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Volume First - Book Ninth
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| Chapter 1 | THE GERMAN NEW TESTAMENT. Man Silenced — God about to Speak — Political Complications — Truth in the Midst of Tempests — Luther in the Wartburg — Lessons taught him — Soliman — Relation of the Turk to the Reformation — Leo X. Dies — Adrian of Utrecht — What the Romans think of their New Pope — Adrian's Reforms — Luther's Idleness — Commences the Translation of the New Testament — Beauty of the Translation — A Second Revelation — Phantoms. |
| Chapter 2 | THE ABOLITION OF THE MASS. Friar Zwilling — Preaches against the Mass — Attacks the Monastic Orders — Bodenstein of Carlstadt — Dispenses the Supper — Fall of the Mass at Wittenberg — Other Changes — The Zwickau Prophets — Nicholas Stork — Thomas Munzer — InfantBaptism Denounced — The New Gospel — Disorders at Wittenberg — Rumors wafted to the Wartburg — Uneasiness of Luther — He Leaves the Wartburg — Appears at Wittenberg — His Sermon — A Week of Preaching — A Great Crisis — It is Safely Passed. |
| Chapter 3 | POPE ADRIAN AND HIS SCHEME OF REFORM. Calm Returns — Labors of Luther — Translation of Old Testament — Melanchthon's Common-places — First Protestant System — Preachers — Books Multiplied — Rapid Diffusion of the Truth — Diet at Nuremberg — Pope Adrian Afraid of the Turk — Still more of Lutheranism — His Exhortation to the Diet — His Reforms put before the Diet — They are Rejected — The Hundred Grievances — Edict of Diet permitting the Gospel to be Preached — Persecution — First Three Martyrs of Lutheran Reformation — Joy of Luther — Death of Pope Adrian. |
| Chapter 4 | POPE CLEMENT AND THE NUREMBERG DIET. The New Pope — Policy of Clement — Second Diet at Nuremberg — Campeggio — His instructions to the Diet — The "Hundred Grievances" — Rome's Policy of Dissimulation — Surprise of the Princes — They are Asked to Execute the Edict of Worms — Device of the Princes — A General Council — Vain Hopes — The Harbor — Still at Sea — Protestant Preaching in Nuremberg — Proposal to hold a Diet at Spires — Disgust of the Legate — Alarm of the Vatican — Both Sides Prepare for the Spires Diet. |
| Chapter 5 | NUREMBERG. (THIS CHAPTER IS FOUNDED ON NOTES MADE ON THE SPOT BY THE AUTHOR IN
1871.) Three Hundred Years Since — Site of Nuremberg — Depot of Commerce in Middle Ages — Its Population — Its Patricians and Plebeians — Their Artistic Skill — Nuremberg a Free Town — Its Burgraves — Its Oligarchy — Its Subject Towns — Fame of its Arts — Albert Durer — Hans Sachs — Its Architecture and Marvels — Enchantment of the Place — Rath-Haus — State Dungeons — Implements of Torture. |
| Chapter 6 | THE RATISBON LEAGUE AND REFORMATION. Protestantism in Nuremberg—German Provinces Declare for the Gospel—Intrigues of Campeggio—Ratisbon League —Ratisbon Scheme of Reform—Rejected by the German Princes—Letter of Pope Clement to the Emperor—The Emperor's Letter from Burgos—Forbids the Diet at Spires—German Unity Broken—Two Camps—Persecution—Martyrs. |
| Chapter 7 | LUTHER'S VIEWS ON THE SACRAMENT AND IMAGE-WORSHIP. New Friends—Philip, Landgrave of Hesse—Meeting between him and Melanchthon—Joins the Reformation—Duke Ernest, etc.—Knights of the Teutonic Order—Their Origin and History—Royal House of Prussia— Free Cities—Services to Protestantism—Division—Carlstadt Opposes Luther on the Sacrament—Luther's Early Views—Recoil —Essence of Paganism—Opus Operatum—Calvin and Zwingli's View—Carlstadt Leaves Wittenberg and goes to Orlamunde—Scene at the Inn at Jena— Luther Disputes at Orlamunde on Image-Worship—Carlstadt Quits Saxony—Death of the Elector Frederick. |
| Chapter 8 | WAR OF THE PEASANTS. A New Danger—German Peasantry—Their Oppressions—These grow Worse—The Reformation Seeks to Alleviate them—The Outbreak—The Reformation Accused—The Twelve Articles—These Rejected by the Princes—Luther's Course—His Admonitions to the Clergy and the Peasantry—Rebellion in Suabia—Extends to Franconia, etc.—The Black Forest—Peasant Army—Ravages—Slaughterings—Count Louis of Helfenstein—Extends to the Rhine—Universal Terror—Army of the Princes—Insurrection Arrested—Weinsberg—Retaliation—Thomas Munzer—Lessons of the Outbreak. |
| Chapter 9 | THE BATTLE OF PAVIA AND ITS INFLUENCE ON PROTESTANTISM. The Papacy Entangles itself with Earthly Interests—Protestantism stands Alone—Monarchy and the Popedom—Which is to Rule?—The Conflict a Defence in Protestantism—War between the Emperor and Francis I.— Expulsion of the French from Italy—Battle of Pavia—Capture and Captivity of Francis I.—Charles V. at the Head of Europe— Protestantism to be Extirpated—Luther Marries—The Nuns of Nimptsch—Catherine von Bora—Antichrist about to be Born—What Luther's Marriage said to Rome. |
| Chapter 10 | DIETAT SPIRES, 1526, AND LEAGUE AGAINST THE EMPEROR. A Storm—Rolls away from Wittenberg—Clement Hopes to Restore the Mediaeval Papal Glories—Forms a League against the Emperor— Changes of the Wind—Charles turns to Wittenberg—Diet at Spires— Spirit of the Lutheran Princes—Duke John—Landgrave Philip—"The Word of the Lord endureth for ever"—Protestant Sermons—City Churches Deserted—The Diet takes the Road to Wittenberg—The Free Towns—The Reforms Demanded—Popish Party Discouraged—The Emperor's Letter from Seville—Consternation. |
| Chapter 11 | THE SACK OF ROME. A Great Crisis—Deliverance Dawns—Tidings of Feud between the Pope and Emperor—Political Situation Reversed—Edict of Worms Suspended—Legal Settlement of Toleration in Germany—The Tempest takes the Direction of Rome— Charles's Letter to Clement VII.—An Army Raised in Germany for the Emperor's Assistance — Freundsberg—The German Troops Cross the Alps—Junction with the Spanish General—United Host March on Rome—The City Taken—Sack of Rome—Pillage and Slaughter—Rome never Retrieves the Blow. |
| Chapter 12 | ORGANIZATION OF THE LUTHERAN CHURCH. A Calm of Three Years—Luther Begins to Build—Christians, but no Christian Society—Old Foundations—Gospel Creates Christians— Christ their Center—Truth their Bond—Unity—Luther's Theory of Priesthood—All True Christians Priests—Some Elected to Discharge its Functions—Difference between Romish Priesthood and Protestant Priesthood—Commission of Visitation—Its Work—Church Constitution of Saxony. |
| Chapter 13 | CONSTITUTION OF THE CHURCH OF HESSE. Francis Lambert—Quits his Monastery at Avignon—Comes to Zurich— Goes on to Germany—Luther Recommends him to Landgrave Philip— Invited to frame a Constitution for the Church of Hesse—His Paradoxes—The Priest's Commentary—Discussion at Homburg—The Hessian Church constituted—Its Simplicity—Contrast to Romish Organization—General Ends gained by Visitation—Moderation of Luther—Monks and Nuns—Stipends of Protestant Pastors—Luther's Instructions to them—Deplorable Ignorance of German Peasantry— Luther's Smaller and Larger Catechisms—Their Effects. |
| Chapter 14 | POLITICS AND PRODIGIES. Wars—Francis I. Violates his Treaty with Charles—The Turk—The Pope and the Emperor again become Friends—Failure of the League of Cognac—Subjection of Italy to Spain—New League between the Pope and the Emperor —Heresy to be Extinguished—A New Diet summoned—Prodigies—Otto Pack—His Story—The Lutheran Princes prepare for War against the Popish Confederates—Luther Interposes— War Averted—Martyrs. |
| Chapter 15 | THE GREAT PROTEST Diet of 1529—The Assembling of the Popish Princes—Their Numbers and high Hopes—Elector of Saxony—Arrival of Philip of Hesse—The Diet Meets—The Emperor's Message—Shall the Diet Repeal the Edict (1526) of Toleration? —The Debate—A Middle Motion proposed by the Popish Members—This would have Stifled the Reformation in Germany—Passed by a Majority of Votes—The Crisis—Shall the Lutheran Princes Accept it?—Ferdinand hastily Quits the Diet— Protestant Princes Consult together—Their Protest—Their Name— Grandeur of the Issues. |
| Chapter 16 | CONFERENCE AT MARBURG. Landgrave Philip—His Activity—Elector John and Landgrave Philip the Complement of each other—Philip's Efforts for Union—The One Point of Disunion among the Protestants—The Sacrament—Luther and Zwingli—Their Difference—Philip undertakes their Reconcilement—He proposes a Conference on the Sacrament—Luther Accepts with difficulty—Marburg-Zwingli's Journey thither—Arrival of Wittenberg Theologians—Private Discussions —Public Conference—"This is my Body"—A Figure of Speech—Luther's Carnal Eating and Spiritual Eating—Ecolampadius and Luther—Zwingli and Luther—Can a Body be in more Places than One at the Same Time?—Mathematics—The Fathers—The Conference Ends—The Division not Healed— Imperiousness of Luther—Grief of Zwingli—Mortification of Philip of Hesse—The Plague. |
| Chapter 17 | THE MARBURG CONFESSION. Further Effects of the Landgrave—Zwingli's Approaches—Luther's Repulse—The Landgrave's Proposal—Articles Drafted by Luther— Signed by Both Parties—Agreement in Doctrine—Only One Point of Difference, namely, the Manner of Christ's Presence in the Sacrament— The Marburg Confession—A Monument of the Real Brotherhood of all Protestants—Bond between Germany and Helvetia—Ends served by it. |
| Chapter 18 | THE EMPEROR, THE TURK, AND THE REFORMATION. Charles's great Ambition, the Supremacy of Christendom—Protestantism his great Stumbling-Block—The Edict of Worms is to Remove that Stumbling-Block—Charles Disappointed—The Victory of Pavia Renews the Hope—Again Disappointed—The Diet of Spires, 1526—Again Balked—In the Church, Peace: in the World, War—The Turk before Vienna—Terror in Germany—The Emperor again Laying the Train for Extinction of Protestantism —Charles Lands at Genoa—Protestant Deputies—Interview with Emperor at Piacenza—Charles's stern Reply— Arrest of Deputies—Emperor sets out for Bologna. |
| Chapter 19 | MEETING BETWEEN THE EMPEROR AND POPE AT BOLOGNA. Meeting of Protestants at Schmalkald—Complete Agreement in Matters of Faith insisted on—Failure to Form a Defensive League—Luther's Views on War—Division among the Protestants Over-ruled—The Emperor at Bologna—Interviews between Charles and Clement—The Emperor Proposes a Council—The Pope Recommends the Sword— Campeggio and Gattinara—The Emperor's Secret Thoughts—His Coronation—Accident—San Petronio and its Spectacle—Rites of Coronation—Significancy of Each—The Emperor sets out for Germany. |
| Chapter 20 | PREPARATIONS FOR THE AUGSBURG DIET. Charles Crosses the Tyrol—Looks down on Germany—Events in his Absence—His Reflections—Fruitlessness of his Labors—Opposite Realisations-All Things meant by Charles for the Hurt turn out to the Advantage of Protestantism—An Unseen Leader—The Emperor Arrives at Innspruck—Assembling of the Princes to the Diet—Journey of the Elector of Saxony—Luther's Hymn—Luther left at Coburg—Courage of the Protestant Princes—Protestant Sermons in Augsburg—Popish Preachers—The Torgau Articles—Prepared by Melanchthon— Approved by Luther. |
| Chapter 21 | ARRIVAL OF THE EMPEROR AT AUGSBURG AND OPENING OF THE DIET. Arrivals—The Archbishop of Cologne, etc.—Charles—Pleasantries of Luther—Diet of the Crows—An Allegory—Intimation of the Emperor's Coming—The Princes Meet him at the Torrent Lech—Splendor of the Procession —Seckendorf's Description—Enters Augsburg—Accident— Rites in the Cathedral—Charles's Interview with the Protestant Princes— Demands the Silencing of their Preachers—Protestants Refuse—Final Arrangement— Opening of Diet—Procession of Corpus Christi—Shall the Elector Join the Procession?—Sermon of Papal Nuncio —The Turk and Lutherans Compared—Calls on Charles to use the Sword against the Latter. |
| Chapter 22 | LUTHER IN THE COBURG AND MELANCHTHON AT THE DIET. The Emperor Opens the Diet—Magnificence of the Assemblage—Hopes of its Members—The Emperor's Speech—His Picture of Europe—The Turk—His Ravages—The Remedy—Charles Calls for Execution of Edict of Worms —Luther at Coburg—His Labors—Translation of the Prophets, etc.—His Health—His Temptations—How he Sustains his Faith—Melanchthon at Augsburg—His Temporisings—Luther's Reproofs and Admonitions. |
| Chapter 23 | READING OF THE AUGSBURG CONFESSION. The Religious Question First—Augsburg Confession—Signed by the Princes—The Laity—Princes Demand to Read their Confession in Public Diet—Refusal—Demand Renewed—Granted—The Princes Appear before the Emperor and Diet—A Little One become a Thousand— Mortification of Charles—Confession Read in German—Its Articles — The Trinity — Christ— Justification— The Ministry— Good Works —The Church—The Lord's Supper, etc.—The Mass, etc.— Effect of Reading the Confession—Luther's Triumph. |
| Chapter 24 | AFTER THE DIET OF AUGSBURG. The Great Protest—The Cities asked to Abandon it—The Augsburg Confession—Theological Culmination of Reformation in Germany— Elation of the Protestants—Three Confessions—Harmony—New Converts—Consultations and Dialogues in the Emperor's Antechamber—The Bishop of Salzburg on Priests—Translation of the Confession into French—The Free Protesting Towns—Asked to Abandon the Protest of 1529—Astonishment of the Deputies—The Vanquished affecting to be the Victor—What the Protest of 1529 enfolded—The Folly of the Emperor's Demand. |
| Chapter 25 | ATTEMPTED REFUTATION OF THE CONFESSION. What is to be done with the Confession?—Perplexity of the Romanists— The Confession to be Refuted—Eck and Twenty Others chosen for this Work—Luther's Warnings—Melanchthon's and Charles's Forecast— Wrestlings in the Coburg—The Fourteen Protestant Free Cities— Refutation of the Confession —Vapid and Lengthy—Rejected by the Emperor—A Second Attempt—The Emperor's Sister—Her Influence with Charles—The Play of the Masks. |
| Chapter 26 | END OF THE DIET OF AUGSBURG. Diplomacy—The Protestant Princes—John the Steadfast—Bribes and Threatenings—Second Refutation of the Confession—Submission Demanded from the Protestants—They Refuse—Luther's Faith— Romanists resume Negotiations—Melancthon's Concessions— Melancthon's Fall—All Hopes of Reconciliation Abandoned—Recess of the Diet—Mortification and Defeat of the Emperor. |
| Chapter 27 | A RETROSPECT—1517-1530—PROGRESS. Glance back—The Path continually Progressive—The Gains Of Thirteen Years—Provinces and Cities Evangelised in Germany—Day Breaking in other Countries—German Bible—German Church—A Saxon Paradise—Political Movements—Their Subordination to Protestantism—Wittenberg the Center of the Drama—Charles V. and his Campaigns—Attempts to Enforce the Edict of Worms—Their Results— All these Attempts work in the Opposite Direction—Onward March of Protestantism—Downward Course of every Opposing Interest— Protestantism as distinguished from Primitive Christianity—The Two Bibles. |
RESEARCH INDEX ----New WindowTHE history of the Reformation in Germany once more claims our consideration.
The great movement of the human soul from bondage, which so grandly characterised
the sixteenth century, we have already traced in its triumphant march from the cell
of the Augustine monk to the foot of the throne of Charles V., from the door of the
Schlosskirk at Wittenberg to the gorgeous hall of Worms, crowded with the powers
and principalities of Western Europe.
The moment is one of intensest interest, for it has landed us, we feel, on the threshold
of a new development of the grand drama. On both sides a position has been taken
up from which there is no retreat; and a collision, in which one or other of the
parties must perish, now appears inevitable. The new forces of light and liberty,
speaking through the mouth of their chosen champion, have said, "Here we stand,
we cannot go back." The old forces of superstition and despotism, interpreting
themselves through their representatives, the Pope and the emperor, have said with
equal emphasis, "You shall not advance."
The hour is come, and the decisive battle which is to determine whether liberty or
bondage awaits the world cannot be postponed. The lists have been set, the combatants
have taken their places, the signal has been given; another moment and we shall hear
the sound of the terrible blows, as they echo and re-echo over the field on which
the champions close in deadly strife. But instead of the shock of battle, suddenly
a deep stillness descends upon the scene, and the combatants on both sides stand
motionless. He who looketh on the sun and it shineth not has issued His command to
suspend the conflict. As of old "the cloud" has removed and come between
the two hosts, so that they come not near the one to the other.
But why this pause? If the battle had been joined that moment, the victory, according
to every reckoning of human probabilities, would have remained with the old powers.
The adherents of the new were not yet ready to go forth to war. They were as yet
immensely inferior in numbers. Their main unfitness, however, did not lie there,
but in this, that they lacked their weapons. The arms of the other were always ready.
They leaned upon the sword, which they had already unsheathed. The weapon of the
other was knowledge—the Sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God. That sword
had to be prepared for them: the Bible had to be translated; and when finally equipped
with this armor, then would the soldiers of the Reformation go forth to battle, prepared
to withstand all the hardships of the campaign, and finally to come victorious out
of the "great fight of afflictions" which they were to be called, though
not just yet, to wage.
If, then, the great voice which had spoken in Germany, and to which kings, electoral
princes, dukes, prelates, cities and universities, had listened, and the mighty echoes
of which had come back from far-distant lands, was now silent, it was that a Greater
voice might be heard. Men must be prepared for that voice. All meaner sounds must
be hushed. Man had spoken, but in this silence God Himself was to speak to men, directly
from His own Word.
Let us first cast a glance around on the political world. It was the age of great
monarchs. Master of Spain, and of many other realms in both the Eastern and the Western
world, and now also possessor of the imperial diadem, was the taciturn, ambitious,
plodding, and politic Charles V. Francis I., the most polished, chivalrous, and war-like
knight of his time, governed France. The self-willed, strong-minded, and cold-hearted
Henry VIII. was swaying the scepter in England, and dealing alternate blows, as humor
and policy moved him, to Rome and to the Reformation. The wise Frederick was exercising
kingly power in Saxony, and by his virtues earning a lasting fame for himself, and
laying the foundation of lasting power for his house. The elegant, self-indulgent,
and sceptical Leo X. was master of the ceremonies at Rome. Asia owned the scepter
of Soliman the Magnificent. Often were his hordes seen hovering, like a cloud charged
with lightning, on the frontier of Christendom. When a crisis arose in the affairs
of the Refomnation, and the kings obedient to the Roman See had united their swords
to strike, and with blow so decisive that they should not need to strike a second
time, the Turk, obeying One Whom he knew not, would straightway present himself on
the eastern limits of Europe, and in so menacing an attitude, that the swords unsheathed
against the poor Protestants had to be turned in another quarter. The Turk was the
lightning-rod that drew off the tempest. Thus did Christ cover His little flock with
the shield of the Moslem.
The material resources at the command of these potentates were immense. They were
the lords of the nations and the leaders of the armies of Christendom. It was in
the midst of these ambitions and policies, that it seemed good to the Great Disposer
that the tender plant of Protestantism should grow up. One wonders that in such a
position it was able to exist a single day. The Truth took root and flourished, so
to speak, in the midst of a hurricane. How was this? Where had it defense? The very
passions that warred like great tempests around it, became its defense. Its foes
were made to check and counter-check each other. Their furious blows fell not upon
the truths at which they were aimed, and which they were meant to extirpate; they
fell upon themselves. Army was dashed against army; monarch fell before monarch;
one terrible tempest from this quarter met another terrible tempest from the opposite
quarter, and thus the intrigues and assaults of kings and statesmen became a bulwark
around the principle which it was the object of these mighty ones to undermine and
destroy. Now it is the arm of her great persecutor, Charles V., that is raised to
defend the Church, and now it is beneath the shadow of Soliman the Turk that she
finds asylum. How visible the hand of God! How marvellous His providence!
Luther never wore sword in his life, except when he figured as Knight George in the
Wartburg, and yet he never lacked sword to defend him when he was in danger. He was
dismissed from the Diet at Worms with two powerful weapons unsheathed above his head
— the excommunication of the Pope and the ban of the emperor. One is enough surely;
with both swords bared against him, how is it possible that he can escape destruction?
Yet amid the hosts of his enemies, when they are pressing round him on every side,
and are ready to swallow him up, he suddenly becomes invisible; he passes through
the midst of them, and enters unseen the doors of his hiding-place.
This was Luther's second imprisonment. It was a not less essential part of his training
for his great work than was his first. In his cell at Erfurt he had discovered the
foundation on which, as a sinner, he must rest. In his prison of the Wartburg he
is shown the one foundation on which the Church must be reared—the Bible. Other lessons
was Luther here taught. The work appointed him demanded a nature strong, impetuous,
and fearless; and such was the temperament with which he had been endowed. His besetting
sin was to under-estimate difficulties, and to rush on, and seize the end before
it was matured. How different from the prudent, patient, and circumspect Zwingli!
The Reformer of Zurich never moved a step till he had prepared his way by instructing
the people, and carrying their understandings and sympathies with him in the changes
he proposed for their adoption. The Reformer of Wittenberg, on the other hand, in
his eagerness to advance, would not only defy the strong, he at times trampled upon
the weak, from lack of sympathy and considerateness for their infirmities. He assumed
that others would see the point as clearly as he himself saw it. The astonishing
success that had attended him so far — the Pope defied, the emperor vanquished, and
nations rallying to him—was developing these strong characteristics to the neglect
of those gentler, but more efficacious qualities, without which enduring success
in a work like that in which he was engaged is unattainable. The servant of the Lord
must not strive. His speech must distil as the dew. It was light that the world needed.
This enforced pause was more profitable to the Reformer, and more profitable to the
movement, than the busiest and most successful year of labor which even the great
powers of Luther could have achieved.
He was now led to examine his own heart, and distinguish between what had been the
working of passion, and what the working of the Spirit of God. Above all he was led
to the Bible. His theological knowledge was thus extended and ripened. His nature
was sanctified and enrichched, and if his impetuosity was abated, his real strength
was in the same proportion increased. The study of the Word of God revealed to him
likewise, what he was apt in his conflicts to overlook, that there was an edifice
to be built up as well as one to be pulled down, and that this was the nobler work
of the two.
The sword of the emperor was not the only peril from which the Wartburg shielded
Luther. His triumph at Worms had placed him on a pinnacle where he stood in the sight
of all Christendom. He was in danger of becoming giddy and falling into an abyss,
and dragging down with him the cause he represented. Therefore was he suddenly withdrawn
into a deep silence, where the plaudits with which the word was ringing could not
reach him; where he was alone with God; and where he could not but feel his insignificance
in the presence of the Eternal Majesty.
While Luther retires from view in the Wartburg, let us consider what is passing in
the world. All its movements revolve around the one great central movement, which
is Protestantism. The moment Luther entered within the gates of the Wartburg the
political sky became overcast, and dark clouds rolled up in every quarter. First
Soliman, "whom thirteen battles had rendered the terror of Germany,[1] made a sudden eruption into Europe. He gained many towns
and castles, and took Belgrad, the bulwark of Hungary, situated at the confluence
of the Danube and the Save. The States of the Empire, stricken with fear, hastily
assembled at Nuremberg to concert measures for the defense of Christendom, and for
the arresting of the victorious march of its terrible invader.[2] This was work enough for the princes. The execution of the
emperor's edict against Luther, with which they had been charged, must lie over till
they had found means of compelling Soliman and his hordes to return to their own
land. Their swords were about to be unsheathed above Luther's head, when lo, some
hundred thousand Turkish scimitars are unsheathed above theirs!
While this danger threatened in the East, another suddenly appeared in the South.
News came from Spain that seditions had broken out in that country in the emperor's
absence; and Charles V., leaving Luther for the time in peace, was compelled to hurry
home by sea in order to compose the dissensions that distracted his hereditary dominions.
He left Germany not a little disgusted at finding its princes so little obsequious
to his will, and so much disposed to fetter him in the exercise of his imperial prerogative.
Matters were still more embroiled by the war that next broke out between Charles
and Francis I. The opening scenes of the conflict lay in the Pyrenees, but the campaign
soon passed into Italy, and the Pope joining his arms with those of the emperor,
the Freneh lost the Duchies of Parma, Piacenza, and Milan, which they had held for
six years, and the misfortune was crowned by their being driven out of Lombardy.
And now came sorrow to the Pope! Great was the joy of Leo X. at the expulsion of
the French. His arms had triumphed, and Parma and Piacenza had been restored to the
ecclesiastical State.[3]
He received the tidings of this good fortune at his country seat of Malliana.
Coming as they did on the back of the emperor's edict proscribing Luther, they threw
him into an ecstacy of delight. The clouds that had lowered upon his house appeared
to be dispersing. "He paced backwards and forwards, between the window and a
blazing hearth, till deep into the night—it was the month of November."[4]
He watched the public rejoicings in honor of the victory. He hurried off to
Rome, and reached it before the fetes there in course of celebration had ended. Scarce
had he crossed the threshold of his palace when he was seized with illness. He felt
that the hand of death was upon him. Turning to his attendants he said, "Pray
for me, that I may yet make you all happy." The malady ran its course so rapidly
that he died without the Sacrament. The hour of victory was suddenly changed into
the hour of death, and the feux-de-joie were succeeded by funeral bells and mornming
plumes. Leo had reigned with magnificence—he died deeply in debt, and was buried
amid manifest contempt. The Romans, says Ranke, never forgave him "for dying
without the Sacraments. They pursued his corpse to its grove with insult and reproach.
'Thou hast crept in like a fox,' they exclaimed, 'like a lion hast thou ruled us,
and like a dog hast thou died.'"[5]
The nephew of the deceased Pope, Cardinal Giulio de Medici, aspired to succeed
his uncle. But a more powerful house than that of Medici now claimed to dispose of
the tiara. The monarchs of Spain were more potent factors in European affairs than
the rich merchant of Florence. The conclave had lasted long, and Giulio de Medici,
despairing of his own election, made a virtue of necessity, and proposed that the
Cardinal of Tortosa, who had been Charles's tutor, should be elevated to the Pontificate.
The person named was unknown to the cardinals. He was a native of Utrecht.[6] He was entirely without ambition, aged, austere.
Eschewing all show, he occupied himself wholly with his religious duties, and a faint
smile was the nearest approach he ever made to mirth. Such was the man whom the cardinals,
moved by some sudden and mysterious impulse, or it may be responsive to the touch
of the imperial hand, united in raising to the Papal chair. He was in all points
the opposite of the magnificent Leo.[7]
Adrian VI. — for under this title did he reign—was of humble birth, but his
talents were good and his conduct was exemplary. He began his public life as professor
at Louvain. He next became tutor to the Emperor Charles, by whose influence, joined
to his own merits, he was made Cardinal of Tortosa. He was in Spain, on the emperor's
business, when the news of his election reached him. The cardinals, who by this time
were alarmed at their own deed, hoped the modest man would decline the dazzling post.
They were disappointed. Adrian, setting out for Rome with his old housekeeper, took
possession of the magnificent apartments which Leo had so suddenly vacated. He gazed
with indifference, if not displeasure, upon the ancient masterpieces, the magnificent
pictures, and glowing statuary, with which the exquisite taste and boundless prodigality
of Leo had enriched the Vatican. The "Laocoon" was already there; but Adrian
turned away from that wonderful group, which some have pronounced the chef-d'oeuvre
of the chisel, with the cold remark, "They are the idols of the heathen."
Of all the curious things in the vast museum of the Papal Palace, Adrian VI. was
esteemed the most curious by the Romans. They knew not what to make of the new master
the cardinals had given them. His coming (August, 1522) was like the descent of a
cloud upon Rome; it was like an eclipse at noonday. There came a sudden collapse
in the gaeties and spectacles of the Eternal City. For songs and masquerades, there
were prayers and beads. "He will be the ruin of us," said the Romans of
their new Pope.[8]
The humble, pious, sincere Adrian aspired to restore, not to overthrow the
Papacy. His predecessor had thought to extinguish Luther's movement by the sword;
the Hollander judged that he had found a better way. He proposed to suppress one
Reformation by originating another. He began with a startling confession: "It
is certain that the Pope may err in matters of faith in defending heresy by his opinions
or decretals."[9]
This admission, meant to be the starting-point of a moderate reform, is perhaps
even more inconvenient at this day than when first made. The world long afterwards
received the "Encyclical and Syllabus" of Pius IX., and the "Infallibility
Decree" of July 18, 1870, which teach the exactly opposite doctrine, that the
Pope cannot err in matters of faith and morals. If Adrian spoke true, it followsthat
the Pope may err; if he spoke false, it equally follows that the Pope may err; and
what then are we to make of the decree of the Vatican Council of 1870, which, looking
backwards as well as forwards, declares that error is impossible on the part of the
Pope?
Adrian wished to reform the Court of Rome as well as the system of the Papacy.[10] He set about purging
the city of certain notorious classes, expelling the vices and filling it with the
virtues. Alas! he soon found that he would leave few in Rome save himself. His reforms
of the system fared just as badly, as the sequel will show us. If he touched an abuse,
all who were interested in its maintenance—and they were legion—rose in arms to defend
it. If he sought to loosen but one stone, the whole edifice began to totter. Whether
these reforms would save Germany was extremely problematical: one thing was certain,
they would lose Italy. Adrian, sighing over the impossibilities that surrounded him
on every side, had to confess that this middle path was impracticable, and that his
only choice lay between Luther's Reform on the one hand, and Charles V.'s policy
on the other. He cast himself into the arms of Charles.
Our attention must again be directed to the Wartburg. While the Turk is thundering
on the eastern border of Christendom, and Charles and Francis are fighting with one
another in Italy, and Adrian is attempting impossible reforms at Rome, Luther is
steadily working in his solitude. Seated on the ramparts of his castle, looking back
on the storm from which he had just escaped, and feasting his eyes on the quiet forest
glades and well-cultivated valleys spread out beneath him, his first days were passed
in a delicious calm. By-and-by he grew ill in body and troubled in mind, the result
most probably of the sudden transition from intense excitement to profound inaction.
He bitterly accused himself of idleness. Let us see what it was that Luther denominated
idleness. "I have published," he writes on the 1st of November, "a
little volume against that of Catharinus on Antichrist, a treatise in German on confession,
a commentary in German on the 67th Psalm, and a consolation to the Church of Wittenberg.
Moreover, I have in the press a commentary in German on the Epistles and Gospels
for the year; I have just sent off a public reprimand to the Bishop of Mainz on the
idol of Indulgences he has raised up again at Halle;[11] and I have finished a commentary on the Gospel story of the
Ten Lepers. All these writings are in German."[12] This was the indolence in which he lived. From the region
of the air, from the region of the birds, from the mountain, from the Isle of Patmos,
from which he dated his letters, the Reformer saw all that was passing in the world
beneath him. He scattered from his mountain-top, far and wide over the Fatherland,
epistles, commentaries, and treatises, counsels and rebukes. It is a proof how alive
he had become to the necessities of the times, that almost all his books in the Wartburg
were written in German.
But a greater work than all these did Luther by-and-by set himself to do in his seclusion.
There was one Book—the Book of books—specially needed at that particular stage of
the movement, and that Book Luther wished his countrymen to possess in their mother
tongue. He set about translating the New Testament from the original Greek into German;
and despite his other vast labors, he prosecuted with almost superhuman energy this
task, and finished it before he left the Wartburg. Attempts had been made in 1477,
in 1490, and in 1518 to translate the Holy Bible from the Vulgate; but the rendering
was so obscure, the printing so wretched, and the price so high, that few cared to
procure these versions.[13]
Amid the harassments of Wittenberg, Luther could not have executed this work;
here he was able to do it. He had intended translating also the Old Testament from
the original Hebrew, but the task was beyond his strength; he waited till he should
be able to command learned assistance; and thankful he was that the same day that
opened to him the gates of the Wartburg, found his translation of the New Testament
completed.
But the work required revision, and after Luther's return to Wittenberg he went through
it all, verse by verse, with Melanchthon. By September 21, 1522, the whole of the
New Testament in German was in print, and could be purchased at the moderate sum
of a florin and a half. The more arduous task, of translating the Old Testament,
was now entered upon. No source of information was neglected in order to produce
as perfect a rendering as possible, but some years passed away before an entire edition
of the Sacred Volume in German was forthcoming. Luther's labors in connection with
the Scriptures did not end here. To correct and improve his version was his continual
care and study till his life's end. For this he organised a synod or Sanhedrim of
learned men, consisting of John Bugenhagen, Justus Jonas, Melanchthon, Cruciger,
Aurogallus, and George Rover, with any scholar who might chance to visit Wittenberg.[14] This body met once every
week before supper in the Augustine convent, and exchanged suggestions and decided
on the emendations to be adopted. When the true meaning of the original had been
elicited, the task of clothing it in German devolved on Luther alone.
The most competent judges have pronounced the highest eulogisms on Luther's version.
It was executed in a style of exquisite purity, vigor, and beauty. It fixed the standard
of the language. In this translation the German tongue reached its perfection as
it were by a bound. But this was the least of the benefits Luther's New Testament
in German conferred upon his nation. Like another Moses, Luther was taken up into
this Mount, that he might receive the Law, and give it to his people. Luther's captivity
was the liberation of Germany. Its nations were sitting in darkness when this new
day broke upon them from this mountain-top. For what would the Reformation have been
without the Bible?—a meteor which would have shone for one moment, and the next gone
out in darkness.[15]
"From the innumerable testimonies to the beauty of Luther's translation
of the Bible," says Seckendorf, "I select but one, that of Prince George
of Anhalt, given in a public assembly of this nation. 'What words,' said the prince,
'can adequately set forth the immense blessing we enjoy in the whole Bible translated
by Dr. Martin Luther from the original tongues? So pure, beautiful, and clear is
it, by the special grace and assistance of the Holy Spirit, both in its words and
its sense, that it is as if David and the other holy prophets had lived in our own
country, and spoken in the German tongue. Were Jerome and Augustine alive at this
day, they would hail with joy this translation, and acknowledge that no other tongue
could boast so faithful and perspicuous a version of the Word of God.We acknowledge
the kindness of God in giving us the Greek version of the Septuagint, and also the
Latin Bible of Jerome. But how many defects and obscurities are there in the Vulgate!
Augustine, too, being ignorant of the Hebrew, has fallen into not a few mistakes.
But from the version of Martin Luther many learned doctors have acknowledged that
they had understood better the true sense of the Bible than from all the commentaries
which others have written upon it.'"[16]
These manifold labors, prosecuted without intermission in the solitude of
the Castle of the Wartburg, brought on a complete derangement of the bodily functions,
and that derangement in turn engendered mental hallucinations. Weakened in body,
feverishly excited in mind, Luther was oppressed by fears and gloomy terrors. These
his dramatic idiosyncrasy shaped into Satanic forms. Dreadful noises in his chamber
at night would awake him from sleep. Howlings as of a dog would be heard at his door,
and on one occasion as he sat translating the New Testament, an apparition of the
Evil One, in the form of a lion, seemed to be walking round and round him, and preparing
to spring upon him. A disordered system had called up the terrible phantasm; yet
to Luther it was no phantasm, but a reality. Seizing the weapon that came first to
his hand, which happened to be his inkstand,[17]
Luther hurled it at the unwelcome intruder with such force, that he put the
fiend to flight, and broke the plaster of the wall. We must at least admire his courage.
CHAPTER 2 Back
to Top
THE ABOLITION OF THE MASS.
Friar Zwilling — Preaches against the Mass — Attacks the Monastic Orders — Bodenstein
of Carlstadt — Dispenses the Supper — Fall of the Mass at Wittenberg — Other Changes
— The Zwickau Prophets — Nicholas Stork — Thomas Munzer — InfantBaptism Denounced
— The New Gospel — Disorders at Wittenberg — Rumors wafted to the Wartburg — Uneasiness
of Luther — He Leaves the Wartburg — Appears at Wittenberg — His Sermon — A Week
of Preaching — A Great Crisis — It is Safely Passed.
THE master-spirit was withdrawn, but the work did not stop. Events of great importance
took place at Wittenberg during Luther's ten months' sojourn in the Wartburg. The
Reformation was making rapid advances. The new doctrine was finding outward expression
in a new and simpler worship.[1]
Gabriel Zwilling, an Augustine friar, put his humble hand to the work which
the great monk had begun. He began to preach against the mass in the convent church
the same in which Luther's voice had often been heard. The doctrine he proclaimed
was substantially the same with that which Zurich was teaching in Switzerland, that
the Supper is not a sacrifice, but a memorial. He condemned private masses, the adoration
of the elements, and required that the Sacrament should be administered in both kinds.
The friar gained converts both within and outside the monastery. The monks were in
a state of great excitement. Wittenberg was disturbed. The court of the elector was
troubled, and Frederick appointed a deputation consisting of Justus Jonas, Philip
Melanchthon, and Nicholas Amsdorf, to visit the Augustine convent and restore peace.
The issue was the conversion of the members of the deputation to the opinions of
Friar Gabriel.[2]
It was no longer obscure monks only who were calling for the abolition of
the mass; the same cry was raised by the University, the great school of Saxony.
Many who had listened calmly to Luther so long as his teaching remained simply a
doctrine, stood aghast when they saw the practical shape it was about to take. They
saw that it would change the world of a thousand years past, that it would sweep
away all the ancient usages, and establish an order of things which neither they
nor their fathers had known. They feared as they entered into this new world.
The friar, emboldened by the success that attended his first efforts, attacked next
the monastic order itself. He denounced the "vow" as without warrant in
the Bible, and the "cloak" as covering only idleness and lewdness. "No
one," said he, "can be saved under a cowl." Thirteen friars left the
convent, and soon the prior was the only person within its walls.
