"Dormio cum sanctis hic Magdaleni LutheriFilia, et hoc strato tecta quiesco meo,Filia mortis eram peccati semine nata,Sanguine sed vivo, Christe, redempta tuo."[13]
"Dormio cum sanctis hic Magdaleni LutheriFilia, et hoc strato tecta quiesco meo,Filia mortis eram peccati semine nata,Sanguine sed vivo, Christe, redempta tuo."[13]
In German,—
"Here sleep I, Lenichen, Dr. Luther's little daughter,Rest with all the saints in my little bed;I who was born in sins,And must forever have been lost.But now I live and all is well with me,Lord Christ, redeemed with thy blood."
"Here sleep I, Lenichen, Dr. Luther's little daughter,Rest with all the saints in my little bed;I who was born in sins,And must forever have been lost.But now I live and all is well with me,Lord Christ, redeemed with thy blood."
Yet indeed, although he tries to cheer others, he laments long and deeply himself, as many of his letters show.
To Jonas he wrote,—
"I think you will have heard that my dearest daughter Magdalen is born again to the eternal kingdom of Christ. But although I and my wife ought to do nothing but give thanks, rejoicing in so happy and blessed a departure, by which she has escaped the power of the flesh, the world, the Turk, and the devil; yet such is the strength of natural affection, that we cannot part with her without sobs and groans of heart. They cleave to our heart, they remain fixed in its depths—her face, her words—the looks, living and dying, of that most dutiful and obedient child; so that even the death of Christ (and what are all deaths in comparison with that?) scarcely can efface her death from our minds. Do thou, therefore, give thanks to God in our stead. Wonder at the great work of God who thus glorifies our flesh! She was, as thou knowest, gentle and sweet in disposition, and was altogether lovely. Blessed be the Lord Jesus Christ, who called and chose, and has thus magnified her! I wish for myself and all mine, that we may attain to such a death; yea, rather, to such a life, which only I ask from God, the Father of all consolation and mercy."
"I think you will have heard that my dearest daughter Magdalen is born again to the eternal kingdom of Christ. But although I and my wife ought to do nothing but give thanks, rejoicing in so happy and blessed a departure, by which she has escaped the power of the flesh, the world, the Turk, and the devil; yet such is the strength of natural affection, that we cannot part with her without sobs and groans of heart. They cleave to our heart, they remain fixed in its depths—her face, her words—the looks, living and dying, of that most dutiful and obedient child; so that even the death of Christ (and what are all deaths in comparison with that?) scarcely can efface her death from our minds. Do thou, therefore, give thanks to God in our stead. Wonder at the great work of God who thus glorifies our flesh! She was, as thou knowest, gentle and sweet in disposition, and was altogether lovely. Blessed be the Lord Jesus Christ, who called and chose, and has thus magnified her! I wish for myself and all mine, that we may attain to such a death; yea, rather, to such a life, which only I ask from God, the Father of all consolation and mercy."
And again, to Jacob Probst, pastor at Bremen—
"My most dear child, Magdalen, has departed to her heavenly Father, falling asleep full of faith in Christ. An indignant horror against death softens my tears. I loved her vehemently. But inthat daywe shall be avenged on death, and on him who is the author of death."
"My most dear child, Magdalen, has departed to her heavenly Father, falling asleep full of faith in Christ. An indignant horror against death softens my tears. I loved her vehemently. But inthat daywe shall be avenged on death, and on him who is the author of death."
And to Amsdorf—
"Thanks to thee for endeavouring to console me on the death of my dearest daughter. I loved her not only for that she was my flesh, but for her most placid and gentle spirit, ever so dutiful to me. But now I rejoice that she is gone to live with her heavenly Father, and is fallen into sweetest sleep until that day. For the times are and will be worse and worse; and in my heart I pray that to thee, and to all dear to me, may be given such an hour of departure, and with such placid quiet, truly to fall asleep in the Lord. 'The just are gathered, and rest in their beds.' 'For verily the world is as a horrible Sodom.'"
"Thanks to thee for endeavouring to console me on the death of my dearest daughter. I loved her not only for that she was my flesh, but for her most placid and gentle spirit, ever so dutiful to me. But now I rejoice that she is gone to live with her heavenly Father, and is fallen into sweetest sleep until that day. For the times are and will be worse and worse; and in my heart I pray that to thee, and to all dear to me, may be given such an hour of departure, and with such placid quiet, truly to fall asleep in the Lord. 'The just are gathered, and rest in their beds.' 'For verily the world is as a horrible Sodom.'"
And to Lauterbach—
"Thou writest well, that in this most evil age death (or more truly, sleep) is to be desired by all. And although the departure of that most dear child has, indeed, no little moved me, yet I rejoice more that she, a daughter of the kingdom, is snatched from the jaws of the devil and the world; so sweetly did she fall asleep in Christ."
"Thou writest well, that in this most evil age death (or more truly, sleep) is to be desired by all. And although the departure of that most dear child has, indeed, no little moved me, yet I rejoice more that she, a daughter of the kingdom, is snatched from the jaws of the devil and the world; so sweetly did she fall asleep in Christ."
So mournfully and tenderly he writes and speaks, the shadow of that sorrow at the centre of his life overspreading the whole world with darkness to him. Or rather, as he would say, the joy of that loving, dutiful child's presence being withdrawn, he looks out from his cold and darkened hearth, and sees the world as it is; the covetousness of the rich; the just demands, yet insurrectionary attempts of the poor; the war with the Turks without, the strife in the empire within; the fierce animosities of impending religious war; the lukewarmness and divisions among his friends. For many years God gave that feeling heart a refuge from all these in the bright, unbroken circle of his home. But now the next look to him seems beyond this life; to death, which unveils the kingdom of truth and righteousness, and love, to each, one by one; or still more, to the glorious Advent which will manifest it to all. Of this he delights to speak. The end of the world, he feels sure, is near; and he says all preachers should tell their people to pray for its coming, as the beginning of the golden age. He said once—"O gracious God, come soon again! I am waiting ever for the day—the spring morning, when day and night are equal, and the clear, bright rose of that dawn shall appear. From that glow of morning I imagine a thick, black cloud will issue, forked with lightning, and then a crash, and heaven and earth will fall. Praise be to God, who has taught us to long and look for that day. In the Papacy, they sing—
'Dies iræ, dies illa;'
'Dies iræ, dies illa;'
but we look forward to it with hope; and I trust it is not far distant."
