated by the bull,” says he, “I am loosed from the authority of the
pope and monastic laws. With joy I embrace the deliverance. But I lay aside
neither the habit of the order nor the convent.” And yet, amidst all this
agitation, he never loses sight of the dangers by which his own soul is beset
during the strife. He feels the necessity of keeping a watch upon himself. “You
do well to pray for me,” wrote he to Pellican, who was living at Bâle. “I cannot
devote enough of time to holy exercises. My life is a cross. You do well to
exhort me to modesty. I feel the want of it; but I am not my own master: I know
not what spirit rules me. I wish ill to nobody;5 but my enemies press me with
such fury that I am not sufficiently on my guard against the seductions of
Satan. Pray then for me.”

Thus both the Reformer and the Reformation hastened on in the direction in which
God called them. The movement extended. Men who might have been expected to be
most faithful to the hierarchy began to be shaken. “Even those,” says Eck,
ingenuously enough, “who hold of the pope the best benefices and the richest
canonries remain mute as fishes. Several among them even extol Luther as a man
filled with the Spirit of God, and call the defenders of the pope sophists and
flatterers.” The Church, apparently great in power, supported by the treasures,
the powers and the armies of the world, but in reality emaciated and enfeebled,
without love to God, without Christian life, without enthusiasm for the truth,
found herself in presence of men, simple, but bold, men who, knowing that God is
with those who combat for His Word, had no doubt of victory? Every age has
experienced how powerful an idea is in penetrating the masses, in arousing
nations, and, if need be, hurrying thousands to the field of battle and to
death; but if such is the influence of a human idea, what must be the power of
an idea sent down from heaven when God opens the door of the human heart. The
world has not often seen such a power in operation. It did see it, however, in
the first days of Christianity and in those of the Reformation; and it will see
it in days yet to come. Men who disdained the world’s wealth, and grandeur, and
were contented to lead a life of pain and poverty, began to move in behalf of
the holiest thing upon the earth—the doctrine of faith and of grace. In this
heaving of society, all the religious elements were brought into operation, and
the fire of enthusiasm hurried men boldly for-forward into a new life an epoch
of renovation which had just opened so majestically, and towards which
Providence was hastening the nations.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 70: BOOK SEVENTH
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The Diet of Worms 1521. (January–May)


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  CHAPTER 71: CHAPTER I
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Conquests by the Word of God—The Diet of Worms—Difficulties—Charles demands
Luther—The Elector to Charles—State of Men’s minds—Aleander’s Alarm—The Elector
sets out without Luther—Aleander awakens Rome—Excommunication of the Pope, and
Communion with Christ—Fulmination of the Bull—Luther’s motives in the
Reformation. The Reformation, which commenced with the struggles of an humble
soul in the cell of a convent at Erfurt, had never ceased to advance. An obscure
individual, with the Word of life in his hand, had stood erect in presence of
worldly grandeur, and made it tremble. This Word he had opposed, first, to Tezel
and his numerous host, and these avaricious merchants, after a momentary
resistance, had taken flight. Next, he had opposed it to the legate of Rome at
Augsburg, and the legate, paralysed, had allowed his prey to escape. At a later
period he had opposed it to the champions of learning in the halls of Leipsic,
and the astonished theologians had seen their syllogistic weapons broken to
pieces in their hands. At last he had opposed it to the pope, who, disturbed in
his sleep, had risen up upon his throne, and thundered at the troublesome monk;
but the whole power of the head of Christendom this Word had paralysed. The Word
had still a last struggle to maintain. It behoved to triumph over the emperor of
the West, over the kings and princes of the earth, and then, victorious over all
the powers of the world, take its place in the Church to reign in it as the pure
Word of God. The whole kingdom was agitated. Princes and nobles, knights and
citizens, clergy and laity, town and country, all were engrossed. A mighty
religious revolution, of which God himself was the prime mover, but which was
also deeply rooted in the minds of the people, was threatening to overthrow the
long venerated head of the Roman hierarchy. A new generation, of a grave,
profound, active, and energetic spirit, filled the universities, towns, courts,
and castles, the rural districts, and not unfrequently cloisters also. The
feeling that a great social transformation was at hand animated all minds with
holy enthusiasm. In what relation will the new emperor stand to this movement of
the age, and what will be the issue of the mighty impulse, by which all feel
that they are borne along? A solemn Diet was about to be opened. It was the
first imperial assembly over which the youthful Charles was to preside.
Nuremberg, where, in virtue of the Golden Bull, it ought to have been held,
being desolated by the plague, it had been summoned to meet at Worms, on the 6th
of January, 1521. Never had a Diet been attended by so many princes. All desired
to be present at this first act of the government of the young emperor, and to
make a display of their power. Among others, the young Landgrave, Philip of
Hesse, who was afterwards to play so important a part in the Reformation,
arrived at Worms in the middle of January, with six hundred cavaliers, among
them men of renowned valour. But there was a still more powerful motive which
induced the electors, dukes, archbishops, landgraves, margraves, bishops,
barons, and lords of the empire, as well as the deputies of towns, and the
ambassadors of the kings of Christendom, at this moment, to throng the roads
leading to Worms with their brilliant equipages. It had been announced that the
Diet would be occupied with the nomination of a council of regency to govern the
empire during the absence of Charles, with the jurisdiction of the imperial
chamber, and other important questions. But the public attention was
particularly directed to another matter, which the emperor had also mentioned in
his letter convening the Diet, viz., the Reformation. The great interests of
politics trembled before the cause of the Monk of Wittemberg. This cause was the
principal subject of conversation among all personages who arrived at Worms.

Every thing announced that the Diet would be difficult and stormy. Charles,
scarcely twenty years of age, pale and sickly, yet as skilful as any one in the
graceful management of his horse and in breaking a lance, of a character
imperfectly developed, and with a grave and melancholy but still benevolent
expression of countenance, gave no proof as yet of distinguished talent, and
seemed not to have adopted a decided course. The able and active William of
Croi, Lord of Chievres, who was his grand chamberlain, his governor, and prime
minister, and possessed absolute authority at the court, died at Worms. Numerous
ambitious projects were competing with each other. Many passions were in
collision. The Spaniards and Belgians were eager to insinuate themselves into
the counsels of the young prince. The nuncios multiplied their intrigues, while
the princes of Germany spoke out boldly. A struggle might have been foreseen,
yet a struggle in which the principal part would be performed by the secret
movements of factions.

Charles opened the Diet on the 28th of January, 1521, being the festival of
Charlemagne. He had a high idea of the importance of the imperial dignity. In
his opening address he said, that no monarchy could be compared to the Roman
empire, to which of old almost the whole world had been subject; that,
unhappily, the empire was now only the shadow of what it had been; but that he
hoped, by means of his kingdoms and powerful alliances, to re-establish it in
its ancient glory. But numerous difficulties immediately presented themslves to
the young emperor. How will he act, placed, as he is, between the papal nuncio
and the Elector to whom he owes his crown? How can he avoid dissatisfying
Aleander or Frederick? The former urged the emperor to execute the papal bull,
and the latter begged him to undertake nothing against the monk without giving
him a hearing. Wishing to please these two opposite parties, the young prince,
during a sojourn at Oppenherm, had written to the Elector to bring Luther to the
Diet, assuring him that no injustice would be done him, that he would meet with
no violence, and that learned men would confer with him. This letter of Charles,
accompanied by letters from Chievres and the Count of Nassau, threw the Elector
into great perplexity An alliance with the pope might at any instant become
necessary to the young and ambitious emperor, and in that case it was all over
with Luther Frederick, by taking the Reformer to Worms, was perhaps taking him
to the scaffold; and yet the orders of Charles were express. The Elector ordered
Spalatin to acquaint Luther with the letters which he had received. “The enemy,”
said the chaplain to him, “is putting every thing in operation to hasten on the
affair.”

Luther’s friends trembled, but he trembled not. He was then in very feeble
health; no matter. “If I cannot go to Worms in health,” replied he to the
Elector, “I will make myself be carried; since the emperor calls me, I cannot
doubt but it is a call from God himself. If they mean to employ violence against
me, as is probable, (for assuredly it is not with a view to their own
instruction that they make me appear,) I leave the matter in the hands of the
Lord. He who preserved the three young men in the furnace, still lives and
reigns. If He is not pleased to save me, my life is but a small matter; only let
us not allow the gospel to be exposed to the derision of the wicked, and let us
shed our blood for it sooner than permit them to triumph. Whether would my life
or my death contribute most to the general safety? It is not for us to decide.
Let us only pray to God that our young emperor may not commence his reign with
dipping his hands in my blood; I would far rather perish by the sword of the
Romans. You know what judgments befel the emperor Sigismund after the murder of
John Huss. Expect every thing of me—save flight and recantation; I cannot fly,
still less can I recant.”

Before receiving this letter from Luther, the Elector had taken his resolution.
As he was advancing in the knowledge of the gospel, he began to be more decided
in his measures. Seeing that the conference of Worms could not have a happy
result, he wrote to the emperor. “It seems to me difficult to bring Luther with
me to Worms; relieve me from the task. Besides, I have never wished to take his
doctrine under my protection, but only to prevent him from being condemned
without a hearing. The Legates without waiting for your orders, have proceeded
to take a step insulting both to Luther and to me, and I much fear, that in this
way they have hurried him on to an imprudent act which might expose him to great
danger were he to appear at the Diet.” The Elector alluded to the pile which had
consumed the Papal bull. But the rumour of Luther’s journey to Worms had already
spread. Men eager for novelty rejoiced at it. The emperor’s courtiers were
alarmed, but no one felt so indignant as the papal legate. Aleander on his
journey had seen how deep an impression the gospel which Luther preached had
made on all classes of society. Literary men, lawyers, nobles, the lower clergy,
the regular orders, and the people, were gained to the Reformation. These
friends of the new doctrine carried their heads erect, and were bold in their
language, while fear and terror froze the partizans of Rome. The papacy still
stood, but its props were shaking. A noise of devastation was already heard,
somewhat resembling the creaking which takes place at the time when a mountain
begins to slip.3

Aleander, during his journey to Worms, was sadly annoyed. When he had to dine or
sleep, neither literary men nor nobles nor priests, even among the supposed
friends of the pope, durst receive him, and the proud nuncio was obliged to seek
an asylum in taverns of the lowest class. He was thus in terror, and had no
doubt that his life was in great danger. In this way he arrived at Worms; and,
thenceforth, to his Roman fanaticism was added resentment for the personal
injuries which he had received. He immediately put every means in operation to
prevent the audacious compearance of the redoubtable Luther. “Would it not be
scandalous,” said he, “to see laics re-investigating a cause which the pope had
already condemned?” Nothing alarms a Roman courtier so much as an investigation;
and, moreover, an investigation to take place in Germany, and not at Rome. How
humiliating even should Luther’s condemnation be unanimously decided! And it was
not even certain that such would be the result. Will not the powerful word of
Luther, which has already done such havoc, involve many princes and nobles in
inevitable ruin? Aleander, when before Charles, insisted, implored, threatened,
and spoke out as nuncio of the head of the Church.

2 Charles yielded; and wrote to the Elector that the time granted to Luther
having already elapsed, the monk was under papal excommunication; and that
therefore unless he were willing to retract his writings, Frederick must leave
him at Wittemberg. Frederick had already quitted Saxony without Luther. “I pray
the Lord to be favourable to our Elector,” were the words of Melancthon on
seeing him depart; “on him our hopes of the restoration of Christendom repose.
His enemies dare every thing, καιπανταλιθονκινησομενους; but God will bring to
nought the counsel of Ahithophel. As for us, let us do our part in the combat by
our lessons and our prayers.” Luther was deeply grieved at being prohibited to
appear at Worms.4

Aleander did not consider it enough that Luther should not come to Worms—he
wished him to be condemned. Returning incessantly to the charge before the
princes, prelates, and different members of the Diet, he accused the Augustin
monk not only of disobedience and heresy, but also of sedition, rebellion,
impiety, and blasphemy. The very accent in which he spoke betrayed the passions
by which he was actuated; so that men exclaimed, it is hatred and love of
vengeance, rather than zeal and piety, that excite him. However frequent,
however vehement his discourses were, he made no converts.6

Some pointed out to him that the papal bull had condemned Luther only
conditionally; others did not altogether conceal the joy which they felt at
seeing Roman pride humbled. The ministers of the emperor, on the one hand, and
the ecclesiastical electors, on the other, affected great coldness—the former to
make the pope more sensible how necessary it was for him to league with their
master, the latter in order to induce him to pay better for their favour. A
conviction of Luther’s innocence prevailed in the assembly, and Aleander could
not restrain his indignation. But the coldness of the Diet did not try the
patience of the legate so much as the coldness of Rome. Rome, which had so long
refused to take a serious view of the quarrel of the drunk German, had no idea
that a bull of the sovereign pontiff could prove insufficient to make him humble
and submissive. She had accordingly resumed her wonted security, no longer
sending either bull or purses of money. But how was it possible without money to
succeed in such a business?2 Rome must be awakened, and Aleander gives the
alarm. Writing to the Cardinal de Medicis, he says, “Germany is detaching
herself from Rome, and the princes are detaching themselves from the pope. A few
delays more—a few more attempts at compromise and the matter is past hope.
Money! money! or Germany is lost.” At this cry Rome awakes: the servants of the
papacy, laying aside their torpor, hastily forge their dreaded thunder at the
Vatican. The pope issues a new bull; and the excommunication with which till
then the heretical doctor had been merely threatened, is in distinct terms
pronounced against him and all his adherents. Rome herself, breaking the last
thread which still attached him to her church, gave Luther greater freedom, and
thereby greater power. Thundered at by the pope, he, with new affection, took
refuge in Christ. Driven from the external temple, he felt more strongly that he
was himself a temple inhabited by God.

“It is a glorious thing,” said he, “that we sinners, in believing on Jesus
Christ, and eating his flesh, have him within us with all his strength, power,
wisdom and justice, according as it is written, ‘He who believeth in me,
dwelleth in me and I in him.’ Admirable dwelling! marvellous tabernacle! far
superior to that of Moses, and all magnificently adorned within with superb
tapestry, veils of purple, and furniture of gold, while without, as on the
tabernacle which God ordered to be constructed in the wilderness of Sinai, is
seen only a rough covering of beavers’ skins or goats’ hair. Christians often
stumble, and in external appearance are all feebleness and disgrace. But no
matter: within this infirmity and folly dwells secretly a power which the world
cannot know, but which overcomes the world; for Christ remaineth in them. I have
sometimes seen Christians walking with a halt, and in great weakness; but when
the hour of combat or appearance at the world’s bar arrived, Christ of a sudden
acted within them, and they became so strong and resolute that the devil in
dismay fled before them.”2 In regard to Luther, such an hour was about to peal,
and Christ, in whose communion he dwelt, was not to forsake him. Meanwhile Rome
naturally rejected him. The Reformer, and all his partisans, whatever their rank
and power, were anathematised, and deprived personally, as well as in their
descendants, of all their dignities and effects. Every faithful Christian as he
loved his soul’s salvation was ordered to shun the sight of the accursed crew.
Wherever heresy had been introduced, the priests were, on Sundays and festivals,
at the hour when the churches were best filled, solemnly to publish the
excommunication. They were to carry away the vessels and ornaments of the altar,
and lay the cross upon the ground; twelve priests, with torches in their hands,
were to kindle them and dash them down with violence, and extinguish them by
trampling them with their feet; then the bishop was to publish the condemnation
of the impious men; all the bells were to be rung; the bishops and priests were
to pronounce anathemas and maledictions, and preach forcibly against Luther and
his adherents.

Twenty-two days had elapsed since the excommunication had been published at
Rome, and it was perhaps not yet known in Germany, when Luther, learning that
there was again some talk of calling him to Worms, addressed the Elector in a
letter written in such terms that Frederick might communicate it to the Diet.
Luther wished to correct the erroneous impression of the princes, and frankly
explain to this august tribunal the true nature of a cause which was so much
misapprehended. “I rejoice with all my heart, most serene lord,” said he, “that
his imperial majesty means to bring this affair under consideration. I call
Jesus Christ to witness that it is the cause of Germany, of the Catholic Church,
of the Christian world, and of God himself, … and not of any single man, and
more especially such a man as I. I am ready to repair to Worms, provided I have
a safe-conduct, and learned, pious, and impartial judges. I am ready to answer,
… for it is not in a spirit of rashness, or with a view to personal advantage,
that I have taught the doctrine with which I am reproached; I have done it in
obedience to my conscience, and to the oath which, as doctor, I took to the Holy
Scriptures; I have done it for the glory of God, the safety of the Christian
Church, the good of the German nation, and the extirpation of many
superstitions, abuses, and evils, disgrace, tyranny, blasphemy, and impiety.”
This declaration, in the solemn circumstances in which Luther made it, is
deserving of our attention. We here see the motives which influenced him, and
the primary causes which led to the renovation of Christian society. These were
something more than monkish jealousy or a wish to marry.


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  CHAPTER 72: CHAPTER II
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A Foreign Prince—Advice of Politicians—Conference between the Confessor and the
Elector’s Chancellor—Uselessness of these Manœuvres—Aleander’s activity—Luther’s
Sayings—Charles gives in to the Pope. But all this was of no importance in the
eyes of politicians. How high soever the idea which Charles entertained of the
imperial dignity, it was not in Germany that his interests and policy centred.
He was always a Duke of Burgundy, who, to several sceptres, added the first
crown of Christendom. Strange! at the moment of her thorough transformation,
Germany selected for her head a foreign prince in whose eyes her wants and
tendencies were only of secondary importance. The religious movement, it is
true, was not indifferent to the young emperor; but it was important in his eyes
only in so far as it menaced the pope. War between Charles and France was
inevitable, and its chief seat was necessarily to be in Italy. An alliance with
the pope thus became every day more necessary to the schemes of Charles. He
would fain have either detached Frederick from Luther, or satisfied the pope
without offending Frederick. Several of those about him manifested, in regard to
the affairs of the Augustin monk, that cold disdain which politicians usually
affect when religion is in question. “Let us avoid extremes,” said they. “Let us
trammel Luther by negotiations, and reduce him to silence by some kind of
concession. The true course is to stifle the embers, not stir them up. If the
monk is caught in the net, we have gained the day. By accepting a compromise he
will be interdicted and undone. For appearance some externa reforms will be
devised; the Elector will be satisfied; the pope will be gained, and affairs
will resume their ordinary course.”

Such was the project of the confidential counsellors of the emperor. The doctors
of Wittemberg seem to have divined this new policy. “They are trying in secret
to gain men’s minds,” said Melancthon, “and are working in darkness.” John
Glapio, the confessor of Charles V,—a man of rank, a skilful courtier, and an
intriguing monk,—undertook the execution of the project. Glapio possessed the
entire confidence of Charles, who (in accordance with Spanish manners) left to
him almost entirely the management of matters relating to religion. As soon as
Charles was appointed emperor, Leo X had assiduously endeavoured to gain Glapio
by favours to which the confessor was strongly alive.2 There was no way in which
he could make a better return to the pope’s kindness than by reducing heresy to
silence, and he accordingly set about the task.

One of the Elector’s counsellors was Chancellor Gregory Bruck, or Pontanus, a
man of great intelligence, decision, and courage, who knew more of theology than
all the doctors, and whose wisdom was a match for the wiles of the monks at the
emperor’s court. Glapio, aware of the influence of the chancellor, asked an
interview with him; and coming up to him as if he had been the friend of the
Reformer, said to him, with an expression of good will, “I was delighted when,
on reading the first productions of Luther, I found him a vigorous stock, which
had pushed forth noble branches, and which gave promise to the Church of the
most precious fruits. Several before him, it is true, made the same discoveries:
still none but he has had the noble courage to publish the truth without fear.
But when I read his book on the Captivity of Babylon, I felt as if beaten and
bruised from head to foot.” “I don’t believe,” added the monk, “that Luther
acknowledges himself to be the author. I do not find in it either his style or
his science.…” After some discussion, the confessor continued, “Introduce me to
the Elector, and I will, in your presence, explain to him the errors of Luther.”
The chancellor replied, “That the business of the Diet did not leave any leisure
to his Highness, who, moreover, did not meddle with the affair.” The monk was
vexed when his request was denied. “By the way,” said the chancellor, “as you
say there is no evil without a remedy, will you explain yourself?”

Assuming a confidential air, the confessor replied: “The emperor earnestly
desires to see such a man as Luther reconciled to the Church, for his books
(before the publication of his treatise, ‘On the Captivity of Babylon,’) rather
pleased his Majesty. … It must doubtless have been Luther’s rage at the bull
which dictated that work. Let him declare that he did not wish to disturb the
peace of the Church, and the learned of all nations will rally around him.…
Procure me an audience of his Highness.” The chancellor waited upon Frederick.
The Elector being well aware that any kind of recantation was impossible
replied, “Tell the confessor that I cannot comply with his request, but do you
continue the conference.”

Glapio received this message with great demonstrations of respect; and changing
the attack, said, “Let the Elector name some confidential persons to deliberate
on this affair.”

Chancellor.—“The Elector does not profess to defend the cause of Luther.”

Confessor.—“Very well, do you at least discuss it with me.… Jesus Christ is my
witness, that all I do is from love to the Church, and to Luther who has opened
so many hearts to the truth.” The chancellor having refused to undertake what
was the Reformer’s own task, was preparing to retire.

“Stay!” said the monk to him.

Chancellor.—“What then is to be done?”

Confessor.—“Let Luther deny that he is the author of the Captivity of Babylon.”

Chancellor.—“But the papal bull condemns all his other works.”

Confessor.—“It is because of his obstinacy. If he retracts his book, the pope,
in the plenitude of his power, can easily restore him to favour. What hopes may
we not cherish now that we have so excellent an emperor!…”

Perceiving that these words made some impression on the chancellor, the monk
hastened to add—“Luther always insists on arguing from the Bible. The Bible!… it
is like wax, and may be stretched and bent at pleasure. I undertake to find in
the Bible opinions still more extraordinary than those of Luther. He is mistaken
when he converts all the sayings of Jesus into commandments.” Then, wishing to
work also on the fears of the chancellor, he added, “What would happen if to-day
or to-morrow the Emperor were to try the effect of arms?… Think of it.” He then
allowed Pontanus to retire. The confessor prepared new snares. “After living ten
years with him,” said Erasmus, “we should not know him.”

“What an excellent book that of Luther’s on ‘Christian Liberty,’ ” said he to
the chancellor when he saw him a few days after—“what wisdom! what talent! what
intellect! it is just the style in which a true scholar ought to write. Let
unexceptionable persons be chosen on either side, and let the pope and Luther
refer to their judgment. No doubt Luther has the best of it on several articles.
I will speak to the emperor himself on the subject. Believe me, I do not say
these things to you on my own suggestion. I have told the emperor that God will
chastise him, as well as all the princes, if the Church, which is the spouse of
Jesus Christ, is not washed from all the stains by which she is polluted. I have
added that God himself had raised up Luther, and had ordered him to rebuke men
sharply, using him as a rod to punish the sins of the world.”2 The chancellor
hearing these words, (they convey the impressions of the time, and show what was
then thought of Luther even by his opponents,) thought it right to express his
astonishment that more respect was not shown to his master. “Deliberations on
this subject,” said he, “are daily carried on before the emperor, and the
Elector is not invited to them. It seems strange that the emperor, who owes him
some gratitude, excludes him from his counsels.”

Confessor.—“I have been present only once at these deliberations, and I have
heard the emperor resist the solicitations of the nuncios. Five years hence it
will be seen how much Charles shall have done for the reformation of the
Church.”

“The Elector,” replied Pontanus, “is ignorant of the emperor’s intentions: He
should be invited that he may hear them stated.” The confessor answered with a
deep sigh, “I call God to witness how ardently I desire to see the Reformation
of Christendom accomplished.” To lengthen out the affair, and meanwhile keep
Luther’s mouth shut, was all that Glapio had in view. At all events, Luther must
not come to Worms. A dead man returning from the other world, and appearing in
the midst of the Diet, would not have alarmed the nuncios, and monks, and whole
host of the pope, so much as the sight of the Wittemberg doctor.

“How many days does it take to come from Wittemberg to Worms?” asked the monk at
the chancellor, affecting an air of indifference; then begging Pontanus to
present his very humble respects to the Elector, he departed.

Such were the manœuvres of the courtiers. The firmness of Pontanus outwitted
them. This upright man was immovable as a rock in all negotiations. Moreover,
the Roman monks fell into the very snares which they were laying for their
enemies. “The Christian,” says Luther, in his figurative language, “is like a
bird fastened near a trap. The wolves and foxes go round and round, and make a
dart upon it to devour it, but fall into the pit and perish, while the timid
bird remains alive. Thus holy angels guard us, and devouring wolves, hypocrites,
and persecutors, cannot do us any harm.” Not only were the confessor’s artifices
unavailing, but, moreover, his admissions confirmed Frederick in the belief that
Luther was in the right, and that it was his duty to defend him. The hearts of
men became every day more inclined towards the gospel. A prior of the Dominicans
proposed that the emperor, the kings of France, Spain, England, Portugal,
Hungary, and Poland, the pope, and the electors, should name representatives by
whom the matter should be decided. “Never,” said he, “has reference been made to
the pope alone.” The general feeling became such, that it seemed impossible to
condemn Luther without a hearing and regular conviction.

3

Aleander became uneasy, and displayed more than wonted energy. It is no longer
merely against the Elector and Luther that he has to contend. He is horrified at
the secret negotiations of the confessor, the proposition of the prior, the
consent of Charles’ ministers, and the extreme coldness of Roman piety among the
most devoted friends of the pope, “so that one would have thought,” says
Pallavicinci, “that a torrent of ice had passed over them.” He had at length
received gold and silver from Rome, and held in his hand energetic briefs
addressed to the most powerful personages in the empire.5 Afraid that his prey
might escape, he felt that now was the time to strike a decisive blow. He
despatched the briefs, showered gold and silver with liberal hand, dealt out the
most enticing promises, “and provided,” says the Cardinal historian, “with this
triple weapon, he strove anew to turn the wavering assembly of the electors in
favour of the pope.” He laboured above all to encircle the emperor with his
snares. Availing himself of the differences between the Belgian and the Spanish
ministers, he laid close siege to the prince. All the friends of Rome, awakened
by his voice, urged young Charles with solicitations. “Every day,” wrote the
Elector to his brother John, “deliberations are held against Luther: the demand
is that he be put under the ban of the pope and the emperor; in all sorts of
ways attempts are made to hurt him. Those who parade about with their red hats,
the Romans with all their sect, labour in the task with indefatigable zeal.” In
fact, Aleander urged the condemnation of the Reformer with a violence which
Luther terms “marvellous fury.” The apostate nuncio,3 as Luther calls him,
hurried by passion beyond the bounds of prudence, one day exclaimed, “If you
mean, O Germans, to shake off the yoke of Roman obedience, we will act so, that,
setting the one against the other, as an exterminating sword, you will all
perish in your own blood.” “Such,” adds the Reformer, “is the pope’s method of
feeding the sheep of Christ.”

Luther himself spoke a very different language. He made no demand of a personal
nature. “Luther is ready,” said Melancthon, “to purchase the glory and
advancement of the gospel with his life.” But he trembled at the thought of the
disasters of which his death might be the signal. He saw a people led astray,
and perhaps avenging his martyrdom in the blood of his enemies, especially the
priests. He recoiled from the fearful responsibility. “God,” said he, “arrests
the fury of his enemies; but should it break forth, … a storm will burst upon
the priests similar to that which ravaged Bohemia.… I am clear of it; for I have
earnestly besought the German nobility to arrest the Romans by wisdom, and not
by the sword.6 To war upon priests, a body without courage and strength, is to
war upon women and children.”

Charles did not withstand the solicitations of the nuncio. His Belgian and
Spanish devotion had been developed by his preceptor Adrian, who afterwards
occupied the pontifical throne. The pope had addressed a brief to him imploring
him to give legal effect to the bull by an imperial edict. “In vain,” said he to
him, “shall God have invested you with the sword of supreme power if you do not
employ it both against infidels, and also against heretics, who are far worse
than infidels.” One day, accordingly, in the beginning of February, at the
moment when every thing was ready at Worms for a brilliant tournament, and after
the emperor’s tent had actually been erected, the princes who were preparing to
attend the fête were summoned to repair to the imperial palace. There the papal
bull was read to them, and they were presented with a stringent edict enjoining
the execution of it. “If you have any thing better to propose,” added the
emperor in the usual form, “I am ready to hear you.”

Animated debates then began in the diet. “The monk,” wrote the deputy of one of
the German free towns, “gives us a great deal to do. Some would like to crucify
him, and I don’t think that he will escape: the only thing to be feared is that
he may rise again on the third day.” The emperor had thought he would be able to
publish his edict without opposition on the part of the States, but it was not
so. Men’s minds were not prepared, and it was necessary to gain the Diet.
“Convince this assembly,” said the young monarch to the nuncio. This was just
what Aleander desired, and he received a promise of being admitted to the Diet
on the 13th February.


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  CHAPTER 73: CHAPTER III
========================================================================

Aleander admitted to the Diet—Aleander’s Address—Luther accused—Rome
defended—Appeal to Charles against Luther—Effect of the Nuncio’s Address. The
nuncio prepared for the solemn audience. The task was important, but Aleander
was worthy of it. The ambassador of the sovereign pontiff was surrounded with
all the splendour of his office; he was moreover one of the most eloquent men of
his age. The friends of the Reformation looked forward to the sitting not
without fear. The Elector, under the pretext of indisposition, kept away, but he
ordered some of his counsellors to attend and give heed to the nuncio’s address.
On the appointed day, Aleander proceeded to the hall of the assembled princes.
Men’s minds were excited; several thought of Annas or Caiaphas repairing to
Pilate’s judgment hall to demand the life of him who was “perverting the
nation.” At the moment when the nuncio was about to step across the threshold,
the officer of the Diet (says Pallavicini,) came briskly up to him, took him by
the breast, and shoved him back.”2 “He was a Lutheran at heart,” adds the Roman
historian. If the story is true, it doubtless betrays strange passion in the
officer, but at the same time, gives an idea of the powerful influence which
Luther’s doctrine had produced even on the doorkeepers of the Imperial Council.
Proud Aleander, haughtily drawing himself up, moved on and entered the hall.
Never had Rome been called to make her apology before so august an assembly. The
nuncio placed before him the judicial documents which he judged necessary, the
works of Luther, and the papal bulls. Silence being called, he spoke as
follows:—

“Most august emperor!—most puissant princes!—most excellent deputies! I come
before you to maintain a cause for which my heart burns with the most ardent
affection. The subject is the preservation on my master’s head of that tiara
which is reverenced by all, the maintenance of that papal throne, for which I am
ready to give my body to the flames, could the monster who has engendered the
growing heresy be consumed by the same pile, and mingle his ashes with mine.

“No! the disagreement between Luther and Rome turns not on the interests of the
pope. Luther’s books are before me, and any man with eyes in his head may
perceive that the holy doctrines of the Church are the object of his attack. He
teaches that those only communicate worthily whose consciences are filled with
sadness and confusion for their sins, and that there is no justification in
baptism, without faith in the promise of which baptism is the pledge. He denies
the necessity of our works to obtain celestial glory. He denies that we have
liberty and power to observe natural and divine law. He affirms that we sin
necessarily in all our actions. Did ever the arsenal of hell send forth arrows
better fitted to loose the reins of modesty?… He preaches the abolition of
religious vows. Can more sacrilegious impiety be imagined?… What desolation will
not be seen in the world when those who ought to be the leaven of the people
shall have thrown aside their sacred vestments, abandoned the temples which
re-echoed with their holy hymns, and plunged into adultery, incest, and
dissoluteness!…

“Shall I enumerate all the crimes of this audacious monk? He sins against the
dead, for he denies purgatory; he sins against heaven, for he says, he would not
believe an angel from heaven; he sins against the Church, for he pretends that
all Christians are priests; he sins against the saints, for he despises their
venerable writings; he sins against the councils, for he terms that of Constance
an assembly of demons; he sins against the world, for he forbids the punishment
of death to be inflicted on any one who has not committed a mortal sin. Some say
he is a pious man … I have no wish to attack his life, I would only remind this
assembly that the devil deceives men by semblances of truth.”

Aleander having spoken of the condemnation of purgatory by the council of
Florence, laid the papal bull on this council at the feet of the emperor. The
archbishop of Mentz took it up and handed it to the archbishops of Cologne and
Treves, who received it reverently, and passed it to the other princes. The
nuncio, having thus accused Luther, now proceeded to the second point, which was
to justify Rome.

“At Rome,” says Luther, “they promise one thing with the lip and do its opposite
with the hand. If this fact is true, must not the inference be the very reverse
of what he draws from it? If the ministers of a religion live conformably to its
precepts it is a proof that it is false. Such was the religion of the ancient
Romans …

Such is that of Mahomet, and that of Luther himself; but such is not the
religion which the pontiffs of Rome teach us. Yes, the doctrine which they
confess condemns all as faulty, several as culpable, and some even (I say it
candidly) as criminal. … This doctrine delivers their actions to the censure of
men during their life, and to historical infamy after their death.3 Now what
pleasure, what advantage, I ask, could the pontiffs have found in inventing such
a religion?

“The Church, it will be said, was not governed in primitive times by Roman
pontiffs—What must the conclusion be? With such arguments they might persuade
men to live on acorns, and princesses to be their own washerwomen.’ But it was
against his adversary, the Reformer, that the nuncio chiefly directed his
attack. Full of indignation against those who said that he ought to be heard, he
exclaimed, “Luther will not allow any one to instruct him. The pope summoned him
to Rome, but he did not obey. The pope summoned him to Augsburg before his
legate, and he would not appear without a safe-conduct from the emperor, i.e.
until the hands of the legate were tied, and nothing left free to him but his
tongue. “Ah!” said Aleander, turning towards Charles V, “I supplicate your
imperial majesty not to do what would issue in disgrace. Interfere not with a
matter of which laics have no right to take cognisance. Do your own work. Let
Luther’s doctrine be interdicted throughout the empire: let his writings be
everywhere burnt. Fear not: there is enough in the writings of Luther to burn a
hundred thousand heretics. … And what have we to fear?… The populace? Before the
battle they seem terrible from their insolence; in the battle they are
contemptible from their cowardice. Foreign princes? The king of France has
prohibited Luther’s doctrine from entering his kingdom, while the king of Great
Britain is preparing a blow for it with his royal hand. You know what the
feelings of Hungary, Italy, and Spain are, and none of your neighbours, how
great soever the enmity he may bear to yourself, wishes you any thing so bad as
this heresy. If the house of our enemy is adjacent to our own we may wish him
fever, but not pestilence.… Who are all these Lutherans? A huddle of insolent
grammarians, corrupt priests, disorderly monks, ignorant advocates, degraded
nobles, common people misled and perverted. Is not the Catholic party far more
numerous, able, and powerful? A unanimous decree of this assembly will enlighten
the simple, give warning to the imprudent, determine those who are hesitating,
and confirm the feeble.… But if the axe is not laid to the root of this
poisonous shrub, if the fatal stroke is not given to it, then.… I see it
covering the heritage of Jesus Christ with its branches, changing the vineyard
of the Lord into a howling forest, transforming the kingdom of God into a den of
wild beasts, and throwing Germany into the frightful state of barbarism and
desolation to which Asia has been reduced by the superstition of Mahomet.” The
nuncio ceased. He had spoken for three hours. The torrent of his eloquence had
moved the assembly. “The princes shaken and alarmed,” says Cochlœus, “looked at
each other; and murmurs were soon heard from different quarters against Luther
and his partisans. Had the mighty Luther been present, had he been permitted to
answer the discourse, had he, availing himself of the concession forced from the
Roman orator by the remembrance of his old master, the infamous Borgia, been
permitted to show that these arguments, designed to defend Rome, constituted her
condemnation, and that the doctrine which gave proof of her iniquity was not
invented by him, as the orator said, but was the very religion which Christ had
given to the world, and which the reformation was establishing in its primitive
lustre, could he have presented an exact and animated picture of the errors and
abuses of the papacy, and shown how it had perverted the religion of Jesus
Christ into an instrument of aggrandisement and rapine,—the effect of the
nuncio’s harangue would have been neutralised at the moment of its delivery; but
nobody rose to speak. The assembly remained under the impression of the address,
and, excited and carried away, showed themselves ready violently to eradicate
the heresy of Luther from the soil of the empire.

Still the victory was only apparent. It was the will of God that Rome should
have an opportunity of displaying her reasons and her strength. The greatest of
her orators had addressed the assembled princes, and said all that Rome had to
say. But the last effort of the papacy was the very thing which was destined to
become, in regard to several of those who witnessed it, the signal of her
defeat. If, in order to secure the triumph of truth, it is necessary to proclaim
it aloud, so in order to secure the destruction of error, it is sufficient to
publish it without reserve. Neither the one nor the other, in order to
accomplish its course, should be concealed. The light judges all things.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 74: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

Sentiments of the Princes—Speech of Duke George—Character of the Reformation—A
hundred and one grievances—Charles yields—Tactics of Aleander—The Grandees of
Spain—Luther’s peace—Death and not Retractation. A few days sufficed to wear off
these first impressions, as always happens when an orator shrouds the emptiness
of his arguments in high sounding phrases. The majority of the princes were
ready to sacrifice Luther, but none were disposed to sacrifice the rights of the
empire and the redress of German grievances. There was no objection to give up
the insolent monk who had dared to speak so loud, but it was wished to make the
pope so much the more sensible of the justice of a reform which was demanded by
the heads of the kingdom. Accordingly, it was the greatest personal enemy of
Luther, Duke George of Saxony, who spoke most energetically against the
encroachments of Rome. The grandson of Podiebrad, King of Bohemia, repulsed by
the doctrines of grace which the Reformer proclaimed, had not yet abandoned the
hope of seeing a moral and ecclesiastical reform, and what irritated him so much
against the monk of Wittemberg, was that he had spoiled the whole affair by his
despised doctrines. But now, seeing the nuncio sought to confound Luther and
reform in one common condemnation, George suddenly stood up among the assembled
princes, and, to the great astonishment of those who knew his hatred to the
Reformer, said, “The Diet must not forget the grievances of which it complains
against the Court of Rome. What abuses have crept into our states! The annats
which the emperor granted freely for the good of Christendom now demanded as a
debt—the Roman courtiers every day inventing new ordinances, in order to absorb,
sell, and farm out ecclesiastical benefices—a multitude of transgressions winked
at; rich offenders unworthily tolerated, while those who have no means of ransom
are punished without pity—the popes incessantly bestowing expectancies and
reversions on the inmates of their palace, to the detriment of those to whom the
benefices belong—the commendams of abbeys and convents of Rome conferred on
cardinals, bishops, and prelates, who appropriate their revenues, so that there
is not one monk in convents which ought to have twenty or thirty—stations
multiplied without end, and indulgence shops established in all the streets and
squares of our cities, shops of St. Anthony, shops of the Holy Spirit, of St.
Hubert, of St. Cornelius, of St. Vincent, and many others besides—societies
purchasing from Rome the right of holding such markets, then purchasing from
their bishop the right of exhibiting their wares, and, in order to procure all
this money, draining and emptying the pockets of the poor—the indulgences which
ought to be granted solely for the salvation of souls, and which ought to be
merited only by prayers, fastings, and the salvation of souls, sold at a regular
price—the officials of the bishop, oppressing those in humble life with penances
for blasphemy, adultery, debauchery, the violation of this or that feast day,
while, at the same time, not even censuring ecclesiastics who are guilty of the
same crimes—penances imposed on the penitent, and artfully arranged, so that he
soon falls anew into the same fault, and pays so much the more money. … Such are
some of the crying abuses of Rome; all sense of shame has been cast off, and one
thing only is pursued … money! money! Hence preachers who ought to teach the
truth, now do nothing more than retail lies—lies, which are not only tolerated,
but recompensed, because the more they lie, the more they gain. From this
polluted well comes forth all this polluted water. Debauchery goes hand in hand
with avarice. The officials cause women to come to their houses under divers
pretexts, and strive to seduce them, sometimes by menaces, sometimes by
presents; or, if they cannot succeed, injure them in their reputation. Ah! the
scandals caused by the clergy precipitate multitudes of poor souls into eternal
condemnation! There must be a universal reform, and this reform must be
accomplished by summoning a general Council. Wherefore, most excellent princes
and lords, with submission I implore you to lose no time in the consideration of
this matter.” Several days after Aleander’s address, Duke George produced the
list of grievances which he had enumerated. This important document is preserved
in the archives of Weimar.

Luther had not spoken more forcibly against the abuses of Rome but he had done
something more. The duke pointed out the evil, Luther had, along with the evil,
pointed out both the cause and the cure. He had shown that the sinner receives
the true indulgence, that which comes from God, solely by faith in the grace and
merits of Jesus Christ, and this simple but powerful doctrine had overturned all
the markets established by the priests. “How can one become pious?” asked he one
day. “A Cordelier will reply Put on a grey hood, and tie a cord round your
waist. A Roman will reply, Hear mass, and fast. But a Christian will say, Faith
in Christ alone justifies and saves. Before works we must have eternal life.
After we are born anew, and made children of God by the word of grace, then it
is we do good works.” The duke spoke the language of a secular prince—Luther,
the language of a reformer. The great sore of the Church was that she had
devoted herself entirely to externals; had made all her works and her graces to
consist of outward and material things. Indulgences had carried this to its
extreme point, and pardon, the most spiritual thing in Christianity, had been
purchased in shops like meat and drink. The great work of Luther consisted in
his availing himself of this extreme point in the degeneracy of Christendom; in
order to bring back the individual and the Church to the primitive source of
life, and to re-establish the reign of the Holy Spirit within the sanctuary of
the heart. Here, as often happens, the cure sprung out of the disease, and the
two extremes met. Henceforward the Church, which during so many ages had been
developed externally by ceremonies, observances, and human practices, began
again to be developed within by faith, hope, and charity. The duke’s address
produced the greater effect from his opposition to Luther being well known.
Other members of the Diet stated different grievances. The ecclesiastical
princes themselves supported these complaints. “We have a pontiff,” said they,
“who spends his life in hunting and pleasure. The benefices of Germany are given
at Rome to huntsmen, domestics, grooms, stable boys, body servants, and other
people of that class, ignorant unpolished people, without capacity, and entire
strangers to Germany.”2 The Diet appointed a commission to collect all these
grievances. Their number was found to be a hundred and one. A deputation,
consisting of secular and ecclesiastical princes, presented the list to the
emperor, imploring him to give redress, as he had engaged to do at his election.
“How many Christian souls are lost?” said they to Charles V. “How many
depredations, how much extortion, are caused by the scandals with which the
spiritual chief of Christendom is environed? The ruin and dishonour of our
people must be prevented. Therefore, we all, in a body, supplicate you most
humbly, but also most urgently, to ordain a general reformation, to undertake
it, and to accomplish it.” There was, at this time, in Christian society, an
unseen power influencing princes and their subjects, a wisdom from above
dragging forward even the adversaries of the Reformation, and preparing that
emancipation whose appointed hour had at length arrived.

Charles could not be insensible to these remonstrances of the empire. Neither
himself nor the nuncio had expected them. His confessor had even denounced the
vengeance of Heaven against him if he did not reform the Church. The emperor
immediately withdrew the edict which ordered Luther’s writings to be committed
to the flames in every part of the empire, and in its place substituted a
provisional order remitting these books to the magistrates. This did not satisfy
the assembly, who were desirous that the Reformer should appear. It is unjust,
said his friends, to condemn Luther without having heard him, and without
knowing from himself whether he is the author of the books which are proposed to
be burnt. His doctrine, said his opponents, has so taken possession of men’s
hearts, that it is impossible to arrest their progress without hearing him.
There need be no discussion with him. If he avows his writings, and refuses to
retract them, then all of us, electors, princes, states of the whole empire,
true to the faith of our ancestors, will, in a body, aid your majesty, by all
the means in our power, in the execution of your decrees.

Aleander, alarmed, dreading both the intrepidity of Luther and the ignorance of
the princes, immediately set himself to the task of preventing the Reformer’s
compearance. He went from the ministers of Charles to the princes who were most
disposed to favour the pope, and from these princes to the emperor himself. “It
is unlawful,” said he, “to bring into question what the sovereign pontiff has
decided. There will be no discussion with Luther, you say; but continued he,
will not the power of this audacious man, will not the fire of his eye, and the
eloquence of his tongue, and the mysterious spirit which animates him, be
sufficient to excite some sedition?2 Several already venerate him as a saint,
and you everywhere meet with his portrait surrounded with a halo of glory, as
round the head of the Blessed. If it is determined to cite him, at least let it
be without giving him the protection of public faith.” These last words were
meant to frighten Luther, or prepare his ruin. The nuncio found easy access to
the grandees of Spain. In Spain, as in Germany, the opposition to the Dominican
inquisitors was national. The yoke of the inquisition, which had been
discontinued for a time, had just been re-established by Charles. A numerous
party in the Peninsula sympathised with Luther; but it was not so with the
great, who, on the banks of the Rhine, again met with what they had hated beyond
the Pyrenees. Inflamed with the most violent fanaticism, they were bent on
annihilating the new heresy. In particular, Frederick, Duke of Alba, was
transported with rage whenever the subject of Reformation was mooted. His wish
would have been to wade in the blood of all its adherents. Luther had not yet
been called to appear, and yet his mere name was already agitating all the
grandees of Christendom then assembled at Worms. The man who was thus agitating
the mighty of the earth was the only one who seemed to be at peace. The news
from Worms were alarming. Even Luther’s friends were frightened. “Nothing now is
left us but our wishes and our prayers,” wrote Melancthon to Spalatin. “Oh! if
God would deign to ransom the safety of the Christian people by my blood.” But
Luther was a stranger to fear. Shutting himself up in his peaceful cell, he sat
down to meditate, applying to himself the words of Mary, the mother of our Lord,
when she exclaimed, “My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced
in God my Saviour. For he that is mighty has done for me great things, and holy
is His name. He has shown strength with his arm; he hath put down the mighty
from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.” The following are some of the
thoughts which filled Luther’s heart … “ ‘He that is mighty,’ says Mary. Oh! how
great boldness on the part of a young girl! With a single word she strikes all
the strong with languor, all the mighty with feebleness, all the wise with
folly, and all those whose name is glorious on the earth with ignominy, and lays
at the feet of God all strength, all power, all wisdom, all glory.2 ‘His arm,’
continues she, and she thus appeals to that power by which he acts of himself,
and without the agency of his creatures—a mysterious power operating in secrecy
and in silence, until his purpose is accomplished. Hence destruction comes
before any one is aware of its approach; hence elevation, when no one is
thinking of it. He leaves his children in oppression and feebleness, so that
each of them says to himself, ‘We are all lost!’ Then, however, they are most
strong. For it is where the power of man ends that the power of God begins. Only
let faith wait upon Him … And, on the other hand, God permits his adversaries to
increase their power and grandeur. He withdraws from them the aid of his
strength, and leaves them to be inflated with their own. He leaves them void of
his eternal wisdom, and lets them fill themselves with their wisdom of a day.
And while they rise up in the greatness of their might, the arm of the Lord
keeps back, and their work … vanishes like a soap bubble when it bursts in the
air.”

It was on the 10th of March, at the moment when his name was filling the
imperial city with alarm, that Luther finished this exposition of the
Magnificat.

He was not allowed to remain tranquil in his retreat. Spalatin, in conformity to
the orders of the Elector, sent him a note of the articles of which it was
proposed to demand a retractation from him. A retractation after the refusal at
Augsburg! … “Fear not,” he wrote to Spalatin, “that I will retract a single
syllable, since their only argument is to insist that my writings are opposed to
the rites of what they call the Church. If the Emperor Charles summon me merely
for the purpose of retracting, I will answer him that I will remain here; and it
will be just the same thing as if I had been to Worms and come back again. But
if, on the contrary, the emperor chooses to summon me in order that I may be put
to death, I am ready to repair at his call; for, with the help of Christ, I will
not desert his word on the battle-field. I know it: these bloody men will never
rest till they have deprived me of life Oh, that none but papists would become
guilty of my blood!”


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 75: CHAPTER V
========================================================================

Will a Safe-conduct be given?—Safe-conduct—Will Luther go?—Holy Thursday at
Rome—The Pope and Luther. At length the emperor decided. The appearance of
Luther before the Diet seemed the only thing fitted to bring this affair which
occupied the whole empire, to some kind of termination. Charles V resolved to
cite him, but without giving him a safe-conduct. Here Frederick again began to
act as his protector. Every body saw the danger which threatened the Reformer.
Luther’s friends, says Cochlœus, were afraid that he would be delivered up to
the pope, or that the emperor himself would put him to death as unworthy, on
account of his obstinate heresy, that any faith should be kept with him. On this
subject there was a long and keen debate among the princes.

2 Struck, at last, with the general agitation then prevailing almost throughout
the whole population of Germany, and afraid that, as Luther passed along, some
sudden tumult or dangerous sedition might break forth, (doubtless in favour of
the Reformer,) the princes deemed it wise to calm men’s minds on his account,
and not only the emperor, but also the Elector of Saxony, Duke George, and the
Landgrave of Hesse, through whose states he had to pass, each gave him a
safe-conduct. On the 6th March, 1521, Charles V signed the following summons
addressed to Luther:— “Charles, by the grace of God, elected Roman Emperor,
always Augustus, etc., etc.