Laying aside their habit, the emancipated monks betook them, some to handicrafts,
and others to study, in the hope of serving the cause of Protestantism. The ferment
at Wittenberg was renewed. At this time it was that Luther's treatise on "Monastic
Vows" appeared. He expressed himself in it with some doubtfulness, but the practical
conclusion was that all might be at liberty to quit the convent, but that no one
should be obliged to do so.
At this point, Andrew Bodenstein of Carlstadt, commonly called Carlstadt, Archdeacon
of Wittenberg, came forward to take a prominent part in these discussions. Carlstadt
was bold, zealous, honest, but not without a touch of vanity. So long as Luther was
present on the scene, his colossal figure dwarfed that of the archdeacon; but the
greater light being withdrawn for the time, the lesser luminary aspired to mount
into its place. The "little sallow tawny man" who excelled neither in breadth
of judgment, nor in clearness of ideas, nor in force of eloquence, might be seen
daily haranguing the people, on theological subjects, in an inflated and mysterious
language, which, being not easily comprehensible, was thought by many to envelope
a rare wisdom. His efforts in the main were in the right direction. He objected to
clerical and monastic celibacy, he openly declared against private masses, against
the celebration of the Sacrament in one kind, and against the adoration of the Host.
Carlstadt took an early opportunity of carrying his views into practice. On Christmas
Day, 1521, he dispensed the Sacrament in public in all the simplicity of its Divine
institution. He wore neither cope nor chasuble. With the dresses he discarded also
the genuflections, the crossings, kissings, and other attitudinisings of Rome; and
inviting all who professed to hunger and thirst for the grace of God, to come and
partake, he gave the bread and the wine to the communicants, saying, "This is
the body and blood of our Lord." He repeated the act on New Year's Day, 1522,
and continued ever afterwards to dispense the Supper with the same simplicity.[3] Popular opinion was
on his side, and in January, the Town Council, in concurrence with the University,
issued their order, that henceforward the Supper should be dispensed in accordance
with the primitive model. The mass had fallen.
With the mass fell many things which grew out of it, or leaned upon it. No little
glory and power departed from the priesthood. The Church festivals were no longer
celebrated. In the place of incense and banners, of music and processions, came the
simple and sublime worship of the heart.
Clerical celibacy was exchanged for virtuous wedlock. Confessions were carried to
that Throne from which alone comes pardon. Purgatory was first doubted, then denied,
and with its removal much of the bitterness was taken out of death. The saints and
the Virgin were discarded, and lo! as when a veil is withdrawn, men found themselves
in the presence of the Divine Majesty. The images stood neglected on their pedestals,
or were torn down, ground to powder, or cast into the fire. The latter piece of reform
was not accomplished without violent tumults.
The echoes of these tumults reverberated in the Wartburg. Luther began to fear that
the work of Reformation was being converted into a work of demolition. His maxim
was that these practical reforms, however justifiable in themselves, should not outrun
the public intelligence; that, to the extent to which they did so, the reform was
not real, but fictitious: that the error in the heart must first be dethroned, and
then the idol in the sanctuary would be cast out. On this principle he continued
to wear the frock of his order, to say mass, to observe his vow as a celibate, and
to do other things the principle of which he had renounced, though the time, he judged,
had not arrived for dropping the form. Moderation was a leading characteristic of
all the Reformers. Zwingli, as we have already seen, followed the same rule in Switzerland.
His naive reply to one who complained of the images in the churches, showed considerable
wisdom.
"As for myself," said Zwingli, "they don't hurt me, for I am short-sighted."
In like manner Luther held that external objects did not hurt faith, provided the
heart did not hang upon them. Immensely different, however, is the return to these
things after having been emancipated from them.[4]
At this juncture there appeared at Wittenberg a new set of reformers, who
seemed bent on restoring human traditions, and the tyranny of man from a point opposite
to that of the Pope. These men are known as the "Zwickau Prophets," from
the little town of Zwickau, in which they took their rise.
The founder of the new sect was Nicholas Stork, a weaver. Luther had restored the
authority of the Bible; this was the corner-stone of his Reformation. Stork sought
to displace this cornerstone. "The Bible," said he, "is of no use."
And what did he put in the room of it? A new revelation which he pretended had been
made to himself. The angel Gabriel, he affirmed, had appeared to him in a vision,
and said to him, "Thou shalt sit on my throne." A sweet and easy way, truly,
of receiving Divine communications! as Luther could not help observing, when he remembered
his own agonies and terrors before coming to the knowledge of the truth.[5]
Stork was joined by Mark Thomas, another weaver of Zwickau; by Mark Stubner,
formerly a student at Wittenberg; and by Thomas Munzer, who was the preacher of the
"new Gospel." That Gospel comprehended whatever Stork was pleased to say
had been revealed to him by the angel Gabriel. He especially denounced infant baptism
as an invention of the devil, and called on all disciples to be re-baptised, hence
their name "Anabaptists." The spread of their tenets was followed by tumults
in Zwickau.[6] The magistrates interfered:
the new prophets were banished: Munzer went to Prague; Stork, Thomas, and Stubner
took the road to Wittenberg.
Stork unfolded gradually the whole of that revelation which he had received from
the angel, but which he had deemed it imprudent to divulge all at once. The "new
Gospel," when fully put before men, was found to involve the overthrow of all
established authority and order in Church and State; men were to be guided by an
inward light, of which the new prophets were the medium. They foretold that in a
few years the present order of things would be brought to an end, and the reign of
the saints would begin.[7]
Stork was to be the monarch of the new kingdom. Attacking Protestantism from
apparently opposite poles, there was nevertheless a point in which the Romanists
and the Zwickau fanatics met—namely, the rejection of Divine revelation, and the
subjection of the conscience to human reason—the reason of Adrian VI., the son of
the Utrecht mechanic, on the one side, and the reason of Nicholas Stork, the Zwickau
weaver, on the other.
These men found disciples in Wittenberg. The enthusiasm of Carlstadt was heated still
more; many of the youth of the University forsook their studies, deeming them useless
in presence of an internal illumination which promised to teach them all they needed
to know without the toil of learning. The Elector was dismayed at this new outbreak:
Melanchthon was staggered, and felt himself powerless to stem the torrent. The enemies
of the Reformation were exultant, believing that they were about to witness its speedy
disorganization and ruin. Tidings reached the Wartburg of what was going on at Wittenberg.
Dismay and grief seized Luther to see his work on the point of being wrecked. He
was distracted between his wish to finish his translation of the New Testament, and
his desire to return to Wittenberg, and combat on the spot the new-sprung fanaticism.
All felt that he alone was equal to the crisis, and many voices were raised for his
return. Every line he translated was an additional ray of light, to fall in due time
upon the darkness of his countrymen. How could he tear hinmelf from such a task?
And yet every hour that elapsed, and found him still in the Wartburg, made the confusion
and mischief at Wittenberg worse. At last, to his great joy, he finished his German
version of the New Testament, and on the morning of the 3rd March, 1522, he passed
out at the portal of his castle. He might be entering a world that would call for
his blood; the ban of the Empire was suspended over him; the horizonwas black with
storms; nevertheless he must go and drive away the wolves that had entered his fold.
He traveled in his knight's incognito—a red mantle, trunk-hose, doublet, feather,
and sword—not without adventures by the way. On Friday, the 7th of March, he entered
Wittenberg.
The town, the University, the council, were electrified by the news of his arrival.
"Luther is come," said the citizens, as with radiant faces they exchanged
salutations with one another in the streets. A tremendous load had been lifted off
the minds of all. The vessel of the Reformation was drifting upon the rocks; some
waited in terror, others in expectation for the crash, when suddenly the pilot appeared
and grasped the helm.
At Worms was the crisis of the Reformer: at Wittenberg was the crisis of the Reformation.
Is it demolition, confusion, and ruin only which Protestantism can produce? Is it
only wild and unruly passions which it knows to let loose? Or can it build up? Is
it able to govern minds, to unite hearts, to extinguish destructive principles, and
plant in their stead reorganising and renovating influences? This was to be the next
test of the Reformation. The disorganization reigning at Wittenberg was a greater
danger than the sword of Charles V. The crisis was a serious one. On the Sunday morning
after his arrival, Luther entered the parish church, and presented himself with calm
dignity and quiet self-composure in the old pulpit. Only ten short months had elapsed
since he last stood there; but what events had been crowded into that short period!
The Diet at Worms: the Wartburg: the funeral of a Pope: the eruption of the Turk:
the war between France and Spain; and, last and worst of all, this outbreak at Wittenberg,
which threatened ruin to that cause which was the one hope of a world menaced by
so many dangers.
Intense excitement, yet deep stillness, reigned in the audience. No element of solemnity
was absent. The moment was very critical. The Reformation seemed to hang trembling
in the balance. The man was the same, yet chastened, and enriched. Since last he
stood before them, he had become invested with a greater interest, for his appearance
at Worms had shed a halo not only around himself, but on Germany also: the invisibility
in which he had since dwelt, where, though they saw him not, they could hear his
voice, had also tended to increase the interest. And now, issuing from his concealment,
he stood in person before them, like one of the old prophets who were wont to appear
suddenly at critical moments of their nation.
Never had Luther appeared grander, and never was he more truly great. He put a noble
restraint upon himself. He who had been as an "iron wall" to the emperor,
was tender as a mother to his erring flock. He began by stating, in simple and unpretending
style, what he said were the two cardinal doctrines of revelation—the ruin of man,
and the redemption in Christ. "He who believes on the Savior," he remarked,
"is freed from sin."
Thus he returned with them to his first starting-point, salvation by free grace in
opposition to salvation by human merit, and in doing so he reminded them of what
it was that had emancipated them from the bondage of penances, absolutions, and so
many rites enslaving to the conscience, and had brought them into liberty and peace.
Coming next to the consideration of the abuse of that liberty into which they were
at that moment in some danger of falling, he said faith was not enough, it became
them also to have charity. Faith would enable each freely to advance in knowledge,
according to the gift of the Spirit and his own capacity; charity would knit them
together, and harmonize their individual progress with their corporate unity. He
willingly acknowledged the advance they had made in his absence; nay, some of them
there were who excelled himself in the knowledge of Divine things; but it was the
duty of the strong to bear with the weak. Were there those among them who desired
the abolition of the mass, the removal of images, and the instant and entire abrogation
of all the old rites? He was with them in principle. He would rejoice if this day
there was not one mass in all Christendom, nor an image in any of its churches; and
he hoped this state of things would speedily be realised. But there were many who
were not able to receive this, who were still edified by these things, and who would
be injured by their removal. They must proceed according to order, and have regard
to weak brethren. "My friend," said the preacher, addressing himself to
the more advanced, "have you been long enough at the breast? It is well. But
permit your brother to drink as long as yourself."
He strongly insisted that the "Word" which he had preached to them, and
which he was about to give them in its written form in their mother tongue, must
be their great leader. By the Word, and not the sword, was the Reformation to be
propagated. "Were I to employ force," he said, "what should I gain?
Grimace, formality, apings, human ordinances, and hypocrisy,... but sincerity of
heart, faith, charity, not at all. Where these three are wanting, all is wanting,
and I would not give a pear-stalk for such a result."[8]
With the apostle he failed not to remind his hearers that the weapons of their
warfare were not carnal, but spiritual. The Word must be freely preached; and this
Word must be left to work in the heart; and when the heart was won, then the man
was won, but not till then. The Word of God had created heaven and earth, and all
things, and that Word must be the operating power, and "not we poor sinners."
His own history he held to be an example of the power of the Word. He declared God's
Word, preached and wrote against indulgences and Popery, but never used force; but
this Word, while he was sleeping, or drinking his tankard of Wittenberg ale with
Philip and Amsdorf, worked with so mighty a power, that the Papacy had been weakened
and broken to such a degree as no prince or emperor had ever been able to break it.
Yet he had done nothing: the Word had done all.
This series of discourses was continued all the week through. All the institutions
and ordinances of the Church of Rome, the preacher passed in review, and applied
the same principle to them all. After the consideration of the question of the mass,
he went on to discuss the subject of images, of monasticism, of the confessional,
of forbidden meats, showing that these things were already abrogated in principle,
and all that was needed to abolish them in practice, without tumult, and without
offense to any one, was just the diffusion of the doctrine which he preached. Every
day the great church was crowded, and many flocked from the surrounding towns and
villages to these discourses.
The triumph of the Reformer was complete. He had routed the Zwickau fanatics without
even naming them. His wisdom, his moderation, his tenderness of heart, and superiority
of intellect carried the day, and the new prophets appeared in comparison small indeed.
Their "revelations" were exploded, and the Word of God was restored to
its supremacy. It was a great battle—greater in some respects than that which Luther
had fought at Worms. The whole of Christendom was interested in the result.
At Worms the vessel of Protestantism was in danger of being dashed upon the Scylla
of Papal tyranny: at Wittenberg it was in jeopardy of being engulfed in the Charybdis
of fanaticism. Luther had guided it past the rocks in the former instance: in the
present he preserved it from being swallowed up in the whirlpool.
CHAPTER 3 Back
to Top
POPE ADRIAN AND HIS SCHEME OF REFORM.
Calm Returns — Labors of Luther — Translation of Old Testament — Melanchthon's Common-places
— First Protestant System — Preachers — Books Multiplied — Rapid Diffusion of the
Truth — Diet at Nuremberg — Pope Adrian Afraid of the Turk — Still more of Lutheranism
— His Exhortation to the Diet — His Reforms put before the Diet — They are Rejected
— The Hundred Grievances — Edict of Diet permitting the Gospel to be Preached — Persecution
— First Three Martyrs of Lutheran Reformation — Joy of Luther — Death of Pope Adrian.
THE storm was quickly succeeded by a calm. All things resumed their wonted course
at Wittenberg. The fanatics had shaken the dust from their feet and departed, predicting
woe against a place which had forsaken the "revelations" of Nicholas Stork
to follow the guidance of the Word of God.
The youth resumed their studies, the citizens returned to their occupations; Luther
went in and out of his convent, busied with writing, preaching, and lecturing, besides
that which came upon him daily, "the care of all the churches." One main
business that oecupied him, besides the revision of his German New Testament, and
the passing of it through the press, was the translation, now undertaken, of the
Old Testament. This was a greater work, and some years passed away before it was
finished.
When at last, by dint of Herculean labor, it was given to the world, it was found
that the idiomatic simplicity and purity of the translation permitted the beauty
and splendor of Divine truth to shine through, and its power to be felt. Luther had
now the satisfaction of thinking that he had raised an effectual barrier against
such fanaticism as that of Zwickau, and had kindled a light which no power on earth
would Be able to put out, and which would continue to wax brighter and shine ever
wider till it had dispelled the darkness of Christendom.
In 1521 came another work, the Common-places of Melanchthon, which, next after the
German translation Of the Bible, contributed powerfully to the establishment of Protestantism.
Scattered through a hundred pamphlets and writings were the doctrines of the Reformation—in
other words, the recovered truths of Scripture. Melanchthon set about the task of
gathering them together, and presenting them in the form of a system. It was the
first attempt of the kind. His genius admirably fitted him for this work. He was
more of the theologian than Luther, and the grace of his style lent a charm to his
theology, and enabled him to find readers among the literary and philosophical classes.
The only systems of divinity the world had seen, since the close of the primitive
age, were those which the schoolmen had given to it. These had in them neither light
nor life; they were dry and hapless, a wilderness of subtle distinctions and doubtful
speculations. The system of Melanchthon, drawn from the Bible, exhibiting with rare
clearness and beauty the relationships of truth, contrasted strikingly with the dark
labyrinth of scholasticism. The Reformation theology was not a chaos of dogmas, as
some had begun to suppose it, but a majestic unity.
In proportion as Protestantism strengthened itself at its center, which was Wittenberg,
it was diffused more and more widely throughout Germany, and beyond its limits. The
movement was breaking out on all sides, to the terror of Rome, and the discomfiture
of her subservient princes. The Augustine convents sent numerous recruits to carry
on the war. These had been planted, like Papal barracks, all over Germany, but now
Rome's artilllery was turned against herself. This was specially the case in Nuremberg,
Osnabruck, Ratisbon, Strasburg, Antwerp, and in Hesse and Wurtemberg. The light shone
into the convents of the other orders also, and their inmates, laying down their
cowls and frocks at the gates of their monasteries, joined their Brethren and became
preachers of the truth. Great was the wrath of Rome when she saw her soldiers turning
their arms against her. A multitude of priests became obedient to the faith, and
preached it to their flocks. In other cases flocks forsook their priests, finding
that they continued to inculcate the old superstitions and perform the old ceremonies.
A powerful influence was acting on the minds of men, which carried them onward in
the path of the Reformed faith, despite threats and dangers and bitter persecutions.
Whole cities renounced the Roman faith and confessed the Gospel. The German Bible
and the writings of Luther were read at all hearths and by all classes, while preachers
perambulated Germany proclaiming the new doctrines to immense crowds, in the market-place,
in burial-grounds, on mountains, and in meadows. At Goslar a Wittenberg student preached
in a meadow planted with lime-trees, which procured for his hearers the designation
of the "Lime-tree Brethren."
The world's winter seemed passing rapidly away. Everywhere the ice was breaking up;
the skies were filling with light; and its radiance was refreshing to the eyes and
to the souls of men! The German nation, emerging from torpor and ignorance, stood
up, quickened with a new life, and endowed with a marvellous power. A wondrous and
sudden enlightenment had overspread it. It was astonishing to see how the tastes
of the people were refined, their perceptions deepened, and their judgments strengthened.
Artisans, soldiers—nay, even women—with the Bible in their hand, would put to flight
a whole phalanx of priests and doctors who strove to do battle for Rome, but who
knew only to wield the old weapons. The printing-press, like a battering-ram of tremendous
force, thundered night and day against the walls of the old fortress. "The impulse
which the Reformation gave to popular literature in Germany," says D'Aubigne,
"was immense. Whilst in the year 1513 only thirty-five publications had appeared,
and thirty-seven in 1517, the number of books increased with astonishing rapidity
after the appearance of Luther's 'Theses.' In 1518, we find seventy-one different
works; in 1519, one hundred and eleven; in 1520, two hundred and eight; in 1521,
two hundred and eleven; in 1522, three hundred and forty-seven; and in 1523, four
hundred and ninety-eight. These publications were nearly all on the Protestant side,
and were published at Wittenberg. In the last-named year (1523) only twenty Roman
Catholic publications appeared."[1]
It was Protestantism that called the literature of Germany into existence.
An army of book-hawkers was extemporised. These men seconded the efforts of publishers
in the spread of Luther's writings, which, clear and terse, glowing with the fire
of enthusiasm, and rich with the gold of truth, brought with them an invigoration
of the intellect as well as a renewal of the heart. They were translated into French,
English, Italian, and Spanish, and circulated in all these countries. Occupying a
middle point between the first and second cradles of the Reformation, the Wittenberg
movement covered the space between, touching the Hussites of Bohemia on the one side,
and the Lollards of England on the other.
We must now turn our eyes on those political events which were marching alongside
of the Protestant movement. The Diet of Regency which the emperor had appointed to
administer affairs during his absence in Spain was now sitting at Nuremberg. The
main business which had brought it together was the inroads of the Turk. The progress
of Soliman's arms was fitted to strike the European nations with terror. Rhodes had
been captured; Belgrad had fallen; and the victorious leader threatened to make good
his devastating march into the very heart of Hungary. Louis, the king of that country,
sent his ambassador to the Diet to entreat help against the Asiatic conqueror. At
the Diet appeared, too, Chieregato, the nuncio of the Pope.
Adrian VI., when he cast his eyes on the Tartar hordes on the eastern frontier, was
not without fears for Rome and Italy; but he was still more alarmed when he turned
to Germany, and contmplated: the appalling spread of Lutheranism.[2] Accordingly, he instructed his ambassador to demand two things—first,
that the Diet should concert measures for stopping the progress of the Sultan of
Constantinople; but, whatever they might do in this affair, he emphatically demanded
that they should cut short the career of the monk of Wittenberg.
In the brief which, on the 25th of November, 1522, Adrian addressed to the "Estates
of the sacred Roman Empire, assembled at Nuremberg," he urged his latter and
more important request, "to cut down this pestilential plant that was spreading
its boughs so widely... to remove this gangrened member from the body," by reminding
them that "the omnipotent God had caused the earth to open and swallow up alive
the two schismatics, Dathan and Abiram; that Peter, the prince of apostles, had struck
Ananias and Sapphira with sudden death for lying against God... that their own ancestors
had put John Huss and Jerome of Prague to death, who now seemed risen from the dead
in Martin Luther."[3]
But the Papal nuncio, on entering Germany, found that this document, dictated in
the hot air of Italy, did not suit the cooler latitude of Bavaria. As Chieregato
passed along the highway on his mule, and raised his two fingers, after the usual
manner, to bless the wayfarer, the populace would mimic his action by raising theirs,
to show how little they cared either for himself or his benediction. This was very
mortifying, but still greater mortifications awaited him. When he arrived at Nuremberg,
he found, to his dismay, the pulpits occupied by Protestant preachers, and the cathedrals
crowded with most attentive audiences. When he complained of this, and demanded the
suppression of the sermons, the Diet replied that Nuremberg was a free city, and
that the magistrates mostly were Lutheran.
He next intimated his intention of apprehending the preachers by his own authority,
in the Pontiff's name; but the Archbishop of Mainz, and others, in consternation
at the idea of a popular tumult, warned the nuncio against a project so fraught with
danger, and told him that if he attempted such a thing, they would quit the city
without a moment's delay, and leave him to deal with the indignant burghers as best
he could.
Baffled in these attempts, and not a little mortified that his own office and his
master's power should meet with so little reverence in Germany, the nuncio began,
but in less arrogant tone, to unfold to the Diet the other instructions of the Pope;
and more especially to put before its members the promised reforms which Adrian had
projected when elevated to the Popedom. The Popes have often pursued a similar line
of conduct when they really meant nothing; but Adrian was sincere. To convince the
Diet that he was so, he made a very ample confession of the need of a reform.
"We know," so ran the instructions put into the hands of his nuncio on
setting out for the Diet, "that for a considerable time many abominable things
have found a place beside the Holy Chair — abuses in spiritual things—exorbitant
straining at prerogatives—evil everywhere. From the head the malady has proceeded
to the limbs; from the Pope it has extended to the prelates; we are all gone astray,
there is none that hath done rightly, no, not one."[4]
At the hearing of these words the champions of the Papacy hung their heads;
its opponents held up theirs. "We need hesitate no longer," said the Lutheran
princes of the Diet; "it is is not Luther only, but the Pope, that denounces
the corruptions of the Church: reform is the order of the day, not merely at Wittenberg,
but at Rome also."
There was all the while an essential difference between these two men, and their
reforms: Adrian would have lopped off a few of the more rotten of the branches; Luther
was for uprooting the evil tree, and planting a good one in its stead. This was a
reform little to the taste of Adrian, and so, before beginning his own reform, he
demanded that Luther's should be put down. It was needful, Adrian doubtless thought,
to apply the pruning-knife to the vine of the Church, but still more needful was
it to apply the axe to the tree of Lutheranism. For those who would push reform with
too great haste, and to too great a length, he had nothing but the stake, and accordingly
he called on the Diet to execute the imperial edict of death upon Luther, whose heresy
he described as having the same infernal origin, as disgraced by the same abominable
acts, and tending to the same tremendous issue, as that of Mahomet.[5] As regarded the reform which he himself meditated, he took
care to say that he would guard against the two evils mentioned above; he would neither
be too extreme nor too precipitate; "he must proceed gently, and by degrees,"
step by step— which Luther, who translated the brief of Adrian into German, with
marginal notes, interpreted to mean, a few centuries between each step?[6]
The Pope had communicated to the Diet, somewhat vaguely, his projected measure
of reformation, and the Diet felt the more justified in favoring Adrian with their
own ideas of what that measure ought to be. First of all they told Adrian that to
think of executing the Edict of Worms against Luther would be madness. To put the
Reformer to death for denouncing the abuses Adrian himself had acknowledged, would
not be more unjust than it would be dangerous. It would be sure to provoke all insurrection
that would deluge Germany with blood. Luther must be refuted from Scripture, for
his writings were in the hands and his opinions were in the hearts of many of the
population. They knew of but one way of settling the controversy—a General Council,
namely; and they demanded that such a Council should be summoned, to meet in some
neutral German town, within the year, and that the laity as well as the clergy should
have a seat and voice in it. To this not very palatable request the princes appended
another still more unpalatable—the "Hundred Grievances," as it was termed,
and which was a terrible catalogue of the exactions, frauds, oppressions, and wrongs
that Germany had endured at the hands of the Popes, and which it had long silently
groaned under, but the redress of which the Diet now demanded, with certification
that if within a reasonable time a remedy was not forthcoming, the princes would
take the matter into their own hands.[7]
The Papal nuncio had seen and heard sufficient to convince him that he had
stayed long enough at Nuremberg. He hastily quitted the city, leaving it to some
other to be the bearer of this ungracious message to the Pontiff. Till the Diet should
arrange its affairs with the Pontiff, it resolved that the Gospel should continue
to be preached. What a triumph for Protestantism! But a year before, at Worms, the
German princes had concurred with Charles V. in the edict of death passed on Luther.
Now, not only do they refuse to execute that edict, but they decree that the pure
Gospel shall be preached.[8]
This indicates rapid progress. Luther hailed it as a triumph, and the echoes
of his shout came back from the Swiss hills in the joy it awakened among the Reformers
ofHelvetia.
In due course the recess, or decree, of the Diet of Nuremberg reached the Seven-hilled
City, and was handed in at the Vatican. The meek Adrian was beside himself with rage.
Luther was not to be burned! a General Council was demanded! a hundred grievances,
all duly catalogued, must be redressed! and there was, moreover, a quiet hint that
if the Pope did not look to this matter in time, others would attend to it. Adrian
sat down, and poured out a torrent of invectives and threatenings, than which nothing
more fierce and bitter had ever emanated from the Vatican.[9] Frederick of Saxony, against whom this fulmination was thundered,
put his hand upon his sword's hilt when he read it. "No," said Luther,
the only one of the three who was able to command his temper, "we must have
no war. No one shall fight for the Gospel." Peace was preserved.
The rage of the Papal party was embittered by the checks it was meeting with. War
had been averted, but persecution broke out. At every step the Reformation gathered
new glory. The courage of the Reformer and the learning of the scholar had already
illustrated it, but now it was to be glorified by the devotion of the martyr. It
was not in Wittenberg that the first stake was planted. Charles V. would have dragged
Luther to the pile, nay, he would have burned the entire Wittenberg school in one
fire, had he had the power; but he could act in Germany only so far as the princes
went with him. It was otherwise in his hereditary dominions of the Low Countries;
there he could do as he pleased; and there it was that the storm, after muttering
awhile, at last burst out. At Antwerp the Gospel had found entrance into the Augustine
convent, and the inmates not only embraced the truth, but in some instances began
to preach it with power. This drew upon the convent the eyes of the inquisitors who
had been sent into Flanders. The friars were apprehended, imprisoned, and condemned
to death. One recanted; others managed to escape; but three—Henry Voes, John Esch,
and Lambert Thorn—braved the fire. They were carried in chains to Brussels, and burned
in the great square of that city on the 1st of July, 1523. [10] They behaved nobly at the stake. While the multitude around
them were weeping, they sang songs of joy. Though about to undergo a terrible death,
no sorrow darkened their faces; their looks, on the contrary, bespoke the gladness
and triumph of their spirits. Even the inquisitors were deeply moved, and waited
long before applying the torch, in the hope of prevailing with the youths to retract
and save their lives. Their entrearies could extort no answer but this—"We will
die for the name of Jesus Christ." At length the pile was kindled, and even
amid the flames the psalm ascended from their lips, and joy continued to light up
their countenances. So died the first martyrs of the Reformation—illustrious heralds
of those hundreds of thousands who were to follow them by the same dreadful road—not
dreadful to those who walk by faith—to the everlasting mansion of the sky.[11]
Three confessors of the Gospel had the stake consumed; in their place it had
created hundreds. "Wherever the smoke of their burning blew," sale! Erasmus,
"it bore with it the seeds of heretics." Luther heard of their death with
thanksgiving. A cause which had produced martyrs bore the seal of Divine authentication,
and was sure of victory.
Adrian of Rome, too, lived to hear of the death of these youths. The persecutions
had begun, but Adrian's reforms had not yet commenced. The world had seen the last
of these reforms in the lurid light that streamed from the stake in the great square
of Brussels. Adrian died on the 14th of September of the same year, and the estimation
in which the Romans held him may be gathered from the fact that, during the night
which succeeded the day on which he breathed his last, they adorned the house of
his physician with garlands, and wrote over its portals this inscription — "To
the savior of his country."
CHAPTER 4 Back
to Top
POPE CLEMENT AND THE NUREMBERG DIET.
The New Pope — Policy of Clement — Second Diet at Nuremberg — Campeggio — His instructions
to the Diet — The "Hundred Grievances" — Rome's Policy of Dissimulation
— Surprise of the Princes — They are Asked to Execute the Edict of Worms — Device
of the Princes — A General Council — Vain Hopes — The Harbor — Still at Sea — Protestant
Preaching in Nuremberg — Proposal to hold a Diet at Spires — Disgust of the Legate
— Alarm of the Vatican — Both Sides Prepare for the Spires Diet.
ADRIAN was dead. His scheme for the reform of the Papacy, with all the hopes and
fears it had excited, descended with him to the grave. Cardinal Guilio de Medici,
an unsuccessful candidate at the last election, had better fortune this time, and
now mounted the Pontifical throne. The new Pope, who took the title of Clement VII.,
made haste to reverse the policy of his predecessor. Pallavicino was of opinion that
the greatest evils and dangers of the Papacy had arisen from the choice of a "saint"
to fill the Papal chair.
Clement VII. took care to let the world know that its present occupant was a "man
of affairs"—no austere man, with neither singing nor dancing in his palace;
no senile dreamer of reforms; but one who knew both to please the Romans and to manage
foreign courts. "But it is in the storm that the pilot proves his skill,"
says Ranke.[1] Perilous times had come.
The great winds had begun to blow, and the nations were laboring, as the ocean heaves
before a tempest. Two powerful kings were fighting in Italy; the Turk was brandishing
his scimitar on the Austrian frontier; but the quarter of the sky that gave Clement
VII. the greatest concern was Wittenberg.
There a storm was brewing which would try his seamanship to the utmost. Leo X. had
trifled with this affair. Adrian VI. had imagined that he had only to utter the magic
word "reform," and the billows would subside and the winds sink to rest.
Clement would prove himself an abler pilot; he would act as a statesman, as a Pope.
Early in the spring of 1524, the city of Nuremberg was honored a second time with
the presence of the Imperial Diet within its walls. The Pope's first care was to
send a right man as legate to this assembly. He selected Cardinal Campeggio, a man
of known ability, of great experience, and of weight of character — the fittest,
in short, his court could furnish. His journey to the Italian frontier was like a
triumphal march. But when he entered upon German soil all these tokens of public
enthusiasm forsook him, and when he arrived at the gates of Nuremberg he looked in
vain for the usual procession of magistrates and clergy, marshalled under cross and
banner, to bid him welcome. Alas! how the times had changed! The proud ambassador
of Clement passed quietly through the streets, and entered his hotel, as if he had
been an ordinary traveller.[2]
The instructions Campeggio had received from his master directed him to soothe
the Elector Frederick, who was still smarting from Adrian's furious letter; and to
withhold no promise and neglect no art which might prevail with the Diet, and make
it subservient. This done, he was to strike at Luther. If they only had the monk
at the stake, all would be well.
The able and astute envoy of Clement acted his part well. He touched modestly on
his devotion to Germany, which had induced him to accept this painful mission when
all others had declined it. He described the tender solicitude and sleepless care
of his master, the Pope, whom he likened now to a pilot, sitting aloft, and watching
anxiously, while all on board slept; and now to a shepherd, driving away the wolf,
and leading his flock into good pastures. He could not refrain from expressing "his
wonder that so many great and honorable princes should suffer the religion, rites,
and ceremonies wherein they were born and bred, and in which their fathers and progenitors
had died, to be abolished and trampled upon." He begged them to think where
all this would end, namely, in a universal uprising of peoples against their rulers,
and the destruction of Germany. As for the Turk, it was unnecessary for him to say
much. The mischief he threatened Christendom with was plain to all men.[3]
The princes heard him with respect, and thanked him for his good will and
his friendly counsels; but to come to the matter in hand, the German nation, said
they, sent a list of grievances in writing to Rome; they would like to know ff the
Pope had returned any answer, and what it was. Campeggio, though he assumed an air
of surprise, had expected this interrogatory to be put to him, and was not unprepared
for the part he was to act. "As to their demands," he said, "there
had been only three copies of them brought privately to Rome, whereof one had fallen
into his hands; but the Pope and college of cardinals could not believe that they
had been framed by the princes; they thought that some private persons had published
them in hatred to the court of Rome; and thus he had no instructions as to that particular."
[4]
The surprise the legate's answer gave the Diet, and the indignation it kindled
among its members, may be imagined.
The Emperor Charles, whom the war with Francis kept in Spain, had sent his ambassador,
John Hunnaart, to the Diet to complain that the decree of Worms, which had been enacted
with their unanimous consent, was not observed, and to demand that it be put in execution
— in other words, that Luther be put to death, and that the Gospel be proscribed
in all the States of the Empire.[5]
Campeggio had made the same request in his master's name.
"Impossible!" cried many of the deputies; "to attempt such a thing
would be to plunge Germany into war and bloodshed."
Campeggio and Hunnaart insisted, nevertheless, that the princes should put in force
the edict against Luther and his doctrines, to which they had been consenting parties.
What was the Diet to do?
It could not repeal the edict, and it dared not enforce it, The princes hit upon
a clever device for silencing the Pope who was pushing them on, and appeasing the
people who were holding them back. They passed a decree saying that the Edict of
Worms should be vigorously enforced, as far as possible.[6] (Edipus himself could hardly have said what this meant. Practically
it was the repeal of the edict; for the majority of the States had declared that
to enforce it was not possible.
Campeggio and Hunnaart, the Spanish envoy from Charles, V., had gained what was a
seeming victory, but a real defeat. Other defeats awaited them.
Having dexterously muzzled the emperor's ban, the next demand of the Nuremberg Diet
was for a General Council. There was a traditional belief in the omnipotency of this
expedient to correct all abuses and end all controversies. When the sky began to
lower, and a storm appeared about to sweep over Christendom, men turned their eyes
to a Council, as to a harbor of refuge: once within it, the laboring vessel would
be at rest — tossed no longer upon the billows. The experiment had been tried again
and again, and always with the same result, and that result failure — signal failure.
In the recent past were the two Councils of Constance and Basle.
These had ended, like all that preceded them, in disappointment. Much had been looked
for from them, but nothing had been realised. They appeared in the retrospect like
goodly twin trees, laden with leaves and blossoms, but they brought no fruit to perfection.
With regard to Constance, if it had humiliated three Popes, it had exalted a fourth,
and he the haughtiest of them all; and as for Reformation, had not the Council devoted
its whole time and power to devising measures for the extinction of that reforming
spirit which alone could have remedied the evils complained of? There was one man
there worth a hundred Councils: how had they dealt with him? They had dragged him
to the stake, and all the while he was burning, cursed him as a heretic! And what
was the consequence? Why, that the stream of corruption, dammed up for a moment,
had broken out afresh, and was now flowing with torrent deeper, broader, and more
irresistible than ever. But the majority of the princes convened at Nuremberg were
unable to think of other remedy, and so, once again, the old demand was urged—a General
Council, to be held on German soil.
However, the princes will concert measures in order that this time the Council shall
not be abortive; now at last, it will give the world a Pope who shall be a true father
to Christendom, together with a pious, faithful, and learned hierarchy, and holy
and laborious priests—in short, the "golden age," so long waited for. The
princes will summon a Diet—a national and lay Diet—to meet at Spires, in November
of this year. And, further, they will take steps to evoke the real sentiments of
Germany on the religious question, and permit the wishes of its several cities and
States to be expressed in the Diet; and, in this way, a Reformation will be accomplished
such as Germany wishes. The princes believed that they were ending their long and
dangerous navigation, and were at last in sight of the harbor.
So had they often thought before, but they had awakened to find that they were still
at sea, with the tempest lowering overhead, and the white reefs gleaming pale through
the waters below. They were destine to repeat this experience once more. The very
idea of such a Diet as was projected was an insult to the Papacy. For a secular assembly
to meet and discuss religious questions, and settle ecclesiastical reforms, was to
do a great deal more than paving the way for a General Council; it was to assume
its powers and exercise its functions; it was to be that Council itself—nay, it was
to go further still, it was to seat itself in the chair of the Pontiff, to whom alone
belonged the decision in all matters of faith. It was to pluck the scepter from the
hands of the man who held himself divinely invested with the government of the Church.
The Papal legate and the envoy of Charles V. offered a stout resistance to the proposed
resolution of the princes. They represented to them what an affront that resolve
would be to the Papal chair, what an attack upon the prerogatives of the Pontiff.
The princes, however, were not to be turned from their purpose. They decreed that
a Diet should assemble at Spires, in November, and that meanwhile the States and
free towns of Germany should express their mind as regarded the abuses to be corrected
and the reforms to be instituted, so that, when the Council met, the Diet might be
able to speak in the name of the Fatherland, and demand such Reformation of the Church
as the nation wished.
Meanwhile the Protestant preachers redoubled their zeal; morning and night they proclaimed
the Gospel in the churches. The two great cathedrals of Nuremberg were filled to
overflowing with an attentive audience. The Lord's Supper was dispensed according
to the apostolic mode, and 4,000 persons, including the emperor's sister, the Queen
of Denmark, and others of rank, joined in the celebration of the ordinance. The mass
was forsaken; the images were turned out of doors; the Scriptures were explained
according to the early Fathers; and scarce could the Papal legate go or return from
the imperial hall, where the Diet held its meetings, without being jostled in the
street by the crowds hurrying to the Protestant sermon. The tolling of the bells
for worship, the psalm pealed forth by thousands of voices, and wafted across the
valley of the Pegnitz to the imperial chateau on the opposite height, sorely tried
the equanimity of the servants of the Pope and the emperor. Campeggio saw Nuremberg
plunging every day deeper into heresy; he saw the authority of his master set at
nought, and the excommunicated doctrines every hour enlisting new adherents, who
feared neither the ecclesiastical anathema nor the imperial ban. He saw all this
with indignation and disgust, and yet he was entirely without power to prevent it.
Germany seemed nearer than it had been at any previous moment to a national Reformation.
It promised to reach the goal by a single bound. A few months, and the Alps will
do more than divide between two countries; they will divide between two Churches.