Yet he is no dreamer, listlessly clasping his hands in the night, and watching for the dawn. He is of the day, a child of the light; and calmly, and often cheerfully, he pursues his life of ceaseless toil for others, considerately attending to the wants and pleasures of all, from the least to the greatest; affectionately desirous to part with his silver plate, rather than not give a generous reward to a faithful old servant, who was retiring from his service; pleading the cause of the helpless; writing letters of consolation to the humblest who need his aid; caring for all the churches, yet steadily disciplining his children when they need it, or ready to enter into any scheme for their pleasure.
Wittemberg, 1530.
Wittemberg, 1530.
It seems as if Dr. Luther were as necessary to us now as when he gave the first impulse to better things, by affixing his theses to the doors of Wittemberg, or when the eyes of the nation centred on him at Worms. In his quiet home he sits and holds the threads which guide so many lives, and the destinies of so many lands. He has been often ailing lately, and sometimes very seriously. The selfish luxury of the rich burghers and nobles troubles him much. He almost forced his way one day into the Elector's cabinet, to press on him the appropriation of some of the confiscated church revenues to the payment of pastors and schoolmasters; and earnestly, again and again, from the pulpit, does he denounce covetousness.
"All other vices," he says, "bring their pleasures; but the wretched avaricious man is the slave of his goods, not their master; he enjoys neither this world nor the next. Here he has purgatory, and there hell; while faith and content bring rest to the soul here, and afterwards bring the soul to heaven. For the avaricious lack what they have, as well as what they have not."
Never was a heart more free from selfish interests and aims than his. His faith is always seeing the invisible God; and to him it seems the most melancholy folly, as well as sin, that people should build their nests in this forest, on all whose trees he sees "the forester's mark of destruction."
The tone of his preaching has often lately been reproachful and sad.
Elsè's Gretchen, now a thoughtful maiden of three-and-twenty, said to me the other day,—
"Aunt Thekla, why does Dr. Luther preach some times as if his preaching had done no good? Have not many of the evil things he attacked been removed? Is not the Bible in every home? Our mother says we cannot be too thankful for living in these times, when we are taught the truth about God, and are given a religion of trust and love, instead of one of distrust and dread. Why does Dr. Luther often speak as if nothing had been done?"
And I could only say,—
"We see what has been done; but Dr. Luther only knows what he hoped to do. He said one day—'If I had known at first that men were so hostile to the Word of God, I should have held my peace. I imagined that they sinned merely through ignorance.'"
"I suppose, Gretchen," I said, "that he had before him the vision of the whole of Christendom flocking to adore and serve his Lord, when once he had shown them how good He is.Wesee what Dr. Luther has done.Hesees what he hoped, and contrasts it with what is left undone."
I do not think there is another old man and woman in Christendom who ought to be so thankful as my husband and I.
No doubt all parents are inclined to look at the best side of their own children; but with ours there is really no other side to look at, it seems to me. Perhaps Elsè has sometimes a little too much of my anxious mind; but even in her tender heart, as in all the others, there is a large measure of her father's hopefulness. And then, although they have, perhaps, none of them quite his inventive genius, yet that seems hardly a matter of regret; because, as things go in the world, other people seem so often, at the very goal, to step in and reap the fruit of these inventions, just by adding some insignificant detail which makes the invention work, and gives them the appearance of having been the real discoverers.
Not that I mean to murmur for one instant against the people who have this little knack of just putting the finishing touch and making things succeed; that also, as the house-father says, is God's gift, and although it cannot certainly be compared to these great, lofty thoughts and plans of my husband's, it has more current value in the world. Not, again, that I would for an instant murmur at the world. We have all so much more in it than we deserve (except, perhaps, my dearest husband, who cares so little for its rewards!) It has been quite wonderful how good every one has been to us. Gottfried Reichenbach, and all our sons-in-law, are like sons to us; and certainly could not have prized our daughters more if they had had the dowry of princesses! although I must candidly say I think our dear daughters without a kreutzer of dowry are worth a fortune to any man. I often wonder how it is they are such housewives, and so sensible and wise in every way, when I never considered myself at all a clever manager. To be sure their father's conversation was always very improving; and my dear blessed mother was a store-house of wisdom and experience. However, there is no accounting for these things. God is wonderfully good in blessing the humblest efforts to train up the little ones for him. We often think the poverty of their early years was quite a school of patience and household virtues for them all. Even Christopher and Thekla, who caused us more anxiety at first than the others, are the very stay and joy of our old age; which shows how little we can foresee what good things God is preparing for us.
How I used at one time to tremble for them both! It shocked Elsè and me so grievously to see Christopher, as we thought, quite turning his back on religion, after Fritz became a monk; and what a relief it was to see him find in Dr. Luther's sermons and in the Bible the truth which bowed his heart in reverence, yet left his character free to develop itself without being compressed into a mould made for other characters. What a relief it was to hear that he turned, not from religion, but from what was false in the religion then taught, and to see him devoting himself to his calling as a printer with a feeling as sacred as Fritz to his work as a pastor!
Then our Thekla, how anxious I was about her at one time! how eager to take her training out of God's hands into my own, which I thought, in my ignorance, might spare her fervent, enthusiastic, loving heart some pain.