“Honourable, dear, and pious! We, and the States of the Holy Empire, having
resolved to make an inquest touching the doctrine and the books which you have
published for some time past have given you, to come here and return to a place
of safety our safe-conduct and that of the empire here subjoined. Our sincere
desire is that you immediately prepare for this journey, in order that, in the
space of twenty-one days mentioned in our safe-conduct you may be here
certainly, and without fail. Have no apprehension of either injustice or
violence. We will firmly enforce our safe-conduct under-written, and we expect
that you will answer to our call. In so doing you will follow our serious
advice.

“Given at our imperial city of Worms, the sixth day of March, in the year of our
Lord, 1521, and in the second of our reign.

“Charles.

“By order of my Lord the Emperor, with his own hand, Albert, Cardinal of Mentz,
Arch-chancellor.

Nicolas Zwyl.” The safe-conduct enclosed in this letter bore the following
address:—“To the honourable, our dear and pious doctor Martin Luther, of the
order of the Augustins.”

It began thus:—

“We, Charles, fifth of the name, by the grace of God, elected Roman Emperor,
always Augustus, King of Spain, of the Two Sicilies, of Jerusalem, Hungary,
Dalmatia, Croatia, etc., Arch-Duke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy, Count of
Hapsburg, Flanders, the Tyrol, etc., etc.”

Then the king of so many nations giving to wit that he had summoned before him
an Augustin monk named Luther, ordered all princes, lords, magistrates, and
others, to respect the safe-conduct which he gave him, under pain of punishment
by the emperor and the empire.

Thus the emperor gave the title of “dear, honourable, and pious,” to a man at
whose head the Church had launched her excommunication. It had been wished, in
the drawing up of the document, to remove all distrust from the mind of Luther
and his friends. Gaspard Sturm was appointed to carry this message to the
Reformer, and accompany him to Worms. The Elector, dreading the public
indignation, wrote, on the 12th March, to the magistrates of Wittemberg to see
to the safety of the emperor’s officer, and, if deemed necessary, to provide him
with a guard. The herald set out.

Thus the designs of God were accomplished. God was pleased to set upon a hill
that light which he had kindled in the world, and emperors, kings, and princes,
without knowing it, were forthwith in motion to execute his design. It is easy
for him to exalt the lowest to the highest. An act of his power suffices to
raise the humble child of Mansfeld from an obscure hut to the palace where kings
are assembled. In regard to Him, there is nothing small, nothing great. When he
wills it, Charles V and Luther meet face to face. But will Luther obey this
citation? His best friends were in doubt. The Elector on the 25th of March wrote
his brother—“Doctor Martin is summoned hither, but I know not if he will come. I
cannot augur any good of it.” Three weeks later (16th April), this excellent
prince seeing the danger increase wrote anew to Duke John. “There is a
proclamation against Luther. The cardinals and bishops attack him with much
severity. May God turn all to good. Would to God I could procure him an
equitable reception!”

While these things were passing at Worms and Wittemberg, the Papacy was
reiterating its blows. On the 28th March, the Thursday before Easter, Rome
resounded with a solemn excommunication. At this season it is usual to publish
the dreadful bull in Cœna Domini, which is only a long series of imprecations.
On that day, the avenues to the church in which the sovereign pontiff was to
officiate were occupied at an early hour by the papal guards, and by a crowd of
people who had flocked from all parts of Italy to receive the benediction of the
holy father. The square in front of the Basilisk was decorated with branches of
laurel and myrtle; wax tapers were burning on the balcony of the church, and the
ostensorium was raised upon it. All at once bells make the air re-echo with
solemn sounds; the pope, clothed in his pontifical robes, and carried in a
chair, appears on the balcony; the people kneel, all heads are uncovered, the
colours are lowered, the muskets grounded, and a solemn silence reigns. Some
moments after, the pope slowly stretches out his hands, raises them towards
heaven, then bends them slowly towards the ground, making the sign of the cross.
This movement is repeated thrice, and the air echoes anew with the ringing of
bells, which intimate the pope’s benediction to the surrounding country; then
priests advance with impetuosity, holding lighted torches, which they reverse,
brandish, and throw about with violence, to represent the flames of hell; the
people are moved and agitated, and the words of malediction are heard from the
height of the temple. When Luther was informed of this excommunication, he
published the tenor of it, with some remarks, written in that caustic style in
which he so much excelled. Although this publication did not appear till
afterwards, we will here give some idea of it. Let us hear the high priest of
Christendom on the balcony of his Basilisk, and the monk of Wittemberg answering
him from the bosom of Germany.

There is something characteristic in the contrast of the two voices. The
Pope.—“Leo Bishop.”

Luther.—“Bishop … as a wolf is a shepherd; for the bishop ought to exhort
according to the doctrine of salvation, not belch out imprecations and
maledictions.” The Pope.—“… Servant of all the servants of God.…”

Luther.—“In the evening when we are drunk; but in the morning we call ourselves
Leo lord of all the lords.” The Pope.—“The Roman bishops, our predecessors, have
been wont, on this festival, to employ the weapons of righteousness.” …

Luther.—“Which, according to you, are excommunication and anathema, but
according to St. Paul, patience, meekness, and charity.” (2 Corinthians 6:7) The
Pope.—“According to the duty of the apostolic office, and to maintain the purity
of Christian faith.”

Luther—“In other words, the temporal possessions of the pope.” The Pope.—“And
its unity, which consists in the union of the members with Christ their head …
and with his vicar.…”

Luther.—“For Christ is not sufficient; one more than he is necessary.” The
Pope.—“To guard the holy communion of the faithful, we follow the ancient
custom, and excommunicate and anathematise on the part of God Almighty the
Father.

Luther.—“Of whom it is said, ‘God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the
world.’ ” (John 3:17) The Pope.—“… And the Son and the Holy Spirit, and
according to the power of the Apostles Peter and Paul … and our own.…”

Luther.—“And myself! says the ravenous wolf, as if the power of God were too
feeble without him.” The Pope.—“We curse all heretics,—the Garasi, the Patarini,
the Pauperes of Lyon, the Arnoldists, the Speronists, the Passagians, the
Wickliffites, the Hussites, the Fraticelli.”

Luther.—“For they wished to possess the Holy Scriptures, and insisted that the
pope should be sober and preach the Word God.” The Pope.—“And Martin Luther
recently condemned by us for a similar heresy, as well as all his adherents, and
all, whosoever they be, that show him any favour.”

Luther.—“I thank thee, most gracious Pontiff, for condemning me in common with
all these Christians. I count it an honour to have my name proclaimed at Rome
during the feast in so glorious a manner, and carried over the world with the
names of all those humble confessors of Jesus Christ.” The Pope.—“Likewise we
excommunicate and curse all pirates and corsairs.…”

Luther.—“Who then is the greatest of pirates and corsairs if it be not he who
robs souls, chains them, and puts them to death?” The Pope.—“Particularly those
who sail upon our sea.”

Luther.—“Our sea!… Saint Peter, our predecessor, said, ‘Silver and gold have I
none,’ (Acts 3:6) Jesus Christ said, ‘The kings of the Gentiles exercise
lordship over them; but it shall not be so with you.” (Luke 22:25) But if a
waggon loaded with hay must, on meeting with a drunken man, give way to him, à
fortiori must St. Peter and Jesus Christ himself give way to the pope.” The
Pope.—“Likewise we excommunicate and curse all who falsify our bulls, and our
apostolic letters.…”

Luther.—“But the letters of God, the Scriptures of God, all the world may
condemn and burn.” The Pope.—“Likewise we excommunicate and curse all who detain
provisions which are on the way to Rome.…”

Luther.—“He barks and bites like a dog threatened to be deprived of his bone.”
The Pope.—“Likewise we condemn and curse all who keep back judicial rights,
fruits, tithes, revenues, appertaining to the clergy.”

Luther.—“For Jesus Christ has said, ‘Whosoever will sue thee at the law and take
away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.’ (Matthew 5:40) and this is our
commentary upon the passage.” The Pope.—“Whatever be their station, dignity,
order, power, or rank; be they even bishops or kings.…”

Luther.—“For ‘There will arise false teachers among you who will despise
dominion and speak evil of dignities,’ saith the Scripture. (Jude 1:8)” The
Pope.—“Likewise we condemn and curse all those who in any kind of way attack the
city Rome, the kingdom of Sicily, the islands of Sardinia and Corsica, the
patrimony of St. Peter in Tuscany, the duchy of Spoleto, the margravate of
Ancona, the Campagna, the cities of Ferrara and Benevento, or any other city or
country appertaining to the Church of Rome.”

Luther.—“O, Peter, poor fisherman! where did you get Rome and all those
kingdoms? I salute you, Peter, king of Sicily!… and fisherman at Bethsaida!” The
Pope.—“We excommunicate and curse all chancellors, counsellors, parliaments,
procurators, governors officials, bishops, and others who oppose our letters of
exhortation, invitation, prohibition, mediation, execution, etc.”

Luther,—“For the holy see seeks only to live in idleness, magnificence, and
debauchery, to command, storm, deceive, lie, insult, and commit all sorts of
wickedness in peace and safety.…”

“O Lord, arise! it is not as the papists pretend. Thou hast not forsaken us, nor
is thy favour turned away from us.” So spake Leo X at Rome, and Luther at
Wittemberg. The pontiff having finished his anathemas, the parchment on which
they were written was torn in pieces, and the fragments thrown to the people.
Immediately there was a great rush among the crowd, all pressing forward, and
striving to get hold of a morsel of the terrible bull.

Such were the holy relics which the papacy offered to her faithful on the eve of
the great day of grace of expiation. The multitude soon dispersed, and the
vicinity of the Basilisk resumed its wonted stillness. Let us return to
Wittemberg.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 76: CHAPTER VI
========================================================================

Luther’s courage—Bugenhagen at Wittemberg—Persecutions in Pomerania—Melancthon
wishes to set out with Luther—Amsdorff—Schurff—Suaven—Hütten to Charles V.

It was the 24th of March. The imperial herald, Gaspard Sturm, having at length
passed the gates of the town where Luther was, presented himself before the
doctor, and put the summons of Charles V into his hands. A grave and solemn
moment for the Reformer! All his friends were in consternation. No prince, not
even excepting Frederick the Wise, had as yet declared in his favour. Knights,
it is true, uttered menaces, but the mighty Charles despised them. Still Luther
was not troubled. “The papists,” said he, on seeing the anguish of his friends,
“have no wish for my arrival at Worms, they only wish my condemnation and death.
No matter, pray not for me, but for the Word of God. Before my blood is cold,
thousands throughout the world will be called to answer for having shed it. The
most holy adversary of Christ, the father, master, and generalissimo of
homicides, insists on having my life. Amen! Let the will of the Lord be done.
Christ will give me his Spirit to vanquish these ministers of error. I despise
them during my life, and will triumph over them by my death. They are doing all
they can at Worms, to compel me to retract. Here then will be my retractation: I
once said, that the pope was the vicar of Christ; now, I say that he is the
enemy of the Lord, and the apostle of the devil.” And when he learned that all
the pulpits of the Franciscans were resounding with imprecations and
maledictions against him, he exclaimed, “O what wondrous joy it gives me!” He
knew that he had done the will of God, and that God was with him; why then
should he not set out boldly? This purity of intention, this liberty of
conscience is a hidden power of incalculable might which never fails the servant
of God, and which makes him more invincible than helmets and armied hosts could
make him. At this time arrived at Wittemberg a man who, like Melancthon, was
destined to be Luther’s friend through life, and to console him at the moment of
his departure. It was a priest of thirty-six years of age, named Bugenhagen, who
had fled from the severities with which the Bishop of Camin, and Prince Bogislas
of Pomerania, persecuted the friends of the gospel of all classes—clergy,
citizens, and literati.3 Of a senatorial family at Wollin in Pomerania, from
which he is commonly called ‘Pomeranus, Bugenhagen, at twenty years of age,
began to teach at Treptow. Youth flocked to hear him, while nobles and learned
men vied with each other for his society. He was a diligent student of the Holy
Scriptures, and prayed to God to instruct him. One day towards the end of
December, 1520, when he was supping with several friends, Luther’s treatise on
the Captivity of Babylon was put into his hands. After turning it over, he
exclaimed, “Many heretics have infested the Church since our Saviour died, but
never was there one more pestilential than the author of this work.” Having
taken the book home with him, and read it over and over, his views entirely
changed; new truths presented themselves to his mind, and returning some days
afterwards to his companions, he said to them, “The whole world is fallen into
Cimmerian darkness. This man and none but he sees the truth.” Some priests, a
deacon, even the abbot himself, received the pure doctrine of salvation, and
preaching it with power, soon,” (says a historian,) “turned away their hearers
from human superstitions to the sole efficacious merit of Jesus Christ.6 “Then
persecution burst forth. Several were already immured in dungeons, when
Bugenhagen escaped from his enemies, and arrived at Wittemberg. “He suffers for
the love of the gospel,” immediately wrote Melancthon to the Elector’s chaplain,
“where could he fly if not to our ασυλον (asylum,) to the protection of our
prince?” But none received Bugenhagen with so much delight as Luther. It was
arranged between them that, immediately after the Reformer’s departure,
Bugenhagen should begin to expound the Psalms. Thus divine Providence brought
this powerful mind to aid in supplying the place of him whom Wittemberg was
going to lose. Placed a year after at the head of the church of this town,
Bugenhagen presided over it for thirty-six years. Luther distinguished him by
the name of The Pastor.

Luther behoved to depart. His alarmed friends thought that unless God
miraculously interposed, he was going to death. Melancthon, who had left his
native country, had become attached to Luther with all the affection of his
soul. “Luther,” said he, “is to me in place of all my friends: I feel him to be
greater and more admirable than I can express. You know how Alcibiades admired
his Socrates; but I admire Luther in a higher sense, for he is a Christian.”
Then he added the simple but beautiful expression, “Every time I contemplate
him, I find him even greater than himself.”2 Melancthon wished to follow Luther
in his dangers. But their common friends, and doubtless the doctor himself, were
against it. Must not Philip supply the place of his friend? and, should that
friend never return, who would direct the cause of the Reformation? “Ah! would
to God,” said Melancthon, resigned, but grieved, “would to God I had been
allowed to go with him.” The ardent Amsdorff immediately declared that he would
accompany the doctor. His strong soul felt a pleasure in exposing itself to
danger. His high bearing enabled him to appear fearless before an assembly of
kings. The Elector had invited to Wittemberg, as professor of law, Jerome
Schurff, the son of a physician of St. Gall, a celebrated man, of great meekness
of temper, and a very intimate friend of Luther. “He has not yet summoned up
courage,” said Luther, “to pronounce sentence of death on a single malefactor.
Yet this timid individual volunteered to act as the doctor’s counsel on this
dangerous journey. A young Danish student named Peter Suaven, who boarded with
Melancthon, and afterwards distinguished himself by his labours in Pomerania and
Denmark, also declared that he would accompany his master. The youth in schools
were entitled to have their representative beside the champion of truth.

Germany was moved at the thought of the dangers which threatened the
representative of her people, and found a voice well fitted to express her
fears. Ulric von Hütten shuddered at the thought of the blow about to be struck
at his country, and, on the 1st of April wrote directly to Charles V as
follows:—“Most excellent emperor, you are on the point of destroying us, and
yourself with us. What is intended in this affair of Luther but just to destroy
our liberty and abridge your power? There is not throughout the whole breadth of
the empire a good man who does not feel the liveliest interest in this business.
The priests alone are in arms against Luther because he is opposed to their
excessive power, their shameful luxury, their depraved lives, and has pleaded
for the doctrine of Christ, his country’s freedom, and purity of manners.

“O emperor! dismiss from your presence those orators of Rome, those bishops and
cardinals who would prevent every thing like reform. Did you not observe the
sadness of the people on seeing you on your arrival approach the people
surrounded by those wearers of red hats, by a herd of priests and not a band of
valiant warriors?

“Do not give up your sovereign majesty to those who would trample it under their
feet! Have pity on us! Do not in your ruin drag the whole nation along with you!
Place us amid the greatest perils, under the swords of the enemy and the canon’s
mouth; let all nations conspire against us; let all armies assail us, so that we
may be able openly to manifest our valour, and not be thus vanquished and
enslaved in the dark, like women, without arms and without a struggle.… Ah! our
hope was that you would deliver us from the yoke of the Romans and overthrow the
pontifical tyranny. God grant that the future may turn out better than the
commencement.3

“All Germany kneels before you; she supplicates you with tears, implores your
aid, your pity, your faith, and, by the holy memory of those Germans, who, when
the whole world was subjugated to Rome, refused to bend their head before that
proud city, conjures you to save her, restore her to herself, deliver her from
slavery, and avenge her of her tyrants!…” So spoke Germany to Charles V through
the instrumentality of the knight. The emperor paid no attention to the letter;
perhaps threw it disdainfully from him to one of his secretaries. He was a
Fleming, and not a German. Personal aggrandisement, not the liberty and glory of
the empire, was the object of all his desires.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 77: CHAPTER VII
========================================================================

Departure for the Diet of Worms—Luther’s Adieu—His Condemnation
Published—Cavalcade near Erfurt—Meeting of Jonas and Luther—Luther in his old
Convent Luther Preaches at Erfurt—Incident—Faith and Works—Concourse of
People—Luther’s Courage—Luther to Spalatin—Halt at Frankfort—Fears at Worms—Plan
of the Imperialists—Luther’s Firmness. The 2nd of April had arrived, and Luther
behoved to take leave of his friends. After writing a note to Lange to intimate
that he would spend the following Thursday or Friday at Erfurt, he bade adieu to
his colleagues. Turning to Melancthon he said to him, in a tone which betrayed
emotion, “If I do not return, and my enemies put me to death, O, my brother,
cease not to teach, and remain firm in the truth. Labour in my stead, since I
shall not be able to labour any longer for myself. If you live, it matters
little though I perish.” Then, committing himself to the hand of Him who is
faithful and true, Luther took his seat and quitted Wittemberg. The town council
had provided him with a modest carriage with a cloth covering which might be put
on or off at pleasure. The imperial herald, clad in his insignia, and wearing
the imperial eagle, was on horseback in front, followed by his servant. Next
followed Luther, Schurff, Amsdorff, and Suaven in their carriage. The friends of
the gospel, the citizens of Wittemberg, in deep emotion, were invoking God, and
shedding tears. Such was Luther’s departure.2

He soon observed that the hearts of those whom he met were filled with gloomy
forebodings. At Leipsic no honour was paid to him. He only received the usual
present of wine. At Naumburg he met a priest, probably J. Langer, a man of stern
zeal, who carefully preserved in his study the portrait of the famous Jerome
Savonarola of Ferrara, who was burnt at Florence in 1498, by order of pope
Alexander VI, as a martyr to liberty and morality, as well as a confessor of
evangelical truth. Having taken the portrait of the Italian martyr, the priest
came up to Luther, and held out the portrait to him without speaking. Luther
understood what the dumb figure intimated, but his intrepid soul remained firm.
“It is Satan,” said he, “who, by these terrors, would fain prevent a confession
of the truth from being made in the assembly of the princes, because he foresees
the blow which this will give to his kingdom.” “Adhere firmly to the truth which
thou hast perceived,” said then the priest to him gravely, “and thy God will
also adhere firmly to thee.”

Having spent the night at Naumburg, where the burgomaster had hospitably
entertained him, Luther arrived next evening at Weimar. He was scarcely a moment
there when he heard loud cries in all directions. They were publishing his
condemnation. “Look,” said the herald to him. He looked, and his astonished eyes
beheld imperial messengers traversing the town, and posting up the imperial
edict, which ordered his writings to be laid before the magistrates. Luther had
no doubt that these harsh measures were exhibited before-hand, to deter him from
coming, that he might afterwards be condemned for having refused to appear.
“Well, doctor, will you go on?” said the imperial herald to him in alarm. “Yes,”
replied Luther, “though put under interdict in every town, I will go on: I
confide in the emperor’s safe-conduct.” At Weimar, Luther had an audience of the
Elector’s brother, Duke John, who was then residing there. The prince invited
him to preach. He consented, and from his heart, now under deep emotion, came
forth the words of life. John Voit, the friend of Frederick Myconius, a
Franciscan monk, heard him, and being converted to evangelical doctrine, quitted
the convent two years after. At a later period, he became professor of theology
at Wittemberg. The duke gave Luther the money necessary for his journey. From
Weimar the Reformer proceeded to Erfurt. It was the town of his youth, and he
hoped to see his friend Lange, provided, as he had written him, he could enter
the town without danger. He was still three or four leagues off, near the
village of Nora, when he saw a troop of horsemen appear in the distance. Were
they friends, or were they enemies? Shortly Crotus, the rector of the
university, Eobanus Hesse, Melancthon’s friend, whom Luther called the king of
poets, Euricius Cordus, John Draco, and others, to the number of forty, members
of the senate, the university, and the municipality, all on horseback, saluted
him with acclamation. A multitude of the inhabitants of Erfurt covered the road,
and gave loud expression to their joy. All were eager to see the mighty man who
had ventured to declare war against the pope. A young man of twenty-eight, named
Justus Jonas, had got the start of the party. Jonas, after studying law at
Erfurt, had been appointed rector of the university in 1519. Illumined by the
evangelical light which then radiated in all directions, he felt desirous to
become a theologian. “I believe,” wrote Erasmus to him, “that God has elected
you as an instrument to spread the glory of his Son Jesus.” All Jonas’ thoughts
were turned to Wittemberg and Luther. Some years before, when only a student of
law, being of an active enterprising spirit, he had set out on foot, accompanied
by some friends, and in order to reach Erasmus, then at Brussels, had traversed
forests infested by robbers, and towns ravaged by the plague. Will he not now
confront other dangers in order to accompany the Reformer to Worms? He earnestly
begged the favour, and Luther consented. Thus met these two doctors, who were to
labour through life in the renovation of the Church. Divine Providence gathered
around Luther men destined to be the light of Germany: the Melancthons, the
Amsdorffs, the Bugenhagens, the Jonases. On his return from Worms, Jonas was
appointed provost of the Church of Wittemberg, and doctor in theology. “Jonas,”
said Luther, “is a man whose life would deserve to be purchased at a large
price, in order to detain him on the earth.”2 No preacher ever surpassed him in
the gift of captivating his hearers. “Pomeranus is an expositor,” said
Melancthon, “and I am a dialectitian,—Jonas is an orator. The words flow from
his lips with surpassing grace, and his eloquence is overpowering. But Luther is
beyond us all.” It seems that nearly about the same time a companion of Luther’s
childhood, one of his brothers, joined the escort. The deputation turned their
steeds, and horsemen and footmen, surrounding Luther’s carriage, entered the
town of Erfurt. At the gate, in the squares and streets, where the poor monk had
so often begged his bread, the crowd of spectators was immense. Luther
dismounted at the Augustin convent, where the gospel had consoled his heart.
Lange received him with joy; Usingen, and some of the more aged fathers, showed
great coolness. There was a general desire to hear him preach, and though he was
interdicted from doing it, the herald himself could not resist the desire, and
consented.

Sunday after Easter, the Augustin church at Erfurt was crowded. That friar who
formerly opened the doors and swept the church, mounted the pulpit, and having
opened the Bible, read these words: “Peace be with you; and when he had so said,
he showed them his hands and his side.” (John, 20:19, 20.) “All the
philosophers, doctors, and writers,” said he, “have exerted themselves to show
how man may obtain eternal life, and have not succeeded. I will now tell you.”
This has, in all ages, been the great question; accordingly Luther’s hearers
redoubled their attention.

“There are two kinds of works,” continued the Reformer; “works foreign to
ourselves—these are good works; and our own works—these are of little value. One
builds a church; another goes on a pilgrimage to St. James or St. Peter; a third
fasts, prays, takes the cowl, walks barefoot; a fourth does something else. All
these works are nothing, and will perish: for our own works have no efficacy in
them. But I am now going to tell you what is the genuine work. God raised a man
again from the dead, even the Lord Jesus Christ, that he might crush death,
destroy sin, and shut the gates of hell. Such is the work of salvation. The
devil thought that he had the Lord in his power when he saw him between the two
thieves, suffering the most ignominious martyrdom, accursed of God and men … But
the Divinity displayed its power, and annihilated sin, death, and hell …

“Christ has vanquished; this is the grand news; and we are saved by his work,
not by our own. The pope gives a very different account. But I maintain that the
holy Mother of God herself was saved neither by her virginity nor maternity,
neither by her purity nor her works, but solely by means of faith and by the
works of God …”

While Luther was speaking, a sudden noise was heard; one of the galleries gave a
crack, and seemed as if it were going to give way under the pressure of the
crowd. Some rushed out, and others sat still, terror-struck. The orator stopped
for a moment, and then, stretching out his hand, exclaimed, with a loud voice,
“Fear nothing; there is no danger; the devil is seeking, in this way, to prevent
me from proclaiming the gospel, but he shall not succeed.” At these words, those
who were running out, stopped astonished and rivetted to the spot; the assembly
calmed, and Luther, without troubling himself with the attempts of the devil,
continued. “You will perhaps say to me, You tell us a great deal about faith.
Tell us, also, how we can obtain it. Yes; well, I will tell you. Our Lord Jesus
Christ says, ‘Peace be with you; behold my hands:’ in other words, ‘Behold, O
man, it is I, I alone who have taken away thy sin, and ransomed thee, and now
thou hast peace, saith the Lord.’

“I did not cat the fruit of the tree,” resumed Luther; “neither did you eat it;
but we received the sin which Adam has transmitted to us, and are guilty of it.
In like manner. I did not suffer on the cross, nor did you suffer on it; but
Christ suffered for us; we are justified by the work of God, and not by our
own.… ‘I am,’ saith the Lord, ‘thy righteousness and thy redemption.’ … “Let us
believe the gospel, let us believe St. Paul, and not the letters and decretals
of the popes.”

Luther, after having preached faith as the mean of the sinner’s justification,
preaches works as the consequence and evidence of salvation.

“Since God has saved us,” continues he, “let us so order our works that he may
take pleasure in them. Art thou rich,—let thy wealth be useful to the poor. Art
thou poor.—let thy service be useful to the rich. If thy toil is useful only to
thyself, the service which thou pretendest to render to God is mere falsehood.”

There is not a word in the sermon on Luther himself; no allusion to the
circumstances in which he is placed; nothing on Worms, on Charles, or the
nuncios; he preaches Christ, and Christ only; at this moment, when the world has
its eyes upon him, he is not in the least occupied with himself; and herein is
the mark of a genuine servant of God.

Luther set out from Erfurt, and passed through Gotha, where he again preached.
Myconius adds, that at the moment when the people were coming out from the
sermon the devil detached from the pediment of the church some stones which had
not budged for two centuries. The doctor slept in the convent of the
Benedictines, at Rheinhardsbrunn, and thence proceeded to Eisenach, where he
felt indisposed. Amsdorff, Jonas, Schurff, and all his friends, were alarmed. He
was bled, and the greatest possible attention was paid him. Even the Schulthess
of the town, John Oswald, hastened to him with a cordial. Luther, after drinking
it, fell asleep, and was thereby so far recovered that he was able to proceed on
the following day.

Wherever he passed the people flocked to see him. His journey was a kind of
triumphal procession. Deep interest was felt in beholding the intrepid man who
was on the way to offer his head to the emperor and the empire. An immense
concourse surrounded him. “Ah!” said some of them to him, “there are so many
cardinals and so many bishops at Worms, they will burn you; they will reduce
your body to ashes, as was done with that of John Huss.” But nothing terrified
the monk. “Were they to make a fire,” said he, “that would extend from Worms to
Wittemberg, and reach even to the sky, I would walk across it in the name of the
Lord; I would appear before them; I would walk into the jaws of this Behemoth,
and break his teeth, and confess the Lord Jesus Christ.”

One day, when just going into an inn, and while the crowd were as usual pressing
around him, an officer came up to him and said, “Are you the man who undertakes
to reform the papacy? How will you succeed?” “Yes,” replied Luther, “I am the
man. I confide in Almighty God, whose word and command I have before me.” The
officer, affected, gave him a milder look, and said, “Dear friend, there is
something in what you say; I am the servant of Charles, but your Master is
greater than mine. He will aid you and guard you.” Such was the impression which
Luther produced. Even his enemies were struck at the sight of the multitudes
that thronged around him, though they have painted the journey in different
colours.3 At length the doctor arrived at Frankfort, on Sunday, 14th April.

News of Luther’s advance had reached Worms. The friends of the pope had thought
he would not obey the summons of the emperor. Albert, cardinal-archbishop of
Mentz, would have given anything to stop him by the way, and new schemes were
set on foot for this purpose.

Luther, on his arrival at Frankfort, took some repose, and then announced his
approach to Spalatin, who was at Worms with the Elector. It is the only letter
which he wrote during his journey. “I am getting on,” says he, “though Satan has
striven to stop me on the way by sickness. From Eisenach to this I have never
been without a feeling of languor, and am still completely worn out. I learn
that Charles has published an edict to frighten me. But Christ lives, and we
shall enter Worms in spite of all the barriers of hell and all the powers of the
air. Therefore, make ready my lodging.” The next day Luther visited the learned
school of William Nesse, a celebrated geographer of that time. “Be diligent,”
said he to the scholars, “in the reading of the Scriptures, and the
investigation of truth.” Then placing his right hand on the head of one of the
children, and his left on another, he pronounced a blesing on the whole school.

While Luther blessed the young, he was also the hope of the old. Catharine of
Holzhausen, a widow advanced in years, and serving God, went to him, and said,
“My father and mother told me that God would raise up a man who should oppose
the papal vanities, and save the Word of God. I hope you are that man, and I
wish you, for your work, the grace and the Holy Spirit of God.”

These were by no means the sentiments universally entertained at Frankfort. John
Cochlœus, dean of the church of Notre Dame, was one of those most devoted to the
Roman Church. On seeing Luther pass through Frankfort on his way to Worms, he
could not suppress his fears. He thought the Church was in want of devoted
defenders, and scarcely had Luther quitted the town than Cochlœus set out in his
track, ready, as he says, to give his life in defence of the honour of the
Church.

There was great alarm in the camp of the pope’s friends. The heresiarch was at
hand—every day, every hour brought him nearer Worms. If he entered, all was
perhaps lost. The Archbishop Albert, the confessor Glapio, and all the
politicians about the emperor, felt uneasy. How can the arrival of this monk be
prevented? It is impossible to carry him off, for he has the emperor’s
safe-conduct. Stratagem alone can arrest him. These intriguers immediately
arranged the following plan. The emperor’s confessor, and his high chamberlain,
Paul of Armsdorff, quit Worms in great haste, and proceed about ten leagues
distant, to the castle of Ebernburg, the residence of Francis de Seckingen, the
knight who had offered Luther an asylum. Bucer, a young dominican, chaplain to
the Elector-Palatine, and who had been gained to the evangelical doctrne at the
Heidelberg discussion, had then taken refuge in “this hôtel of the just.” The
knight, who had no great knowledge of the affairs of religion, was easily
imposed upon, while the disposition of the Palatine chaplain favoured the
designs of the confessor. In fact, Bucer was inclined to pacific measures.
Distinguishing between fundamental and secondary points, he thought he might
sacrifice the latter to unity and peace. The chamberlain and confessor begin
their attack. They give Seckingen and Bucer to understand that it is all over
with Luther if he goes to Worms. They assure him that the emperor is ready to
send certain learned men to Ebernburg there to confer with the doctor. “Under
your charge,” say they to the knight, “the two parties will be placed.” “We are
at one with Luther on all essential points,” say they to Bucer: “only some
secondary points remain; and as to these you will be mediator.” The knight and
the chaplain are shaken. The confessor and chamberlain continue. “The invitation
addressed to Luther must come from you,” say they to Seckingen, “and let Bucer
be the bearer of it.” Every thing was arranged according to their wish. Let
Luther only be credulous enough to come to Ebernburg; his safe-conduct will soon
expire, and then who will be able to defend him?

Luther had arrived at Oppenheim. His safe-conduct was available only for three
days longer. He sees a troop of horsemen approaching, and soon recognises at
their head the Bucer with whom he had such intimate conference at Heidelberg.
“These horsemen belong to Francis of Seckingen,” said Bucer to him after the
first expressions of friendship. “He sends me to you to conduct you to his
strong castle.4 The emperor’s confessor is desirous of a conference with you.
His influence over Charles is unbounded: every thing may be arranged. But beware
of Aleander!” Jonas Amsdorff and Schurff knew not what to think; Bucer insisted;
but Luther hesitated not. “I continue my journey,” was his answer to Bucer; “and
if the emperor’s confessor has any thing to say to me, he will find me at Worms.
I go where I am called.”

Meanwhile Spalatin himself began to be troubled and afraid. Surrounded at Worms
by the enemies of the Reformation, he heard them saying that no respect should
be paid to the safe-conduct of a heretic. He became alarmed for his friend; and
at the moment when the latter was approaching the town a messenger presented
himself and said to him on the part of the chaplain, “Don’t enter Worms!” This
from his best friend, the Elector’s confidant, Spalatin himself! Luther unmoved,
turns his eye on the messenger, and replies, “Go and tell your master, that were
there as many devils in Worms as there are tiles upon the roofs, I would enter.”
Never, perhaps, was Luther so grand. The envoy returned to Worms with his
extraordinary message. “I was then intrepid,” said Luther a few days before his
death, “I feared nothing; God can give man such boldness; I know not if at
present I would have as much liberty and joy.”—“When the cause is good,” adds
his disciple Mathesius, “the heart expands, giving courage and energy to
evangelists and soldiers.”2


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  CHAPTER 78: CHAPTER VIII
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Entry into Worms—Chant for the Dead—Council held by Charles V—Capito and the
Temporisers—Coneourse around Luther—Citation—Hütten to Luther—Proceeds to the
Diet—Saying of Freundsberg—Imposing Assembly—The Chancellor’s Address—Luther’s
Reply—His Wisdom—Saying of Charles V—Alarm—Triumph—Luther’s Firmness—Insults
from the Spaniards—Council—Luther’s Trouble and Prayer—Might of the
Reformation—Luther’s Oath to Scripture—The Court of the Diet—Luther’s
Address—Three kinds of Writings—He demands Proof of his Error—Solemn Warnings—He
repeats his Address in Latin—Here I am: I can’t do otherwise—The “weakness” of
God—New Attempt. At length, on the morning of the 16th April, Luther perceived
the walls of the ancient city. All were looking for him, and there was only one
thought in Worms. The young noblemen, Bernard of Hirschfeld and Albert of
Lindenau, with six cavaliers, and other gentlemen in the suite of the princes,
to the number of a hundred, if we may believe Pallavicini, unable to restrain
their impatience, galloped to meet him, and surrounded him in order to escort
him at the moment of his entry. He approached. Before him pranced the imperial
herald decked in all the insignia of his office. Next came Luther in his humble
carriage. Jonas followed on horseback surrounded by the cavaliers. A large crowd
was waiting in front of the gates. It was near mid-day when he passed those
walls which so many persons had foretold him he should never leave. It was the
dinner hour, but the moment when the sentinel stationed in the cathedral steeple
tolled the signal, every body ran into the street to see the monk. Thus was
Luther in Worms.

Two thousand persons accompanied him through the streets: there was a rush to
meet him. The crowd was increasing every moment, and was much larger than when
the emperor made his entry. Suddenly, relates a historian, a man clad in a
singular dress, and carrying a large cross before him, as is usual at funerals,
breaks off from the crowd, advances towards Luther, and then, in a loud voice,
and with the plaintive cadence which is used in saying mass for the repose of
the souls of the dead, chants the following stanzas as if he had been determined
that the very dead should hear them:— Advenisti, O desiderabilis!

Quem expectabamus in tenebris!

Luther’s arrival is celebrated by a Requiem. If the story is true, it was the
court fool of one of the dukes of Bavaria who gave Luther one of those warnings
remarkable at once for wisdom and irony, of which so many instances are
furnished by these individuals. But the clamour of the multitude soon drowned
the De Profundis of the cross-bearer. The train could scarcely proceed through
the moving mass. At length the imperial herald stopped before the hotel of the
Knights of Rhodes. Here lodged two of the Elector’s counsellors, Frederic of
Thun and Philip of Feilitsch, as well as the marshal of the empire, Ulric of
Pappenheim. Luther got out of his carriage, and, on alighting, said, “The Lord
will be my defence.” … “I entered Worms,” said he afterwards, “in a covered car
in my frock. Everybody ran into the street to see friar Martin.” The news of his
arrival filled the Elector of Saxony and Aleander with alarm. The young and
elegant Archbishop Albert, who held a mean between those two parties, was amazed
at Luther’s boldness. “Had I not had more courage than he,” said Luther, “it is
true I never should have been seen in Worms.”

Charles V immediately assembled his council. The counsellors in the emperor’s
confidence repaired in haste to the palace for they too were in dismay. “Luther
is arrived,” said Charles, “what must be done?”

Modo, bishop of Palermo and chancellor of Flanders, if we are to receive
Luther’s own statement, replied, “We have long consulted on this subject. Let
your imperial Majesty speedily get rid of this man. Did not Sigismond cause John
Huss to be burnt? There is no obligation either to give or observe a
safe-conduct to a heretic.” “No,” said Charles: “what has been promised must be
performed.” There was nothing for it, therefore, but to make the Reformer
appear.

While the councils of the great were thus agitated on the subject of Luther,
there were many men in Worms who rejoiced that they were able at length to
behold this illustrious servant of God. In the first rank among them was Capito,
chaplain and counsellor to the Archbishop of Mentz. This remarkable man, who a
short time before had preached the gospel in Switzerland with great freedom,
thought it due to the place which he then occupied to pursue a course which
exposed him to a charge of cowardice from the Evangelists, and of dissimulation
from the Romans.2 He had, however, preached the doctrine of faith clearly at
Mentz, and on his departure had succeeded in supplying his place by a young
preacher full of zeal, named Hedio. In this town, the ancient see of the primate
of the German Church, the word of God was not bound. The gospel was eagerly
listened to: in vain did the monks strive to preach the gospel after their own
way, and employ all the means in their power in order to arrest the general
impulse; they had no success. But Capito, even while he preached the new
doctrine, laboured to continue in friendship with those who persecuted it. He
flattered himself, with others of the same sentiments, that he would thus be of
great utility to the Church. To hear them talk it might have been supposed that,
if Luther was not burnt, if all the Lutherans were not excommunicated, it was
owing entirely to Capito’s influence over the Archbishop Albert.4 Cochlœus, dean
of Frankfort, arriving at Worms almost at the same time witli Luther,
immediately waited upon Capito, who being, apparently at least, on very good
terms with Aleander, introduced Cochlœus to him, thus serving as a connecting
link between the two greatest enemies of the Reformer. Capito doubtless thought
that he would do great service to the cause of Christ by all this management;
but it cannot be said that any good resulted from it. The event almost always
belies these calculations of human wisdom, and proves that a decided course,
while it is the most frank, is also the most wise.

Meanwhile the crowd continued around the hotel of Rhodes at which Luther had
alighted. Some looked upon him as a prodigy of wisdom, and others as a monster
of iniquity. The whole town wished to see him. The first hours were left him to
recover from his fatigue, and converse with his most intimate friends; but as
soon as evening came, counts, barons, knights, gentlemen, ecclesiastics, and
citizens flocked in upon him. All, even his greatest enemies, were struck with
the bold step he had taken, the joy which appeared to animate him, the power of
his eloquence, and the lofty elevation and enthusiasm which made the influence
of this simple monk almost irresistible. Many attributed this grandeur to
something within him partaking of the divine, while the friends of the pope
loudly declared that he was possessed with a devil. Call followed call, and the
crowd of curious visitors kept Luther standing to a late period of the night.
The next morning, (Friday, 17th April,) Ulric of Pappenheim, hereditary marshal
of the empire, summoned him to appear at four oʹclock, p. m., in presence of his
imperial Majesty and the States of the empire. Luther received the summons with
profound respect.

Thus every thing is fixed, and Luther is going to appear for Jesus Christ before
the most august assembly in the world. He was not without encouragement. The
ardent knight, Ulric von Hütten, was then in the castle of Ebemburg. Not being
able to appear at Worms, (for Leo X had asked Charles to send him to Rome bound
hand and foot,) he desired to stretch out a friendly hand to Luther, and on the
same day (17th April) wrote to him, borrowing the words of a king of Israel:
“The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble: the name of the God of Jacob defend
thee: send thee help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out of Zion:
remember all thy offerings, and accept thy burnt sacrifice.” O dearly beloved
Luther! my respected father, fear not and be strong. The counsel of the wicked
has beset you, they have opened their mouths upon you like roaring lions. But
the Lord will rise up against the wicked and scatter them. Fight then valiantly
for Christ. As for me I also will fight boldly. Would to God I were permitted to
see the wrinkling of their brows. But the Lord will cleanse his vine which the
wild boar of the forest has laid waste … May Christ preserve you!”3 Bucer did
what Hütten was unable to do: he came from Ebernburg to Worms, and remained the
whole time beside his friend.

Four oʹclock having struck, the marshal of the empire presented himself. It was
necessary to set out, and Luther made ready. He was moved at the thought of the
august congress before which he was going to appear. The herald walked first,
after him the marshal, and last the Reformer. The multitude thronging the
streets was still more numerous than on the previous evening. It was impossible
to get on; it was in vain to cry, Give place: the crowd increased. At length,
the herald seeing the impossibility of reaching the town hall caused some
private houses to be opened, and conducted Luther through gardens and secret
passages to the place of meeting. The people perceiving this rushed into the
houses on the steps of the monk of Wittemberg, or placed themselves at the
windows which looked into the gardens, while great numbers of persons got up on
the roofs. The tops of the houses, the pavement, every place above and below was
covered with spectators.2

Arrived at length at the town, Luther and those who all accompanied him were
again unable, because of the crowd, to reach the door. Give way! give way! Not
one stirred. At last the imperial soldiers forced a passage for Luther. The
people rushed forward to get in after him, but the soldiers kept them back with
their halberds. Luther got into the interior of the building, which was
completely filled with people. As well in the antechambers as at the windows
there were more than five thousand spectators—German, Italian, Spanish, etc.
Luther advanced with difficulty. As he was at length approaching the door, which
was to bring him in presence of his judges, he met a valiant knight, the
celebrated general, George of Freundsberg, who, four years afterwards, at the
head of the German lansquenets couched his lance on the field of Pavia, and
bearing down upon the left wing of the French army, drove it into the Tessino,
and in a great measure decided the captivity of the king of France. The old
general, seeing Luther pass, clapped him on the shoulder, and shaking his head,
whitened in battle, kindly said to him, “Poor monk, poor monk, you have before
you a march, and an affair, the like to which neither I nor a great many
captains have ever seen in the bloodiest of our battles. But if your cause is
just, and you have full confidence in it, advance in the name of God and fear
nothing. God will not forsake you.” A beautiful homage borne by warlike courage
to courage of intellect. It is the saying of a king, 4 “He that ruleth his
spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.” At length the doors of the hall
being opened, Luther entered, and many persons not belonging to the Diet made
their way in along with him. Never had man appeared before an assembly so
august. The emperor Charles V, whose dominions embraced the old and the new
world; his brother, the Archduke Ferdinand; six electors of the empire, whose
descendants are now almost all wearing the crown of kings; twenty-four dukes,
the greater part of them reigning over territories of greater or less extent,
and among whom are some bearing a name which will afterwards become formidable
to the Reformation (the Duke of Alva, and his two sons); eight margraves; thirty
archbishops, bishops, or prelates; seven ambassadors, among them those of the
kings of France and England; the deputies of ten free towns; a great number of
princes, counts, and sovereign barons; the nuncios of the pope; in all, two
hundred and four personages. Such was the court before which Martin Luther
appeared. This appearance was in itself a signal victory gained over the papacy.
The pope had condemned the man; yet here he stood before a tribunal which thus
far placed itself above the pope. The pope had put him under his ban, debarring
him from all human society, and yet here he was convened in honourable terms,
and admitted before the most august assembly in the world. The pope had ordered
that his mouth should be for ever mute, and he was going to open it before an
audience of thousands, assembled from the remotest quarters of Christendom. An
immense revolution had thus been accomplished by the instrumentality of Luther.
Rome was descending from her throne, descending at the bidding of a monk.

Some of the princes seeing the humble son of the miner of Mansfeld disconcerted
in presence of the assembly of kings, kindly approached him; and one of them
said, “Fear not them who can kill the body, but cannot kill the soul.” Another
added, “When you will be brought before kings it is not you that speak but the
Spirit of your Father that speaketh in you.” Thus, the Reformer was consoled in
the very words of his Master, by the instrumentality of the rulers of the world.

During this time, the guards were making way for Luther, who advanced till he
came in front of the throne of Charles V. The sight of the august assembly
seemed for a moment to dazzle and overawe him. All eyes were fixed upon him. The
agitation gradually calmed down into perfect silence. “Don’t speak before you
are asked,” said the marshal of the empire to him and withdrew.

After a moment of solemn stillness, John of Eck, the chancellor of the
Archbishop of Treves, a friend of Aleander, and who must not be confounded with
the theologian of the same name, rose up and said, in a distinct and audible
voice, first in Latin and then in German, “Martin Luther, his sacred and
invincible imperial Majesty has cited you before his throne, by the advice and
counsel of the States of the holy Roman empire, in order to call upon you to
answer these two questions: First, Do you admit that these books were composed
by you?”—At the same time the imperial orator pointed to about twenty books
lying on the table in the middle of the hall in front of Luther—“I did not
exactly know how they had procured them,” says Luther, in relating the
circumstance. It was Aleander who had taken the trouble. “Secondly,” continued
the chancellor, “do you mean to retract these books and their contents, or do
you persist in the things which you have advanced in them?”

Luther, without hesitation, was going to reply in the affirmative to the former
question, when his counsel, Jerôme Schurff, hastily interfering, called out,
“Read the titles of the books.” The chancellor going up to the table read the
titles. The list contained several devotional works not relating to controversy.

After the enumeration, Luther said, first in Latin, and then in, German.

“Most gracious Emperor! Gracious Princes and Lords!

“His imperial Majesty asks me two questions.

“As to the first, I acknowledge that the books which have been named are mine: I
cannot deny them.

‘As to the second, considering that is a question which concerns faith and the
salvation of souls, a question in which the Word of God is interested, in other
words, the greatest and most precious treasure either in heaven or on the earth,
I should act imprudently were I to answer without reflection. I might say less
than the occasion requires, or more than the truth demands, and thus incur the
guilt which our Saviour denounced when he said, ‘Whoso shall deny me before men,
him will I deny before my Father who is in Heaven.’ Wherefore, I pray your
imperial Majesty, with all submission, to give me time that I may answer without
offence to the Word of God.” This reply, far from countenancing the idea that
there was any hesitation in Luther, was worthy of the Reformer and the assembly.
It became him to show calmness and circumspection in so grave a matter, and to
refrain on this solemn moment from every thing that might seem to indicate
passion or levity. Moreover, by taking a suitable time, he would thereby the
better prove the immovable firmness of his resolution. History shows us many men
who, by a word uttered too hastily, brought great calamities on themselves, and
on the world. Luther curbs his naturally impetuous character; restrains a tongue
always ready to give utterance; is silent when all the feelings of his heart are
longing to embody themselves in words. This self restraint, this calmness, so
extraordinary in such a man, increased his power a hundred-fold, and put him
into a position to answer afterwards with a wisdom, power, and dignity which
will disappoint the expectation of his enemies, and confound their pride and
malice.

Nevertheless, as he had spoken in a respectful and somewhat subdued tone,
several thought he was hesitating and even afraid. A ray of hope gleamed into
the souls of the partizans of Rome. Charles, impatient to know the man whose
words shook the empire, had never taken his eye off him. Now turning towards one
of his courtiers, he said with disdain, “Assuredly that is not the man who would
ever make me turn heretic.” Then rising up, the young emperor withdrew with his
ministers to the council chamber: the electors with the princes were closeted in
another, and the deputies of the free towns in a third. The Diet when it again
met, agreed to grant Luther’s request. It was a great mistake in men under the
influence of passion. “Martin Luther,” said the chancellor of Trèves, “his
imperial Majesty, in accordance with the goodness which is natural to him, is
pleased to grant you another day, but on condition that you give your reply
verbally and not in writing.”

Then the imperial herald advanced and reconducted Luther to his hôtel. Menaces
and cheers succeeded each other as he passed along. The most unfavourable
reports were circulated among Luther’s friends. “The Diet is dissatisfied,” said
they, “the envoys of the pope triumph, the Reformer will be sacrificed.” Men’s
passions grew hot. Several gentlemen hastened to Luther’s lodgings. “Doctor,”
asked they in deep emotion, “how does the matter stand? It is confidently said
that they mean to burn you.” “That won’t be,” continued they, or they shall pay
for it with their lives.”—“And that would have been the result,” said Luther,
twenty years later at Eisleben, when quoting these expressions. On the other
hand, Luther’s enemies were quite elated. “He has asked time,” said they, “he
will retract. When at a distance he spoke arrogantly, but now his courage fails
him … He is vanquished.”