No longer will the bulls and palls of the Pope cross their snows, and no longer will
the gold of Germany flow back to swell the wealth and maintain the pride of the city
whence they come. The Germans will find for themselves a Church and a creed, without
asking humbly the permission of the Italians. They will choose their own pastors,
and exercise their own government; and leave the Shepherd of the Tiber to care for
his flock on the south of the mountains, without stretching his crosier to the north
of them. This was the import of what the Diet had agreed to do.
We do not wonder that Campeggio and Hunnaart viewed the resolution of the princes
with dismay. In truth, the envoy of the emperor had about as much cause to be alarmed
as the nuncio of the Pope. Charles's authority in Germany was tottering as well as
Clement's; for if the States should break away from the Roman faith, the emperor's
sway would be weakened—in fact, all but annihilated; the imperial dignity would be
shorn of its splendor; and those great schemes, in the execution of which the emperor
had counted confidently on the aid of the Germans, would have to be abandoned as
impracticable.
But it was in the Vatican that the resolution of the princes excited the greatest
terror and rage. Clement comprehended at a glance the full extent of the disaster
that threatened his throne. All Germany was becoming Lutheran; the half of his kingdom
was about to be torn from him. Not a stone must be left unturned, not an art known
in the Vatican must be neglected, if by any means the meeting of the Diet at Spires
may be prevented.
To Spires all eyes are now turned, where the fate of the Popedom is to be decided.
On both sides there is the bustle of anxious preparation. The princes invite the
cities and States to speak boldly out, and declare their grievances, and say what
reforms they wish to have enacted. In the opposite camp there is, if possible, still
greater activity and preparation.
The Pope is sounding an alarm, and exhorting his friends, in prospect of this emergency,
to unite their counsels and their arms. While both sides are busy preparing for the
eventful day, we shall pause, and turn our attention to the city where the Diet just
breaking up had held its sitting.
CHAPTER 5 Back
to Top
NUREMBERG. (THIS CHAPTER IS FOUNDED ON NOTES MADE ON THE SPOT BY THE
AUTHOR IN 1871.)
Three Hundred Years Since — Site of Nuremberg — Depot of Commerce in Middle Ages
— Its Population — Its Patricians and Plebeians — Their Artistic Skill — Nuremberg
a Free Town — Its Burgraves — Its Oligarchy — Its Subject Towns — Fame of its Arts
— Albert Durer — Hans Sachs — Its Architecture and Marvels — Enchantment of the Place
— Rath-Haus — State Dungeons — Implements of Torture.
NUREMBERG three hundred years ago was one of the more famous of the cities of
Europe. It invites our study as a specimen of those few fortunate communities which,
preserving a feeble intelligence in times of almost universal ignorance and barbarism,
and enjoying a measure of independence in an age when freedom was all but unknown,
were able, as the result of the exceptional position they occupied, to render services
of no mean value to the civilization and religion of the world.
The distinction and opulence which Nuremberg enjoyed, in the fifteenth century and
onward to the time of the Reformation, it owed to a variety of causes. Its salubrious
air; the sweep of its vast plains, on all sides touching the horizon, with a single
chain of purple hills to redeem the landscape from monotony; and the facilities for
hunting and other exercises which it afforded, made it a pleasant residence, and
often drew thither the emperor and his court. With the court came, of course, other
visitors. The presence of the emperor in Nuremberg helped to assemble men of genius
and culture within its walls, and invested it, moreover, with no little political
importance.
Nuremberg owed more to another cause, namely, its singularly central position. Being
set down on one of the world's greatest highways, it formed the center of a network
of commercial routes, which ramified over a large part of the globe, and embraced
the two hemispheres.
Situated on the great Franconian plain—a plain which was the Mesopotamia of the West,
seeing that, like the Oriental Mesopotamia, it lay between two great rivers, the
Danube and the Rhine—Nuremberg became one of the great emporiums of the commerce
carried on between Asia and Europe. In those ages, when roads were far from common,
and railways did not exist at all, rivers were the main channels of communication
between nation and nation, and the principal means by which they effected an interchange
of their commodities. The products of Asia and the Levant entered the mouths of the
Danube by the Black Sea, and, ascending that stream into Germany, they were carried
across the plain to Nuremberg. From Nuremberg this merchandise was sent on its way
to the Rhine, and, by the numerous outlets of that river, diffused among the nations
of the northwest of Europe. The commerce of the Adriatic reached Nuremberg by another
route which crossed the Tyrol.
Thus many converging lines found here their common meeting-place, and from hence
radiated over the West. Founded in the beginning of the tenth century, the seat of
the first Diet of the Empire, the meeting-place moreover of numerous nationalities,
the depot of a vast and enriching commerce, and inhabited by a singularly quick and
inventive population, Nuremberg rose steadily in size and importance. The fifteenth
century saw it a hive of industry, a cradle of art, and a school of letters.
In the times we speak of, Nuremberg had a population of 70,000. This, in our day,
would not suffice to place a city in the first rank; but it was different then, when
towns of only 30,000 were accounted populous. Frankfort-on-the-Main could not boast
of more than half the population of Nuremberg. But though large for its day, the
number of its population contributed but little to the city's eminence. Its renown
rested on higher grounds—on the enterprise, the genius, and the wealth of its inhabitants.
Its citizens were divided into two classes, the patrician and the plebeian. The line
that separated the two orders was immovable. No amount of wealth or of worth could
lift up the plebeian into the patrician rank. In the same social grade in which the
cradle of the citizen had been placed must the evening of life find him. The patricians
held their patents of nobility from the emperor, a circumstance of which they were
not a little proud, as attesting the descent of their families from very ancient
times. They inhabited fine mansions, and expended the revenues of their estates in
a princely splendor and a lavish hospitality, delighting greatly in fetes and tournaments,
but not unmindful the while of the claims to patronage which the arts around them
possessed, and the splendors of which invested their city with so great a halo.
The plebeians were mostly craftsmen, but craftstmen of exceeding skill. No artificers
in all Europe could compete with them. Since the great sculptors of Greece, there
had arisen no race of artists which could wield the chisel like the men of Nuremberg.
Not so bold perhaps as their Greek predecessors, their invention was as prolific
and their touch as exquisite. They excelled in all manner of cunning workmanship
in marble and bronze, in metal and ivory, in stone and wood. Their city of Nuremberg
they filled with their creations, which strangers from afar came to gaze upon and
admire. The fame of its artists was spread throughout Europe, and scarce was there
a town of any note in any kingdom in which the "Nuremberg hand" was not
to be seen unmistakably certified in some embodiment of quaintness, or of beauty,
or of utility.[1]
A more precious possession still than either its exquisite genius or its unrivalled
art did Nuremberg boast: liberty, namely—liberty, lacking which genius droops, and
the right hand forgets its cunning. Nuremberg was one of the free cities of Germany.
In those days there were not fewer than ninety-three such towns in the Empire. They
were green oases in the all but boundless desert of oppression and misery which the
Europe of those days presented. They owed their rise in part to war, but mainly to
commerce. When the emperors on occasion found themselves hard pushed, in the long
war which they waged with the Popes, when their soldiers were becoming few and their
exchequer empty, they applied to the towns to furnish them with the means of renewing
the contest. They offered them charters of freedom on condition of their raising
so many men-at-arms, or paying over a certain sum to enable them to continue their
campaigns. The bargain was a welcome one on both sides. Many of these towns had to
buy their enfranchisement with a great sum, but a little liberty is worth a great
deal of gold. Thus it was on the red fields of the period that their freedom put
forth its earliest blossoms; and it was amid the din of arms that the arts of peace
grew up.
But commerce did more than war to call into existence such towns as Nuremberg. With
the prosecution of foreign trade came wealth, and with wealth came independence and
intelligence. Men began to have a glimpse of higher powers than those of brute force,
and of wider rights than any included within the narrow circle of feudalism. They
bought with their money, or they wrested by their power, charters of freedom from
their sovereigns, or their feudal barons. They constituted themselves into independent
and self-governed bodies. They were, in fact, republics on a small scale, in the
heart of great monarchies. Within the walls of their cities slavery was abolished,
laws were administered, and rights were enjoyed.
Such towns began to multiply as it drew towards the era of the Reformation, not in
Germany only, but in France, in Italy, and in the Low Countries, and they were among
the first to welcome the approach of that great moral and social renovation.
Nuremberg, which held so conspicuous a place in this galaxy of free towns, was first
of all governed by a Burgrave, or Stadtholder. It is a curious fact that the royal
house of Prussia make their first appearance in history as the Burgraves of Nuremberg.
That office they held till about the year 1414, when Frederick IV. sold his right,
together with his castle, to the Nurembergers, and with the sum thus obtained purchased
the Marquisate of Brandenburg. This was the second stage in the advance of that house
to the pinnacle of political greatness to which it long afterwards attained.
When the reign of the burgrave came to an end, a republic, or rather oligarchy, next
succeeded as the form of government in Nuremberg. First of all was a Council of Three
Hundred, which had the power of imposing taxes and contributions, and of deciding
on the weighty question of peace and war. The Council of Three Hundred annually elected
a smaller body, consisting of only thirty members, by whom the ordinary government
of the city was administered. The Great Council was composed of patricians, with
a sprinkling of the more opulent of the merchants and artificers. The Council of
Thirty was composed of patricians only.
Further, Nuremberg had a considerable territory around it, of which it was the capital,
and which was amply studded with towns. Outside its walls was a circuit of some hundred
miles, in which were seven cities, and 480 boroughs and villages, of all of which
Nuremberg was mistress. When we take into account the fertility of the land, and
the extensiveness of the trade that enriched the region, and in which all these towns
shared, we see in Nuremberg and its dependencies a principality far from contemptible
in either men or resources. "The kingdom of Bohemia," says Gibbon, "was
less opulent than the adjacent city of Nuremberg."[2] Lying in the center of Southern Germany, the surrounding
States in defending themselves were defending Nuremberg, and thus it could give its
undivided attention to the cultivation of those arts in which it so greatly excelled,
when its less happily situated neighbors were wasting their treasure and pouring
out their blood on the battle-field.
The "Golden Bull," in distributing the imperial honors among the more famous
of the German cities, did not overlook this one. If it assigned to Frankfort the
distinction of being the place of the emperor's "election," and if it yielded
to Augsburg the honor of seeing him crowned, it required that the emperor should
hold his first court in Nuremberg. The castle of the mediaeval emperors is still
to be seen. It crowns the height which rises on the northern bank of the Pegnitz,
immediately within the city-gate, on the right, as one enters from the north, and
from this eminence it overlooks the town which lies at its feet, thickly planted
along the stream that divides it into two equal halves. The builder of the royal
chateau obviously was compelled to follow, not the rules of architecture, but the
angles and irregularities of the rock on which he placed the castle, which is a strong,
uncouth, unshapely fabric, forming a striking contrast to the many graceful edifices
in the city on which it looks down.
In this city was the Diet at this time assembled. It was the seat (938) of the first
Diet of the Empire, and since that day how often had the grandees, the mailed chivalry,
and the spiritual princedoms of Germany gathered within its walls! One can imagine
how gay Nuremberg was on these occasions, when the banner of the emperor floated
on its castle, and warders were going their rounds on its walls, and sentinels were
posted in its flanking towers, and a crowd of lordly and knightly company, together
with a good deal that was neither lordly nor knightly, were thronging its streets,
and peering curiously into its studios and workshops, and ransacking its marts and
warehouses, stocked with the precious products of far-distant climes. Nor would the
Nurembergers be slow to display to the eyes of their visitors the marvels of their
art and the products of their enterprise, in both of which they were at that time
unequalled on this side of the Alps. Nuremberg was, in its way, on these occasions
an international exhibition, and not without advantage to both exhibitor and visitor,
stimulating, as no doubt it did, the trade of the one, and refining the taste of
the other. The men who gathered at these times to Nuremberg were but too accustomed
to attach glory to nothing save tournaments and battle-fields; but the sight of this
city, so rich in achievements of another kind, would help to open their eyes, and
show them that there was a more excellent way to fame, and that the chisel could
win triumphs which, if less bloody than those of the sword, were far more beneficial
to mankind, and gave to their authors a renown that was far purer and more lasting
than that of arms.
Now it was the turn of the Nurembergers themselves to wonder. The Gospel had entered
their gates, and many welcomed it as a "pearl" more to be esteemed than
the richest jewel or the finest fabric that India or Asia had ever sent to their
markets. It was to listen to the new wonders now for the first time brought to their
knowledge, that the citizens of Nuremberg were day by day crowding the Church of
St. Sebaldus and the Cathedral of St. Lawrence. Among these multitudes, now hanging
on the lips of Osiander and other preachers, was Albert Durer, the great painter,
sculptor, and mathematician. This man of genius embraced the faith of Protestantism,
and became a friend of Luther. His house is still shown, near the old imperial castle,
hard by the northern gate of the city. Of his great works, only a few remain in Nuremberg;
they have mostly gone to enrich other cities, that were rich enough to buy what Albert
Durer's native town was not wealthy enough in these latter times to retain.
In Nuremberg, too, lived Hans Sachs, the poet, also a disciple of the Gospel and
a friend of Luther. The history of Sachs is a most romantic one. He was the son of
a tailor in Nuremberg, and was born in 1494, and named Hans after his father. Hans
adopted the profession of a shoemaker, and the house in which he worked still exists,
and is situated in the same quarter of the town as that of Albert Durer. But the
workshop of Hans Sachs could not hold his genius. Quitting his stall one day, he
sallied forth bent on seeing the world. He passed some time in the brilliant train
of the Emperor Maximilian. He returned to Nuremberg and married. The Reformation
breaking forth, his mind opened to the glow of the truth, and then it was that his
poetic imagination, invigorated and sanctified, burst out in holy song, which resounded
through Germany, and helped to prepare the minds of men for the mighty revolution
that was going forward. "The spiritual songs of Hans Sachs," says D'Aubigne,
"and his Bible in verse, were a powerful help to this great work.
It would perhaps be hard to decide who did the most for it—the Prince-Elector of
Saxony, administrator of the Empire, or the Nuremberg shoemaker!"
Here, too, and about the same period, lived Peter Vischer, the sculptor and caster
in bronze; Adam Craft, the sculptor, whose "seven pillars" are still to
be seen in the Church of; St. Claire; Veit Stoss, the carver in wood; and many besides,
quick of eye and cunning of hand, whose names have perished, now live in their works
alone, which not only served as models to the men of their own age, but have stimulated
the ingenuity and improved the taste of many in ours.
On another ground Nuremberg is worth our study. It is perhaps the best-preserved
mediaeval town north of the Alps. To visit it, then, though only in the page of the
describer, is to see the very scenes amid which some of the great events of the Reformation
were transacted, and the very streets on which their actors walked and the houses
in which they lived. In Spain there remain to this day cities of an age still more
remote, and an architecture still more curious. There is Toledo, whose seven-hilled
site, washed by the furious torrent of the Tagus, lifts high in the air, and sets
in bold relief against the sky, its many beautiful structures—its lovely Alcazar,
its cathedral roofs, its ruined synagogues, its Moorish castles— the whole looking
more like the creation of a magician than the work of the mason. There is Cordova,
with its wonderful mosque, fashioned out of the spolia opima of Africa and the Levant,
and spread around this unique temple is perhaps the greatest labyrinth of narrow
and winding lanes that anywhere exists. There is Granada, whose streets and fountains
and gardens are still redolent of the Moor, and which borrows a further glory from
the two magnificent objects by which it is overhung — the one of art, the Alhambra,whose
unique and dazzling beauty it has defied the spoiler to destroy; and the other of
nature, the Sierra Nevada, which towers aloft in snowy grandeur, and greets its brother
Atlas across the Straits. And, not to multiply instances, there is Malaga, a relic
of a still more ancient time than the Moorish age, showing us how the Phoenicians
built, and what sort of cities were upon the earth when civilization was confined
to the shores of the Mediterranean, and the mariner had not yet ventured to steer
his bark beyond "Pillars of Hercules."
But there is no city in Northern Europe—no relic of the architecture of the Germanic
nations, when that architecture was in its prime, or had but recently begun to decline,
at all to be compared with Nuremberg. As it was when the emperor trod its streets,
and the magnificence of Germany was gathered into it, and the flourish of trumpets
and the roll of drums blended with the peaceful din of its chisels and hammers, so
is it now. The same portals with their rich carvings; the same windows with their
deep mullions; the same fountains with their curious emblematic devices and groups,
in bronze or in stone; the same peaked and picturesque gables; the same lofty roofs,
running up into the sky and presenting successive rows of attic windows, their fronts
all richly embellished and hung with draperies of wreathed work, wrought in stone
by the hands of cunning men—in short, the same assemblage of curious, droll, beautiful,
and majestic objects which were before the eyes of the men who have been four centuries
in their grave, meet the eye of the traveler at this day.
In the middle of the city is the depression or valley through which the stream of
the Pegnitz flows. There the buildings cluster thickly together, forming a perfect
labyrinth of winding lanes, with no end of bridges and canals, and while their peaked
roofs tower into the air their bases dip into the water. The rest of the city lies
on the two slopes that run up from the Pegnitz, on either bank, forming thus two
divisions which look at each other across the intervening valley. In this part of
Nuremberg the streets are spacious, the houses of stone, large and massy, and retaining
the remarkable feature we have already mentioned—exceedingly lofty roofs; for in
some instances six storeys of upright mason-work are surmounted by other six storeys
of slanting roof, with their complement of attic windows, suggesting the idea of
a house upon a house, or of two cities, the one upon the ground, the other in the
air, and forming no unmeet emblem of the ancient classification of the citizens of
Nuremberg into plebeian and patrician.
To walk through Nuremberg with the hasty step and cursory eye with which a mere modern
town may be surveyed is impossible. The city, amid all its decay, is a cabinet of
rare curiosities, a gallery of master-pieces. At every step one is brought up by
some marvel or other—a witty motto; a quaint device; a droll face; a mediaeval saint
in wood, lying as lumber, it may be, in some workshop; a bishop, or knight, or pilgrim,
in stone, who has seen better days; an elegant fountain, at which prince or emperor
may have stopped to drink, giving its waters as copiously as ever; a superb portal,
from which patrician may have walked forth when good Maximilian was emperor; or rich
oriel, at which bright eyes looked out when gallant knight rode past; or some palatial
mansion that speaks of times when the mariner's compass was unknown, and the stream
of commerce on its way to the West flowed through Nuremberg, and not as now round
the Cape, or through the Straits of Gibraltar.[3]
After a time the place, so full of fanciful and droll and beautifitl imagining,
begins to act upon one like an enchantment. The spirit that lives in these creations
is as unabated as if the artist had just laid down his chisel. One cannot persuade
one's self that the hands that fashioned them have long ago mouldered into dust.
No; their authors are living still, and one looks to see them walk out at their doors,
and feels sure that one would know them — those cunning men, that race of geniuses,
whose wit and wisdom, whose humor and drollery and mirth burst out and overflowed
till the very stones of their city laughed along with them. Where are all these men
now? All sleeping together in the burial-ground, about a mile and a half outside
the city gate, each in his narrow cell, the skill of their right hand forgotten,
but the spelI of their power still lingering on the city where they lived, to fascinate
and delight and instruct the men of after-times.
Of the edifices of Nuremberg we shall visit only one—the Rath-Haus, or Hotel de Ville,
where the Diets of the Empire held their sitting, and where, of course, the Diet
that had just ended in the resolution which so exasperated Campeggio and terrified
the Vatican had held its deliberations. It is a magnificent pile, in the Italian
style, and externally in perfect preservation. A lofty portal gives admission to
a spacious quadrangle. This building was erected in 1619, but it includes an older
town-hall of date 1340. To this older portion belongs the great saloon, variously
used in former times as a banqueting hall, an audience chamber, and a place of conference
for the Diet. Its floor looks as if it would afford standing-room for all the citizens
of Nuremberg. But vastness is the only attribute now left it of its former splendor.
It is long since emperor trod that floor, or warrior feasted under that roof, or
Diet assembled within those walls. Time's effacing finger has been busy with it,
and what was magnificence in the days of the emperor, is in ours simply tawdriness.
The paintings on its walls and roof, some of which are from the pencil of Albert
Durer, have lost their brilliance, and are now little better than mere patches of
color.
The gloss has passed from the silks and velvets of its furniture; the few chairs
that remain are rickety and worm-eaten, and one fears to trust one's self to them.
A magnificent chandelier still hangs suspended from the roof, its gilding sadly tarnished,
its lights burned out; and suggesting, as it does, to the mind the gaiety of the
past, makes the dreariness and solitariness of the present to be only the more felt.
So passes the glory of the world, and so has passed the imperial grandeur which often
found in this hall a stage for its display.
Let us visit the dungeons immediately below the building. This will help us to form
some idea of the horrors through which Liberty had to pass in her march down to modern
times. Our guide leaves us for a few minutes, and when he returns he is carrying
a bunch of keys in one hand and a lantern in the other. We descend a flight of stairs,
and stand before a great wooden door. It is fastened crosswise with a heavy iron
bar, which the guide removes. Then, selecting a key from the bunch, he undoes one
lock, then another, and heaving back the ponderous door, we enter and take our first
step into the gloom. We traverse a long dark corridor; at the end of it we come to
another massy door, secured like the first by a heavy cross-beam. The guide undoes
the fastenings, and with a creak which echoes drearily through the vaulted passage,
the door is thrown open and gives us admittance. We descend several flights of stairs.
The last ray of light has forsaken us a long while ago, but we go forward by the
help of the lantern. What a contrast to the gilded and painted chambers above!
On either hand as we go on are the silent stone walls; overhead is the vaulted roof;
at every other pace the guide stops, and calls our attention to doors in the wall
on either hand, which open into numerous side chambers, or vaulted dungeons, for
the reception of prisoners. To lie here, in this living grave, in utter darkness,
in cold and misery, was dreadful enough; but there were more horrible things near
at hand, ready to do their terrible work, and which made the unhappy occupants of
these cells forget all the other honors of their dismal abode.
Passing on a pace or two further, we come to a roomier cell. We enter it, and the
guide throws the glare of his lantern all round, and shows us the apparatus of torture,
which rots here unused, though not unused in former days. It is a gaunt iron frame,
resembling a long and narrow bedstead, fitted from end to end with a series of angular
rollers. The person who was to undergo the torture was laid on this horizontal rack.
With every motion of his body to and fro, the rolling prisms on which he rested grazed
the vertebrae of his back, causing great suffering. This was one mode of applying
the rack, the next was still more frightful. The feet of the poor victim were fastened
to one end of the iron frame; his arms were raised over his head and tied with a
rope, which wound round a windlass. The windlass was worked by a lever; the executioner
put his hand on the lever; the windlass revolves; the rope tightens; the limbs of
the victim are stretched. Another wrench: his eyes flash, his lips quiver, his teeth
are clenched; he groans, he shrieks; the joints start from their sockets; and now
the livid face and the sinking pulse tell that the torture has been prolonged to
the furthest limit of physical endurance. The sufferer is carried back to his cell.
In the course of a few weeks, when his mangled body has regained a little strength,
he is brought out a second time, and laid upon the same bed of torture, to undergo
yet again the same dreadful ordeal.
Let us go forward a little farther into this subterranean realm. We come at length
to the central chamber. It is much more roomy than the others. Its air is dank and
cold, and the water is filtering through the rock overhead. It is full of darkness,
but there are worse things in it than darkness, which we can see by the help of our
guide's lantern. Against the wall leans what seems a ladder; it is a machine of torture
of the kind we have already described, only used vertically instead of horizontally.
The person is hauled up by a rope, with a weight attached to his feet, and then he
is let suddenly down, the rolling prisms grazing, as before, his naked back in his
rapid descent.
There is yet another "torture" in this horrible chamber. In the center
of the roof is an iron ring. Through the ring passes a strong iron chain, which hangs
down and is attached to a windlass. On the floor lies a great block of stone with
a ring in it. This block was attached to the feet of the victim; his hands were tied
behind his back with the iron chain; and, thus bound, he was pulled up to the roof,
and suddenly let fall to within a foot or so of the floor. The jerk of the descending
block was so severe as commonly to dislocate his limbs.
The unhappy man when suspended in this fashion could be dealt with as his tormentors
chose. They could tear his flesh with pincers, scorch his feet with live coals, insert
burning matches beneath his skin, flay him alive, or practice upon him any barbarity
their malignity or cruelty suggested. The subject is an ungrateful one, and we quit
it. These cells were reserved for political offenders. They were accounted too good
for those tainted with heretical pravity. Deeper dungeons, and more horrible instruments
of torture, were prepared for the confessors of the Gospel. The memorials of the
awful cruelties perpetrated on the Protestants of the sixteenth century are to be
seen in Nuremberg at this day. The "Holy Offices" of Spain and Italy have
been dismantled, and little now remains save the walls of the buildings in which
the business of the Inquisition was carried on; but, strange to say, in Nuremberg,
as we can testify from actual observation, the whole apparatus of torture is still
shown in the subterranean chambers that were used by the agents of the "Holy
Office." We reserve the description of these dungeons, with their horrible instruments,
till we come to speak more particularly of the Inquisition. Even the political prisons
are sufficiently dismal. It is sad to think that such prisons existed in the heart
of Germany, and in the free town of Nuremberg, in the sixteenth century.
The far-famed "prisons of Venice"—and here too we speak from actual inspection—are
not half so gloomy and terrible. These dungeons in Nuremberg show us how stern a
thing government was in the Middle Ages, before the Reformation had come with its
balmy breath to chase away the world's winter, and temper the rigors of law, by teaching
mercy as well as vengeance to the ruler. Verily it was no easy matter to be a patriot
in the sixteenth century!
CHAPTER 6 Back
to Top
THE RATISBON LEAGUE AND REFORMATION.
Protestantism in Nuremberg—German Provinces Declare for the Gospel—Intrigues of Campeggio—Ratisbon
League —Ratisbon Scheme of Reform—Rejected by the German Princes—Letter of Pope Clement
to the Emperor—The Emperor's Letter from Burgos—Forbids the Diet at Spires—German
Unity Broken—Two Camps—Persecution—Martyrs.
NUREMBERG had thrown itself heartily into the tide of the Reform movement. It
was not to be kept back either by the muttered displeasure of the Pope's legate,
or the more outspoken threatenings of the emperor's envoy. The intelligent citizens
of Nuremberg felt that Protestantism brought with it a genial air, in which they
could more freely breathe. It promised a re-invigoration to their city, the commerce
of which had begun to wane, and its arts to decline, as the consequence of the revolutions
which the mariner's compass had brought with it. Their preachers appeared daily in
the pulpit; crowded congregations daily assembled in the large Church of St. Sebald,
on the northern bank of the Pegnitz, and in the yet more spacious Cathedral of St.
Lawrence, in the southern quarter of the city. The tapers were extinguished; the
images stood neglected in their niches, or were turned out of doors; neither pyx,
nor cloud of incense, nor consecrated wafer was to be seen; the altar had been changed
into a table; bread and wine were brought forth and placed upon it: prayer was offered,
a psalm sung, and the elements were dispensed, while some 4,000 communicants came
forward to partake. The spectacle caused infinite disgust to Campeggio, but how to
prevent it he knew not. Hunnaart thought, doubtless, that had his master been present,
these haughty citizens would not have dared to flaunt their heresy in the face of
the emperor. But Charles detained by his quarrels with Francis I. and the troubles
in Spain, heresy flourished unchecked by the imperial frown.
From the hour the Diet broke up, both sides began busily to prepare for the meeting
at Spires in November. The princes, on their return to their States, began to collect
the suffrages of their people on the question of Church Reform; and the legate, on
his part, without a day's delay, began his intrigues to prevent the meeting of an
assembly which threatened to deliver the heaviest blow his master's authority had
yet received.
The success of the princes friendly to the Reformed faith exceeded their expectations.
The all but unanimous declaration of the provinces was, "We will serve Rome
no longer." Franconia, Brandenburg, Henneburg, Windsheim, Wertheim, and Nuremberg
declared against the abuses of the mass, against the seven Popish Sacraments, against
the adoration of images, and, reserving the unkindliest cut for the last, against
the Papal supremacy.[1]
These dogmatic changes would draw after them a host of administrative reforms.
The pretext for the innumerable Romish exactions, of which the Germans so loudly
complained, would be swept away. No longer would come functions and graces from Rome,
and the gold of Germany would cease to flow thither in return. The Protestant theologians
were overjoyed. A few months, and the national voice, through its constituted organ
the Diet, will have pronounced in favor of Reform. The movement will be safely piloted
into the harbor.
The consternation of the Romish party was in proportion. They saw the gates of the
North opening a second time, and the German hosts in full march upon the Eternal
City. What was to be done? Campeggio was on the spot; and it was fortunate for Rome
that he was so, otherwise the subsequent intervention of the Pope and the emperor
might have come too late. The legate adopted the old policy of "divide and conquer."
Withdrawing from a Diet which contemplated usurping the most august functions of
his master, Campeggio retired to Ratisbon, and there set to work to form a party
among the princes of Germany. He succeeded in drawing around him Ferdinand, Archduke
of Austria, the Dukes of Bavaria, the Archbishop of Salzburg, and the Bishops of
Trent and Ratisbon. These were afterwards joined by most of the bishops of Southern
Germany. Campeggio represented to this convention that the triumph of Wittenberg
was imminent, and that with the fall of the Papacy was bound up the destruction of
their own power, and the dissolution of the existing order of things. To avert these
terrible evils, they resolved, the 6th of July, to forbid the printing of Luther's
books; to permit no married priests to live in their territories; to recall the youth
of their dominions who were studying at Wittenberg; to tolerate no change in the
mass or public worship; and, in fine, to put into execution the Edict of Worms against
Luther. They concluded, in short, to wage a war of extermination against the new
faith.[2]
As a set-off against these stern measures, they promised a few very mild reforms.
The ecclesiastical imposts were to be lightened, and the Church festivals made somewhat
less numerous. And, not able apparently to see that they were falling into the error
which they condemned in the proposed Diet at Spires, they proceeded to enact a standard
of orthodoxy, consisting of the first four Latin Fathers—Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine,
and Gregory—whose opinions were to be the rule according to which all preachers were
to interpret Scripture. Such was the Ratisbon Reformation, as it came afterwards
to be called.
The publication of the legate's project was viewed as an insult by the princes of
the opposite party. "What right," they asked, "have a few princes
and bishops to constitute themselves the representatives of the nation, and to make
a law for the whole of Germany? Who gave them this authority? Besides, what good
will a Reformation do us that removes only the smaller abuses, and leaves the great
altogether untouched? It is not the humbler clergy, but the prelates and abbots who
oppress us, and these the Ratisbon Convention leaves flourishing in their wealth
and power. Nor does this Reform give us the smallest hope that we shall be protected
in future from the manifold exactions of the Roman court. In condemning the lesser
evils, does not the League sanction the greater?" Even Pallavicino has acknowledged
that this judgement of the princes on the Ratisbon Reformation was just, when he
says that "the physician in the cure of his patient ought to begin not with
the small, but the great remedies."[3]
The legate had done well, and now the Pope, who saw that he must grasp the
keys more firmly, or surrender them altogether, followed up with vigor the measures
of Campeggio. Clement VII. wrote in urgent terms to Charles V., telling him that
the Empire was in even greater danger from these audacious Germans than the tiara.
Charles did not need this spur. He was sufficiently alive to what was due to him
as emperor. This proposal of the princes to hold a Diet irrespective of the emperor's
authority stung him to the quick.
The Pope's letter found the emperor at Burgos, the capital of Old Castile. The air
of the place was not favorable to concessions to Lutheranism. Everything around Charles—a
cathedral of un-rivalled magnificence, the lordly priests by which it was served,
the devotion of the Castilians, with other tokens of the pomp and power of Catholicism—must
have inspired him with even more than his usual reverence for the old religion, and
made the project of the princes appear in his eyes doubly a crime. He wrote in sharp
terms to them, saying that it belonged to him as emperor to demand of the Pope that
a Council should be convoked; that he and the Pope alone were the judges when it
was a fitting time to convoke such an assembly, and that when he saw that a Council
could be held with profit to Christendom he would ask the Pope to summon one; that,
meanwhile, till a General Council should meet, it was their duty to acquiesce in
the ecclesiastical settlement which had been made at Worms; that at that Diet all
the matters which they proposed to bring again into discussion at Spires had been
determined, and that to meet to discuss them over again was to unsettle them. In
fine, he reminded them of the Edict of Worms against Luther, and called on them to
put it in execution. He forbade the meeting of the Diet at Spires, under penalty
of high treason and ban of the Empire. The princes eventually submitted, and thus
the projected Diet, which had excited so great hopes on the one side and so great
alarm on the other, never met.[4]
The issue of the affair was that the unity of Germany was broken. From this
hour, there were a Catholic Diet and a Protestant Diet in the Empire— a Catholic
Germany and a Protestant Germany. The rent was made by Campeggio, and what he did
was endorsed and completed by Charles V. The Reformation was developing peacefully
in the Empire; the majority of the Diet was on its side; the several States and cities
were rallying to it; there was the promise that soon it would be seen advancing under
the aegis of a united Fatherland: but this fair prospect was suddenly and fatally
blighted by the formation of an Anti-Protestant League. The unity thus broken has
never since been restored. It must not be overlooked that this was the doing of the
Romanist party.
"What a deplorable event!" exclaims the reader. And truly it was. It had
to be expiated by the wars, the revolutions, the political and religious strifes
of three centuries. Christendom was entering on the peaceful and united rectification
of the errors of ages—the removal of those superstitious beliefs which had poisoned
the morals of the world, and furnished a basis for ecclesiastical and political despotisms.
And, with a purified conscience, there would have come an enlarged and liberated
intellect, the best patron of letters and art, of liberty and of industry. With the
rise of these two hostile camps, the world's destinies were fatally changed. Henceforward
Protestantism must advance by way of the stake. But, lacking these many heroic deaths,
these hundreds of thousands of martyrs, what a splendor would have been lacking to
Protestantism!
The conferences at Ratisbon lasted a fortnight, and when at length they came to an
end, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Papal legate journeyed together to Vienna. On
the road thither, they came to an understanding as to the practical steps for carrying
out the league. The sword must be unsheathed. Gaspard Tauber, of Vienna, whose crime
was the circulating of Luther's books, was among the first to suffer. An idea got
abroad that he would recant. Two pulpits were erected in the churchyard of St. Stephen's.
From the one Tauber was to read his recantation, and from the other a priest was
to magnify the act as a new trophy of the power of the Roman Church. Tauber rose
in presence of the vast multitude assembled in the graveyard, who awaited in deep
silence the first words of recantation.
To their amazement he made a bolder confession of his faith than ever. He was immediately
dragged to execution, decapitated, and his body thrown into the fire and consumed.
His Christian intrepidity on the scaffold made a deep impression on his townsmen.
At Buda, in Hungary, a Protestant bookseller was burned with his books piled up around
him. He was heard amid the flames proclaiming the joy with which he suffered for
the sake of Christ. An inquisitor, named Reichler, traversed Wurtemberg, hanging
Lutherans on the trees, and nailing the Reformed preachers to posts by the tongue,
and leaving them to die on the spot, or set themselves free at the expense of self-mutilation,
and the loss of that gift by which they had served Christ in the ministry of the
Gospel. In the territories of the Archbishop of Salzburg, a Protestant who was being
conducted to prison was released by two peasants, while his guards were carousing
in an alehouse. The peasants were beheaded outside the walls of the city without
form of trial. There was a Reign of Terror in Bavaria. It was not on those in humble
life only that the storm fell; the magistrate on the bench, the baron in his castle
found no protection from the persecutor. The country swarmed with spies, and friend
dared not confide in friend.
This fanatical rage extended to some parts of Northern Germany. The tragical fate
of Henry van Zutphen deserves a short notice. Escaping from the monastery at Antwerp
in 1523, when the converts Esch and Voes were seized and burned, he preached the
Gospel for two years in Bremen. His fame as a preacher extending, he was invited
to proclaim the Reformed doctrine to the uninstructed people of the Ditmarches country.
He repaired thither, and had appeared only once in the pulpit, when the house in
which he slept was surrounded at midnight by a mob, heated by the harangues of the
prior of the Dominicans and the fumes of Hamburg beer. He was pulled out of bed,
beaten with clubs, dragged on foot over many miles of a road covered with ice and
snow, and finally thrown on a slow fire and burned.[5] Such were the means which the "Ratisbon Reformers"
adopted for repressing Protestantism, and upholding the old order of things. "The
blood he is shedding," exclaimed Luther, on being told of these proceedings,
"will choke the Pope at last, with his kings and kingdoms."[6]
CHAPTER 7 Back
to Top
LUTHER'S VIEWS ON THE SACRAMENT AND IMAGE-WORSHIP.
New Friends—Philip, Landgrave of Hesse—Meeting between him and Melanchthon—Joins
the Reformation—Duke Ernest, etc.—Knights of the Teutonic Order—Their Origin and
History—Royal House of Prussia— Free Cities—Services to Protestantism—Division—Carlstadt
Opposes Luther on the Sacrament—Luther's Early Views—Recoil —Essence of Paganism—Opus
Operatum—Calvin and Zwingli's View—Carlstadt Leaves Wittenberg and goes to Orlamunde—Scene
at the Inn at Jena— Luther Disputes at Orlamunde on Image-Worship—Carlstadt Quits
Saxony—Death of the Elector Frederick.
WHILE its enemies were forming leagues and un-sheathing their swords against the
Reformation, new friends were hastening to place themselves on its side. It was at
this hour that some of the more powerful princes of Germany stepped out from the
ranks of the Romanists, and inscribed the "evangel" on their banners, declaring
that henceforward under this "sign" only would they fight. Over against
the camp formed by Austria and Bavaria was pitched that of the Landgrave of Hesse
and the free cities.
One day in June, 1524, a knightly cavalcade was passing along the high-road which
traverses the plain that divides Frankfort from the Taunus mountains. The party were
on their way to the games at Heidelberg. As they rode along, two solitary travelers
on horseback were seen approaching. On coming nearer, they were recognised to be
Philip Melanchthon and his friend. The knight at the head of the first party, dashing
forward, placed himself by the side of the illustrious doctor, and begged him to
turn his horse's head, and accompany him a short way on the road. The prince who
accosted Melanchthon was the young Landgrave of Hesse. Philip of Hesse had felt the
impulses of the times, and was inquiring whether it was not possible to discover
a better way than that of Rome. He had been present at the Diet of Worms; had been
thrilled by the address of Luther; he had begged an interview with him immediately
after, and ever since had kept revolving the matter in his heart. A chance, as it
seemed, had now thrown Melanchthon in his way. He opened his mind to him as he rode
along by his side, and, in reply, the doctor gave the prince a clear and comprehensive
outline of the Reformed doctrine. This oral statement Melanchthon supplemented, on
his return to Wittenberg, by a "written epitome of the renovated doctrines of
Christianity," the study of which made the landgrave resolve to cast in his
lot with Protestantism. He embraced it with characteristic ardor, for he did nothing
by halves. He made the Gospel be preached in his dominions, and as he brought to
the cause the whole energy of his character, and the whole influence of his position,
he rendered it no ordinary services. In conflicts to come, his plume was often seen
waving in the thick of the battle.[1]
About the same time, other princes transferred the homage of their hearts
and the services of their lives to the same cause. Among these were Duke Ernest of
Luneburg, who now began to promote the reformation of his States; the Elector of
the Palatinate; and Frederick I. of Denmark, who, as Duke of Schleswig and Holstein,
ordained that all under him should be free to worship God as their consciences might
direct.