I wanted to tame down and moderate everything in her by tender warnings and wise precepts. I wanted her to love less vehemently, to rejoice with more limitation, to grieve more moderately. I tried hard to compress her character into a narrower mould. But God would not have it so. I can see it all now. She was to love and rejoice, and then to weep and lament, according to the full measure of her heart, that in the heights and depths to which God led her, she might learn what she was to learn of the heights and depths of the love which extends beyond all joy and below all sorrow. Her character, instead of becoming dwarfed and stunted, as my ignorant hand might have made it, was to be thus braced, and strengthened, and rooted, that others might find shelter beneath her sympathy and love, as so many do now. I would have weakened in order to soften; God's providence has strengthened and expanded while softening, and made her strong to endure and pity as well as strong to feel.
No one can say what she is to us, the one left entirely to us, to whom we are still the nearest and the dearest, who binds our years together by the unbroken memory of her tender care, and makes us young in her child-like love, and brings into our failing life the activity and interest of mature age by her own life of active benevolence.
Elsè and her household are the delight of our daily life; Eva and Fritz are our most precious and consecrated treasures, and all the rest are good and dear as children can be; but to all the rest we are the grandmother and the grandfather. To Thekla we are "father" and "mother" still, the shelter of her life and the home of her affections. Only, sometimes my old anxious fears creep over me when I think what she will do when we are gone. But I have no excuse for these now, with all those promises of our Lord, and his words about the lilies and the birds, in plain German in my Bible, and the very same lilies and birds preaching to me in colours and songs as plain from the eaves and from the garden outside my window.
Never did any woman owe so much to Dr. Luther and the Reformation as I. Christopher's religion; Fritz and Eva's marriage; Thekla's presence in our home, instead of her being a nun in some convent-prison; all the love of the last months my dear sister Agnes and I spent together before her peaceful death; and the great weight of fear removed from my own heart!
And yet my timid, ease-loving nature, will sometimes shrink, not so much from what has been done, as from the way in which it has been done. I fancy a little more gentleness might have prevented so terrible a breach between the new and the old religions; that the peasant war might have been saved; and somehow or other (how, I cannot at all tell) the good people on both sides might have been kept at one. For that there are good people on both sides, nothing will ever make me doubt. Indeed, is not one of our sons—our good and sober-minded Pollux—still in the old Church? And can I doubt that he and his devout, affectionate little wife, who visits the poor and nurses the sick, love God and try to serve him?
In truth, I cannot help half counting it among our mercies that we have one son still adhering to the old religion; although my children, who are wiser than I, do not think so; nor my husband, who is wiser than they; nor Dr. Luther, who is, on the whole, I believe, wiser than any one. Perhaps I should rather say, that great as the grief is to us and the loss to him, I cannot help seeing some good in our Pollux remaining as a link between us and the religion of our fathers. It seems to remind us of the tie of our common creation and redemption, and our common faith, however dim, in our Creator and Redeemer. It prevents our thinking all Christendom which belongs to the old religion quite the same as the pagans or the Turks; and it also helps a little to prevent their thinking us such hopeless infidels.
Besides, although they would not admit it, I feel sure that Dr. Luther and the Reformation have taught Pollux and his wife many things. They also have a German Bible; and although it is much more cumbrous than Dr. Luther's, and, it seems to me, not half such genuine, hearty German, still he and his wife can read it; and I sometimes trust we shall find by-and-by we did not really differ so very much about our Saviour, although we may have differed about Dr. Luther.
Perhaps I am wrong, however, in thinking that great changes might have been more quietly accomplished. Thekla says the spring must have its thunder-storms as well as its sunshine and gentle showers, and that the stone could not be rolled away from the sepulchre, nor the veil rent in the holy place without an earthquake.
Elsè's Gottfried says the devil would never suffer his lies about the good and gracious God to be set aside without a battle; and that the dear holy angels have mighty wars to wage, as well as silent watch to keep by the cradles of the little ones. Only I cannot help wishing that the Reformers, and even Dr. Luther himself, would follow the example of the archangel Michael in not returning railing for railing.
Of one thing, however, I am quite sure, whatever any one may say; and that is that it is among our great mercies that our Atlantis married a Swiss, so that through her we have a link with our brethren the evangelical Christians who follow the Zwinglian Confession. I shall always be thankful for the months her father and I passed under their roof. If Dr. Luther could only know how they revere him for his noble work, and how one they are with us and him in faith in Christ and Christian love!
I was a little perplexed at one time how it could be that such good men should separate, until Thekla reminded me of that evil one who goes about accusing God to us, and us to one another.
On the other hand, some of the Zwinglians are severe on Dr. Luther for his "compromise with Rome," and his "unscriptural doctrines," as some of them call his teaching about the sacraments.
These are things on which my head is not clear enough to reason. It is always so much more natural to me to look out for points of agreement than of difference; and it does seem to me, that deep below all the differences good men often mean the same. Dr. Luther looks on holy baptism in contrast with the monastic vows, and asserts the common glory of the baptism and Christian profession which all Christians share, against the exclusive claims of any section of priests or monks. And in the holy Supper, it seems to me simply the certainty of the blessing, and the reality of the presence of our Saviour in the sacrament, that he is really vindicating, in his stand on the words, "This is my body." Baptism represents to him the consecration and priesthood of all Christians, to be defended against all narrow privileges of particular orders; the holy Supper, the assured presence of Christ, to be defended against all doubters.
To the Swiss, on the other hand, the contrast is between faith and form, letter and spirit. This is, at all events, what my husband thinks.
I wish Dr. Luther would spend a few months with our Atlantis and her Conrad. I shall always be thankfulwedid.
Lately, the tone of Dr. Luther's preaching has often been reproachful and full of warning. These divisions between the evangelical Christians distress him so much. Yet he himself, with that resolute will of his, keeps them apart, as he would keep his children from poison, saying severe and bitter things of the Zwinglians, which sometimes grieve me much, because I know Conrad Winkelried's parish and Atlantis' home.