Luther, perhaps, was the only tranquil person in Worms. A few moments after his
return from the Diet, he wrote to the imperial counsellor Cuspianus. “I write
you from the midst of tumult, (meaning, probably, the noise of the crowd outside
his hotel;) I have, within this hour, appeared before the emperor and his
brother. I have acknowledged the authorship, and declared that to-morrow I will
give my answer concerning retractation. By the help of Jesus Christ, not one
iota of all my works will I retract.”2 The excitement of the people and of the
foreign troops increased every hour. While parties were proceeding calmly to the
business of the Diet, others were coming to blows in the streets. The Spanish
soldiers, proud and merciless, gave offence by their insolence to the burghers
of the town. One of these satellites of Charles, finding in a bookseller’s shop
the papal bull, with a commentary on it by Hütten, took and tore it to pieces,
and then trampled the fragments under his feet. Others, having discovered
several copies of Luther’s ‘Captivity of Babylon,’ carried them off and tore
them. The people, indignant, rushed upon the soldiers, and obliged them to take
flight. On another occasion, a Spanish horseman, with drawn sword, was seen in
one of the principal streets of Worms in pursuit of a German who was fleeing
before him, while the people durst not interfere.

Some politicians thought they had discovered a method of saving Luther. “Recant
your errors in doctrine,” said they to him; “but persist in all you have said
against the pope and his court, and you are safe.” Aleander shuddered at this
advice. But Luther, immovable in his purpose, declared that he set little value
on a political reform, if not founded on faith. The 18th of April having
arrived, Glapio, the Chancellor Eck, and Aleander, met at an early hour, by
order of Charles V, to fix the course of procedure in regard to Luther.

Luther had been for a moment overawed on the evening before when he had to
appear before so august an assembly. His heart had been agitated at the sight of
so many princes before whom great kingdoms humbly bent the knee. The thought
that he was going to refuse obedience to men whom God had invested with
sovereign power gave him deep concern; and he felt the necessity of seeking
strength from a higher source. “He who, attacked by the enemy, holds the shield
of faith,” said he one day, “is like Perseus holding the head of the Gorgon, on
which whoever looked, that moment died. So ought we to hold up the Son of God
against the snares of the devil. On this morning of the 18th April, he had
moments of trouble, when the face of God was hid from him. His faith becomes
faint; his enemies seem to multiply before him; his imagination is overpowered …
His soul is like a ship tossed by a violent tempest, now plunged to the depths
of the sea, and again mounting up towards heaven. At this hour of bitter sorrow,
when he drinks the cup of Christ, and feels as it were in a garden of
Gethsemane, he turns his face to the ground, and sends forth broken cries, cries
which we cannot comprehend, unless we figure to ourselves the depth of the agony
from which they ascended up to God. “God Almighty! God Eternal! how terrible is
the world! how it opens its mouth to swallow me up! and how defective my
confidence in thee! How weak the flesh, how powerful Satan! If I must put my
hope in that which the world calls powerful, I am undone!… The knell is struck,

2 and judgment is pronounced!… O God! O God! O thou, my God! assist me against
all the wisdom of the world! Do it: Thou must do it … Thou alone … for it is not
my work, but Thine. I have nothing to do here; I have nothing to do contending
thus with the mighty of the world! I, too, would like to spend tranquil and
happy days. But the cause is Thine: and it is just and everlasting! O Lord! be
my help! Faithful God, immutable God! I trust not in any man. That were vain.
All that is of man vacillates! All that comes of man gives way. O God, O God,
dost thou not hear?… My God! art thou dead?… No, thou canst not die! Thou only
hidest Thyself. Thou hast chosen me for this work. I know it! Act, then, O God!…
Stand by my side, for the sake of thy well beloved Son Jesus Christ, who is my
defence, my buckler, and my fortress.”

After a moment of silence and wrestling, he continues thus: “Lord, where
standest thou?… O, my God, where art thou?… Come! come! I am ready!… I am ready
to give up my life for thy truth … patient as a lamb. For the cause is just, and
it is thine!… I will not break off from thee either now or through eternity!…
And though the world should be filled with devils, though my body, which however
is the work of thy hands, should bite the dust, be racked on the wheel, cut in
pieces … ground to powder … my soul is thine. Yes, thy Word is my pledge. My
soul belongs to thee, and will be eternally near thee … Amen … O God, help me …
Amen.” This prayer explains Luther and the Reformation. History here lifts the
veil of the sanctuary, and shows us the secret place whence strength and courage
were imparted to this humble man, who was the instrument of God in emancipating
the soul and the thoughts of men, and beginning a new era. Luther and the
Reformation are here seen in actual operation. We perceive their most secret
springs. We discover where their power lay. This meditation by one who is
sacrificing himself to the cause of truth, is found among the collection of
pieces relating to Luther’s appearance at Worms, under number XVI, among
safe-conducts, and other documents of a similar description. Some of his friends
doubtless extended it, and so have preserved it to us. In my opinion, it is one
of the finest documents on record.

Luther, after he had thus prayed, found that peace of mind without which no man
can do anything great. He read the Word of God; he glanced over his writings,
and endeavoured to put his reply into proper shape. The thought that he was
going to bear testimony to Jesus Christ and his Word, in presence of the emperor
and the empire, filled his heart with joy. The moment of appearance was drawing
near; he went up with emotion to the sacred volume, which was lying open on his
table, put his left hand upon it, and lifting his right toward heaven, swore to
remain faithful to the gospel, and to confess his faith freely, should he even
seal his confession with his blood. After doing so, he felt still more at peace.
At four oʹclock the herald presented himself and conducted him to the place
where the Diet sat. The general curiosity had increased, for the reply behoved
to be decisive. The Diet being engaged, Luther was obliged to wait in the court
in the middle of an immense crowd, who moved to and fro like a troubled sea, and
pressed the Reformer with its waves. The doctor spent two long hours amid this
gazing multitude. “I was not used,” says he, “to all these doings and all this
noise.” It would have been a sad preparation for an ordinary man. But Luther was
with God. His eye was serene, his features unruffled; the Eternal had placed him
upon a rock. Night began to fall, and the lamps were lighted in the hall of the
Diet. Their glare passed through the ancient windows and shone into the court.
Every thing assumed a solemn aspect. At last the doctor was introduced. Many
persons entered with him, for there was an eager desire to hear his answer. All
minds were on the stretch waiting impatiently for the decisive moment which now
approached. This time Luther was free, calm, self-possessed, and showed not the
least appearance of being under constraint. Prayer had produced its fruits. The
princes having taken their scats, not without difficulty, for their places were
almost invaded, and the monk of Wittemberg again standing in front of Charles V,
the chancellor of the Elector of Trêves rose up, and said:—

“Martin Luther! you yesterday asked a delay, which is now expired. Assuredly it
might have been denied you, since every one ought to be sufficiently instructed
in matters of faith to be able always to render an account of it to whosoever
asks,—you above all, so great and able a doctor of Holy Scripture.… Now, then,
reply to the question of his Majesty, who has treated you with so much mildness,
Do you mean to defend your books out and out, or do you mean to retract some
part of them?”

These words, which the chancellor had spoken in Latin, he repeated in German.

“Then doctor Martin Luther,” say the Acts of Worms, “replied in the most humble
and submissive manner. He did not raise his voice; he spoke not with violence,
but with candour, meekness, suitableness, and modesty, and yet with great joy
and Christian firmness.”

“Most serene Emperor! illustrious princes, gracious lords,” said Luther, turning
his eyes on Charles and the assembly, “I this day appear humbly before you,
according to the order which was given me yesterday, and by the mercies of God I
implore your Majesty and august Highnesses to listen kindly to the defence of a
cause which I am assured is righteous and true. If from ignorance I am wanting
in the usages and forms of courts, pardon me; for I was not brought up in the
palaces of kings, but in the obscurity of a cloister.

“Yesterday two questions were asked me on the part of his imperial Majesty: the
first, if I was the author of the books whose titles were read; the second, if I
was willing to recal or to defend the doctrine which I have taught in them. I
answered the first question, and I adhere to my answer.

“As to the second, I have composed books on very different subjects. In some I
treat of faith and good works in a manner so pure, simple, and christian, that
my enemies even, far from finding any thing to censure, confess that these
writings are useful, and worthy of being read by the godly. The papal bull, how
severe soever it may be, acknowledges this. Were I then to retract these what
should I do?… Wretch! I should be alone among men abandoning truths which the
unanimous voice of my friends and enemies approves, and opposing what the whole
world glories in confessing.

“In the second place, I have composed books against the papacy, books in which I
have attacked those who, by their false doctrine, their bad life, and scandalous
example, desolate the Christian world, and destroy both body and soul. Is not
the fact proved by the complaints of all who fear God? Is it not evident that
the human laws and doctrines of the popes entangle, torture, martyr the
consciences of the faithful, while the clamant and never-ending extortions of
Rome engulph the wealth and riches of Christendom, and particularly of this
illustrious kingdom?

“Were I to retract what I have written on this subject what should I do?… What
but fortify that tyranny, and open a still wider door for these many and great
iniquities? Then, breaking forth with more fury than ever, these arrogant men
would be seen increasing, usurping, raging more and more. And the yoke which
weighs upon the Christian people would by my retractation not ony be rendered
more severe, but would become, so to speak, more legitimate; for by this very
retractation it would have received the confirmation of your most serene Majesty
and of all the States of the holy empire. Good God! I should thus be as it were
an infamous cloak destined to hide and cover all sorts of malice and tyranny.

“Thirdly and lastly, I have written books against private individuals who wished
to defend Roman tyranny and to destroy the faith. I confess frankly that I have
perhaps attacked them with more violence than became my ecclesiastical
profession. I do not regard myself as a saint; but no more can I retract these
books: because, by so doing, I should sanction the impiety of my opponents, and
give them occasion to oppress the people of God with still greater cruelty.

“Still I am a mere man and not God; and I will defend myself as Jesus Christ
did. He said, ‘If I have spoken evil, bear witness of the evil.’ (John, 18:23.)
How much more should I, who am but dust and ashes and so apt to err, desire
every one to state what he can against my doctrine?

“Wherefore, I implore you, by the mercies of God, you, most serene Emperor, and
you, most illustrious princes, and all others of high or low degree, to prove to
me by the writings of the prophets and the apostles that I am mistaken. As soon
as this shall have been proved, I will forthwith retract all my errors, and be
the first to seize my writings and cast them into the flames.

“What I have just said shows clearly, I think, that I have well considered and
weighed the dangers to which I expose myself; but, far from being alarmed, it
gives me great joy to see that the gospel is now, as in former times, a cause of
trouble and discord. This is the characteristic and the destiny of the Word of
God. ‘I came not to send peace, but a sword,’ said Jesus Christ. (Matthew 10:34)
God is wonderful and terrible in working: let us beware, while pretending to put
a stop to discord, that we do not persecute the holy Word of God, and bring in
upon ourselves a frightful deluge of insurmountable dangers, present disasters,
and eternal destruction.… Let us beware that the reign of this young and noble
prince, the Emperor Charles, on whom, under God, we build such high hopes, do
not only begin, but also continue and end under the most fatal auspices. I might
cite examples taken from the oracles of God,” continues Luther, speaking in
presence of the greatest monarch in the world with the noblest courage, “I might
remind you of the Pharaohs, the kings of Babylon, and of Israel, who never
laboured more effectually for their ruin than when by counsels, apparently very
wise, they thought they were establishing their empire. ‘ God removeth the
mountains, and they know not.’ (Job 9:5)

“If I speak thus, it is not because I think such great princes have need of my
counsels, but because I wish to restore to Germany what she has a right to
expect from her children. Thus, commending myself to your august Majesty and
your serene Highnesses, I humbly supplicate you not to allow the hatred of my
enemies to bring down upon me an indignation which I have not deserved.”

Luther had spoken these words in German, modestly, but also with much warmth and
firmness. He was ordered to repeat them in Latin. The emperor had no liking for
German. The imposing assembly which surrounded the Reformer, the noise and
excitement, had fatigued him. “I was covered with perspiration,” says he,
“heated by the crowd, standing in the midst of the princes.” Frederick de Thun,
confidential counsellor of the Elector of Saxony, stationed by his master’s
order behind the Reformer, to take care that he was not taken by surprise or
overborne, seeing the condition of the poor monk, said to him, “If you cannot
repeat your address, that will do, doctor.” But Luther, having paused a moment
to take breath, resumed, and pronounced his address in Latin, with the same
vigour as at first.3 “This pleased the Elector Frederick exceedingly,” relates
the Reformer. As soon as he had ceased, the Chancellor of Trêves, the orator of
the Diet, said to him, indignantly, “You have not answered the question which
was put to you. You are not here to throw doubt on what has been decided by
Councils. You are asked to give a clear and definite reply. Will you, or will
you not retract?” Luther then replied, without hesitation, “Since your most
serene Majesty, and your high Mightinesses, call upon me for a simple, clear,
and definite answer, I will give it; and it is this: I cannot subject my faith
either to the pope or to councils, because it is clear as day that they have
often fallen into error, and even into great self-contradiction. If, then, I am
not disproved by passages of Scripture, or by clear arguments; if I am not
convinced by the very passages which I have quoted, and so bound in conscience
to submit to the word of God, I neither can nor will retract any thing, for it
is not safe for a Christian to speak against his conscience.” Then, looking
around on the assembly before which he was standing, and which held his life in
its hands, “Here I am,” says he, “I cannot do otherwise: God help me. Amen.”

Thus Luther, constrained to obey his faith, led by his conscience to death,
impelled by the noblest necessity, the slave of what he believes, but in this
slavery supremely free, like to the ship tossed by a fearful tempest, which, in
order to save something more precious than itself, is voluntarily allowed to
dash itself to pieces against a rock, pronounces these sublime words, which have
not lost then thrilling effect after the lapse of three centuries; thus speaks a
monk before the emperor and the magnates of the empire, and this poor and feeble
individual standing alone, but leaning on the grace of the Most High, seems
greater and stronger than them all. His word has a power against which all these
mighty men can do nothing. The empire and the Church, on the one side, the
obscure individual, on the other, have been confronted. God had assembled these
kings and prelates that he might publicly bring their wisdom to nought. They
have lost the battle, and the consequences of their defeat will be felt in all
nations, and during all future ages. The assembly were amazed. Several princes
could scarcely conceal their admiration. The emperor, changing his first
impression, exclaimed, “The monk speaks with an intrepid heart and immovable
courage.” The Spaniards and Italians alone felt disconcerted, and soon began to
deride a magnanimity which they could not appreciate.

After the Diet had recovered from the impression produced by the address, the
chancellor resumed: “If you do not retract, the emperor and the states of the
empire will consider what course they must adopt towards an obstinate heretic.”
At these words, Luther’s friends trembled, but the monk again said, “God help
me; for I can retract nothing.”

Luther then withdraws, and the princes deliberate. Every one felt that the
moment formed a crisis in Christendom. The yea or nay of this monk was destined,
perhaps for ages, to determine the condition of the Church and the world. It was
wished to frighten him, but the effect had been to place him on a pedestal in
presence of the nation. It was meant to give more publicity to his defeat, and
all that had been done was to extend his victory. The partisans of Rome could
not submit to bear their humiliation. Luther was recalled, and the orator thus
addressed him: “Martin, you have not spoken with the modesty which became your
office. The distinction you have made between your books was useless, for if you
retract those which contain errors, the empire will not allow the others to be
burnt. It is extravagant to insist on being refuted from Scripture, when you
revive heresies which were condemned by the universal Council of Constance. The
emperor, therefore, orders you to say simply, Do you mean to maintain what you
have advanced, or do you mean to retract any part of it—yes, or no?” I have no
other answer than that which I have already given,” replied Luther calmly. He
was now understood. Firm as a rock, all the billows of human power had dashed
against him in vain. The vigour of his eloquence, his intrepid countenance, the
flashing of his eye, the immovable firmness imprinted in bold lineaments on his
German features, had produced the deepest impression on this illustrious
assembly. There was no longer any hope. Spaniards, Belgians, and even Romans,
were mute. The monk was victorious over earthly grandeur. He had negatived the
Church and the empire. Charles rose up, and all the assembly with him. “The Diet
will meet to-morrow morning to hear the emperor’s decision,” said the
chancellor, with a loud voice.


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  CHAPTER 79: CHAPTER IX
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Victory—Tumult and calm—Duke Erick’s Glass of Beer—The Elector and
Spalatin—Message from the Emperor—Wish to violate the Safe-conduct—Strong
opposition—Enthusiasm for Luther—Voice for Conciliation—The Elector’s
Fear—Assemblage at Luther’s Lodging—Philip of Hesse.

It was night, and each regained his dwelling in the dark. Two imperial officers
were ordered to accompany Luther. Some persons imagining that his fate was
decided, and that they were conducting him to prison, which he should leave only
for the scaffold, an immense tumult arose. Several gentlemen exclaimed, “Are
they taking him to prison?” “No,” replied Luther, “they are accompanying me to
my hotel.” At these words the tumult calmed. Then some Spaniards of the
emperor’s household, following this bold champion, hissed and jeered at him as
he passed along the streets, while others howled like wild beasts deprived of
their prey. Luther remained firm and peaceful.

Such was the scene at Worms. The intrepid monk, who had hitherto hurled defiance
at his enemies, spake, when in the presence of those who had thirsted for his
blood, with calmness, dignity, and humility. There was no exaggeration, no human
enthusiasm, no anger; he was peaceful amid the strongest excitement; modest,
while resisting the powers of the earth; great, in presence of all the princes
of the world. In this we have an irrefragable proof that Luther was then obeying
God—not following the suggestions of his own pride. In the hall of Worms there
was One greater than Luther and Charles. Jesus Christ has said, “When they
deliver you up, take no thought how or what you shall speak. For it is not ye
that speak.” Never, perhaps, was this promise so manifestly fulfilled. A deep
impression had been produced on the heads of the empire. Luther had observed
this, and it had increased his courage. The servants of the pope were angry at
John Eck for not having oftener interrupted the guilty monk. Several princes and
nobles were gained to a cause which was maintained with such conviction. In
some, it is true, the impression was evanescent, but, on the other hand, several
who till then had concealed their sentiments, henceforth displayed great
courage.

Luther had returned to his hotel, and was reposing from the fatigue of the
severe service in which he had been engaged. Spalatin and other friends were
around him, and all were giving thanks to God. While they were conversing, a
valet entered, bearing a silver vase full of Eimbeck beer. “My master,” said he,
presenting it to Luther, “begs you to refresh yourself with this draught of
beer.” “What prince is it,” asked Luther, “who so graciously remembers me?” It
was old Duke Erick of Brunswick. The Reformer was touched by the offering thus
made him by so powerful a prince; one, too, belonging to the papal party. “His
highness,” continued the valet, “was pleased to taste the draught before sending
it to you.” Luther, being thirsty, poured out the duke’s beer, and after
drinking it, said, “As Duke Erick has this day remembered me, so may the Lord
Jesus Christ remember him in the day of his final combat.” The present was in
itself of little value, but Luther, wishing to show his gratitude to a prince
who had thought of him at such a moment, gave him what he had—a prayer. The
valet returned with the message to his master. The old duke, in his last
moments, remembered the words, and addressing a young page, Francis de Kramm,
who was standing at his bedside, said to him, “Take the gospel and read it to
me.” The child read the words of Christ, and the soul of the dying man was
refreshed. “Whosoever,” says the Saviour, “shall give to one of you a cup of
cold water in my name, because you are my disciple, verily I say unto you, he
shall in no wise lose his reward.” The valet of the Duke of Brunswick was no
sooner gone than a message from the Elector of Saxony ordered Spalatin to come
to him instantly. Frederick had come to the Diet full of disquietude. He thought
that, in presence of the emperor, Luther’s courage might give way, and he had
accordingly been deeply moved by the Reformer’s firmness. He was proud of having
taken such a man under his protection. When the chaplain arrived, the table was
covered, and the Elector was going to sit down to supper with his Court—the
valets having already brought in the vase for washing the hands. The Elector
seeing Spalatin enter, immediately beckoned him to follow, and when alone with
him in his bedchamber, said to him, with deep emotion, “Oh! how well father
Luther spoke before the emperor and all the states of the empire! My only fear
was, that he would be too bold.” Frederick then formed a resolution to protect
the doctor in future with greater courage.

Aleander saw the impression which Luther had produced. There was no time,
therefore, to be lost. The young emperor must be induced to act vigorously. The
moment was favourable, for there was immediate prospect of war with France. Leo
X, wishing to enlarge his states, and caring little for the peace of
Christendom, caused two treaties to be secretly negotiated, at the same time,
the one with Charles against Francis, and the other with Francis against
Charles. By the former he stipulated with the emperor for Parma, Placenza, and
Ferrara; by the latter, he stipulated with the king for a part of the kingdom of
Naples, of which Charles was thus to be deprived. Charles felt the importance of
gaining over Leo, in order that he might have him as an ally against his rival
of France. Luther was an easy price to pay for the friendship of the mighty
pontiff. The day after Luther’s appearance, he caused a message to be read to
the Diet, which he had written in French, with his own hand. “Sprung,” said he,
“from the Christian emperors of Germany, from the Catholic kings of Spain, the
archdukes of Austria, and the dukes of Burgundy, who are all illustrious as
defenders of the Roman faith, it is my firm purpose to follow the example of my
ancestors. A single monk, led astray by his own folly, sets himself up in
opposition to the faith of Christendom. I will sacrifice my dominions, my power,
my friends, my treasure, my body, my blood, my mind, and my life, to stay this
impiety.3 I mean to send back the Augustin, Luther, forbidding him to cause the
least tumult among the people; thereafter I will proceed against him and his
adherents as against declared heretics, by excommunication and interdict, and
all means proper for their destruction. I call upon the members of the states to
conduct themselves like faithful Christians.” This address did not please every
body. Charles, young and impassioned, had not observed the ordinary forms; he
ought previously to have asked the opinion of the Diet. Two extreme views were
immediately declared. The creatures of the pope, the Elector of Brandenburg, and
several ecclesiastical princes, demanded that no regard should be paid to the
safe-conduct which had been given to Luther. “The Rhine,” said they, “must
receive his ashes, as a century ago it received the ashes of John Huss.”
Charles, if we may believe a historian, afterwards bitterly repented that he had
not followed this dastardly counsel. “I confess,” said he, towards the close of
his life, “that I committed a great fault in allowing Luther to live. That
heretic having offended a greater master than I, even God himself, I was not
obliged to keep my promise to him. I might, nay, I ought to have forgotten my
word, and avenged the insult which he offered to God; because I did not put him
to death, the heresy has not ceased to gain strength. His death would have
strangled it in the cradle.” This horrible proposition filled the Elector and
all Luther’s friends with terror. “The execution of John Huss,” said the Elector
Palatine, “brought too many calamities on Germany to allow such a scaffold to be
erected a second time.” “The princes of Germany,” exclaimed George of Saxony,
himself the irreconcilable enemy of Luther, “will not allow a safe-conduct to be
violated. This first Diet, held by our new emperor, will not incur the guilt of
an act so disgraceful. Such perfidy accords not with old German integrity.” The
princes of Bavaria, also devoted to the Church of Rome, joined in this
protestation. The death scene which Luther’s friends had already before their
eyes appeared to be withdrawn. The rumour of these debates, which lasted for two
days, spread over the town. Parties grew warm. Some gentlemen, partisans of
reform, began to speak strongly against the treachery demanded by Aleander. “The
emperor,” said they, “is a young man whom the papists and bishops lead at
pleasure by their flattery.” Pallavicini makes mention of four hundred nobles
who were ready to maintain Luther’s safe-conduct with the sword. On Saturday
morning placards were found posted up on the houses and public places, some
against Luther and others in his favour. One of them merely contained the
energetic words of Ecclesiastes, “Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a
child!” Seckingen, it was said, had assembled at some leagues from Worms, behind
the impregnable ramparts of his fortress, a large body of knights and soldiers,
and only waited the issue of the affair that he might know how to act. The
popular enthusiasm, not only in Worms, but also in the most distant towns of the
empire, the intrepidity of the knights, the attachment of several princes to the
Reformer, all must have made Charles and the Diet comprehend that the step
demanded by the Romans might compromise the supreme authority, excite revolts,
and even shake the empire. It was only a simple monk that they proposed to burn;
but the princes and partisans of Rome, taken all together, had neither power nor
courage enough to do it. Doubtless, also, Charles V, their young emperor, had
still a fear of perjury. This would seem indicated by an expression, which, if
some historians speak true, he uttered on this occasion: “Were fidelity and good
faith banished from the whole world, they ought to find an asylum in the hearts
of princes.” It is said he forgot this when on the brink of the grave. But there
were other motives which might have had their influence on the emperor. The
Florentine Vettori, a friend of Leo X and of Machiaveli, affirms, that Charles
spared Luther only that he might keep the pope in check.

2 On the Saturday’s sitting, the violent counsels of Aleander were negatived.
There was a feeling in favour of Luther, and a wish to save the simple-hearted
man whose confidence in God was so affecting; but there was a wish also to save
the Church. The Diet shuddered equally at the consequences which would result
from the triumph and from the destruction of the Reformer. Proposals of
conciliation were heard, and it was suggested that a new attempt should be made
with the doctor of Wittemberg. The archbishop-elector of Mentz himself, the
young and extravagant Albert, more devout than courageous, says Pallavicini, had
taken alarm on seeing the interest which the people and the nobility showed in
the Saxon monk. His chaplain, Capito, who, during his residence at Bâle, had
been intimate with the evangelical priest of Zurich, named Zuinglius, the
intrepid defender of the truth, of whom we have already had occasion to speak,
had also, doubtless, represented to Albert the righteousness of the Reformer’s
cause. The worldly archbishop had one of those returns to Christian sentiment
which his life occasionally exhibits, and agreed to go to the emperor and ask
him to allow one last attempt. But Charles flatly refused. On Monday (22nd
April) the princes met in a body to renew the solicitations of Albert. “I will
not depart from what I have decreed,” replied the emperor. I will not commission
any person to go officially to Luther. “But,” added he, to the great scandal of
Aleander, “I give this man three days to reflect; during this time any one may,
as an individual, give him suitable advice.” This was all that was asked. The
Reformer, thought they, elevated by the solemnity of his public appearance, will
yield in a more friendly conference, and perhaps be saved from the abyss into
which he is ready to fall. The Elector of Saxony knew the contrary; accordingly
he was in great fear. “If it were in my power,” wrote he next day to his
brother, Duke John, “I would be ready to support Luther. You could not believe
to what a degree I am attacked by the partisans of Rome. If I could tell you
all, you would hear very strange things. They are bent on his ruin, and however
slight interest any one shows for his person, he is immediately decried as a
heretic. May God, who forsakes not the righteous cause, bring all to a good
end!” Frederick, without showing the strong affection which he felt for the
Reformer, contented himself with not losing sight of any of his movements.

It was not so with men of all ranks then in Worms. Many fearlessly gave full
vent to their sympathy. From the Friday, a crowd of princes, counts, barons,
knights, gentlemen, ecclesiastics, laics, and common people surrounded the hotel
where the Reformer lodged; they came in and went out, and could not see enough
of him. He was become the man in Germany. Even those who doubted not that he was
in error were touched by the nobleness of soul which had led him to sacrifice
his life at the bidding of his conscience. With several of the personages
present at Worms, and forming the flower of the nation, Luther had occasionally
conversations full of that salt with which his sayings were always seasoned.
None left him without feeling animated with a generous enthusiasm for the truth.
George Vogler, the private secretary of the margrave Casimir of Brandenburg,
writing to a friend, says, “What things I should have to tell you! What
conversations full of piety and kindness Luther has had with myself and others!
How winning that man is!

One day a young prince of seventeen came prancing into the court of the hotel:
it was Philip, who had been reigning for two years in Hesse. The young landgrave
was of an active and enterprising character, of a wisdom beyond his years, a
martial spirit, and an impetuous temper, seldom allowing himself to be guided by
any ideas but his own. Struck with Luther’s addresses he wished to have a nearer
view of him. “As yet, however,” says Luther, in relating his visit, “he was not
for me.”5 He dismounted, and without any other formality, came up into the
Reformer’s room, and addressing him, said, “Well, dear doctor, how goes it?”
“Gracious lord,” replied Luther, “I hope it will go well.” “From what I learn,”
resumed the landgrave laughing, “you teach, doctor, that a wife may quit her
husband, and take another, when the former is found to be too old!” The people
of the imperial court had told this story to the landgrave. The enemies of the
truth never fail to circulate fabulous accounts of the lessons of Christian
teachers—“No, my lord,” replied Luther gravely, “let your highness not speak so,
if you please.” Thereupon the prince briskly held out his hand to the doctor,
shook his cordially, and said, “Dear doctor, if you are in the right, may God
assist you.” On this he left the room, again mounted his horse and rode off.
This was the first interview between these two men, who were afterwards to stand
at the head of the Reformation, and to defend it, the one with the sword of the
word, and the other with the sword of kings.

It was the Archbishop of Trêves, Richard de Greifenklan, who, with permission of
Charles V, had undertaken the office of mediator. Richard, who was on an
intimate footing with the Elector of Saxony, and a good Roman Catholic, was
desirous to arrange this difficult affair, and thereby at once do a service to
his friend and to the Church. On Monday evening, (22nd April,) just as Luther
was going to sit down to table, a messenger of the archbishop came to say, that
the prelate wished to see him the day after to-morrow (Wednesday), at six
oʹclock in the morning.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 80: CHAPTER X
========================================================================

Conference with the Archbishop of Trêves—Wehe’s advice to Luther—Luther’s
Replies—Private Conversation—Visit of Cochlœus—Supper at the
Archbishop’s—Attempt on the Hôtel of Rhodes—A Council proposed—Last interview
between Luther and the Archbishop—Visit to a sick friend—Luther ordered to quit
Worms. That day the chaplain and the imperial herald, Sturm, were both at
Luther’s before six oʹclock in the morning. Aleander had caused Cochlœus to be
called at four. The nuncio had not been slow in discovering in the man who had
been presented to him by Capito, a devoted servant of Rome, on whom he could
calculate as on himself. Not being able to be present at this interview,
Aleander wished to have a substitute at it. “Be present at the Archbishop’s of
Trêves,” said he to the Dean of Frankfort. “Do not enter into discussion with
Luther, but content yourself with paying the closest attention to every thing
that is said, so as to be able to bring me back a faithful report.” The Reformer
on arriving with some friends at the house of the archbishop, found him
surrounded by the margrave, Joachim of Brandenburg and Augsburg, several nobles,
deputies from free towns, lawyers, and theologians, among, whom were Cochlœus
and Jerome Wehe, chancellor of Baden The latter, an able lawyer, wished a
reformation in manners and discipline. He went even further. “The Word of God,”
said he, “which has so long been hid under the bushel, must reappear in all its
lustre.”2 This conciliatory individual was entrusted with the conference.
Turning kindly towards Luther, he said to him, “We did not make you come in
order to dispute with you, but in order to give you brotherly advice. You know
how carefully the Scripture requireth us to guard against the flying, arrow, and
the devil that walketh at noon-day. This enemy of the human race has instigated
you to publish things contrary to religion. Think of your own safety, and that
of the empire. Take care that those whom Jesus Christ has ransomed by his own
death, from death eternal, be not seduced by you and perish for ever.… Do not
set yourself up against holy councils. If we do not maintain the decrees of our
fathers, there will be nothing but confusion in the Church. The distinguished
princes now listening to me take a particular interest in your safety. But if
you persist, the emperor will banish you from the empire, and no place in the
world will be able to offer you an asylum … Reflect on the fate which awaits
you.”

“Most Serene Princes!” replied Luther, “I give you thanks for your solicitude,
for I am only a poor man, and am too humble to be exhorted by such high lords.”
Then he continued, “I have not blamed all the councils, but only that of
Constance; because, in condemning this doctrine of John Huss, viz.—that the
Christian Church is the assembly of those who are predestinated to salvation5—it
condemned this article of our creed, I believe in the holy Catholic Church; and
the Word of God itself. My lessons, it is said, give offence,” added he. “I
answer that the gospel of Christ cannot be preached without offence. How then
should this fear or apprehension of danger detach me from the Lord, and from
this divine Word, which is the only truth? No, rather give my body, my blood,
and my life!!… The princes and doctors having deliberated, Luther was recalled,
and Wehe mildly resumed, “It is necessary to honour princes, even when they are
mistaken, and to make great sacrifices to charity.” Then he said, in a more
urgent tone, “Cast yourself upon the judgment of the emperor, and have no fear.”

Luther.—“I consent, with all my heart, that the emperor, the princes, and even
the humblest Christian, shall examine and judge my books; but on one condition,
and it is, that they take the Word of God for their standard. Men have nothing
else to do but to obey. My conscience is dependent upon it, and I am captive
under its authority. The Elector of Brandenburg.—“I understand you perfectly,
doctor. You will not acknowledge any judge but the Holy Scripture?”

Luther.—“Yes, my lord, exactly. That is my last word.”

Then the princes and doctors withdrew, but the worthy Archbishop of Trêves could
not resolve to abandon his undertaking. “Come,” said he to Luther, as he passed
into his private room, and, at the same time, ordered John Eck and Cochlœus, on
the one side, and Schurff and Amsdorff, on the other, to follow them. “Why
appeal incessantly to the Holy Scriptures?” said Eck keenly; “out of it all
heresies have sprung.” But Luther, says his friend Mathesins, remained
immovable, like a rock resting on the true rock, the Word of the Lord. “The
pope,” replied he, “is no judge in things pertaining to the Word of God. Every
Christian must see and understand for himself how he ought to live and die.” The
parties separated. The partisans of the papacy felt Luther’s superiority, and
attributed it to there being nobody present who could answer him. “If the
emperor,” says Cochlœus, “had acted wisely in calling Luther to Worms, he would
also have called theologians who might have refuted his errors.” The Archbishop
of Trêves repaired to the Diet, and announced the ill success of his mediation.
The surprise of the young emperor equalled his indignation. “It is time,” said
he, “to put an end to this affair.” The archbishop asked two days more, and the
whole Diet seconded him, Charles V yielded. Aleander, transported with rage,
uttered the bitterest invectives.

While these things were passing at the Diet, Coehlœus was burning with eagerness
to gain a victory denied to prelates and kings. Though he had, from time to
time, thrown in a few words at the archbishop’s, the order which he had received
from Aleander had laid him under restraint. He resolved to compensate himself,
and had no sooner given an account of his mission to the papal nuncio, than he
presented himself at Luther’s lodging. He accosted him as a friend, and
expressed the grief which he felt at the emperor’s resolution. After dinner, the
conversation grew animated. Cochlœus pressed Luther to retract. He declined by a
nod. Several nobles, who were at table, had difficulty in restraining
themselves. They were indignant that the partisans of Rome should wish not to
convince the Reformer by Scripture, but constrain him by force. Cochlœus,
impatient under these reproaches, says to Luther, “Very well, I offer to dispute
publicly with you, if you renounce the safe-conduct.”2 All that Luther demanded
was a public debate. What ought he to do? To renounce the safe-conduct was to be
his own destroyer; to refuse the challenge of Cochlœus was to appear doubtful of
his cause. The guests regarded the offer as a perfidious scheme of Aleander,
whom the Dean of Frankfort had just left. Vollrat of Watzdorff, one of the
number, freed Luther from the embarrassment of this puzzling alternative. This
baron, who was of a boiling temperament, indignant at a snare which aimed at
nothing less than to give up Luther into the hands of the executioner, started
up, seized the terrified priest, and pushed him to the door. There would even
have been bloodshed had not the other guests risen up from the table, and
interposed their mediation between the furious baron and the trembling
Cochlœus,4 who withdrew in confusion from the hotel of the Knights of Rhodes.
The expression had no doubt escaped the dean in the heat of discussion, and was
not a premeditated scheme between him and Aleander to make Luther fall into a
perfidious snare. Cochlœus denies that it was, and we have pleasure in giving
credit to his testimony, though it is true he had come to Luther’s from a
conference with the nuncio. In the evening, the Archbishop of Trêves entertained
those who had been present at the morning conference. He thought it might be a
means of calming down their minds, and bringing them nearer each other. Luther,
who was so intrepid and immovable before arbiters or judges, had, in private
society, a good humour and gayety which seemed to promise anything that might be
asked of him. The archbishop’s chancellor, who had shown so much sternness in
his official capacity, joined in the attempt, and, towards the end of the
repast, drank Luther’s health. He was preparing to return the honour, the wine
was poured out, and he was, according to his custom, making the sign of the
cross on his glass, when suddenly the glass burst in his hands, and the wine was
spilt upon the table. The guests were in consternation. “There must be poison in
it,” said some of Luther’s friends, quite loud. But the doctor, without being
moved, replied, with a smile, “Dear friends, either this wine was not destined
for me, or it would have been hurtful to me.” Then he calmly added, “The glass
burst, no doubt, because in washing it had been too soon plunged in cold water.”
These simple words, in the circumstances in which they were uttered, have some
degree of grandeur, and bespeak unalterable peace. We cannot suppose that the
Roman Catholics could have wished to poison Luther, especially at the house of
the Archbishop of Trêves. This repast neither estranged nor approximated the
parties. The Reformer’s resolution came from a higher source, and could not be
influenced either by the hatred or the favour of men. On Thursday morning (25th
April) Chancellor Wehe and doctor Peutinger of Augsburg, imperial counsellor,
who had shown great affection for Luther ever since his interview with de Vio,
repaired to the hotel of the Knights of Rhodes. The Elector of Saxony sent
Frederick De Thun, and another of his counsellors, to be present at the
conference. “Put yourself in our hands,” earnestly said Wehe and Peutinger, who
would willingly have sacrificed every thing to prevent the division which was
about to rend the Church. “This affair will be terminated in a Christian manner;
we give you our word for it.” “In two words,” said Luther to them, “here is my
answer: I renounce the safe-conduct. I place in the hands of the emperor my
person and my life; but the Word of God … never!” Frederick de Thun affected
rose and said to the deputies, “Is it not enough? Is not the sacrifice great
enough?” Then declaring that he would hear nothing more, he took his leave. Wehe
and Peutinger, hoping to have better success with the doctor, came and sat down
on each side of him. “Throw yourself upon the Diet,” said they to him. “No,”
replied Luther, for cursed be the man that trusteth in man.” (Jeremiah 17:5)
Wehe and Peutinger redoubled their counsels and attacks, pressing more closely
on the Reformer. Luther worn out, rose up and put an end to the interview,
saying, “I will not allow any man to set himself above the word of God.”
“Reflect once more,” said they to him on retiring, “we will return after
mid-day.”

They, in fact, did return; but convinced that Luther would not yield, they
brought a new proposal. Luther had refused to be judged first by the pope, then
by the emperor, then by the Diet. There remained one judge to whom he himself
had once appealed—a general council. No doubt such a proposal would have been
scouted by Rome; but it was the last plank for escape. The delegates offered
Luther a Council; and he had it in his power to accept it unfettered by any
precise definition. Years might have elapsed before the difficulties which the
calling of a Council would have encountered on the part of the pope could have
been obviated. To the Reformation and the Reformer a gain of years would have
gained every thing. God and time would then have done the rest. But Luther
preferred the straight course to every other: he would not save himself at the
expense of truth though all that might have been necessary was to disguise it by
keeping silence. “I consent,” replied he, “but (this was equivalent to a refusal
of the Council) on condition that the Council will judge only according to the
Holy Scriptures.”

Peutinger and Wehe, thinking that a Council could not judge otherwise, hastened
overjoyed to the archbishop. “Dr. Martin,” said they, “submits his books to a
Council.” The archbishop was going to carry the good news to the emperor, when
some doubt occurring to him, he sent for Luther

Richard of Grieffenklau was alone when the doctor arrived. “Dear doctor,” said
the archbishop, with much cordiality and kindness, “my doctors assure me that
you consent without reservation to submit your cause to a Council.” “My Lord,”
replied Luther, “I can bear every thing, but cannot abandon the Holy
Scriptures.” The archbishop then perceived that Wehe and Peutinger had not
explained themselves properly. Never could Rome consent to a Council bound to
decide according to Scripture. “It was just,” says Pallavicini, “to insist that
a weak eye should read very small writing, and at the same time deny the use of
spectacles.”3 The good archbishop sighed. “It was well,” said he, “I made you
come. What would have become of me had I immediately gone to the emperor with
the news?” The immovable firmness, the stern rectitude of Luther, are, no doubt,
astonishing, but they will be comprehended and respected by all who know the
claims of God. Seldom has a nobler homage been paid to the immutable word of
Heaven, and that at the risk of life and liberty by the man who paid it.

“Well,” said the venerable prelate to Luther, “do you yourself then point out a
remedy.”

Luther, (after a moment’s silence).—“My Lord, I know no other than that of
Gamaliel: ‘If this counsel or this work be of men it will come to nought, but if
it be of God ye cannot overthrow it, lest haply ye be found even to fight
against God.’ Let the emperor, the electors, the princes, and the states of the
empire, deliver this answer to the pope.”

Archbishop.—“At least retract some articles.”

Luther.—“Provided it be not those which the Council of Constance condemned.”

Archbishop.—“Ah, I fear they are the very ones which will be asked.”

Luther.—“Then sooner sacrifice my body and my life—better allow my legs and arms
to be cut off than abandon the clear and genuine word of God.” The archbishop at
length understood Luther. “You may withdraw,” said he to him, always with the
same gentleness. “Your Lordship,” resumed Luther, “will be so good as to see
that his Majesty cause the safe-conduct necessary for my return to be
expedited.” “I will see to it,” replied the good archbishop, and they parted. So
ended these negotiations. The whole empire had assailed this man with the most
urgent entreaties and the most fearful menaces, and this man had never flinched.
His refusal to bend under the iron arm of the pope emancipated the Church, and
commenced a new era. The intervention of Providence was evident, and the whole
presents one of those grand historical scenes in which the majestic form of the
Divinity appears conspicuously displayed.

Luther withdrew in company with Spalatin who had arrived at the archbishop’s
during the course of the visit. John von Minkwitz, one of the Elector of
Saxony’s counsellors, had fallen sick at Worms. The two friends repaired to his
lodging, and Luther administered the tenderest consolation to the sick man.
“Adieu,” said he to him on leaving, “to-morrow I shall quit Worms.”

Luther was not mistaken. He had not been three hours returned to the hotel of
the Knights of Rhodes when chancellor Eck and the chancellor of the emperor,
with a notary, made their appearance. The chancellor said to him, “Martin
Luther, his imperial Majesty, the Electors, Princes, and States of the empire,
having exhorted you to submission again and again, and in various manners, but
always in vain, the emperor, in his quality of advocate and defender of the
Catholic faith, sees himself obliged to take other steps. He therefore orders
you to return to your home in the space of twenty-one days, and prohibits you
from disturbing the public peace by the way, either by preaching or writing.

Luther was well aware that this message was the first step in his condemnation.
“It has happened as Jehovah pleased,” said he meekly. “Blessed be the name of
Jehovah!” Then he added. “Before all things, very humbly and from the bottom of
my heart, I thank his Majesty, the Electors, Princes, and other States of the
empire, for having listened to me with so much kindness. I have desired, and do
desire one thing only—a reformation of the Church agreeably to Holy Scripture. I
am ready to do every thing and suffer every thing in humble submission to the
will of the emperor. Life and death, honour and disgrace, are all alike to me: I
make only one reservation—the preaching of the gospel; for, says St. Paul, ‘The
word of God cannot be bound.’ ” The deputies withdrew. On the morning of Friday
(26th April) the Reformer’s friends and several nobles met at his lodgings. They
were gratified at seeing the Christian constancy which he had opposed to Charles
and the empire, and to recognise in him the features of the ancient portrait:

“Justum ac tenacem propositi virum, Non civium ardor prava jubentium, Non vultus
instantis tyranni, Mente quatit solida.…”

They wished once more, perhaps for ever, to bid adieu to this intrepid monk.
Luther took a frugal meal. Now he must take leave of his friends, and flee far
from them under a sky surcharged with storms. He wished to pass this solemn
moment in the presence of God. He lifted up his soul and blessed those who were
around him. Ten in the morning having struck, Luther quitted the hotel with the
friends who had accompanied him to Worms. Twenty gentlemen on horseback
surrounded his carriage. A great crowd accompanied him beyond the walls. The
imperial herald, Sturm, rejoined him some time after at Oppenheim, and the
following day they reached Frankfort.


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  CHAPTER 81: CHAPTER XI
========================================================================

Luther’s Departure—Journey from Worms—Luther to Cranach—Luther to Charles
V—Luther with the Abbot of Hirschfeld—The Curate of Eisenach—Several Princes
leave the Diet—Charles signs Luther’s Condemnation—The Edict of Worms—Luther
with his parents—Luther attacked and carried off—The ways of God—Wartburg—Luther
a Prisoner.

Luther having thus escaped from these walls of Worms, which threatened to become
his tomb, his whole heart gave glory to God. “The devil himself,” said he,
“guarded the citadel of the pope. But Christ has made a large breach in it; and
Satan has been forced to confess that the Lord is mightier than he.”

“The day of the Diet of “Worms,” says the pious Mathesius, the disciple and
friend of Luther, “is one of the greatest and most glorious days given to the
world before its final close.” The battle fought at Worms re-echoed far and
wide, and while the sound travelled over Christendom, from the regions of the
North to the mountains of Switzerland, and the cities of England, France, and
Italy, many ardently took up the mighty weapon of the Word of God.

Luther, having arrived at Frankfort, on the evening of Saturday, (27th April,)
took advantage next day of a moment of leisure, the first he had had for a long
time, to write a note, in a style at once playful and energetic, to his friend,
Lucas Cranach, the celebrated painter, at Wittemberg. “Your servant, dear
compeer Lucas,” said he to him, “I thought his majesty would assemble at Worms
some fifty doctors to confute the monk off hand. But not at all. Are these books
yours? Yes. Will you retract them? No. Ah well! get you gone! Such was the whole
story. O blind Germans, how like children we act in allowing ourselves to be
played upon and duped by Rome!… The Jews must for once have their chant, Yo! Yo!
Yo! But our passover also will come, and then we will sing Hallelujah! … There
must be silence and suffering for a short time. Jesus Christ says, ‘A little
while and ye shall not see me, and again a little while and ye shall see me.’
(John 16:16) I hope it will be so with me. I commend you altogether to the
Eternal. May He through Christ protect us against the attacks of the wolves and
dragons of Rome. Amen.”

After writing this somewhat enigmatical letter, Luther, as time was pressing,
set out immediately for Friedberg, which is six leagues from Frankfort. The next
day Luther again communed with himself. He was desirous to write once more to
Charles V, being unwilling to confound him with guilty rebels. In his letter to
the emperor he clearly expounded the nature of the obedience which is due to
man, and that which is due to God, and the limit where the former must stop and
give place to the latter. In reading Luther, we involuntarily call to mind the
saying of the greatest autocrat of modern times: “My rule ends where that of
conscience begins.” “God, who is the searcher of hearts, is my witness,” says
Luther, “that I am ready with all diligence to obey your majesty, whether in
honour or disgrace, whether by life or by death, and with absolutely no
exception but the word of God, from which man derives life. In all the affairs
of the present life my fidelity will be immutable, for as to these loss or gain
cannot at all affect salvation. But in regard to eternal blessings, it is not
the will of God that man should submit to man. Subjection in the spiritual world
constitutes worship, and should be paid only to the Creator.

2

Luther also addressed a letter, but in German, to the States of the empire. It
was nearly the same in substance as that to the emperor. It contained an account
of all that had taken place at Worms. This letter was repeatedly printed and
circulated all over Germany; “Every where,” says Cochlœus, “it excited the
popular indignation against the emperor and the dignified clergy.”

Early next day, Luther wrote a note to Spalatin, enclosing in it the two letters
which he had written the evening before, and sent pack the herald Sturm, who had
been won to the gospel. Having embraced him he set out in all haste for
Grunberg. On Tuesday, when about two leagues from Hirschfeld, he met the
chancellor of the abbot-prince of this town, who had come out to receive him.
Shortly after a troop of horsemen appeared with the abbot at their head. The
latter leapt from his horse, and Luther having alighted from his carriage, the
prince and the Reformer embraced, and then entered Hirschfeld. The senate
received them at the gates. The princes of the Church ran to meet a monk
anathematised by the pope, and the most distinguished among the laity, bowed the
head before an individual whom the emperor had put under the ban.

“At five in the morning we will be at the church,” said the prince, on rising in
the evening from table, at which the Reformer was a guest. He even wished Luther
to occupy his own bed. Next day, Luther preached, the abbot-prince accompanying
him with his suite. In the evening, Luther arrived at Eisenach, the abode of his
Infancy. All his friends in the town gathered round him, and begged him to
preach. The next day they conducted him to the church. The curate made his
appearance, attended by a notary and witnesses. He came forward in great tremor,
divided between the fear of losing his place, and that of opposing the powerful
man before him. At last he said, in a tone of embarrassment, “I protest against
the liberty which you are going to take.” Luther mounted the pulpit, and that
voice which, twenty-three years before, sung in the streets of this town for
bread, caused the arches of the ancient church to ring with accents which had
begun to shake the world. After the sermon, the curate, in confusion, stept
softly forward to Luther. The notary had drawn up his instrument, the witnesses
had signed it, and everything was in regular order to put the curate’s place in
safety. “Pardon me,” said he humbly to the doctor; “I have done it from fear of
the tyrants who oppress the Church.”