These accessions were followed by another, on which time has since set the print
of vast importance. Its consequences continue to be felt down to our own days. The
knight who now transferred his homage to the cause of Protestantism was the head
of the house of Prussia, then Margrave of Brandenburg.
The chiefs of the now imperial house of Prussia were originally Burgraves of Nuremberg.
They sold, as we have already said, this dignity, and the price they received for
it enabled them to purchase the Margraveship of Brandenburg. In 1511, Albert, the
then head of the house of Brandenburg, became Grand Master of the Teutonic Order.
This was perhaps the most illustrious of all those numerous orders of religious knights,
or monks, which were founded during the frenzy of the Crusades,[2] in defense of the Christian faith against heathens and infidels.
They wore a white cross as their badge. Albert, the present Grand Master, while attending
the Diet at Nuremberg, had listened to the sermons of Osiander, and had begun to
doubt the soundness of the Roman creed, and, along with that, the lawfulness of his
vow as Grand Master of the Teutonic monks. He obtained an interview with Luther,
and asked his advice. "Renounce your Grand-Mastership; dissolve the order,"
said the Reformer; "take a wife; and erect your quasi-religious domain into
a secular and hereditary duchy."
Albert, adopting the counsel of Luther, opened to himself and his family the road
that at a future day was to conduct to the imperial crown. He renounced his order
of monk-hood, professed the Reformed faith, married a princess of Denmark, and declared
Prussia an hereditary duchy, doing homage for it to the crown of Poland. He was put
under the ban of the Empire; but retained, nevertheless, possession of his dominions.
In process of time this rich inheritance fell to the possession of the electoral
branch of his family; all dependence on the crown of Poland was cast off; the duchy
was converted into a kingdom, and the title of duke exchanged for the loftier one
of king. The fortunes of the house continued to grow till at last its head took his
place among the great sovereigns of Europe.[3]
Another and higher step awaited him. In 1870, at the close of the Franco-German
war, the King of Prussia became Emperor of Germany.
In the rear of the princes, and in some instances in advance of them, came the free
cities. We have spoken of their rise in a former chapter. They eminently prepared
the soil for the reception of Protestantism. They were nurseries of art, cultivators
of knowledge, and guardians of liberty. We have already seen that at Nuremberg, during
the sittings of the Diet, and despite the presence of the legate of the Pope and
the ambassador of the emperor, Protestant sermons were daily preached in the two
cathedral churches; and when Campeggio threatened to apprehend and punish the preachers
in the name of his master, the municipality spiritedly forbade him to touch a hair
of their heads. Other towns followed the example of Nuremberg. The Municipal Diets
of Ulm and Spires (1524) resolved that the clergy should be sustained in preaching
the pure Gospel, and bound themselves by mutual promise to defend each other against
any attempt to execute the Edict of Worms.
At the very moment that Protestantism was receiving these powerful accessions from
without, a principle of weakness was being developed within. The Reformers, hitherto
a united phalanx, began to be parted into two camps—the Lutheran and the Reformed.
It is now that we trace the incipient rise of the two powerful parties which have
continued, down to our day, to divide the Protestant world, and to retard the march
of the Reformation.
The difference was at first confined to two men. Luther and Carlstadt had combatted
by the side of each other at Leipsic against Dr. Eck; unhappily they differed in
their views on the Sacrament of the Supper, and began to do battle against each other.
Few there are who can follow with equal steps the march of Truth, as she advances
from the material and the symbolical to the position of a pure principle. Some lag
behind, laying fully as much stress upon the symbol as upon the verity it contains;
others outstrip Truth, as it were, by seeking to dissociate her from that organisation
which God has seen to be necessary for her action upon the world. The fanatics, who
arose at this stage of the Reformation, depreciated the Word and the Sacraments,
and, in short, all outward ordinances, maintaining that religion was a thing exclusively
of spiritual communion, and that men were to be guided by an inward light. Luther
saw clearly that this theory would speedily be the destruction not of what was outward
only in religion, but also of what was inward and spiritual. A recoil ensued in his
sentiments. He not only paused in his career, he went back; and the retrogression
which we henceforth trace in him was not merely a retrogression from the new mystics,
but from his former self. The clearness and boldness which up till this time had
characterised his judgment on theological questions now forsook him, and something
of the old haze began to gather round him and cloud his mind.
At an earlier period of his career (1520), in his work entitled the Babylonian Captivity,
he had expressed himself in terms which implied that the spiritual presence of Christ
in the Sacrament was the only presence he recognised there, and that faith in Christ
thus present was the only thing necessary to enable one to participate in all the
benefits of the Lord's Supper. This doctrine is in nowise different from that which
was afterwards taught on this head by Calvin, and which Luther so zealously opposed
in the case of Zwingli and the theologians of the Swiss Reformation. Unhappily, Luther
having grasped the true idea of the Lord's Supper, again lost it. He was unable to
retain permanent possession of the ground which he had occupied for a moment, as
it were; he fell back to the old semi-materialistic position, to the arrestment of
his own career, and the dividing of the Protestant army.
It is a grand principle in Protestantism that the ordinances of the Church become
to us "effectual means" of salvation, not from "any virtue in them,"
or "in him that administers them," but solely by the "blessing of
God," and the "working of His Spirit in them that by faith receive them."
This draws a clear line of distinction between the institutions of the Reformed Church
and the rites of Paganism and Romanism. It was a doctrine of Paganism that there
was a magical or necromantic influence in all its observances, in virtue of which
a purifying change was effected upon the soul of the worshipper. This idea was the
essence of Paganism. In the sacrifice, in the lustral water, in every ceremony of
its ritual, there resided an invisible but potent power, which of itself renewed
or transformed the man who did the rite, or in whose behalf it was done. This doctrine
descended to Romanism. In all its priests, and in all its rites, there was lodged
a secret, mysterious, superhuman virtue, which regenerated and sanctified men. It
was called the "opus operatum," because, according to this theory, salvation
came simply by the performance of the rite—the "doing of the work." It
was not the Spirit that regenerated man, nor was faith on his part necessary in order
to his profiting; the work was accomplished by the sole and inherent potency of the
rite. This doctrine converts the ordinances of the Gospel into spells, and makes
their working simply magical.
Luther was on the point of fully emancipating himself from this belief. As regards
the doctrines of Christianity, he did fully emancipate himself from it. His doctrine
of justification by faith alone implied the total renunciation of this idea; but,
as regards the Sacraments, he did not so fully vindicate his freedom from the old
beliefs. With reference to the Supper, he lost sight of the grand master-truth which
led to the emancipation of himself and Christendom from monkish bondage. He could
see that faith alone in Christ's obedience and death could avail for the justification,
the pardon, and the eternal salvation of the sinner; and yet he could not see that
faith alone in Christ, as spiritually present in the Supper, could avail for the
nourishment of the believer. Yet the latter is but another application of Luther's
great cardinal doctrine of justification by faith.
The shock Luther received from the extremes to which the Anabaptists proceeded in
good part accounts for this result. He saw, as he thought, the whole of Christianity
about to be spiritualised, and to lose itself a second time in the mazes of mysticism.
He retreated, therefore, into the doctrine of impanation or consubstantiation, which
the Dominican, John of Paris, broached in the end of the thirteenth century. According
to this tenet, the body and blood of Christ are really and corporeally present in
the elements, but the substance of the bread and wine also remains.
Luther held that in, under, or along with the elements was Christ's very body; so
that, after consecration, the bread was both bread and the flesh of Christ, and the
wine both wine and the blood of Christ. He defended his belief by a literal interpretation
of the words of institution, "This is my body." "I have undergone
many hard struggles," we find him saying, "and would fain have forced myself
into believing a doctrine whereby I could have struck a mighty blow at the Papacy.
But the text of Scripture is too potent for me; I am a captive to it, and cannot
get away."
Carlstadt refused to bow to the authority of the great doctor on this point. He agreed
with the Luther of 1520, not with the Luther of 1524. Carlstadt held that there was
no corporeal presence of Christ in the elements; that the consecration effects no
change upon the bread and wine; that the Supper is simply commemorative of the death
of Christ, and nourishes the communicant by vividly representing that transaction
to his faith.
Carlstadt's views differed widely from those of Luther, but they fell short of the
doctrine of the Supper, as it came afterwards to be settled in the controversies
that ensued, and finally held by Zwingli and Calvin.
Carlstadt finding himself fettered, as may well be conceived, in the declaration
of his opinions at Wittenberg, sought a freer stage on which to ventilate them. Early
in 1524 He removed to Orlamunde, and there began to propagate his views. We do not
at this stage enter on the controversy. It will come before us afterwards, when greater
champions than Carlstadt shall have stepped into the arena, and when accordingly
we can review, with much greater profit and advantage, the successive stages of this
great war, waged unhappily within the camp of the Reformation.
One passage at arms we must however record. No longer awed by Luther's presence,
Carlstadt's boldness and zeal waxed greater every day. Not content with opposing
the Wittenberg doctrine of the Supper, he attacked Luther on the subject of images.
The old leaven of monkhood—the strength of which was shown in the awful struggles
he had to undergo before he found his way to the Cross—was not wholly purged out
of the Reformer. Luther not only tolerated the presence of images in the churches,
like Zwingli; for the sake of the weak; he feared to displace them even when the
worshippers desired their removal. He believed they might be helpful. Carlstadt denounced
these tendencies and weaknesses as Popery. The minds of the men of Orlamunde were
getting inflamed by the violence of his harangues; commotions were rising, and the
Elector sent Luther to Orlamunde to smooth the troubled waters. A little reflection
might have taught Frederick that his presence was more likely to bring on a tempest;
for the Reformer was beginning to halt in that equanimity and calm strength which,
up till this time, he had been able to exercise in the face of opposition.
Luther on his way to Orlamunde traveled by Jena, where he arrived on the 21st August,
1524. From this city he wrote to the Elector and Duke John, exhorting them to employ
their power in curbing that fanatical spirit, which was beginning to give birth to
acts of violence. The exhortation was hardly needed, seeing he was at that moment
on a mission from the Elector for that very end. It shows, however, that in Luther's
opinion the Reformation ran more risk from the madness of the fanatic than from the
violence of the persecutor: "The fanatic," he said in his letter, "hates
the Word of God, and exclaims, 'Bible, Bubel, Babel!' [4] What kind of tree is that which bears such fruit as the breaking
open of churches and cloisters, and the burning of images and saints? Christians
ought to use the Word, not the hand. The New Testament method of driving out the
devil is to convert the heart, and then the devil falls and all his works."[5]
Next day he preached against insurrectionary tumults, iconoclast violence,
and the denial of the real presence in the Eucharist. Afterwards, as he was seated
at dinner with the pastor of Jena and the city functionaries, a paper was handed
in to him from Carlstadt. "Let him come in," said Luther. Carlstadt entered.
"You attacked me today," said Carlstadt to the Reformer, "as an author
of sedition and assassination; it is false!" "I did not name you,"
rejoined Luther; "nevertheless, if the cap fits you, you may put it on."
"I am able to show," said Carlstadt, "that you have taught contradictions
on the subject of the Eucharist." "Prove your assertion," rejoined
Luther. "I am willing to dispute publicly with you," replied Carlstadt,
"at Wittenberg or at Erfurt, if you will grant me a safeconduct." "Never
fear that," said Luther. "You tie my hands and my feet and then you strike
me!" exclaimed Carlstadt with warmth. "Write against me," said Luther.
"I would," said the other, "if I knew you to be in earnest."
"Here," exclaimed Luther, "take that in token of my earnestness,"
holding out a gold florin. "I willingly accept the gage," said Carlstadt.
Then holding it out to the company, "Ye are my witnesses," said he, "that
this is my authority to write against Martin Luther." He bent the florin and
put it into his purse. He then extended his hand to Luther, who pledged him in some
wine. "The more vigorously you assault me," said Luther, "the better
you will please me." "It shall not be my fault," answered Carlstadt,
"if I fail." They drank to one another, and again shaking hands, Carlstadt
withdrew.
The details of this interview are found only in the records of the party adverse
to the Reformer, and Luther has charged them with gross exaggeration.
From Jena, Luther continued his journey, and arrived at Orlamunde in the end of August.
The Reformer himself has given us no account of his disputation with Carlstadt. The
account which historians commonly follow is that of Reinhard, a pastor of Jena, and
an eye-witness. Its accuracy has been challenged by Luther, and, seeing Reinhard
was a friend of Carlstadt, it is not improbably colored. But making every allowance,
Luther appears to have been too much in haste to open this breach in the Protestant
army, and he took the responsibility too lightly, forgetful of the truth which Melchior
Adam has enunciated, and which experience has a thousand times verified, "that
a single spark will often suffice to wrap in flames a whole forest." As regards
the argument Luther won no victory; he found the waters ruffled, and he lashed them
into tempest.
Assembling the town council and the citizens of Orlamunde, Luther was addressing
them when Carlstadt entered. Walking up to Luther, Carlstadt saluted him: "Dear
doctor, if you please, I will induct you." "You are my antagonist,"
Luther replied, "I have pledged you with a florin." "I shall ever
be your antagonist," rejoined the other, "so long as you are an antagonist
to God and His Word." Luther on this insisted that Carlstadt should withdraw,
seeing that he could not transact the business on which he had come at the Elector's
command, in his presence. Cartstadt refused, on the ground that it was a free meeting,
and if he was in fault why should his presence be feared? On this Luther turned to
his attendant, and ordered him to put-to the horses at once, for he should immediately
leave the town, whereupon Carlstadt withdrew.
Being now alone with the men of Orlamunde, Luther proceeded with the business the
Elector had sent him to transact, which was to remove their iconoclast prejudices,
and quiet the agitation of their city. "Prove to me," said Luther, opening
the discussion, "prove to me by Scripture that images ought to be destroyed."
"Mr. Doctor," rejoined a councillor, "do you grant me thus much—that
Moses knew God's commandments?" Then opening a Bible he read these words: "Thou
shalt not make to thyself any graven image, or the likeness of anything." This
was as much as to say, Prove to me from Scripture that images ought to be worshipped.
"That passage refers to images of idols only," responded Luther. "If
I have hung up in my room a crucifix which I do not worship, what harm can it do
me? "
This was Zwingli's ground; but Luther was not yet able fully to occupy it. "I
have often," said a shoemaker, "taken off my hat to an image in a room
or on the road; to do so is an act of idolatry, which takes from God the glory that
is due to Him alone."
"Because of their being abused, then," replied Luther, "we ought to
destroy women, and pour out wine into the streets."
"No," was the reply; "these are God's creatures, which we are not
commanded to destroy."
It is easy to see that images were not things of mere indifference to Luther. He
could not divest himself of a certain veneration for them. He feared to put forth
his hand and pull them down, nor would he permit those that would. Immediately on
the close of the discussion he left Orlamunde, amid very emphatic marks of popular
disfavor. It was the one field, of the many on which he contended, from which he
was fated to retire with dishonor.
Carlstadt did not stop here. He began to throw his influence into the scale of the
visionaries, and to declaim bitterly against Luther and the Lutherans. This was more
than the Elector Frederick could endure. He ordered Carlstadt to quit his dominions;
and the latter, obeying, wandered southward, in the direction of Switzerland, propagating
wherever he came his views on the Supper; but venting, still more zealously and loudly,
his hatred of Luther, whom he accused as the author of all his calamities. The aged
Elector, at whose orders he had quitted Saxony, was beginning to fear that the Reformation
was advancing too far. His faith in the Reformed doctrine continued to grow, and
was only the stronger the nearer he came to his latter end, which was now not far
off; but the political signs dismayed him. The unsettling of men's minds, and the
many new and wild notions that were vented, and which were the necessary. concomitants
of the great revolution in progress, caused him alarm. The horizon was darkening
all round, but the good Frederick went to his grave in peace, and saw not those tempests
which were destined to shake the world at the birth of Protestantism.
All was peace in the chamber where Frederick the Wise breathed his last. On the 4th
of May (1525) he dictated to an amanuensis his last instructions to his brother John,
who was to succeed him, and 'who was then absent with the army in Thuringia. He charged
him to deal kindly and tenderly with the peasantry, and to remit the duties on wine
and beer. "Be not afraid," he said, "Our Lord God will richly and
graciously compensate us in other ways."[6]
In the evening Spalatin entered the prince's apartment. "It is right,"
said his old master, a smile lighting up his face, "that you should come to
see a sick man." His chair was rolled to the table, and placing his hand in
Spalatin's, he unburdened his mind to him touching the Reformation. His words showed
that the clouds that distressed him had rolled away. "The hand of God,"
said he, "will guide all to a happy issue."
On the morning of the following day he received the Sacrament in both kinds. The
act was witnessed by his domestics, who stood around dissolved in tears. Imploring
their forgivenes, if in anything he had offended then, he bade them all farewell.
A will which had been prepared some years before, and in which he had confided his
soul to the "Mother of God," was now brought forth and burned, and another
dictated, in which he placed his hopes solely on "the merits of Christ."
This was the last of his labors that pertained to earth; and now he gave all his
thoughts to his departure, which was near. Taking into his hand a small treatise
on spiritual consolation, which Spalatin had prepared for his use, he essayed to
read; but the task was too much for him. Drawing near his couch, his chaplain recited
some promises from the Word of God, of which the Elector, in his latter years, had
been a diligent and devout student. A serenity and refreshment of soul came along
with the words; and at five of the afternoon he departed so peacefully, that it was
only by bending over him that his physician saw he had ceased to breathe.[7]
CHAPTER 8 Back
to Top
WAR OF THE PEASANTS.
A New Danger—German Peasantry—Their Oppressions—These grow Worse—The Reformation
Seeks to Alleviate them—The Outbreak—The Reformation Accused—The Twelve Articles—These
Rejected by the Princes—Luther's Course—His Admonitions to the Clergy and the Peasantry—Rebellion
in Suabia—Extends to Franconia, etc.—The Black Forest—Peasant Army—Ravages—Slaughterings—Count
Louis of Helfenstein—Extends to the Rhine—Universal Terror—Army of the Princes—Insurrection
Arrested—Weinsberg—Retaliation—Thomas Munzer—Lessons of the Outbreak.
THE sun of the Reformation was mounting into the sky, and promising to fill the
world with light. In a moment a cloud gathered, overspread the firmament, and threatened
to quench the young day in the darkness of a horrible night.
The troubles that now arose had not been foreseen by Luther. That the Pope, whom
the Reformation would despoil of the triple crown, with all the spiritual glory and
temporal power attendant thereon, should anathematise it; that the emperor, whose
scheme of policy and ambition it thwarted, should make war against it; and that the
numerous orders of the mitre and the cowl should swell the opposition; was to be
expected; but that the people, from whose eyes it was to tear the bandage of spiritual
darkness, and from whose arms it was to rend the fetters of temporal bondage, should
seek to destroy it, had not entered into Luther's calculations. Yet now a terrible
blow—the greatest the Reformation had as yet sustained—came upon it, not from the
Pope, nor from the emperor, but from the people.
The oppressions of the German peasantry had been growing for centuries. They had
long since been stripped of the rude privileges their fathers enjoyed. They could
no longer roam their forests at will, kill what game they pleased, and build their
hut on whatever spot taste or convenience dictated. Not only were they robbed of
their ancient rights, they were compelled to submit to new and galling restrictions.
Tied to their native acres, in many instances, they were compelled, to expend their
sweat in tilling the fields, and spin their blood in maintaining the quarrels of
their masters. To temporal oppression was added ecclesiastical bondage. The small
portion of earthly goods which the baron had left them, the priest wrung from them
by spiritual threats, thus filling their cup of suffering to the brim. The power
of contrast came to embitter their lot. While one part of Germany was sinking into
drudgery and destitution, another part was rising into affluence and power. The free
towns were making rapid strides in the acquisition of liberty, and their example
taught the peasants the way to achieve a like independence—by combination. Letters
and arts were awakening thought and prompting to effort. Last of all came the Reformation,
and that great power vastly widened the range of human vision, by teaching the essential
equality of all men, and weakening the central authority, or key-stone in the arch
of Europe—namely, the Papacy.[1]
It was now evident to many that the hour had fully come when these wrongs,
which dated from ancient times, but which had been greatly aggravated by recent events,
must be redressed. The patience of the sufferers was exhausted; they had begun to
feel their power; and if their fetters were not loosed by their masters, they would
be broken by themselves, and with a blind rage and a destructive fury proportioned
to the ignorance in which they had been kept, and the degradation into which they
had been sunk. In the words of an eloquent writer and philosopher who flourished
in an after-age, "they would break their chains on the heads of their oppressors.[2]
Mutterings of the gathering storm had already been heard. Premonitory insurrections
and tumults had broken out in several of the German countries. The close of the preceding
century had been marked by the revolt of the Boers in Holland, who paraded the country
under a flag, on which was blazoned a gigantic cheese. The sixteenth century opened
amid similar disturbances. Every two or three years there came a "new league,"
followed by a "popular insurrection." These admonished the princes, civil
and spiritual, that they had no alternative, as regarded the future, but reformation
or revolution. Spires, Wurtemberg, Carinthia, and Hungary were the successive theaters
of these revolts, which all sprang from one cause—oppressive labor, burdens which
were growing ever the heavier, and privileges which were waxing ever the narrower.
The poor people, de-humanised by ignorance, knew but of one way of righting them-selves—
demolishing the castles, wasting the lands, spoiling the treasures, and in some instances
slaying the persons of their oppressors.
It was at this hour that the Reformation stepped upon the stage. It came with its
healing virtue to change the hearts and tame the passions of men, and so to charm
into repose the insurrectionary spirit which threatened to devastate the world. It
accomplished its end so far; it would have accomplished it completely, it would have
turned the hearts of the princes to their subjects, and the hearts of the people
to their rulers, had it been suffered to diffuse itself freely among both classes.
Even as it was, it brought with it a pause in these insurrectionary violences, which
had begun to be common. But soon its progress was arrested by force, and then it
was accused as the author of those evils which it was not permitted to cure. "See,"
said Duke George of Saxony, "what an abyss Luther has opened. He has reviled
the Pope; he has spoken evil of dignities; he has filled the minds of the people
with lofty notions of their own importance; and by his doctrines he has sown the
seeds of universal disorder and anarchy. Luther and his Reformation are the cause
of the Peasant-war."
Many besides Duke George found it convenient to shut their eyes to their own misdeeds,
and to make the Gospel the scape-goat of calamities of which they themselves were
the anthors. Even Erasmus upbraided Luther thus—"We are now reaping the fruits
that you have sown."
Some show of reason was given to these accusations by Thomas Munzer, who imported
a religiuus element into this deplorable outbreak. Munzer was a professed disciple
of the Reformation, but he held it to be unworthy of a Christian to be guided by
any objective authority, even the Word of God. He was called to "liberty,"
and the law or limit of that "liberty" was his own inward light. Luther,
he affirmed, by instituting ordinances and forms, had established another Popedom;
and Munzer disliked the Popedom of Wittenberg even more than he did the Popedom of
Rome. The political opinions of Munzer partook of a like freedom with his religious
ones. To submit to princes was to serve Belials. We have no superior but God. The
Gospel taught that all men were equal; and this he interpreted, or rather misinterpreted,
into the democratic doctrine of equality of rank, and community of goods. "We
must mortify the body," said he, "by fasting and simple clothing, look
gravely, speak little, and wear a long beard."
"These and such-like things, says Sleidan, "he called the cross."[3] Such was the man who,
girding on "the sword of Gideon," put himself at the head of the revolted
peasantry. He inoculated them with his own visionary spirit, and taught them to aim
at a liberty of which their own judgments or passions were the rule.
The peasants put their demands (January, 1525) into twelve articles. Considering
the heated imaginations of those who penned them, these articles were reasonable
and moderate. The insurgents craved restitution of certain free domains which had
belonged to their ancestors, and certain rights of hunting and fishing which they
themselves had enjoyed, but which had been taken from them. They demanded, further,
a considerable mitigation of taxes, which burdened them heavily, and which were of
comparatively recent imposition. They headed their claim of rights with the free
choice of their ministers; and it was a further peculiarity of this document, that
each article in it was supported by a text from Scripture.[4]
An enlightened policy would have conceded these demands in the main. Wise
rulers would have said. "Let us make these minions free of the earth, of the
waters, and of the forests, as their fathers were; from serfs let us convert them
into free men. It is better that their skin should enrich, and their valor defend
our territories, than that their blood should water them." Alas! there was not
wisdom enough in the age to adopt such a course. Those on whom these claims were
pressed said, "No," with their hands upon their swords.
The vessel of the Reformation was now passing between the Scylla of established despotism
and the Charybdis of popular lawlessness. It required rare skill to steer it aright.
Shall Luther ally his movement with that of the peasantry? We can imagine him under
some temptation to essay ruling the tempest, in the hope of directing its fury to
the overthrow of a system which he regarded as the parent of all the oppressions
and miseries that filled Christendom, and had brought on at last this mighty convulsion.
One less spiritual in mind, and with less faith in the inherent vitalities of the
Reformation might have been seduced into linking his cause with this tempest. Luther
shrank from such a course. He knew that to ally so holy a cause as the Reformation
with a movement at best but political, would be to profane it; and that to borrow
the sword of men in its behalf was the sure way to forfeit the help of that mightier
sword which alone could will such a battle. The Reformation had its own path and
its own weapons, to which if it adhered, it would assuredly triumph in the end. It
would correct all wrongs, would explode all errors, and pacify all feuds, but only
by propagating its own principles, and diffusing its own spirit among men. Luther,
therefore, stood apart.
But this enabled him all the more, at the right moment, to come in effectively between
the oppressor and the oppressed, and to tell a little of the truth to both.[5] Turning to the princes he reminded them of the long course
of tyranny which they and their fathers had exercised over the poor people. To the
bishops he spoke yet more plainly. They had hidden the light of the Gospel from the
people; they had substituted cheats and fables for the doctrines of Revelation; they
had lettered men by unholy vows, and fleeced them by unrighteous impositions, and
now they were reaping as they had sowed. To be angry at the peasants, he told them,
was to be guilty of the folly of the man who vents his passion against the rod with
which he is struck instead of the hand that wields it. The peasantry was but the
instrument in the hand of God for their chastisement.
Luther next addressed himself to the insurgents. He acknowledged that their complaints
were not without cause, and thus he showed that he had a heart which could sympathize
with them in their miseries, but he faithfully told them that they had taken the
wrong course to remedy them. They would never mitigate their lot by rebellion; they
must exercise Christian submission, and wait the gradual but certain rectification
of their individual wrongs, and those of society at large, by the Divine, healing
power of the Gospel. He sought to enforce his admonition by his own example. He had
not taken the sword; he had relied on the sole instrumentality of the Gospel, and
they themselves knew how much it had done in a very few years to shake the power
of an oppressive hierarchy, with the political despotism that upheld it, and to ameliorate
the condition of Christendom. No army could have accomplished half the work in double
the time. He implored them to permit this process to go on. It is preachers, not
soldiers—the Gospel, not rebellion, that is to benefit the world. And he warned them
that if they should oppose the Gospel in the name of the Gospel, they would only
rivet the yoke of their enemies upon their neck.[6]
The courage of the Reformer is not less conspicuous than his wisdom, in speaking
thus plainly to two such parties at such an hour. But Luther had but small thanks
for his fidelity. The princes accused him of throwing his shield over rebellion,
because he refused to pronounce an unqualified condemnation of the peasantry; and
the peasants blamed him as truckling to the princes, because he was not wholly with
the insurrection. Posterity has judged otherwise. At this, as at every other crisis,
Luther acted with profound moderation and wisdom. His mediation failed, however,
and the storm now burst.
The first insurrectionary cloud rolled up in Suabia, from beside the sources of the
Danube. It made its appearance in the summer of 1524. The insurrectionary spirit
ran like wildfire along the Danube, kindling the peasantry into revolt, and fining
the towns with tumults, seditions, and terrors. By the end of the year Thuringia,
Franconia, and part of Saxony were in a blaze. When the spring of 1525 opened, the
conflagration spread wider still. It was now that the "twelve articles,"
to which we have referred above, were published, and became the standard for the
insurgents to rally round. John Muller, of Bulbenbach, traversed the region of the
Black Forest, attired in a red gown and a red cap, preceded by the tricolor—red,
black, and white—and followed by a herald, who read aloud the "twelve articles,"
and demanded the adherence of the inhabitants of the districts through which he passed.
The peasant army that followed him was continually reinforced by new accessions.
Towns too feeble to resist these formidable bands, opened their gates at their approach,
and not a few knights and barons, impelled by terror, joined their ranks.
The excitement of the insurgents soon grew into fury. Their march was no longer tumultuous
simply, it had now become destructive and desolating. The country in their rear resembled
the track over which all invading and plundering host had passed. Fields were trampled
down, barns and storehouses were rifled, the castles of the nobility were demolished,
and the convents were burned to the ground.[7]
More cruel violences than these did this army of insurgents inflict. They now began
to dye their path with the blood of unhappy victims. They slaughtered mercilessly
those who fell into their power. On Easter Day (April 16th, 1525) they surprised
Weinsberg, in Suabia. Its garrison they condemned to death. The fate of its commander,
Count Louis of Helfenstein, was heart-rending in the extreme. His wife, the natural
daughter of the Emperor Maximilian, threw herself at the feet of the insurgents,
and, holding her infant son in her arms, besought them, with a flood of tears, to
spare her husband.[8]
It was in vain. They lowered their pikes, and ran him through.[9] He fell pierced by innumerable wounds.
It seemed as if this conflagration was destined to rage till it had devoured all
Christendom; as if the work of destruction would go on till all the fences of order
were torn down, and all the symbols of authority defaced, and pause in its career
only when it had issued in a universal democracy, in which neither rank nor property
would be recognised. It extended on the west to the Rhine, where it stirred into
tumult the towns of Spires, Worms, and Cologne, and infected the Palatinate with
its fever of sanguinary vengeance. It invaded Alsace and Lorraine. It convulsed Bavaria,
and Wurtemberg as far as the Tyrol. Its area extended from Saxony to the Alps. Bishops
and nobles fled before it. The princes, taken, by surprise, were without combination
and without spirit,[10]
and, to use the language of Scripture, were "chased as the rolling thing
before the whirlwind."
But soon they recovered from their stupor, and got together their forces. Albert,
Count of Mansfeld, was the first to take the fieid, He was joined, with characteristic
spirit and gallantry, by Philip, Landgrave of Hesse, who was soon followed by John,
Elector of Saxony, and Henry, Duke of Brunswick, who all joined their forces to oppose
the rebel boors. Had the matter rested with the Popish princes, the rebellion would
have raged without resistance. On the 15th May, 1525, the confederate army came upon
the rebel camp at Frankenhausen, where Munzer presided. Finding the rebels poorly
armed, and posted behind a miserable barricade of a few wagons, they sent a messenger
with an offer of pardon, on condition of laying down their arms. On Munzer's advice,
the messenger was put to death. Both sides now prepared for battle. The leader of
the peasant army, Munzer, addressed them in an enthusiastic and inflammatory harangue,
bidding them not fear the army of tyrants they were about to engage; that the sword
of the Lord and of Gideon would fight for them; and that they would this day experience
a like miraculous deliverance as the Israelites at the Red Sea, as David when he
encountered Goliath, and Jonathan when he attacked the garrison of the Philistines.
"Be not afraid," said he, "of their great guns, for in my coat will
I catch all the bullets which they shall shoot at you. See ye not how gracious God
is unto us? Lift up your eyes, and see that rainbow in the clouds; for, seeing we
have the same painted on our banner, God plainly declares by that representation
which he shows us from on high that he will stand by us in the battle, and that he
will utterly destroy our enemies. Fall on them courageously."[11]
Despite this assurance of victory, the rebel host, at the first onset, fled
in the utmost confusion. Munzer was among the first to make his escape. He took refuge
in a house near the gate, where he was discovered after the battle, hid in the garret.
He was committed to the custody of Duke George.
In this encounter 5,000 of the peasantry were slain, and thus the confederates were
at liberty to move their forces into Franconia, where the insurrection still raged
with great fury. The insurgents here burned above 200 castles, besides noblemen's
houses and monasteries. They took the town of Wirtzburg, and besieged the castle;
but Trusches coming upon them charged, discomfited, and put them to flight.
Luther raised his voice again, but this time to pronounce an unqualified condemnation
on a movement which, from a demand for just rights, had become a war of pillage and
murder. He called on all to gird on the sword and resist it. The confederate princes
made George von Trusches general of their army. Advancing by the side of the Lake
of Constance, and dividing his soldiers into three bodies, Trussches attacked the
insurgents with vigor.
Several battles were fought, towns and fortresses were besieged; the peasantry contended
with a furious bravery, knowing that they must conquer or endure a terrible revenge;
but the arms of the princes triumphed. The campaign of this summer sufficed to suppress
this formidable insurrection; but a terrible retaliation did the victors inflict
upon the fanaticised hordes. They slaughtered them by tens of thousands on the battle-field;
they cut them down as they fled; and not unfrequently did they dispatch in cold blood
those who had surrendered on promise of pardon. The lowest estimate of the number
that perished is 50,000, other accounts raise it to 100,000. When we consider the
wide area over which the insurrection extended, and the carnage with which it was
suppressed, we shall probably be of opinion that the latter estimate is nearer the
truth.
A memorable vengeance was inflicted on Weinsberg, the scene of the death of Count
Helfenstein. His murderers were apprehended and executed. The death of one of them
was singularly tragic. He was tied to the stake with a chain, that was long enough
to permit him to run about. Trusches and other persons of quality then fetched wood,
and, strewing it all about, they kindled it into a cruel blaze. As the wretched man
bounded wildly round and round amid the blazing faggots, the princes stood by and
made sport of his tortures.[12]
The town itself was burned to the ground. Munzer, the eclesiastical leader,
who had fired the peasantry by harangues, by portents, by assurances that their enemies
would be miraculously destroyed, and by undertaking "to catch all the bullets
in his sleeve,"[13]
after witnessing the failure of his enterprise, was taken and decapitated.
Prior to execution he was taken before George, Duke of Saxony, and Landgrave Philip.
On being asked why he had misled so many poor people to their ruin, he replied that
"he had done only his duty." The landgrave was at pains to show him that
sedition and rebellion are forbidden in the Scriptures, and that Christians are not
at liberty to avenge their wrongs by their own private authority. To this he was
silent. On the rack he shrieked and laughed by turns; but when about to die he openly
acknowledged his error and crimes. By way of example his head was stuck upon a pole
in the open fields.[14]
Such horrible ending had the insurrection of the peasants. Ghastly memorials
marked the provinces where this tempest had passed; fields wasted, cities overturned,
castles and dwellings in ruins, and, more piteous still, corpses dangling from the
trees, or gathered in heaps in the fields. The gain remained with Rome. The old worship
was in some places restored, and the yoke of feudal bondage was more firmly riveted
than before upon the necks of the people.
Nevertheless, the outbreak taught great lessons to the world, worth a hundredfold
all the sufferings endured, if only they had been laid to heart. The peasant-war
illustrated the Protestant movement by showing how widely it differed from Romanism,
in both its origin and its issues. The insurrection did not manifest itself, or in
but the mildest type, at Wittenberg and in the places permeated by the Wittenberg
movement. When it touched ground which the Reformation had occupied, it became that
instant powerless. It lacked air to fan it; it found no longer inflammable materials
to kindle into a blaze. The Gospel said to this wasting conflagration, "Thus
far, but no farther." Could any man doubt that if Bavaria and the neighboring
provinces had been in the same condition with Saxony, there would have been no peasant-war?
This outbreak taught the age, moreover, that Protestantism could no more be advanced
by popular violence than it could be suppressed by aristocratic tyranny. It was independent
of both; it must advance by its own inherent might along its own path. In fine, this
terrible outbreak gave timely warning to the world of what the consequences would
be of suppressing the Reformation. It showed that underneath the surface of Christendom
there was an abyss of evil principles and fiendish passions, which would one day
break through and rend society in pieces, unless they were extinguished by a Divine
influence. Munzer and his "inward light" was but the precursor of Voltaire
and the "illuminati" of his school. The peasants' war of 1525 was the first
opening of "the fountains of the great deep." The "Terror" was
first seen stalking through Germany. It slumbered for two centuries while the religious
and political power of Europe was undergoing a process of slow emasculation. Then
the "Terror" again awoke, and the blasphemies, massacres, and wars of the
French Revolution overwhelmed Europe.
CHAPTER 9 Back
to Top
THE BATTLE OF PAVIA AND ITS INFLUENCE ON PROTESTANTISM.
The Papacy Entangles itself with Earthly Interests—Protestantism stands Alone—Monarchy
and the Popedom—Which is to Rule?—The Conflict a Defence in Protestantism—War between
the Emperor and Francis I.— Expulsion of the French from Italy—Battle of Pavia—Capture
and Captivity of Francis I.—Charles V. at the Head of Europe— Protestantism to be
Extirpated—Luther Marries—The Nuns of Nimptsch—Catherine von Bora—Antichrist about
to be Born—What Luther's Marriage said to Rome.
THERE Was one obvious difference between that movement of which Rome was the headquarters,
and that of which Wittenberg was the center. The Popedom mixed itself up with the
politics of Europe; Protestantism, on the other hand, stood apart, and refused to
ally itself with earthly confederacies. The consequence was that the Papacy had to
shape its course to suit the will of those on whom it leaned. It rose and fell with
the interests with which it had cast in its lot. The loss of a battle or the fall
of a statesman would, at times, bring it to the brink of ruin. Protestantism, on
the other hand, was free to hold its own course and to develop its own principles.
The fall of monarchs and the changes in the political world gave it no uneasiness.
Instead of fixing its gaze on the troubled ocean around it, its eye was lifted to
heaven.
At this hour intrigues, ambitions, and wars were rife all round Protestantism. The
Kings of Spain and France were striving with one another for the possession of Italy.