Well, one thing is certain: if Dr. Luther had been like me, we should have had no Reformation at all. And Dr. Luther and the Reformation have brought peace to my heart and joy to my life, for which I would go through any storms. Only, to leave our dear ones behind in the storms is another thing!
But our dear heavenly Father has not, indeed, called us to leave them yet. When he does call us, he will give us the strength for that. And then we shall see everything quite clearly, because we shall see our Saviour quite clearly, as He is, know his love, and love him quite perfectly. What that will be we know not yet!
But I am quite persuaded that when we do really see our blessed Lord face to face, and see all things in his light, we shall all be very much surprised, and find we have something to unlearn, as well as infinitely much to learn; not Pollux, and the Zwinglians, and I only, but Dr. Philip Melancthon, and Dr. Luther, and all!
For the Reformation, and even Dr. Luther's German Bible, have not taken all the clouds away. Still, we see through a glass darkly.
But they have taught us that there is nothing evil and dark behind to be found out; only, much to be revealed which is too good for us yet to understand, and too bright for us yet to see.
Eisleben, 1542.
Eisleben, 1542.
Aunt Elsè says no one in the world ought to present more thanksgivings to God than Heinz and I, and I am sure she is right.
In the first place we have the best father and mother in the world, so that whenever from our earliest years they have spoken to us about our Father in heaven, we have had just to think of what they were on earth to us, and feel that all their love and goodness together are what God is; only (if we can conceive such a thing) much more. We have only had toaddto what they are, to learn what God is, not to take anything away; to say to ourselves, as we think of our parents, so kind in judging others, so loving, so true, God is like that—only the love is greater and wiser than our father's, tenderer and more sympathizing than our mother's (difficult as it is to imagine). And then there is just one thing in which he is unlike. His power is unbounded. He can give to us every blessing he sees it good to give.
With such a father and mother on earth, and such a Father in heaven, and with Heinz, how can I ever thank our God enough?
And our mother is so young still! Our dear father said the other day, "her hair has not a tinge of grey in it, but is as golden as our Agnes's." And her face is so fair and sweet, and her voice so clear and full in her own dear hymns, or in talking! Aunt Elsè says, it makes one feel at rest to look at her, and that her voice always was the sweetest in the world, something between church music and the cooing of a dove. Aunt Elsè says also, that even as a child she had just the same way she has now of seeing what you are thinking about—ofcoming intoyour heart, and making everything that is good in it feel it is understood, and all that is bad in it feel detected and slink away.
Our dear father does not, indeed, look so young; but I like men to look as if they had been in the wars—as if their hearts had been well ploughed and sown. And the grey in his hair, and the furrows on his forehead—those two upright ones when he is thinking—and the firm compression of his mouth, and the hollow on his cheek, seem to me quite as beautiful in their way as our mother's placid brow, and the dear look on her lips, like the dawn of a smile, as if the law of kindness had moulded every curve.
Then, in the second place (perhaps I ought to have said in the first,) we have the "Catechism." And Aunt Elsè says we have no idea, Heinz and I, what a blessing that is to us. We certainly did not always think it a blessing when we were learning it. But I begin to understand it now, especially since I have been staying at Wittemberg with Aunt Elsè, and she has told me about the perplexities of her childhood and early youth.
Always to have learned about God as the Father who "cares for us every day"—gives us richly all things to enjoy, and "that all out of pure, fatherly, divine love and goodness; and of the Lord Jesus Christ, that he has redeemed me from all sin, from death, and from the power of the devil, to be his own—redeemed me, not with gold and silver, but with his holy, precious blood;" and of the Holy Spirit, that "he dwells with us daily, calls us by his gospel, enlightens, and richly forgives;"—all this, she says, is the greatest blessing any one can know. To have no dark, suspicious thoughts of the good God, unconsciously drunk in from infancy, to dash away from our hearts—Dr. Luther himself says we have little idea what a gift that is to us young people of this generation.
It used to be like listening to histories of dark days centuries ago, to hear Aunt Elsè speak of her childhood at Eisenach, when Dr. Luther also was a boy, and used to sing for bread at our good kinswoman Ursula Cotta's door—when the monks and nuns from the many high-walled convents used to walk demurely in their dark robes about the streets; and Aunt Elsè used to tremble at the thought of heaven, because it might be like a convent garden, and all the heavenly saints like Aunt Agnes.
Our dear Great-Aunt Agnes, how impossible for us to understand her being thus dreaded!—she who was the playmate of our childhood; and used to spoil us, our mother said, by doing everything we asked, and making us think she enjoyed being pulled about, and made a lion or a Turk of, as much as we enjoyed it. How well I remember now the pang that came over Heinz and me when we were told to speak and step softly, because she was ill, and then taken for a few minutes in the day to sit quite still by her bed-side with picture-books, because she loved to look at us, but could not bear any noise. And at last the day when we were led in solemnly, and she could look at us no more, but lay quite still and white, while we placed our flowers on the bed, and we both felt it too sacred and too much like being at church to cry—until our evening prayer-time came, and our mother told us that Aunt Agnes did not need our prayers any longer, because God had made her quite good and happy in heaven. And Heinz said he wished God would take us all, and make us quite good and happy with her. But I, when we were left in our cribs alone, sobbed bitterly, and could not sleep. It seemed so terrible to think Aunt Agnes did not want us any more, and that we could do nothing more for her—she who had been so tenderly good to us! I was so afraid, also, that we had not been kind enough to her, had teased her to play with us, and made more noise than we ought; and that that was the reason God had taken her away. Heinz could not understand that at all. He was quite sure God was too kind; and, although he also cried, he soon fell asleep. It was a great relief to me when our mother came round, as she always did the last thing to see if we were asleep, and I could sob out my troubles on her heart, and say—
"Will Aunt Agnes never want us any more?"