There was, in fact, some ground to fear them. At Worms, the aspect of affairs
had changed. Aleander seemed to reign supreme. “Luther has nothing before him
but exile,” wrote Frederick to his brother, Duke John. Nothing can save him. If
God permits me to return, I will have things almost incredible to tell you. Not
only Annas and Caiaphas, but also Pilate and Herod, have leagued against him.”
Frederick, having little wish to remain longer, left Worms. The Elector-Palatine
did the same, as did also the Archbishop-Elector of Cologne. Princes of less
elevated rank imitated them. Deeming it impossible to avert the blow which was
about to be struck, they preferred, perhaps erroneously, to abandon the place.
The Spaniards, Italians, and the most Ultra-Montane of the German princes, alone
remained. The field was free, and Aleander triumphed. He laid before Charles the
draft of an edict, which he intended should serve as the model of that which the
Diet was to issue against the monk. The nuncio’s labour pleased the irritated
emperor. He assembled the remains of the Diet in his chamber, and caused
Aleander’s edict to be read to them. All who were present, (so says
Pallavicini,) approved it. The next day—the day of a great festival—the emperor
was in the church, surrounded by the nobility of his court. The religious
solemnity was finished, and a multitude of people filled the church, Then
Aleander, clad in all the insignia of his rank, approached Charles V. He held in
his hand two copies of the edict against Luther, the one in Latin, and the other
in German, and, kneeling down before his majesty, implored him to append his
signature and the seal of the empire. It was at the moment when the host had
just been offered, when incense filled the temple, when music was still ringing
under its arches, and, as it were, in the presence of the Divinity, that the
destruction of the enemy of Rome was to be completed. The emperor, assuming the
most gracious manner,2 took the pen and signed. Aleander went off in triumph,
put the decree immediately to press, and sent it over all Christendom. This
fruit of the labour of Rome had cost the papacy some pains. Pallavicini himself
informs us that this edict, though dated the 8th May, was signed later, but was
antedated, to make it be supposed that it was executed during the time when all
the members of the Diet were actually assembled.

“We Charles Fifth,” said the emperor, (then followed all his titles,) “to all
the electors, princes, prelates, and others, whom it may concern,

“The Almighty having entrusted to us, for the defence of his holy faith, more
kingdoms and power than he gave to any of our predecessors, we mean to exert
ourselves to the utmost to proven any heresy from arising to pollute our holy
empire.

“The Augustin monk, Martin Luther, though exhorted by us, has rushed like a
madman against the holy Church, and sought to destroy it by means of books
filled with blasphemy. He has, in a shameful manner, insulted the imperishable
law of holy wedlock. He has striven to excite the laity to wash their hands in
the blood of priests; and, overturning all obedience, has never ceased to stir
up revolt, division, war, murder, theft, and fire, and to labour completely to
ruin the faith of Christians.… In a word, to pass over all his other iniquities
in silence, this creature, who is not a man, but Satan himself under the form of
a man, covered with the cowl of a monk,5 has collected into one stinking pool
all the worst heresies of past times, and has added several new ones of his own
…

“We have, therefore, sent this Luther from before our face, that all pious and
sensible men may regard him as a fool, or a man possessed of the devil; and we
expect that, after the expiry of his safe-conduct, effectual means will be taken
to arrest his furious rage.

“Wherefore, under pain of incurring the punishment due to the crime of treason,
we forbid you to lodge the said Luther so soon as the fatal term shall be
expired, to conceal him, give him meat or drink, and lend him, by word or deed,
publicly or secretly, any kind of assistance. We enjoin you, moreover, to seize
him, or cause him to be seized, wherever you find him, and bring him to us
without any delay, or to keep him in all safety until you hear from us how you
are to act with regard to him, and till you receive the recompence due to your
exertions in so holy a work.

“As to his adherents you will seize them, suppress them, and confiscate their
goods.

“As to his writings, if the best food becomes the terror of all mankind as soon
as a drop of poison is mixed with it, how much more ought these books which
contain a deadly poison to the soul to be not only rejected but also
annihilated.

“You will therefore burn them, or in some other way destroy them entirely.

“As to authors, poets, printers, painters, sellers or buyers of placards,
writings, or paintings, against the pope, or the Church, you will lay hold of
their persons and their goods, and treat them according to your good pleasure.

“And if any one, whatever be his dignity, shall dare to act in contradiction to
the decree of our imperial Majesty, we ordain that he shall be placed under the
ban of the empire.

“Let every one conform hereto.”

Such was the edict signed in the Cathedral of Worms. It was more than a Roman
bull which, though published in Italy, might not be executed in Germany. The
emperor himself had spoken, and the Diet had ratified his decree. All the
partisans of Rome sent forth a shout of triumph. “It is the end of the tragedy,”
exclaimed they. “For my part,” said Alphonso Valdez, a Spaniard at the emperor’s
court, “I am persuaded it is not the end but the beginning.” Valdez perceived
that the movement was in the Church, in the people, in the age, and that though
Luther should fall, his cause would not fall with him. But no one disguised to
himself the imminent, the inevitable danger to which the Reformer was exposed,
while the whole tribe of the superstitious were seized with horror at the
thought of the incarnate Satan whom the emperor pointed out to the nation as
disguised under a monk’s frock. The man against whom the mighty of the earth
were thus forging their thunders had left the Church of Eisenach, and was
preparing to separate from some of his dearest friends. He did not wish to
follow the road of Gotha or Erfurt, but to repair to the village of Mora, his
father’s birth place, that he might there see his grandmother, who died four
months after, his uncle, Henry Luther, and other relations. Schurff, Jonas, and
Suaven, set off for Wittemberg; Luther mounted his vehicle with Amsdorff who
remained with him, and entered the forest of Thuringia. The same evening he
reached the village of his fathers. The poor old peasant clasped in her arms
this grandson who had just been showing front to the emperor Charles and pope
Leo. Luther spent the next day with his family, happy in substituting this
tranquil scene for the tumult at Worms. On the following day he resumed his
journey, accompanied by Amsdorff and his brother James. In these lonely spots
the Reformer’s lot was to be decided. They were passing along the forest of
Thuringia, on the road to Wallershausen. As the carriage was in a hollow part of
the road, near the old church of Glisbach, at some distance from the castle of
Altenstein, a sudden noise was heard, and at that moment five horsemen, masked
and in complete armour, rushed upon the travellers. Luther’s brother, as soon as
he perceived the assailants, lept from the vehicle, and ran off at full speed
without uttering a word. The driver was for defending himself. “Stop!” cried one
of the assailants in a stern voice, and rushing upon him threw him to the
ground. A second man in a mask seized Amsdorff, and prevented him from coming
near. Meanwhile the three other horsemen laid hold of Luther, keeping the most
profound silence. They pulled him violently from the carriage, threw a
horseman’s cloak upon his shoulders, and placed him on a led horse. Then the
other two quitted Amsdorff and the driver, and the whole lept into their
saddles. The hat of one of them fell off, but they did not even stop to lift it,
and in a twinkling disappeared in the dark forest with their prisoner. They at
first took the road to Broderode, but they soon retraced their steps by a
different road, and without quitting the forest, made turnings and windings in
all directions, in order to deceive those who might attempt to follow their
track.

3

Luther, little accustomed to horseback, was soon overcome with fatigue. Being
permitted to dismount for a few moments, he rested near a beech tree, and took a
draught of fresh water from a spring, which is still called, Luther’s Spring.
His brother James always continuing his flight arrived in the evening at
Wallershausen. The driver in great alarm had got up on his vehicle, into which
Amsdorff also mounted, and urging on his horses, which proceeded at a rapid
pace, brought Luther’s friend as far as Wittemberg. At Wallershausen, and
Wittemberg, and the interjacent country, villages, and towns, all along the
road, news of Luther’s having been carried off were spread, news which, while it
delighted some, filled the greater number with astonishment and indignation. A
cry of grief soon resounded throughout Germany—“Luther has fallen into the hands
of his enemies!”

After the violent combat which Luther had been obliged to maintain, God was
pleased to conduct him to a peaceful resting place. After placing him on the
brilliant theatre of Worms, where all the powers of the Reformer’s soul had been
so vigorously exerted, He gave him the obscure and humiliating retreat of a
prison. From the deepest obscurity He brings forth the feeble instruments by
which he proposes to accomplish great things, and then, after allowing them to
shine for a short time with great lustre on an elevated stage, sends them back
again to deep obscurity. Violent struggles and pompous displays were not the
means by which the Reformation was to be accomplished. That is not the way in
which the leaven penetrates the mass of the population. The Spirit of God
requires more tranquil paths. The man of whom the champions of Rome were always
in pitiless pursuit, behoved for a time to disappear from the world. It was
necessary that personal achievements should be eclipsed in order that the
revolution about to be accomplished might not bear the impress of an individual.
It was necessary that man should retire and God alone remain, moving, by his
Spirit, over the abyss in which the darkness of the middle age was engulphed,
and saying,—“Let there be light.”

Nightfall having made it impossible to follow their track, the party carrying
off Luther took a new direction, and about an hour before midnight arrived at
the foot of a mountain. The horses climbed slowly to its summit on which stood
an old fortress surrounded on all sides, except that of the entrance, by the
black forests which cover the mountains of Thuringia. To this elevated and
isolated castle, named the Wartburg, where the Landgraves of old used to conceal
themselves, was Luther conducted. The bolts are drawn, the iron bars fall, the
gates open, and the Reformer clearing the threshold, the bars again close behind
him. He dismounts in the court. Burkard de Hund, Lord of Allenstein, one of the
horsemen, withdraws; another, John of Berlepsch, Provost of Wartburg, conducts
Luther to the chamber which was to be his prison, and where a knight’s dress and
a sword were lying. The three other horsemen, dependants of the provost, carry
off his ecclesiastical dress, and put on the other which had been prepared for
him, enjoining him to allow his hair and beard to grow, in order that none even
in the castle might know who he was. The inmates of the Wartburg were only to
know the prisoner under the name of Chevalier Georges. Luther scarcely knew
himself in the dress which was put upon him.2 At length he is left alone, and
can turn in his thoughts the strange events which had just taken place at Worms,
the uncertain prospect which awaits him, and his new and strange abode. From the
narrow windows of his keep he discovers the dark, solitary, and boundless
forests around. “There,” says Mathesius, the biographer and friend of Luther,
“the doctor remained like St. Paul in his prison at Rome.”

Frederick de Thun, Philip Feilitsch, and Spalatin, had not concealed from
Luther, in a confidential interview which they had with him at Worms by order of
the Elector, that his liberty behoved to be sacrificed to the wrath of Charles
and the pope. Still there was so much mystery in the mode of his being carried
off that Frederick was long ignorant of the place of his confinement. The grief
of the friends of the Reformation was prolonged. Spring passed away, succeeded
by summer, autumn, and winter; the sun finished his annual course, and the walls
of the Wartburg still confined their prisoner. The truth is laid under interdict
by the Diet; its defender, shut up within the walls of a strong castle, has
disappeared from the stage of the world, none knowing what has become of him.
Aleander triumphs, and the Reformation seems lost; … but God reigns, and the
blow which apparently threatened to annihilate the cause of the gospel will
serve only to save its intrepid minister and extend the light of faith.

Let us leave Luther a captive in Germany on the heights of the Wartburg, and let
us see what God was then doing in the other countries of Christendom.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 82: BOOK EIGHTH
========================================================================

The Swiss

1484–1522


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 83: CHAPTER I
========================================================================

Movements in Switzerland—Source of the Reformation—Democratic Character—Foreign
Service—Morality—The Tockenburg—An Alpine Hut—A Pastoral Family. At the moment
when the decree of the Diet of Worms appeared, a continually increasing movement
was beginning to shake the quiet valleys of Switzerland. The voice which was
heard in the plains of Upper and Lower Saxony was answered from the bosom of the
Helvetic mountains by the energetic voices of its priests, its shepherds, and
the citizens of its warlike cities. The partisans of Rome, seized with terror,
exclaimed that a vast and dreadful conspiracy was every where formed against the
Church. The friends of the gospel filled with joy, said, that as in spring a
living breath is felt from the streams which run into the sea up to the mountain
tops, so, throughout all Christendom, the Spirit of God was now melting the ices
of a long winter, and covering with verdure and flowers the lowest plains as
well as the steepest and most barren rocks.

Germany did not communicate the truth to Switzerland, nor Switzerland to France,
nor France to England. All these countries received it from God, just as one
part of the world does not transmit the light to another part, but the same
shining globe communicates it directly to all the earth. Christ, the day-spring
from on high, infinitely exalted above all mankind, was, at the period of the
Reformation as at that of the establishment of Christianity, the divine fire
which gave life to the world. In the sixteenth century one and the same doctrine
was at once established in the homes and churches of the most distant and
diversified nations. The reason is, that the same Spirit was every where at work
producing the same faith. The reformation of Germany and that of Switzerland
demonstrate this truth. Zuinglius had no intercourse with Luther. There was, no
doubt, a link between these two men; but we must search for it above the earth.
He who from heaven gave the truth to Luther, gave it to Zuinglius. God was the
medium of communication between them. “I began to preach the gospel,” says
Zuinglius, “in the year of grace, 1516, in other words, at a time when the name
of Luther had never been heard of in our country. I did not learn the doctrine
of Christ from Luther, but from the word of God. If Luther preaches Christ, he
does what I do; that is all.” But if the different reformations, which all
proceeded from the same Spirit, thereby acquired great unity, they also received
certain peculiar features, corresponding to the different characters of the
people among whom they took place.

We have already given a sketch of the state of Switzerland at the period of the
Reformation, and will only add a few words to what we have already said. In
Germany, the ruling principle was monarchical, in Switzerland it was democratic.
In Germany the Reformation had to struggle with the will of princes; in
Switzerland, with the will of the people. A multitude are more easily led away
than an individual, and are also more prompt in their decisions. The victory
over the papacy on the other side of the Rhine was the work of years, but on
this side of it required only mouths or days. In Germany, Luther’s person stands
forth imposingly from the midst of his Saxon countrymen. He seems to struggle
alone in his attack on the Roman Colossus, and wherever the battle is fought, we
see his lofty stature on the field of battle. Luther is, as it were, the monarch
of the revolution which is being accomplished. In Switzerland, several cantons
are at once engaged in the contest. We see a confederacy of Reformers, and are
astonished at their numbers. No doubt there is one head which stands elevated
above the rest, but no one has the command. It is a republican magistracy, where
each presents his peculiar physiognomy, and exercises his separate influence. We
have Wittemberg, Zuinglius, Capito, Haller, Œcolampadius. Again, we have Oswald
Myconius, Leo Juda, Farel, and Calvin, and the Reformation takes place at
Glaris, Bâle, Zurich, Berne, Neufchatel, Geneva, Lucerne, Schafausen, Appenzel,
St. Gall, and in the Grisons. In the Reformation of Germany, one scene only is
seen, and that one level like the country around; but in Switzerland, the
Reformation is divided, as Switzerland itself is divided by its thousand
mountains. So to speak, each valley has its awakening, and each Alpine height
its gleams of light A lamentable period had commenced in the history of the
Swiss after their exploits against the dukes of Burgundy. Europe, which had
learned to know the strength of then arm, had brought them forth from their
mountains, and robbed them of their independence, by employing them to decide
the destiny of states on battle-fields. Swiss brandished the sword against Swiss
on the plains of Italy and France; and the intrigues of strangers filled these
high valleys of the Alps, so long the abode of simplicity and peace, with envy
and discord. Led away by the attraction of gold, sons, labourers, and servants,
stole away from the chalets of alpine pastures towards the banks of the Rhine or
the Po. Helvetic unity was crushed under the slow step of mules loaded with
gold. The object of the Reformation in Switzerland—for there too it had a
political aspect—was to re-establish the unity and ancient virtues of the
cantons. Its first cry was that the Swiss should tear asunder the perfidious
nets of strangers, and embrace each other in strict union at the foot of the
cross. But the generous call was not listened to. Rome, accustomed to purchase
in these valleys the blood which she shed in order to increase her power, rose
up in wrath. She set Swiss against Swiss, and new passions arose which rent the
body of the nation in pieces.

Switzerland stood in need of a reformation. It is true there was among the
Helvetians a simplicity and good-nature, which the polished Italians thought
ridiculous, but, at the same time, it was admitted that by no people were the
laws of chastity more habitually transgressed. Astrologers ascribed this to the
constellations; philosophers, to the ardent temperament of this indomitable
population; and moralists, to the principles of the Swiss, who regarded trick,
dishonesty, and slander as much greater sins than uncleanness.2 The priests were
prohibited from marrying, but it would have been difficult to find one of them
who lived in true celibacy. The thing required of them was, to conduct
themselves not chastely, but prudently. This was one of the first disorders
against which the Reformation was directed. It is time to trace the beginnings
of this new day in the valleys of the Alps.

Towards the middle of the eleventh century, two hermits set out from Saint Gall,
and proceeding towards the mountains at the south of this ancient monastery,
arrived in a deserted valley about ten leagues long. Towards the north, the high
mountains of Sentis, the Sommerigkopf, and the Old-Man, separate this valley
from the canton of Appenzel. On the south, the Kuhfirsten, with its seven heads,
rises between it and the Wallenses, Sargans, and the Grisons, while the eastern
side of the valley opens to the rays of the rising sun, and discovers the
magnificent prospect of the Tyrolese Alps. The two solitaries having arrived
near the source of a small river, (the Thur,) built two cells. The valley
gradually became inhabited. On the highest portion of it, 2010 feet above the
Lake of Zurich, there was formed, around a church, a village named Wildhaus, or
the Wild House, with which two hamlets are now connected, viz., Lisighaus, or
the House of Elizabeth, and Schœnenboden. The fruits of the earth are unable to
grow upon these heights. A green carpet of Alpine freshness covers the whole
valley, and rises upon the sides of the mountains, above which masses of
enormous rocks lift their wild grandeur towards heaven. At a quarter of a league
from the church near Lisighaus, on the side of a path which leads into the
pastures beyond the river, a solitary house is still standing. The tradition is,
that the wood used in building it was cut upon the very spot. Everything
indicates that it must have been erected at a very remote period. The walls are
thin. The windows have little round panes, and the roof is formed of slabs, on
which stones are laid to prevent the wind from carrying them away. In front of
the house there is a limpid gushing spring. In this house, towards the end of
the fifteenth century, lived a man named Zuinglius, amman or bailiff of the
district. The family of the Zwingles, or Zwingli, was ancient, and in high
esteem among the inhabitants of these mountains. Bartholomew, brother of the
bailiff, at first curate of the parish, and, after 1487, dean of Wesen, was a
person of some celebrity in the district. Margaret Meili, the wife of the amman
of Wildhaus, and whose brother John was afterwards abbot of the convent of
Fischingen in Thurgovia, had already given birth to two sons, Heini and Klaus,
when, on the first day of the year 1484, seven weeks after the birth of Luther,
a third son, Ulric, was born in this solitary hut. Five other sons, John,
Wolfgang, Bartholomew, James, Andrew, and a daughter, Anna, were afterwards
added to this Alpine family. No person in the country was more venerated than
amman Zuinglius. His character, his office, his numerous children, made him the
patriarch of these mountains. He and all his sons were shepherds. No sooner did
the first days of May open upon these mountains than the father and the children
departed with their flocks for the pastures, rising gradually form station to
station, and so, towards the end of July, reaching the highest summits of the
Alps. Then they began gradually to redescend towards the valley, and in autumn
the whole population of Wildhaus returned to their humble huts. Sometimes,
during the summer, the young people who had been obliged to remain at home,
eager for the mountain breezes, set out in bands for the chalets, uniting their
voices to the melody of their rustic instruments. On their arrival on the Alps,
the shepherds from a distance saluted them with their horns and their songs, and
regaled them with a feast of milk. Afterwards the joyous band, by turnings and
windings, descended again into the valley, moving to the sound of their pipes.
Ulric in his youth doubtless joined occasionally in this amusement. He grew up
at the foot of those rocks which seem eternal, and whose tops reach the heavens.
“I have often thought,” says one of his friends, “that, being brought near to
heaven on these sublime heights, he there contracted something celestial and
divine.”

There were long winter evenings in the cottages of Wildhaus, and then young
Ulric, seated at the paternal hearth, listened to the conversation of the
bailiff and the old men of the district. He heard them tell how the inhabitants
of the valley had formerly groaned under a heavy yoke. With the old men his
heart beat high at the thought of the independence which the Tockenburg had
acquired, and which the alliance with the Swiss had secured. A patriotic feeling
was kindled in his breast. Switzerland became dear to him; and if any one
uttered an unfavourable expression against the confederates, the child instantly
stood up and warmly defended their cause. During these long evenings he was
often seen quietly seated at the feet of his pious grandmother, with his eyes
rivetted upon her, listening to her Bible stories, and devout lessons, as he
eagerly received them into his heart.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 84: CHAPTER II
========================================================================

Young Ulric at Wesen—At Bâle—At Berne—The Dominican Convent—Jetzer—The
Apparitions—The Passion of the Lay Brother—The Imposture—Discovery and
Punishment—Zuinglius at Vienna—At Bâle—Music at Bâle—Wittembach teaches the
Gospel—Leon Juda—The Curate of Glaris. The good amman was delighted with the
happy presages in his son. He perceived that Ulric would be able to do something
else than herd his cows on Mount Sentis, singing the shepherd’s song. One day he
took him by the hand and proceeded with him towards Wesen. He traversed the
verdant ridges of the Ammon, avoiding the wild and precipitous rocks which
border the lake of Wallenstadt. On arriving at the town, he called upon his
brother the dean, to whom he intrusted the young mountaineer, in order that he
might ascertain what his talents were. The leading feature in his character was
an innate horror at falsehood and a great love of truth. He himself relates that
one day, when he was beginning to reflect, the thought struck him that falsehood
should be punished more severely than even theft; “for,” adds he, “veracity is
the parent of all the virtues.” The dean soon loved his nephew as if he had been
his son; delighted with his sprightliness, he entrusted his education to a
schoolmaster who in a short time taught him all that he knew himself. Young
Ulric, when ten years of age, having given indications of a high order of
intellect,2 his father and his uncle resolved on sending him to Bâle. When the
child of the Tockenburg arrived in this celebrated city, with an integrity and
purity of heart which he seemed to have inhaled from the pure air of his
mountains, but which came from a higher source, a new world opened before him.
The celebrity of the famous council of Bâle; the university which Pius II had
founded in 1460; the printing presses, which revived the masterpieces of
antiquity, and circulated over the world the first fruits of the revival of
letters; the residence of distinguished men; the Wessels, the Wittembachs, and,
in particular, that prince of scholars and luminary of the schools, Erasmus,
rendered Bâle, at the period of the Reformation, one of the great foci of light
in the west.

Ulric entered the school of St. Theodore, which was taught by Gregory Binzli, a
man of an affectionate and gentle temper, at this period rare among teachers.
Young Zuinglius made rapid progress. The learned disputes which were then
fashionable among the doctors of universities had even descended to the youth in
schools. Ulric took part in them. He exercised his growing strength against the
children of other schools, and was always victorious in those struggles which
formed a kind of prelude to those by which the papacy was to be overthrown in
Switzerland. His success excited the jealousy of rivals older than himself. The
school of Bâle was soon outstripped by him as that of Wesen had been.

Lupulus, a distinguished scholar, had just opened at Berne the first learned
school that was founded in Switzerland. The bailiff of Wildhaus and the curate
of Wesen resolved to send their child thither, and Zuinglius, in 1497, quitting
the smiling plains of Bâle, again drew near to the high Alps, where he had spent
his childhood, and whose snowy tops, gilded with the rays of the sun, he could
see from Berne. Lupulus, a distinguished poet, introduced his pupil to the
sanctuary of classic literature, a sanctuary then unknown, only a few of the
initiated having passed the threshold. The young neophyte ardently breathed an
atmosphere rich in the perfumes of antiquity. His intellect was developed and
his style formed. He became a poet.

Among the convents of Berne, that of the Dominicans held a distinguished place.
These monks were engaged in a serious quarrel with the Franciscans. The latter
maintained the immaculate conception of the virgin, while the former denied it.
In every step the Dominicans took—before the rich altars which decorated their
church, and between the twelve pillars on which its arches were supported—they
thought only of humbling their rivals. They had observed the fine voice of
Zuinglius, and heard of his precocious intellect, and thinking that he might
throw lustre on their order, strove to gain him. With this view they invited him
to remain in their convent till he should make his noviciate. The whole
prospects of Zuinglius were threatened. The amman of Wildhaus having been
informed of the bait to which the Dominicans had had recourse, trembled for the
innocence of his son, and ordered him forthwith to quit Berne. Zuinglius thus
escaped those monastic enclosures into which Luther rushed voluntarily. What
happened afterwards may enable us to comprehend the imminent danger to which
Zuinglius had been exposed. In 1507 great excitement prevailed in the town of
Berne. A young man of Zurzach, named John Jetzer, having one day presented
himself at this same Dominican convent, had been repulsed. The poor youth in
despair had returned to the charge, holding in his hand fifty-three florins and
some pieces of silk. “It is all I possess,” said he, “take it, and receive me
into your order.” He was admitted on the 6th January among the lay brothers. But
the very first night a strange noise in his cell filled him with terror. He fled
to the Carthusian convent, but was again sent back to that of the Dominicans. On
the following night, being the eve of the feast of St. Matthew, he was awoke by
deep sighs, and perceived at his bedside a tall phantom in white. “I am,” said a
sepulchral voice, “a soul escaped from the fire of purgatory.” The lay brother
trembling, replied, “God save you; for me, I can do nothing.” Then the spirit
advanced towards the poor friar and, seizing him by the throat, indignantly
upbraided him with his refusal. Jetzer in terror exclaimed, “What then can I do
to save you?” “Flagellate yourself for eight days till the blood comes, and lie
prostrate on the pavement of the chapel of St. John.” So answered the spirit,
and disappeared. The lay brother gave information of the apparition to his
confessor, a preacher of the convent, and by his advice submitted to the
discipline required. The rumour soon spread throughout the town that a soul had
applied to the Dominicans to be delivered from purgatory. The Franciscans were
deserted, and every one ran to the church to see the holy man lying prostrate on
the ground. The soul from purgatory had intimated that he would reappear in
eight days. On the night appointed it in fact did appear, accompanied by two
other spirits that were tormenting it and howling horribly. “Scotus,” said the
spirit, “Scotus, the inventor of the Franciscan doctrine of the immaculate
conception of the Virgin, is among those who like me are suffering these fierce
pains.” At this news, which soon spread over Berne, the partisans of the
Franciscans were still more alarmed. The spirit on disappearing had announced a
visit from the Virgin herself. In fact, on the day appointed, the astonished
friar saw Mary herself appear in his cell. He could not believe his eyes. She
approached him kindly, gave him three of our Saviour’s tears, three drops of his
blood, a crucifix, and a letter addressed to Pope Julius II, “who,” said she,
“was the individual chosen by God to abolish the festival of her pretended
immaculate conception.” Then coming still closer to the bed on which the friar
lay, she announced, in a solemn tone, that a great grace was to be conferred on
him, and drove a nail into his hand. The lay brother uttered a loud shrick, but
Mary wrapt up his hand in a piece of linen which her Son, she said, had worn
after his flight into Egypt. This wound was not sufficient to make the glory of
the Dominicans equal to that of the Franciscans. Jetzer must have the five
wounds of Christ and of St. Francis in his hands, feet, and side. The four
others were inflicted, and then, after giving him a draught, he was placed in a
hall hung with pictures representing our Saviour’s passion. Here having spent
whole days fasting, his imagination soon became heated. The doors of the hall
were then thrown open from time to time to the public who came in crowds to
contemplate with devout astonishment the friar with his five wounds, stretching
out his arms, bending his head, and by his positions and gestures imitating the
crucifixion of our Lord. Sometimes, out of his wits, he foamed, and seemed about
to breathe his last. The whisper went round, “He is enduring the cross of
Christ.” The multitude, eager for miracles, continually thronged the convent.
Men worthy of high esteem, among others Lupulus himself, the master of
Zuinglius, were overawed, and the Dominicans, from the height of the pulpit
extolled the glory which God was bestowing on their order. This order had for
some years felt the necessity of humbling the Franciscans, and of augmenting the
respect and liberality of the people by means of miracles. Berne, “a simple,
rustic, and ignorant town,” as the sub-prior of Berne described it to the
Chapter held at Wimpfen on the Necker, had been selected as the theatre of their
operations. The prior, sub-prior, preacher, and purveyor of the convent, had
undertaken to perform the leading characters, but they wanted the talent
necessary to perform them to the end. A new apparition of Mary having taken
place, Jetzer thought he recognised the voice of his confessor, and having said
so aloud, Mary disappeared. She soon made her appearance again, to censure the
incredulous friar. “This time it is the prior,” exclaimed Jetzer, rushing
forward with a knife in his hand. The saintess threw a pewter plate at the poor
friar’s head, and likewise disappeared. In consternation at the discovery which
Jetzer had thus made, the Dominicans tried to disencumber themselves of him by
means of poison. He perceived it; and, having taken flight, disclosed the
imposition. They put on a good countenance, and sent deputies to Rome. The pope
committed the decision to his legate in Switzerland, and the bishops of Lausanne
and Sion. The four Dominicans being convicted, were condemned to be burnt alive;
and on the 1st May, 1509, were consumed by the flames, in presence of more than
thirty thousand spectators. The affair made a noise throughout Europe, and by
unveiling one of the worst sores of the Church, prepared the Reformation.

Such were the men into whose hands Ulric Zuinglius had nearly fallen. He had
studied literature at Berne; he behoved now to devote himself to philosophy, and
with this view repaired to Vienna. A youth from St. Gall, named Joachim Vadian,
whose genius gave promise to Switzerland of a distinguished scholar and a
statesman; Henri Loreti, of the canton of Glaris, commonly called Glarean, and
apparently destined to shine among poets; John Heigerlin, son of a forgemaster,
and hence surnamed Faber, of a versatile temper, fond of honour and glory,
possessing all the qualities indicative of a courtier—such were Ulric’s
fellow-students and companions in the capital of Austria.

Zuinglius returned to Wildhaus in 1502; but on revisiting his mountains he felt
that he had drunk of the cup of science, and could no longer live amid the songs
of his brothers and the bleating of their flocks. He was eighteen years of age,
and repaired to Bâle, to engage again in literary pursuits, and thus at once
master and pupil he taught at the school of St. Martin, and studied at the
university; from this time he was able to dispense with assistance from his
father. Shortly after, he took the degree of master of arts. An Alsatian, named
Capito, nine years older than he, was one of his best friends.

Zuinglius devoted himself to the study of scholastic theology; for, being called
one day to combat its sophisms, he behoved to explore its obscure labyrinth. But
the light hearted student of the mountains of Sentis was often seen suddenly to
shake off the dust of the school, and, substituting amusement for his
philosophic toils, seize the lute, or the harp, or the violin, or the flute, or
the tympanon, or the cornet, or the hunting horn, extract joyous sounds from
these instruments as in the prairies of Lisighaus, and make his lodgings, or the
dwellings of his friends, re-echo with the airs of his country, accompanying
them with his voice. In regard to music, he was a true child of the Tockenburg,
superior to all. In addition to the instruments we have already named, he played
several others. An enthusiast in the art he diffused a taste for it in the
university, not from any desire of dissipation, but because he loved thus to
relax his mind when fatigued by serious study, and fit himself for returning
with greater zeal to difficult labours.4 None had a gayer humour, a more amiable
disposition, or more engaging conversation. He was a vigorous Alpine tree which
developed itself in all its gracefulness and strength, and which, never having
been pruned, threw out strong branches in all directions. The time was coming
when these branches would turn vigorously in the direction of heaven.

After he had forced an entrance into scholastic theology he left its arid tracts
fatigued and disgusted, having found nothing in it but confused ideas, vain
babbling, vain glory, barbarism, and not one sound idea of doctrine. “It is only
a loss of time,” said he, and waited for something better. At this time,
(November, 1505,) arrived at Bâle Thomas Wittembach, son of a burgomaster of
Bienne. Wittembach had till then taught at Tubingen, side by side with Reuchlin.
He was in the vigour of life, sincere, pious, skilled in the liberal arts, and
mathematics, and well acquainted with the Holy Scriptures. Zuinglius and all the
academic youth immediately flocked around him. A spirit hitherto unknown
animated his lectures, and prophetic words escaped from his lips: “The time is
not distant,” said he, “when scholastic theology will be abolished and the
ancient doctrine of the Church restored.” “The death of Christ,” added he, “is
the only ransom of our souls.”3 The heart of Zuinglius eagerly received these
seeds of life. At this period classical studies began every where to supplant
the scholastics of the middle age. Zuinglius, like his preceptors and friends,
threw himself into this new course.

Among the students who followed the lessons of the new teacher with the greatest
enthusiasm was a young man of twenty-three, of small stature, and a feeble
sickly appearance, but whose eye bespoke at once gentleness and intrepidity.
This was Leo Juda, son of an Alsatian curate, and whose uncle had fallen at
Rhodes, fighting in defence of Christendom, under the standard of the Teutonic
knights. Leo and Ulric were on intimate terms. Leo played the tympanon, and had
a very fine voice. The joyous melodies of the young friends of the arts were
often heard in his lodgings. Leo Juda, at a later period, became the colleague
of Zuinglius, and even death could not destroy their sacred friendship. At this
time the office of pastor of Glaris having become vacant, Henry Goldli, a young
courtier of the pope, and groom of the stable to his holiness, obtained the
appointment from his master, and hastened with it to Glaris. But the Glarian
shepherds, proud of the antiquity of their race, and of their battles for
freedom, were not disposed to bow implicitly to a piece of parchment from Rome.
Wildhaus is not far from Glaris; and Wesen, where Zuinglius uncle was curate, is
the place where the market of the district is held. The reputation of the young
master of arts of Bâle had penetrated even into these mountains; and the
Glarians, wishing to have him for their priest, gave him a call in 1506.
Zuinglius having been ordained at Constance by the bishop, preached his first
sermon at Rapperswil, read his first mass at Wildhaus on St. Michael’s day, in
presence of all his relations and the friends of his family, and towards the
close of the year arrived at Glaris.


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  CHAPTER 85: CHAPTER III
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Love of War—Schinner—Pension from the Pope—The Labyrinth—Zuinglius in
Italy—Principle of Reform—Zuinglius and Luther—Zuinglius and Erasmus—Zuinglius
and the Elders—Paris and Glaris.

Zuinglius immediately engaged in the zealous discharge of the work which his
vast parish imposed upon him. Still he was only twenty-two years of age, and
often allowed himself to be carried away by the dissipation and lax ideas of his
age. A priest of Rome he was like the other priests around him. But even at this
period, though the evangelical doctrine had not changed his heart, Zuinglius did
not give way to those scandals which frequently afflicted the Church. He always
felt the need of subjecting his passions to the holy rule of the gospel. A love
of war at this time inflamed the quiet valleys of Glaris where there were
families of heroes—the Tschudis, the Walas, the Æblis, whose blood had flowed on
the field of battle. The youth listened with eagerness to the old warriors when
they told them of the wars of Burgundy and Suabia, of the battles of St. James
and Ragaz. But alas! it was no longer against the enemies of their liberties
that these warlike shepherds took up arms. They were seen, at the bidding of the
kings of France, of the emperor, the dukes of Man, or the holy father himself,
descending from the Alps like an avalanche, and rushing with the noise of
thunder against the troops drawn up in the plain. A poor boy named Matthew
Schinner, who was at the school of Sion in the Valais, (it was toward the middle
of the latter half of the fifteenth century,) singing before the houses, as
young Martin Luther shortly after did, heard himself called by an old man, who,
being struck with the frankness with which the child answered his questions,
said to him with that prophetic spirit with which man is said to be sometimes
endowed when on the brink of the grave, “Thou art to be a bishop and a prince.”
The expression sunk deep into the young mendicant, and from that moment
boundless ambition took possession of his heart. At Zurich and Como the progress
he made astonished his masters. Having become curate of a small parish in
Valais, he rose rapidly, and being sent at a later period to ask from the pope
the confirmation of a bishop of Sion, who had just been elected, he obtained the
bishopric for himself, and girt his brow with the episcopal mitre. This man,
ambitious and crafty, but often noble and generous, always considered any
dignity bestowed upon him as only a step destined to raise him to some still
higher dignity. Having offered his services to Louis XII, and named his price,
“It is too much for one man,” said the king. “I will show him,” replied the
bishop of Sion, offended, “that I am a man worth several men.” In fact he turned
towards pope Julius II, who gladly received him, and Schinner succeeded in 1510
in linking the whole Swiss confederation to the policy of this ambitious
pontiff. The bishop having been rewarded with a cardinal’s hat smiled when he
saw that there was now only one step between him and the papal throne.

Schinner’s eye was continually turned to the cantons of Switzerland, and as soon
as he there discerned any man of influence he hastened to attach him to himself.
The pastor of Glaris drew his attention, and Zuinglius soon received intimation
that the pope had granted him an annual pension of fifty florins, to encourage
him in the cultivation of letters. His poverty did not allow him to purchase
books; and the money during the short time that Ulric received it was devoted to
the purchase of classical or theological works, which he procured from Bâle.
Zuinglius was now connected with the cardinal, and accordingly joined the Roman
party. Schinner and Julius II at last disclosed the end which they had in view
in these intrigues. Eight thousand Swiss mustered by the eloquence of the
cardinal-archbishop, passed the Alps; but famine, war, and French gold obliged
them to return to their mountains without glory. They brought back the usual
results of these foreign wars,—distrust, licentiousness, party spirit, all sorts
of violence and disorder. Citizens refused to obey their magistrates, and
children their parents; agriculture and the care of their flocks were neglected;
luxury and mendicity kept pace with each other; the most sacred ties were
broken, and the confederation seemed on the point of being dissolved. The eyes
of the young curate of Glaris were now opened, and his indignation aroused. He
raised his voice aloud to warn them of the abyss into which they were about to
fall. In 1510 he published his poem entitled “The Labyrinth.” Behind the
windings of this mysterious garden, Minos has hidden the Minotaur, that monster,
half man half bull, whom he feeds on the flesh of young Athenians. “The
Minotaur, … in other words,” says Zuinglius, “sin, vice, irreligion, and the
foreign service of the Swiss,” devour the sons of his countrymen.

Theseus, a man of courage, wishes to deliver his country, but numerous obstacles
arrest him;—first, a lion with one eye; this is Spain and Arragon;—then a
crowned eagle, whose throat is opened to devour it; this is the empire;—then a
cock, with his comb up, and calling for battle; this is France. The hero
surmounts all these obstacles, gets up to the monster, stabs it, and saves his
country.

“So now,” exclaims the poet, “men wander in a labyrinth, but having no thread to
guide them they cannot regain the light. No where is there any imitation of
Jesus Christ. A little glory makes us hazard our life, torment our neighbour,
rush into strife, war, and combat … One would say that the furies have escaped
from the depths of hell.” A Theseus, a Reformer was required. Zuinglius
perceived this, and thenceforth had a presentiment of his mission. Not long
after he composed an allegory with a still clearer application. In April, 1512,
the confederates rose anew at the bidding of the cardinal, for the deliverance
of the Church. Glaris was in the foremost rank. The whole population was brought
into the field, ranged round their banner with their landaman and their pastor.
Zuinglius behoved to march. The army passed the Alps, and the cardinal appeared
amidst the confederates with the presents given him by the pope,—a ducal hat
adorned with pearls and gold, and surmounted by the Holy Spirit, represented
under the form of a dove. The Swiss escaladed the fortresses and towns, swam
rivers in the presence of the enemy, unclothed, and with halberds in their
hands; the French were every where put to flight; bells and trumpets resounded,
and the population flocked from all quarters; the nobles supplied the army with
wine and fruits in abundance; the monks and priests mounted on platforms, and
proclaimed, that the confederates were the people of God taking vengeance on the
enemies of the Lord’s spouse; and the pope becoming prophet, like Caiaphas of
old, gave the confederates the title of “Defenders of the liberty of the
Church.” This sojourn of Zuinglius in Italy was not without its effect, in
reference to his vocation of Reformer. On his return from this campaign, he
began to study Greek, “in order,” says he, “to be able to draw the doctrine of
Jesus Christ from the very fountain of truth.” Writing to Vadian, 23rd February,
1513, he says, “I have resolved so to apply myself to the study of Greek, that
none will be able to turn me from it but God. I do it not for fame, but from
love to sacred literature.” At a later period, a worthy priest, who had been his
school companion, having come to pay him a visit, said to him, “Master Ulric, I
am assured that you are tainted with the new heresy, that you are a Lutheran.”
“I am not a Lutheran,” said Zuinglius, “for I knew Greek before I heard of the
name of Luther.” To know Greek, to study the gospel in the original tongue, was,
according to Zuinglius, the basis of the Reformation.

Zuinglins did more than recognise, at this early period, the great principle of
evangelical Christianity—the infallible authority of the Holy Scriptures.
Besides this, he understood how the meaning of the divine Word ought to be
ascertained. “Those,” said he, “have a very grovelling idea of the Scriptures
who regard whatever seems to them at variance with their own reason as
frivolous, vain, and unjust. Men have no right to bind the gospel at pleasure to
their own sense, and their own interpretation.”5 “Zuinglius raised his eye to
heaven,” said his dearest friend, “unwilling to have any other interpreter than
the Holy Spirit himself.”

Such, from the commencement of his career, was the man whom some have not
scrupled to represent as having wished to subject the Bible to human reason.
“Philosophy and theology,” said he, “ceased not to raise up objections against
me. I, at length, arrived at this conclusion, ‘We must leave all these things,
and seek our knowledge of God only in his Word.’ I began,” continues he,
“earnestly to supplicate the Lord to give me his light, and though I read only
the text of Scripture, it became far clearer to me than if I had read a host of
commentators.” Comparing the Scriptures with themselves and explaining passages
that were obscure by such as were more clear, he soon had a thorough knowledge
of the Bible, especially the New Testament.

2 When Zuinglius thus turned toward the Holy Scriptures, Switzerland took her
first step in the Reformation. Accordingly, when he expounded the Scriptures,
every one felt that his lessons came from God, and not from man. “Work all
divine!” here exlaims Oswald Myconius; “thus was the knowledge of heavenly truth
restored to us!”

Zuinglius did not, however, despise the expositions of the most celebrated
doctors: at a later period, he studied Origen, Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine,
Chrysostom, but not as authorities. “I study the doctors,” says he, “with the
same feelings with which one asks a friend, ‘What do you understand by this?’ ”
The Holy Scripture was, according to him, the touch-stone by which the most holy
of the doctors were themselves to be tested.

Zuinglius’s step was slow, but progressive. He did not come to the truth like
Luther amid those tempests which compel the soul to seek a speedy shelter. He
arrived at it by the peaceful influence of Scripture, whose power gradually
gains upon the heart. Luther reached the wished-for shore across the billows of
the boundless deep; Zuinglius, by allowing himself to glide along the stream.
These are the two principal ways by which God leads men. Zuinglius was not fully
converted to God and his gospel till the first period of his sojourn at Zurich;
yet, in 1514 or 1515, at the moment when the strong man began to bend the knee
to God, praying for the understanding of his Word, the rays of that pure light
by which he was afterwards illumined, first began to gleam upon him. At this
period, a poem of Erasmus, in which Jesus Christ was introduced addressing man
as perishing by his own fault, made a powerful impression on Zuinglius. When
alone in his study, he repeated the passage in which Jesus complains that all
grace is not sought from him, though he is the source of all that is good.
“All!” said Zuinglius, “All!” And this word was incessantly present to his mind.
“Are there then creatures, saints, from whom we ought to ask assistance? No!
Christ is our only treasure.”

Zuinglius did not confine his reading to Christian writings. One of the
distinguishing characteristics of the sixteenth century is the profound study of
the Greek and Roman authors. The poetry of Hesiod, Homer, Pindar, enraptured
him, and he has left us commentaries, or characteristics, on the two last poets.
It seemed to him that Pindar spoke of his gods in such sublime strains that he
must have had some presentiment of the true God. He studied Cicero and
Demosthenes thoroughly, and learned from them both the art of the orator and the
duties of the citizen. He called Seneca a holy man. The Swiss mountaineer loved
also to initiate himself in the mysteries of nature, through the writings of
Pliny. Thucydides, Sallust, Livy, Cæsar, Suetonius, Plutarch, and Tacitus,
taught him to know the world. He has been censured for his enthusiastic
admiration of the great men of antiquity, and it is true that some of his
observations on this subject cannot be defended. But if he honoured them so
much, it was because he thought he saw in them not human virtues, but the
influence of the Holy Spirit. The agency of God, far from confining itself to
ancient times within the limits of Palestine, extended, according to him, to the
whole world. “Plato,” said he, “has also drunk at the Divine source. And if the
two Catos, if Camillus, if Scipio had not been truly religious, would they have
been so magnanimous?”2

Zuinglius diffused around him a love of letters. Several choice youths were
trained in his school. “You offered me not only books, but also yourself,” wrote
Valentine Tschudi, son of one of the heroes of the wars of Burgundy; and this
young man, who at that time had already studied at Vienna and Bâle, under the
most celebrated teachers, adds, “I have never met with any one who explained the
classics with so much precision and profundity as yourself.” Tschudi repaired to
Paris, and was able to compare the spirit which prevailed in that university,
with that which he had found in the narrow Alpine valley, over which impend the
gigantic peaks and eternal snows of the Dodi, the Glarnisch, the Viggis, and the
Freyberg. “How frivolously,” says he, “the French youth are educated! No poison
is so bad as the sophistical art in which they are trained—an art which
stupifies the senses, destroys the judgment, brutifies the whole man. Man is
thenceforth, like the echo, an empty sound. Ten women could not keep pace with
one of these rhetoricians. In their prayers even they present their sophisms to
God, (I know the fact,) and pretend, by their syllogisms, to constrain the Holy
Spirit to hear them.” Such, then, were Paris and Glaris; the intellectual
metropolis of Christendom, and a village of Alpine shepherds. A ray of the
Divine Word gives more light than all human wisdom.


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  CHAPTER 86: CHAPTER IV
========================================================================

Zuinglius in regard to Erasmus—Oswald Myconius—The
Vagrants—Œcolampadius—Zuinglius at Marignan—Zuinglius and Italy—Method of
Zuinglius—Commencement of Reform—Discovery. A great man of this age, Erasmus,
had much influence on Zuinglius, who, as soon as any of his writings appeared,
lost no time in procuring it. In 1514, Erasmus had arrived at Bâle, and been
received by the bishop with marks of high esteem. All the friends of letters had
immediately grouped around him. But the monarch of the schools had no difficulty
in singling out him who was to be the glory of Switzerland. “I congratulate the
Swiss nation,” wrote he to Zuinglius, “that by your studies and your manners,
both alike excellent, you labour to polish and elevate them.” Zuinglius had a
most ardent desire to see him. “Spaniards and Gauls went to Rome to see Titus
Livy,” said he. He set out, and on arriving at Bâle, found a personage of about
forty years of age, of small stature, a frail body, a delicate look, but a
remarkably amiable and winning address.3 It was Erasmus. His affability removed
the timidity of Zuinglius, while the power of his intellect overawed him.
“Poor,” said Ulric to him, “as Eschines, when each of the scholars of Socrates
offered a present to his master, I give you what Eschines gave—I give you
myself.”