The Pope thought, of course, that he had a better right than either to be master
in that country. He was jealous of both monarchs, and shaped his policy so as to
make the power of the one balance and check that of the other. He hoped to be able
one day to drive both out of the peninsula, if not by arms, yet by arts; but till
that day should come, his safety lay in appearing to be the friend of both, and in
taking care that the one should not be very much stronger than the other.
All three—the Emperor, the King of France, and the Pope—in whatever else they differed,
were the enemies of the Reformation; and had they united their arms they would have
been strong enough, in all reckoning of human chances, to put down the Protestant
movement. But their dynastic ambitions, fomented largely by the personal piques and
crafty and ambitious projects of the men around them, kept them at almost perpetual
feud. Each aspired to be the first man of his time. The Pope was still dreaming of
restoring to the Papal See the supremacy which it possessed in the days of Gregory
VII. and Innocent III., and of dictating to both Charles and Francis. These sovereigns,
on the other hand, were determined not to let go the superiority which they had at
last achieved over the tiara.
The struggle of monarchy to keep what it had got, of the tiara to regain what it
had lost, and of all three to be uppermost, filled their lives with disquiet, their
kingdoms with misery, and their age with war. But these rivalries were a wall of
defense around that Divine principle which was growing up into majestic stature in
a world shaken by the many furious storms that were raging on it.
Scarce had the young emperor Charles V. thrown down the gage of battle to Protestantism,
when these tempests broke in from many quarters. He had just fulminated the edict
which consigned Luther to destruction, and was drawing his sword to execute it, when
a quarrel broke out between himself and Francis I. The French army, crossing the
Pyrenees, overran Navarre and entered Castile. The emperor hastened back to Spain
to take measures for the defense of his kingdom. The war, thus begun, lasted till
1524, and ended in the expulsion of the French from Milan and Genoa, where they had
been powerful ever since the days of Charles VIII. Nor did hostilities end here.
The emperor, indignant at the invasion of his kingdom, and wishing to chastise his
rival on his own soil, sent his army into France.
The chivalry of Francis I., and the patriotic valor of his subjects, drove back the
invaders. But the French king, not content with having rid himself of the soldiers
of Spain, would chastise the emperor in his turn. He followed the Spanish army into
Itay, and sought to recover the cities and provinces whereof he had recently been
despoiled, and which were all the dearer to him that they were situated in a land
to which he was ever exceedingly desirous of stretching his scepter, but from which
he was so often compelled, to his humiliation, again to draw it back.
The winter of 1525 beheld the Spanish and French armies face to face under the walls
of Pavia. The place was strongly fortified, and had held out against the French for
now two months, although Francis I. had employed in its reduction all the engineering
expedients known to the age. Despite the obstinacy of the defenders, it was now evident
that the town must fall. The Spairish garrison, reduced to extremity, sallied forth,
and joined battle, with the besiegers with all the energy of despair.
This day was destined to bring with it a terrible reverse in the fortunes of Francis
I. Its dawn saw him the first warrior of his age; its evening found him in the abject
condition of a captive. His army was defeated under the walls of that city which
they had been on the point of entering as conquerors. Ten thousand, including many
a gallant knight, lay dead on the field, and the misfortune was crowned by the capture
of the king himself, who was taken prisoner in the battle, and carried to Madrid
as a trophy of the conqueror. In Spain, Francis I. dragged out a wretched year in
captivity. The emperor, elated by his good fortune, and desirous not only of humiliating
his royal prisoner, but of depriving him of the power of injuring him in time to
come, imposed very hard conditions of ransom.
These the French king readily subscribed, and all the more so that he had not the
slightest intention of fulfilling them. "In the treaty of peace, it is stipulated
among other things," says Sleidan, "that the emperor and king shall endeavor
to extirpate the enemies of the Christian religion, and the heresies of the sect
of the Lutherans. In like manner, that peace being made betwixt them, they should
settle the affairs of the public, and make war against the Turk and heretics excommunicated
by the Church; for that it was above all things necessary, and that the Pope had
often solicited and advised them to bestir themselves therein. That, therefore, in
compliance with his desires, they resolved to entreat him that he would appoint a
certain day when the ambassadors and deputies of all kings and princes might meet,
in a convenient place, with full power and commission to treat of such measures as
might seem proper for undertaking a war against the Turk, and also for rooting out
heretics and the enemies of the Church."[1]
Other articles were added of a very rigorous kind, such as that the French
king should surrender Burgundy to the emperor, and renounce all pretensions to Italy,
and deliver up his two eldest sons as hostages for the fulfillment of the stipulations.
Having signed the treaty, early in January, 1526, Francis was set at liberty. Crossing
the frontier near Irun, and touching French soil once more, he waved his cap in the
air, and shouting aloud, "I am yet a king!" he put spurs to his Turkish
horse, and galloped along the road to St. John de Luz, where his courtiers waited
to welcome him.[2]
The hour was now come, so Charles V. thought, when he could deal his long-meditated
blow against the Wittenberg heresy. Never since he ascended the throne had he been
so much at liberty to pursue the policy to which his wishes prompted. The battle
of Pavia had brought the war in Italy to a more prosperous issue than he had dared
to hope. France was no longer a thorn in his side. Its monarch, formerly his rival,
he had now converted into his ally, or rather, as Charles doubtless believed, into
his lieutenant, bound to aid him in his enterprises, and specially in that one that
lay nearer his heart than any other. Moreover, the emperor was on excellent terms
with the King of England, and it was the interest of the English minister, Cardinal
Wolsey, who cherished hopes of the tiara through the powerful influence of Charles,
that that good understanding should continue. As regarded Pope Clement, the emperor
was on the point of visiting Rome to receive the imperial crown from the Pontiff's
hands, and in addition, doubtless, the apostolic benediction on the enterprise which
Charles had in view against an enemy that Clement abhorred more than he did the Turk.
This was a most favorable juncture for prosecuting the battle of the Papacy. The
victory of Pavia had left Charles the most puissant monarch in Europe. On all sides
was peace, and having vanquished so many foes, surely it would be no difficult matter
to extinguish the monk, who had neither sword nor buckler to defend him. Accordingly,
Charles now took the first step toward the execution of his design. Sitting down
(May 24, 1525) in the stately Alcazar of Toledo,[3] whose rocky foundations are washed by the Tagus, he indited
his summons to the princes and States of Germany to meet at Augsburg, and take measures
"to defend the Christian religion, and the holy rites and customs received from
their ancestors, and to prohibit all pernicious doctrines and innovations."
This edict the emperor supplemented by instructions from Seville, dated March 23,
1526, which, in effect, enjoined the princes to see to the execution of the Edict
of Worms.[4] Every hour the tempest
that was gathering over Protestantism grew darker.
If at no previous period had the emperor been stronger, or his sword so free to execute
his purpose, at no time had Luther been so defenseless as now. His protector, the
Elector Frederick, whose circumspection approached timidity, but whose purpose was
ever resolute and steady, was now dead. The three princes who stood up in his room—the
Elector John, Philip, Landgrave of Hesse, and Albert of Prussia—were new to the cause;
they lacked the influence which Frederick possessed; they were discouraged, almost
dismayed, by the thickening dangers—Germany divided, the Ratisbon League rampant,
and the author of the Edict of Worms placed by the unlooked-for victory of Pavia
at the head of Europe.
The only man who did not tremble was Luther. Not that he did not see the formidable
extent of the danger, but because he was able to realize a Defender whom others could
not see. He knew that if the Gospel had been stripped of all earthly defense it was
not because it was about to perish, but because a Divine hand was about to be stretched
out in its behalf, so visibly as to give proof to the world that it had a Protector,
though "unseen," more powerful than all its enemies. While dreadful fulminations
were coming from the other side of the Alps, and while angry and mortal menaces were
being hourly uttered in Germany, what did Luther do? Run to his cell, and do penance
in sackcloth and ashes to turn away the ire of emperor and Pontiff? No. Taking Catherine
von Bors by the hand he led her to the altar, and made her his wife.[5]
Catherine von Bora was the daughter of one of the minor nobles of the Saxon
Palatinate. Her father's fortune was not equal to his rank, and this circumstance
disabling him from giving Catherine a dowry, he placed her in the convent of Nimptsch,
near Grimma, in Saxony. Along with the eight nuns who were the companions of her
seclusion, she studied the Scriptures, and from them the sisters came to see that
their vow was not binding. The Word of God had unbarred the door of their cell. The
nine nuns, leaving the convent in a body, repaired to Wittenberg, and were there
maintained by the bounty of the elector, administered through Luther. In process
of time all the nuns found husbands, and Kate alone of the nine remained unmarried.
The Reformer thus had opportunity of knowing her character and virtues, and appreciating
the many accomplishments which were more rarely the ornament of the feminine intellect
in those days than they are in ours. The marriage took place on the 11th of June.
On the evening of that day, Luther, accompanied by the pastor Pomeranus, whom he
had asked to bless the union, repaired to the house of the burgomaster, who had been
constituted Kate's guardian, and there, in the presence of two witnesses—the great
painter, Lucas Cranach, and Dr. John Apella — the marriage took place. On the 15th
of June, Luther says, in a letter to Ruhel, "I have made the determination to
retain nothing of my Papistical life, and thus I have entered the state of matrimony,
at the urgent solicitation of my father."[6] The special purport of the letter was to invite Ruhel to
the marriage-feaast, which was to be given on Tuesday, the 27th of June. The old
couple from Mansfeld—John and Margaret Luther — were to be present. Ruhel was wealthy,
and Luther, with characteristic frankness, tells him that any present he might choose
to bring with him would be acceptable. Wenceslaus Link, of Nuremberg, whose nuptials
Luther had blessed some time before, was also invited; but, being poor, it was stipulated
that he should bring no present. Spalatin was to send some venison, and come himself.
Amsdorf also was of the number of the guests. Philip
Melancthon, the dearest friend of all, was absent. We can guess the reason. The bold
step of Luther had staggered him. To marry while so many calamities impended! Philip
went about some days with an anxious and clouded face, but when the clamor arose
his brow cleared, his eye brightened, and he became the warmest. defender of the
marriage of the Reformer, in which he was joined by not a few wise and moderate men
in the Romish Church.[7]
The union was hardly effected when, as we have already hinted, a shout of
indignation arose, as if Luther had done some impious and horrible thing. "It
is incest!" exclaimed Henry VIII. of England. "From this marriage will
spring Antichrist," said others, remembering with terror that some nameless
astrologer of the Middle Ages had foretold that Antichrist would be the issue of
a perjured nun and an apostate monk. "How many Antichrists," said Erasmus,
with that covert but trenchant irony in which he was so great a master, "How
many Antichrists must there be then in the world already."[8] What was Luther's crime? He had obeyed an ordinance which
God has instituted, and he had entered into a state which an apostle has pronounced
"honorable in all." But he did not heed the noise. It was his way of saying
to Rome, "This is the obedience I give to your ordinances, and this is the awe
in which I stand of your threatenings." The rebuke thus tacitly given sank deep.
It was another inexpiable offense, added to many former ones, for which, as Rome
fondly believed, the hour of recompense was now drawing nigh. Even some of the disciples
of the Reformation were scandalised at Luther's marrying an ex-nun, so slow are men
to cast off the trammels of ages.
With Catherine Bora there entered a new light into the dwelling of Luther. To sweetness
and modesty, she added a more than ordinary share of good sense. A genuine disciple
of the Gospel, she became the faithful companion and help-meet of the Reformer in
all the labors and trials of his subsequent life. From the inner circle of that serenity
and peace which her presence diffused around him, he looked forth upon a raging world
which was continually seeking to destroy him, and which marvelled that the Reformer
did not sink, not seeing the Hand that turned aside the blows which were being ceaselessly
aimed at him.
CHAPTER 10 Back
to Top
DIETAT SPIRES, 1526, AND LEAGUE AGAINST THE EMPEROR.
A Storm—Rolls away from Wittenberg—Clement Hopes to Restore the Mediaeval Papal Glories—Forms
a League against the Emperor— Changes of the Wind—Charles turns to Wittenberg—Diet
at Spires— Spirit of the Lutheran Princes—Duke John—Landgrave Philip—"The Word
of the Lord endureth for ever"—Protestant Sermons—City Churches Deserted—The
Diet takes the Road to Wittenberg—The Free Towns—The Reforms Demanded—Popish Party
Discouraged—The Emperor's Letter from Seville—Consternation.
THE storm had been coming onward for some time. The emperor and the Pope, at the
head of the confederate kings and subservient princes of the Empire, were advancing
against the Reformation, to strike once and for all. Events fell out in the Divine
appointment that seemed to pave the way of the assailing host, and make their victory
sure. Frederick, who till now had stood between Luther and the mailed hand of Charles,
was at that moment borne to the tomb. It seemed as if the crusades of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries were about to be repeated, and that the Protestantism of
the sixteenth century was to be extinguished in a tempest of horrors, similar to
that which had swept away the Albigensian confessors. However, despite the terrible
portents now visible in every quarter of the sky, the confidence of Luther that all
would yet go well was not to be disappointed. Just as the tempest seemed about to
burst over Wittenberg, to the amazement of all men, it rolled away, and discharged
itself with terrific violence on Rome. Let us see how this came about.
Of the potentates with whom Charles had contracted alliance, or with whom he was
on terms of friendship, the one he could most thoroughly depend on, one would have
thought, was the Pope. In the affair the emperor had now in hand, the interest and
policy of Charles and of Clement were undoubtedly identical. On what could the Pope
rely for deliverance from that host of heretics that Germany was sending forth, but
on the sword of Charles V.? Yet at this moment the Pope suddenly turned against the
emperor, and, as if smitten with infatuation, wrecked the expedition that Charles
meditated for the triumph of Rome and the humiliation of Wittenberg just as the emperor
was on the point of beginning it. This was passing strange, What motive led the Pope
to adopt a policy so suicidal? That which misled Clement was his dream of restoring
the lost glories of the Popedom, and making it what it had been under Gregory VII.
We have already pointed out the change effected in the European system by the wars
of the fifteenth century, and how much that change contributed to pave the way for
the advent of Protestantism. The Papacy was lowered and monarchy was lifted up; but
the Popes long cherished the hope that the change was only temporary, that Christendom
would return to its former state—the true one they deemed it—and that all the crowns
of Europe would be once more under the tiara. Therefore, though Clement was pleased
to see the advancement of Charles V. so far as it enabled him to serve the Roman
See, he had no wish to see him at the summit. The Pope was especially jealous of
the Spanish power in Italy.
Charles already possessed Naples; the victory of Pavia had given him a firm footing
in Lombardy. Thus, both in the north and in the south of the Italian peninsula, the
Spanish power hemmed in the Pontiff. Clement aspired to erect Italy into an independent
kingdom, and from Rome, its old capital, govern it as its temporal monarch, while
he swayed his scepter over all Christendom as its spiritual chief. The hour was favorable,
he thought, for the realization of this fine project. There was a party of literary
men in Florence and Rome who were full of the idea of restoring Italy to her old
place among the kingdoms. This idea was the result of the literary and artistic progress
of the Italians during the half-century which had just elapsed;[1] and the result enables us to compare the relative forces
of the Renaissance and the Reformation. The first engendered in the bosoms of the
Italians a burning detestation of the yoke of their foreign masters, but left them
entirely without power to free themselves. The last brought both the love of liberty
and the power of achieving it.
Knowing this feeling on the part of his countrymen, Pope Clement, thinking the hour
was come for restoring to the Papacy its mediaeval glories, opened negotiations with
Louisa of Savoy, who administered the government of France during the captivity of
her son, and afterwards with Francis I. himself when he had recovered his liberty.
He corresponded with the King of England, who favored the project; with Venice, with
Milan, with the Republic of Florence. And all these parties, moved by fear of the
overgrown power of the emperor, were willing to enter into a league with the Pope
against Charles V. This, known as the "Holy League," was subscribed at
Cognac, and the King of England was put at the head of it.[2]
Thus suddenly did the change come. Blind to everything beyond his immediate
object—to the risks of war, to the power of his opponent, and to the diversion he
was creating in favor of Wittenberg—the Pope, without loss of time, sent his army
into the Duchy of Milan, to begin operations against the Spaniards.[3]
While hostilities are pending in the north of Italy, let us turn our eyes
to Germany. The Diet, which, as we have already said, had been summoned by Charles
to meet at Augsburg, was at this moment assembled at Spires It had met at Augsburg,
agreeably to the imperial command, in November, 1525, but it was so thinly attended
that it adjourned to midsummer next year, to be held at Spires, where we now find
it. It had been convoked in order to lay the train for the execution of the Edict
of Worms, and the suppression of Protestantism. But between the issuing of the summons
and meeting of the assembly the politics of Europe had entirely changed. When the
emperor's edict passed out of the gates of the Alcazar of Toledo the wind was setting
full toward the Vatican, the Pope was the emperor's staunchest ally, and was preparing
to place the imperial crown on his head; but since then the wind had suddenly veered
round toward the opposite quarter, and Charles must turn with it—he must play off
Luther against Clement. This complete reversal of the political situation was as
yet unknown in Germany, or but vaguely surmised.
The Diet assembled at Spires on the. 25th of June, 1526, and all the electoral princes
were present, except the Prince of Brandenburg.[4] The Reformed princes were in strong muster, and in high spirits.
The fulminations from Spain had not terrified them. Their courage might be read in
the gallantry of their bearing as they rode along to Spires, at the head of their
armed retainers, with the five significant letters blazoned on their banners, and
shown also on their escutcheons hung out on the front of their hotels, and even embroidered
on the liveries of their servants,V. D. M. I. AE., that is, Verbum Domini manet in
AEternum (" The word of the Lord endureth for ever").[5]
Theirs was not the crestfallen air of men who were going to show cause why
they dared be Lutherans when it was the will of the emperor that they should be Romanists.
Charles had thundered against them in his ban; they had given their reply in the
motto which they had written upon their standards, "The Word of God." Under
this sign would they conquer. Their great opponent was advancing against them at
the head of kingdoms and armies; but the princes lifted their eyes to the motto on
their ensigns, and took courage: "Some trust in chariots, and some in horses;
but we will remember the name of the Lord our God."[6]
Whoever in the sixteenth century would assert rank and challenge influence,
must display a corresponding magnificence. John, Duke of Saxony, entered Spires with
a retinue of 700 horsemen. The splendor of his style of living far exceeded that
of the other electors, ecclesiastical and lay, and gained for him the place of first
prince of the Empire. The next after Duke John to figure at the Diet was Phllip,
Landgrave of Hesse. His wealth did not enable him to maintain so numerous a retinue
as Duke John, but his gallant bearing, ready address, and skill in theological discussion
gave him a grand position. Bishops he did not fear to encounter in debate. His arsenal
was the Bible, and so adroit was he in the use of his weapons, that his antagonist,
whether priest or layman, was sure to come off only second best. Both Duke John and
Landgrave Philip understood the crisis that had arrived, and resolved that nothing
should be wanting on their part to ward off the dangers that from so many quarters,
and in a combination so formidable, threatened at this hour the Protestant cause.
Their first demand on arriving at Spires was for a church in which the Gospel might
be preached. The Bishop of Spires stood aghast at the request. Did the princes know
what they asked? Was not Lutheranism under the ban of the Empire? Had not the Diet
been assembled to suppress it, and uphold the old religion? If then he should open
a Lutheran conventicle in the city, and set up a Lutheran pulpit in the midst of
the Diet, what would be thought of his conduct at Rome? No? while the Church's oil
was upon him he would listen to no such proposal. Well, replied the princes in effect,
if a church cannot be had, the Gospel will lose none of its power by being preached
outside cathedral. The elector and landgrave, who had brought their chaplains with
them, opened their hotels for worship.[7]
On one Sunday, it is said, as many as 8,000 assembled to the Protestant sermon.
While the saloons of the princes were thronged, the city churches were deserted.
If we except Ferdinand and the Catholic princes, who thought it incumbent upon them
to countenance the old worship, scarce in nave or aisle was there worshipper to be
seen. The priests were left alone at the foot of the altars. The tracts of Luther,
freely distributed in Spires, helped too to make the popular tide set yet more strongly
in the Reformed direction; and the public feeling, so unequivocally declared, reacted
on the Diet.
The Reformed princes and their friends were never seen at mass; and on the Church's
fast-days, as on other days, meat appeared at their tables. Perhaps they were a little
too ostentatious in letting it be known that they gave no obedience to the ordinance
od "Forbidden meats." It was not necessary on "magro day, as the Italians
call it, to carry smoking joints to Lutheran tables in full sight of Romanist assemblies
engaged in their devotions, in order to show their Protestantism.[8] They took other and more commendable methods to distinguish
between themselves and the adherents of the old creed. They strictly charged their
attendants to an orderly and obliging behavior; they commanded them to eschew taverns
and gaming-tables, and generally to keep aloof from the roystering and disorderly
company which the Diets of the Empire commonly drew into the cities where they were
held.[9] Their preachers proclaimed
the doctrines, and their followers exhibited the fruits of Lutheranism. Thus all
undesignedly a powerful Protestant propaganda was established in Spires. The leaven
was spreading in the population.
Meanwhile the Diet was proceeding with its business. Ferdinand of Austria it was
suspected had very precise instructions from his brother, the emperor, touching the
measures he wished the Diet to adopt. But Ferdinand, before delivering them, waited
to see how the Diet would incline. If it should hold the straight road, so unmistakably
traced out; in the Edict of Worms, he would be spared the necessity of delivering
the harsh message with which he had been charged; but if the Diet should stray in
the direction of Wittenberg, then he would make known the emperor's commands.
The Diet had not gone far till it was evident that it had left the road in which
Ferdinand and the emperor desired that it should walk. Not only did it not execute
the Edict of Worms—declaring this to be impossible, and that if the emperor were
on the spot he too would be of this mind—but it threw on Charles the blame of the
civil strife which had lately raged in Germany, by so despotically forbidding in
the Decree of Burgos the assembling of the Diet at Spires, as agreed on at Nuremberg,
and so leaving the wounds of Germany to fester, till they issued in "seditions
and a bloody civil war." It demanded, moreover, the speedy convocation of a
general or national council to redress the public grievances. In these demands we
trace the rising influence of the free towns in the Diet. The lay element was asserting
itself, and challenging the sole right of the priests to settle ecclesiastical affairs.
The Popish members, perceiving how the tide was setting, became discouraged.[10]
Nor was this all. A paper was given in (August 4th) to the princes by the
representatives of several of the cities of Germany, proposing other changes in opposition
to the known will and policy of the emperor. In this paper the cities complained
that poor men were saddled with Mendicant friars, who "wheedled them, and ate
the bread out of their mouths; nor was that all—many times they hooked in inheritances
and most ample legacies." The cities demanded that a stop should be put to the
multiplication of these fraternities; that when any of the friars died their places
should not be filled by new members; that those among them who were willing to embrace
another calling should have a small annual pension allowed them; and that the rest
of their revenues should be brought into the public treasury. It was not reasonable,
they further maintained, that the clergy should be exempt from all public burdens.
That privilege had been granted them of old by the bounty of kings; but then they
were "few in number" and "low in fortune;" now they were both
numerous and rich.
The exemption was the more invidious that the clergy shared equally with others in
the advantages for which money and taxes were levied. They complained, moreover,
of the great number of holidays. The severe penalties which forbade useful labor
on these days did not shut out temptations to vice and crime, and these periods of
compulsory idleness were as unfavorable to the practice of virtue as to the habit
of industry. They prayed, moreover, that the law touching forbidden meats should
be abolished, and that all men should be left at liberty on the head of ceremonies
till such time as a General Council should assemble, and that meanwhile no obstruction
should be offered to the preaching of the Gospel.[11]
It was now that the storm really burst. Seeing the Diet treading the road
that led to Wittenberg, and fearing that, should he longer delay, it would arrive
there, Ferdinand drew forth from its repose in the recesses of his cabinet the emperor's
letter, and read it to the deputies. The letter was dated Seville, March 26, 1526.
[12] Charles had snatched
a moment's leisure in the midst of his marriage festivities to make known his will
on the religious question, in prospect of the meeting of the Diet. The emperor informed
the princes that he was about to proceed to Rome to be crowned; that he would consult
with the Pope touching the calling of a General Council; that meanwhile he "willed
and commanded that they should decree nothing contrary to the ancient customs, canons,
and ceremonies of the Church, and that all things should be ordered within his dominions
according to the form and tenor of the Edict of Worms."[13] This was the Edict of Worms over again. It meted out to the
disciples of Protestantism chains, prisons, and stakes.
The first moments were those of consternation. The check was the more severe that
it came at a time when the hopes of the Protestants were high. Landgrave Philip was
triumphing in the debate; the free towns were raising their voices; the Popish section
of the Diet was maintaining a languid fight; all Germany seemed on the point of being
carried over to the Lutheran side; when, all at once, the Protestants were brought
up before the powerful man who, as the conqueror of Pavia, had humbled the King of
France, and placed himself at the summit of Europe. In his letter they heard the
first tramp of his legions advancing to overwhelm them. Verily they had need to lift
their eyes again to their motto, and draw fresh courage from it—"The Word of
the Lord endureth for ever."
CHAPTER 11 Back
to Top
THE SACK OF ROME.
A Great Crisis—Deliverance Dawns—Tidings of Feud between the Pope and Emperor—Political
Situation Reversed—Edict of Worms Suspended—Legal Settlement of Toleration in Germany—The
Tempest takes the Direction of Rome— Charles's Letter to Clement VII.—An Army Raised
in Germany for the Emperor's Assistance — Freundsberg—The German Troops Cross the
Alps—Junction with the Spanish General—United Host March on Rome—The City Taken—Sack
of Rome—Pillage and Slaughter—Rome never Retrieves the Blow.
WHAT were the Protestant princes to do? On every hand terrible dangers threatened
their cause. The victory of Pavia, as we have already said, had placed Charles at
the head of Christendom: what now should prevent his giving effect to the Edict of
Worms? It had hung, like a naked sword, above Protestantism these five years, threatening
every moment to descend and crush it. Its author was now all-powerful: what should
hinder his snapping the thread that held it from falling? He was on his way to concert
measures to that effect with the Pope. In Germany, the Ratisbon League was busy extirpating
Lutheranism within its territories. Frederick was in his grave. From the Kings of
England and France no aid was to be expected. The Protestants were hemmed in on every
hand.
It was at that hour that a strange rumor reached their ears. The emperor and the
Pope were, it was whispered, at strife! The news was hardly credible. At length came
detailed accounts of the league that Clement VII. had formed against the emperor,
with the King of England at its head. The Protestants, when these tidings reached
them, thought they saw a pathway beginning to open through the midst of tremendous
dangers. But a little before, they had felt as the Israelites did on the shore of
the Red Sea, with the precipitous cliffs of Aba Deraj on their right, the advancing
war- chariots and horsemen of Pharaoh on their left, while behind them rose the peaks
of Atakah, and in front rolled the waters of the broad, deep, and impassable gulf
No escape was left the terror-stricken Israelites, save through the plain of Badiya,
which opened in their rear, and led back into the former house of their bondage.
So of the men who were now essaying to flee from a gloomier prison, and a more debasing
as well as more lengthened bondage than that of the Israelites in Egypt, "they"
were "entangled in the land, the wilderness" had "shut them in."
Behind them was the Ratisbon League; in front were the emperor and Pope, one in interest
and policy, as the Protestant princes believed. They had just had read to them the
stern command of Charles to abolish no law, change no doctrine, and omit no rite
of the Roman Church, and to proceed in accordance with the Edict of Worms; which
was as much as to say, Unsheath your swords, and set about the instant and complete
purgation of Germany from Luther and Lutheranism, under penalty of being yourselves
visited with a like infliction by the arms of the Empire. How they were to escape
from this dilemma, save by a return to the obedience of the Pope, they could not
at that moment see. As they turned first to one hand, then to another, they could
descry nothing but unscaleable cliffs, and fathomless abysses. At length deliverance
appeared to dawn in the most unexpected quarter of all. They had never looked to
Rome or to Spain, yet there it was that they began to see escape opening to them.
The emperor and the Pope, they were told, were at variance: so then they were to
march through the sundered camp of their enemies. With feelings of wonder and awe,
not less lively than those of the Hebrew host when they saw the waves beginning to
divide, and a pathway to open from shore to shore, did the Lutheran chiefs and their
followers see the host of their foes, gathered in one mighty confederacy to overwhelm
them, begin to draw apart, and ultimately form themselves into two opposing camps,
leaving a pathway between, by which the little Protestant army, under their banner
with its sacred emblazonry—"The Word of the Lord endureth for ever"— might
march onwards to a place of safety. The influence that parted the hearts and councils
of their enemies, and turned their arms against each other, they no more could see
than the Israelites could see the Power that divided the waters and made them stand
upright, but that the same Power was at work in the latter as in the former case
they could not doubt. The Divine Hand has never been wanting to the Gospel and its
friends, but seldom has its interposition been more manifest than at this crisis.
The emperor's ukase from Seville, breathing death to Lutheranism, was nearly as much
out of date and almost as little to be regarded as if it had been fulminated a century
before. A single glance revealed to the Lutheran princes the mighty change which
had taken place in affairs. Christendom was now in arms against the man who but a
few months ago had stood at its summit; and, instead of girding himself to fight
against Lutheranism for the Pope, Charles must now ask the aid of Lutheranism in
the battle that he was girding himself to fight against the Pope and his confederate
kings.
It was even whispered in the Diet that conciliatory instructions of later date had
arrived from the emperor.[1]
Ferdinand, it was said, was bidden in these later letters to draw toward Duke
John and the other Lutheran princes, to cancel the penal clauses in the Edict of
Worms, and to propose that the whole religious controversy should be referred to
a General Council; but he feared, it was said, to make these instructions known,
lest he should alienate the Popish members of the Diet.
Nor was it necessary he should divulge the new orders. The astounding news of the
"League of Cognac," that "most holy confederation" of which Clement
VII. was the patron and promoter, had alone sufficed to sow distrust and dismay among
the Popish members of the Diet. They knew that this strange league had "broken
the bow" of the emperor, had weakened the hands of his friends in the Council;
and that to press for the execution of the Edict of Worms would result only in damage
to the man and the party in whose interests it had been framed.
In the altered relations of the emperor to the Papacy, the Popish section of the
Diet—among the more prominent of whom were the Dukes of Brunswick and Pomerania,
Prince George of Saxony, and the Dukes of Bavaria— dared not come to an open rupture
with the Reformers. The peasant-war had just swept over Germany, leaving many parts
of the Fatherland covered with ruins and corpses, and to begin a new conflict with
the Lutheran princes, and the free and powerful cities which had espoused the cause
of the Reformation, would be madness. Thus the storm passed away. Nay, the crisis
resulted in great good to the Reformation. "A decree was made at length to this
purpose," says Sleidan, "that for establishing religion, and maintaining
peace and quietness, it was necessary there should be a lawful General or Provincial
Council of Germany held within a year; and, that no delay or impediment might intervene,
that ambassadors should be sent to the emperor, to pray him that he would look upon
the miserable and tumultuous state of the Empire, and come into Germany as soon as
he could, and procure a Council. As to religion and the Edict of Worms," continued
the Diet—conferring by a simple expedient one of the greatest of blessings—"
As to religion and the Edict of Worms, in the meanwhile till a General or National
Council can be had, all shall so behave themselves in their several provinces as
that they may be able to render an account of their doings both to God and the emperor"[2] — that is, every State
was to be free to act in religion upon its own judgment.
Most historians have spoken of this as a great epoch. "The legal existence of
the Protestant party in the Empire," says Ranke, "is based on the Decree
of Spires of 1526."[3]
"The Diet of 1526," says D'Aubigne, "forms an important epoch
in history: an ancient power, that of the Middle Ages, is shaken; a new power, that
of modern times, is advancing; religious liberty boldly takes its stand in front
of Romish despotism; a lay spirit prevails over the sacerdotal spirit."[4] This edict was the first legal blow dealt at the supremacy
and infallibility of Rome. It was the dawn of toleration in matters of conscience
to nations: the same right had still to be extended to individuals. A mighty boon
had been won. Campaigns have been fought for less blessings: the Reformers had obtained
this without unsheathing a single sword.
But the storm did not disperse without first bursting. As the skies of Germany became
clear those of Rome became overcast. The winter passed away in some trifling affairs
between the Papal and the Spanish troops in Lombardy; but when the spring of 1527
opened, a war-cloud began to gather, and in due time it rolled down from the Alps,
and passing on to the south, it discharged itself in terrible violence upon the city
and chair of the Pontiff.
Before having recourse to arms against the "Holy Father," who, contrary
to all the probabilities of the case, and contrary also to his own interest, had
conspired against his most devoted as well as most powerful son, the emperor made
trial of his pen. In a letter of the 18th September, written in the gorgeous halls
of the Alhambra, Charles reminded Clement VII. of the many services he had rendered
him, for which, it appeared, he must now accept as payment the league formed against
him at his instigation "Seeing," said the emperor to the Pope, "God
hath set us up as two great luminaries, let us endeavor that the world may be enlightened
by us, and that no eclipse may happen by our dissensions. But," continued the
emperor, having recourse to what has always been the terror of Popes, "if you
will needs go on like a warrior, I protest and appeal to a Council."[5] This letter was without effect in the Vatican, and these
"two luminaries," to use the emperor's metaphor, instead of shedding light
on the world began to scorch it with fire. The war was pushed forward.
The emperor had requested his brother Ferdinand to take command of the army destined
to act against the Pope. Ferdinand, however, could not, at this crisis, be absent
from Germany without great inconvenience, and accordingly he commissioned Freundsberg,
the same valorous knight who, as we have related, addressed the words of encouragement
to Luther when he entered the imperial hall at Worms, to raise troops for the emperor's
assistance, and lead them across the Alps. Freundsberg was a geunine lover of the
Gospel, but the work he had now in hand was no evangelical service, and he set about
it with the coolness, the business air, and the resolution of the old soldier. It
was November (1526); the snows had already fallen on the Alps, making it doubly hazardous
to climb their precipices and pass their summits. But such was the ardor of both
general and army, that this host of 15,000 men in three days had crossed the mountains
and joined the Constable of Bourbon, the emperor's general, on the other side of
them.
On effecting a junction, the combined German and Spanish army, which now amounted
to 20,000, set out on their march on Rome. The German general carried with him a
great iron chain, wherewith, as he told his soldiers, he intended to hang the Pope.
Rome, however, he was never to see, a circumstance more to be regretted by the Romans
than by the Germans; for the kindly though rough soldier would, had he lived, have
restrained the wild licence of his army, which wrought such woes to all in the in
fated city. Freundsberg fell sick and died by the way, but his soldiers pressed forward.
On the evening of the 5th of May, the invaders first sighted, through a thin haze,
those venerable walls, over which many a storm had lowered, but few more terrible
than that now gathering around them. What a surprise to a city which, full of banquetings
and songs and all manner of delights, lived carelessly, and never dreamt that war
would approach it! Yet here were the spoilers at her gates. Next morning, under cover
of a dense fog, the soldiers approached the walls, the scaling-ladders were fixed,
and in a few hours the troops were masters of Rome. The Pope and the cardinals fled
to the Castle of St. Angelo. A little while did the soldiers rest on their arms,
till the Pope should come to terms. Clement, however, scouted the idea of surrender.
He expected deliverance every moment from the arms of the Holy League. The patience
of the troops was soon exhausted, and the sack began.
We cannot, even at this distance of time, relate the awful tragedy without a shudder.
The Constable Bourbon had perished in the first assault, and the army was left without
any leader powerful enough to restrain the indulgence of its passions and appetites.
What a city to spoil! There was not at that era another such on earth. At its feet
the ages had laid their gifts. Its beauty was perfect!Whatever was rare, curious,
or precious in the world was gathered into it. It was ennobled by the priceless monuments
of antiquity; it was enriched with the triumphs of recent genius and art; the glory
lent it by the chisel of Michael Angelo, the pencil of Rafael, and the tastes and
munificence of Leo X. was yet fresh upon it. It was full to overflowing with the
riches of all Christendom, which for centuries had been flowing into it through a
hundred avenues—dispensations, pardons, jubilees, pilgrimages, annats, palls, and
contrivances innumerable. But the hour had now come to her "that spoiled and
was not spoiled." The hungry soldiers flung themselves upon the prey. In a twinkling
there burst over the sacerdotal city a mingled tempest of greed and rage, of lust
and bloodthirsty vengeance.
The pillage was unsparing as pitiless. The most secret places were broken open and
ransacked. Even the torture was employed, in some cases upon prelates and princes
of the Church, to make them disgorge their wealth. Not only were the stores of the
merchant, the bullion of the banker, and the hoards of the usurer plundered, the
altars were robbed of their vessels, and the churches of their tapestry and votive
offerings. The tombs were rifled, the relics of the canonized were spoiled, and the
very corpses of the Popes were stripped of their rings and ornaments. The plunder
was pried up in heaps in the market-places—gold and silver cups, jewels, sacks of
coin, pyxes, rich vestments—and the articles were gambled for by the soldiers, who,
with abundance of wine and meat at their command, made wassail in the midst of the
stricken and bleeding city.
Blood, pillage, and grim pleasantries were strangely and hideously mixed. Things
and persons which the Romans accounted "holy," the soldiery took delight
in exposing to ridicule, mockery, and outrage. The Pontifical ceremonial was exhibited
in mimic pomp. Camp-boys were arrayed in cope and stole and chasuble, as if they
were going to consecrate. Bishops and cardinals —in some cases stripped nude, in
others attired in fantastic dress—were mounted on asses and lean mules, their faces
turned to the animal's croupe, and led through the streets, while ironical cheers
greeted the unwelcome dignity to which they had been promoted. The Pope's robes and
tiara were brought forth, and put upon a lansquenet, while others of the soldiers,
donning the red hats and purple gowns of the cardinals, went through the form of
a Pontifical election. The mock-conclave, having traversed the city in the train
of the pseudo-Pope, halted before the Castle of St. Angelo, and there they deposed
Clement VII., and elected "Martin Luther" in his room. "Never,"
says D'Aubigme, "had Pontiff been proclaimed with such perfect unanimity."