"Yes, darling," said our mother; "she wants us now. She is waiting for us all to come to her."
"Then it was not because we teased her, and were noisy, she was taken away? We did love her so very dearly! And can we do nothing for her now?"
Then she told me how Aunt Agnes had suffered much here, and that our heavenly Father had taken herhome, and that, although we could not do anything for her now, we need not leave her name out of our nightly prayers, because we could always say, "Thank God for taking dear Aunt Agnes home!"
And so two things were written on my heart that night, that there was a place like home beyond the sky, where Aunt Agnes was waiting for us, loving us quite as much as ever, with God who loved us more than any one; and that we must be as kind as possible to people, and not give any one a moment's pain, because a time may come when they will not need our kindness any more.
It is very difficult for me who always think of Aunt Agnes waiting for us in heaven, with the wistful loving look she used to have when she lay watching for Heinz and me to come and sit by her bed-side, to imagine what different thoughts Aunt Elsè had about her when she was a nun.
But Aunt Elsè says that she has no doubt that Heinz and I, with our teasing, and our noise, and our love, were among the chief instruments of her sanctification. Yes, those days of Aunt Elsè's childhood appear almost as far away from us as the days of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, who lived at the Wartburg, used to seem from Aunt Elsè. It is wonderful to think what that miner's son, whom old John Reineck remembers carrying on his shoulders to the school-house up the hill, here at Eisleben, has done for us all. So completely that grim old time seems to have passed away. There is not a monastery left in all Saxony, and the pastors are all married, and schools are established in every town, where Dr. Luther says the young lads and maidens hear more about God and Christianity than the nuns and monks in all the convents had learned thirty years ago.
Not that all the boys and maidens are good as they ought to be. No; that is too plain from what Heinz and I feel and know, and also from what our dear father preaches in the pulpit on Sundays. Our mother says sometimes she is afraid we of this generation shall grow up weak, and self-indulgent, and ease-loving, unlike our fathers who had to fight for every inch of truth they hold, with the world, the flesh, and the devil.
But our dear father smiles gravely, and says, she need not fear. These three enemies are not slain yet and will give the young generation enough to do. Besides, the Pope is still reigning at Rome, and the Emperor is even now threatening us with an army, to say nothing of the Turks, and the Anabaptists, of whom Dr. Luther says so much.
I knew very little of the world until two years ago, and not much, I am afraid, of myself. But when I was about fifteen I went alone to stay with Aunt Chriemnild and Aunt Elsè, and then I learned many things which in learning troubled me not a little, but now that they are learned make me happier than before, which our mother says is the way with most of God's lessons. Before these visits I had never left home; and although Heinz, who had been away, and was also naturally more thrown with other people as a boy than I was, often told me I knew no more of actual life than a baby, I never understood what he meant.
I suppose I had always unconsciously thought our father and mother were the centre of the world to every one as well as to us; and had just been thankful for my lot in life, because I believed in all respects no one else had anything so good; and entertained a quiet conviction that in their hearts every one thought the same. And to find that to other people our lot in life seemed pitiable and poor, was an immense surprise to me, and no little grief!
When we left our old home in the forest many years since, when Heinz and I were quite children; and it only lingered in our memories as a kind of Eden or fairy-land, where, amongst wild flowers, and green glades, and singing birds, and streams, we made a home for all our dreams, not questioning, however, in our hearts that our new home at Eisleben was quite as excellent in its way. Have we not a garden behind the house with several apple-trees, and a pond as large as any of our neighbours, and an empty loft for wet days—the perfection of a loft—for telling fairy tales in, or making experiments, or preparing surprises of wonderful cabinet work with Heinz's tools? And has not our Eisleben valley also its green and wooded hills, and in the forests around are there not strange glows all night from the great miners' furnaces to which those of the charcoal-burners in the Thuringian forest are mere toys? And are there not, moreover, all kinds of wild caverns and pits from which, at intervals, the miners come forth, grimy and independent, and sing their wild songs in chorus as they come home from work? And is not Eisleben Dr. Luther's birth-place? And have we not a high grammar-school which Dr. Luther founded, and in which our dear father teaches Latin? And do we not hear him preach once every Sunday?
To me it always seemed, and seems still, that nothing can be nobler than our dear father's office of telling the people the way to heaven on Sundays, and teaching their children the way to be wise and good on earth in the week. It was a great shock to me when I found every one did not think the same.
Not that every one was not always most kind to me; but it happened in this way.
One day some visitors had been at Uncle Ulrich's castle. They had complimented me on my golden hair, which Heinz always says is the colour of the princess' in the fairy tale. I went out at Aunt Chriemhild's desire, feeling half shy and half flattered, to play with my cousins in the forest. As I was sitting hidden among the trees, twining wreaths from the forget-me-nots my cousins were gathering by the stream below, these ladies passed again. I heard one of them say,—
"Yes, she is a well-mannered little thing for a schoolmaster's daughter."
"I cannot think whence a burgher maiden—the Cottas are all burghers, are they not—should inherit those little white hands and those delicate features," said the other.
"Poor, too, doubtless, as they must be!" was the reply, "one would think she had never had to work about the house, as no doubt she must."
"Who was her grandfather?"
"Only a printer at Wittemberg!"
"Only a schoolmaster!" and "only a printer!"
My whole heart rose against the scornful words. Was this what people meant by paying compliments? Was this the estimate my father was held in in the world—he, the noblest man in it, who was fit to be the Elector or the Emperor? A bitter feeling came over me, which I thought was affection and an aggrieved sense of justice. But love is scarcely so bitter, or justice so fiery.
I did not tell any one, nor did I shed a tear, but went on weaving my forget-me-not wreaths, and forswore the wicked and hollow world. Had I not promised to do so long since, through my godsponsers, at my baptism? Now, I thought, I was learning what all that meant.