Among the literary men who formed the court of Erasmus, the Amerbachs, the
Rhenans, the Frobeniuses, the Nessens, the Glareans, Zuinglius observed a youth
from Lucerne, of twenty-seven years of age, named Oswald Geisshüsler. Erasmus
hellenising his name, had called him Myconius. We will often designate him by
his surname, to distinguish the friend of Zuinglius from Frederick Myconius, the
disciple of Luther. Oswald, after studying first at Rothwyl with Berthold
Haller, a young man of his own age, next at Berne, and lastly at Bâle, had in
this last town been appointed rector of the school of St. Theodoret, and
afterwards of that of St. Peter. The humble schoolmaster had a very limited
income; but, notwithstanding, had married a young girl of a simplicity and
purity of soul which won all hearts. We have already seen that Switzerland was
then in a troubled state, foreign wars having stirred up violent disorders, and
the soldiers having brought back to their country licentiousness and brutality.
One dark and cloudy winter day, some of these rude men, in Oswald’s absence,
attacked his quiet dwelling. They knocked at the door, threw stones, and applied
the grossest expressions to his modest spouse. At last they burst open the
windows, and having forced their way into the school and broken every thing to
pieces, made off. Oswald arrived shortly after. His little boy, Felix, ran out
to meet him crying, while his wife, unable to speak, showed signs of the
greatest terror. He understood what had happened, and at that moment, hearing a
noise in the street, unable to restrain himself, he seized a musket, and pursued
the villains as far as the burying ground. They retreated, intending to defend
themselves. Three of them rushed upon Myconius and wounded him, and, while his
wound was being dressed, these wretches again attacked his house, uttering cries
of fury. Oswald says no more of the matter. Such scenes frequently occurred in
Switzerland at the beginning of the sixteenth century, before the Reformation
had softened and disciplined manners. The integrity of Oswald Myconius, his
thirst for science and virtue, brought him into connection with Zuinglius. The
rector of the school of Bâle was alive to all that was grand in the curate or
Glaris. Full of humility, he shunned the praises bestowed upon him by Zuinglius
and Erasmus. “You schoolmasters,” often said the latter, “I esteem as highly as
I do kings.” But the modest Myconius did not think so. “I only crawl along the
ground,” said he. “From infancy I had always a feeling of littleness and
humility.” A preacher who had arrived at Bâle about the same time as Zuinglius
was attracting attention. Of a mild and pacific disposition, he led a tranquil
life; slow and circumspect in conduct, his chief pleasure was to labour in his
study, and produce concord among Christians. He was named John Hausschein, in
Greek Œcolampadius, that is, “light of the house,” and was born of wealthy
parents in Franconia, a year before Zuinglius. His pious mother longed to
consecrate to literature and to God the only child whom He had left her. The
father intended him first for a mercantile life, then for law. But as
Œcolampadius was returning from Bologna, where he had been studying law, the
Lord, who designed to make him a lamp in the Church, called him to the study of
theology. He was preaching in his native town when Capito, who had known him at
Heidelberg, procured his appointment as preacher at Bâle. There he proclaimed
Christ with an eloquence which filled his hearers with admiration.2 Erasmus
admitted him to his intimacy. Œcolampadius was enraptured with the hours which
he spent in the society of this great genius. “In the Holy Scriptures,” said the
prince of literature, “one thing only ought to be sought, viz., Jesus Christ.”
As a memento of his friendship he gave the young preacher the commencement of
John’s Gospel. Œcolampadius often kissed this precious pledge of affection, and
kept it suspended to his crucifix, “in order,” said he, “that I may always
remember Erasmus in my prayers.”

Zuinglius returned to his mountains, his mind and heart full of all that he had
seen and heard at Bâle. “I could not sleep,” wrote he to Erasmus, shortly after
his return, “if I had not conversed for some time with you. There is nothing of
which I boast so much as of having seen Erasmus.” Zuinglius had received a new
impulse. Such journeys often exercise a great influence over the career of the
Christian. The disciples of Zuinglius—Valentin, Jost, Louis, Peter, and Ægidius
Tschudi; his friends, the landăman Æbli, the curate, Binzli of Wesen. Fridolin
Brunnen, and the celebrated professor Glarean, saw with admiration how he grew
in wisdom and knowledge. The old honoured him as a courageous servant of his
country, and faithful pastors honoured him as a faithful servant of the Lord.
Nothing was done in the district without taking his advice. All the good hoped
that he would one day restore the ancient virtue of the Swiss.

Francis I, having mounted the throne and being desirous to vindicate the honour
of the French name in Italy, the pope in alarm laboured to gain the cantons.
Accordingly, in 1515, Ulric revisited the plains of Italy amid the phalanxes of
his fellow-citizens. But the division which French intrigues produced in the
army stung him to the heart. He was often seen in the middle of the camp
energetically, and at the same time wisely, haranguing his hearers in full
armour ready for battle. On the 8th September, five days before the battle of
Marignan, he preached in the public square of Monza, where the Swiss soldiers,
who remained true to their colours, had reassembled. “Had the counsels of
Zuinglius been followed then and afterwards,” says Werner Steiner of Zug, “what
evils would not our country have been saved!” But all ears were shut to words of
concord, prudence, and submission. The vehement eloquence of Cardinal Schinner
electrified the confederates, and hurried them impetuously to the fatal field of
Marignan. There fell the flower of the Helvetic youth. Zuinglius, who had been
unable to prevent all these disasters, threw himself, for the cause of Rome,
into the midst of danger. His hand seized the sword. Sad error of Zuinglius! A
minister of Christ, he more than once forgot that it was his duty to fight only
with spiritual weapons, and he was to see in his own person a striking
fulfilment of our Saviour’s prophecy, He who takes the sword shall perish by the
sword.

Zuinglius and his Swiss had been unable to save Rome. The ambassador of venice
was the first in the pontifical city who received news of the defeat of
Marignan. Delighted, he repaired at an early hour to the Vatican. The pope came
out of his apartment half dressed to give him an audience. Leo X, on learning
the news, did not disguise his terror. At this moment of alarm he saw only
Francis I, and hoped only in him. “Ambassador,” said he trembling to Zorsi, “we
must throw ourselves into the arms of the king, and cry for mercy.” Luther and
Zuinglius in their danger knew another arm, and invoked another mercy. This
second sojourn in Italy was not without use to Zuinglius. He observed the
differences between the Ambrosian ritual used at Milan and that of Rome. He
collected and compared together the most ancient canons of the mass. In this way
a spirit of enquiry was developed in him even amid the tumult of camps. At the
same time the sight of his countrymen led away beyond the Alps, and given up,
like cattle, to the slaughter, filled him with indignation. “The flesh of the
confederates,” it was said, “is cheaper than that of their oxen and their
calves.” The disloyalty and ambition of the pope, the avarice and ignorance of
the priests, the licentiousness and dissipation of the monks, the pride and
luxury of prelates, the corruption and venality employed on all hands to win the
Swiss, being forced on his view more strongly than ever, made him still more
alive to the necessity of a reform in the Church. From this time Zuinglius
preached the Word of God more clearly. In explaining the portions of the gospel
and epistles selected for public worship, he always compared Scripture with
Scripture. He spoke with animation and force,2 and followed with his hearers the
same course which God was following with him. He did not, like Luther, proclaim
the sores of the Church; but as often as the study of the Bible suggested some
useful instruction to himself, he communicated it to his hearers. He tried to
make them receive the truth into their hearts, and then trusted to it for the
works which it behoved to produce. “If they understand what is true,” thought
he, “they will discern what is false.” This maxim is good at the commencement of
a Reformation, but a time comes when error must be boldly stigmatised. This
Zuinglius knew very well. “The spring,” said he, “is the season to sow;” and
with him it was now spring.

Zuinglius has marked out this period (1516) as the commencement of the Swiss
Reformation. In fact, if four years before he had bent his head over the Word of
God, he now raised it, and turned it toward his people, to make them share in
the light which he had found. This forms a new and important epoch in the
history of the development of the religious revolution of those countries, but
it has been erroneously concluded, from these dates, that the Reformation of
Zuinglius preceded that of Luther. It may be that Zuinglius preached the gospel
a year before Luther’s Theses, but Luther himself preached it four years before
these famous propositions. Had Luther and Zuinglius confined themselves merely
to sermons, the Reformation would not have so quickly gained ground in the
Church. Neither Luther nor Zuinglius was the first monk or the first priest who
preached a purer doctrine than that of the schoolmen. But Luther was the first
who publicly, and with indomitable courage, raised the standard of truth against
the empire of error, called general attention to the fundamental doctrine of the
gospel—salvation by grace, introduced his age to that new career of knowledge,
faith, and life, out of which a new world has arisen; in a word, began a true
and salutary revolution. The great struggle, of which the Theses of 1517 were
the signal, was truly the birth-throe of the Reformation, giving it at once both
a body and a soul. Luther was the first Reformer. A spirit of enquiry began to
breathe on the mountains of Switzerland. One day the curate of Glaris, happening
to be in the smiling district of Mollis, with Adam its curate, Bunzli, curate of
Wesen, and Varachon, curate of Kerensen, these friends discovered an old
liturgy, in which they read these words: “After baptising the child, we give him
the sacrament of the Eucharist and the cup of blood.” “Then,” said Zuinglius,
“the supper was at that period dispensed in our churches under the two kinds.”
The liturgy was about two hundred years old. This was a great disvery for these
priests of the Alps. The defeat of Marignan had important results in the
interior of the cantons. The conqueror, Francis I, lavished gold and flattery in
order to gain the confederates, while the emperor besought them by their honour,
by the tears of widows and orphans, and the blood of their brethren, not to sell
themselves to their murderers. The French party gained the ascendancy at Glaris,
which, from that time, was an uncomfortable residence to Ulric.

Zuinglius, at Glaris, might perhaps have remained a man of the world. Party
intrigues, political questions, the empire, France, or the Duke of Milan, might
have absorbed his whole life. Those whom God means to prepare for great services
he never leaves amid the turmoil of the world. He leads them apart, and places
them in a retreat where they commune with Him and their own consciences, and
receive lessons never to be effaced. The Son of God himself, who in this was a
type of the training given to his servants, spent forty days in the desert. It
was time to remove Zuinglius from political movements, which, continually
pressing upon his thoughts, might have banished the Spirit of God from them. It
was time to train him for another stage than that on which courtiers, cabinets,
and parties move, and where he should have wasted powers worthy of nobler
employment. His country, indeed, needed something else. It was necessary that a
new life should now come down from heaven, and that he who was to be the
instrument in communicating it should unlearn worldly things, in order to learn
things above. The two spheres are entirely distinct; a wide space separates
these two worlds, and before passing entirely from the one to the other,
Zuinglius was to sojourn for a time on neutral ground, in a kind of intermediate
and preparatory state, to be there taught of God. God accordingly took him away
from the factions of Glaris; and, with a view to this noviciate, placed him in
the solitude of a hermitage—confining within the narrow walls of an abbey this
noble germ of the Reformation, which was shortly after to be transplanted to a
better soil, and cover the mountains with its shadow.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 87: CHAPTER V
========================================================================

Meinrad of Hohenzollern—Our Lady of Einsidlen—Calling of Zuinglius—The
Abbot—Geroldsek—Companionship in Study—The Bible copied—Zuinglius and
Superstition—First Opposition to Error—Sensation—Hedio—Zuinglius and the
Legates—The Honours of Rome—The Bishop of Constance—Samson and
Indulgences—Stapfer—Charity of Zuinglius—His Friends.

Meinrad of Hohenzollern, a German monk, about the middle of the ninth century,
wandering on till he came between the lakes of Zurich and Wallstetten, had
stopped upon a hill, resting on an amphitheatre of firs, and there built a cell.
Banditti imbrued their hands in the blood of the saint. The bloody cell was long
deserted, but towards the end of the tenth century, a convent and a church, in
honour of the Virgin, were erected on the sacred spot. On the eve of the day of
consecration, when the Bishop of Constance and his priests were at prayers in
the church, a celestial chant, proceeding from invisible voices, suddenly echoed
through the chapel. They prostrated themselves and listened in amaze. The next
day, when the bishop was going to consecrate the chapel, a voice repeated
thrice, “Stop, brother, stop! God himself has consecrated it!” It was said, that
Christ in person had blessed it during the night, that the chant which they had
heard proceeded from angels, apostles, and saints, and that the Virgin, standing
upon the altar, had blazed forth like a flash of lightning. A bull of Pope Leo
VII forbade the faithful to question the truth of this legend. Thenceforward an
immense crowd of pilgrims ceased not to repair to Our Lady of the Eremites to
the “consecration of angels.” Delphi and Ephesus, in ancient, and Loretto in
modern times, alone have equalled the fame of Einsidlen. It was in this strange
place that, in 1516, Ulric Zuinglius was called as priest and preacher.

Zuinglius hesitated not. “Neither ambition nor avarice takes me there,” said he;
“but the intrigues of the French.” Higher motives determined him. On the one
hand, having more solitude, more calmness, and, a less extensive parish, he
could devote more time to study and meditation; on the other hand, this place of
pilgrimage would give him facilities for spreading the knowledge of Jesus Christ
to the remotest countries. The friends of evangelical preaching at Glaris
expressed deep grief. “What worse could happen to Glaris,” said Peter Tschudi,
one of the most distinguished citizens of the canton, “than to be deprived of so
great a man.” His parishioners finding him immovable, resolved to leave him the
title of pastor of Glaris, with part of the benefice, and the means of returning
when he chose.3

Conrad of Rechberg, a gentleman of ancient family, grave, candid, intrepid, and
occasionally somewhat rude, was one of the most celebrated sportsmen of the
district to which Zuinglius was removed. He had established on one of his farms
a manêge in which he reared a breed of horses which became celebrated in Italy.
Such was the abbot of our Lady of the Eremites. Rechberg was equally averse to
the pretensions of Rome and the discussions of theologians. One day, during a
visitation of the Order, some observations were made to him. “I am master here,
not you,” said he, somewhat rudely; “get along.” One day at table when Leo Juda
was discussing some difficult point with the administrator of the convent, the
hunting abbot exclaimed, “You, there, leave your disputes to me. I exclaim with
David, ‘Have pity on me, O God, according to thy goodness, and enter not into
judgment with thy servant.’ I have no need to know any more.”

Baron Theobald of Geroldsek was administrator of the monastery. He was is of a
meek spirit, sincerely pious, and had a great love of literature. His favourite
design was to form a society of well-informed men in his convent; and it was for
this reason he had given a call to Zuinglius. Eager for instruction and reading,
he begged his new friend to direct him. “Read the Holy Scriptures,” replied
Zuinglius, “and that you may the better understand them, study Jerome. However,”
added he, “the time will come, (and, by God’s help, it is not far off,) when
Christians will not set a high value either on Jerome or any other doctor, but
only on the word of God. The conduct of Geroldsek gave indication of his
progress in the faith. He allowed the nuns of a convent dependent on Einsidlen
to read the Bible in the vulgar tongue; and, some years after, Geroldsek came to
live at Zurich beside Zuinglius, and to die with him on the field of Cappel. The
charm which hung about Zuinglius soon united him in tender friendship, not only
with Geroldsek, but also the chaplain Zink, the excellent Œxlin, and other
inmates of the abbey. These studious men, far from the noise of party, joined
together in reading the Scriptures, the Fathers of the Church, the master-pieces
of antiquity, and the writings of the restorers of letters. This interesting
society was often enlarged by friends from a distance. Among others, Capito one
day arrived at Einsidlen. The two old friends of Bâle walked together over the
convent and the wild scenery in its neighbourhood, absorbed in conversation,
examining the Scriptures, and seeking to know the Divine will. There was a point
on which they were agreed, and it was this—“The pope of Rome must fall.” At this
time Capito was more courageous than he was at a later period.

Repose, leisure, books, friends—all these Zuinglius had in this tranquil
retreat—and he accordingly grew in understanding and in faith. At this period
(May, 1517) he commenced a work which was of great utility to him. As in old
time the kings of Israel wrote the law of God with their own hand, so Zuinglius
with his copied the Epistles of St. Paul. The only editions of the New Testament
then in existence were of large size, and Zuinglius wished to have one which he
could carry about with him. These Epistles he learned by heart, as he did
afterwards the other books of the New, and a part of the Old Testament. Thus his
heart became always more attached to the sovereign authority of the Word of God.
He was not satisfied with merely acknowledging this; he was, moreover, desirous
to bring his life into true subjection to it. His views gradually became more
decidedly Christian. The end for which he had been brought into this desert was
accomplished. It is no doubt true that Zurich is the place where his whole soul
became thoroughly pervaded with Christian principle; but even now at Einsidlen
he made decided progress in the work of sanctification. At Glaris he had taken
part in the amusements of the world; at Einsidlen he was more anxious for a life
unsullied by any taint of worldliness. Beginning to have a better idea of the
great spiritual interests of the people, he gradually learned what God designed
to teach him.

Providence had also other views in bringing him to Einsidlen. Here he obtained a
nearer view of the superstitions and abuses which had invaded the Church. An
image of the Virgin which was carefully preserved in this monastery, had, it was
said, the power of working miracles. Above the gate of the Abbey appeared this
presumptuous inscription:—“Here is obtained a plenary remission of all sins.” A
multitude of pilgrims flocked to Einsidlen from all parts of Christendom, to
merit this grace by their pilgrimage. The church, the abbey, and the whole
valley were crowded with devout worshippers on the festivals of the Virgin. But
it was especially at the grand festival of “the consecration of the angels,”
that the hermitage was crowded to overflowing. Thousands of individuals of both
sexes climbed the acclivity of the hill leading to the oratory, singing hymns
and counting their beads. These devout pilgrims crowded into the Church,
thinking they were there nearer God than any where else. The residence of
Zuinglius at Einsidlen was, in regard to the exposure of papal abuses, similar
in effect to Luther’s visit to Rome. Zuinglius’ education for reformer was
completed at Einsidlen. God alone is the source of salvation, and he is so every
where,—these were the two truths which he learned at Einsidlen, and they became
fundamental articles in his creed. The serious impression produced on his soul
soon manifested itself externally. Struck with the many prevailing evils, he
resolved to oppose them boldly. Not hesitating between his conscience and his
interest, he stood up openly, and, in plain and energetic terms, attacked the
superstition of the surrounding crowds: “Think not,” said he from the pulpit,
“that God is in this temple more than in any other part of his creation.
Whatever be the country in which you dwell, God encompasses you, and hears you
as well as in our Lady of Einsidlen. Can useless works, long pilgrimages,
offerings, images, the invocation of the Virgin, or the saints, obtain the grace
of God?… What avails the multitude of words in which we embody our prayers? What
avails a glossy hood—a head well shaven—a long robe with its neat folds, and
mules caparisoned with gold? God looks to the heart, but our heart is alienated
from God.” But Zuinglius wished to do more than lift his voice against
superstition. He wished to satisfy that eager longing for reconciliation with
God, felt by many of the pilgrims who had flocked to the chapel of our Lady of
Einsidlen. “Christ,” cried he, like a John Baptist in this new wilderness of
Judea, “Christ, who was once offered on the cross, is the expiatory victim, who,
even through eternity, makes satisfaction for the sins of all believers.” Thus
Zuinglius advanced. The day when this bold sermon was heard in the most
venerated sanctuary of Switzerland, the standard prepared against Rome began to
be more distinctly displayed on its mountain heights, and there was, so to
speak, a heaving of reform reaching even to their deepest foundations. In fact,
universal astonishment seized the multitude on hearing the discourse of the
eloquent priest. Some walked off in horror; others hesitated between the faith
of their fathers and the doctrine fitted to secure their peace, while several
came to Jesus Christ who was thus preached to them, and finding rest to their
souls, took back the tapers which they had intended to present to the Virgin. A
crowd of pilgrims returned to their homes, announcing every where what they had
heard at Einsidlen. “Christ alone saves, and saves everywhere.” Bands,
astonished at what they heard, stopped short without finishing their pilgrimage.
The worshippers of Mary diminished from day to day. Their offerings formed
almost the whole income of Zuinglius and Geroldsek; but the intrepid witness of
the truth felt happy to be impoverished in order that souls might be spiritually
enriched.

During the feast of Pentecost, in the year 1518, among the numerous hearers of
Zuinglius, was a learned man of meek temper and active charity, named Gaspard
Hedio, doctor of theology at Bâle. Zuinglius preached on the cure of the
paralytic, (Luke 5:1-39) where our Saviour declares, “The Son of Man hath power
upon earth to forgive sins,” words well fitted to strike the crowd assembled in
the Church of the Virgin. The preacher roused, enraptured, and inflamed his
audience, especially the doctor from Bâle. A long time after, Hedio expressed
his high admiration; “How beautiful,” said he, “this discourse, how profound,
weighty, complete, penetrating, and evangelical; how much it reminds one of the
ενεργειυ (energy) of the ancient doctors. From that moment Hedio admired and
loved Zuinglius.3 He would fain have gone to him, and opened his heart; he
wandered around the abbey but durst not approach, kept back, as he expresses it,
by a superstitious timidity. He again mounted his horse and slowly retired from
our Lady, ever and again turning his head to the spot which contained so great a
treasure, and feeling in his heart the keenest regret.

Thus Zuinglius preached; less forcibly, no doubt, than Luther, but with more
moderation, and not less success. He did nothing precipitately, and did not come
so violently into collision with men’s minds as the Saxon Reformer; he expected
every thing from the power of truth. He displayed the same wisdom in his
relations with the heads of the Church. Far from immediately declaring himself
their enemy, he long remained their friend. They were exceedingly indulgent to
him, not only because of his learning and talents, (Luther had the same claims
to the regard of the bishops of Mentz and Brandenburg,) but especially because
of his attachment to the pope’s political party, and the influence possessed by
such a man as Zuinglius in a republican state. In fact, several cantons,
disgusted with the service of the pope, were disposed to break with him But the
legates flattered themselves they might retain several of them by gaining
Zuinglius, as they gained Erasmus, with pensions and honours. At this time the
legates, Ennius and Pucci, went frequently to Einsidlen, where from its
proximity to the democratic cantons, it was more easy to carry on negotiations
with them. But Zuinglius, far from sacrificing the truth to the demands and
offers of Rome, omitted no opportunity of defending the gospel. The famous
Schinner, who had then some disturbance in his diocese, passed some time at
Einsidlen. “The whole papacy,” said Zuinglius one day, “rests on a bad
foundation. Put your hand to the work, remove errors and abuses, or you will see
the whole edifice crumble to pieces with fearful uproar”2

He spoke with the same frankness to legate Pucci. Four times did he return to
the charge. “With the help of God,” said he to him, “I will continue to preach
the gospel, and this preaching will shake Rome.” Then he pointed out to him what
was necessary to save the Church. Pucci promised every thing, but did nothing.
Zuinglius declared that he renounced the pension from the pope. The legate
entreated him to retain it; and Zuinglius, who at that time had no thought of
placing himself in open hostility to the head of the Church, consented for three
years to receive it. “But think not,” added he, “that for the love of money I
retrench a single syllable of the truth.” Pucci, alarmed, made the Reformer be
appointed chaplain acolyte to the pope. It was an avenue to new honours. Rome
thought to frighten Luther by sentences of condemnation, and to win Zuinglius by
favours—darting her excommunications at the one, and displaying her gold and
magnificence to the other. She thus endeavoured, by two different methods, to
attain the same end, and silence the bold lips which dared, in spite of the
pope, to proclaim the Word of God in Germany and Switzerland. The latter method
was the more skilful, but neither of them succeeded. The enfranchised souls of
the preachers of truth were equally inaccessible to menace and favour.

Another Swiss prelate, Hugo of Landenberg, bishop of Constance, at this time
gave some hopes to Zuinglius. He ordered a general visitation of the churches.
But Landenberg, a man of no character, allowed himself to be led alternately by
Faber, his vicar, and by an abandoned female, from whose sway he was unable to
escape. He occasionally appeared to honour the gospel, and yet any one who
preached it boldly was in his eyes only a disturber. He was one of those men too
common in the Church, who, though loving truth better than error, have more
indulgence for error than for truth, and often end by turning against those with
whom they ought to make common cause. Zuinglius applied to him, but in vain. He
was to have the same experience which Luther had; to be convinced that it was
useless to invoke the heads of the Church, and that the only method of restoring
Christianity was to act as a faithful teacher of the Word of God. An opportunity
of doing so soon occurred. In August, 1518, a Franciscan monk was seen
travelling on the heights of St. Gothard, in those lofty passes which have been
laboriously cut across the steep rocks separating Switzerland from Italy. Having
come forth from an Italian convent, he was the bearer of papal indulgences which
he was commissioned to sell to the good Christians of the Helvetic league.
Brilliant success, obtained under two preceding popes, had signalised his
exertions in this shameful traffic. Companions, intended to puff off the
merchandise which he was going to sell, were accompanying him across mountains
of snow and ice coeval with the world. This avaricious band, in appearance
miserable enough, and not unlike a band of adventurers roaming for plunder,
walked in silence, amid the noise of the foaming torrents which give rise to the
Rhine, the Reuss, the Aar, the Rhone, the Tessino, and other rivers, meditating
how they were to plunder the simple population of Helvetia. Samson (this was the
Franciscan’s name) and his company first arrived in Uri, and there commenced
their traffic. They had soon done with these poor peasants, and passed into the
canton of Schwitz. Here Zuinglius was, and here the combat between these two
servants of two very different masters was to take place. “I can pardon all
sins,” said the Italian monk, the Tezel of Switzerland. “Heaven and hell are
subject to my power, and I sell the merits of Jesus Christ to whoever will
purchase them, by paying in cash for an indulgence.”

Zuinglius heard of these discourses, and his zeal was inflamed.

He preached powerfully against them. “Jesus Christ, the Son of God,” said he,
“thus speaks, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will
gve you rest.’ Is it not then audacious folly and insensate temerity to say on
the contrary, Purchase letters of indulgence! run to Rome! give to the monks!
sacrifice to the priests! If you do these things I will absolve you from your
sins! Jesus Christ is the only offering; Jesus Christ is the only sacrifice;
Jesus Christ is the only way.”2

Every body at Schwitz began to call Samson rogue and cheat. He took the road to
Zug, and for this time the two champions failed to meet.

Scarcely had Samson left Schwitz when a citizen of this canton, named Stapfer, a
man of distinguished talent, and afterward secretary of state, was with his
family reduced to great distress. “Alas,” said he, when applying in agony to
Zuinglius, “I know not how to satisfy my own hunger and the hunger of my poor
children.” Zuinglius knew to give where Rome knew to take; he was as ready to
practise good works, as to combat those who taught that they were the means of
obtaining salvation. He daily gave liberally to Stapfer.4 “It is God,” said he,
anxious not to take any glory to himself, “It is God who begets charity in the
believer, and gives him at once the thought, the resolution, and the work
itself. Whatever good a righteous man does it is God who does it by his own
power.” Stapfer remained attached to him through life; and, four years after,
when he had become secretary of state, and felt wants of a higher kind, he
turned towards Zuinglius, and said to him with noble candour, “Since you
provided for my temporal wants, how much more may I now expect from you
wherewith to appease the hunger of my soul!” The friends of Zuinglius increased.
Not only at Glaris, Bâle, and Schwitz, did he find men of like spirit with
himself; in Uri there was the secretary of state, Schmidt; at Zug, Colin Müller
and Werner Steiner, his old companions in arms at Marignan: at Lucerne, Xylotect
and Kilchmeyer; Wittembach at Berne, and many others in many other places. But
the curate of Einsidlen had no more devoted friend than Oswald Myconius. Oswald
had quitted Bâle in 1516, to take charge of the cathedral school at Zurich. In
this town there were no learned men, and no schools of learning. Oswald laboured
along with some well-disposed individuals, among others, Utinger, notary to the
pope, to raise the Zurich population out of ignorance and initiate them in
ancient literature. At the same time he defended the immutable truth of the Holy
Scriptures, and declared that if the pope or emperor gave commands contrary to
the gospel, obedience was due to God alone, who is above both emperor and pope.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 88: CHAPTER VI
========================================================================

Zurich—The College of Canons—Election to the
Cathedral—Fable—Accusations—Confession of Zuinglius—The Designs of God
Unfolded—Farewell to Einsidlen—Arrival at Zurich—Courageous Declaration of
Zuinglius—First Sermons—Effects—Opposition—Character of Zuinglius—Taste for
Music—Arrangement of the Day—Circulation by Hawkers.

Seven centuries had elapsed since Charlemagne had attached a college of canons
to this cathedral, over whose school Oswald Myconius then presided. These canons
having degenerated from their first institution, and desiring in their benefices
to enjoy the sweets of indolence, elected a priest to preach and take the cure
of souls. This situation having become vacant some time after Oswald’s arrival,
he immediately thought of his friend. What a prize it would be for Zurich!
Zuinglius’ appearance was prepossessing. He was a handsome man, of graceful
address, and pleasing manners. His eloquence had already given him celebrity,
while the lustre of his genius made him conspicuous among all the confederates.
Myconius spoke of him to the provost of the chapter, Felix Frey, (who from the
appearance and talents of Zuinglius was already prepossessed in his favour,)2 to
Utinger, an old man who was held in high respect, and to canon Hoffman, a man of
an upright open disposition, who, having long preached against foreign service,
was favourably inclined to Ulric. Other Zurichers had, on different occasions,
heard Zuinglius at Einsidlen, and had returned full of admiration. The election
of preacher to the cathedral soon set all the inhabitants of Zurich in motion.
Different parties were formed. Several laboured night and day for the election
of the eloquent preacher of Our Lady of the Eremites. Myconius having informed
his friend—“Wednesday next,” replied Zuinglius, “I will come and dine at Zurich,
and talk over matters.” He accordingly arrived. A canon to whom he was paying a
visit said to him, “Could you come among us to preach the word of God?” “I
could,” replied he; “but will not come unless I am called.” He then returned to
his abbey. This visit spread alarm in the camp of his enemies. Several priests
were urged to apply for the vacancy. A Suabian, named Laurent Fable, even
preached as a candidate, and the rumour went that he was elected. “It is then
quite true,” said Zuinglius, on learning it, “that a prophet has no honour in
his own country, since a Suabian is preferred to a Swiss. I know what value to
set on popular applause.” Zuinglius immediately after received a letter from the
secretary of Cardinal Schinner, informing him, that the election had not taken
place. But the false news which he had at first received nettled the curate of
Einsidlen. Knowing that a person so unworthy as this Fable aspired to the place,
he was more desirous to obtain it for himself, and wrote about it to Myconius,
who next day replied, “Fable will always continue fable: my masters have learned
that he is already the father of six boys, and possesses I know not how many
benefices.”2 The enemies of Zuinglius did not abandon their opposition. All, it
is true, agreed in extolling his learning to the skies; but said some, “He is
too fond of music;” others, “He loves the world and pleasure;” others again, “In
early life he was too closely connected with giddy companions.” There was even
one individual who charged him with an instance of seduction. Zuinglius was not
without blemish. Though superior to the ecclesiastics of his time he more than
once, in the first years of his ministry, gave way to youthful Propensities. It
is difficult to estimate the influence of an impure atmosphere on those who live
in it. There were in the papacy certain established irregularities, allowed and
sanctioned as conformable to the laws of nature. A saying of Æncas Sylvius,
afterwards pope under the name of Pius II, gives an idea of the sad state of
public morals at this period. We give it in a note.4 Disorder had become the
rule, order the exception.

Oswald displayed the greatest activity in favour of his friend. He exerted all
his powers in defending him, and happily succeeded. He went to burgomaster
Roust, to Hoffman, Frey, and Utinger. He praised Zuinglius for his probity,
honesty, and purity, and confirmed the Zurichers in the favourable opinion which
they had of the curate of Einsidlen. Little credit was given to the speeches of
his adversaries. The most influential persons said, that Zuinglius should be
preacher at Zurich. The canons said so also, but in a whisper. “Hope,” wrote
Oswald to him with a full heart, “for I hope.” At the same time he told him of
the accusations of his enemies. Although Zuinglius was not yet become altogether
a new man, he belonged to the class of those whose conscience is awakened, and
who may fall into sin, but never without a struggle, or without remorse. It had
often been his resolution to stand alone in the midst of the world, and maintain
a life of holiness. But when he saw himself accused, he did not pretend to boast
that he was without sin. Writing to canon Utinger, he said. “Having nobody to go
along with me in the resolutions which I had formed, several even of those about
me, being offended at them, alas! I fell, and like the dog of whom St. Peter
speaks, (2 Peter 2:22) returned to my vomit. Ah! God knows with what shame and
anguish I have torn up these faults from the depths of my heart, and laid them
before Almighty God, to whom, however, I would be less afraid to confess my
misery than to mortal man.”2 But while Zuinglius confessed himself to be a
sinner, he, at the same time vindicated himself from the most offensive charges
which were brought against him. He declared that he had ever abhorred the idea
of invading the sanctity of married life, or seducing innocence,—vices at that
time but too common. “or the truth of this,” says he, “I appeal to all with whom
I have lived.”4 The election took place on the 11th December, and out of the
twenty-four votes which were given, Zuinglius had seventeen. It was time that
the Reformation should begin in Switzerland. The chosen instrument which Divine
Providence had been preparing during three years in the retreat of Einsidlen,
was ready and must now be translated elsewhere. God, who had chosen the new
university of Wittemberg, situated in the heart of Germany, and under the
protection of the wisest of princes, to call Luther thither, made choice in
Switzerland of the city of Zurich, regarded as the head of the confederation,
there to station Zuinglius, and to bring him into contact not only with one of
the most intelligent, simple, resolute, and intrepid communities of Switzerland,
but also with all the cantons which are grouped around this ancient and powerful
state. The hand which had taken hold of a young shepherd of Sentis, and led him
to the school of Wesen, now brought him forward, powerful in word and in deed,
in the face of all, to regenerate his countrymen. Zurich was about to become a
focus of light to Switzerland. The day which announced the election of Zuinglius
was to Einsidlen a day at once of joy and grief. The circle which had been
formed there was about to be broken up by the withdrawal of its most valuable
member, and who could say whether superstition was not going again to take
possession of this ancient place of pilgrimage?… The council of state in Schwitz
conveyed the expression of its sentiments to Ulric by designating him as
“reverend, learned, most gracious master, and good friend.” “At least do you
yourself give us a successor worthy of you,” said Geroldsek in despair to
Zuinglius. “I have got for you,” replied he, “a little lion, simple and wise; a
man initiated in the mysteries of sacred science.” “Let me have him,”
immediately rejoined the administrator. It was Leo Juda, at once the gentle and
intrepid friend with whom Zuinglius had been so intimate at Bâle. Leo accepted
the call which brought him near his dear Ulric. Ulric took farewell of his
friends, quitted the solitude of Einsidlen, and arrived at that delightful spot
where, smiling and instinct with life, rises the town of Zurich, surrounded by
its amphitheatre of vine-clad hills, enamelled with meadows and orchards,
crowned with forests, and overtopped by the lofty peaks of the Albis.

Zurich, the centre of the political interests of Switzerland, where the most
influential persons in the nation frequently assembled, was the place best
fitted to act upon the whole country, and shed the seeds of truth over all its
cantons. Accordingly, the friends of letters and the Bible hailed the
appointment of Zuinglius with acclamation. At Paris, in particular, the Swiss
students, who were there in great numbers, were enraptured with the news. But if
Zuinglius had the prospect of a great victory at Zurich, he had also the
prospect of a severe contest. Glarean wrote him from Paris, “I foresee that your
learning will stir up great enmity;3 but be of good courage, and you will, like
Hercules, subdue monsters.” On the 27th December, 1518, Zuinglius arrived at
Zurich, and took up his quarters at the hotel of Einsidlen. He received a
cordial and honourable welcome. The chapter immediately met to receive him, and
invited him to take his seat in the midst of them. Felix Frey presided; the
canons, friendly or hostile to Zuinglius, sat indiscriminately around their
provost. There was considerable excitement in the meeting; every one felt,
perhaps without distinctly acknowledging it to himself, how serious the
commencement of this ministry was likely to prove. Some apprehension being
entertained of the innovating spirit of the young priest, it was agreed to set
before him the most important duties of his office. “You will use your utmost
endeavour,” he was gravely told, “to secure payment of the revenues of the
chapter, without neglecting the least of them. You will exhort the faithful both
from the pulpit and in the confessional, to pay the first fruits and tithes, and
to show by their offerings that they love the Church. You will make it your
business to increase the revenues which are derived from the sick, from
sacrifices, and generally from every ecclesiastical act.” The chapter added, “As
to the administration of the sacraments, preaching, and personal presence, amid
the flock, these too are duties of the priest. However, in these different
respects, and particularly in regard to preaching, you may supply your place by
a vicar. You should administer the sacraments only to persons of distinction,
and after being requested. You are expressly forbidden to do it to all persons
indiscriminately.”

Strange rule to be given to Zuinglius! Money, money, still money!… Was it then
for this that Christ established his ministry? Still prudence tempers his zeal;
he knows that we cannot all at once deposit the seed in the ground, see the
growth of the tree, and gather its fruit. Zuinglius, therefore, without
explaining his views on what was enjoined him, humbly expressed his gratitude
for the honourable appointment which he had received, and stated what he
calculated on being able to do. “The life of Jesus,” said he, “has been too long
hidden from the people. I will preach on the whole gospel of St. Matthew,
chapter by chapter, following the mind of the Holy Spirit, drawing only at the
wellsprings of Scripture, digging deep into it, and seeking the understanding of
it by persevering fervent prayer.3 I will consecrate my ministry to the glory of
God; the praise of His only Son; the real salvation of souls, and their
instruction in the true faith.” This new language made a deep impression on the
chapter. Some expressed joy, but the majority openly disapproved.5 “This mode of
preaching is an innovation,” exclaimed they, “this innovation will soon lead to
others, and where is it to stop?” Canon Hoffman in particular thought it his
duty to prevent the fatal effects of a choice which he had himself patronised.
“This exposition of Scripture,” said he, “will be more hurtful than useful to
the people.” “It is not a new method,” replied Zuinglius, “it is the ancient
method. Recollect the homilies of St. Chrysostom on St. Matthew, and of St.
Augustine on St. John. Besides, I will use moderation, and give none any reason
to complain.”

Thus Zuinglius abandoned the exclusive use of fragments of the gospel as
practised since the days of Charlemagne; re-establishing the Scripture in its
ancient rights, he, from the commencement of his ministry, united the
Reformation to the primitive ages of Christianity, and prepared a more profound
study of the Word of God for ages to come. But he did more. The strong and
independent position which he took up in the face of the Church showed that the
work in which he had engaged was new. The figure of the Reformer stood out in
bold relief to the public eye, and the Reformation advanced.

Hoffman, having failed in the chapter, addressed a written request to the
provost to prohibit Zuinglius from shaking the popular, belief. The provost sent
for the new preacher, and spoke to him with great kindness. But no human power
could close his lips. On the 31st December, he wrote to the council of Glaris,
that he entirely resigned the cure of souls which had hitherto been reserved for
him, and gave himself wholly to Zurich, and to the work which God was preparing
for him in this town. On Saturday, being new-year’s-day, and also the birthday
of Zuinglius, who had completed his thirty-fifth year, he mounted the pulpit of
the cathedral. A great crowd, eager to see a man who had already acquired so
much celebrity, and to hear this new gospel, of which every one began to speak,
filled the church. “It is to Christ,” said Zuinglius, “that I wish to conduct
you; to Christ, the true source of salvation. His divine word is the only
nourishment which I would give to your heart and life.” Then he announced that
to-morrow, the first Sunday of the year, he would begin to expound the gospel
according to St. Matthew. Accordingly, the preacher, and a still larger audience
than the day before, were at their posts. Zuinglius opened the gospel—the gospel
which had so long been a sealed book—and read the first page, going over the
history of the patriarchs and prophets mentioned in the-first chapter of St.
Matthew, and expounding it in such a way that all were astonished and delighted,
and exclaimed, “We never heard anything like this.”

He continued thus to expound St. Matthew, according to the original Greek. He
showed how the whole Bible found at once its exposition and its application in
the very nature of man. Delivering the loftiest truths of the gospel in simple
language, his preaching reached all classes, the learned and the wise, as well
as the ignorant and simple. He extolled the infinite mercies of God the Father,
and implored all his hearers to put their confidence m Jesus Christ alone as the
only Saviour.2 At the same time, he earnestly called them to repentance;
forcibly attacked the errors which prevailed among the people; fearlessly
rebuked luxury, intemperance, extravagance in dress, the oppression of the poor,
idleness, foreign service, and foreign pensions. “In the pulpit,” says one of
his companions, “he spared no one, pope, emperor, kings, dukes, princes, lords,
not even the confederates. All his energy, and all the joy of his heart were in
God: accordingly he exhorted all the inhabitants of Zurich to put their
confidence in Him only.” “Never was man heard to speak with so much authority,”
says Oswald Myconius, who with joy and high hopes watched the labours of his
friend. The gospel could not be preached in vain in Zurich. A continually
increasing multitude of men of all classes, and more especially of the common
people, flocked to hear him. Several Zurichers had ceased to attend on public
worship. “I derive no benefit from the discourses of these priests,” often
exclaimed Füsslin, a poet, historian, and counsellor of state; “they do not
preach the things of salvation; for they do not comprehend them. I see nothing
in them but covetousness and voluptuousness. Henry Räuschlin, treasurer of
state, one who diligently read the Scriptures, was of the same opinion: “The
priests,” said he, met in thousands at the Council of Constance … to burn the
best man among them.” These distinguished men, led by curiosity, went to hear
Zuinglius’ first sermon. Their countenances bespoke the emotion with which they
followed the orator. “Glory to God!” said they, on coming out; “this is a
preacher of the truth. He will be our Moses to deliver us from Egyptian
darkness.”5 From this moment they became the Reformer’s intimate friends.
“Powers of the world,” said Füsslin, “cease to proscribe the doctrine of Christ!
After Christ the Son of God was put to death, sinners were raised up. And now,
should you destroy the preachers of truth, you will see their places supplied by
glaziers, carpenters, potters, founders, shoemakers, and tailors, who will teach
with power.” In Zurich, at the outset, there was only one shout of admiration,
but when the first moment of enthusiasm was over, the adversary resumed courage.
Worthy persons alarmed at the idea of a Reformation, gradually drew off from
Zuinglius. The violence of the monks which had been veiled for an instant,
reappeared, and the college of canons resounded with complaints. Zuinglius stood
immovable. His friends beholding his courage, felt in his presence as if a man
of apostolic times had reappeared. Among his enemies, some scoffed and jeered;
others uttered insulting menaces, but he endured all with Christian patience.2
“Whoso,” he was wont to say, “would gain the wicked to Jesus Christ must wink at
many things,”—an admirable saying which ought not to be lost sight of. His
character and general bearing towards all contributed as much as his discourses
to win their hearts. He was at once a true Christian and a true republican. The
equality of mankind was not with him a mere watchword; it was written on his
heart and manifested in his life. He had neither that pharisaical pride, nor
that monastic gruffness, which are equally offensive to the simple and the wise
of the world. Men were drawn towards him, and felt at case when conversing with
him. Strong and mighty in the pulpit, he was affable to all whom he met in the
streets, or in the public squares. At the places where the merchants or
incorporations met he was often seen among the citizens expounding the leading
points of Christian doctrine, or conversing familiarly with them. He gave the
same cordial reception to peasant and patrician. “He invited country folks to
dine with him,” says one of his bitterest enemies, “walked with them, spoke to
them of God, made the devil enter into their hearts and his writings into their
pockets. He even went so far that the leading persons in Zurich visited those
peasants, entertained them, and walked over the town with them, showing them all
sorts of attention.”

He continued to cultivate music “with moderation,” says Bullinger: nevertheless
the enemies of the gospel took advantage of it, and called him “The evangelical
flute and lute player.” Faber having one day reproached him with his fondness
for music, Zuinglius, with noble candour, replied, “My dear Faber, you know not
what music is. I have, it is true, learned to play on the lute, the violin, and
other instruments, and am able by these means to pacify little Children; but you
of course are too holy for music. Do you not know that David was a skilful
player on the harp, and in this way drove the evil spirit out of Saul?… Ah! if
you knew the sound of the heavenly lute, the evil spirit of ambition and avarice
by which you are possessed would come out of you also.” Perhaps this was
Zuinglius’ foible, though it was in a spirit of cheerfulness and Christian
liberty that he cultivated this art, which religion has always associated with
her sublimest flights. He set some of his Christian poems to music, and did not
scruple sometimes to amuse the youngest of his flock with his lute. He showed
the same good nature to the poor. “He ate and drank,” says one of his
contemporaries, “with all who invited him,—he despised no one; he was most
compassionate to the poor; always firm and always joyful in bad as in good
fortune. No evil made him afraid; his words were at all times full of energy,
and his heart full of consolation.”2 Thus Zuinglius increased in
popularity—after the example of his Master, seated alternately at the table of
the common people and the banquet of the great, but still constantly intent on
the work to which God had called him. At the same time he was an indefatigable
student. In the morning, till ten, he read, wrote, and translated: Hebrew in
particular engaged his attention. After dinner he attended to those who had any
thing to tell him, or any advice to ask of him: took a walk with his friends and
visited his hearers. At two he resumed his studies. He took a short walk after
supper, and afterwards wrote letters which often occupied him till midnight. He
always stood when he studied, and did not allow himself to be interrupted unless
on important business. But the labours of a single individual were not
sufficient. A person, named Lucian, one day came to him with the writings of the
German Reformer. He had been sent by Rhenan, a learned man, then resident at
Bâle, and indefatigable in circulating the Reformer’s writings throughout
Switzerland. Rhenan had become aware that the hawking of books was an important
means of diffusing evangelical doctrine. Lucian had travelled almost over the
whole of Switzerland, and knew everybody. “See,” said Rhenan to Zuinglius,
“whether this Lucian has the necessary prudence and ability; if he has, let him
go from town to town, burgh to burgh, village to village, and even from house to
house, among the Swiss, with Luther’s writings, especially his exposition on the
Lord’s Prayer, written for the laity. The more he is known the more purchasers
will he find. But care must be taken not to let him hawk other books. If he has
none but Luther’s, his sale of them will be the greater.” Thus the humble roof
of many a Swiss family was penetrated with some rays of light. There was one
other book, however, which Zuinglius should have caused to be hawked with those
of Luther—the Gospel of Jesus Christ.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 89: CHAPTER VII
========================================================================

Indulgences—Samson at Berne—Samson at Baden—The Dean of Bremgarten—Young Henry
Bullinger—Samson and the Dean—Internal struggles of Zuinglius—Zuinglius against
Indulgences—Samson dismissed.

Zuinglius had not long to wait for an opportunity of displaying his zeal in a
new vocation. Samson, the famous indulgence merchant, was slowly approaching
Zurich. This miserable trafficker had come from Schwitz to Zug, 20th September,
1518, and had remained there three days. An immense crowd had gathered round
him. The poorest were the most eager, so that they prevented the rich from
coming forward. This did not suit the monk; accordingly, one of his attendants
began to bawl out to the populace, “Good people, do not throng so! Let those
come who have money. We will afterwards try to content those who have none.”
From Zug Samson and his band repaired to Lucerne; from Lucerne to Underwald;
then crossing the fertile Alps with their rich valleys, passing beneath the
eternal ice of Oberland, and in these spots, the grandest in Switzerland,
exposing their Roman merchandise, they arrived near Berne. The monk was at first
prohibited to enter the town, but succeeded at last in obtaining an introduction
by means of persons whom he had in his pay. Exhibiting his wares in the church
of St. Vincent he began to cry louder than ever. “Here,” said he to the rich,
“are indulgences on parchment for a crown.” “There,” said he to the poor, “are
indulgences on ordinary paper for two farthings!” One day, a celebrated knight,
James de Stein, came up prancing on a dapple grey horse; the monk greatly
admired the horse. “Give me,” says the knight, “an indulgence for myself, for my
troop of five hundred strong, for all my vassals of Belp, and all my ancestors;
I will give you my dapple grey horse in exchange.” It was a high price for the
horse, but the courser pleased the Franciscan, and the bargain was struck. The
horse went to the monk’s stable, and all these souls were declared for ever
exempted from hell. Another day, he give a burgher, for thirteen florins, an
indulgence, in virtue of which his confessor was authorised to absolve him from
any species of perjury.2 So much was Samson in repute, that Counsellor May, an
enlightened old man, having said something against him, was obliged to go down
on his knees, and ask pardon of the arrogant monk. This was the monk’s last day,
and a loud ringing of bells announced his immediate departure from Berne. Samson
was in the church standing on the steps of the high altar. Canon Henry Lupulus,
formerly Zuinglius’s master, was acting as his interpreter. “When the wolf and
the fox rendezvous together in the field,” said canon Anselm, turning to the
Schulthess of Walleville, “the best thing for you, worthy Sir, is to put your
sheep and geese in safety.” But the monk cared little for these sarcasms, which,
besides, did not reach his ear. “Kneel,” said he to the superstitious crowd,
“repeat three Paters, three Ave Marias, and your souls will forthwith be as pure
as at the moment of baptism.” Then all the people fell upon their knees. Samson
wishing even to outdo himself, exclaimed, “I deliver from the torments of
purgatory and hell all the spirits of the departed Bernese, whatever may have
been the manner and place of their death.” These jugglers, like those at fairs,
kept their finest feat for the last.

Samson set out with a heavy purse towards Zurich, crossing Argovia and Baden.
The farther on he got, the monk, whose appearance on passing the Alps was so
shabby, proceeded with more pride and splendour. The Bishop of Constance,
irritated that Samson had not employed him to legalise his bulls, had forbidden
all the curates of his diocese to open their churches to him. At Baden,
nevertheless, the curate durst not long oppose his traffic. This redoubled the
monk’s effrontery. Making the round of the burying ground at the head of a
procession, he seemed to fix his eyes on some object in the air, while his
acolytes sung the hymn for the dead, and pretending to see souls flying from the
burying ground to heaven, he exclaimed—“Ecce volant! See how they fly.” One day,
an inhabitant of the place getting up into the church steeple, a great number of
feathers were soon seen in the air falling down on the astonished procession;
“See how they fly,” exclaimed the wag of Baden, shaking a feather cushion from
the steeple. Many began to laugh. Samson fell into a rage, and could not be
appeased till he learned that the individual was subject to fits of derangement:
he left Baden in a huff.