The Spanish soldiers were more embittered against the ecclesiastics than the Germans
were, and their animosity, instead of evaporating in grim humor and drollery, like
that of their Tramontane comrades, took a practical and deadly turn. Not content
with rifling their victims of their wealth, they made them in many cases pay the
forfeit of their lives. Some Church dignitaries expired in their hands in the midst
of cruel tortures. They spared no age, no rank, no sex. "Most piteous,"
says Guiciardini, "were the shrieks and lamentations of the women of Rome, and
no less worthy of compassion the deplorable condition of nuns and novices, whom the
soldiers drove along by troops out of their convents, that they might satiate their
brutal lust... . Amid this female wail, were mingled the hoarser clamors and groans
of unhappy men, whom the soldiers subjected to torture, partly to wrest from them
unreasonable ransom, and partly to compel the disclosure of the goods which they
had concealed."[6]
The sack of Rome lasted ten days. "It was reported," says Guiciardini,
"that the booty taken might be estimated at a million of ducats; but the ransoms
of the prisoners amounted to a far larger sum." The number of victims is estimated
at from 5,000 to 10,000. The population on whom this terrible calamity fell were,
upon the testimony of their own historians, beyond measure emasculated by effeminacy
and vice. Vettori describes them as "proud, avaricious, murderous, envious,
luxurious, and hypocritical."[7]
There were then in Rome, says Ranke, "30,000 inhabitants capable of bearing
arms. Many of these men had seen service." But, though they wore arms by their
side, there was neither bravery nor manhood in their breasts. Had they possessed
a spark of courage, they might have stopped the enemy in his advance to their city,
or chased him from their walls after he appeared.
This stroke fell on Rome in the very prime of her mediaeval glory. The magnificence
then so suddenly and terribly smitten has never revived. A few days sufficed to wellnigh
annihilate a splendor which centuries were needed to bring to perfection, and which
the centuries that have since elapsed have not been able to restore.
CHAPTER 12 Back
to Top
ORGANIZATION OF THE LUTHERAN CHURCH.
A Calm of Three Years—Luther Begins to Build—Christians, but no Christian Society—Old
Foundations—Gospel Creates Christians— Christ their Center—Truth their Bond—Unity—Luther's
Theory of Priesthood—All True Christians Priests—Some Elected to Discharge its Functions—Difference
between Romish Priesthood and Protestant Priesthood—Commission of Visitation—Its
Work—Church Constitution of Saxony.
AFTER the storm there came a three years' calm: not indeed to that world over
which the Pope and the emperor presided. The Christendom that owned the sway of these
two potentates continued still to be torn by intrigues and shaken by battles. It
was a sea on which the stormy winds of ambition and war strove together. But the
troubles of the political world brought peace to the Church. The Gospel had rest
only so long as the arms of its enemies were turned against each other. The calm
of three years from 1526 to 1529—now vouchsafed to that new world which was rising
in the midst of the old, was diligently occupied in the important work of organising
and upbuilding. From Wittenberg, the center of this new world, there proceeded a
mighty plastic influence, which was daily enlarging its limits and multiplying its
citizens. To that we must now turn.
The way was prepared for the erection of the new edifice by the demolition of the
old. How this came about we have said in the preceding chapter. The emperor had convoked
the Diet at Spires expressly and avowedly to construct a defense around the old and
now tottering edifice of Rome, and to raze to its foundations the new building of
Wittenberg by the execution of the Edict of Worms of 1521: but the bolt forged to
crush Wittenberg fell on Rome. Before the Diet had well begun their deliberations,
the political situation around the emperor had entirely changed. Western Europe,
alarmed at the vast ambition of Charles, was confederate against him. He could not
now execute the Edict of Worms, for fear of offending the Lutheran princes, on whom
the League of Cognac compelled him to cast himself; and he could not repeal it, for
fear of alienating from him the Popish princes. A middle path was devised, which
tided over the emperor's difficulty, and gave a three years' liberty to the Church.
The Diet decreed that, till a General Council should assemble, the question of religion
should be an open one, and every State should be at liberty to act in it as it judged
right. Thus the Diet, the assembling of which the friends of the Reformation had
seen with alarm, and its enemies with triumph, seeing it was to ring the death-knell
of Protestantism, achieved just the opposite result. It inflicted a blow which broke
in pieces the theocratic sovereignty of Rome in the German States of the Empire,
and cleared the ground for the building of a new spiritual temple.
Luther was quick to perceive the opportunity that had at length arrived. The edict
of 1526 sounded to him as a call to arise and build. When the Reformer came down
from the Wartburg, where doubtless he had often meditated on these things, there
was a Reformation, but no Reformed Church; there were Christians, but no visible
Christian society. His next work must be to restore such. The fair fabric which apostolic
hands had reared, and which primitive times had witnessed, had been cast down long
since, and for ages had lain in ruins: it must be built up from its old foundations.
The walls had fallen, but the foundations, he knew, were eternal, like those of the
earth. On these old foundations, as still remaining in the Scriptures, Luther now
began to build.
Hitherto the Reformer's work had been to preach the Gospel. By the preaching of the
Gospel, he had called into existence a number of believing men, scattered throughout
the provinces and cities of Germany, who were already actually, though not as yet
visibly, distinct from the world, and to whom there belonged a real, though not as
yet an outward, unity. They were gathered by their faith round one living center,
even Christ; and they were knit by a great spiritual bond, namely, the truth, to
one another. But the principle of union in the heart of each of these believing men
must work itself into an outward unity—a unity visible to the world. Unless it does
so, the inward principle will languish and die—not, indeed, in those hearts in which
it already exists, but in the world: it will fail to propagate itself. These Christians
must be gathered into a family, and built up into a kingdom—a holy and spiritual
kingdom.
The first necessity in the organization of the Church—the work to which Luther now
put his hand—was an order of men, by whatever names called—priests, presbyters, or
bishops—to preach and to dispense the Sacraments. Cut off from Rome—the sole fountain,
as she held herself to be, of sacred offices and graces—how did the Reformer proceed
in the re-constitution of the ministry? He assumed that functions are lodged inalienably
in the Church, or company of believing men, or brotherhood of priests; for he steadfastly
held to the priesthood of all believers. The express object for which the Church
existed, he reasoned, was to spread salvation over the earth. How does she do this?
She does it by the preaching of the Gospel and the dispensation of Sacraments. It
is therefore the Church's duty to preach and to dispense the Sacraments. But duty,
Luther reasoned, implies right and function. That function is the common possession
of the Church—of all believers. But it is not to be exercised, in point of fact,
by all the Church's members; it is to be exercised by some only. How are these some,
then, to be chosen? Are they to enter upon the exercise of this function at their
own pleasure—simply self-appointed? No; for what is the function of all cannot be
specially exercised by any, save with the consent and election of the rest. The call
or invitation of these others—the congregation, that is—constituted the right of
the individual to discharge the office of "minister of the Word;" for so
did the Reformer prefer to style those who were set apart in the Church to preach
the Gospel and dispense the Sacraments. "In cases of necessity," says he,
"all Christians may exercise all the functions of the clergy, but order requires
the devolving of the office upon particular persons."[1] An immediate Divine call was not required to give one a right
to exercise office in the Church: the call of God came through the instrumentality
of man. Thus did Luther constitute the ministry. Till this had been done, the ministry
could not have that legitimate part which belongs to it in the appointing of those
who are to bear office in the Church.[2]
The clergy of the Lutheran Church stood at the opposite pole from the clergy
of the Roman Church. The former were democratic in their origin; the latter were
monarchical. The former sprang from the people, by whom they were chosen, although
that choice was viewed as being indirectly the call of God, who would accompany it
with the gifts and graces necessary for the office; the latter were appointed by
a sacerdotal monarch, and replenished for their functions by Sacramental ordination.
The former differed in no essential point from the other members of the Church; the
latter were a hierarchy, they formed a distinct order, inasmuch as they were possessed
of exclusive qualities and powers. The ministrations of the former were effectual
solely by faith in those who received them, and the working of the Spirit which accompanied
them. Very different was it in the case of the Roman clergy; their ministrations,
mainly sacrificial, were effectual by reason of the inherent efficacy of the act,
and the official virtue of the man who performed it. Wherever there is a line of
sacramentally ordained men, there and there only is the Church, said Rome. Wherever
the Word is faithfully preached, and the Sacraments purely administered, there is
the Church, said the Reformation.
In providing for her order, the Church did not surrender her freedom. The power with
which she clothed those whom she elected to office was not autocratic, but ministerial:
those who held that power were the Church's servants, not her lords. Nor did the
Church corporate put that power beyond her own reach: she had not parted with it
once for all so that she should be required to yield a passive or helpless submission
to her own ministers. That power was still hers—hers to be used for her edification—
hers to be recalled if abused or turned to her destruction. It never can cease to
be the Church's duty to preach the Gospel and administer the Sacraments. No circumstances,
no formality, no claim of office can ever relieve her from that obligation. But this
implies that she has ever the right of calling to account or deposing from office
those who violate the tacit condition of their appointment, and defeat its great
end. Without this the Church would have no power of reforming herself; once corrupt,
her cure would be hopeless; once enslaved, her bondage would be eternal.
From the consideration of these principles Luther advanced to the actual work of
construction. He called the princes to his aid as his fellow-laborers in this matter.
This was a departure in some measure from his theory, for undoubtedly that theory,
legitimately applied, would have permitted none to take part in ecclesiastical arrangements
and appointments save those who were members of the Church. But Luther had not thought
deeply on the question touching the limits of the respective provinces of Church
and State, or on how far the civil authority may go in enacting ecclesiastical arrangements,
and planting a country with the ordinances of the Gospel.
No one in that day had very clear or decided views on this point. Luther, in committing
the organising of the Church so largely into the hands of the princes, yielded to
a necessity of the times. Besides, it is to be borne in mind that the princes were,
in a sense, members of the Church; that they were not less prominent by their religious
intelligence and zeal than by their official position, and that if Zwingli, who had
more stringent opinions on the point of limiting Church action to Church agencies
than Luther, made the Council of Two Hundred the representative of the Church in
Zurich, the latter might be held excusable in making the princes the representative
of the Church in Germany, more especially when so many of the common people were
as yet too ignorant or too indifferent to take part in the matter.
On the 22nd October, 1526, Luther moved the Elector John of Saxony to issue a commission
of visitation of his dominions, in order to the reinstitution of the Church, that
of Rome being now abolished. Authorized by the elector, four commissioners began
the work of Church visitation. Two were empowered to inquire into the temporalities
of the Church, and two into her ecclesisstical condition, touching schools, doctrine,
pastors. The paper of instructions, or plan according to which the Church in the
Electorate of Saxony was to be reinstituted, was drawn up by Melancthon. Luther,
Melancthon, Spalatin, and Thuring were the four chief commissioners, to each of whom
colleagues, lay and clerical, were attached. To Luther was assigned the electorate;
the others visited the provinces of Altenburg, Thuringia, and Franconia.
Much ignorance, many errors and mistakes, innumerable abuses and anomalies did the
visitation bring to light. The Augean stable into which the Papacy had converted
Germany, not less than the rest of Christendom, was not to be cleansed in a day.
All that could be done was to make a beginning, and even that required infinite tact
and firmness, great wisdom and faith. From the living waters of the sanctuary only
could a real purification be looked for, and the care of the visitors was to open
channels, or remove obstructions, that this cleansing current might freely pervade
the land.
Ministers were chosen, consistories were appointed, ignorant and immoral pastors
were removed, but provided for. In some cases priests were met with who were trying
to serve both Rome and the Reformation. In one church they had a pulpit from which
they preached the doctrines of free grace, in another an altar at which they used
to say mass. The visitors put an end to such dualisms. The doctrine of the universal
priesthood of believers did not comport, Luther thought, with a difference of grade
among the ministers of the Gospel, but the pastors of the greater cities were appointed,
under the title of superintendents, to supervise the others, and to watch over both
congregations and schools.
The one great want everywhere, Luther found to be want of knowledge. He set himself
to remedy the deficiency by compiling popular manuals of the Reformed doctrine, and
by issuing plain instructions to the preachers to qualify them more fully for teaching
their frocks. He was at pains, especially, to show them the indissoluble link between
the doctrine of a free justification and holiness of life. His "Larger and Smaller
Catechisms," which he published at this time, were among the most valuable fruits
of the Church visitation. By spreading widely the truth they did much to root the
Reformation among the people, and to rear a bulwark against the return of Popery.
Armed with the authority of the elector, the visitors suppressed the convents; the
inmates were restored to society, the buildings were converted into schools and hospitals,
and the property was divided between the maintenance of public worship and national
uses. Ministers were encouraged to marry, and their families became centers of moral
and intellectual life throughout the Fatherland.
The plan of Church reform, as drawn by Melancthon, was a retrogression. As he wrote,
he saw on the one hand the fanatics, on the other a possible re-approachment, at
a future day, to Rome, and he framed his instructions in a conservative spirit. The
antagonistic points in the Reformation doctrine he discreetly veiled; and as regarded
the worship of the Church, he aimed at conserving as much and altering as little
as possible.[3]
Some called this moderation, others termed it trimming; the Romanists thought
that the Reformation troops had begun their march back; the Wittenbergers were not
without a suspicion of treachery. Luther would have gone further; for he grasped
too thoroughly the radical difference between Rome and Wittenberg to believe that
these two would ever again be one; but when he reflected on the sincerity of Melancthon,
and his honest desire to guard the Reformation on all sides, he was content.
So far as the forms of worship and the aspect of the churches were concerned, the
change resulting from this visitation was not of a marked kind. The Latin liturgy
was retained, with a mixture of Lutheran hymns. The altar still stood, though now
termed the table; the same toleration was vouchsafed the images, which continued
to occupy their niches; vestments and lighted tapers were still made use of, especially
in the rural churches. The great towns, such as Nuremberg, Ulm, Strasburg, and others,
purged their temples of a machinery more necessary in the histrionic worship of Rome
than in that of the Reformation. "There is no evil in these things,"[4] said Melancthon, "they
will do no harm to the worshipper," but the soundness of his inference is open
to question. With all these drawbacks this visitation resulted in great good. The
organisation now given the Church permitted a combination of her forces. She could
henceforth more effectually resist the attacks of Rome. Besides, at the center of
this organization was placed the preaching of the Word as the main instrumentality.
That great light shone apace, and the tolerated superstitions faded away. A new face
began to appear on Germany.
On the model of the Church of Saxony, were the Churches of the other German States
re-constituted. Franconia, Luneburg, East Friesland, Schleswig and Holstein, Silesia,
and Prussia received Reformed constitutions by the joint action of the civil and
ecclesiastical authorities. The same course was pursued in many of the principal
cities of the German Empire. Their inhabitants had received the Reformation with
open arms, and were eager to abolish all the traces of Romish domination. The more
intelligent and free the city, the more thoroughly was this Reformation carried out.
Nuremberg, Augsburg, Ulm, Strasburg, Brunswick, Hamburg, Bremen, Magdeburg, and others
placed themselves in the list of the Reformed cities, without even availing themselves
of the permission given them by Melancthon of halting at a middle stage in this Reformation.
We have the torch of the Bible, said they, in our churches, and have no need of the
light of a taper.
CHAPTER 13 Back
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CONSTITUTION OF THE CHURCH OF HESSE.
Francis Lambert—Quits his Monastery at Avignon—Comes to Zurich— Goes on to Germany—Luther
Recommends him to Landgrave Philip— Invited to frame a Constitution for the Church
of Hesse—His Paradoxes—The Priest's Commentary—Discussion at Homburg—The Hessian
Church constituted—Its Simplicity—Contrast to Romish Organization—General Ends gained
by Visitation—Moderation of Luther—Monks and Nuns—Stipends of Protestant Pastors—Luther's
Instructions to them—Deplorable Ignorance of German Peasantry— Luther's Smaller and
Larger Catechisms—Their Effects.
HESSE was an exception, not in lagging behind, but in going before the others.
This principality enjoyed the labors of a remarkable man. Francis Lambert had read
the writings of Luther in his cell at Avignon. His eyes opened to the light, and
he fled. Mounted on an ass, his feet almost touching the ground, for he was tall
as well as thin, wearing the grey gown of the Franciscans, gathered round his waist
with the cord of the order, he traversed in this fashion the countries of Switzerland
and Germany, preaching by the way, till at last he reached Wittenberg, and presented
himself before Luther.
Charmed with the decision of his character and the clearness of his knowledge, the
Reformer brought the Franciscan under the notice of Philip of Hesse. Between the
thorough-going ex-monk and the chivalrous and resolute landgrave, there were not
a few points of similarity fitted to cement them in a common action for the good
of the Church. Francis was invited by the landgrave to frame a constitution for the
Churches of Hesse. Nothing loth, Lambert set to work, and in one hundred and fifty-eight
"Paradoxes" produced a basis broad enough to permit of every member exercising
his influence in the government of the Church.
We are amazed to find these propositions coming out of a French cell. The monk verily
must have studied other books than his breviary. What a sudden illumination was it
that dispelled the darkness around the disciples of the sixteenth century! Passing,
in respect of their spiritual knowledge, from night to noon-day, without an intervening
twilight, what a contrast do they present to nearly all those who in after-days left
the Romish Communion to enroll themselves in the Protestant ranks! Were the intellects
of the men of that age more penetrating or was the Spirit more largely given? But
to pass on to the propositions of the ex-monk.
Conforming to a custom which had been an established one since the days of the Emperor
Justinian, who published his Pandects in the Churches, Francis Lambert, of Avignon,
nailed up his "Paradoxes" on the church doors of Hesse. Scarce were they
exposed to the public gaze, when eager hands were stretched out to tear them down.
Not so, however, for others and friendly ones are uplifted to defend them from desecration.
"Let them be read," say several voices. A young priest fetches a stool—mounts
it; the crowd keep silence, and the priest reads aloud.
"All that is deformed ought to be reformed." So ran the first Paradox.
It needed, thinks Boniface Dornemann, the priest who acted as reader, no runagate
monk, no "spirit from the vasty depth" of Lutheranism to tell us this.
"The Word of God is the rule of all true Reformation," says Paradox second.
That may be granted as part of the truth, thinks priest Dornemann, but it looks askance
on tradition and on the infallibility of the Church. Still, with a Council to interpret
the Bible, it may pass. The crowd listens and he reads Paradox the third. "It
belongs to the Church to judge on matters of faith." Now the ex-monk has found
the right road, doubtless thinks Dornemann, and bids fair to follow it. The Church
is the judge.
"The Church is the congregation of those who are united by the same spirit,
the same faith, the same God, the same Mediator, the same Word, by which alone they
are governed." So runs Paradox the fourth. A dangerous leap! thinks the priest;
the ex-monk clears tradition and the Fathers at a bound. He will have some difficulty
in finding his way back to the orthodox path.
The priest proceeds to Paradox fifth. "The Word is the true key. The kingdom
of heaven is open to him who believes the Word, and shut against him who believes
it not. Whoever, therefore, truly possesses the power of the Word of God, has the
power of the keys." The ex-monk, thinks Dornemann, upsets the Pope's throne
in the little clause that gives right to the Word alone to govern.
"Since the priesthood of the law has been abolished," says the sixth proposition,
"Christ is the only immortal and eternal Priest; and he does not, like men,
need a successor." There goes the whole hierarchy of priests. Not an altar,
not a mass in all Christendom that this proposition does not sweep away. Tradition,
Councils, Popes, and now priests, all are gone, and what is left in their room? Let
us read proposition seventh.
"All Christians, since the commencement of the Church, have been and are participators
in Christ's priesthood." The monk's Paradoxes are opening the flood-gates to
drown the Church and world in a torrent of democracy.[1] At that moment the stool was pulled from under the feet of
the priest, and, tumbling in the dust, his public reading was suddenly brought to
an end. We have heard enough, however; we see the ground plan of the spiritual temple;
the basis is broad enough to sustain a very lofty structure. Not a select few only,
but all believers, are to be built as living stones into this "holy house."
With the ex-Franciscan of Avignon, as with the ex-Augustinian of Wittenberg, the
corner-stone of the Church's organization is the "universal priesthood"
of believers.
This was a catholicity of which that Church which claims catholicity as her exclusive
possession knew nothing. The Church of Rome had lodged all priesthood primarily in
one man, St. Peter—that is, in the Pope—and only a select few, who were linked to
him by a mysterious chain, were permitted to share in it. What was the consequence?
Why, this, that one part of the Church was dependent upon another part for salvation;
and instead of a heavenly society, all whose members were enfranchised inan equal
privilege and a common dignity, and all of whom were engaged in offering the same
spiritual sacrifices of praise and obedience, the Church was parted into two great
classes; there were the oligarchs and there were the serfs; the first were holy,
the others were profane; the first monopolized all blessings, and the others were
their debtors for such gifts as they chose to dole out to them.
The two ex-monks, Luther and Lambert, put an end to this state of things. They abolished
the one priest, plucking from his brow his impious mitre, and from his hands his
blasphemous sacrifice, and they put the one Eternal Priest in heaven in his room.
Instead of the hierarchy whose reservoir of power was on the Seven Hills, whence
it was conveyed downward through a mystic chain that linked all other priests to
the Pope, much as the cable conveys the electric spark from continent to continent,
they restored the universal priesthood of believers. Their fountain of power is in
heaven; faith like a chain links them to it; the Holy Spirit is the oil with which
they are anointed; and the sacrifices they present are not those of expiation, which
has been accomplished once for all by the Eternal Priest, but of hearts purified
by faith, and lives which the same divine grace makes fruitful in holiness. This
was a great revolution. An ancient and established order was abolished; an entirely
different one was introduced. Who gave them authority to make this change? That same
apostle, they answered, which the Church of Rome had made her chief and corner-stone.
St. Peter, said the Church of Rome, is the one priest: he is the reservoir of all
priesthood. But St. Peter himself had taught a very different doctrine; speaking,
not through his successor at Rome, but in his own person, and addressing all believers,
he had said, "Ye are a royal priesthood." So then that apostle, whom Romanists
represented as concentrating the whole priestly function in himself, had made the
most unreserved and universal distribution of it among the members of the Church.
In this passage we hear a Divine voice speaking, and calling into being another society
than a merely natural one. We behold the Church coming into existence, and the same
Word that summons her forth invests her in her powers and functions. In her cradle
she is pronounced to be "royal" and "holy." Her charter includes
two powers, the power of spiritual government and the power of holy service. These
are lodged in the whole body of believers, but the exercise of them is not the right
of all, but the right only of the fittest, whom the rest are to call to preside over
them in the exercise of powers which are not theirs, but the property of the whole
body. Such were the conclusions of Luther and the ex-Franciscan of Avignon; and the
latter now proceeded to give effect to these general principles in the organization
of the Church of Hesse.
But first he must submit his propositions to the authorities ecclesiastical and civil
of Hesse, and if possible obtain their acceptance of them. The Landgrave Philip issued
his summons, and on the 21st October knights and counts, prelates and pastors, with
deputies from the towns, assembled in the Church of Homburg, to discuss the propositions
of Lambert. The Romish party vehemently assailed the Paradoxes; with equal vigor
Lambert defended them. His eloquence silenced every opponent, and after three days'
discussion his propositions were carried, and the Churches of Hesse constituted in
accordance therewith.
The Church constitution of Hesse is the first to which the Reformation gave birth;
it was framed in the hope that it might be a model to others, and it differs in some
important points from all of subsequent enactment in Germany. It took its origin
exclusively from the Church; its authority was derived from the same quarter; for
in its enactment mention was made neither of State nor of landgrave, and it was worked
by a Church agency. Every member of the Church, of competent learning and piety,
was eligible to the ministerial office; each congregation was to choose its own pastor.
The pastors were all equal; they were to be ordained by the laying on of the hands
of three others; they were to meet with their congregations every Sabbath for the
exercise of discipline; and an annual synod was to supervise the whole body. The
constitution of the Hessian Church very closely resembled that which was afterwards
adopted in Switzerland and Scotland.[2]
But it was hardly to be expected that it should retain its popular vigor in
the midst of Churches constituted on the Institutions of Melancthon; the State gradually
encroached upon its liberties, and in 1528 it was remodelled upon the principles
of the Church constitutions of Saxony.[3]
Such were the labors that occupied the three years during which the winds
were held that they should not blow on the young vine which was now beginning to
stretch its boughs over Christendom.
This visitation marks a new epoch in the history of Protestantism. Hitherto, the
Reformation had been simply a principle, standing unembodied before its opponents,
and fighting at great disadvantage against an established and organised system. It
was no longer so. It was not less a spiritual principle than before, but it had now
found a body in which to dwell, and through which to act. It could now wield all
the appliances that organization gives for combining and directing its efforts, and
making its presence seen and its power felt by men. This organization it did not
borrow from tradition, or from the existing hierarchy, which bore a too close resemblance
to that of the pagan temples, but from the pages of the New Testament, finding its
models whence it had drawn its doctrines. It was the purity of apostolic doctrine,
equipped in the simplicity of apostolic organizaton. Thus it disposed of the claims
of the Romish Church to antiquity by attesting itself as more ancient than it. But
though ancient, it was not like Rome borne down by the corruptions and decrepitudes
of age; it had the innate celestial vigor of the primitive Church whose representative
it claimed to be. Young itself, it promised to bestow a second youth on the world.
Besides the main object of this visitation, which was the planting of churches, a
number of subsidiary but still important ends were gained. We are struck, first of
all, by the new light in which this visitation presents the character of the Reformer.
Luther as a controversialist and Luther as an administrator seem two different men.
In debate the Reformer sweeps the field with an impetuosity that clears his path
of every obstruction, and with an indignation that scathes and burns up every sophist
and every sophism which his logic has overturned. But when he goes forth on this
tour of visitation we hardly know him. He clothes himself with considerateness, with
tenderness, and even with pity. He is afraid of going too far, and in some cases
he leaves it open to question whether he has gone far enough. He is calm—nay, cautious
—treading softly lest unwittingly he should trample on a prejudice that is honestly
entertained, or hurt the feelings of any weak brother, or do an act of injustice
or severity to any one. The revenues of the abbeys and cathedrals he touches no further
than to order that they shall contribute a yearly sum for the salaries of the parish
ministers, and the support of the schools. Vacant benefices, of course, he appropriates;
here no personal plea appeals to his commiseration. Obstinate Romanists find forbearance
at his hands. There was a clause in the Visitation Act which, had he chosen to enforce
it, would have enabled him to banish such from Saxony; but in several instances he
pleads for them with the elector, representing that it would be wiser policy to let
them alone, than to drive them into other countries, where their opportunities of
mischief would be greater.[4]
If indulgent to this class, he could not be other than beneficent to nuns
and monks. He remembered that he had been a monk himself. Nuns, in many instances,
were left in their convents, and old monks in their chimney- corners, with a sufficient
maintenance for the rest of their lives. "Commended to God"[5] was the phrase by which he designated this class, and which
showed that he left to time and the teaching of the Spirit the dissolution of the
conventual vow, and the casting-off of the monastic cowl. To expel the nun from her
cell, and strip the monk of his frock, while the fetter remained on the soul, was
to leave them captives still. It was a Higher who had been anointed to "proclaim
liberty to the captive and the opening of the prison to them that are bound."
Not less considerate were his instructions to preachers. He counselled a moderate
and wise course in the pulpit, befitting the exigencies of the age. They were to
go forth into the wilderness that Christendom had become with the doctrine of the
Baptist, "Repent." But in their preaching they were never to disjoin Repentance
from Faith. These were two graces which worked together in a golden yoke; in vain
would the former pour out her tears, unless the latter was near with her pardon.
There was forgiveness, not in the confessor's box, but in the throne of Christ, but
it was only faith that could mount into the skies and bring it down.
In the pulpit they were to occupy themselves with the same truths which the apostles
and early evangelists had preached; they were not to fear that the Gospel would lose
its power; they "were not to fling stones at Romanism;" the true light
would extinguish the false, as the day quenches the luminosity that putrid bodies
wear in the darkness.
With the spiritual inability of the will they were to teach the moral freedom of
the will; the spiritual incapacity which man has contracted by the Fall was not to
be pleaded to the denial of his responsibility. Man can abstain, if he chooses, from
lying, from theft, from murder, and from other sins, according to St. Paul's declaration—"The
Gentiles do by nature the things contained in the law." Man can ask the power
of God to cure the impotency of his will; but it was God, not the saints, that men
were to supplicate. The pastors were further instructed to administer the Sacrament
in both kinds, unless in some exceptional cases, and to inculcate the doctrine of
the real presence.
In his tour, the Reformer was careful to examine the peasantry personally, to ascertain
the exact state of their knowledge, and how to shape his instructions. One day, as
Mathesius relates, he asked a peasant to repeat the Creed. "I believe in God
Almighty—" began the peasant. "Stop," said Luther. "What do you
mean by 'Almighty? '" "I cannot tell," replied the man. "Neither
can I," said Luther, "nor all the learned men in the world. Only believe
that God is thy dear and true Father, and knows, as the All-wise Lord, how to help
thee, thy wife, and children, in time of need. That is enough."
Two things this visitation brought to light. First, it showed how very general was
the abandonment of the Romish doctrines and ceremonies throughout Saxony; and, secondly,
how deplorable the ignorance into which the Church of Rome, despite her rich endowments,
her numerous fraternities, and her array of clergy, had permitted the body of the
common people to descend. Schools, preachers, the Bible, all withheld. She had made
them "naked to their shame." In some respects this made the work of Luther
the easier. There was little that was solid to displace. There were no strong convictions
to root up: crass ignorance had cleared the ground to his hand. In other respects,
this made his work the more difficult; for all had to be built up from the foundations;
the very first elements of Divine knowledge had to be instilled into the lower orders.
With the higher ranks things were not so bad; with them Lutheranism was more a reality—a
distinctly apprehended system of truth—than it had yet come to be with the classes
below them. In the Altenburg district of the Saxon Electorate, only one nobleman
now adhered to the Church of Rome. In the city the Gospel had been preached seven
years, and now there were hardly ten men to be found in it who adhered to the Roman
Church.[6] Of one hundred parishes,
only four continued to celebrate mass.[7]
The priests, abandoning the concubinage in which the Pope had allowed them
to live, contracted marriage, in the majority of instances, with those with whom
they had previously maintained relations of a less honorable kind.[8] Over against these gratifying proofs of the progress of the
movement, others of a less satisfactory character had to be placed. The Lutheranism
which had superseded the Romanian was, in many instances, interpreted to mean simply
a release from the obligation to pay ecclesiastical dues, and to give attendance
on church ceremonies. Nor does one wonder that the peasants should so have regarded
it, when one recalls the spectacles of oppression which met the eyes of the visitors
in their progress: fields abandoned and houses deserted from the pressure of the
religious imposts.[9]
From a people so completely fleeced, and whose ignorance was as great as their
penury, the Protestant pastor could expect only inadequate and precarious support.
The ministers eked out the miserable contributions of their flocks by cultivating
each his little patch of land. While serving their Master in straits, if not in poverty,
they saw without a murmur the bulk of the wealthy Popish foundations grasped by the
barons, or used by the canons and other ecclesiastics who chose still to remain within
the pale of the Roman Church. These hardships, they knew, were the inevitable attendants
of the great transition now being effected from one order of things to another. Piety
alone could open the fountains of liberality among the people, and piety must be
the offspring of knowledge, of true knowledge of the Word of God. Pastors and schools
were the want.
"Everywhere we find," said Luther, "poverty and penury. The Lord send
laborers into His vineyard! Amen." "The face of the Church is everywhere
most wretched," he wrote to Spalatin. "Sometimes we have a collection for
the poor pastors, who have to till their two acres, which helps them a little. The
peasants have nothing, and know nothing: they neither pray, confess, nor communicate,
as if they were exempted from every religious duty. What an administration, that
of the Papistical bishops!"
The Reformer had seen the nakedness of the land: this was the first step toward the
remedying of it. The darkness was Cimmerian. He could not have believed, unless he
had had personal knowledge of it, how entirely without intellectual and spiritual
culture the Church of Rome had left the German peasant. Here was another misdeed
for which Rome would have to account at the bar of future ages: nor was this the
least of the great crimes of which he held her guilty. Her surpassing pride he already
knew: it was proclaimed to the world in the exceeding loftiness of the titles of
her Popes. The tyranny of her rule he also knew: it was exhibited in the statutes
of her canon law and the edicts of her Councils. Her intolerance stood confessed
in the slaughter of the Albigenses and the stake of Huss: her avarice in the ever-multiplying
extortions under which Germany groaned, and of which he had had new and recent proofs
in the neglected fields and unoccupied dwellings that met his eye on his visitation
tour. What her indulgence boxes meant he also knew. But here was another product
of the Romish system. It had covered the nations with a darkness so deep that the
very idea of a God was almost lost. The closer he came to this state of things, the
more appalling and frightful he saw it to be. The German nations were, doubtless,
but a sample of the rest of Christendom.
It was not Romanism only, but all religion that was on the point of perishing. "If,"
said Luther, writing to the Elector of Saxony soon thereafter, "the old state
of things had been suffered to reach its natural termination, the world must have
fallen to pieces, and Christianity have been turned into Atheism."[10]
The Reformer made haste to drive away the night which had descended on the
world. This, in fact, had been the object of his labors ever since he himself had
come to the knowledge of the truth; but he now saw more clearly how this was to be
done. Accordingly the moment he had ended his visitation and returned to Wittenberg,
he sat down, not to write a commentary or a controversial tract, but a catechism
for the German peasantry. This manual of rudimentary instruction was ready early
next spring (1529). It was published in two forms, Shorter and a Larger Catechism.
The former comprised a brief and simple exposition of the Ten Commandments, the Creed,
the Lord's Prayer, and the Sacraments, with forms of prayer for night and morning,
and grace before and after meals, with a "House-table" or series of Scripture
texts for daily use; his Larger Catechism contained a fuller and more elaborate exposition
of the same matters. Few of his writings have been more useful.
His Commentaries and other works had enlightened the nobility and instructed the
more intelligent of the townspeople; but in his Catechisms the "light was parted"
and diffused over the "plains," as it had once been over the "mountain-tops."
When the earth is a parched desert, its herbs burned up, it is not the stately river
rolling along within its banks that will make the fields to flourish anew. Its floods
pass on to the ocean, and the thirsty land, with its drooping and dying plants, tasting
not of its waters, continues still to languish. But with the dew or the rain-cloud
it is not so.
They descend softly, almost unseen and unheard by man, but their effects are mighty.
Their myriad drops bathe every flower, penetrate to the roots of every herb, and
soon hill and plain are seen smiling in fertility and beauty. So with these rudiments
of Divine knowledge, parted in these little books, and sown like the drops of dew,
they penetrated the understandings of the populations among which they were cast,
and wherever they entered they awoke conscience, they quickened the intellect, and
evoked a universal outburst, first of the spiritual activities, and next of the intellectual
and political powers; while the nations that enjoyed no such watering lay unquickened,
their slumber became deeper every century, till at last they realised their present
condition in which they afford to Protestant nations a contrast that is not more
melancholy than it is instructive.
CHAPTER 14 Back
to Top
POLITICS AND PRODIGIES.
Wars—Francis I. Violates his Treaty with Charles—The Turk—The Pope and the Emperor
again become Friends—Failure of the League of Cognac—Subjection of Italy to Spain—New
League between the Pope and the Emperor —Heresy to be Extinguished—A New Diet summoned—Prodigies—Otto
Pack—His Story—The Lutheran Princes prepare for War against the Popish Confederates—Luther
Interposes— War Averted—Martyrs.
WHILE within the inner circle formed by that holy society which we have seen rising
there was peace, outside of it, on the open stage of the world, there raged furious
storms. Society was convulsed by wars and rumors of wars. Francis I., who had obtained
his liberty by signing the Treaty of Madrid, was no sooner back in France, breathing
its air and inhaling the incense of the Louvre, than he declared the conditions which
had opened to him escape from captivity intolerable, and made no secret of his intention
to violate them. He applied to the Pope for a dispensation from them. The Pope, now
at open feud with the emperor, released Francis from his obligations. This kindled
anew the flames of war in Europe. The French king, instead of marching under the
banner of Charles, and fighting for the extinction of heresy, as he had solemnly
bound himself to do, got together his soldiers, and sent them across the Alps to
attack the emperor in Italy.
Charles, in consequence, had to fight over again for the possessions in the peninsula,
which the victory of Pavia he believed had securely given him. In another quarter
trouble arose. Henry of England, who till now had been on the most friendly terms
with the emperor, having moved in the matter of his divorce from his queen, Catherine,
the emperor's aunt, was also sending hostile messages to the Spanish monarch. To
complete the embroilment, the Turk was thundering at the gates of Austria, and threatening
to march right into the heart of Christendom. Passing Vienna, Suleiman was pouring
his hordes into Hungary; he had slain Louis, the king of that country, in the terrible
battle of Mohacz; and the Arch-Duke Ferdinand of Austria, leaving the Reformers at
liberty to prosecute their work of upbuilding, had suddenly quitted the Diet of Spires
and gone to contest on many a bloody field his claim to the now vacant throne of
Hungary. On every side the sword was busy. Armies were continually on the march;
cities were being besieged; Europe was a sea on whose bosom the great winds from
the four quarters of the heavens were contending in all their fury.
Continual perplexity was the lot of the monarchs of that age. But all their Perplexities
grew out of that mysterious movement which was springing up in the midst of them,
and which possessed the strange, and to them terrible, faculty of converting everything
that was meant for its harm into the means of its advancement. The uneasiness of
the monarchs was shown in their continual shiftings. Scarcely had one combination
been formed, when it was broken in pieces, and another and a different one put in
its place. We have just seen the Pope and the emperor at feud. We again behold them
becoming confederates, and joining their swords, so recently pointed at each other,
for the extinction of the heresy of Wittenberg. The train of political events by
which this came about may be told in a few words.
The expedition of the French king into Italy, in violation, as we have seen, of the
Treaty of Madrid, was at first successful. His general, Lautrec, sweeping down from
the Alps, took the cities of Alessandria and Pavia. At the latter place Francis I.
had been defeated and made captive, and his soldiers, with a cruelty that disgraced
themselves more than it avenged their master, plundered it, having first put its
inhabitants to the sword.
Lautrec crossed the Apennines, intending to continue his march to Rome, and open
the doors of the Castle of St. Angelo, where Clement VII. still remained shut up.
The Pope meanwhile, having paid the first instalment of a ransom of 400,000 crowns,
and having but little hope of being able to pay the remainder, wearied with his imprisonment,
disguised himself as a merchant, and escaped, with a single attendant, to Orvieto.
The French general pressed on to Naples, only to find that victory had forsaken his
banners. Smitten by the plague rather than the Spanish sword, his army melted away,
his conquests came to nothing, and the emperor finally recovered his power both in
Naples and Lombardy, and again became unchallenged master of Italy, to the terror
of the Pope and the chagrin of the Italians. Thus the war which Italy had commenced
under the auspices of Clement VII., and the vague aspirations of the Renaissance,
for the purpose of raising ifself to the rank of an independent sovereignty, ended
in its thorough subjection to the foreigner, not again to know emancipation or freedom
till our own times, when independence dawned upon it in 1848, and was consummated
in 1870, when the Italian troops, under the broad aegis of the new German Empire,
entered Rome, and Victor Emmanuel was installed in the quirinal as monarch from the
Alps to Sicily.