At Aunt Elsè's, however, another experience awaited me. There was to be a fair, and we were all to go in our best holiday dresses. My cousins had rich Oriental jewels on their bodices; and although, as burgher maidens, they might not, like my cousins at the castle, wear velvets, they had jackets and dresses of the stiffest, richest silks, which Uncle Reichenbach had sent for from Italy and the East.
My stuff dress certainly looked plain beside them, but I did not care in the least for that; my own dear mother and I had made it together; and she had hunted up some old precious stores to make me a taffetas jacket, which, as it was the most magnificent apparel I had ever possessed, we had both looked at with much complacency. Nor did it seem to me in the least less beautiful now. The touch of my mother's fingers had been on it, as she smoothed it round me the evening before I came away. And Aunt Elsè had said it was exactly like my mother. But my cousins were not quite pleased, it was evident; especially Fritz and the elder boys. They said nothing; but on the morning of the fête, a beautiful new dress, the counterpart of my cousins', was laid at my bed-side before I awoke.
I put it on with some pleasure, but, when I looked at myself in the glass—it was very unreasonable—I could not bear it. It seemed a reproach on my mother, and on my humble life and my dear, poor home at Eisleben, and I sat down and cried bitterly, until a gentle knock at the door aroused me; and Aunt Elsè came in, and found me sitting with tears on my face and on the beautiful new dress, exceedingly ashamed of myself.
"Don't you like it, my child? It was our Fritz's thought. I was afraid you might not be pleased."
"My mother thought the old one good enough," I said in a very faltering tone. "It was good enough for my home. I had better go home again."
Aunt Elsè was carefully wiping away the tears from my dress, but at these words she began to cry herself, and drew me to her heart, and said it was exactly what she should have felt in her young days at Eisenach, but that I must just wear the new dress to the fête, and then I need never wear it again unless I liked; and that I was right in thinking nothing half so good as my mother, and all she did, because nothing ever was, or would be, she was sure.
So we cried together, and were comforted; and I wore the green taffetas to the fair.
But when I came home again to Eisleben, I felt more ashamed of myself than of the taffetas dress or of the flattering ladies at the Castle. The dear, precious old home, in spite of all I could persuade myself to the contrary, did look small and poor, and the furniture worn and old. And yet I could see there new traces of care and welcome everywhere—fresh rushes on the floors; a new white quilt on my little bed, made, I knew, by my mother's hands.
She knew very soon that I was feeling troubled about something, and soon she knew it all, as I told her my bitter experiences of life.
"Your father, 'only a schoolmaster!'" she said, "and you yourself presented with a new taffetas dress! Are these all your grievances, little Agnes?"
"All, mother!" I exclaimed; "andonly!"
"Is your father anything else than a schoolmaster, Agnes?" she said.
"I am not ashamed of that for an instant, mother," I said; "you could not think it. I think it is much nobler to teach children than to hunt foxes, and buy and sell bales of silk and wool. But the world seems to me exceedingly hollow and crooked; and I never wish to see any more of it. Oh, mother, do you think it was all nonsense in me?"
"I think, my child, you have had an encounter with the world, the flesh, and the devil; and I think they are no contemptible enemies. And I think you have not left them behind."
"But is not our father's calling nobler than any one's, and our home the nicest in the world?" I said; "and Eisleben really as beautiful in its way as the Thuringian forest, and as wise as Wittemberg?"
"All callings may be noble," she said; "and the one God calls us to is the noblest for us. Eisleben is not, I think, as beautiful as the old forest-covered hills at Gersdorf; nor Luther's birth-place as great as his dwelling-place, where he preaches and teaches, and sheds around him the influence of his holy daily life. Other homes may be as good as yours, dear child, though none can be so to you."
And so I learned that what makes any calling noble is its being commanded by God, and what makes anything good is its being given by God; and that contentment consists not in persuading ourselves that our things are the very best in the world, but in believing they are the best for us, and giving God thanks for them.
That was the way I began to learn to know the world. And also in that way I began better to understand the Catechism, especially the part about the Lord's Prayer, and that on the second article of the Creed, where we learn of Him who suffered for our sins and redeemed us with his holy precious blood.
I have just returned from my second visit to Wittemberg, which was much happier than my first—indeed, exceedingly happy.
The great delight of my visit, however, has been seeing and hearing Dr. Luther. His little daughter, Magdalen, three years younger than I am, had died not long before, but that seemed only to make Dr. Luther kinder than ever to all young maidens—"the poor maiden-kind," as he calls them.
His sermons seemed to me like a father talking to his children; and Aunt Elsè says he repeats the Catechism often himself "to God" to cheer his heart and strengthen himself—the great Dr. Martin Luther!
I had heard so much of him, and always thought of him as the man nearest God on earth, great with a majesty surpassing infinitely that of the Elector or the Emperor. And now it was a great delight to see him in his home, in the dark wainscoted room looking on his garden, and to see him raise his head from his writing and smile kindly at us as he sat at the great table in the broad window, with Mistress Luther sewing on a lower seat beside him, and little Margaretha Luther, the youngest child, quietly playing beside them, contented with a look now and than from her father.
I should like to have seen Magdalen Luther. She must have been such a good and loving child. But that will be hereafter in heaven!
I suppose my feeling for Dr. Luther is different from that of my mother and father. They knew him during the conflict. We only know him as the conqueror, with the palm, as it were, already in his hand.
But my great friend at Wittemberg is Aunt Thekla. I think, on the whole, there is no one I should more wish to be like. She understands one in that strange way, without telling, like my mother. I think it is because she has felt so much. Aunt Elsè told me of the terrible sorrow she had when she was young.