Continuing his journey, he arrived, towards the end of February, 1519, at
Bremgarten, at the solicitation of the Schulthess and second curate, who had
seen him at Baden. No individual in that district had a higher reputation than
dean Bullinger of Bremgarten. Though far from enlightened as to the errors of
the Church and the Word of God, being open, zealous, eloquent, kind to the poor,
and ready to do a service to the humblest, he was loved by every body. He had in
his youth formed a connection with the daughter of a counsellor of the place.
This was the usual expedient of such of the priests as were unwilling to live in
general licentiousness. Anna had borne him five sons, but this had in no way
lessened the respect which the dean enjoyed. There was not in Switzerland a more
hospitable house than his. A great lover of the chace, he was seen surrounded
with ten or twelve dogs, and accompanied by the barons of Hallwyll, the abbot
Mury, and the gentry of Zurich, scouring the fields and forests around. He kept
open table, and none of his guests was more jovial than himself. When the
deputies to the Diet were on their way to Baden, on passing through Bremgarten
they failed not to take their seats at the dean’s table. “Bullinger,” said they,
“keeps court like the most powerful baron.” In this house strangers remarked a
child of an intelligent countenance. Henry, one of the dean’s sons, from his
earliest years, had many narrow escapes. Having been seized with the plague,
preparations were making for his funeral when he showed some signs of life, and
was restored to his delighted parents. On another occasion, a wandering beggar,
having won him by caresses, was carrying him off from his family, when some
persons in passing recognised and rescued him. At three years of age he could
repeat the Lord’s prayer and the apostles’ creed. One day having slipt into the
church, he got into his father’s pulpit, stood up gravely, and at the full
stretch of his voice, cried out, “I believe in God the Father,” and so on. At
twelve, he was sent to the Latin school of Emmeric, his heart overwhelmed with
fear; for those times were dangerous for a young boy without experience. When
the students of an university thought its discipline too severe, they not
unfrequently left it in troops, carrying the children with them, and encamped in
the woods, from which they sent the youngest of their number to beg, or
sometimes with arms in their hands they rushed forth on the passing traveller,
robbed him, and then consumed their booty in debauchery. Henry was happily kept
from evil in this distant abode. Like Luther, he gained his livelihood by
singing before the houses, for his father wished to teach him to live by his own
shifts. He was sixteen when he opened a New Testament. “I found in it,” says he,
“every thing necessary for man’s salvation, and thenceforth I laid it down as a
principle to follow the Holy Scriptures alone, and reject all human additions. I
believe neither the fathers nor myself, but explain Scripture by Scripture,
without adding any thing or taking any thing away.” God was thus preparing this
young man who was one day to succeed Zuinglius. He is the author of the
manuscript journal which we often quote.

About this time Samson arrived at Bremgarten with all his train. The bold dean
undismayed by this petty Italian army, prohibited the monk from vending his
wares in his neighbourhood. The Schulthess, town clerk, and second pastor,
Samson’s friends, had met in a room of the inn at which he had alighted, and
were standing quite disconcerted around the impatient monk. The dean
arrived—“Here are the papal bulls,” said the monk to him, “open your church.”
The Dean.—“I will not allow the purses of my parishioners to be emptied by means
of letters not authenticated, for the bishop has not legalised them;” The Monk
(in a solemn tone).—“The pope is above the bishop. I enjoin you not to deprive
your flock of this distinguished grace.” The Dean.—“Should it cost me my life, I
wont open my church.” The Monk (with indignation).—“Rebellious priest! in the
name of our most holy lord the pope, I pronounce against you the greater
excommunication, and will not absolve you till you ransom your unheard-of
audacity at the price of three hundred ducats.” … The Dean (turning on his heel
and retiring).—“I will know how to answer before my lawful judges: as for you
and your excommunication I have nothing to do with them.” The Monk (transported
with rage).—“Impudent brute! I am on my way to Zurich, and will there lay my
complaint before the deputies of the Confederation.” The Dean.—“I can appear
there as well as you, and this instant I set out.”

While these things were taking place at Bremgarten, Zuinglius, who saw the enemy
gradually approaching, kept preaching vigorously against indulgences. Vicar
Faber of Constance encouraged him, promising him the bishop’s support.4 “I
know,” said Samson, while proceeding towards Zurich, “that Zuinglius will attack
me, but I will stop his mouth.” Zuinglius was in truth too much alive to the
value of pardon by Christ not to attack the paper indulgences of these men.
Often, like Luther, he trembled because of sin; but in the Saviour found
deliverance from his fears. This modest but brave man was advancing in the
knowledge of God. “When Satan frightens me,” said he, “by crying to me: You do
not this, and you do not that, and yet God commands them!—immediately the soft
voice of the gospel consoles me, saying: What thou canst not do (and assuredly
thou canst do nothing,) Christ does for thee.” “Yes,” continues the pious
evangelist, “when my heart is agonised because of my powerlessness, and the
feebleness of my flesh, my spirit revives at the sound of this glad news: Christ
is thy innocence! Christ is thy righteousness! Christ is thy salvation! Thou art
nothing, thou canst do nothing! Christ is the Alpha and the Omega! Christ is
all, and can do all. All created things will forsake and deceive thee, but
Christ, the Holy and Righteous One, will receive and justify thee … “Yes,”
exclaims Zuinglius, “He is our righteousness, and the righteousness of all who
shall ever appear as righteous before the judgment seat of God!…”

Indulgences could not stand a moment when confronted with such truths; and hence
Zuinglius never hesitated to attack them. “No man,” said he, “is able to forgive
sins. Christ alone, very God and very man, is able to do it. Go, buy indulgences
… but rest assured you are not at all forgiven. Those who vend forgiveness of
sins for money are the companions of Simon Magus, the friends of Balaam and the
ambassadors of Satan.”

Dean Bullinger, still warm from his conference with the monk, arrived at Zurich
before him. He came to complain to the Diet against this shameless dealer and
his traffic. Envoys from the bishop had arrived for the same purpose. They made
common cause, and promised to support each other. The spirit which animated
Zuinglius breathed upon this town, and the council of State resolved to oppose
the monk’s entry into Zurich.

Samson had arrived in the suburbs, and alighted at an inn. One foot was already
on the stirrup preparatory to his entry, when deputies from the council arrived,
and while making the customary offer of wine to him as a papal envoy, intimated
to him that he might dispense with appearing in Zurich. “I have something to
communicate to the Diet in the name of his holiness,” replied the monk. It was a
trick. However, it was resolved to admit him; but as he spoke only of his bulls
he was dismissed, after being compelled to retract the excommunication which he
had pronounced against the dean of Bremgarton. He went off in a rage, and the
pope shortly after recalled him to Italy. A car drawn by three horses, and
loaded with the money of which his lies had robbed the poor, preceded him on the
steep tracts of St. Gothard, which eight months before he had crossed in
poverty, without style, merely the bearer of a few papers. On this occasion the
Helvetic showed more firmness than the Germanic Diet. The reason was, because no
cardinals and bishops sat in it. Hence the pope deprived of these supports dealt
more gently with Switzerland than Germany. In other respects, the affair of
indulgences, which played so important a part in the Reformation of Germany, is
only an episode in that of Switzerland.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 90: CHAPTER VIII
========================================================================

The Labours of Zuinglius—The Baths of Pfeffers—God’s time—The Great
Death—Zuinglius seized with the Plague—His Enemies—His
Friends—Convalescence—General Joy—Effect of the Plague—Myconius at
Lucerne—Oswald encourages Zuinglius—Zuinglius at Bâle—Capito called to
Mentz—Hedio at Bâle—An Unnatural Son—Preparation for Battle.

Zuinglius did not spare himself. His many labours called for some relaxation,
and he was ordered to the baths of Pfeffers. “Ah!” said Herus, one of the pupils
who lodged with him, and who thus expressed the feeling of all who knew
Zuinglius, “had I a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, a brazen throat, as
Virgil expresses it; or rather had I the eloquence of Cicero, how could I
express all I owe you, and all that I feel at this separation.” Zuinglius,
however, set out and reached Pfeffers through the astonishing gorge formed by
the impetuous torrent of the Jamina. He descended into that infernal abyss, as
the hermit David called it, and arrived at the baths, which are perpetually
agitated by the dashing of the torrent, and bedewed by the spray of its foaming
water. Where Zuinglius lodged it was so dark that candles were burnt at mid-day.
He was even assured by the inmates, that frightful phantoms sometimes appeared
in the darkness.

Even here Zuinglius found opportunity to serve his Master. His affability won
the heart of several of the patients, among others a celebrated poet, Philip
Ingentinus, professor at Friburg, in Brigau, who thenceforward became a zealous
supporter of the Reformation.

God watched over his own work, and was pleased to hasten it. Zuinglius’ defect
lay in his strength. Strong in body, strong in character, strong in talents, he
was to see all these varieties of strength broken, that he might thereby become
such an instrument as God loves to employ. He stood in need of a baptism, that
of adversity, infirmity, feebleness, and pain. Such a baptism Luther had
received at that period of agony when the cell and long passages of the convent
of Erfurt resounded with his cries. Zuinglius was to receive it by being brought
into contact with sickness and death. The heroes of this world—the Charles
Twelfths and Napoleons—have a moment which is decisive of their career and their
glory, and it is when they all at once become conscious of their strength. There
is an analogous moment in the life of God’s heroes, but it is in a contrary
direction; it is when they recognise their impotence and nothingness;
thenceforth they receive strength from on high. Such a work as that of which
Zuinglius was to be the instrument is never accomplished by man’s natural
strength; it would immediately wither away like a tree transplanted after its
full growth, and when in full leaf. A plant must be feeble in order to take
root, and a grain of corn must die in the ground before it can yield a full
return. God led Zuinglius, and with him the work of which he was the stay, to
the gates of the grave. It is from among bones and darkness, and the dust of the
dead, that God is pleased to take the instruments, by means of which he
illumines, regenerates, and revives the earth.

Zuinglius was hidden among the immense rocks which hem in the furious torrent of
the Jamina, when he unexpectedly learned that the plague, or as it was termed
“the great death,” was at Zurich. This dreadful scourge broke out in August, on
St. Lawrence day, lasted till Candlemas, and carried off two thousand five
hundred persons. The young people who lodged with Zuinglius had immediately
left, conformably to directions which he had given. His house was empty, but it
was to him the very moment to return. He hurriedly quitted Pfeffers, and
reappearing in the bosom of his flock, now decimated by the plague, he
immediately sent to Wildhaus for his young brother Andrew, who wished to attend
him. From that moment he devoted himself entirely to the victims of this
dreadful scourge. Every day he preached Christ and his consolations to the
sick.3 His friends delighted to see him safe and sound in the midst of so many
fatal darts, still felt a secret alarm. Conrad Brunner, who himself died of the
plague a few months after, writing him from Bâle said; “Do good, but at the same
time remember to take care of your life.” It was too late: Zuinglius was seized
with the plague. The great preacher of Switzerland was stretched on a bed from
which, perhaps, he was never again to rise. He communed with himself, and turned
his eye heavenward. He knew that Christ had given him a sure inheritance, and
disclosing the feelings of his heart in a hymn remarkable for unction and
simplicity, of which, not being able to give the antique and expressive
phraseology, we have endeavoured to preserve the rhythm and literal meaning, he
exclaimed:—2 My door has opened …

Death appears. My God! my strength!

Dispel all fears!

Oh, Jesus! raise Thy pierced arm, And break the sword That caused alarm But if
my soul In life’s mid-day Thy voice recalls,

Then I obey.

Ah! let me die, For I am thine;

Thy mansions wait Such faith as mine.

Meanwhile the disease gains ground, and this man, the hope of the Church and of
Switzerland, is beheld by his despairing friends as about to become the prey of
the tomb. His senses and strength forsake him. His heart becomes alarmed, but he
is still able to turn towards God, and exclaims:— My ills increase;

Haste to console;

Terrors overwhelm My heart and soul.

Death is at hand, My senses fail, My voice is choked, Now, Christ! prevail.

Lo! Satan strains To snatch his prey;

I feel his hand, Must I give way?

He harms me not,

I fear no loss, For here I lie Before thy cross.

Canon Hoffman, sincere in his own belief, could not bear the idea of allowing
Zuinglius to die in the errors which he had preached. Accordingly he waited on
the provost of the Chapter, and said to him, “Think of the danger of his soul.
Does he not give the name of fantastical innovators to all the doctors who have
appeared for the last three hundred and eighty years and more—to Alexander
Hales, St. Bonaventura, Albert the Great, Thomas Aquinas, and all the canonists?
Does he not maintain that their doctrines are the dreams which they dreamed in
their cowls within the walls of their cloisters? Better had it been for the town
of Zurich that Zuinglius had, for a series of years, destroyed our vintage and
harvest! There he lies at the brink of death! Do, I beseech you, save his poor
soul!” It would seem that the provost was more enlightened than the canon, and
deemed it unnecessary to convert Zuinglius to St. Bonaventura and Albert the
Great. He was left at peace. The whole town was in mourning. All the faithful
cried to God night and day, beseeching him to restore their faithful pastor.
Terror had passed from Zurich to the mountains of the Tockenburg, where also the
plague had appeared. Seven or eight persons had perished in the village, among
them a servant of Nicolas, a brother of Zuinglius.3 No letter was received from
the Reformer, and his young brother Andrew wrote, “Tell me, my dear brother, in
what state you are. The abbot and all our brothers desire to be remembered.” As
the parents of Zuinglius are not mentioned it would seem that they were now
dead. The news of Zuinglius’ illness, and even a rumour of his death, spread in
Switzerland and Germany. “Alas!” exclaimed Hedio in tears, “the safety of the
country, the gospel trumpet, the magnanimous herald of truth is smitten with
death in the flower of his life, and, so to speak, in the spring tide of his
days.” When the news reached Bâle the whole town was filled with lamentation and
mourning.2 The spark of life which remained in Zuinglius was, however,
rekindled. Though his body was still feeble, his soul was impressed with the
unaltered conviction that God had called him to replace the torch of his Word on
the candlestick of the Church. The plague had abandoned its victim, and
Zuinglius exclaims with emotion:— My God! my Father!

Healed by thee On earth again

I bend my knee.

Now sin no more Shall mark my days My mouth, henceforth, Shall sing thy praise.
The uncertain hour, Come when it may, Perchance may bring Still worse dismay.

But, let it come, With joy I’ll rise, And bear my yoke Straight to the skies.

Zuinglius was no sooner able to hold the pen (this was in the beginning of
November) than he wrote to his family. This gave inexpressible delight to them
all, especially to his young brother Andrew, who himself died of the plague the
following year, and at whose death Ulric, to use his own words, wept and cried
like a woman. At Bâle Conrad Brunner, a friend of Zuinglius, and Bruno Amerbach,
a famous printer, both young men, were cut off after three days’ illness. The
rumour having spread in this town that Fuinglius also had fallen, the whole
university was in mourning. “He whom God loves is perfected in the flower of his
life,” said they.2 How great was their joy when Collinus, a student of Lucerne,
and afterwards a merchant in Zurich, brought word that Zuinglius had escaped the
jaws of death. John Faber, vicar to the bishop of Constance, long the friend and
afterwards the most violent adversary of Zuinglius, wrote to him. “O my dear
Ulric, how delighted I am to learn that you have escaped the jaws of cruel
death. When you are in danger, the Christian commonwealth is threatened. The
design of the Lord in these trials is to urge you forward in the pursuit of
eternal life.” This was, indeed, the design, and it was accomplished, though in
a different way from what Faber anticipated. The plague of 1519, which made such
fearful ravages in the north of Switzerland, was, in the hand of God, a powerful
means of converting a great number of persons. But on none had it a greater
influence than on Zuinglius. Hitherto he had been too much disposed to regard
the gospel as mere doctrine; but now it became a great reality. He returned from
the gates of the grave with a new heart. His zeal was more active, his life more
holy, his word more free, Christian, and powerful. This was the period of
Zuinglius’ complete emancipation. He from this time devoted himself to God. The
new life thus given to the Reformer was communicated at the same time to the
Swiss Reformation. The Divine rod, the great death, in passing over all their
mountains and descending into all their valleys, added to the sacredness of the
movement which was then taking place. The Reformation being plunged, like
Zuinglius, into the waters of affliction and of grace, came forth purer and more
animated. In regard to the regeneration of Switzerland, the gospel sun was now
at its height.

Zuinglius, who still strongly felt the want of new strength, received it in
intercourse with his friends. His closest intimacy was with Myconius. They
walked hand in hand, like Luther and Melancthon. Oswald was happy at Zurich. It
is true, his position was cramped; but every thing was softened by the virtues
of his modest spouse. It was of her that Glarean said, “Were I to meet a young
girl resembling her, I would prefer her to the daughter of a king.” But a
faithful voice was often heard disturbing the sweet friendship of Zuinglius and
Myconius. It was that of canon Xylotect, who, calling to Oswald from Lucerne,
summoned him to return to his country. “Lucerne,” said he to him, “not Zurich,
is your country. You say that the Zurichers are your friends: granted; but do
you know what the evening star will bring you? Serve your country. This I
advise; I implore; and, if I am able, command.” Xylotect, not confining himself
to words, procured the appointment of Myconius to the college school of Lucerne.
After this Oswald no longer hesitated. He saw the finger of God in the
appointment, and determined to make the sacrifice, how great soever it might be.
Who could say whether he might not be an instrument in the hand of the Lord to
diffuse the doctrine of peace in warlike Lucerne? But how painful the separation
between Zuinglius and Myconius! They parted in tears. Ulric shortly after wrote
to Oswald, “Your departure has been as serious a loss to the cause which I
defend, as that which is sustained by an army in battle array when one of its
wings is destroyed.2 Ah! I now am aware of all that my Myconius was able to do,
and how often, without my knowing it, he maintained the cause of Christ.”

Zuinglius felt the loss of his friend the more, because the plague had left him
in a state of great feebleness. Writing on the 30th November, 1519, he says, “It
has weakened my memory and wasted my intellect.” When scarcely convalescent, he
had resumed all his labours. “But,” said he, “in preaching I often lose the
thread of my discourse. I feel languid in all my members, and somewhat as if I
were dead.” Moreover, Zuinglius, by his opposition to indulgences, had excited
the wrath of their partisans. Oswald strengthened his friend by letters which he
wrote him from Lucerne. And did he not also receive pledges of assistance from
the Lord in the protection which He gave to the Saxon champion who was gaining
such important victories over Rome? “What think you,” said Myconius to
Zuinglius, “of the cause of Luther? For my part I have no fear either for the
gospel or for him. If God does not protect his truth, who will protect it? All
that I ask of the Lord is, not to withdraw his aid from those who hold nothing
dearer than his gospel. Continue as you have begun, and an abundant recompence
awaits you in heaven.” The visit of an old friend helped to console Zuinglius
for the loss of Myconius. Bunzli, who had been his teacher at Bâle, and had
succeeded the dean of Wesen, the Reformer’s uncle, arrived at Zurich, in the
first week of the year 1520, and Zuinglius and he thereafter resolved to set out
together to Bâle to sec their common friends. This visit of Zuinglius bore
fruit. “Oh, my dear Zuinglius!” wrote John Glother to him at a later period,
“never will I forget you. The thing which binds me to you is the goodness with
which, during your stay at Bâle, you came to see me, me, a petty schoolmaster,
living in obscurity without learning or merit, and of humble station! What wins
me is the elegance of your manners, and that indescribable meekness with which
you subdue all hearts, even stones, if I may so speak.”2 But Zuinglius’ visit
was still more useful to his old friends. Capito, Hedio, and others, were
electrified by the power of his eloquence. The former commencing in Bâle the
work which Zuinglius was doing at Zurich, began to expound the gospel of St.
Matthew before an auditory which continued to increase. The doctrine of Christ
penetrated and inflamed all hearts. The people received it joyfully, and with
acclamation hailed the revival of Christianity. It was the aurora of the
Reformation. Accordingly a conspiracy of monks and priests was soon formed
against Capito. It was at this time that Albert, the young cardinal-archbishop
of Mentz, who felt desirous of attaching a man of so much learning to his
person, called him to his court.4 Capito, seeing the difficulties which were
thrown in his way, accepted the invitation. The people were moved, and, turning
with indignation against the priests, raised a tumult in the town. Hedio was
proposed as his successor, but some objected to his youth, while others said,
“He is his pupil.” “Truth bites,” said Hedio: it is not advantageous to offend
too delicate ears by telling it.6 No matter, nothing will turn me from the
straight path.” The monks redoubled their efforts. “Believe not those,”
exclaimed they from the pulpit, “who say that the sum of Christian doctrine is
found in the Gospel and in St. Paul. Scotus has done more for Christianity than
St. Paul himself. All the learning that has ever been spoken or printed has been
stolen from Scotus. All that has been done since by men eager for fame has been
to throw in some Greek and Hebrew terms, which have only darkened the matter.
The tumult increased; and there was reason to fear that, on Capito’s departure,
it would become still more serious. “I will be almost alone,” thought Hedio,
“poor I, to struggle with these formidable monsters.” Accordingly, he invoked
the assistance of God, and wrote to Zuinglius. “Inflame my courage by writing
often. Learning and Christianity are now placed between the hammer and the
anvil. Luther has just been condemned by the universities of Louvain and
Cologne. If ever the Church was in imminent danger, it is at this hour.”2

Capito left Bâle for Mentz, 28th April, and Hedio succeeded him. Not content
with the public assemblies in the church at which he continued his exposition of
St. Matthew, he proposed, in the month of June, as he wrote Luther, to have
private meetings in his own house, to give more thorough evangelical instruction
to those who might feel the want of it. This powerful method of communicating
the truth, and exciting in the faithful an interest and zeal in divine things,
could not fail then, as it never does, to awaken opposition in the men of the
world and in domineering priests, both of whom, though from different motives,
are equally desirous that God should be worshipped only within the precincts of
a particular building. But Hedio was invincible. At the same period when he
formed this good resolution at Bâle, there arrived at Zurich one of those
characters who often emerge, like impure froth, from the vortex of revolutions.

Senator Grebel, a man of great influence in Zurich, had a son named Conrad, a
youth of remarkable talents, and a relentless enemy of ignorance and
superstition, which he attacked with cutting satire. He was boisterous, violent,
sarcastic, and bitter in his expression, without natural affection, given to
debauchery, always talking loudly of his own innocence, while he could see
nothing but what was wrong in others. We speak of him here because he is
afterwards to play a melancholy part. At this period, Vadian married a sister of
Conrad, and Conrad, who was studying at Paris where his misconduct had deprived
him of the use of his limbs, desiring to be present at the marriage, appeared
suddenly about the beginning of June amidst his family. The poor father received
the prodigal son with a gentle smile, his fond mother with tears. The tenderness
of his parents made no change on his unnatural heart. His kind and unhappy
mother having some time after been brought to the gates of death, Conrad wrote
his brother-in-law Vadain:—“My mother is recovered; she again rules the house,
sleeps, awakes, grumbles, breakfasts, scolds, dines, makes a racket, sups, and
is perpetually a burden to us. She runs, cooks, re-cooks, sweeps the house,
toils, kills herself with fatigue, and will shortly bring on a relapse.”

Such was the man who, at a later period, pretended to lord it over Zuinglius,
and who took the lead among fanatical anabaptists. Divine Providence perhaps
allowed such characters to appear at the period of the Reformation that their
disorders might the better bring out the wise, Christian, and orderly spirit of
the Reformers.

Everything announced that the battle between the gospel and the papacy was about
to commence. “Let us stir up the temporisers,” wrote Hedio to Zurich; “the peace
is broken, let us arm our hearts: the enemies we shall have to combat are most
fierce.” Myconius wrote in the same strain to Ulric, who, however, answered
their warlike appeals with admirable meekness. “I should like,” said he, “to
gain these obstinate men by kindness and good offices, rather than overcome them
by violence and disputation.3 That they call our doctrine, (which however is not
ours,) a doctrine of the devil, is nothing more than natural. It proves to me
that we are indeed the ambassadors of Christ. The devils cannot be silent in his
presence.”


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  CHAPTER 91: CHAPTER IX
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The Two Reformers—The Fall of Man—Expiation of the God-Man—No merit in
Works—Objections refuted—Power of Love to Christ—Election—Christ alone
Master—Effects of this Preaching—Despondency and Courage—First Act of the
Magistrate—Church and State—Attacks—Galster.

Though desirous to follow the path of meekness, Zuinglius was not idle. Since
his illness his preaching had become more profound and enlivening. More than two
thousand persons in Zurich had received the word of God into their heart, made
profession of the evangelical doctrine, and were themselves able to announce it.

Zuinglius’ faith was the same as Luther’s, but more the result of reasoning.
Luther advances with a bound. Zuinglius owes more to clearness of perception.
Luther’s writings are pervaded with a thorough personal conviction of the
benefits which the cross of Christ confers upon himself, and this conviction,
glowing with heat and life, is the soul of all he says. The same thing doubtless
exists in Zuinglius, but in an inferior degree. He had looked more to the
Christian system as a whole, and admired it particularly for its beauty, for the
light which it sheds into the human mind, and the eternal life which it brings
to the world. The one is more the man of heart, the other more the man of
intellect; and hence it is that those who do not experimentally know the faith
which animated these two great disciples of the Lord, fall into the grossest
error, making the one a mystic and the other a rationalist. The one is more
pathetic, perhaps, in the exposition of his faith, and the other more
philosophical, but both believe the the same truths. They do not, however, look
at all secondary questions from the same point of view, but that faith which is
one, that faith which quickens and justifies its possessor, that faith which no
confession, no article of doctrine can express, is in the one as in the other.
The doctrine of Zuinglius has often been so much misrepresented, that it seems
proper here to give an account of what he preached at this time to the
increasing crowds who flocked to the cathedral of Zurich. The fall of Adam,
Zuinglius regarded as the key to man’s history. “Before the fall,” said he one
day, “man had been created with a free will, so that he was able, if he chose,
to keep the law; his nature was pure, being as yet untainted by the malady of
sin; his life was in his own hand. But wishing to be equal to God, he died … and
not he only, but every one of his descendants. All men being dead in Adam none
can be recalled to life until the Spirit, who is God himself, raise them from
death.” The people of Zurich who listened eagerly to this powerful orator were
saddened when he set before them the sinful state into which human nature has
fallen, but soon after heard words of joy, and learned to know the remedy which
is able to recall man to life. “Christ very man and very God,” said the eloquent
voice of this shepherd—son of the Tockenburg, “has purchased for us a redemption
which will never terminate. The eternal God died for us: His passion then is
eternal: it brings salvation for ever and ever: it appeases divine justice for
ever in favour of all those who lean upon this sacrifice with firm and immovable
faith.” “Wherever sin exists,” exclaimed the Reformer, “death must necessarily
supervene. Christ had no sin, there was no guile in his mouth, and yet he died!
Ah! it was because he died in our stead. He was pleased to die in order to
restore us to life, and as he had no sins of his own, the Father, who is full of
mercy, laid the burden of our sins upon him.2” The Christian orator continued,
“Since the will of man rebelled against the supreme God, it was necessary, if
eternal order was to be re-established and man saved, that the human will should
be made subject in Christ to the divine will.” He often repeated that it was for
the faithful people of God, that the expiatory death of Jesus Christ had been
endured.4

Those in the city of Zurich who were eager for salvation, found rest on hearing
these good news. But old errors still remained, and these it was necessary to
destroy. Setting out from this great truth of a salvation which is the gift of
God, Zuinglius forcibly discoursed against the pretended merit of human works.
“Since eternal salvation,” said he, “proceeds solely from the merits and death
of Jesus Christ, the merit of our works is nothing better than folly, not to say
rash impiety. Could we have been saved by our works it had not been necessary
for Jesus Christ to die. All who have ever come to God came to him by the death
of Jesus Christ.6

Zuinglius perceived the objections which some of his hearers felt against these
doctrines. Some of them called upon him and stated them. He mounted the pulpit
and said—“People, more curious perhaps than pious, object that this doctrine
makes men giddy and dissolute. But of what consequence are the objections or
fears which human curiosity may suggest? Whosoever believes in Jesus Christ is
certain that every thing which comes from God is necessarily good. If, then, the
gospel is of God it is good. And what other power would be capable of implanting
among men innocence, truth, and love? O God! most compassionate, most just,
Father of mercies,” exclaimed he in the overflowing of his piety, “with what
love hast thou embraced us, us thy enemies! With what great and certain hopes
hast thou inspired us, us who should have known nothing but despair: and to what
glory hast thou in thy Son called our littleness and nothingness! Thy purpose in
this ineffable love is to constrain us to yield thee love for love!…”

Then dwelling on this idea, he showed that love to the Redeemer is a more
powerful law than the commandments. “The Christian,” said he, “delivered from
the law depends entirely on Christ. Christ is his reason, his counsel, his
righteousness, and whole salvation. Christ lives in him and acts in him. Christ
alone guides him, and he needs no other guide.” And making use of a comparison
adapted to his hearers, he added, “If a government prohibits its citizens, under
pain of death, from receiving pensions and presents at the hands of princes, how
gentle and easy this law is to those who, from love to their country and to
liberty, would, of their own accord, refrain from so culpable a proceeding; but
on the contrary, how tormenting and oppressive it feels to those who think only
of their own interest. Thus the righteous man lives joyful in the love of
righteousness, whereas the unrighteous walks groaning under the heavy weight of
the law which oppresses him.”3 In the cathedral of Zurich was a considerable
number of veteran soldiers who felt the truth of these words. Is not love the
mightiest of legislators? Is not every thing that it commands instantly
accomplished? Does not he whom we love dwell in our heart, and does it not of
itself perform what he enjoins? Accordingly, Zuinglius, waxing bold, declared to
the people of Zurich that love to the Redeemer was alone capable of making man
do things agreeable to God. “Works done out of Jesus Christ are not useful,”
said the Christian orator; “since every thing is done of him, in him, and by
him, what do we pretend to arrogate to ourselves? Wherever faith in God is,
there God is, and wherever God is, there is a zeal which presses and urges men
to good works. Only take care that Christ be in thee and thou in Christ, and
then doubt not but he will work. The life of the Christian is just one continued
work by which God begins, continues, and perfects in man every thing that is
good.”5

Struck with the grandeur of this divine love which existed from eternity, the
herald of grace raised his voice to all the timid or irresolute. “Can you fear,”
said he, “to approach the tender Father who has chosen you? Why has he chosen us
in his grace? Why has he called us? Why has he drawn us? Was it that we might
not dare to go to him?” …

Such was the doctrine of Zuinglius. It was the doctrine of Christ himself. “If
Luther preaches Christ he does what I do,” said the preacher of wurich; “those
who have been brought to Christ by him are more numerous than those who have
been brought by me. But no matter! I am unwilling to bear any other name than
that of Christ, whose soldier I am, and who alone is my head. Never was a single
scrap written by me to Luther, or by Luther to me. And why? In order to show to
all how well the spirit of God accords with himself, since, without having heard
each other, we so harmoniously teach the doctrine of Jesus Christ.”

Thus Zuinglius preached with energy and might. The large cathedral could not
contain the crowds of hearers. All thanked God that a new life was beginning to
animate the lifeless body of the Church. Swiss from all the cantons, brought to
Zurich either by the Diet or by other causes, being touched by this new
preaching, carried its precious seeds into all the Helvetic valleys. One
acclamation arose from mountains and cities. Nicolas Hageus, writing from
Lucerne to Zurich, says, “Switzerland has hitherto given birth to Scipios,
Cæsars, and Brutuses, but has scarcely produced two men who had the knowledge of
Jesus Christ, and could nourish men’s hearts, not with vain disputes, but with
the Word of God. Now that Divine Providence gives Switzerland Zuinglius for its
orator, and Oswald Myconius for its teacher, virtue and sacred literature revive
among us. O happy Helvetia! could you but resolve at length to rest from all
your wars, and, already so celebrated, become still more celebrated for
righteousness and peace.”

4 “It was said,” wrote Myconius to Zuinglius, “that your voice could not be
heard three yards off. But I now see it was a falsehood; for all Switzerland
hears you.” “You possess intrepid courage,” wrote Hedio to him from Bâle, “I
will follow you as far as I am able.”6 “I have heard you,” said Sebastian
Hofmeister of Schaffausen, writing to him from Constance.” Ah, would to God that
Zurich, which is at the head of our happy confederation was delivered from the
disease, and health thus restored to the whole body.” But Zuinglius met with
opponents as well as admirers. “To what end,” said some, “does he intermeddle
with the affairs of Switzerland?” “Why,” said others, “does he, in his religious
instructions, constantly repeat the same things?” Amid all these combats the
soul of Zuinglius was often filled with sadness. All seemed to be in confusion,
as if society were turned upside down. He thought it impossible that any thing
new should appear without something of an opposite nature being immediately
displayed.3 When a hope sprang up in his heart, a fear immediately sprang up
beside it. Still he soon raised his head. “The life of man here below,” said he,
“is a war; he who desires to obtain glory must attack the world in front, and,
like David, make this haughty Goliath, who seems so proud of his stature, to
bite the dust. The Church,” said he, like Luther, “has been acquired by blood,
and must be renewed by blood. The more numerous the defilements in it, the more
must we arm ourselves, like Hercules, in order to clean out these Augean
stables.5 I have little fear for Luther,” added he, “even should he be thundered
against by the bolts of this Jupiter.”

Zuinglius stood in need of repose, and repaired to the waters of Baden. The
curate of the place, an old papal guard, a man of good temper, but completely
ignorant, had obtained his benefice by carrying a halberd. True to his soldier
habits, he spent the day and part of the night in jovial company, while Stäheli,
his vicar, was indefatigable in fulfilling the duties of his office. Zuinglius
invited the young minister to his house. “I have need of Swiss help,” said he to
him, and from this moment Ständi was his fellow-labourer. Zuinglius, Stäheli,
and Luti, afterwards pastor of Winterthur, lived under the same roof. The
devotedness of Zuinglius was not to pass unrewarded. The Word of God, preached
with so much energy, could not fail to produce fruit. Several magistrates were
gained, experiencing the Word to be their consolation and their strength. The
Council, grieved at seeing the priests, and especially the monks, shamelessly
delivering from the pulpit whatever came into their heads, passed a resolution,
ordering them not to advance anything in their discourses “that they did not
draw from the sacred sources of the Old and New Testament.” It was in 1520 that
the civil power thus interposed for the first time in the work of the
Reformation; acting as a Christian magistrate, say some—since the first duty of
the magistrate is to maintain the Word of God and defend the best interests of
the citizens; depriving the Church of its liberty, say others,—by subjecting it
to secular power, and giving the signal for the series of evils which have since
been engendered by the connection between Church and State. We will not give any
opinion here on this great controversy which in our day is carried on with so
much warmth in several countries. It is sufficient for us to point out its
commencement at the period of the Reformation. But there is another thing also
to be pointed out—the act of these magistrates was itself one of the effects
produced by the preaching of the Word of God. At this period the Reformation in
Switzerland ceased to be the work of private individuals, and began to be
included within the national domain. Born in the heart of a few priests and
literary men, it extended, rose, and took up elevated ground. Like the waters of
the ocean, it gradually increased till it had overflowed an immense extent. The
monks were confounded: they were ordered to preach nothing but the Word of God,
and the greater part of them had never read it. Opposition provokes opposition.
The resolution of the council became the signal of more violent attacks on the
Reformation. Plots began to be formed against the curate of Zurich. His life was
in danger. One evening, when Zuinglius and his vicars were quietly conversing in
their house, some citizens arrived in great haste, and asked, “Are your doors
well bolted? Be this night on your guard.” “Such alarms were frequent,” adds
Stäheli; but we were well armed, and a guard was stationed for us in the
street.” In other places, means still more violent were resorted to. An old man
of Shaffausen, named Galster, a man of piety, and of an ardour rare at his
period of life, happy in the light which he had found in the gospel, laboured to
communicate it to his wife and children. His zeal, perhaps indiscreet, openly
attacked the relics, priests, and superstitions with which this canton abounded.
He soon became an object of hatred and terror even to his own family. The old
man, penetrating their fatal designs, left his home broken-hearted, and fled to
the neighbouring forest. There he lived several days subsisting on whatever he
could find, when suddenly, on the last night of the year 1520, torches blazed in
all directions through the forest, and the cries of men and the barking of dogs
re-echoed under its dark shades. The council had ordered a hunt in the woods to
discover him. The dogs scented him out, and the unhappy old man was dragged
before the magistrate. He was ordered to abjure his faith, but remained
immovable, and was beheaded.


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  CHAPTER 92: CHAPTER X
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A new Combatant—The Reformer of Berne—Zuinglius encourages Haller—The Gospel at
Lucerne—Oswald Persecuted—Preaching of Zuinglius—Henry Bullinger and Gerold of
Knonan—Rubli at Bâle—The Chaplain of the Hospital—War in Italy—Zuinglius against
Foreign Service. The year, the first day of which was signalised by this bloody
execution, had scarcely commenced when Zuinglius was waited on in his house at
Zurich by a young man, of about twenty-eight years of age, tall in stature, and
with an exterior which bespoke candour, simplicity, and diffidence. He said his
name was Berthold Haller. Zuinglius, on hearing the name, embraced the
celebrated preacher of Berne, with that affability which made him so engaging.
Haller, born at Aldingen in Wurtemberg,3 had first studied at Rotweil under
Rubellus, and afterwards at Pforzheim, where Simler was his teacher, and
Melanethon his fellow-student. The Bernese, who had already distinguished
themselves by arms, at this time resolved to invite literature into the bosom of
their republic. Rubellus, and Berthold, not twenty-one years of age, repaired
thither. Sometime after, the latter was appointed canon, and ultimately preacher
of the cathedral. The gospel which Zuinglius preached had extended to Berne;
Haller believed, and thenceforth longed to see the distinguished man, whom he
now looked up to as his father. He went to Zurich after Myconius had announced
his intended visit. Thus met Haller and Zuinglius. The former, a man of great
meekness, unbosomed his griefs; and the latter, a man of might, inspired him
with courage. One day, Berthold said to Zuinglius, “My spirit is overwhelmed … I
am not able to bear all this injustice. I mean to give up the pulpit and retire
to Bâle beside Wittembach, and there occupy myself exclusively with sacred
literature.” “Ah!” replied Zuinglius, “I too have my feelings of despondency,
when unjust attacks are made upon me; but Christ awakens my conscience, and
urges me on by his terrors and his promises. He alarms me when he says, ‘Whoso
shall be ashamed of me before men, of him will I be ashamed before my Father;’
and he sets my mind at case when he adds, ‘Whoso shall confess me before men,
him will I confess before my Father.’ My dear Berthold, rejoice! Our name is
written in indelible characters in the register of citizenship on high. I am
ready to die for Christ.2 Let your wild cubs,” added he, “hear the doctrine of
Jesus Christ, and you will see them become tame. But this task must be performed
with great gentleness, lest they turn again and rend you.” Haller’s courage
revived. “My soul,” said he to Zuinglius, “is awakened out of its sleep. I must
preach the gospel. Jesus Christ must again be established in this city, from
which he has been so long exiled.”4 Thus the torch of Berthold was kindled at
the torch of Zuinglius, and the timid Haller threw himself into the midst of the
ferocious bears, who, as Zuinglius expresses it, “were gnashing their teeth, and
seeking to devour him.”

It was in another part of Switzerland, however, that persecution was to begin.
Warlike Lucerne came forward, like a foe in full armour couching his lance. In
this canton, which was favourable to foreign service, a martial spirit
predominated, and the leading men knit their brows when they heard words of
peace fitted to curb their warlike temper. Meanwhile the writings of Luther
having found their way into the town, some of the inhabitants began to examine
them, and were horrified. It seemed to them that an infernal hand had traced the
lines; their imagination was excited, their senses became bewildered, and their
rooms seemed as if filled with demons, flocking around them, and glaring upon
them with a sarcastic smile. They hastily closed the book, and dashed it from
them in dismay. Oswald, who had heard of these singular visions, did not speak
of Luther to any but his most intimate friends, and contented himself with
simply preaching the gospel of Christ. Nevertheless, the cry which rung through
the town was, “Luther and the schoolmaster (Myconius) must be burnt.”6 “I am
driven by my adversaries like a ship by the raging billows,” said Oswald to one
of his friends. One day, in the beginning of the year 1520, he was unexpectedly
summoned to appear before the council, and told, “Your orders are, not to read
the writings of Luther to your pupils, not to name him in their presence, and
not even to think of him.” The lords of Lucerne pretended, it seems, to have a
very extensive jurisdiction. Shortly after, a preacher delivered a sermon
against heresy. The whole audience was moved, and every eye was turned on
Myconius; for whom but he could the preacher have in his eye? Oswald kept
quietly in his seat, as if the matter had not concerned him. But on leaving the
church, as he was walking with his friend, Canon Xylotect, one of the
counsellors, still under great excitement, passed close to them, and
passionately exclaimed, “Well, disciples of Luther, why don’t you defend your
master?” They made no answer. “I live,” said Myconius, “among fierce wolves; but
I have this consolation, that the most of them are without teeth. They would
bite if they could, but not being able, they bark.” The senate assembled: for
the people began to be tumultuous. “He is a Lutheran,” said one of the
counsellors: “he is a propagator of new doctrines,” said another: “he is a
seducer of youth,” said a third. “Let him appear, let him appear.” The poor
schoolmaster appeared and again listened to prohibitions and menaces. His
unsophisticated soul was torn and overwhelmed. His gentle spouse could only
console him by shedding tears. “Every one is rising up against me,” exclaimed he
in his agony. “Assailed by so many tempests, whither shall I turn, how shall I
escape?… Were it not for Christ I would long ago have fallen under these
assaults.” “What matters it,” wrote Doctor Sebastian Hofmeister of Constance to
him, “whether Lucerne chooses to keep you or not? The whole earth is the Lord’s.
Every land is a home to the brave. Though we should be the most wicked of men
our enterprise is just, for we teach the Word of Christ.”

While the truth encountered so many obstacles at Lucerne it was victorious at
Zurich. Zuinglius was incessant in his labours. Wishing to examine the whole
sacred volume in the original tongues, he zealously engaged in the study of
Hebrew, under the direction of John Boschenstein, a pupil of Reuchlin. But if he
studied Scripture, it was to preach it. The peasants who flocked to the market
on Friday to dispose of their goods, showed an eagerness to receive the Word of
God. To satisfy their longings, Zuinglius had begun, in December 1520, to
expound the Psalms every Friday after studying the original. The Reformers
always combined learned with practical labours—the latter forming the end, the
former only the means. They were at once students and popular teachers. This
union of learning and charity is characteristic of the period. In regard to his
services on Sunday, Zuinglius, after lecturing from St. Matthew on the life of
our Saviour, proceeded afterwards to show from the Acts of the Apostles how the
gospel was propagated. Thereafter he laid down the rules of the Christian life
according to the Epistles to Timothy, employed the Epistle to the Galatians in
combating doctrinal errors, combined with it the two Epistles of St. Peter, in
order to show to the despisers of St. Paul that both apostles were animated by
the same spirit, and concluded with the Epistle to the Hebrews, in order to give
a full display of the benefits which Christians derive from Jesus Christ their
sovereign priest. But Zuinglius did not confine his attention to adults; he
sought also to inspire youth with the sacred flame by which his own breast was
animated. One day in 1521, while he was sitting in his study reading the Fathers
of the Church, taking extracts of the most striking passages, and carefully
arranging them into a large volume, his door opened, and a young man entered
whose appearance interested him exceedingly. It was Henry Bullinger, who was
returning from Germany, and impatient to become acquainted with the teacher of
his country, whose name was already famous in Christendom. The handsome youth
fixed his eye first on Zuinglius, and then on the books, and felt his vocation
to do what Zuinglius was doing. Zuinglius received him with his usual cordiality
which won all hearts. This first visit had great influence on the future life of
the student, who was on his return to the paternal hearth. Another youth had
also won Zuinglius’ heart: this was Gerold Meyer of Knonau. His mother, Anna
Reinhardt, who afterwards occupied an important place in the Reformer’s life,
had been a great beauty, and was still distinguished for her virtues. John Meyer
of Knonau, a youth of a noble family, who had been brought up at the court of
the bishop of Constance, had conceived a strong passion for Anna, who, however,
belonged to a plebeian family. Old Meyer of Knonau had refused his consent to
their marriage, and after it took place disinherited his son. In 1513 Anna was
left a widow with a son and two daughters, and devoted herself entirely to the
education of her poor orphans. The grandfather was inexorable. One day, however,
the widow’s maid-servant having in her arms young Gerold, then a beautiful
sprightly child of three years of age, stopped at the fish market, when old
Meyer, who was looking out at a window, observed him, and, continuing to gaze
after him, asked to whom that beautiful lively child belonged. “It is your son’s
child,” was the answer. The heart of the old man was moved—the ice immediately
melted—all was forgotten, and he clasped in his arms the widow and children of
his son. Zuinglius loved, as if he had been his own son, the noble and intrepid
youth Gerold, who was to die in the flower of his age side by side with the
Reformer, with his sword in his hand, and surrounded alas! with the dead bodies
of his enemies. Thinking that Gerold would not be able to prosecute his studies
at Zurich, Zuinglius, in 1521, sent him to Bâle.

Young Knonau did not find Hedio the friend of Zuinglius there. Capito being
obliged to accompany the archbishop Albert to the coronation of Charles V, had
procured Hedio to supply his place. Bâle having thus, one after another, lost
her most faithful preachers, the church there seemed forsaken; but other men
appeared. Four thousand hearers squeezed into the church of William Roubli,
curate of St. Alban. He attacked the mass, purgatory, and the invocation of
saints; but this turbulent man who was eager to draw the public attention upon
himself, declaimed more against error than in support of truth. On Corpus
Christi day he joined the public procession, but in place of the customary
relics, caused the Holy Scriptures to be carried before him, splendidly bound,
and bearing this inscription:—“The Bible; this is the true relic, the others are
only dead bones.” Courage adorns the servant of God; affectation disgraces him.
The work of an evangelist is to preach the Bible, and not to make a presumptuous
display of it. The enraged priests accused Roubli before the council. A mob
immediately gathered in Cordelier Square. “Protect our preacher,” said the
citizens to the council. Fifty Ladies of distinction interceded in his behalf;
but Roubli was obliged to quit Bâle. At a later period he took part like Grebel
in Anabaptist disorders. The Reformation, in the course of its development,
every where threw off the chaff which mingled with the good grain. At this
period a modest voice was heard from the humblest of the chapels, clearly
proclaiming the evangelical doctrine. It was that of young Wolfgang
Wissemberger, son of a counsellor of state and chaplain of the hospital. All in
Bâle who felt new religious wants attached themselves to the gentle chaplain,
preferring him to the presumptuous Roubli. Wolfgang began to read the mass in
German. The monks renewed their clamour, but this time they failed, and
Wissemberger continued to preach the gospel; “for,” says an old chronicler, “he
was a burgess and his father a counsellor.” This first success of the
Reformation in Bâle, while it was the prelude of still greater success, at the
same time tended greatly to promote the progress of the work throughout the
Confederation. Zurich no longer stood alone. Learned Bâle began to be charmed
with the new doctrine. The foundations of the new temple were enlarged. The
Reformation in Switzerland obtained a fuller development. The centre of the
movement was, however, at Zurich. But, to the deep grief of Zuinglius, important
political events occurred in 1521, and in some measure distracted men’s minds
from the preaching of the gospel. Leo X, who had offered his alliance at once to
Charles V and Francis I, had at last declared for the emperor. War between the
two rivals was on the point of breaking out in Italy. The French general Lautrec
had said, “There will be nothing left of the pope but his ears.” This bad jest
increased the pontiff’s anger. The king of France claimed the aid of the Swiss
cantons, all of which, with the exception of Zurich, had formed an alliance with
him; he obtained it. The pope flattered himself he would gain Zurich, and the
cardinal of Sion, ever given to intrigue, and confident in his ability and his
finesse, hastened thither to obtain soldiers for his master. But from his old
friend Zuinglius he encountered a vigorous opposition. He was indignant that the
Swiss should sell their blood to strangers, and his imagination figured to
itself the swords of the Zurichers under the standard of the pope and the
emperor in the plains of Italy crossing the swords of the confederates united
under the colours of France. At such scenes of fratricide his patriotic and
Christian soul shuddered with horror. Thundering from the pulpit he exclaimed,
“Would you rend and overthrow the confederation?3 … We attack the wolves which
devour our flocks, but offer no resistance to those who prowl around seeking to
devour men.… Ah! it is not without cause that these hats and mantles are of
scarlet. Shakes their robes and ducats and crowns will tumble out of them, twist
them and you will see the blood of your brother, your father, your son, and your
dearest friend trickling down from them.” The energetic voice of Zuinglius was
heard in vain. The cardinal with the red hat succeeded, and two thousand seven
hundred Zurichers set out under the command of George Berguer. Zuinglius was
heart-broken. Still, however, his influence was not lost. For a long time the
banners of Zurich were not again to be unfurled, and pass the gates of the town
in the cause of foreign powers.


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  CHAPTER 93: CHAPTER XI
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Zuinglius against the Precepts of Man—Fermentation during Lent—Truth advances
during Combat—The Deputies of the Bishops—Accusation before the Clergy and
Council—Appeal to the Great Council—The Coadjutor and Zuinglius—Decree of the
Grand Council—State of Matters—Attack by Hoffman.