Thus the League of Cognac had utterly failed; the last hopes of the Renaissance expired;
and Charles once more was master.
Finding that the emperor was the stronger, the Pope tacked about, cast Francis I.
overboard, and gave his hand to Charles V. The emperor's ambition had alarmed the
Pontiff aforetime; he was now stronger than ever. The pope consoled himself by reflecting
that Charles was a devoted son of Catholicism, and that the power which he had not
the strength to curb he had the craft to use.
Accordingly, on the 29th June, 1528, Clement concluded a peace with the emperor at
Barcelona, on the promise that Charles would do his utmost to root out that nest
of heretics which had been formed at Wittenberg, and to exalt the dominion and glory
of the Roman See.[1]
The moment seemed opportune for finishing with heresy. Italy was now at the
feet of the emperor; Francis I. and his kingdom had been chastised, and were not
likely soon again to appear in arms on the south of the Alps; the tide of Turkish
invasion had been rolled back; the Pope was again the friend of the emperor, and
all things seemed to invite Charles to all enterprise which he had been compelled
to postpone, and at times to dissemble, but which he had never abandoned.
It was not his intention, however, to draw the sword in the first instance. Charles
was naturally humane; and though intent on the extinction of the Reformed movement,
foreseeing that it would infallibly break up his vast Empire, he preferred accomplishing
his purpose by policy, if that were possible. He would convoke a Diet: he would get
the Wittenberg heresy condemned, in which case he hoped that the majority of the
princes would go along with him, and that the leaders of the Protestant movement
would defer to this display of moral power. If still they should prove intractable,
why, then he would employ force; but in that case, he argued, the blame would not
lie at his door. The emperor, by letters dated Valladolid, Augrest 1st, 1528, convoked
a Diet to meet at Spires, on the 21st February, 1529. [2]
Meanwhile, vague rumors of what was on the carpet reached the Reformers in
Germany. They looked with apprehension to the future. Other things helped to deepen
these gloomy forebodings. The natural atmosphere would seem to have been not less
deranged than the political. Portentous meteors shot athwart the sky, marking their
path in lines of fire, and aftrighting men with their horrid noise. The hyperborean
lights, in sudden bursts and flashing lines, like squadrons rushing to combat, illumined
the nocturnal heavens. Rivers rising in flood overflowed their banks, and meadows,
corn-fields, and in some instances whole provinces, lay drowned beneath their waters.
Great winds tore up ancient trees; and, as if the pillars of the world were growing
feeble and toppling, earthquakes shook kingdoms, and engulfed castles and towns.
"Behold," said the men who witnessed these occurrences, "Behold the
prognostics of the dire calamities which are about to overwhelm the world."
Even Luther partook of the general terror.
"Dr. Hess," says he, writes me word that in December last the whole heavens
were seen on fire above the Church of Breslau, and another day there were witnessed,
in the same place, two circles of fire, one within the other, and in the center of
them a blazing pinar. These signs announce, it is my firm opinion, the approach of
the Last Day.
The Roman Empire tends nearly to its ruin; the Turk has attained the summit of his
power; the Papal splendor is fast becoming eclipsed; the world cracks in every direction
as though about to fall in pieces."[3]
While so many real dangers disturbed the age, a spurious or doubtful one had
wellnigh precipitated the Reformation upon its ruin. A nobleman of Misnia, Otto Pack
by name—a greedy, dissipated, and intriguing character, who had been some time vice-chancellor
to Duke George of Saxony—came one day to Philip, the Landgrave of Hesse, and, looking
grave, professed to be in possession of a terrible secret, which much concerned him
and his Lutheran confederate, the Elector of Saxony.[4] On being pressed to explain himself, he declared his readiness,
on payment of a certain sum, to reveal all. The landgrave's fears being thoroughly
aroused, he agreed to pay the man the reward demanded. Pack went on to say that a
diabolical plot had been hatched among the Popish princes, headed by the Archduke
Ferdinand, to attack by arms the two heretical princes, John of Saxony and Philip
of Hesse, strip them of their territories, seize upon Luther and[all his followers,
and, having disposed of them by summary means, to re-establish the ancient worship.[5]
Pack was unable to show to the landgrave the original of this atrocious league,
but he produced what bore to be a copy, and which, having attached to it all the
ducal and electoral seals, wore every appearance of being authentic, and the document
convinced the landgrave that Pack's story was true.
Astounded at the danger thus strangely disclosed, and deeming that they had not a
moment to lose before the mine exploded, the elector and the landgrave hastily raised
an army to avert from themselves and their subjects what they believed to be impending
destruction. The two princes entered into a formal compact (March 9th, 1528) "to
protect with body, dignity, and possession, and every means in their power, the sacred
deposit of God's word for themselves and their subjects."
They next looked around for allies. They hoped through the Duke of Prussia to incite
the King of Poland against Ferdinand of Austria, and to keep the Franconian bishops
in check by the arms of George of Brandenburg. They reckoned on having as auxiliaries
the Dukes of Luneburg, Pomerania, Mecklenburg, and the city of Magdeburg. For themselves
they agreed to equip a force of 6,000 cavalry, and 20,000 infantry.[6] They had in view also a league with the King of Denmark.
They resolved to anticipate their opponents by striking the first blow. All Germany
was in commotion. It was now the turn of the Popish princes to tremble. The Reformers
were flying to arms, and before their own preparations could be finished, they would
be assailed by an overwhelming host, set on by the startling rumors of the savage
plot, formed to exterminate them. The Reformation was on the point of being dragged
into the battlefield. Luther shuddered when he saw what was about to happen.
He stood up manfully before the two chiefs who were hurrying the movement into this
fatal path, and though he believed in the reality of the plot, despite the indignant
denial of Duke George and the Popish princes, he charged the elector and landgrave
not to strike the first blow, but to wait till they had been attacked. "There
is strife enough uninvited," said he, "and it cannot be well to paint the
devil over the door, or ask him to be godfather. Battle never wins much, but always
loses much, and hazards all; meekness loses nothing, hazards little, and wins all."
Luther's counsels ultimately prevailed, time was given for reflection, and thus the
Lutheran princes were saved from the tremendous error which would have brought after
it, not triumph, but destruction.[7]
Meanwhile the Reformation was winning victories a hundred times more glorious
than any that armed hosts could have achieved for it. One martyr is worth more than
a thousand soldiers. Such were the champions the Reformation was now sending forth.
Such were the proofs it now began to give of its prowess—better, surely, than fields
heaped with the slain, which even the worst of causes can show.
In Bavaria, Leonard Caspar at this time sealed his testimony with his blood. He was
apprehended at the instance of the Bishop of Passau, and condemned for maintaining
that man is justified by faith alone; that there are but two Sacraments, baptism
and the Lord's Supper; that the mass is not a sacrifice, and avails not for the quick
and the dead; and that Christ alone hath made satisfaction for us.[8] In Bavaria, where the Reformed doctrines dared not be preached,
no better way could the bishop have taken for promulgating them than by burning this
man for holding them. At Munich, George Carpenter was led to the stake for denying
that the baptism of water can by its inherent virtue save men. "When you are
in the fire," said his friends, "give us a token that you abide steadfast."
"So long," replied he, "as I am able to open my mouth I will confess
my Savior."[9]
The executioner took him and bound him, and cast him into the flames. "Jesus,
Jesus!" exclaimed the martyr. The executioner, with an iron hook, turned him
round and round amid the blazing coals. "Jesus,Jesus!" the martyr continued
to exclaim, and so confessing the name of his Lord he gave up the ghost in the fire.
Thus another blazing torch was kindled in the midst of the darkness of Bavaria.
Other martyrs followed in those German provinces which still owned the jurisdiction
of Popish princes. At Landsberg nine persons suffered in the fire, and at Munich
twenty-nine were drowned in the Iser. In the case of others the more summary dispatch
of the poignard was employed. In the spring of 1527, George Winkler, preacher at
Halle, was summoned before Albert, Cardinal of Mainz. Being dismissed from the archbishop's
tribunal, he was mounted on the horse of the court fool, and made to set out on his
journey homeward. His way led through a forest; suddenly a little troop of horsemen
dashed out of the thicket, struck their swords into him, and again plunged into the
wood. Booty was plainly not the object of the assassins, for neither money nor other
article of value was taken from his person; it was the suspicion of heresy that drew
their daggers upon him. Luther hoped that "his murdered blood, like Abel's,
might cry to God; or rather be as seed from which other preachers would spring."
"The world," said he, "is a tavern, of which Satan is the landlord,
and the sign over the doorway is murder and lying." He almost envied these martyrs.
"I am," said he, "but a wordy preacher in comparison with these great
doers."
In the piles of these martyrs we hear the Reformation saying to the Lutheran princes,
some of whom were so eager to help it with their swords, and thought that if they
did not fight for it, it must perish, "Dismiss your armed levies. I will provide
my own soldiers. I myself will furnish the armor in which they are to do battle;
I will gird them with patience, meekness, heroism, and joy; these are the weapons
with which they will combat. With these weapons they will break the power, foil the
arts, and stain the pride of the enemy."
CHAPTER 15 Back
to Top
THE GREAT PROTEST
Diet of 1529—The Assembling of the Popish Princes—Their Numbers and high Hopes—Elector
of Saxony—Arrival of Philip of Hesse—The Diet Meets—The Emperor's Message—Shall the
Diet Repeal the Edict (1526) of Toleration? —The Debate—A Middle Motion proposed
by the Popish Members—This would have Stifled the Reformation in Germany—Passed by
a Majority of Votes—The Crisis—Shall the Lutheran Princes Accept it?—Ferdinand hastily
Quits the Diet— Protestant Princes Consult together—Their Protest—Their Name— Grandeur
of the Issues.
SUCH were the times that preceded the meeting of the famous Diet of Spires:—in
the sky unusual portents, on the earth the smoke of martyr-piles, kings girding on
the sword, and nations disturbed by rumors of intrigue and war, heaving like the
ocean before the tempest sets in. Meanwhile the time approached for the Diet to assemble.
It had been convoked for February, but was not able to meet till the middle of March.
At no former Diet had the attendance, especially on the Catholic side, been so numerous.[1] The Popish princes came
first. The little town was all astir as each magnate announced his arrival at its
gates, and rode through its streets, followed by an imposing display of armed followers.[2] First in rank was King
Ferdinand, who was to preside in the absence of his brother Charles V., and came
attended by 300 armed knights. After him came the Dukes of Bavaria with an equally
large retinue; then followed the ecclesiastical electors of Mainz and Treves, and
the Bishops of Trent and Hildesheim, each with a troop of horsemen.[3] Their haughty looks, and the boastful greetings they exchanged
with one another, proclaimed the confident hopes they cherished of being able to
carry matters in the Diet their own way. They had come to bury the Reformation.[4]
The last to arrive were the Reformed princes. On the 13th of March came Elector John
of Saxony, the most powerful prince of the Empire. His entrance was the most modest
of all. There rode by his side none but Melanchthon.[5] Philip of Hesse followed on the 18th of March. With characteristic
pomp he passed in with sound of trumpet, followed by a troop of 200 horsemen. It
was on the eve of Palm Sunday that the elector, with Melanchthon by his side, entered
Spires. On the following day he had public worship in his hotel, and as an evidence
that the popular favor for the Word of God had not abated, not fewer than 8,000 attended
sermon both forenoon and afternoon.[6]
When the deputies of the cities had arrived, the constituent members of the
Diet were complete, and the business was opened.
The Diet was not long left in suspense as to the precise object of the emperor in
convoking it, and the legislation which was expected from it. Scarcely had it met
when it received the intimation from commissioners that it was the emperor's will
and command that the Diet should repeal the Edict of Spires (1526).[7] This was all. The members might dispatch their business in
an hour, and return in peace to their homes.
But let us see how much was included in this short message, and how much the Diet
was asked to do—what a revolution it was bidden inaugurate, when it was asked to
repeal the edict of 1526. That edict guaranteed the free exercise of their religion
to the several States of the Empire till a General Council should meet. It was, as
we have already said, the first legal establishment of the Reformation. Religious
freedom, then, so far as enjoyed in Germany, the Diet was now asked to abolish. But
this was not all. The edict of 1526 suspended legally the execution of the Edict
of Worms of 1521, which proscribed Luther and condemned the Reformation. Abolish
the edict of 1526, and the edict of 1521 would come into operation; Luther must be
put to death; the Reformed opinions must be rooted out of all the countries where
they had taken root; in short, the floodgates of a measureless persecution would
be opened in Germany. This was the import of the curt and haughty message with which
Charles startled the Diet at its opening. The sending of such a message even was
a violation of the constitutional rights of the several States, and an assumption
of power which no former emperor had dared to make. The message, if passed into law,
would have laid the rights of conscience, the independence of the Diet, and the liberties
of Germany, all three in the dust.
The struggle now began. Shall the Edict of Spires (1526) be repealed? The Popish
members of the Diet strenuously insisted that it should at once be repealed. It protected,
they affirmed, all kinds of abominable opinions; it fostered the growth of heretical
and disloyal communities, meaning the Churches which the three years of peace enjoyed
under the edict had permitted to be organised. In short, it was the will of the emperor,
and whoever opposed its repeal was not the friend of Charles.
The Reformed princes, on the other side, maintained that this edict was now the constitution
of the Empire, that it had been unanimously sworn to by all the members of the Diet;
that to repeal it would be a public breach of national faith, and that to the Lutheran
princes would remain the right of resisting such a step by force of arms.
The majority of the Diet, though exceedingly anxious to oblige the emperor, felt
the force of these strong arguments. They saw that the ground of the oppositionists
was a constitutional and legal one. Each principality had the right of regulating
its own internal affairs. The faith and worship of their subjects was one of these.
But a majority of the Diet now claimed the right to decide that question for each
separate State. If they should succeed, it was clear that a new order of things would
be introduced into Germany. A central authority would usurp the rights of the local
administrations, and the independence of the individual States would be destroyed.
To repeal the edict was to inaugurate revolution and war.
They hit on a middle path. They would neither abolish nor enforce the edict of 1526.
The Popish members tabled a proposition in the Diet to the effect that whatever was
the law and the practice in the several States at this hour, should continue to be
the law and the practice till a General Council should meet. In some of the States
the edict of 1521 was the law and the practice; that is, the preaching of the Gospel
was forbidden, and its professors were burned. In other States the edict of 1526
was the law and the practice; that is, they acted in the matter of religion as their
judgment dictated. The proposition now tabled in the Diet practically meant the maintenance
of the status quo in each of the States, with certain very important modifications
in those of them that at present enjoyed religious liberty. These modifications were
that the Popish hierarchy should be re-established, that the celebration of the mass
should be permitted, and that no one should be allowed to abjure Popery and embrace
Lutheranism till such time as a Council had met and framed a general arrangement.[8]
How crafty! This proposition did not exact from a single Protestant a renunciation
of his faith. It had no pains and penalties for existing converts. But what of those
whom the light might reach afterwards? They must stifle their convictions, or abide
the penalty, the dungeon and the stake. And what of States that might wish to throw
off the yoke of Rome, and pass over to the side of the Reformation? The proposal,
if passed into law, made this impossible. The State no more than the individual dare
change its religious profession. The proposal drew a line around the Reformation,
and declared that beyond this boundary there must be no advance, and that Lutheranism
had reached its utmost limits of development. But not to advance was to recede, and
to recede was to die.
This proposition, therefore, professedly providing for the maintenance of the Reformation,
was cunningly contrived to strangle it. Nevertheless, Ferdinand and the Popish princes
and prelates hurried on the measure, which passed the Diet by a majority of votes.[9]
Shall the chiefs of the Reformation submit and accept the edict? How easily
might the Reformers at this crisis, which was truly a tremendous one, have argued
themselves into a wrong course! How many plausible, pretexts and fair reasons might
they have found for submission! The Lutheran princes were guaranteed the free exercise
of their religion. The same boon was extended to all those of their subjects who,
prior to the passing of the measure, had embraced the Reformed views. Ought not this
to content them? How many Perils would submission avoid! On what unknown hazards
and conflicts would opposition launch them! Who knows what opportunities the future
may bring? Let us embrace peace; let us seize the olive-branch Rome holds out, and
close the wounds of Germany.
With arguments like these might the Reformers have justified their adoption of a
course which would have assuredly issued in no long time in the overthrow of their
cause.
Happily they looked at the principle on which this arrangement was based, and they
acted in faith. What was that principle? It was the right of Rome to coerce conscience
and forbid free inquiry. But were not themselves and their Protestant subjects to
enjoy religious freedom? Yes, as a favor, specially stipulated for in the arrangement,
but not as a right. As to all outside that arrangement, the great principle of authority
was to rule; conscience was out of court, Rome was infallible judge, and must be
obeyed. The acceptance of the proposed arrangement would have been a virtual admission
that religious liberty ought to be confined to Reformed Saxony; and as to all the
rest of Christendom, free inquiry and the profession of the Reformed faith were crimes,
and must be visited with the dungeon and the stake. Could they consent to localise
religious liberty? to have it proclaimed that the Reformation had made its last convert?
had subjugated its last acre? and that wherever Rome bore sway at this hour, there
her dominion was to be perpetuated? Could the Reformers have pleaded that they were
innocent of the blood of those hundreds and thousands who, in pursuance of this arrangement,
would have to yield up their lives in Popish lands? This would have been to betray,
at that supreme hour, the cause of the Gospel, and the liberties of Christendom.
The Reformed members of the Diet—the Lutheran princes and many of the deputies of
the cities—assembled for deliberation. The crisis was a momentous one. From the consultations
of an hour would come the rising or the falling of the Reformation—liberty or slavery
to Christendom. The princes comprehended the gravity of their position. They themselves
were to be let alone, but the price they were to pay for this ignominious ease was
the denial of the Gospel, and the surrender of the rights of conscience throughout
Christendom. They resolved not to adopt so dastardly a course.
The Diet met again on the 18th April. King Ferdinand, its president, eager apparently
to see the matter finished, thanked the Diet for voting the proposition, adding that
its substance was about to be embodied in an imperial edict, and published throughout
the Empire. Turning to the Elector of Saxony and his friends, Ferdinand told them
that the Diet had decided; that the resolution was passed, and that now there remained
to them nothing but submission to the majority.
The Protestant members, not anticipating so abrupt a termination, retired to an adjoining
chamber to frame their answer to this haughty summons. Ferdinand would not wait;
despite the entreaty of the elector he left the Diet,[10] nor did he return on the morrow to hear the answer of the
Lutheran princes. He had but one word, and he had spoken it—Submit. So, too, said
Rome, speaking through his mouth—Submit.
On the morrow, the 19th April, the Diet held its last and fateful meeting. The Elector
of Saxony and his friends entered the hall. The chair was empty, Ferdinand being
gone; but that took neither from the validity nor from the moral grandeur of the
transaction. The princes knew that they had for audience, not the States now present
only, but the emperor, Christendom, and the ages to come.
The elector, for himself, the princes, and the whole body of the Reformed party,
now proceeded to read a Declaration, of which the following are the more important
passages: —
"We cannot consent to its [the edict of 1526] repeal... Because this would be
to deny our Lord Jesus Christ, to reject His Holy Word, and thus give Him just reason
to deny us before His Father, as He has threatened... Moreover, the new edict declaring
the ministers shall preach the Gospel, explaining it according to the writings accepted
by the holy Christian Church; we think that, for this regulation to have any value,
we should first agree on what is meant by the true and holy Church. Now seeing that
there is great diversity of opinion in this respect; that there is no sure doctrine
but such as is conformable to the Word of God: that the Lord forbids the teaching
of any other doctrine; that each text of the Holy Scriptures ought to be explained
by other and clearer texts; that this holy book is in all things necessary for the
Christian, easy of understanding, and calculated to scatter the darkness: we are
resolved, with the grace of God, to maintain the pure and exclusive preaching of
His Holy Word, such as it is contained in the Biblical books of the Old and New Testament,
without adding anything thereto that may be contrary to it. This Word is the only
truth; it is the sure rule of all doctrine and of all life, and can never fail or
deceive us. He who builds on this foundation shall stand against all the powers of
hell, whilst all the human vanities that are set up against it shall fall before
the face of God.
"For these reasons, most dear lords, uncles, cousins, and friends, we earnestly
entreat you to weigh carefully our grievances and our motives. If you do not yield
to our request, we protest by these presents, before God, our only Creator, Preserver,
Redeemer, and Savior, and who will one day be our Judge, as well as before all men
and all creatures, that we, for us and for our people, neither consent nor adhere
in any manner whatsoever to the proposed decree, in anything that is contrary to
God, to His Holy Word, to our right conscience, to the salvation of our souls, and
to the last decree of Spires."
This protest, when we consider the long dominancy and formidable character of the
tyranny to which it was opposed, and the lofty nature and vast range of the rights
and liberties which it claimed, is one of the grandest documents in all history,
and marks an epoch in the progress of the human race second only to that of Christianity
itself.
At Worms, Luther stood alone; at Spires, the one man has grown into a host. The "No"
so courageously uttered by the monk in 1521 is now in 1529 taken up and repeated
by princes, cities, and nations. Its echoes travel onwards, till at last their murmurs
are heard in the palaces of Barcelona and the basilicas of Rome. Eight years ago
the Reformation was simply a doctrine, now it is an organization, a Church. This
little seed, which on its first germination appeared the smallest of all seeds, and
which Popes, doctors, and princes beheld with contempt, is a tree, whose boughs,
stretched wide in air, cover nations with their shadow.
The princes renewed their Protest at the last sitting of the Diet, Saturday, 24th
April. It was subscribed by John, Elector of Saxony; Philip, Landgrave of Hesse;
George, Margrave of Brandenburg; Ernest and Francis, Dukes of Luneburg, and the Count
of Anhalt. Some of the chief cities joined the princes in their protestation, as
Strasburg, Nuremberg, Ulm, Constance, Reutlingen, Windsheim, Lindau, Kempten, Memmingen,
Nordlingen, Heilbronn, Isny, St. Gall, and Weissenburg.[11] From that day the Reformers were called Protestants.[12]
One the following Sabbath, 25th April, the chancellors of the princes and of the
Protestant cities, with two notaries and several witnesses, met in a small house
in St. John's Lane, belonging to Peter Muterstatt, Deacon of St. John's,[13] to draw up an appeal. In that document they recite all that
had passed at the Diet, and they protest against its decree, for themselves, their
subjects, and all who receive or shall hereafter receive the Gospel, and appeal to
the emperor, and to a free and general Council of Christendom.[14]
On the morning after their appeal, the 26th, the princes left Spires. This
sudden departure was significant. It proclaimed to all men the firmness of their
resolve. Ferdinand had spoken his last word and was gone. They, too, had spoken theirs,
and were gone also. Rome hoists her flag; over against hers the Protestants display
theirs; henceforward there are two camps in Christendom.
Even Luther did not perceive the importance of what had been done. The Diet he thought
had ended in nothing. It often happens that the greatest events wear the guise of
insignificance, and that grand eras are ushered in with silence. Than the principle
put forth in the protest of the 19th April, 1529, it is impossible to imagine one
that could more completely shield all rights, and afford a wider scope for development.
Its legitimate fruit must necessarily be liberty, civil and religious. What was that
principle? This Protest overthrew the lordship of man in religious affairs, and substituted
the authority of God. But it did this in so simple and natural a way, and with such
an avoidance of all high-sounding phraseology, that men could not see the grandeur
of what was done, nor the potency of the principle.
The protesters assumed the Bible to be the Word of God, and that every man ought
to be left at liberty to obey it. This modest affirmation falls on our ear as an
almost insipidity. Compared with some modern charters of rights, and recent declarations
of independence, how poor does it look! Yet let us see how much is in it. "The
Word," say the protesters, "is the only truth; it is the sure rule of all
doctrine and of all life;" and "each text of the Holy Scriptures ought
to be explained by other and clearer texts." Then what becomes of the pretended
infallibility of Rome, in virtue of which she claims the exclusive right of interpreting
the Scriptures, and binding down the understanding of man to believe whatever she
teaches? It is utterly exploded and overthrown. And what becomes of the emperor's
right to compel men with his sword to practise whatever faith the Church enjoins,
assuming it to be the true faith, simply because the Church has enjoined it? It too
is exploded and overthrown. The principle, then, so quietly lodged in the Protest,
lays this two-fold tyranny in the dust. The chair of the Pontiff and the sword of
the emperor pass away, and conscience comes in their room. But the Protest does not
leave conscience her own mistress; conscience is not a law to herself. That were
anarchy—rebellion against Him who is her Lord. The Protest proclaims that the Bible
is the law of conscience, and that its Author is her alone Lord. Thus steering its
course between the two opposite dangers, avoiding on this hand anarchy, and on that
tyranny, Protestantism comes forth unfurling to the eyes of the nations the flag
of true liberty. Around that flag must all gather who would be free.
Of the three centuries that have since elapsed, there is not a year which has not
borne its testimony to the essential grandeur and supreme importance of the act,
so simple outwardly, done by the princes at Spires. We protest, said they, that God
speaking in his Word, and not Rome speaking through her priests, is the One Supreme
Law of the human race. The upper springs of Divine influence thus brought to act
upon the soul and conscience of man, the nether springs of philosophy, art, and liberty
began to flow. The nations that rallied round this Protest are now marching in the
van of civilization; those that continued under the flag of Romanism lie benumbed
in slavery and are rotting in decay.
CHAPTER 16 Back
to Top
CONFERENCE AT MARBURG.
Landgrave Philip—His Activity—Elector John and Landgrave Philip the Complement of
each other—Philip's Efforts for Union—The One Point of Disunion among the Protestants—The
Sacrament—Luther and Zwingli—Their Difference—Philip undertakes their Reconcilement—He
proposes a Conference on the Sacrament—Luther Accepts with difficulty—Marburg-Zwingli's
Journey thither—Arrival of Wittenberg Theologians—Private Discussions —Public Conference—"This
is my Body"—A Figure of Speech—Luther's Carnal Eating and Spiritual Eating—Ecolampadius
and Luther—Zwingli and Luther—Can a Body be in more Places than One at the Same Time?—Mathematics—The
Fathers—The Conference Ends—The Division not Healed— Imperiousness of Luther—Grief
of Zwingli—Mortification of Philip of Hesse—The Plague.
THE camp had been pitched, the Protestant flag displayed, and the campaign was
about to open. No one then living suspected how long and wasting the conflict would
be—the synods that would deliberate, the tomes that would be written, the stakes
that would blaze, and the fields on which, alas! the dead would be piled up in ghastly
heaps, before that liberty which the protesters had written up on their flag should
be secured as the heritage of Christendom. But one thing was obvious to all, and
that was the necessity to the Reformers of union among themselves.
Especially did this necessity appeal to Philip, Landgrave of Hesse. This young prince
was the most chivalrous of all the knightly adherents of Protestantism. His activity
knew no pause. Day and night it was his thought how to strengthen the Protestant
front. Unite, fall into one army, and march as a united phalanx against the foe,
was the advice he was constantly urging upon the Protestants. And certainly, in the
prospect of such combinations as were now forming for their destruction, worse advice
might have been given them. But the zeal of the landgrave was not quite to the taste
of Luther; it at times alarmed him; his activity took too much a military direction
to be altogether wise or safe; the Reformer therefore made it a point to curb it;
and it must be confessed that Philip looked more to leagues and arms for the defense
and success of the Reformation than to those higher forces that were bearing it onwards,
and to that unseen but omnipotent Arm whose interpositions were so visible to Luther
in the sudden shiftings of the vast and complicated drama around him.
But with all his defects the landgrave was of great use to the cause. His rough,
fiery, impetuous energy was fitted for the times. In truth, the Elector John and
Landgrave Philip were made for each other. John was prudent and somewhat timid; Philip
was impulsive and altogether fearless. The same danger that made John hang back,
made Philip rush forward. We see in the two an equipoise of opposite qualities, which
if brought together in one man would have made a perfect knight. John and Philip
were in the political department of the movement what Luther and Melancthon were
in the theological and religious. They were the complement of each other. There was
one great division in the Protestant camp. The eye of Philip had long rested upon
it with profound regret. Unless speedily healed it would widen with years, and produce,
he felt, innumerable mischiefs in time to come. One circumstance in connection with
this division encouraged hope; it existed on only one point—the doctrine of the Lord's
Supper. On all the great fundamental truths of revelation the whole body of the Protestants
were at one—on the origin of salvation, the grace of God; the accomplishment of salvation,
the atoning death of Christ; the bestowal of salvation, the agency of the Holy Spirit;
the channels of its conveyance, the Word and Sacraments; and the instrument by which
the sinner receives it, faith in the righteousness of Christ—on all these points
were the Reformers of Germany and the Refonners of Switzerland agreed. Along the
whole of the royal road of truth could they walk side by side. On one point only
did they differ, namely, the manner in which Christ is present in the bread and wine
of the Eucharist—corporeally or spiritually? That question parted into two the Sacramental
host.
Philip had grieved more over the breach than even Luther and Melancthon. The landgrave
believed that at bottom there were not two really different opinions among the disciples
of the Gospel, but only one opinion differently apprehended, and variously stated,
and that could he bring the leaders together, a free interchange of sentiments and
some sifting discussion, would succeed in removing the misapprehension. What a blessed
thing to close this gulf! What a gain to unite the chivalry of knightly Germany with
the bravery of republican Helvetia the denizens of the plain with the sons of the
mountain! And especially now, when they were waiting for the fiercest onset their
foes had yet made upon them. They had just flung their flag upon the winds; they
had unfurled it in the face of all Christendom, in the face of Rome; they had said
as a body what Luther said as an individual at Worms—"Here we stand; we can
do no otherwise, so help us God." Assuredly the gage would be taken up, and
the blow returned, by a power too proud not to feel, and too strong in armies and
scaffolds not to resent the defiance. To remain disunited with such a battle in prospect,
with such a tempest lowering over them, appeared madness. No doubt the landgrave
was mainly anxious to unite the arms of the Protestants; but if Philip labored for
this object with a zeal so great, and it must be admitted so praiseworthy, not less
anxious ought the Lutheran doctors to have been to unite the hearts and the prayers
of the children of the Reform.
Ere this, several pamphlets had passed between Luther and Zwingli on the question
of the Lord's Supper. Those from the pen of Luther were so violent that they left
an impression of weakness. The perfect calmness of Zwingli's replies, on the other
hand., produced a conviction of strength. Zwingli's calmness stung Luther to the
quick. It humiliated him. Popes and emperors had lowered their pretensions in his
presence; the men of war whom the Papacy had sent forth from the Vatican to do battle
with him, had returned discomfited. He could not brook the thought of lowering his
sword before the pastor of Zurich. Must he, the doctor of Christendom, sit at the
feet of Zwingli?
A little more humility, a little less dogmatism, a stronger desire for truth than
for victory, would have saved Luther from these explosions, which but tended to widen
a breach already too great, and provoke a controversy which planted many a thorn
in the future path of the Reformation.
The Landgrave of Hesse undertook with characteristic ardor the reconcilement of the
German and Swiss Protestants, who now began to be called respectively the Lutheran
and the Reformed. Soon after his return from the Diet of Spires, he sent invitations
to the heads of the two parties to repair to his Castle of Marburg,[1] and discuss their differences in his presence. Zwingli's
heart leaped for joy when he received the invitation. To end the feud, close the
gulf, and rally all the scattered forces of the Gospel into one phalanx, was to him
a delightful thought, and a blessed presage of final victory.
The reception given at Wittenberg to the invitation was not so cordial. Luther hung
back—declined, in short. He did not like that the landgrave should move in this matter;
he suspected that there was under it the snake of a political alliance;[2] besides, although he did not confess it to his friends, nor
perhaps to himself, he seemed to have a presentiment of defeat. This opinion of Zwingli's,
he said, was plausible, and had attractions for minds that loved things that they
could understand. This mystery, this miracle of Christ's bodily presence in the Lord's
Supper, had been left, he thought, in the Gospel as the test of our submission, as
an exercise for our faith. This absurdity, which wears the guise of piety, had been
so often uttered by great doctors that Luther could not help repeating it.
But second thoughts convinced Luther and Melancthon that they could not decline the
conference. Popish Christendom would say they were afraid, and Reformed Christendom
would lay at their door the continuance of the breach which so many deplored, should
they persist in their refusal. They had even suggested to the Elector of Saxony that
he should interpose his veto upon their journey. The elector, however, disdained
so discreditable a manoeuver. They next proposed that a Papist should be chosen as
umpire, assigning as the reason of this strange proposition that a Papist only would
be an impartial judge, forgetting that the party of all others in Christendom pledged
to the doctrine of the real presence was the Church of Rome. Every device faded;
they must go to Marburg; they must meet Zwingli.
The pastor of Zurich, with a single attendant, stole away by night. The town council,
having regard to the perils of the journey, which had to be gone in good part over
the territories of the emperor, in the midst of foes, into whose hands should the
Reformer fall, he would see Zurich no more, refused to give him leave to depart.
Accordingly Zwingli took the matter into his own hand, willing to risk life rather
than forego the opportunity of uniting the ranks of the Reformation. Leaving a letter
behind him to explain his departure to the council, he set out, and reached Basle
in five days.
Embarking at this point on the Rhine, in company of Ecolampadius, he descended the
river to Strasburg. Here the travelers lodged a night in the house of Matthew Zell,
the cathedral preacher. On the morrow they again set out, and taking the most unfrequented
paths, escorted by a troop of Hessian cavalry, they at length on the 29th September
reached Marburg.
The Wittenbergers had not yet arrived; they appeared at Marburg the next day. With
Luther came Melancthon, Jonas, and Cruciger; Zwingli was accompianied by Ecolampadius
from Basle, Bucer and Hedio from Strasburg, and Osiander from Nuremberg.[3] The landgrave lodged them in his castle, an ancient fortress
standing on the brow of a hill, and commanding a noble view of the valley of the
Lahn. He made them sit together at table, and entertained them in right princely
fashion. To look each other in the face might help, he thought, to melt the ice in
the heart.
The affair was much spoken of. The issue was watched intently in the two camps of
Rome and Protestantism. Will the breach be healed? asked the Romanists in alarm;
the Protestants hoped that it would, and that from the conference chamber at Marburg;
a united band would come forth. From many lands came theologians, scholars, and nobles
to Marburg to witness the discussion, and if need were to take part in it.[4] Thousands followed Luther and Zwingli with their prayers
who could not come in person.
The first day, after dinner, Luther and Ecolampadius walked together in the castle
yard. The converse of these two chiefs was familiar and affectionate. In Ecolampadius,
Luther had found another Melancthon. The Reformer of Basle united an erudition almost
as profound as that of the great scholar of Wittenberg, with a disposition nearly
as sweet and gentle. But when Bucer, who had once been intimate with Luther, and
had now gone over to Zwingli's side, approached, the Reformer shook his fist in his
face, and said half jocularly, half in earnest, "As for you, you are a good-for-
nothing knave."[5]
It was thought that a private meeting between selected persons from the two sides
would pave the way for the public conference. But let us beware, said the landgrave,
of at once engaging Luther and Zwingli in combat; let us take the disputants two
by two, mating the mildest with the hottest, and leave them alone to debate the matter
between themselves. Ecolampadiuswas told off with Luther, Melancthon was paired with
Zwingli. They were then shown into separate chambers, and left to discuss with each
other till dinner-time.[6]
Although on some points, more especially those of the divinity of Christ,
and the deference due to the first six Councils, the Swiss Reformers were able to
clear themselves of some suspicions under which they lay in the eyes of the German
Protestants, the progress made at these private meetings towards a reconciliation
was not by any means so great as had been looked for. As the Swiss deputies rejoined
each other on their way to the dinner-table, they briefly exchanged first impressions.
Zwingli, whispering into the ear of Ecolampadius, said that Melancthon was a very
Proteus, so great was his dexterity in evading the point of his opponent's argument;
and Ecolampadius, putting his mouth to Zwingli's ear, complained that in Luther he
had found a second Dr. Eck.
On the day following, the 2nd October, the conference was opened in public. The landgrave
Philip, in a plain dress, and without any show of rank, took his place at the head
of a table which had been set in one of the rooms of the castle. Seated with him
were Luther, Zwingli, Melancthon, and Ecolampadius. Their friends sat on benches
behind them; the rest of the hall was devoted to the accommodation of a few of the
distingmished men who had flocked to Marburg from so many places to witness the discussion.
The proeeeding opened with Luther's taking a piece of chalk, and proceeding to trace
some characters upon the velvet cover of the table. When he had finished, it was
found that he had written—"HOC EST MEUM CORPUS." "Yes," said
he, laying down the bit of chalk, and displaying the writing to those around the
table, "these are the words of Christ—'This is my body.' From this rock no adversary
shall dislodge me."
No one denied that these were the words of Christ, but the question was, what was
their sense The whole controversy, on which hung issues to Protestantism so momentous,
turned on this. The fundamental principle of Protestantism was that the Word of God
is the supreme authority, and that obscure and doubtful passages are to be interpreted
by others more clear. If this principle were to be followed on the present occasion,
there could be no great difficulty in determining the sense of the words of Christ,
"This is my body."
The argument of the Swiss was wholly in the line of the fundamental principle of
Protestantism. Luther had but one arrow in his quiver. His contention was little
else than a constant repetition of the words which he had written with chalk on the
table-cover.
Ecolampadius asked Luther whether he did not admit that there are figures of speech
in the Bible, as "I am the door," "John is Elias," "God
is a rock," "The rock was Christ." The words, "This is my body,"
he maintained, were a like figure of speech.
Luther admitted that there were figures in the Bible, but denied that this was one
of them.
A figure we must hold them, responded Ecolampadius, otherwise Christ teaches contradictory
propositions. In his sermon in the sixth chapter of St. John's Gospel, he says, "The
flesh profiteth nothing;" but in the words of the institution of the Lord's
Supper, literally interpreted, he says the flesh profiteth everything. The doctrine
of the Lord's Supper, according to that exegesis, overthrows the doctrine of the
sermon. Christ has one dogma for the multitude at Capernaum, and another dogma for
his disciples in the upper chamber. This cannot be; therefore the words "This
is my body" must be taken figuratively.[7]
Luther attempted to turn aside the force of this argument by making a distinction.
There was, he said, a material eating of Christ's flesh, and there was a spiritual
eating of it. It was the former, the material eating, of which Christ declared that
it profiteth nothing.[8]
A perilous line of argument for Luther truly! It was to affirm the spirituality
of the act, while maintaining the materiality of the thing. Ecolampadius hinted that
this was in effect to surrender the argument. It admitted that we were to eat spiritually,
and if so we did not eat bodily, the material manducation being in that case useless.