Our dear mother and father also had their great sorrows, although they came to the end of their sorrow in this life, and Aunt Thekla will only come to the end of hers in the other world. But it seems to have consecrated them all, I think, in some peculiar way. They all, and Dr. Luther also, make me think of the people who, they say, have the gift, by striking on the ground, of discovering where the hidden springs lie that others may know where to dig for the wells. Can sorrow only confer this gift of knowing where to find the hidden springs in the heart? If so, it must be worth while to suffer. Only there are just one or two sorrows which it seems almost impossible to bear!
But, as our mother says, our Saviour has all the gifts in His hands; and "the greatest gift" of all (in whose hands the roughest tools can do the finest work) "islove!" And that is just the gift every one of us may have without limit.
Wittemberg, 23dJanuary, 1548.
Wittemberg, 23dJanuary, 1548.
Dr. Luther has left Wittemberg to-day for Eisleben, his birth-place, to settle a dispute between the Counts of Mansfeld concerning certain rights of church patronage.
He left in good spirits, intending to return in a few days. His three sons, John, Martin, and Paul, went with him. Mistress Luther is anxious and depressed about his departure, but we trust without especial cause, although he has often of late been weak and suffering.
The dullness and silence which to me always seem to settle down on Wittemberg in his absence are increased now doubtless by this wintry weather, and the rains and storms which have been swelling the rivers to floods. He is, indeed, the true father and king of our little world; and when he is with us all Germany and the world seem nearer us through his wide-seeing mind and his heart that thrills to every touch of want or sorrow throughout the world.
February.
February.
Mistress Luther has told me to-day that Dr. Luther said before he left he could "lie down on his death-bed with joy if he could first see his dear Lords of Mansfeld reconciled." She says also that he has just concluded the Commentary on Genesis, on which he has been working these ten years, with these words—
"I am weak and can do no more. Pray God he may grant me a peaceful and happy death."
She thinks his mind has been dwelling of late more than usual, even with him, on death, and fears he feels some inward premonition or presentiment of a speedy departure.
So long he has spoken of death as a thing to be desired! Yet it always makes our hearts ache to hear him do so. Of the Advent, as the end of all evil and the beginning of the Kingdom, we can well bear to hear him speak, but not of that which if the end of all evil to him, would seem like the beginning of all sorrows to us.
Now, however, Mistress Luther is somewhat comforted by his letters, which are more cheerful than those she received during his absence last year, when he counselled her to sell all their Wittemberg property, and take refuge in her estate at Zöllsdorf, that he might know her safe out of Wittemberg—that "haunt of selfishness and luxury"—before he died.
His first letter since leaving Wittemberg this time is addressed—
"To my kind and dear Käthe Lutherin, at Wittemberg, grace and peace in the Lord."Dear Käthe,—To-day at half-past eight o'clock we reached Halle, but have not yet arrived at Eisleben; for a great anabaptist encountered us with water-floods and great blocks of ice, which covered the land, and threatened to baptize us all again. Neither could we return, on account of the Mulda. Therefore we remain tranquilly here at Halle, between the two streams. Not that we thirst for water to drink, but console ourselves with good Torgau beer and Rhine wine, in case the Saala should break out into a rage again. For we and our servants, and the ferrymen, would not tempt God by venturing on the water; for the devil is furious against us, and dwells in the water-floods; and it is better to escape him than to complain of him, nor is it necessary that we should become the jest of the pope and his hosts. I could not have believed that the Saala could have made such a brewing, bursting over the causeway and all. Now no more; but pray for us and be pious. I hold, hadst thou been here, thou hadst counselled us to do precisely what we have done. So for once we should have taken thy advice. Herewith I commend you to God. Amen. At Halle, on the day of the Conversion of St. Paul."Martinus Luther."
"To my kind and dear Käthe Lutherin, at Wittemberg, grace and peace in the Lord.
"Dear Käthe,—To-day at half-past eight o'clock we reached Halle, but have not yet arrived at Eisleben; for a great anabaptist encountered us with water-floods and great blocks of ice, which covered the land, and threatened to baptize us all again. Neither could we return, on account of the Mulda. Therefore we remain tranquilly here at Halle, between the two streams. Not that we thirst for water to drink, but console ourselves with good Torgau beer and Rhine wine, in case the Saala should break out into a rage again. For we and our servants, and the ferrymen, would not tempt God by venturing on the water; for the devil is furious against us, and dwells in the water-floods; and it is better to escape him than to complain of him, nor is it necessary that we should become the jest of the pope and his hosts. I could not have believed that the Saala could have made such a brewing, bursting over the causeway and all. Now no more; but pray for us and be pious. I hold, hadst thou been here, thou hadst counselled us to do precisely what we have done. So for once we should have taken thy advice. Herewith I commend you to God. Amen. At Halle, on the day of the Conversion of St. Paul.
"Martinus Luther."
Four other letters she has received, one dated on the 2d of February, addressed—
"To my heartily beloved consort Katherin Lutherin, the Zöllsdorfian doctoress, proprietress of the Saümarkt, and whatever else she may be, grace and peace in Christ; and my old poor (and, as know, powerless) love to thee!"Dear Käthe,—I became very weak on the road to Eisleben, for my sins; although, wert thou here, thou wouldst have said it was for the sins of the Jews. For near Eisleben we passed through a village where many Jews reside, and it is true, as I came through it, a cold wind came through my Baret (doctor's hat), and my head, as if it would turn my brain to ice."Thy sons left Mansfeld yesterday, because Hans von Jene so humbly entreated them to accompany him. I know not what they do. If it were cold, they might help me freeze here. Since, however, it is warm again, they may do or suffer anything else they like. Herewith I commend you and all the house to God, and greet all our friends. Vigilia purificationis."
"To my heartily beloved consort Katherin Lutherin, the Zöllsdorfian doctoress, proprietress of the Saümarkt, and whatever else she may be, grace and peace in Christ; and my old poor (and, as know, powerless) love to thee!