Torn in his feelings as a citizen, Zuinglius devoted himself with new zeal to
the preaching of the gospel, urging it with growing energy. “I will not cease,”
said he, “to labour to restore the ancient unity of the Church of Christ.” He
began the year 1522 by showing what difference there is between the precepts of
the gospel and the precepts of men. The season of Lent having arrived, he raised
his voice still more loudly. After laying the foundation of the new edifice, he
wished to clear away the rubbish of the old. “For four years,” said he to the
multitude assembled in the cathedral, “you with ardent thirst received the holy
doctrine of the gospel. Enkindled by the flames of charity, fed with the sweets
of heavenly manna, it is impossible to have still any relish for the sad element
of human traditions.” Then attacking compulsory abstinence from flesh for a
certain time, he exclaimed in his bold eloquence, “There are some who pretend
that it is an evil, and even a great sin, to eat flesh, although God never
forbade it; and yet do not consider it a crime to sell human flesh to the
foreigner, and drag it to slaughter.”

3 The friends of foreign service who were present were filled with indignation
and rage at these bold words, and vowed not to forget them.

While preaching thus forcibly, Zuinglius still continued to say mass: he
observed the usages established by the Church, and even abstained from meat on
the forbidden days. He was persuaded that the first thing necessary was to
enlighten the people. But certain turbulent spirits did not act with so much
wisdom. Roubli, who had become a refugee at Zurich, allowed himself to be
carried away by the impulse of an extravagant zeal. The old curate of St. Alban,
a Bernese captain, and Conrad Huber, a member of the great Council, often met at
the house of the last to eat meat on Friday and Saturday, and made a boast of
it. The question of abstinence was the engrossing topic. An inhabitant of
Lucerne, who had come to Zurich, said to one of his friends there, “You do wrong
in eating flesh during Lent.” The friend answered, “You Lucerne folks also take
the liberty of eating it on the forbidden days.” The inhabitant of Lucerne
rejoined, “We have purchased it from the pope.” The friend—“And we from the
butcher. If it is a question of money, the one is surely as good as the other.”
The council, a complaint having been lodged against the transgressors of the
ecclesiastical ordinances, asked the advice of the curates. Zuinglius answered
that the act of eating meat every day was not blameable in itself; but that it
ought to be abstained from so long as competent authority had not given any
decision on the point. The other members of the clergy concurred in this
opinion. The enemies of the truth took advantage of this favourable
circumstance. Their influence was on the wane. Victory was on the side of
Zuinglius. It was necessary, therefore, to make haste and strike a decisive
blow. They importuned the Bishop of Constance. “Zuinglius,” exclaimed they, “is
the destroyer of the flock, and not its shepherd.”

Ambitious Faber, the old friend of Zuinglius, had returned full of zeal for the
papacy from a visit which he had just paid to Rome. From the inspiration of this
proud city the first troubles of Switzerland were to proceed. It was necessary
that there should be a decisive struggle between evangelical truth and the
representatives of the pontiff. It is especially when attacked that the truth
manifests its whole power. Under the shade of opposition and persecution,
Christianity at first acquired the power which overthrew her enemies. God was
pleased, in like manner, to conduct his truth through difficult paths at the
period of revival which we now describe. The priests then, as in the days of the
apostles, assailed the new doctrine. But for their attacks it might, perhaps,
have remained obscurely hid in some faithful souls. But God watched over it to
manifest it to the world. Opposition struck out new paths for it, launched it on
a new career, and fixed the eyes of the nation upon it. It was like a breath of
wind scattering far and wide seeds which might otherwise have remained inert in
the spots on which they fell. The tree destined to shelter the Helvetic
population was indeed planted in the bosom of their valleys, but storms were
necessary to strengthen the roots and give full development to the branches. The
partisans of the papacy, seeing the fire which was slowly burning in Zurich,
threw themselves upon it to extinguish it, and thereby only caused its flames to
spread. On the afternoon of the 7th April, 1522, three ecclesiastic deputies
from the Bishop of Constance were seen entering the town of Zurich. Two of them
had a stern and angry, the third, a gentle expression of countenance. It was the
coadjutor of the Bishop Melchior Battli, Doctor Brendi, and John Vanner,
preacher of the cathedral, an evangelical man who, during the whole affair,
remained silent. It was night when Luti called in haste on Zuinglius, and said,
“Officers from the bishop have arrived; a great blow is preparing: all the
partisans of ancient customs are in motion. A notary has called a meeting of all
the priests at an early hour tomorrow morning, in the hall of the Chapter.” The
assembly of the clergy having accordingly met next day, the coadjutor rose and
delivered a speech, which seemed to his opponents full of violence and pride. He
affected, however, not to mention Zuinglius by name. Some priests, who had been
recently gained to the gospel, and were still irresolute, were terrified; their
pale checks, their silence, and their sighs, showed that they had lost all
courage.3 Zuinglius rose and delivered a speech, which closed the mouths of his
adversaries. At Zurich, as in the other cantons, the most violent enemies of the
new doctrine were in the Lesser Council. The deputation, defeated before the
clergy, carried their complaints before the magistrates. Zuinglius was absent,
and there was no reply to be dreaded. The result appeared decisive. The gospel
and its defenders were on the point of being condemned without a hearing. Never
was the Reformation of Switzerland in greater danger. It was going to be stifled
in the cradle. The counsellors in favour of Zuinglius appealed to the Great
Council. It was the only remaining plank for escape, and God employed it to save
the cause of the gospel. The two hundred were convened. The partisans of the
papacy used every mean to exclude Zuinglius, who, on the other hand, did all he
could to gain admission. As he himself expresses it, he knocked at every door,
and left not a stone unturned, but all in vain! “The thing is impossible,” said
the burgomasters;” “the Council has decreed the contrary.” “Then,” relates
Zuinglius, “I remained quiet, and with deep sighs carried the matter before Him
who hears the groaning of the prisoner, supplicating him to defend His own
gospel.”2 The patient, resigned waiting of the servants of God is never
disappointed. On the 9th April, the Two Hundred assembled. “We wish to have our
pastors here,” immediately exclaimed the members who were in favour of the
Reformation. The Lesser Council resisted, but the Great Council decided that the
pastors should be present to hear the charge, and answer it, if they thought
fit. The deputies from Constance were introduced, and then the three curates of
Zurich, Zuinglius, Engelhard, and old Röschli.

After the parties thus brought face to face had for some time eyed each other,
the coadjutor rose. “Had his heart and his head been equal to his voice,” says
Zuinglius, “he would, in sweetness, have surpassed Apollo and Orpheus, and in
force the Gracchi and Demosthenes.”

“The civil constitution,” said the champion of the papacy, “and Christianity
itself, are threatened. Men have appeared teaching new, offensive and seditions
doctrines.” Then, after speaking at great length, he fixed his eye on the
assembled senate, and said, “Remain with the Church, remain in the Church. Out
of it none can be saved. Ceremonies alone can bring the simple to the knowledge
of salvation, and the pastors of the flocks have nothing else to do than to
explain their meaning to the people.” As soon as the coadjutor had finished his
speech, he and his party were preparing to leave the council-hall, when
Zuinglius said to him, warmly, “Mr. Coadjutor, and you who accompany him,
remain, I pray you, till I have defended myself.” The Coadjutor.—“We are not
employed to dispute with any man whatever.”

Zuinglius.—“I mean not to dispute, but to explain to you, without fear, what I
have taught up to this hour.”

Burgomaster Roust to the Deputies of Constance.—“I pray you listen to the
curate’s reply.” The Coadjutor—“I too well know the man with whom I would have
to do. Ulric Zuinglius is too violent for any man to dispute with!”

Zuinglius.—“When did it become the practice to attack an innocent man so
strongly, and afterwards refuse to hear him? In the name of our common faith—in
the name of the baptism which both of us have received—in the name of Christ,
the author of salvation and life, listen to me. If you cannot as deputies, at
least do it as Christians.”

After firing a volley into the air, Rome retired with hasty steps from the field
of battle. The Reformer only asked to speak, and the agent of the papacy thought
only of flight. A cause thus pleaded was already gained on the one side and lost
on the other. The two hundred could not contain their indignation; a murmur
burst forth in the assembly. The burgomaster again pressed the deputies. They
felt ashamed, and silently resumed their seats. Then Zuinglius said:

“The Coadjutor speaks of seditious doctrines subversive of civil laws. Let him
know that Zurich is quieter, and more obedient to the laws than any other town
in Switzerland, and this all good citizens attribute to the gospel. Is not
Christianity the most powerful safeguard of justice among a people? What are
ceremonies good for, unless it be to sully the face of Christ and Christians?

4 Yes, there is another method than these vain observances to bring simple
people to the knowledge of the truth—a method which Christ and the Apostles
followed in the gospel itself! Have no dread of its not being comprehended by
the people! Whoever believes comprehends. The people can believe, and therefore
can comprehend. This is a work of the Divine Spirit, and not of human reason.
For the rest, he who does not find forty days sufficient may, for me, if he
likes, fast every day in the year! All I ask is, that nobody be compelled to do
so, and that, for neglect of the minutest observance, the Zurichers be not
accused of separating from the communion of Christians …”

“I did not say so,” exclaimed the Coadjutor. “No,” said his colleague, Dr.
Brendi, “he did not say it.” But the whole senate confirmed the assertion of
Zuinglius, who continued:

“Worthy citizens, let not this accusation move you! The foundation of the Church
is that rock, that Christ, who gave Peter his name, because he confessed him
faithfully. In every nation whosoever believeth with the heart in the Lord Jesus
Christ is saved. This is the Church out of which no man can be saved. As to us
ministers of Christ, to explain the gospel and follow it is the whole of our
duty. Let those who live by ceremonies make it their business to explain them.”
This was to touch the sore part. The Coadjutor blushed and said nothing. The two
hundred adjourned, and afterwards, the same day, decided that the pope and
cardinals should be requested to explain the controverted point, and that in the
meantime flesh should not be eaten during Lent. This was to leave matters on the
old footing, and answer the bishop in such a way as to gain time. This struggle
had advanced the work of the Reformation. The champions of Rome and of the
Reformation had been in presence of each other, and before the eyes of the whole
community, and the advantage had not been on the side of the pope. This was the
first engagement in what was to be a long and severe campaign, and to exhibit
many alternations of grief and joy. But a first victory at the outset gives
courage to the whole army, and fills the enemy with dismay. The Reformation had
obtained possession of a territory of which it was not again to be deprived. If
the Council deemed it necessary to proceed with some degree of caution, the
people loudly proclaimed the defeat of Rome. “Never,” said they in the
exultation of the moment, “never will they be able to reassemble their beaten
and scattered troops.” “You,” said they to Zuinglius, “have with the spirit of
St. Paul attacked these false apostles and their Ananias, their whited walls …
The utmost the satellites of antichrist can now do is to gnash their teeth
against you!” Voices were heard from the centre of Germany joyfully proclaiming
“the glory of reviving theology.”2 At the same time, however, the enemies of the
gospel mustered their forces. If they were to strike there was no time to be
lost, for it would soon be beyond the reach of their blows. Hoffman laid before
the chapter a long accusation against the Reformer. “Were the curate even able,”
said he, “to prove by witnesses what sins, what irregularities have been
committed by ecclesiastics in such a convent, such a street, such a tavern, it
would still be his duty not to give any names. Why does he give out (it is true
I have scarcely ever heard him myself) that he alone draws his doctrine at the
fountain-head, and that others search for it only in sinks and puddles? Is it
not impossible, seeing the diversity of spirits, for all to preach the same
thing?”

Zuinglius defended himself at a full meeting of the Chapter, scattering the
accusations of his opponent “as a bull with his horns tosses straw into the
air.” The affair which had appeared so serious ended in laughter at the canon’s
expence. But Zuinglius did not stop here; on the 16th April, he published a
treatise On the free use of food.


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  CHAPTER 94: CHAPTER XII
========================================================================

Grief and Joy in Germany—Ambush against Zuinglius—Mandate of the
Bishop—Archeteles—The Bishop addresses the Diet—Prohibition to attack the
Monks—Declaration of Zuinglius—The Nuns of Œtenbach—Zuinglius’ address to
Schwitz The Reformer’s immovable firmness delighted the friends of truth, and
particularly the Evangelical Christians of Germany, so long deprived by the
captivity of the Wartburg, of the mighty apostle who had first raised his head
in the bosom of the Church. Pastors and faithful people, now exiled by the
inexorable decree which the papacy had obtained at Worms from Charles V, found
an asylum in Zurich. Nesse, the professor of Frankfort, whom Luther visited when
on his way to Worms, in a letter to Zuinglius says—“Oh, how I am delighted to
learn with what authority you preach Christ. Speak words of encouragement to
those who, by the cruelty of wicked bishops, are obliged to flee far from our
churches in sorrow.” But the adversaries of the Reformation did not confine
their cruel plots against its friends to Germany. Scarcely an hour passed at
Zurich in which the means of getting rid of Zuinglius were not under
consideration. One day he received an anonymous letter, which he immediately
communicated to his two vicars. It said, “Snares environ you on every side,
mortal poison is ready to deprive you of life.5 Eat only in your own house, and
of bread baked by your own cook. The walls of Zurich contain men who are
plotting your ruin. The oracle which revealed this to me is truer than that of
Delphi. I am on your side, you will yet know me.” The day following that on
which Zuinglius received this mysterious letter, at the moment when Staheli was
going to enter the church of Eau, a chaplain stopped him and said, “Make all
haste and quit the house of Zuinglius; a catastrophe is preparing. Fanatics in
despair of being able to arrest the Reformation by word, armed themselves with
the poniard. When mighty revolutions are accomplished in society, assassins are
often thrown up from the impure dregs of the agitated population. God guarded
Zuinglius.

While murderers saw their plots defeated, the legitimate organs of the papacy
again began to agitate. The bishop and his counsellors were determined to renew
the war. From every quarter information to this effect reached Zuinglius, who,
leaning on the divine promise, exclaimed with noble confidence, “I fear them …
as a lofty shore fears the threatening waves.… συντῶΘεῳ with God,” added he. On
the 2nd May, the Bishop of Constance published an order in which, without naming
either Zurich or Zuinglius, he complained of the attempts of artful persons to
renew the condemned doctrines, and of discussions by the learned and the
ignorant, in all places on the most solemn mysteries. John Wanner, the preacher
of the cathedral of Constance, was the first that was attacked. “I would
rather,” said he, “be a Christian with the hatred of many, than abandon Christ
for the friendship of the world.” But it was at Zurich that the growing heresy
required to be crushed. Faber and the bishop knew that Zuinglius had several
enemies among the canons, and they were desirous to turn this hatred to account.
Toward the end of May, a letter from the bishop arrived at Zurich addressed to
the provost and his chapter. “Sons of the church,” said the prelate, “let them
perish that will perish, but let no one sever you from the church.” At the same
time the bishop urged the canons to prevent the false doctrines engendered by
pernicious sects from being preached and discussed, whether in private or in
public. When this letter was read in the chapter, all eyes were turned upon
Zuinglius, who, understanding what was meant, said, “I see you think that this
letter concerns me; have the goodness to put it into my hand, and by the help of
God I will answer it.”

Zuinglius did reply in his “Archêtelés,” a word which signifies the beginning
and end, “for I hope,” said he, “that this first answer will also be the last.”
He spoke in it in very respectful terms of the bishop, and attributed all the
attacks of his enemies to some intriguers. “What then have I done?” said he, “I
have called all men to the knowledge of their maladies, I have laboured to bring
them to the true God and to his Son Jesus Christ. With that view I have employed
not captious exhortations, but words simple and true, such as the sons of
Switzerland can comprehend.” Then passing from the defensive and becoming the
assailant, he finely adds, “Julius Cæsar, feeling himself mortally wounded,
endeavoured to draw up the folds of his robe that he might fall in a becoming
manner. The fall of your ceremonies is at hand; act so at least that they may
fall decently, and that in every place light may be quickly substituted for
darkness.” This was all that the bishop gained by his letter to the chapter of
Zurich. Now, therefore, that friendly remonstrances were vain, it was necessary
to strike more decisive blows. Faber and Landenberg turned in another
direction—towards the Diet, the national council. There deputies from the bishop
arrived to state that their master had issued an order, prohibiting all the
priests of his diocese from innovating in matters of doctrine, but that his
authority being disregarded he now wished the aid of the heads of the
confederation to assist him in bringing the rebellious to obedience, and
defending the true and ancient faith.3 The enemies of the Reformation were in a
majority in this first assembly of the nation, which a short time before had
issued a decree prohibiting the preaching of all priests whose discourses, as it
was expressed, produced discord among the people. This decree of the Diet, which
thus, for the first time, took up the question of the Reformation, had no
result, but now having determined on vigorous measures, this body summoned
before it Urban Weiss, pastor of Feilispach, near Baden, whom public rumour
charged with preaching the new faith and rejecting the old. Weiss was respited
for some time on the intercession of several individuals, and on bail for a
hundred florins offered by his parishioners. But the Diet had taken its part,
and having just given proof of it, the priests and monks began every where to
resume courage. At Zurich, even after the first decree, they had begun to behave
more imperiously. Several members of council were in the practice, morning and
evening, of visiting the three convents, and even taking their victuals there.
The monks laboured to indoctrinate their kind table companions, and urged them
to procure a decree of the government in their favour. “If Zuinglius won’t be
silent,” said they, “we will cry louder still!” The Diet had taken part with the
oppressors. The council of Zurich knew not what to do. On the 7th of June, it
issued an order forbidding any one to preach against the monks, “but scarcely
was the order resolved upon, than,” says the chronicle of Bullinger, “a sudden
noise was heard in the council chamber, and made every one look at his
neighbour.” Peace was not re-established. The war waged from the pulpit waxed
hotter and hotter. The council named a deputation who called the pastors of
Zurich and the readers and preachers of the convents to meet them in the
provost’s house; after a keen discussion, the burgomaster enjoined the two
parties not to preach any thing which might interrupt concord. “I cannot accept
this injunction,” said Zuinglius; “I mean to preach the gospel freely and
unconditionally in conformity to the resolution previously adopted. I am bishop
and pastor of Zurich; it is to me that the care of souls has been entrusted. It
was I that took the oath, not the monks. They ought to yield, not I. If they
preach lies I will contradict them, and that even in the pulpit of their own
convent. If I myself preach a doctrine contrary to the Holy Gospel, then I ask
to be rebuked, not only by the chapter, but by any citizen whatever, and
moreover, to be punished by the Council.”

2 “We,” said the monks, “we demand to be permitted to preach the doctrines of
St. Thomas.” The committee of the Council having deliberated, ordered that
Thomas, Scotus, and the other doctors, should be let alone, and nothing preached
but the Holy Gospel. Thus the truth had once more gained the victory. But the
wrath of the partisans of the papacy increased. The Ultra-Montanc canons could
not conceal their anger. They impertinently eyed Zuinglius in the chapter, and
by their looks seemed to demand his life.

Zuinglius was not deterred by their menaces. There was one place in Zurich
where, thanks to the Dominicans, the light had not yet penetrated; this was the
nunnery of Œtenbach. The daughters of the first families of Zurich there took
the veil. It seemed unjust that these poor females, confined within the walls of
their monastery, should alone be excluded from hearing the Word of God. The
Great Council ordered Zuinglius to repair to it, and the Reformer having mounted
a pulpit which had hitherto been given up to the Dominicans, preached “on the
clearness and certainty of the Word of God.” He at a later period published this
remarkable discourse, which was not without fruit, and irritated the monks still
more. A circumstance occurred to augment this hatred, and give it a place in
many other hearts. The Swiss, headed by Stein and Winkelried, had just
experienced a bloody defeat at Bicoque. They had rushed impetuously on the
enemy, but the artillery of Pescaire and the lancers of that Freundsberg, whom
Luther had met at the door of the hall of Worms, had thrown down both leaders
and colours, whole companies falling and disappearing at once. Winkelried and
Stein, Mulinen, Diesbachs, Bonstettens, Tschudis, and Pfyffers, were left on the
battle-field. Schwitz, especially, had been mown down. The bloody wrecks of this
dreadful conflict had returned to Switzerland, spreading mourning at every step.
A wail of grief had resounded from the Alps to the Jura, and from the Rhone to
the Rhine. But none had felt a deeper pang than Zuinglius. He immediately sent
an address to Schwitz dissuading its citizens from foreign service. “Your
ancestors,” said he to them, with all the warmth of a Swiss heart, “forgot their
enemies in defence of their liberties, but they never put Christians to death in
order to gain money. These foreign wars bring innumerable calamities on our
country. The scourges of God chastise our confederacy, and Helvetic freedom is
on the eve of being lost between the selfish caresses and the mortal hatred of
foreign princes. Zuinglius went hand in hand with Nicolas Flue, and renewed the
entreaties of that man of peace. This exhortation having been presented to the
assembly of the people of Schwitz had such an effect that a resolution was
passed to desist prospectively for twenty-five years from capitulation. But the
French party soon succeeded in getting the generous resolution rescinded, and
Schwitz was thenceforth the canton most decidedly opposed to Zuinglius and his
works. The very disasters which the partisans of foreign capitulation brought
upon their country only increased the hatred of those men against the bold
minister, who endeavoured to rescue his country from all this misfortune and all
this disgrace. Thus throughout the confederation a party which daily grew more
and more violent was formed against Zurich and Zuinglius. The customs of the
Church and the practices of the recruiters being at once attacked, they made
common cause in resisting the impetus of Reform by which their existence was
threatened. At the same time external enemies multiplied. Not merely the pope
but other foreign princes also vowed inextinguishable hatred to the Reformation,
because it was aiming to deprive them of those Helvetic halberds, to which their
ambition and their pride owed so many triumphs? But the cause of the gospel had
still God on its side and the best among the people: this was sufficient.
Besides, individuals from different countries exiled for their faith were led by
the hand of Providence to give Switzerland their aid.


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  CHAPTER 95: CHAPTER XIII
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A French monk—He teaches in Switzerland—Dispute between the Monk and
Zuinglius—Discourse of the Leader of the Johannites—The Carnival at Berne—The
Eaters of the Dead—The Skull of St. Anne—Appenzel—The Grisons—Murder and
Adultery—Marriage of Zuinglius. On Saturday the 12th July there was seen
entering the streets of Zurich a monk, tall, thin, stiff, gaunt, clad in a grey
cordelier frock, and mounted upon an ass. He had the look of a foreigner, and
his bare feet almost touched the ground. He arrived thus by the road from
Avignon. He did not know one word of German, but by means of Latin succeeded in
making himself understood. Francis Lambert (this was his name) asked for
Zuinglius and delivered him a letter from Berthold Haller. “The Franciscan
father,” wrote the Bernese curate, “who is no less than the apostolic preacher
of the general convent of Avignon, has, for nearly five years, been teaching
Christian truth: he has preached in Latin to our priests at Geneva, at Lausanne
in presence of the bishop, at Friburg, and finally at Berne. His subjects were,
the Church, the priesthood, the sacrifice of the mass, the traditions of the
Roman bishops, and the superstitions of the religious orders. It seemed to me
wonderful to hear such things from a cordelier and a Frenchman—circumstances,
both of which, as you know, imply a host of superstitions.”2 The Frenchman
himself related to Zuinglius how the writings of Luther having been discovered
in his cell, he had been obliged to take a hasty leave of Avignon; how he had
first preached the gospel at Geneva, and thereafter at Lausanne. Zuinglius,
overjoyed, gave the monk access to the church of Notre Dame, assigning him a
seat in the choir near the high altar. Lambert here delivered four sermons, in
which he forcibly attacked the errors of Rome, but in the fourth he defended the
invocation of the saints and the Virgin.

“Brother, you are in error,” immediately exclaimed an animated voice. It was the
voice of Zuinglius. Canons and chaplains thrilled with joy when they saw a
quarrel rising between the Frenchman and the heretical curate. “He has attacked
you,” said they all to Lambert: “demand a public discussion.” The man of Avignon
did so, and at ten o’clock on the morning of the 12th of July, the two chaplains
met in the hall of the canons. Zuinglius opened the Old and New Testament in
Greek and Latin: he discussed and lectured till two. Then the French monk,
clasping his hands, and raising them towards heaven, exclaimed, “I thank thee, O
God, that thou hast by this illustrious instrument given me such a clear
knowledge of the truth! Henceforth,” added he, turning towards the assembly, “in
all my distresses I will invoke God only and leave off my beads. To-morrow I
resume my journey. I go to Bâle to see Erasmus of Rotterdam, and thence to
Wittemberg to see the monk Martin Luther.” He accordingly remounted his ass and
set out. We will again meet with him. He was the first exile from France, for
the cause of the gospel, who appeared in Switzerland and Germany—a modest
fore-runner of many thousands of refugees and confessors.

Myconius had no such consolation. On the contrary he saw Sebastian Hofmeister,
who had come from Constance to Lucerne, and there boldly preached the gospel,
obliged to quit the city. Then Oswald’s grief increased. The moist climate of
Lucerne disagreed with him. He was wasted by fever; and the physicians declared
that if he did not change his residence he would die. Writing to Zuinglius, he
says, “There is no place I should like better to be than beside yourself, and no
place worse than at Lucerne. Men torture, and the climate consumes me. My
disease, some say, is the punishment of my iniquity. Ah, it is vain to speak,
vain to act: every thing is poison to them. There is One in heaven on whom alone
my hope depends.” This hope was not vain. It was towards the end of March, and
the feast of the Annunciation was at hand. The evening before there was a great
solemnity in commemoration of a fire which in 1540 had reduced the greater part
of the town to ashes. Multitudes from the surrounding districts had flocked into
Lucerne, and several hundreds of priests were then assembled. Some distinguished
orator was usually employed to preach on this great occasion. Conrad Schmid,
commander of the Johannites, arrived to discharge the duty. An immense crowd
thronged the church. What was the general astonishment on hearing the commander
lay aside the pompous Latin to which they had been accustomed, and speak in good
German, so that all could comprehend him, enforce with authority and holy
fervour the love of God in sending his Son, eloquently prove that external works
cannot save, and that the promises of God are truly the power of the gospel.
“God forbid,” said the commander to his astonished audience, “that we should
receive a chief so full of lies as the Bishop of Rome, and reject Jesus Christ.
If the Bishop of Rome dispenses the bread of the gospel, let us receive him as
pastor, but not as head; and if he does not dispense it, let us not receive him
in any way whatever.” Oswald was unable to restrain his joy. “What a man!”
exclaimed he: “what a discourse! what majesty! what authority! what overflowing
of the Spirit of Christ!” The impression was general. To the agitation which
filled the town succeeded a solemn silence; but all this was transient. When
nations shut their ears against the calls of God, these calls are diminished
from day to day, and soon cease. Thus it was at Lucerne. At Berne, while the
truth was preached from the pulpit, the papacy was attacked at the merry-makings
of the people. Nicolas Manuel, a distinguished layman, celebrated for his
poetical talents, and advanced to the first offices in the state, indignant at
seeing his countrymen pillaged by Samson, composed carnival dramas, in which,
with the keen weapon of satire, he attacked the avarice, pride, and luxury of
the pope and the clergy. On the Shrove Tuesday “of the Lords,” (the clergy were
at this time the lords, and began Lent eight days before the common people,) all
Berne was engrossed with a drama or mystery entitled, “The Eaters of the Dead,”
which young boys were going to perform in the street of La Croix. The people
flocked to it in crowds. In regard to the progress of art, these dramatic
sketches of the beginning of the sixteenth century are of some interest; but we
give them here with a very different view. We would have been better pleased not
to have had to quote squibs of this description on the part of the Reformation,
for truth triumphs by other arms. But the historian does not make his facts. He
must give them as he finds them. At length, to the delight of the eager crowds
assembled in the street of La Croix, the representation began. The pope is seen
clad in gorgeous robes, and seated on a throne. Around him stand his courtiers,
his body guards, and a promiscuous band of priests of high and low degree;
behind are nobles, laymen, and mendicants. A funeral train shortly appears: it
is a rich farmer on the way to his last home. Two of his relatives walk slowly
in front of the coffin with napkins in their hand. The train having arrived in
front of the pope, the bier is laid down at his feet, and the drama begins:
first relative in a tone of deep grief O noble army of the sainted host, Take
pity on our doleful plight; Our cousin, our illustrious boast, From life, alas,
has taken flight.

Expence we grudge not; cheerfully we’ll pay For priests, monks, and nuns, in
costly array:

Yea, one hundred crowns we’ll freely devote If thereby exemption may surely be
bought From purgatory, that dread scourge, With which our frightened souls they
urge. The Sacristan, breaking off from the band surrounding the pope, and
running hastily to Curate Robert Ever-More— Something to drink, Master Curate, I
crave; A farmer of note now goes to his grave. the curate One!—nay you must tell
me of ten: My thirst will ne’er be quenched till then.

Life flourishes when mortals die, For death to me brings jollity. the sacristan
Ah! could it shorten mankind’s breath!

I’d ring a merry peal for death! No other trade succeeds so well As tolling out
life’s parting knell. the curate But does the bell of death the portals draw Of
heaven’s wide gate? I cannot, may not say;

What boots it? to my house it brings Both fish and flesh, and all good things.
the curate’s niece Tis well: I, too, anon will claim my share. This day this
soul must pay to me my fare— A robe, white, red, and green, a flowered damas, A
pretty kerchief likewise for my eyes at mass.

Cardinal High-Pride adorned with a red hat, and close by the pope:— If death
brought us no heritage, Would we cause die in flower of age, On battle-plain,
Such heaps of slain, Roused by intrigue, by envy fired?

Yes, Rome with Christian blood grows fat!

Therefore I hoist this scarlet hat, To tell the trophies thus acquired bishop
wolf-belly In papal rites I’ll live and die, And clothe me in silk embroidery;
In foray or chace I’ll take my pleasure, And eat and drink in ample measure; Had
I been priest in days of yore, A peasant’s dress I then had wore.

We once were shepherds, but now we reign kings, For a shepherd I’ll pass ’mong
the lambkins poor things … a voice When? When shall this be? bishop When the
wool of the flock shall be gathered by me.

We truly are wolves, yet we’re shepherds of sheep, They must feed us, or death
is the best they shall reap. His Holiness forbids to marry; This yoke the wisest
ne’er could carry— But then! when priests do cross the score, The scandal only
swells my store, And makes my train extend the more.

Nought I refuse, e’en farthings tell, A monied priest may have a belle.

Four florins a-year will wipe it away; Does an infant appear?—again he must pay.
On two thousand florins I reckon each year, Were they chaste, I should starve on
a pittance I fear.

Then hail to the pope; on my knees I adore And swear in his faith to live
evermore; His church I’ll defend, and till death I avow, He alone is the god
before whom I will bow. the pope The people now at length believe That priests
can all their sins reprieve At pleasure—that to them is given Full power to shut
or open heaven.

Preach loudly, every high decree, Of him, the conclave’s majesty.

Then, we are kings, the laity slaves: But if the gospel standard waves We’re
lost; for no where does it say, Make sacrifice, let priests have pay. The gospel
course for us would be, To live and die in poverty.

Instead of steeds to mark my state, And chariots on my sons to wait, A paltry
ass must needs supply A seat for sacred majesty.

No, I cannot take such legacy, I’ll thunder at such temerity;

Let us but will—the world will nod, And nations adore us as God.

Slighting their rights I mount my throne, And partition the world among my own;

Vile laity must keep far aloof, Nor dare to enter our blest roof, To touch our
tribute, or our gold.

Holy water e’en let them hold.

We will not continue this literal translation of Manuel’s drama. The agony of
the clergy on learning the efforts of the Reformers, and their rage against
those who threaten to interfere with their irregularities, are painted in lively
colours. The dissolute manners of which this piece gave so vivid a
representation were too common not to strike the spectator with the truth of the
picture. The people were excited. Many jibes were heard as they retired from the
play in the street of La Croix; but some who took the matter more seriously,
spoke of Christian liberty and papal despotism, and contrasted the simplicity of
the gospel with the pomp of Rome. The contempt of the people was soon displayed
in the public streets. On Ash Wednesday, the indulgences were promenaded through
the town amid satirical songs. In Berne, and throughout Switzerland a severe
blow had been given to the ancient edifice of the papacy.

Sometime after this representation, another comedy was acted at Berne, but there
was no fiction in it. The clergy, council, and corporation had assembled in
front of the Upper Gate, waiting for the skull of St. Anne, which the famous
knight, Albert of Stein, had gone to fetch from Lyons. At length Stein appeared,
holding the holy relic wrapt in a covering of silk. As it passed, the Bishop of
Lausanne knelt down before it. This precious skull, the skull of the Virgin’s
mother, is carried in procession to the church of the Dominicans, and, amid the
ringing of bells, enters the church, where it is placed with great solemnity on
the altar consecrated to it, behind a splendid grating. But amid all this joy, a
letter arrives from the abbot of the convent of Lyon, where the relics of the
saint were deposited, intimating that what the monks had sold to the knight was
a profane bone taken at random from the burying ground. The trick thus played
off on the illustrious city of Berne filled its citizens with deep indignation.
The Reformation was making progress in other parts of Switzerland. In 1521,
Walter Klarer, a young man of Appenzel, returned to his native canton from the
university of Paris. Luther’s writings fell into his hands, and, in 1522, he
preached the evangelical doctrine with all the ardour of a young convert. An
innkeeper, named Rausberg, a wealthy and pious man, and a member of the council
of Appenzel, opened his house to all the friends of truth. Bartholomew Berweger,
a famous captain, who had fought for Julius II and for Leo X, having at this
time returned from Rome, began forthwith to persecute the evangelical ministers.
One day, however, remembering how much vice he had seen at Rome, he began to
read the Bible, and to attend the sermons of the new preachers; his eyes were
opened, and he embraced the gospel. Seeing that the crowds could not be
contained in the churches, he proposed that they should preach in the fields and
the public squares, and, notwithstanding of keen opposition, the hills, meadows,
and mountains of Appenzel, thenceforward often echoed with the glad tidings of
salvation. The reformed doctrine, ascending the Rhine, made its way as far as
ancient Rhætia. One day, a stranger from Zurich crossed the river, and waited on
the saddler of Flasch, the frontier village of the Grisons. Christian Anhorn,
the saddler, listened in astonishment to the language of his visitor. “Preach,”
said the whole village to the stranger, who was called James Burkli. He
accordingly took his station in front of the altar. A number of persons arrived,
with Anhorn at their head, and stood round to defend him from a sudden attack
while he preached the gospel. The rumour of this preaching spread far and wide;
and, on the following Sunday, an immense crowd assembled. Shortly after, a great
proportion of the inhabitants of the district desired to have the Lord’s Supper
dispensed to them according to its original institution. But one day the tocsin
suddenly sounded in Mayenfield; the people ran in alarm; and the priests, after
pointing out the danger which threatened the Church, hastened at the head of the
fanatical population to Flasch. Anhorn, who was working in the field, astonished
at hearing the sound of bells at so unusual an hour, hastened home and concealed
Burkli in a deep hole dug in his cellar. The house was by this time surrounded;
the door was forced open, and the heretical preacher everywhere searched for in
vain. At length the persecutors withdrew. The Word of God spread over the extent
of the ten jurisdictions. The curate of Mayenfield, on returning from Rome, to
which he had fled infuriated at the success of the gospel, exclaimed, “Rome has
made me evangelical,” and became a zealous reformer. The Reformation soon
extended to the league of “the House of God.” “Oh!” exclaimed Salandronius to
Vadian, “if you but saw how the inhabitants of the mountains of Rhætia cast far
from them the yoke of the Babylonish captivity!”

Shocking disorders hastened the day when Zurich and the neighbouring districts
were to shake off the yoke. A married schoolmaster wishing to become a priest,
obtained his wife’s consent, and they separated. The new curate was unable to
keep his vow of celibacy, but not to outrage his wife’s feelings quitted the
place where she lived, and, having taken up his residence in the diocese of
Constance, formed a licentious connection. His wife hastened to the place. The
poor priest took compassion on her, and dismissing the person who had usurped
her rights, took back his lawful spouse. The procurator-fiscal forthwith drew up
a charge against him: the vicar-general began to move; the council of the
consistory deliberated … and the curate was ordered to abandon his wife or his
benefice. The poor wife left the house weeping bitterly, and her rival returned
in triumph. The Church declared itself satisfied, and thenceforth let the
adulterous priest alone.

Shortly after a curate of Lucerne eloped with a married woman, and lived with
her. The husband went to Lucerne and taking advantage of the priest’s absence
brought away his wife. While returning they were met by the seducer, who
immediately attacked the injured husband, and gave him a wound of which he died.
All good men felt the necessity of re-establishing the divine law, which
declares marriage honorable in all. The evangelical ministers had taught that
the law of celibacy was of merely human origin, imposed by Roman pontiffs in
opposition to the Word of God, which, when describing a true bishop, represents
him as a husband and father. (1 Timothy 3:2 and 1 Timothy 3:4) They saw at the
same time, that of all the abuses which had crept into the Church none had
caused more numerous vices and scandals. They considered it not only as a thing
lawful but as a duty in the sight of God to withdraw from its authority. Several
of them at this time returned to the ancient practice of apostolic times.
Xylotect was married. Zuinglius also married at this period. No lady was more
respected in Zurich than Anna Reinhard, widow of Meyer of Knonau, the mother of
Gerold. From the arrival of Zuinglius she had been one of his most attentive
hearers: she lived in his neighbourhood, and he observed her piety, modesty, and
fondness for her children. Young Gerold, who had become as it were his adopted
son, brought him into closer connection with his mother. The trials already
endured by this Christian woman, who was one day to be the most cruelly tried of
all the women whose history is on record, had given her a gravity which made her
evangelical virtues still more prominent. She was now about thirty-five years of
age, and her own fortune amounted only to four hundred florins. It was on her
that Zuinglius, on looking out for a companion for life, turned his eye. He felt
how sacred and intimate the conjugal union is. He termed it “a most holy
alliance.”2 “As Christ,” said he, “died for his people, and gave himself to them
entirely, so ought husband and wife to do and suffer every thing for each
other.” But Zuinglius, when he took Anna Reinhard to wife, did not immediately
publish his marriage. This was undoubtedly a culpable weakness in a man
otherwise so resolute. The light which he and his friends had acquired on the
subject of celibacy was not generally diffused. The weak might have been
offended. He feared that his usefulness in the Church might be paralysed if his
marriage were made public. He sacrificed part of his happiness to these
fears—fears to which, though respectable perhaps, he should have been superior.4


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  CHAPTER 96: CHAPTER XIV
========================================================================

How Truth triumphs—Society at Einsidlen—Request to the Bishops—to the
Confederates—The Men of Einsidlen separate—A Scene in a Convent—A Dinner by
Myconius—The Strength of the Reformers—Effect of the Petitions to Lucerne—The
Council of the Diet—Haller at the Town-House—Friburg—Destitution of
Oswald—Zuinglius comforts him—Oswald quits Lucerne—First severity of the
Diet—Consternation of the Brothers of Zuinglius—His Resolution—The Future—The
Prayer of Zuinglius.

Meanwhile still higher interests occupied the friends of truth. The Diet, as we
have seen, urged by the enemies of the Reformation, had ordered the evangelical
preachers to desist from preaching the doctrines which troubled the people.
Zuinglius felt that the moment for action had arrived, and with the energy which
characterised him, called a meeting of the ministers of the Lord, the friends of
the gospel, at Einsidlen. The strength of Christians is neither in carnal
weapons, nor the flames of martyrdom—it is in a simple but unanimous and
intrepid profession of these great truths to which the world must one day be
subjugated. In particular, God calls upon those who serve him to hold these
heavenly doctrines prominently forth in presence of the whole people without
being dismayed by the clamour of adversaries. Those truths are able of
themselves to secure their triumph, and as of old with the ark of God, idols
cannot stand in their presence. The time had come when God willed that the great
doctrine of salvation should be confessed in Switzerland. It was necessary that
the gospel standard should be planted on some eminence. Providence was going to
draw humble but intrepid men out of unknown retreats that they might bear a
striking testimony in presence of the nation.

Towards the end of June and the beginning of July, 1522, pious ministers were
seen proceeding in all directions towards the celebrated chapel of Einsidlen on
a new pilgrimage. From Art, in the canton of Schwitz, came its curate, Balthasar
Traschel; from Weiningen near Baden, curate Staheli; from Zug, Werner Steiner;
from Lucerne, canon Kilchmeyer; from Uster, curate Pfister; from Hongg, near
Zurich, curate Stumpff; from Zurich itself, canon Fabricius, chaplain Schmid,
the preacher of the hospital, Grosmann, and Zuinglius. Leo Juda, curate of
Einsidlen, most cordially welcomed all these ministers of Jesus Christ to the
ancient abbey. Since the time when Zuinglius took up his residence in it, this
place had been a citadel of truth, and a hotel of the just.2 In like manner had
thirty-three bold patriots, resolved to break the yoke of Austria, met two
hundred years before in the solitary plain of Grutli. The object of the meeting
at Einsidlen was to break the yoke of human authority in the things of God.
Zuinglius proposed to his friends to present earnest addresses to the cantons,
and to the bishop, praying for the free preaching of the gospel, and at the same
time for the abolition of compulsory celibacy, the source of so many
irregularities. The proposal was unanimously adopted. Ulric had himself prepared
the addresses. That to the bishop was first read. It was dated 2nd July, 1522,
and signed by all the evangelists we have mentioned. The preachers of the truth
in Switzerland were united in cordial affection. Many others besides sympathised
with the party at Einsidlen: such were Haller, Myconius, Hedio, Capito,
Œcolampadius, Sebastian Meyer, Hoffmister, and Wanner. This harmony is one of
the finest traits in the Swiss Reformation. These excellent persons always acted
as one man, and remained friends till death. The men of Einsidlen were aware
that it was only by the power of faith that the members of the Confederation,
divided by foreign enlistments, could become one body. But their views were
carried higher. “The celestial doctrine,” said they to their ecclesiastical
head, in the address of 2nd July, “that truth which God the Creator has
manifested by his Son to the human race now plunged in evil, has been long
veiled from our eyes by the ignorance, not to say the malice of certain men. But
God Almighty has resolved to re-establish it in its primitive condition. Join
yourself to those who demand that the multitude of the faithful return to their
head, who is Christ. For our part we have resolved to promulgate his gospel with
indefatigable perseverance, and at same time with such wisdom that none can
complain. Favour this enterprise; astonishing, perhaps, but not rash. Be like
Moses on the march at the head of the people coming out of Egypt, and overthrow
the obstacles which oppose the triumphant progress of truth.”

After this warm appeal, the evangelists met at Einsidlen came to celibacy.
Zuinglius had no longer any demand to make on this head for himself, having
already one answering the description given by Paul of what a minister’s wife
ought to be, grave, sober, faithful in all things. (1 Timothy 3:2) But he
thought of his brethren, whose consciences were not yet like his, emancipated
from human ordinances. He sighed moreover for the time when all the servants of
God might live openly and without fear in the bosom of their own family, keeping
their children, says the apostle, in subjection, with all gravity (1 Timothy
3:4) “You are not ignorant,” said the men of Einsidlen, that hitherto chastity
has been deplorably violated by the priests. When on the consecration of the
servants of the Lord he who speaks for all is asked, ‘Are those whom you present
righteous? He answers—They are righteous. Are they learned? They are learned.
But when he is asked—Are they chaste? he answers: As far as human weakness
permits. Everything in the New Testament condemns licentiousness: every thing in
it sanctions marriage.” Then follows the quotation of a great number of
passages. “Wherefore,” they continued, “we implore you by the love of Christ, by
the liberty which he has purchased for us, by the misery of so many weak and
wavering souls, by the wounds of so many ulcerated consciences, by every thing
human and divine; … allow that which was rashly done to be wisely repealed, lest
the majestic edifice of the Church fall with fearful uproar, and drag boundless
ruin after it.3 See with what storms the world is threatened. If wisdom
interpose not it is all over with the priesthood.” The petition to the
Confederation was of greater length. The band of Einsidlen, addressing the
Confederates, thus conclude: “Honoured Sirs,—we are all Swiss, and you are our
fathers. There are some among us who have shown themselves faithful in combat,
in plague, and other calamities. It is in the name of true chastity that we
speak to you. Who knows not that we could satisfy sensual appetite far better by
not submitting to the laws of a legitimate union? But it is necessary to put an
end to the scandals which afflict the church of Christ. If the tyranny of the
Roman pontiff would oppress us, fear nothing, brave heroes! The authority of the
Word of God, the rights of Christian liberty, and the sovereign power of grace,
guard around us. We have the same country, we have the same faith, we are Swiss,
and the valour of our illustrious ancestors always manifested its power by an
indomitable defence of those oppressed by injustice.”

Thus in Einsidlen itself, in this old rampart of superstition, which is still,
in our day, one of the most famous sanctuaries of Roman superstition, Zuinglius
and his friends boldly raised the standard of truth and freedom. They appealed
to the heads of the State and the Church. They fixed their thesis, like Luther,
both on the gate of the episcopal palace and on that of the national council.
The friends met at Einsidlen parted calm, joyful, full of hope in that God to
whom they had committed their cause. Some passing near the battle-field of
Morgarten, others over the chain of the Albis, and others again by different
valleys or mountains, all returned to their posts. “There was truly something
grand in these times,” says Henry Bullinger, “in men thus daring to put
themselves forward, rallying around the gospel, and exposing themselves to all
dangers. But God defended them so, that no evil reached them: for God preserves
his people at all times.” It was indeed something grand, it was a great step in
the progress of the Reformation, one of the brightest days of religious revival
in Switzerland. A holy confederation was formed at Einsidlen. Humble and
courageous men had seized the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God, and
the shield of faith. The gauntlet was thrown down, and the challenge given, not
by a single man, but by men of different cantons, ready to sacrifice their
lives. It only remained to await the battle.

Everything announced that it was to be fierce. Five days after (7th July), the
magistracy of Zurich, wishing to give some satisfaction to the Roman party,
summoned before them Conrad Grebel and Claus Hottinger, two of those extreme men
who seemed desirous to go beyond the bounds of a wise Reformation. “We forbid
you,” said Burgomaster Roust, “to speak against the monks or on controverted
points.” At these words, a loud noise was heard in the chamber, says an ancient
chronicle. God was so manifestly in favour of the work, that people were
everywhere anticipating signs of his interposition. All present looked around in
astonishment, without being able to discover the cause of this mysterious
circumstance. But indignation was carried to its greatest height in convents.
Every meeting held in them, whether for discipline or festivity, witnessed some
new attack. One day, when a great festival was celebrated in the convent of
Fraubrunn, the wine having got into the heads of the guests, they began to shoot
the most envenomed arrows at the gospel. What especially excited the rage of
these priests and monks was the evangelical doctrine—that in the Christian
Church there ought to be no sacerdotal caste above believers. Only one friend of
the Reformation, a simple layman, Macrin, schoolmaster at Solcure, was present.
He at first shunned the contest by changing his seat to another table. But at
last, no longer able to endure the furious invectives of the guests, he stood up
boldly, and exclaimed, “Yes, all true Christians are priests, and offer
sacrifice according to the words of St. Peter, ‘

You are a royal priesthood.’ ” At these words, one of the most intrepid bawlers,
the dean of Burgdorff, a tall, stout man, with a stentorian voice, uttered a
loud laugh. “You little Greeks and school rats! You a royal priesthood!…
Beautiful priesthood!… Mendicant kings!… priests without prebends and
benefices!” And instantly all the priests and monks fell with one accord on the
impudent laic. But it was in Lucerne that the bold step of the men of Einsidlen
was to produce the strongest sensation. The Diet had met in this town, and
complaints arrived from all quarters against the rash preachers who were
preventing Helvetia from quietly selling the blood of her sons to the stranger.
On the 22nd July, as Oswald Myconius was entertaining canon Kilchmeyer, and
several other friends of the gospel, at dinner, a boy, sent by Zuinglius,
knocked at the door. He was the bearer of the two famous petitions from
Einsidlen, and of a letter from Zuinglius, which requested Oswald to circulate
them in Lucerne. “My advice is, that the thing be done quietly, by degrees,
rather than all at once; but, for the love of Christ, it is necessary to forsake
everything, even wife.”

Thus the crisis approached in Lucerne: the shell had fallen, and could not but
burst. The guests read the petitions. “May God bless this beginning,” said
Oswald, looking up to heaven, and then added, “This prayer must, from this
moment, be the constant occupation of our hearts.” The petitions were forthwith
circulated, perhaps with more ardour than Zuinglius had requested. But the
moment was singular. Eleven individuals, the flower of the clergy, had placed
themselves in the breach: it was necessary to enlighten men’s minds, to fix the
irresolute, and gain over the most influential members of the Diet.

Oswald, in the midst of this labour, did not forget his friend. The young
messenger had told him of the attacks which Zuinglius had to endure from the
monks at Zurich. Writing him the same day, he says, “The truth of the Holy
Spirit is invincible. Armed with the shield of the Holy Scriptures you have
remained conqueror, not in one combat only, nor in two, but in three, and the
fourth is now commencing.… Seize those powerful weapons which are harder than
diamond! Christ, in order to protect his people, has need only of his Word. Your
struggles give indomitable courage to all who have devoted themselves to Jesus
Christ.” At Lucerne, the petitions did not produce the result anticipated. Some
pious men approved of them, but these were few in number. Several, fearing to
compromise themselves, were unwilling either to praise or blame. “These folks,”
said others, “will never bring this affair to a good end!” All the priests
murmured, grumbled, and muttered between their teeth. As to the people, they
were loud against the gospel. A rage for war was awakened in Lucerne after the
bloody defeat of Bicoque, and engrossed all thoughts.3 Oswald, who was an
attentive observer of these different impressions, felt his courage shaken. The
evangelical future which he had anticipated for Lucerne and Switzerland seemed
to vanish. “Our people,” said he, uttering a deep sigh, “are blind to the things
of heaven. In regard to the glory of Christ, there is no hope of the Swiss.”