"Dear Käthe,—I became very weak on the road to Eisleben, for my sins; although, wert thou here, thou wouldst have said it was for the sins of the Jews. For near Eisleben we passed through a village where many Jews reside, and it is true, as I came through it, a cold wind came through my Baret (doctor's hat), and my head, as if it would turn my brain to ice.
"Thy sons left Mansfeld yesterday, because Hans von Jene so humbly entreated them to accompany him. I know not what they do. If it were cold, they might help me freeze here. Since, however, it is warm again, they may do or suffer anything else they like. Herewith I commend you and all the house to God, and greet all our friends. Vigilia purificationis."
And again—
Eisleben."To the deeply learned lady Katherin, my gracious consort at Wittemberg, grace and peace."Dear Käthe,—We sit here and suffer ourselves to be tortured, and would gladly be away; but that cannot be, I think, for a week. Thou mayest say to Master Philip that he may correct his exposition; for he has not yet rightly understood why the Lord called riches thorns. Here is the school in which to learn that" (i. e., the Mansfeld controversies about property). "But it dawns on me that in the Holy Scriptures thorns are always menaced with fire; therefore I have all the more patience, hoping, with God's help, to bring some good out of it all. It seems to me the devil laughs at us; but God laughs him to scorn! Amen. Pray for us. The messenger hastes. On St. Dorothea's day. M. L. (thy old lover)."
Eisleben.
"To the deeply learned lady Katherin, my gracious consort at Wittemberg, grace and peace.
"Dear Käthe,—We sit here and suffer ourselves to be tortured, and would gladly be away; but that cannot be, I think, for a week. Thou mayest say to Master Philip that he may correct his exposition; for he has not yet rightly understood why the Lord called riches thorns. Here is the school in which to learn that" (i. e., the Mansfeld controversies about property). "But it dawns on me that in the Holy Scriptures thorns are always menaced with fire; therefore I have all the more patience, hoping, with God's help, to bring some good out of it all. It seems to me the devil laughs at us; but God laughs him to scorn! Amen. Pray for us. The messenger hastes. On St. Dorothea's day. M. L. (thy old lover)."
Dr. Luther seems to be enjoying himself in his own simple hearty way, at his old home. Nobles and burghers give him the most friendly welcome.
The third letter Mistress Luther has received is full of playful tender answers to her anxieties about him.
"To my dear consort Katherin Lutherin, doctoress and selftormentor at Wittemberg, my gracious lady, grace and peace in the Lord."Read thou, dear Käthe, the Gospel of John, and the smaller Catechism, and then thou wilt say at once, 'All that in the book is said of me.' For thou must needs take the cares of thy God upon thee, as if He were not almighty, and could not create ten Doctor Martins, if the one old Doctor Martin were drowned in the Saala. Leave me in peace with thy cares I have a better guardian than thou and all the angels. It is He who lay in the manger, and was fondled on a maiden's breast; but who sitteth also now on the right hand of God the Almighty Father. Therefore be at peace."
"To my dear consort Katherin Lutherin, doctoress and selftormentor at Wittemberg, my gracious lady, grace and peace in the Lord.
"Read thou, dear Käthe, the Gospel of John, and the smaller Catechism, and then thou wilt say at once, 'All that in the book is said of me.' For thou must needs take the cares of thy God upon thee, as if He were not almighty, and could not create ten Doctor Martins, if the one old Doctor Martin were drowned in the Saala. Leave me in peace with thy cares I have a better guardian than thou and all the angels. It is He who lay in the manger, and was fondled on a maiden's breast; but who sitteth also now on the right hand of God the Almighty Father. Therefore be at peace."
And again—
"To the saintly anxious lady, Katherin Lutherin, Doctorin Zulsdorferin at Wittemberg, my gracious dear wife, grace and peace in Christ."Most saintly lady Doctoress,—We thank your ladyship kindly for your great anxiety and care for us which prevented your sleeping; for since the time that you had this care for us, a fire nearly consumed us in our inn, close by my chamber door; and yesterday (doubtless by the power of your care), a stone almost fell on our head, and crushed us as in a mouse-trap. For in our private chamber during more than two days, lime and mortar crashed above us, until we sent for work-men, who only touched the stone with two fingers, when it fell, as large as a large pillow two hand-breadths wide. For all this we should have to thank your anxiety; had not the dear holy angels been guarding us also! I begin to be anxious that if your anxieties do not cease, at last the earth may swallow us up, and all the elements pursue us. Dost thou indeed teach the Catechism and the creed? Do thou then pray and leave God to care, as it is promised. 'Cast they burden on the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.'"We would now gladly be free and journey homewards, if God willed it so. Amen. Amen. Amen. On Scholastica's Day. The willing servant of your holiness,"Martin Luther."
"To the saintly anxious lady, Katherin Lutherin, Doctorin Zulsdorferin at Wittemberg, my gracious dear wife, grace and peace in Christ.
"Most saintly lady Doctoress,—We thank your ladyship kindly for your great anxiety and care for us which prevented your sleeping; for since the time that you had this care for us, a fire nearly consumed us in our inn, close by my chamber door; and yesterday (doubtless by the power of your care), a stone almost fell on our head, and crushed us as in a mouse-trap. For in our private chamber during more than two days, lime and mortar crashed above us, until we sent for work-men, who only touched the stone with two fingers, when it fell, as large as a large pillow two hand-breadths wide. For all this we should have to thank your anxiety; had not the dear holy angels been guarding us also! I begin to be anxious that if your anxieties do not cease, at last the earth may swallow us up, and all the elements pursue us. Dost thou indeed teach the Catechism and the creed? Do thou then pray and leave God to care, as it is promised. 'Cast they burden on the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.'
"We would now gladly be free and journey homewards, if God willed it so. Amen. Amen. Amen. On Scholastica's Day. The willing servant of your holiness,
"Martin Luther."