Wrath prevailed, especially in the Council and the Diet. The pope, France,
England, and the empire, all around Switzerland, was in agitation after the
defeat of Bicoque, and the evacuation of Lombardy by the French under Lautrec.
Were not political interests at that moment complicated enough before these
eleven men came with their petitions to mingle religious questions with them?
The deputies of Zurich alone were favourably disposed to the gospel. Canon
Xylotect, afraid for his own life and that of his wife, (he had married into one
of the first families in the country,) had refused, with tears of regret, to
repair to Einsidlen and sign the addresses. Canon Kilchmeyer had shown greater
courage. He, too, had everything to fear. “Condemnation threatens me,” he writes
to Zuinglius, on the 13th August; “I await it without fear …” As he was writing
these words, an officer of the council entered the room, and cited him to appear
next day.” “If they put me in irons,” said he, continuing his letter, “I claim
your help; but it will be easier to transport a rock from our Alps than to move
me a finger’s breadth from the word of Jesus Christ.” The regard which was
deemed due to his family, and the resolution which they had taken to let the
storm fall upon Oswald, saved the canon.

Berthold Haller, probably because he was not a Swiss, had not signed the
petitions. But full of courage, he, like Zuinglius, expounded the gospel
according to Matthew. A vast crowd filled the cathedral of Berne. The word of
God operated more powerfully on the people than Manuel’s dramas. Haller was
summoned to the Town House; the people accompanied their good-natured pastor,
and remained around the spot. The council was divided. “This concerns the
bishop,” said the leading men. “The preacher must be handed over to my lord of
Lausanne.” The friends of Haller trembled at these words, and told him to
withdraw as quickly as possible. The people flocked round, and accompanied him
to his house, where a great number of burghers remained in arms prepared to make
a rampart of their bodies in defence of their humble pastor. The bishop and
council were overawed by this energetic demonstration, and Haller was saved.
Haller was not the only combatant at Berne. Sebastian Meyer at this time refuted
the pastoral letter of the Bishop of Constance, and in particular the formidable
charge, “that the gospellers teach a new doctrine, but that the old doctrine is
the true.” “To be wrong for two thousand years,” said Meyer, “is not to be right
for a single hour; otherwise the heathen ought to have adhered to their belief.
If the most ancient doctrines must carry the day, fifteen hundred years are more
than five hundred years, and the gospel is more ancient than the ordinances of
the pope.” At this period the magistrates of Friburg intercepted letters
addressed to Haller and Meyer by a canon of Friburg, named John Hollard, a
native of Orb. They imprisoned, then deposed, and at last banished him. John
Vannius, a chorister in the cathedral, shortly after embraced the evangelical
doctrine; for in the Christian warfare one soldier no sooner falls than another
takes his place. “How could the muddy water of the Tiber,” said Vannius,
“subsist beside the pure water which Luther has drawn from the spring of St.
Paul.” But the chorister’s mouth was also closed. Myconius wrote to Zuinglius,
“Scarcely will you find in Switzerland men more averse to the gospel than the
Friburghers.”

Lucerne ought to have been stated as an exception. This Myconius knew. He had
not signed the famous petitions, but his friends had if he had not, and a victim
was required. The ancient literature of Greece and Rome began, thanks to him, to
shed some light in Lucerne; numbers arrived from different quarters to attend
the learned professor, and the friends of peace were charmed with sounds sweeter
than those of halberds, swords, and cuirasses, which alone had hitherto
resounded in the warlike city. Oswald had sacrificed everything for his country.
He had quitted Zurich and Zuinglius; he had lost his health; his wife was
pining; his son was in childhood; if even Lucerne rejected him he could nowhere
hope for an asylum. But no matter; factions have no pity, and the thing which
ought to excite their compassion stimulates their rage. Herbenstein, burgomaster
of Lucerne, an old and valiant warrior who had gained a distinguished name in
the wars of Suabia and Burgundy, followed up the deposition of the teacher, and
wished, to banish, from the canton, with himself, his Greek, his Latin, and his
gospel. He succeeded. On coming out of the Council, after the sederunt at which
Myconius had been deposed, Herbenstein met the Zurich deputy, Berguer. “We are
sending you back your schoolmaster,” said he to him ironically, “get a good
lodging for him.” “We wont let him sleep in the open air,”3 immediately replied
the courageous deputy. But Berguer promised more than he could perform. The news
given by the burgomaster were but too true, and were soon intimated to the
unhappy Myconius. He is deposed and banished, and the only crime laid to his
charge is that of being a disciple of Luther. He looks all around but nowhere
finds a shelter. He sees his wife, his son, and himself, all three feeble and
sickly, exiled from their country, and Switzerland, all around agitated by a
whirlwind, which breaks and destroys every thing that stands in its way. “Here,”
said he then to Zuinglius, “is poor Myconius banished by the council of Lucerne.

5 … Whither shall I go? I know not … Assailed yourself by these furious-storms
how could you shelter me? I cry then in my distress to that God who is the first
in whom I hope, who is ever bountiful, ever kind, and who never calls upon any
to seek his face in vain. May He supply my wants!”

Thus spoke Oswald, and he was not obliged to wait long for a word of
consolation. There was one in Switzerland inured to the battles of the faith.
Zuinglius drew near to his friend, and comforting him, thus expressed himself,
“The blows by which men attempt to overthrow the house of God are so violent,
and the assaults which they make upon it so frequent that not only do the wind
and rain beat upon it, as our Saviour predicted, (Matthew 7:27) but the hail and
the thunder. Had I not perceived the Lord guiding the ship I should, long ere
now, have cast the helm into the sea, but I see him amid the tempest,
strengthening the tackling, arranging the yards, stretching the sails, what do I
say? commanding the very winds … Should I not then be a coward unworthy of the
name of a man if I abandoned my post and fled to a shameful death? I confide
entirely in his sovereign goodness. Let him govern, transport, hasten, retard,
precipitate, arrest, break down, let him even plunge us to the bottom of the
abyss, we fear nothing.

2 We are vessels which belong to him. He can use us as he pleases, for honour or
disgrace.” After words thus full of faith Zuinglius continues. “As to your case
this is my opinion. Present yourself before the council, and there deliver an
address worthy of Christ and of yourself, that is to say, proper to touch and
not to irritate men’s hearts. Deny that you are a disciple of Luther, declare
that you are a disciple of Jesus Christ. Let your pupils surround you, and let
them speak, and if all this does not succeed, come to your friend, come to
Zuinglius, and consider our home as your own fireside.”

Oswald, strengthened by these words, followed the noble counsel of the Reformer,
but all his efforts were useless. The witness to the truth behoved to quit his
country. His enemies in Lucerne were so loud against him, that the magistrates
would not allow any one to give him an asylum. Broken-hearted at the sight of so
much enmity, the confessor of Jesus Christ exclaimed, “All that now remains for
me is to beg from door to door to sustain my miserable life.” Shortly after, the
friend and most powerful assistant of Zuinglius, the first man in Switzerland
who had united literary instruction with the love of the gospel, the reformer of
Lucerne, and at a later period one of the leaders of the Helvetic church, was
obliged, with his sickly wife and little boy, to quit this ungrateful city,
where, out of all his family, the only one who had received the gospel was a
sister. He crossed its ancient bridges, and bade adieu to those mountains which
seem to rise from the bosom of the lake of Waldstetten up to the clouds. Canons
Xylotect and Kilchmeyer, the only friends whom the Reformation yet numbered
among his countrymen, followed shortly after. And, at the moment when this poor
man, with two feeble companions, whose existence depended on him, with his eye
turned towards its lake, and shedding tears for his deluded country, took leave
of those sublime scenes which had surrounded his cradle, the gospel itself took
leave of Lucerne, and Rome reigns in it to this day.

Shortly after the Diet itself, which was assembled at Baden, stung by the
petitions of Einsidlen, (which, being printed, produced a great sensation,) and
urged by the Bishop of Constance to strike a blow at innovations, had recourse
to measures of persecution, ordered the authorities of the villages to bring
before it all priests and laymen who should speak against the faith, seized, in
its impatience, on the evangelist, who happened to be nearest at hand, Urban
Weiss, pastor of Filispach, who had been previously released on caution, made
him be brought to Constance, and then gave him up to the bishop, by whom he was
long kept in prison. “Thus,” says the Chronicle of Bullinger, “the persecution
of the gospel by the confederates commenced, and that at the instigation of the
clergy, who have at all times delivered Jesus Christ to Herod and Pilate.”

Zuinglius was not to escape his share of trial. Blows to which he was most
sensible were then struck at him. The rumour of his doctrines and his contests
had passed Santis, penetrated the Tockenburg, and reached the heights of
Wildhaus. The pastoral family from whom the Reformer had sprung were moved. Of
the four brothers of Zuinglius, some had continued peacefully to occupy
themselves with their mountain toils, whilst others, to the great grief of their
brother, had quitted then flocks and served foreign princes. All were alarmed at
the news which rumour brought as far as their chalets. They already saw their
brother seized, dragged perhaps to Constance to his bishop, and a pile erected
for him at the same place which had consumed the body of John Huss. These proud
shepherds could not bear the idea of being called the brother of a heretic. They
wrote to Ulric, describing their sorrow and their fears. Zuinglius replied, “So
long as God permits, I will perform the task which he has entrusted to me,
without fearing the world and its proud tyrants. I know the worst that can
happen to me. There is no danger, no misfortune which I have not long carefully
weighed. My own strength is mere nothingness, and I know the power of my
enemies, but I know also that I can do everything through Christ strengthening
me. Were I silent, some other would be constrained to do what God now does by
me, and I would be punished by God. Cast far from you all your anxiety, my dear
brothers. If I have a fear, it is that I have been gentler and more easily
persuaded than is suitable for this age. What shame, you say, will be cast on
all our family if you are burnt, or put to death in some other way!2 O, dearly
beloved brethren! the gospel derives from the blood of Christ this wondrous
nature, that the most violent persecutions far from arresting, only hasten its
progress. Those only are true soldiers of Christ who fear not to bear in their
body the wounds of their Master. All my labours have no other end than to make
men know the treasures of happiness which Christ has acquired for us, in order
that all may flee to the Father through the death of his Son. If his doctrine
offends you, your anger cannot stop me. You are my brothers, yes, my own
brothers, the sons of my father, and the offspring of the same mother … but if
you were not my brethren in Christ, and in the work of faith, my grief would be
so extreme that nothing could equal it. Adieu. I will never cease to be your
true brother, provided you do not yourselves cease to be the brethren of Jesus
Christ.” The confederates seemed to rise against the gospel as one man. The
petitions of Einsidlen had been the signal. Zuinglius, concerned for the lot of
his dear Myconius, saw in this misfortune only the beginning of calamity.
Enemies in Zurich: enemies abroad—a man’s own relatives becoming his enemies,—a
furious opposition on the part of monks and priests,—violent measures of the
Diet and the councils,—rude, perhaps bloody, assaults on the part of the
partisans of foreign service,—the highest valleys of Switzerland, the cradle of
the confederation, sending forth phalanxes of invincible soldiers to save Rome,
and, at the sacrifice of life, annihilating the growing faith of the sons of the
Reformation—such was the prospect at which the penetrating mind of the Reformer
shuddered when he beheld it in the distance. What a prospect! Was not the work,
scarcely well begun, on the point of being destroyed? Zuinglius, thoughtful and
agitated, spread all his anguish before his God. “O Jesus,” said he, “you see
how wicked men and blasphemers stun the ears of thy people with their cries.
Thou knowest that from my infancy I have hated disputes, and yet in spite of
myself thou hast ceased not to urge me on to the combat … Wherefore, I
confidently call upon thee, as thou hast, begun so to finish. If in any thing I
have built up improperly, beat it down with thy mighty hand. If I have laid some
other foundation beside thine let thy powerful arm overthrow it.2 O most beloved
vine, of which the Father is the vine-dresser, and of which we are the branches,
forsake not thy offsping. For thou hast promised to be with us, even to the end
of the world!”

It was on the 22nd of August, 1522, that Ulrich Zuinglius, the Reformer of
Switzerland, when he saw violent storms descending from the mountains on the
frail bark of faith, thus expressed the troubles and hopes of his soul in the
presence of his God.


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  CHAPTER 97: PREFACE TO VOLUME THIRD
========================================================================

Literary men in France, Switzerland, Germany, and England, urged on by a spirit
of examination and research, are constantly enquiring after the original
documents on which modern history is founded. I wish to contribute my mite to
the accomplishment of the important task which our age appears to have
undertaken. Hitherto I have not deemed it enough to peruse contemporary
historians. I have interrogated eye-witnesses, private letters, and original
narratives, and made use of some manuscripts, particularly that of Bullinger,
which has since been printed. (Frauenfield, 1838–1840.) The necessity of having
recourse to unpublished documents became more urgent on approaching, as I do in
the twelfth book, the Reformation of France, with regard to which, in
consequence of the continual turmoil in which the reformed church of that
country has lived, we have only a few printed memoirs. In the spring of 1838, I
endeavoured, as far as was in my power, to examine the manuscripts of the public
libraries of Paris; it will be seen that a manuscript of the Royal Library,
hitherto I believe unknown, throws great light on the first stages of the
Reformation. In the autumn of 1839, I consulted the manuscripts in the library
of the consistory of pastors of Neufchâtel, a collection which is very rich in
regard to this period, from a bequest of the manuscripts of Farel’s library, and
through the kindness of the proprietor of Meuron, I obtained the use of the
manuscript life of Farel by Choupard, into which the greater part of these
documents have been transcribed. These manuscripts have enabled me to remodel
one entire section of the Reformation in France. In addition to this assistance,
and that furnished by the library of Geneva, I made an appeal, through the
medium of the Archives du Christianisme, to all the friends of history and the
Reformation, who may have any manuscripts at their disposal, and I here express
my gratitude for different communications which have been made to me, in
particular by the Rev. Mr. Ladevèze of Meaux. But though religious wars and
persecutions have destroyed many precious documents, there doubtless still exist
in different parts of France several which would be of essential service to the
history of the Reformation, and I earnestly entreat all who may possess or have
any knowledge of them to have the goodness to communicate with me on the
subject. Documents of this nature are felt in our days to be common property,
and, therefore, I hope that this appeal will not be in vain.

It will perhaps be thought that in writing a general history of the Reformation,
I have entered too much into detail on its first beginnings in France. But these
beginnings are little known: the events which form the subject of my twelfth
book occupy only three or four pages in the ‘Histoire Ecclesiastique des Eglises
Reformées au Royaume de France,’ by Theodore Beza, while other historians
confine themselves almost entirely to political developments. It is true that in
this part of my work I have not been able to describe scenes so imposing as the
Diet of Worms. Nevertheless, independent of the religious interest attached to
it, the humble but truly divine movement which I have attempted to describe, had
perhaps more influence on the destinies of France than the celebrated wars of
Charles V and Francis I. In a large machine the result is often produced not by
the parts which make the greatest appearance, but by the most hidden springs.

Complaints have been made of the delay which has taken place in the publication
of this third volume. Some would even have had me not to print the first before
the whole was completed. There may be certain superior intellects to which
conditions may be prescribed, but there are others whose feebleness must give
conditions, and to this class I belong. To publish a volume at one time, at
another time when I am able a second volume, and then a third, is the course
which my primary duties and humble abilities allow me to take. Other
circumstances, moreover, have interposed; severe afflictions have on two
occasions interrupted the composition of this third volume, and concentrated all
my affections and all my thoughts on the tomb of beloved children. The thought
that it was my duty to glorify the adorable Master, who addressed those powerful
calls to me, and accompanied them with so much divine consolation, could alone
have given me the courage necessary to prosecute my labours.

These explanations seemed due to the kindness with which this work has been
received in France, and especially in England, where the fourth edition of a
translation is about to appear, beside two others in smaller form, which I am
told are in course of preparation. Owing to this, no doubt, the Journal des
Débats, in an article signed M. Chasles, has announced this history of the
Reformation as an English work. I set a high value on the approbation of the
protestant Christians of Great Britain, the representatives of evangelical
principles and doctrines in the most remote regions of the globe, and I beg to
assure them that I feel it to be a most valuable encouragement to my labours.
The first book of the fourth volume will be devoted (God willing) to the
Reformation of England and Scotland. The cause of truth recompenses those who
embrace and defend it; and so it has proved with the nations who embraced the
Reformation. In the eighteenth century, at the moment when Rome was anticipating
her triumph through her Jesuits and scaffolds, victory slipt through her hands.
Rome, like Naples, Portugal, and Spain, fell into interminable difficulties,
while at the same time two protestant kingdoms arose in Europe, and began to
exercise an influence which till then had belonged to Roman Catholic states.
England came forth victorious from the Spanish and French assaults, which the
pope had so long stirred up against her, and the Elector of Brandenburg, in
spite of the wrath of Clement XI, encircled his head with a royal crown. From
that period England has extended her dominion in every quarter of the world, and
Prussia has taken a new rank among continental states, while a third power also
separated from Rome, viz. Russia was growing up in her immense deserts. In this
way evangelical principles have exerted their influence on the countries which
have received them, and by righteousness nations have been exalted. Let
evangelical states be well assured that to protestantism they owe their
greatness. Should they abandon the position which God has given them, or incline
anew towards Rome, that moment they lose their power and glory. Rome is now
striving to gain them; alternately employing flattery and threatening, she
would, like Delilah, lull them asleep upon her knees … but it is to rob them of
their locks, that thus their enemies may be able to put out their eyes, and bind
them with fetters of iron.

Herein, too, is a great lesson for France, with which the author feels himself
so intimately connected through his forefathers. Should France, like her
different governments, incline anew to the papacy, our belief is, that it will
prove the signal of great disasters. Every one who attaches himself to the
papacy will be compromised in its downfall. France has her only prospect of
strength and greatness in turning towards the gospel. May this great truth be
understood by rulers and people! In our day, it is true, there is great activity
in the papacy. Though attacked by an inevitable consumption, she would fain, by
showy colours and feverish paroxysms, persuade others, and persuade herself,
that she is still full of vigour. An attempt of this kind has been made by a
theologian of Turin, in a treatise occasioned by this history, and in which it
is pleasing to recognise a certain talent in presenting proofs, however feeble,
with an air of candour to which we are little accustomed, and in a manner by no
means offensive, notwithstanding of the sad and culpable facility with which the
author, in his twelfth chapter, revives accusations against the Reformers, the
falsehood of which has been completely demonstrated, and is generally
acknowledged.

We will give an example, referring to matters contained in the present volume.
James le Vasseur, doctor of Sorbonne, and canon and dean of the church of Noyon,
wrote Annals of the Church of Noyon, (1633,) in which he is at a loss for
epithets against our Reformer, and only consoles himself by the thought that
Saint Eloi gave Calvin the mortal blow, (p. 1164). After saying that the
Reformer in early life held benefices in the Church of Noyon, the canon in proof
of this quotes a declaration of James Desmay, also a doctor of theology, in his
“Life of Calvin the heresiarch,” who, after a very careful examination of every
thing relating to the Reformer, says, “I have been unable to discover anything
else in the same registers.” (Annales de Noyon, p. 1162). Then the devout
historian of the Church of Noyon, after pouring out all his wrath on Calvin and
all the members of his family, without mentioning a single act of the Reformer
at variance with morality, but contenting himself with simply observing, that to
call him heresiarch is to charge him with the sum of all crimes (ib.) adds a
XCVI chapter, entitled, “Of another John Cauvin, chaplain Vicar of the same
church of Noyon, not a heretic,” in which he says, “Another John Cauvin
presented himself and was admitted to our choir at a vicarial chapel, but was
shortly after dismissed for his incontinence, punishment having been repeatedly
inflicted to no purpose. He was vicar for the diocese, and the belief of our old
people is, that he served the cure of Trachy-le-Val in this diocese in the
capacity of vicar, and then died a good catholic. He was, nevertheless, beaten
with rods when in custody, as Desmay writes in his little book, pp. 39, 40, and
yet he was a priest not subject to such discipline. He has, therefore, fallen
into a blunder, taking this man for another vicar, also chaplain, named Baldwin
le Jeune, doubly young in name and in manners, who had not then entered the
priesthood or taken any holy orders. The conclusion of the capitulary is as
follows:—…

Quod Balduinus, le Jeune capellanus vicarialis, … pro scandalis commissis,
ordinarunt prœfati domini ipsum cædi virgis, quia puer et nondum in sacris
constitutus. I thought it my duty (continues the dean of Noyon) to add this
chapter to the history of the first Calvin, ad diluendam homonymiam, (to guard
against the similarity of names,) lest the one should be taken for the other,
the catholic for the heretic.” Thus speaks the canon and dean of Noyon, pp.
1170, 1171. Now what is done by Doctor Magnin and the writers of the papacy whom
he quotes? They announce quite gravely that Calvin was banished from his native
town for bad conduct; that being convicted of a horrible crime, he would have
been condemned to be publicly burnt had not the burning been commuted, at the
prayer of the bishop, into scourging and branding with a hot iron, etc. (La
Papauté, p. 109.) Thus, in spite of all the pains which the dean of Noyon took
to add a chapter for fear the one should be taken for the other, the catholic
for the heretic, the writers of the papacy uniformly attribute to the Reformer
the misdeeds of his namesake. The thought uppermost with the canon of Noyon was
the fair fame of this John Calvin who died a good catholic, and he trembled lest
he should be charged with the heresy of Calvin. Accordingly he draws the
distinction between them very clearly, giving the heresies to the one, and the
incontinence to the other. But the result is the very opposite of what he
anticipated. It is not “the heresy of Calvin” that has brought opprobrium on
John Cauvin, but the incontinence and chastisement of John Cauvin are brought
forward for the purpose of throwing opprobrium on the Reformer. And such is the
way in which history is written!—such, we will not say the bad faith, but the
levity and ignorance of the apologists of the papacy! These blunders occur in
the writings of men otherwise respectable, and who ought to have nothing in
common with the hateful name of calumniator. The present volume gives a true
account of the early life of Calvin.

M. Audin, as a sequel to his History of Luther, has recently published a History
of Calvin, written under the influence of deplorable prejudice, and in which it
is difficult to recognise the Reformers and the Reformation.

Perhaps, on another occasion, we shall make some addition to what we have said
in our first book on the origin of the papacy. It were out of place to do it
here.

I will only remark in general, that the human and natural causes which so well
explain its origin are precisely those to which the Papacy appeals in order to
demonstrate its divine institution. Thus Christian antiquity declares, that the
universal episcopate was committed to all the bishops, so that the bishops of
Jerusalem, Alexandria, Antioch, Ephesus, Rome, Carthage, Lyons, Arles, Milan,
Hippo, Cesarea, etc., took an interest in whatever occurred throughout the
Christian world. Shortly after Rome appropriated to herself this duty, which was
incumbent on all, and arguing as if it were her concern only, converts it into a
demonstration of her primacy.

We give another example. The Christian churches established in the great towns
of the empire sent missionaries to the countries to which they stood related.
This was done first of all by Jerusalem, then by Antioch, Alexandria, Ephesus,
and at length by Rome; and Rome forthwith concluded, from what she did after
others and less than others, that she was entitled to set herself above all
others. These examples will suffice.

Let us only observe further, that in the West Rome alone enjoyed the honour
which in the East was shared by Corinth, Philippi, Thessalonica, Ephesus,
Antioch, and in a far higher degree by Jerusalem,—the honour of having had one
or more apostles among her first teachers. Hence the Latin churches must
naturally have had a certain degree of respect for Rome. But never would the
eastern Christians, though they honoured her as the church of the political
metropolis of the empire, acknowledge in her any ecclesiastical superiority. The
celebrated general Council of Chalcedon assigned to Constantinople, previously
the obscure Byzantium, the same privileges (τὰἴσαπρεσβεῖα) as Rome, and declared
that it was entitled to equal dignity. Accordingly, when the papacy was
distinctly formed in Rome, the East showed no desire to acknowledge a master of
whom it had never heard; and standing on the ancient territory of catholicity,
abandoned the West to the domination of the new sect which had risen up within
its bosom. The East still styles herself, by way of pre-eminence, catholic and
orthodox, and when the question is asked at one of these eastern Christians,
whom Rome has united to herself by means of numerous concessions, “Are you a
Catholic?”—“No,” he immediately replies, “I am papistian” (papist).—Journal of
the Rev. Joseph Wolf. London, 1839, p. 225.

If this History has been subjected to criticism from the Romish party, it has
also been subjected to it in a literary point of view. Individuals for whom I
entertain great respect appear to attach more importance to a political or
literary history of the Reformation, than to an exposition which points out its
spiritual principles and moving springs. I can understand this manner of viewing
the subject, but I cannot adopt it. In my opinion, the essentials of the
Reformation are its doctrines and inward life. Any work in which these do not
occupy the first place, may be brilliant, but will not be faithfully and
candidly historical. It will resemble a philosopher, who, wishing to describe
man, should with great accuracy and graphic beauty explain every thing that
relates to his body, but should give only a subordinate place to the divine
inmate, the soul.

There are many defects, doubtless, in the feeble work of which I here present a
new fragment to the Christian public, but the greatest defect I see in it is,
that it does not breathe still more of the spirit of the Reformation. The more I
succeed in calling attention to what manifests the glory of Christ, the more
faithful I am to history. I willingly adopt as my law those words which a
historian of the sixteenth century, still more celebrated as a warrior than a
writer, after giving a part of the history of Protestantism, of which I do not
purpose to treat, addresses to those who should think of completing his task,—“I
give them the law which I take to myself, and it is, that while seeking the
honour of this precious instrument, their principal aim should be the glory of
the arm which prepared, employed, and wielded it at pleasure. For all the
praises given to princes are unseasonable and misplaced, if they have not for
their aim and foundation that of the living God, to whom belong honour and
dominion for ever and ever.”

Eaux-Vives, near Geneva, Feb. 1841.


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  CHAPTER 98: BOOK NINTH
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First Reforms

1521–1522


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  CHAPTER 99: CHAPTER I
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Progress of the Reformation—New Period—Advantages of Luther’s
Captivity—Agitation of Germany—Melancthon and Luther—Enthusiasm.…

Four years had elapsed since an ancient doctrine had again been preached in the
church. The great doctrine of salvation by grace formerly published in Asia,
Greece, and Italy, by Paul and his brethren, and again after several centuries
discovered in the Bible by a monk of Wittemberg, had echoed from the plains of
Saxony to Rome, Paris, and London, and the lofty mountains of Switzerland had
repeated its energetic accents. The fountains of truth, liberty, and life had
been again opened to humanity. Crowds had repaired thither and quaffed with joy,
but those who had pressed forward and taken the draught had preserved their
former appearance. All within was new, and yet all without seemed to have
remained as before. The constitution of the Church, its ritual, and discipline,
had not undergone any change. In Saxony, at Wittemberg even, in every place
where the new ideas had penetrated, the papal worship gravely continued its
pomp; the priest at the foot of the altar, in offering the host to God, seemed
to produce an ineffable transformation; monks and nuns entered convents to
undertake obligations that were to bind them for ever; pastors lived not as
heads of families, brotherhoods assembled, pilgrimages were performed; the
faithful hung up their votive offerings on the pillars of chapels; and all
ceremonies, even to the most insignificant formality of the sanctuary, were
celebrated as before. There was a new doctrine in the world, but it had not
given itself a new body. The language of the priest formed a striking contrast
to the proceedings of the priest. He was heard thundering from the pulpit
against the mass as an idolatrous worship, and then seen descending and taking
his place before the altar, to celebrate this pompous ceremony with scrupulous
exactness. Every where the new gospel resounded beside the ancient ritual. The
priest himself did not perceive the strange inconsistency, and the people who
listened with acclamation to the bold discourses of the new preachers, devoutly
observed their ancient customs as if they were never to abandon them. At the
domestic hearth and in social life, as in the house of God, every thing remained
the same. There was a new faith in the world, but not new works. The season of
spring had appeared, but winter seemed still to hold nature in chains; no
flowers—no leaves—nothing external gave indication of the new season. But these
appearances were illusory; a potent, though hidden sap was already circulating
beneath, and on the eve of changing the world. To this course, a course fraught
with wisdom, the Reformation perhaps owes its triumphs. Prior to the actual
accomplishment of any revolution there must be a revolution in thought. The
inconsistency already alluded to did not even strike Luther at the first glance.
He seemed to consider it quite natural that, while men were receiving his
writings with enthusiasm, they should at the same time remain devotedly attached
to the abuses which these writings attacked. It might even be thought that he
had traced out his plan beforehand, and resolved to produce a change of minds
before introducing a change of forms. This, however, were to ascribe to him a
wisdom the honour of which belongs to a higher source. He executed a plan which
was not of his own devising. These matters he was able at a later period to
acknowledge and comprehend, but he had not imagined them, and accordingly had
not regulated them. God took the lead; Luther’s part was to follow. Had Luther
begun with an external reform: had he, immediately after he had spoken,
attempted to abolish monastic vows, the mass, confession, and the existing forms
of worship, he should undoubtedly have encountered the keenest opposition. Man
must have time before he can adapt himself to great revolutions. Luther was by
no means the violent, imprudent, rash innovator that some historians have
represented. The people seeing nothing changed in the routine of their
devotions, committed themselves without distrust to their new leader. They were
even astonished at the attacks directed against a man who left them their mass,
beads, and confessor, and attributed these attacks to the grovelling jealousy of
obscure rivals, or the cruel injustice of powerful adversaries. Meanwhile
Luther’s ideas aroused the minds of men, improved their hearts, and so
undermined the ancient edifice that it soon fell of its own accord, without any
human hand. Ideas do not act instantaneously: they make their way in silence,
like water which, filtering behind rocks, detaches them from the mountain on
which they rest: all at once the work done in secret manifests itself, and a
single day suffices to display the work of several years, perhaps several ages.
A new era in the reformation commences. The truth is already re-established in
doctrine, and doctrine is now going to re-establish the truth in all the forms
of the church and of society. The agitation is too great for men’s minds to
remain fixed and immovable at the point at which they have arrived. On those
dogmas which have been so powerfully shaken depend customs which are beginning
to give way, and which must disappear along with them. There is too much courage
and life in the new generation to feel under constraint in the presence of
error. Sacraments, ritual, hierarchy, vows, constitution, domestic life, public
life, all are about to be modified. The ship which has been slowly and
laboriously built is about to leave the dock and be launched on the vast ocean.
We shall have to follow its track across numerous perils. The captivity of the
Wartburg separates these two periods. Providence, which designed to give a
mighty impulse to the Reformation, had prepared its progress by leading him who
was selected to be the instrument of it into profound retirement. For a time the
work seemed buried with the workman; but the seed must be deposited in the earth
in order to produce fruit, and from the prison which seemed destined to be the
Reformer’s tomb the Reformation is going to come forth to make new conquests,
and rapidly diffuse itself over the whole world.

Hitherto the Reformation had been concentrated in the person of the Reformer.
His appearance before the Diet of Worms was undoubtedly the sublimest moment of
his life. His character then appeared almost exempt from blemish, and hence it
has been said, that if God who hid the Reformer during ten months within the
walls of the Wartburg had, at that moment, withdrawn him for ever from the eye
of the world, his end would have been a kind of apotheosis. But God wills not an
apotheosis for his servants; and Luther was preserved to the Church in order
that he might show by his very faults that the faith of Christians must be
founded on the word of God alone. He was abruptly transported far from the scene
where the great revolution of the sixteenth century was in course of
accomplishment; the truth which he had for four years so powerfully preached
continued in his absence to act upon Christendom, and the work of which he was
only a feeble instrument thenceforth bore not the impress of a man but the seal
of God himself.

Germany was moved by the captivity of Luther. The most contradictory reports
circulated throughout her provinces. Men’s minds were more agitated by the
absence of the Reformer than they would have been by his presence. Here it was
affirmed that friends, who had come from France, had set him in safety on the
other bank of the Rhine. There it was said that assassins had put him to death.
Even the smallest villages were anxious for information about Luther; the
passing traveller was interrogated, and groups assembled in the market place.
Sometimes an unknown orator gave the people an animated narrative of the manner
in which the doctor had been carried off; he showed the barbarous horsemen
binding fast the hands of their prisoner, hastening at full speed, dragging him
on foot behind them, wearing out his strength, shutting their ears to his cries,
causing the blood to spring from his fingers.2 “The dead body of Luther,” added
he, “has been seen pierced with wounds.” Then cries of grief were heard. “Ah,”
said the multitude, “no more shall we see, no more shall we hear the
noble-minded man whose voice stirred our hearts.” The friends of Luther
muttering wrath swore to avenge his death. Women and children, the lovers of
peace, and the aged looked forward with alarm to new struggles. Nothing could
equal the terror of the partisans of Rome. The priests and monks, thinking
themselves sure of victory, because one man was dead, at first had been unable
to conceal their joy, and had raised their heads with an insulting air of
triumph, but now they would gladly have fled far away from the wrath and threats
of the people.4 These men, who, while Luther was at liberty, had given free vent
to their fury, trembled now that he was captive. Aleander especially was in
consternation. “The only means of safety now left us,” wrote a Roman Catholic to
the Archbishop of Mentz, “is to kindle torches and make a search for Luther over
the whole world, in order to restore him to the wishes of the nation.” It might
have been said that the Reformer’s ghost, all pale, and clanking its chains, had
appeared to spread terror and demand vengeance. The general exclamation was,
“Luther’s death will cause torrents of blood to flow!”2 No where were the minds
of men more deeply agitated than at Worms itself; energetic measures were
proposed both among people and princes. Ulrich von Hiitten and Hermann Busch
filled the country with their plaintive songs and warlike cries. Charles V and
the nuncios were loudly accused. The nation took up the cause of the poor monk,
who by the power of his faith had become its chief. At Wittemberg, his
colleagues and friends, Melancthon especially, were at first astounded with
grief. Luther had imparted to this young scholar the treasures of that sacred
theology which had thenceforth completely filled his soul. It was Luther who had
given substance and life to the purely intellectual culture which Melancthon had
brought to Wittemberg. The profundity of the Reformer’s doctrine had struck the
young Hellenist, and his courage in maintaining the rights of the eternal word
against all human authority, had filled him with enthusiasm. He had been
associated with him in his work; he had seized the pen, and in that admirable
style which he had derived from the study of antiquity, had successfully, and
with a powerful hand, lowered the authority of the Fathers and the authority of
Councils before the sovereign Word of God. The decision which Luther had in
action Melancthon had in science. Never were more diversity and more unity
exhibited in two individuals. “Scripture,” said Melancthon, “imparts to the soul
a holy and marvellous delight. It is a heavenly ambrosia.” “The Word of God,”
exclaimed Luther, “is a sword, a war, a destruction; it springs upon the
children of Ephraim like the lioness in the forest.” Thus, in Scripture, the one
saw a power of consolation, and the other an energetic opposition to the
corruption of the world. Both held it to be the greatest thing on earth, and
hence they understood each other perfectly. “Melancthon,” said Luther, “is a
miracle: all now acknowledge this. He is the most formidable enemy of Satan and
the schoolmen, for he knows their folly, and the rock which is Christ. This
little Greek surpasses me even in theology: he will be as useful to you as many
Luthers.” And he added, that he was ready to abandon an opinion if Philip did
not approve of it. Melancthon, on his part, full of admiration for the knowledge
which Luther had of Scripture, placed him far above the fathers of the Church.
He had a wish to excuse the pleasantries for which Luther was sometimes
upbraided, and compared him to a vessel of clay containing precious treasure
under a coarse covering. “I will take good care not to blame him for them
inconsiderately,” said he. But these two souls so intimately united are now
separated. These two valiant soldiers can no longer march together for the
deliverance of the Church. Luther has disappeared, and is perhaps lost for ever.
The consternation of Wittemberg was extreme: it might have been likened to an
army standing with sullen and downcast look over the bloody remains of the
general who was leading them on to victory.

Suddenly intelligence the most gratifying was received. “Our dearly beloved
father lives,” exclaimed Melancthon in the joy of his heart, “take courage and
be strong.” But grief soon resumed the ascendancy. Luther was alive but in
prison. The edict of Worms with its cruel prescriptions,3 had been circulated by
thousands throughout the empire, and even in the mountains of the Tyrol. Could
the Reformation avoid being crushed by the iron hand which lay upon it?
Melancthon’s gentle spirit sank within him while he uttered a cry of grief. But
above the hand of man a more powerful hand was at work: God himself deprived the
formidable edict of its force. The German princes who had always sought to
humble the power of Rome in the empire, trembled on seeing the alliance of the
emperor with the pope, and feared lest it should result in the destruction of
all their liberties. Accordingly, though Charles, on his passage through the Low
Countries, smiled ironically as he saluted the flames which some flatterers and
fanatics were kindling in the public places with the writings of Luther, these
writings were read in Germany with constantly increasing avidity, and every day
new pamphlets appeared to support the Reformation, and make new assaults on the
papacy. The nuncios were disconcerted out of measure on seeing that the edict,
which had cost them so much injustice, produced so little effect. “The ink of
the Emperor’s signature,” said some with bitterness, “was scarcely dry, before
the decree itself was every where torn in pieces … The people become more and
more attached to the wondrous man who unawed by the thunders of Charles and the
pope, had confessed his faith with the courage of a martyr. “He offered to
retract,” observed others, “if he was refuted, but none ventured to undertake
the refutation. Is not this a proof that what he teaches is true?” Accordingly,
at Wittemberg and throughout the empire, the first movement of alarm was
succeeded by a movement of enthusiasm. Even the Archbishop of Mentz, seeing how
strongly the sympathy of the people was expressed, did not venture to give
permission to the Cordeliers to preach against the Reformer. The university,
which seemed on the eve of destruction, raised its head. There the new doctrines
were two well established to be shaken by Luther’s absence. In a short time the
academic halls could scarcely contain the crowds of hearers.


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  CHAPTER 100: CHAPTER II
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Luther in the Wartburg—Object of his Captivity—Agonies—Sickness—Labour of
Luther—On Confession—To Latomus—Walks.

Meanwhile Knight George (this was Luther’s name in the Wartburg) lived solitary
and unknown. “If you saw me,” wrote he to Melancthon, “you would take me for a
knight, and would scarcely be able to recognise me.” Luther at first took some
repose, enjoying a leisure which he had never tasted till this time. He moved
freely within the fortress, but could not go beyond its walls.3 All his wants
were supplied, and he had never been better treated. Many thoughts filled his
soul, but none could trouble him. He cast his eyes alternately to the
surrounding forests, and raised them towards heaven—“A singular captive!”
exclaimed he, “captive both with and against my will.”5

Writing to Spalatin, he says, “Pray for me; your prayers are the only thing I
want. I give myself no concern with all that is said and done with regard to me
in the world. At length I am at rest.” … This letter, as well as several others
of the same period, is dated from the isle of Patmos. Luther compared the
Wartburg to the celebrated island to which the anger of the emperor Domitian
banished the apostle John. The Reformer reposed amid the dark forests of
Thuringia from the violent struggles which had agitated his soul. Here he
studied Christian truth, not for disputation, but as a means of regeneration and
life. The commencement of the Reformation behoved to be polemical; new times
demanded new exertions. After rooting up the thorns and brambles, it was
necessary to sow the seed peacefully in men’s hearts. Had Luther been obliged
incessantly to fight new battles, he could not have accomplished a lasting work
in the Church. By his captivity he escaped a danger which might perhaps have
destroyed the Reformation—that of always attacking and destroying, without ever
defending and building up. This humble retreat produced a result still more
precious. Raised as it were upon a pedestal by his countrymen, he was within a
step of the abyss, and a moment of giddiness might have sufficed to throw him
headlong into it. Some of the first agents in the Reformation in Germany and
Switzerland were dashed to pieces against the rock of spiritual pride and
fanaticism. Luther was a man very subject to the infirmities of our nature, and
he did not entirely escape these dangers. Still the hand of God delivered him
from them for a time, by suddenly withdrawing him from intoxicating triumphs,
and consigning him to the depth of an unknown retreat. His soul there communed
with itself near to God; it was there bathed in the waters of adversity; his
sufferings, his humiliations, constrained him at least for a time to walk with
the humble, and the principles of the Christian life thenceforth were developed
in his soul with new energy and freedom.

Luther’s quiet was not of long duration. Seated on the walls of the Wartburg, he
spent whole days absorbed in profound meditation. Sometimes the Church presented
herself to his mind, and displayed all her miseries before him. At other times
turning his eye upwards with hope towards heaven, he exclaimed, “How, O Lord,
couldst thou have made all men in vain!” (Psalms 89:47) At other times, again
abandoning this hope, he was downcast and exclaimed, “Alas, there is no one, in
the last day of His wrath, who can stand as a wall before the Lord to save
Israel!…”

Then returning to his own destiny, he feared lest he should be accused of having
abandoned the field of battle, and the idea afflicted his soul. “I would far
rather,” said he, “be laid on burning coals than stagnate here half dead.”2

Next transporting himself in imagination to Worms and Wittemberg to the midst of
his enemies, he regretted that he had yielded to the counsels of his friends,
instead of remaining in the world, and offering his breast to the fury of men.
“Ah,” said he, “there is nothing I desire more than to present myself before my
cruel enemies.”4

Still some sweet thought arose, and gave a truce to these agonies. All was not
torment to Luther; from time to time his agitated spirit found some degree of
calmness and consolation. After the assurance of divine aid, his greatest solace
in his grief was the remembrance of Melancthon. “If I perish,” wrote he to him,
“the gospel will lose nothing; you will succeed me as Elisha did, with a double
measure of my spirit.” But calling to mind Philip’s timidity, he cried to him
aloud, “Minister of the word, guard the walls and towers of Jerusalem until the
adversary strike you. We are still standing alone on the field of battle: after
me they will next assail you.”6 The thought of this last attack which Rome was
going to make on the rising Church threw him into new anxiety. The poor monk, a
solitary prisoner, had violent wrestling with himself. But suddenly he obtained
a glimpse of his deliverance. It occurred to him that the attacks of the papacy
would arouse the nations of Germany, and that the soldiers of the gospel,
proving victorious, would surround the Wartburg and give liberty to the
prisoner. “If the pope,” said he, “lays hands on all who are for me, there will
be a commotion in Germany; the more haste he makes to crush us, the more speedy
will be the end both of him and his. And I … will be restored to you. God
awakening many minds, and stirring up the nations. Let our enemies only seize
our cause in their arms and try to strangle it; it will grow under their grasp,
and come forth ten times more formidable.” But sickness brought him down from
those heights to which his courage and his faith had elevated him. He had
already suffered much at Worms, and his illness increased in solitude. He could
not digest the food of the Wartburg, which was somewhat less homely than that of
his convent: it was necessary to return to the poor fare to which he had been
accustomed. He passed whole nights without sleep. Anguish of mind was added to
bodily suffering. No work is accomplished without pain and self-denial. Luther,
alone upon his rock, endured in his powerful nature a passion which the
emancipation of humanity rendered necessary. “Seated at night in my chamber,”
says he, “I sent forth cries like a woman in travail—torn, wounded, and
bleeding.”

2 Then, interrupting his complaints, and impressed with the thought that his
sufferings were benefits from God, he gratefully exclaims, “Thanks be rendered
unto thee, O Christ, in that thou hast been pleased not to leave me without the
precious relics of thy holy cross!” He soon becomes indignant at himself, and
exclaims, “Infatuated, hardened creature that I am! How grievous! I pray little,
I wrestle little with the Lord, I do not groan for the church of God.4 Instead
of being fervent in spirit, my passions only are inflamed; I remain in sloth,
sleep, and indolence.” Then, not knowing to what this state should be ascribed,
and accustomed to expect every thing from the affection of his brethren, he
exclaims, in the desolation of his soul, “O, my friends, is it because you
forget to pray for me that God is thus estranged from me!”

Those about him, as well as his friends at Wittemberg and in the Elector’s
court, were uneasy and alarmed at this state of suffering. They trembled to
think, that a life snatched from the scaffold of the pope and the sword of
Charles V, should sadly wane and vanish away. Can the Wartburg be destined to be
the tomb of Luther? “I fear,” said Melancthon, “that the grief which he feels
for the church will be his death. A torch has been kindled by him in Israel: if
it is extinguished what hope will be left us? Would to God I were able, at the
cost of my miserable life, to detain in the world one who is its brightest
ornament.” “O, what a man!” he exclaims, as if he were on the borders of the
tomb, “we have not duly appreciated him.”

What Luther called the unbecoming indolence of his prison was labour almost
above man’s utmost strength. “I am here every day,” said he, (14th May,) “in
idleness and luxury, (referring, doubtless, to his fare, which at first was not
quite so coarse as he had been accustomed to.) I read the Bible in Hebrew and
Greek: I am going to write a discourse in German on auricular confession: I will
continue the translation of the Psalms, and compose a collection of sermons as
soon as I get from Wittemberg what I require. I write without intermission;” and
yet these were only a part of Luther’s labours. His enemies thought that if he
was not dead, at all events, his voice would not again be heard: but their joy
was of short duration, and the world was not left long in doubt whether he were
alive. A multitude of writings, composed in the Wartburg, appeared in rapid
succession, and the cherished voice of the Reformer was every where received
with enthusiasm. Luther published at once works fitted to edify the Church and
polemical treatises, which interrupted the too hasty joy of his enemies. For
nearly a year he instructed, exhorted, rebuked, and thundered from his mountain
top, and his adversaries, confounded, asked whether there were not some
supernatural mystery in this prodigious activity. “He could not rest,” says
Cochlœus. The only mystery was, the impudence of the partisans of Rome: They
hastened to avail themselves of the Edict of Worms to give a mortal blow to the
Reformation, while Luther, condemned, placed under the ban of the empire, and
shut up in the Wartburg, stood forth to defend sound doctrine as if he had been
still free and victorious. It was in the confessional especially that the
priests strove to rivet the chains of their deluded parishioners, and
accordingly confession was the object of Luther’s first attack. “They found,”
says he, “on the words of St. James, ‘Confess your sins one to another.’
Singular confession! He says, ‘one to another,’ whence it should follow, that
confessors ought also to confess to their penitents; that every Christian
should, in his turn, be pope, bishop, priest, and that the pope himself should
confess to all.”

Scarcely had Luther finished this small work, than he began another. Latomus a
theologian of Louvain, already celebrated for his opposition to Reuchlin and
Erasmus, had attacked the views of the Reformer. In twelve days Luther’s
refutation was ready, and it is one of his master-pieces. He vindicates himself
from the charge of wanting moderation. “The moderation of the age,” says he, “is
to bend the knee before sacrilegious pontiffs, impious sophists, and address
them as gracious lord! excellent master! Then when you have done so, you may put
to death whomsoever you please; overturn the world, nay, you will still be a
moderate man. Far from me be this moderation. I like better to be frank and
deceive nobody. The shell, perhaps, is hard, but the kernel is sweet and
tender.”

Luther’s health continuing to decline, he thought of quitting the Wartburg. But
how was he to do it? To appear in public was to risk his life. The back of the
mountain on which the fortress stood was traversed by numerous paths, the sides
of which were bordered with tufts of strawberries. The massy gate of the castle
was opened, and the prisoner ventured, not without fear, stealthily to gather
some of the fruit. He became bolder by degrees, and began to survey the
surrounding country in his knight’s dress, and attended by a guard of the
castle, a blunt but trustworthy man. One day having entered an inn he threw
aside his sword, which encumbered him, and ran towards some book which happened
to be lying. Nature was stronger than prudence. His attendant trembled fearing
that a proceeding so unusual in a warrior would be regarded as a proof that the
doctor was not a true knight. On another occasion the two warriors descended
into the convent of Reichardsbrunn, where Luther had slept a few months before,
on his way to Worms.3 Suddenly a friar allowed a sign of surprise to escape from
him. Luther is recognised. His attendant perceives it, and, dragging him off in
all haste, they gallop away far from the convent, before the poor friar has time
to recover from his astonishment. The chivalric life of the doctor occasionally
partook strongly of the theological. One day the nets are prepared, the gates of
the fortress are thrown open, and the dogs with long flapping ears rush forth.
Luther had wished to taste the pleasures of the chace. The hunters soon become
animated, the dogs dart along, and drive the brown hares among the brush-wood.
In the midst of the turmoil the chevalier George, standing motionless, had his
mind filled with serious thoughts; at the sight of the objects around him his
heart is bursting with grief. “Is it not,” said he, “an image of the devil who
arouses his dogs, in other words, the bishops, those messengers of antichrist,
and hounds them on in pursuit of poor souls.”5 A young hare had just been
caught, and Luther, happy to save it, wraps it carefully in his cloak, and
places it under a bush. Before he proceeds many steps the dogs scent out the
poor creature and kill it. Luther attracted by the noise, utters a cry of
grief,—“O pope!” says he, “and thou Satan! it is thus you strive to destroy even
those souls which have been already saved from death”


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Source: https://sermonindex.net/books/history-of-the-reformation-in-the-sixteenth-century-volume-1/
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