No, quickly retorted Luther, we are to eat bodily also. We are not to ask of what
use. God has commanded it, and we are to do it. This was to come back to the point
from which he had started; it was to reiterate, with a little periphrasis, the words
"This is my body."
It is worthy of notice that the argument since so often employed in confutation of
the doctrine of Christ's corporeal presence in the Lord's Supper, namely, that a
body cannot be in two places at one and the same time, was employed by our Lord himself
at Capernaum. When he found that his hearers understood him to say that they must
"eat his flesh and drink his blood," after a corporeal manner, he at once
restricted them to the spiritual sense, by telling them that his body was to ascend
to heaven.
"What" (John 6:62, 63) "and if ye shall see the Son of Man ascend
up where he was before? It is the spirit that quickeneth; the flesh profiteth nothing;
the words that I speak unto you, they are spirit, and they are life."
The hour to adjourn had now arrived, and the disputants retired with the prince to
dinner. At table there came an hour's familiar and friendly talk with their host
and with one another. In the afternoon they again repaired to the public hall, where
the debate was resumed by Zwingli. The Scriptures, science, the senses, all three
repudiate the Lutheran and Popish doctrine of the Lord's Supper. Zwingli took his
stand first on the ground of Scripture. Applying the great Protestant rule that Scripture
is to be interpreted by Scripture, he pressed Luther with the argument which had
been started by Ecolampadius, namely, the manifest contradiction between the teaching
of our Lord in the sermon at Capernaum and his teaching in the Lord's Supper, if
the words of institution are to be taken literally. "If so taken," said
Zwingli, "Christ has given us, in the Lord's Supper, what is useless to us."
He added the stinging remark, "The oracles of the demons were obscure, not so
are those of Jesus Christ."[9]
"But," replied Luther, "it is not his own flesh, but ours,
of which Christ affirms that it profiteth nothing." This, of course, was to
maintain that Christ's flesh profited.
Zwingli might have urged that Christ was speaking of "the flesh of the Son of
Man;" that his hearers so understood him, seeing they asked, "How can this
man give us his flesh to eat? " and that to refute this view, Christ adduced
the future fact of his ascension, and so limited them to the figurative or spiritual
sense of his words. Waiving this argument, Zwingli simply asked how flesh could nourish
the soul? With the spirit only can the soul be fed. "We eat the flesh of Christ
bodily with the mouth," rejoined Luther, "and spiritually with the soul."
This appeared to Zwingli to be to maintain contradictions. It was another way of
returning to the starting-point," This is my body." It was in fact to maintain
that the words were to be taken neither figuratively nor literally, and yet that
they were to be taken in both senses.
To travel further on this line was evidently impossible. An absurdity had been reached.
Zwingli now allowed himself greater scope and range. He dwelt especially upon the
numerous wider passages in the Scriptures in which the sign is put for the thing
signified, and maintained that we have Christ's authority in the sixth chapter of
St. John's Gospel for saying that it is so here, that the bread and wine of the Eucharist
are not the very body and blood, but only the representatives of that body and blood,
through which there cometh eternal life to men. Not in vain did the Reformer of Zurich
thus argue. Minds were opening around him. The simplicity of his views, and their
harmony with the usual method by which the spirit acts upon the soul of man, recommended
them to the listeners. The light of the Word let fall upon the Lord's Supper, its
nature, its design, and its mode of operation came clearly out. The anomalous mysteriousness
that had shrouded it departed, and it took its place beside the other institutions
of the Economy of Grace, as working like them spiritual effects by spiritual means.
They felt that the consistency of even Luther's scheme of salvation by faith demanded
it, and though Luther himself remained as unconvinced as ever, there were not a few
conversions in the audience. There was a notable one—the ex-Franciscan, Francis Lambert,
formerly of Avignon, now the head of the Hessian Church. His spare figure and eager
eye made him a marked object in the throng of listeners; and when the discussion
closed, his admiration of Luther, whose friendship and respect he enjoyed in return,
did not prevent his decla ring himself to be of the opinion of Zwingli. The Wittenberg
doctors bewailed his defection. They saw in it not a proof of the soundness of Zwingli's
argument, but an evidence of the Frenchman's fickleness. Have we not all left the
Church of Rome? asked Lambert. Is that, too, the fruit of fickleness? This ended
the first day's discussion.
The contest was continued on the following day, Sunday. Abandoning the theological
ground, the doctor of Zurich attempted to carry his point by weapons borrowed from
science. A body cannot be in more places than one at the same time, urged Zwingli.
Christ's body is like ours; how can it be at once in heaven and on the earth, at
the right hand of God and in the bread of the Eucharist? How can it be at the same
instant on every one of the thousand altars at which the Eucharist is being celebrated?
But Luther refused to answer at the bar of mathematics. He would hold up the tablecloth
and point to the words "This is my body." He would permit neither Scripture
nor science to interpret them in any sense but that in which he understood them.
He would assert that it was a matter not to be understood, but to be believed. It
might be against nature, it might be unknown to science; that did not concern him.
God had said it, Christ's body was in heaven, and it was in the Sacrament; it was
in the Sacrament substantially as born of the Virgin. There was the proof of it,
"This is my body."
"If the body of Christ can be in several places at one and the same time,"
rejoined Zwingli, "then our bodies likewise, after the resurrection, must possess
the power of occupying more places than one at a time, for it is promised that our
bodies shall be fashioned like unto the glorious body of our Lord."
"That proves nothing," Luther replied. "What the text affirms is,
that our bodies in their outward fashion are to resemble Christ's body, not that
they are to be endowed with a like power."
"My dear sirs," Luther continued, "behold the words of our Lord Jesus
Christ, 'This is my body.' That truth I cannot abandon. I must confess and believe
that the body of Jesus Christ is there." "Ah, well, my dear doctor,"
replied Zwingli, "you put the body of Jesus Christ locally in the Lord's Supper,
for you say, 'It behooves the body of Jesus Christ to be there.' There is an adverb
of place."
"I repeat simply the words of Jesus Christ," said Luther. "But since
you are captious, I must again say that I will have nothing to do with mathematical
reasons. I throw away the adverb there, for Christ says, 'This [not there] is my
body.'
Whether that body is confined to a place, or whether it fills all space, I prefer
to be ignorant rather than to know, since God has not been pleased to reveal it,
and no man in the world is able to decide the point."
"But Christ's body is finite, and bounded by place," urged Zwingli. "No,"
responded Luther, "away with these mathematical novelties; I take my stand on
the almightiness of God."
"The power is not the point to be established," replied Zwingli, "but
the fact that the body is in divers places at the same moment." "That,"
said Luther, "I have proved by the words 'This is my body.'"
Zwingli reproached him with always falling into the error of begging the question,
and he adduced a passage from Fulgentius, a Father of the fifth century, to show
that the Fathers held that the body of Christ could be in only one place at a time.
"Hear his words," said Zwingli. 'The Son of God,' says Fulgentius, 'took
the attributes of true humanity, and did not lose those of true divinity. Born in
time according to his mother, he lives in eternity according to his divinity that
he holds from the Father; coming from man he is man, and consequently in a place;
proceeding from the Father he is God, and consequently present in every place. According
to his human nature, he was absent from heaven while he was upon the earth, and quitted
the earth when he ascended into heaven; but according to his divine nature he remained
in heaven when he came down from thence, and did not abandon the earth when he returned
thither.'"
Luther put aside the testimony of Fulgentius, saying that this Father was not speaking
of the Lord's Supper; and he again betook him to his battle-horse, "This is
my body"—"it is there in the bread."
"If it is there in the bread," said Zwingli, "it is there as in a
place."
"It is there," reiterated Luther, "but it is not there as in a place;
it is at the right hand of God. He has said, 'This is my body,' that is enough for
me."
"But that is not to reason," retorted Zwingli, "that is to wrangle.
You might as well maintain becanse Christ, addressing his mother from the cross and
pointing to St. John, said, 'Woman, behold thy son,' that therefore St. John was
the son of Mary." To all arguments and proofs to the contrary, an obstinate
controversialist might oppose an endless iteration of the words, "Woman, behold
thy son—Woman, behold thy son." Zwingli further enforced his argument by quoting
the words of Augustine to Dardanus. "Let us not think," says he, "that
Christ according to his human form is present in every place. Christ is everywhere
present as God, and yet by reason of his true body he is present in a definite part
of heaven. That cannot be called a body of which place cannot be predicated."
Luther met the authority of Augustine as he had done that of Fulgentius, by denying
that he was speaking of the Lord's Supper, and he wound up by saying that "Christ's
body was present in the bread, but not as in a place."
The dinner-hour again interposed. The ruffled theologians tried to forget at the
table of their courteous and princely entertainer the earnest tilting in which they
had been engaged, and the hard blows they had dealt to one another in the morning's
conference.
Ecolampadius had been turning over in his mind the words of Luther, that Christ's
body was present in the Sacrament, but not as in a place. It was possible, he thought,
that in these words common ground might be found on which the two parties might come
together. On reassembling in the hall they became the starting-point of the discussion.
Reminding Luther of his admission, Ecolampadius asked him to define more precisely
his meaning. If Christ's body is present, but not as a body is present in a place,
then let us inquire what is the nature of Christ's bodily presence.
"It is in vain you urge me," said Luther, who saw himself about to be dragged
out of his circle, "I will not move a single step. Only Augustine and Fulgentius
are with you; all the rest of the Fathers are with us."
"As, for instance—?" quietly inquired Ecolampadius.
"Oh, we will not name them," exclaimed Luther; "Christ's words suffice
for us. When Augustine wrote on this subject he was a young man, and his statements
are confused."
"If we cite the Fathers," replied Ecolampadius, "it is not to shelter
our opinion under their authority, but solely to shield ourselves from the charge
you have hurled against us that we are innovators."[10]
The day had worn away in the discussion. It was now evening. On the lawns
and woods around the castle the shadows of an October twilight were fast falling.
Dusk filled the hall. Shall they bring in lights? To what purpose? Both sides feel
that it is wholly useless to prolong the debate.
Two days had worn away in this discussion. The two parties were no nearer each other
than at the beghmlng. The Swiss theologians had exhausted every argument from Scripture
and from reason. Luther was proof against them all. He stood immovably on the ground
he had taken up at the beginning; he would admit no sense of the words but the literal
one; he would snatch up the cover from the table and, displaying triumphantly before
the eyes of Zwingli and Ecolampadius the words he had written upon it? "This
is my body"—he would boast that there he still stood, and that his opponents
had not driven him from this ground, nor ever should.
Zwingli, who saw the hope so dearly cherished by him of healing the schism fast vanishing,
burst into tears. He besought Luther to come to terms, to be reconciled, to accept
them as brothers. Neither prayers nor tears could move the doctor of Wittenberg.
He demanded of the Helvetian Reformers unconditional surrender. They must accept
the Lord's Supper in the sense in which he took it; they must subscribe to the tenet
of the real presence. This the Swiss Protestants declared they could not do. On their
refusal, Luther declared that he could not regard them as having a standing within
the Church, nor could he receive them as brothers. As a sword these words went to
the heart of Zwingli. Again he burst into tears. Must the children of the Reformation
be divided? must the breach go unhealed? It must.
On the 12th October, 1529, Luther writes, in reference to this famous conference:
"All joined in suing me for peace with the most extraordinary humility. The
conference lasted two days. I responded to the arguments of Ecolampadius and Zwinglius
by citing this passage, 'This is my body;' and I refuted all their objections."
And again, "The whole of Zwinglius' argument may be shortly reduced to the following
summary:—That the body of our Lord cannot exist without occupying space and without
dimensions [and therefore it was not in the bread]. Ecolampadius maintained that
the Fathers styled the bread a symbol, and consequently that it was not the real
body of Christ. They supplicated us to bestow upon them the title of 'brothers.'
Zwinglius even implored the landgrave with tears to grant this. 'There is no place
on earth,' said he, 'where I so much covet to pass my days as at Wittenberg.' We
did not, however, accord to them this appellation of brothers. All we granted was
that which charity enjoins ns to bestow even upon our enemies. They, however, behaved
in all respects with an incredible degree of humility and amiability."[11]
Philip, Landgrave of Hesse, was unspeakably mortified by the issue of the
conference. He had been at great pains to bring it about; he had built the highest
hopes upon it; now all these hopes had to be relinquished. Wherever he looked, outside
the Protestant camp, he beheld union. All, from the Pope downwards, were gathering
in one vast confederacy to crush both Wittenberg and Zurich, and yet Luther and Zwingli
were still standing—the former haughtily and obstinately—apart! Every hour the storm
lowers more darkly over Protestantism, yet its disciples do not unite! His disappointment
was great.
All the time this theological battle was going on, a terrible visitant was approaching
Marburg. The plague, in the form of the sweating sickness, had broken out in Germany,
and was traversing that country, leaving on its track the dead in thousands. It had
now reached the city where the conference was being held, and was committing in Marburg
the same fearful ravages which had marked its presence in other towns. This was an
additional reason for breaking up the conference. Philip had welcomed the doctors
with joy; he was about to see them depart in sorrow. A terrible tempest was brewing
on the south of the Alps, where Charles and Clement were nightly closeted in consultation
over the extermination of Protestantism. The red flag of the Moslem was again displayed
on the Danube, soon, it might be, to wave its bloody folds on the banks of the Elbe.
In Germany thousands of swords were ready to leap from their scabbards to assail
the Gospel in the persons of its adherents. All round the horizon the storm seemed
to be thickening; but the saddest portent of all, to the eye of Philip, was the division
that parted into two camps the great Reformed brotherhood, and marshalled in two
battles the great Protestant army.
CHAPTER 17 Back
to Top
THE MARBURG CONFESSION.
Further Effects of the Landgrave—Zwingli's Approaches—Luther's Repulse—The Landgrave's
Proposal—Articles Drafted by Luther— Signed by Both Parties—Agreement in Doctrine—Only
One Point of Difference, namely, the Manner of Christ's Presence in the Sacrament—
The Marburg Confession—A Monument of the Real Brotherhood of all Protestants—Bond
between Germany and Helvetia—Ends served by it.
YET before seeing the doctors depart, never perhaps to meet each other again,
the landgrave asked himself, can nothing more be done to heal the breach? Must this
one difference irreconcilably divide the disciples of the Gospel? Agreement on the
Eucharist is, it seems, impossible; but is there not besides enough of common ground
to permit of a union, of such sort as may lead to united counsels and united action,
in the presence of those tremendous dangers which lower equally over Germany and
over Switzerland?
"Are we not brethren, whether Luther acknowledge it or not?" was the question
which Philip put to himself. "Does not Rome account both of us her enemies?
" This is negative proof of brotherhood. Clearly Rome holds us to be brothers.
Do not both look for salvation through the same sacrifice of the cross? and do not
both bow to the Bible as the supreme authority of what they are to believe? Are not
these strong bonds? Those between whom they exist can hardly be said to be twain.
Philip accordingly made another effort. He made the doctors go with him, one by one,
into his cabinet. He reasoned, entreated, exhorted; pointed now to the storm that
seemed ready to burst, and now to the advantages that union might secure. More from
the desire to gratify the landgrave than from any lively hope of achieving union,
the two parties agreed again to meet and to confer.
The interview was a most touching one. The circumstances amid which it took place
were well fitted to humble pride, and to melt the hearts of men. Hundreds were dying
of the plague around them. Charles and the Pope, Ferdinand and the princes, all were
whetting their swords, eager to spin the blood alike of Zwinglian and of Lutheran.
Only let the emperor be master of the position, and he will not spare Luther because
he believes in the real presence, nor Zwingli because he differs on this point from
Wittenberg. Both, in the judgment of Charles, are heretics, equally deserving of
extermination. What did this mean? If they were hated of all men, surely it was for
his name's sake; and was not this a proof that they were his children?
Taught by his instincts of Christian love, Zwingli opened the conference by enunciating
a truth which the age was not able to receive. "Let us," said he, "proclaim
our union in all things in which we agree; and as for the rest, let us forbear as
brothers,"[1]
adding that never would peace be attained in the Church unless her members
were allowed to differ on secondary points.
The Landgrave Philip, catching at this new idea, and deeming that now at last union
had been reached, exclaimed, "Yes, let us unite; let us proclaim our union."
"With none on earth do I more desire to be united than with you," said
Zwingli, addressing Luther and his companions. Ecolampadius, Bucer, and Hedio made
the same declaration.
This magnanimous avowal was not without its effect. It had evidently touched the
hearts of the opposing rank of doctors. Luther's prejudice and obduracy were, it
appeared, on the point of being vanquished, and his coldness melted. Zwingli's keen
eye discovered this: he burst into tears— tears of joy—seeing himself, as he believed,
on the eve of an event that would gladden the hearts of thousands in all the countries
of the Reformation, and would strike Rome with terror. He approached: he held out
his hand to Luther: he begged him only to pronounce the word "brother."
Alas! what a cruel disappointment awaited him. Luther coldly and cuttingly replied,
"Your spirit is different from ours." It was indeed different: Zwingli's
was catholic, Luther's sectarian.
The Wittenberg theologians consulted together. They all concurred in Luther's resolution.
"We," said they to Zwingli and his friends, "hold the belief of Christ's
bodily presence in the Lord's Supper to be essential to salvation, and we cannot
in conscience regard you as in the communion of the Church."[2]
"In that case," replied Bucer, "it were folly to ask you to
recognize us as brethren. But we, though we regard your doctrine as dis-honoring
to Christ, now on the right hand of the Father, yet, seeing in all things you depend
on him, we acknowledge you as belonging to Christ. We appeal to posterity."[3] This was magnanimous.
The Zwinglians had won a great victory. They had failed to heal the schism, or to
induce the Wittenbergers to acknowledge them as brethren; nevertheless, they had
reared a noble monument to the catholicity of Christian love.
Their meekness was mightier than Luther's haughtiness. Not only was its power felt
in the conference chamber, where it made some converts, but throughout Germany. From
this time forward the more spiritual doctrine of the Eucharist began to spread throughout
the Lutheran Church. Even Luther bowed his head. The tide in his breast began to
turn—to rise. Addressing the Zwinglians, and speaking his last word, he said, "We
acknowledge you as friends; we do not consider you as brothers. I offer you the hand
of peace and charity."[4]
Overjoyed that something had been won, the Landgrave Philip proposed that
the two parties should unite in making a joint profession of their faith, in order
that the world might see that on one point only did they differ, namely, the manner
in which Christ is present in the Lord's Supper, and that after all the great characteristic
of the Protestant Churches was UNITY, though manifested in diversity. The suggestion
recommended itself to both sides. Luther was appointed to draw up the articles of
the Protestant faith. "I will draft them," said he, as he retired to his
chamber to begin his task, "with a strict regard to accuracy, but I don't expect
the Zwinglians to sign them."
The pen of Luther depicts the Protestant doctrine as evolved by the Reformation at
Wittenberg; the rejection or acceptance of Zwingli will depict it as developed at
Zurich. The question of brotherhood is thus about to be appealed from the bar of
Luther to the bar of fact. It is to be seen whether it is a different Gospel or the
same Gospel that is received in Germany and in Switzerland.
The articles, fourteen in number, gave the Wittenberg view of the Christian system—the
Trinity, the person and offices of Christ, the work of the Holy Spirit, justification
by faith, the authority of the Scriptures, rejection of tradition, baptism, holiness,
civil order; in short, all the fundamental doctrines of revealed truth were included
in the program of Luther.[5]
The doctor of Wittenberg read his paper article by article. "We cordially
say amen," exclaimed the Zwinglians, "and are ready to subscribe every
one of them." Luther stood amazed. Were the men of Helvetia after all of one
mind with the men of Wittenberg? Were Switzerland and Germany so near to each other?
Why should man put asunder those whom the Holy Spirit had joined?
Still the gulf was not closed, or rather sectarianism again opened it. Luther had
reserved the article on the Lord's Supper to the last.
"We all believe," Luther continued, "that the Sacrament of the altar
is the Sacrament of the very body and very blood of Jesus Christ; and that the spiritual
manducation of this body and blood is specially necessary to every true Christian."[6]
This brought the two parties once more in presence of the great impassable
obstacle. It marked the furthest limit on the road to union the Church in that age
had reached. Here she must halt. Both parties felt that advance beyond was impossible,
till God should further enlighten them. But they resolved to walk together so far
as they were agreed. And here, standing at the parting of the ways as it were, they
entered into covenant with one allother, to avoid all bitterness in maintaining what
each deemed the truth, and to cherish towards one another the spirit of Christian
charity.[7]
On the 4th October, 1529, the signatures of both parties were appended to
this joint confession of Protestant faith. This was better than any mere protestation
of brotherhood. It was actual brotherhood, demonstrated and sealed. The articles,
we venture to affirm, are a complete scheme of saving truth, and they stand a glorious
monument that Helvetia and Germany were one—in other words, a glorious monument to
the Oneness of Protestantism.
This Confession of Marburg was the first well-defined boundary-line drawn around
the Protestants. It marked them off as a distinct body from the enthusiasts on the
one hand and the Romanists on the other. Their flag was seen to float on the middle
ground between the camp of the visionaries and that of the materialists. "There
is," said Zwingli, in opposition to the former, who saw in the Sacrament only
a commemoration, "there is a real presence of Christ in the Lord's Supper."
"Faith," said Luther, in opposition to the opus operatum of the latter,
"faith is necessary in order to our benefiting by the Sacrament." We thus
see that the middle camp has two opposing fronts, corresponding to the set of foes
on either hand, but substantial oneness in itself. It is gathered round one King—Christ:
round one expiation—the cross: round one law—the Bible.
But if the Church of the Reformation still remained outwardly divided, her members
were thereby guarded against the danger of running into political alliances, and
supporting their cause by force of arms. This line of policy the Landgrave Philip
had much at heart, and it formed one of the objects he had in view in his attempts
to conduct to a successful issue the conferences at Marburg. Union might have rendered
the Protestants too strong. They might have leaned on the arm of flesh, and forgotten
their true defense. The Reformation was a spiritual principle. From the sword it
could derive no real help. Its conquests would end the moment those of force began.
From that hour it would begin to decay, it would be powerless to conquer, and would
cease to advance. But let its spiritual arm be disentangled from political armor,
which could but weigh it down, let its disciples hold forth the truth, let them fight
with prayers and sufferings, let them leave political alliances and the fate of battles
to the ordering and overruling of their Divine Head—let them do this, and all opposition
would melt in their path, and final victory would attest at once the truth of their
cause, and the omnipotence of their King.
CHAPTER 18 Back
to Top
THE EMPEROR, THE TURK, AND THE REFORMATION.
Charles's great Ambition, the Supremacy of Christendom—Protestantism his great Stumbling-Block—The
Edict of Worms is to Remove that Stumbling-Block—Charles Disappointed—The Victory
of Pavia Renews the Hope—Again Disappointed—The Diet of Spires, 1526—Again Balked—In
the Church, Peace: in the World, War—The Turk before Vienna—Terror in Germany—The
Emperor again Laying the Train for Extinction of Protestantism —Charles Lands at
Genoa—Protestant Deputies—Interview with Emperor at Piacenza—Charles's stern Reply—
Arrest of Deputies—Emperor sets out for Bologna.
WE have traced the steps by which Charles V. climbed to the summit of power. It
was his ambition to wield the supremacy of Europe without being under the necessity
of consulting any will but his own, or experiencing impediment or restraint in any
quarter whatever. The great stumbling-block in his path to this absolue and unfettered
exercise of his arbitrary will, was the Protestant movement. It divided with him
the government of Christendom, and by its empire of the conscience it set limits
to his empire of the sword. In his onward march he thought that it was necessary
to sweep Luther and Wittenberg from his path. But ever as he put his hand upon his
sword's hilt to carry his purpose into effect, some hindrance or other prevented
his drawing it, and made him postpone the execution of his great design. From Aix-la-Chapelle,
where the much-coveted imperial diadem was placed on his brow, he went straight to
Worms, where in assembled Diet he passed the edict consigning Luther to proscription
and the stake. Now, he thought, had come the happy moment he had waited for. Rid
of the monk and freed from the annoyance of his heresy, he is now supreme arbiter
in Christendom. At that instant a war broke out between him and France. For four
years, from 1521 to 1525, the emperor had to leave Luther in peace, translating the
Scriptures, and propagating the Reformed doctrines throughout Germany, while he was
waging an arduous and dubious contest with Francis I. But the victory of Pavia placed
France and Italy at his feet, and left free his sword to do his will, and what does
he will but to execute the Edict of Worms? Now he will strike the blow. The emperor's
hand is again upon his poniard: Luther is a dead man: the knell of Wittenberg has
rung out.
Not yet. Strange to say, at that moment opposition arose in a quarter where Charles
was entitled to look for only zealous co-operation. The Pope, Clement VII., was seized
with a sudden dread of the Spanish power.
The Italians at the same moment became inflamed with the project of driving out the
Spaniards, and raising their country from the vassalage of centuries to the independence
and glory of early days. Francis I. was burning with a desire to avenge the humiliation
of his captivity, and these concurring causes led to a formidable league of sovereigns
against the man who but a few months before had seen all opposition give way before
him. The emperor unsheathed his sword, but not to strike where he so fondly hoped
to inflict a deadly blow. The puissant Charles must still leave the monk of Wittenberg
at peace, and while his doctrines are day by day striking a deeper root, the emperor
is compelled to buckle on his armor, and meet the combination which Clement VII.,
Francis I., and Henry VIII. have entered into against him.
Then come three years (1526-1529) of distracting thought and harassing toil to the
emperor. But if compelled to be absent in camps and on tented fields, may he not
find others who will execute the edict, and sweep the obnoxious monk from his path?
He will try. He convokes (1526) a Diet to meet at Spires, avowedly for the purpose
of having the edict executed. It is their edict not less than his, for they had concurred
with him in fulminating it; surely the princes will sleep no longer over this affair;
they will now send home the bolt! Not yet. The Diet of Spires did exactly the opposite
of what Charles meant it should do. The majority of the princes were friendly to
Luther, though in 1521 they had been hostile to him; and they enacted that in the
matter of religion every State should be at liberty to do as it judged best. The
Diet that was to unchain the furies of Persecution, proclaims Toleration.
The war-clouds at this time hang heavy over Christendom, and discharge their lightnings
first on one country, then on another; but there is a space of clear sky above Wittenberg,
and in the interval of quiet which Saxony enjoys, we see commissioners going forth
to set in order the Churches of the German Reformation. All the while this peaceful
work of upbuilding is going on, the reverberations of the distant thunder-storm are
heard rolling in the firmament. Now it is from the region of the Danube that the
hoarse roar of battle is heard to proceed. There the Turk is closing in fierce conflict
with the Christian, and the leisure of Ferdinand of Austria, which otherwise might
be worse employed, is fully occupied in driving back the hordes of a Tartar invasion.
Now it is from beyond the Alps that the terrible echoes of war are heard to roll.
On the plains of Italy the legions of the emperor are contending against the arms
of his confederate foes, and that land pays the penalty of its beauty and renown
by having its soil moistened with the blood and darkened with the smoke of battle.
And now comes another terrible peal, louder and more stunning than any that had preceded
it, the last of that thunder-storm. It is upon the City of the Seven Hills that this
bolt is discharged. How has it happened that the thunders have rolled thither? It
was no arrangement of the emperor's that Rome should be smitten; the bolt he hoped
would fall elsewhere. But the winds of the political, like those of the natural firmament,
do not wait on the bidding of man. These winds, contrary to the expectation of all
men, wafted that terrible war-cloud to where rose in proud magnificence the temples
and palaces of the Eternal City, and where stood the throne of her Pontiff. The riches
and glory of ages were blighted in an hour.
With this terrific peal the air clears, and peace again returns for a little while
to Christendom. The league against the emperor was now at an end; he had cut it in
pieces with his sword. Italy was again at his feet; and the Pope, who in an evil
hour for himself had so strangely revolted, was once more his ally. There is no king
who may now stand up against Charles. It seemed as if, at last, the hour had fully
come for which the emperor had waited so long. Now he can strike with the whole force
of the Empire. Now he will measure his strength with that mysterious movement, which
he beholds, with a hatred not unmingled with dread, rising higher and extending wider
every year, and which, having neither exchequer nor army, is yet rearing an empire
in the world that threatens to eclipse his own.
Again darkness gathered round, and danger threatened the Protestant Church. Two terrible
storms hung lowering in the skies of the world. The one darkened the East, the other
was seen rising in the West. It was the Eastern tempest that would be first to burst,
men thought, and the inhabitants of Germany turned their eyes in that direction,
and watched with alarm and trembling the progress of the cloud that was coming towards
them. The gates of Asia had opened, and had poured out the fierce Tartar hordes on
a new attempt to submerge the rising Christianity and liberty of the West under a
flood of Eastern barbarism. Traversing Hungary, the Ottoman host had sat down before
the walls of Vienna a week before the Marburg Conference. The hills around that capital
were white with their tents, and the fertile plains beneath its walls, which the
hoof of Mussulman horse had never pressed till now, were trodden by their cavalry.
The besiegers were opening trenches, were digging mines, were thundering with their
cannon, and already a breach had been made in the walls. A few days and Vienna must
succumb to the numbers, the impetuosity, and valor of the Ottoman warriors, and a
desolate and blood-besprinkled heap would alone remain to mark where it had stood.
The door of Germany burst open, the conquerors would pour along the valley of the
Danube, and plant the crescent amid the sacked cities and devastated provinces of
the Empire. The prospect was a terrible one. A common ruin, like avalanche on brow
of Alp, hung suspended above all parties and ranks in Germany, and might at any moment
sweep down upon them with resistless fury. "It is you," said the adherents
of the old creed addressing the Lutherans, "who have brought this scourge upon
us. It is you who have unloosed these angels of evil; they come to chastise you for
your heresy. You have cast off the yoke of the Pope, and now you must bear the yoke
of the Turk." "Not so," said Luther, "it is God who has unloosed
this army, whose king is Abaddon the destroyer. They have been sent to punish us
for our sins, our ingratitude for the Gospel, our blasphemies, and above all, our
shedding of the blood of the righteous." Nevertheless, it was his opinion that
all Germans ought to unite against the sultan for the common defense. It was no question
of leagues or offensive war, but of country and of common safety: the Turk was at
their hearths, and as neighbor assists neighbor whose house is on fire, so Protestant
ought to aid Papist in repelling a foe that was threatening both with a common slaughter.
It was at this time that he preached his "Battle Sermon." Its sound was
like the voice of a great trumpet. Did ever general address words more energetic
to his soldiers when about to engage in battle? "Mahomet," said he, "exalts
Christ as being without sin, but he denies that He is the true God; he is therefore
His enemy. Alas! to this hour the world is such that it seems everywhere to rain
disciples of Mahomet. Two men ought to oppose the Turks—the first is Christian, that
is to say, prayer; the second is Charles, that is to say, the sword... . I know my
dear Germans well—fat and well-fed swine as they are; no sooner is the danger removed
than they think only of eating and sleeping. Wretched man, if thou dost not take
up arms, the Turk will come; he will carry thee away into his Turkey; he will sell
thee like a dog; and thou shalt serve him night and day, under the rod and the cudgel,
for a glass of water and a morsel of bread. Think on this, be converted, and implore
the Lord not to give thee the Turk for thy schoolmaster."[1]
Western freedom had never perhaps been in such extreme peril since the time
when Xerxes led his myriad army to invade Greece. But the terrible calamity of Ottoman
subjugation was not to befall Europe. The Turk had reached the furthest limits of
his progress westward. From this point his slaughtering hordes were to be rolled
back. While the cities and provinces of Germany waited in terror the tramp of his
war-horses and the gleam of his scimitars, there came the welcome tidings that the
Asiatic warriors had sustained a severe repulse before Vienna (16th October, 1529),
and were now in full retreat to the Bosphorus.[2] The scarcity of provisions to which the Turkish camp was
exposed, and the early approach of winter, with its snow-storms, combined to effect
the raising of the siege and the retreat of the invaders; but Luther recognised in
this unexpected deliverance the hand of God, and the answer of prayer. "We Germans
are always snoring," he exclaimed, indignant at some whose gratitude was not
so lively as he thought it ought to have been, "and there are many traitors
among us. Pray," he wrote to Myconius, "against the Turk and the gates
of hell, that as the angel could not destroy one little city for the sake of one
just soul in it, so we may be spared for the sake of the few righteous that are in
Germany."
But if the Eastern cloud had rolled away, and was fast vanishing in the distance,
the one in the West had grown bigger than ever, and was coming rapidly onwards. "We
have two Caesars," said Luther, "one in the East and one in the West, and
both our foes." The emperor is again victorious over the league which his enemies
had formed against him. IIe has defeated the King of France; he has taught Henry
of England to be careful of falling a second time into the error he committed in
the affair of Cognac; he has chastised the Pope, and compelled Clement VII. to sue
for peace with a great ransom and the offer of alliance; and now he looks around
him and sees no opponent save one, and that one apparently the weakest of all. That
opponent swept from his path, he will mount to the pinnacle of power. Surely he who
has triumphed over so many kings will not have to lower his sword before a monk.
The emperor has left Spain in great wrath, and is on his way to chastise those audacious
Protestants, who are now, as he believes, fully in his power. The terror of the Turk
was forgotten in the more special and imminent danger that threatened the lives and
religion of the Protestants. "The Emperor Charles," said Luther, "has
determined to show himself more cruel against us than the Turk himself, and he has
already uttered the most horrible threats. Behold the hour of Christ's agony and
weakness. Let us pray for all those who will soon have to endure captivity and death."[3]
Meanwhile the work at Wittenberg, despite the gathering clouds and the mutterings
of the distant thunder, does not for one moment stand still. Let us visit this quiet
retreat of learned men and scholars. In point of size this Saxon town is much inferior
to many of the cities of Germany. Neither among its buildings is there palatial edifice,
nor in its landscape is there remarkable object to attract the eye, and awaken the
admiration of the visitor, yet what a power is it putting forth! Here those mighty
forces are at work which are creating the new age. Here is the fountain-head of those
ideas which are agitating and governing all classes, from the man who is master of
half the kingdoms of the world, to the soldier who fights in the ranks and the serf
who tills the soil. In the autumn of 1529, Mathesius, the biographer of Luther, became
a student in "the renowned university." The next Sabbath after his admission,
at vespers, he heard "the great man Dr. Luther preach" from the words of
St. Peter (Acts 2:38), enjoining repentance and baptism. What a sermon from the lips
of the man of God" —"for which all the days of his pilgrimage on earth,
and throughout eternity, he should have to give God thanks." At that period
Melanchthon lectured on Cicero's De Oratoribus, and his oration Pro Archia; and before
noon on the Epistle to the Romans, and every Wednesday on Aristotle's Ethics. Bugenhagen
lectured on the Epistles to the Corinthians; Jonas on the Psalms; Aurogallus on Hebrew
Grammar; Weimar on Greek; Tulich on Cicero's Offices; Bach on Virgil; Volmar on the
theory of the planets; Mulich on astronomy; and Cruciger on Terence, for the younger
students. There were besides private schools for the youth of the town and its neighborhood,
which were in vigorous operation.[4]
Over and above his lectures in the university, and his sermons in the cathedral,
the Reformer toiled with his pen to spread the Protestant light over Germany and
countries more remote. A boon beyond all price was his German Bible: in style so
idiomatic and elegant, and in rendering so faithful, that the Prince of Anhalt said
it was as if the original penmen had lived in Gemnany, and used the tongue of the
Fatherland. Luther was constantly adding to the obligations his countrymen owed him
for this priceless treasure, by issuing new editions carefully revised. He wrote,
moreover, expositions on several of the Epistles; commentaries on the prophets; he
was at this moment busy on Daniel; he had prefixed an explanatory preface to the
Apocalypse; and his commentary on Jeremiah was soon to follow. Nor must we omit the
humblest, but not the least useful, of all the works which issued from his study,
his Smaller and Larger Catechisms.
When we pause to contemplate these two men—Luther and Charles—can we have the slightest
doubt in saying which is immeasurably the greater? The one sitting in his closet
sends forth his word, which runs speedily throughout the earth, shaking into ruin
ancient systems of superstition to which the ages have done reverence, rending the
shackles from conscience, and saying to the slave, "Be thou free," giving
sight to the blind, raising up the fallen, and casting down the mighty; leading hearts
captive, and plucking up or planting kingdoms. It is a God-like power which he exercises.
When we turn to the emperor in his gorgeous palace, editing his edicts, and dispatching
them by liveried couriers to distant nations, we feel that we have made an immense
stride downward. We have descended to a lower region, where we find a totally different
and far inferior set of forces at work. Before Charles can effect anything he must
get together an army, he must collect millions of treasure, he must blow his trumpets
and beat his kettle-drums; and yet how little that is really substantial does he
reap from all this noise and expense and blood! Another province or city, it may
be, calls him master, but waits the first opportunity to throw off his yoke.
His sword has effaced some of the old landmarks on the earth's surface, and has traced
a few new ones; but what truth has he established which may mold the destinies of
men, and be a fountain of blessing in ages to come? What fruit does Spain or the
world reap today from all the battles of Charles? It is now that we see which of
the two men wielded real power, and which of the two was the true monarch.
The emperor was on his way to Germany, where he was expected next spring. He had
made peace with Francis, he had renewed his alliance with the Pope, the Turk had
gone back to his own land. It was one of those moments in the life of Charles when
Fortune shed her golden beams upon his path, and beckoned him onwards with the flattering
hope that now he was on the eve of attaining the summit of his ambition. One step
more, one little remaining obstruction swept away, and then he would stand on the
pinnacle of power. He did not conceaI his opinion that that little obstruction was
Wittenberg, and that the object of his jounrey was to make an end of it.
But in consummating his grand design he must observe the constitutional forms to
which he had sworn at his coronation as emperor. The cradle of the Reformation was
placed precisely in that part of his dominions where he was not absolute master.
Had it been placed in Spain, in Flanders— anywhere, in short, except Saxony—how easy
would it have been to execute the Edict of Worms! But in Germany he had to consult
the will of others, and so he proceeded to convoke another Diet at Augsburg. Charles
must next make sure of the Pope. He could not have the crafty Clement tripping him
up the moment he turned his back and crossed the Alps on his way to Germany. He must
go to Italy and have a personal interview with the Pontiff.
Setting sail from Spain, and coasting along on the waters of the Mediterranean, the
imperial fleet cast anchor in the Bay of Genoa. The youthful emperor gazed, doubtless,
with admiration and delight on the city of the Dorias, whose superb palaces, spread
out in concentric rows on the face of the mountains, embosomed in orange and oleander
groves, rise from the blue sea to the summit of the craggy and embattled Apennines.
The Italians, on the other hand, trembled at the approach of their new master, whose
picture, as drawn by their imaginations, resembled those Gothic conquerors who in
former times had sacked the cities and trampled into the dust the fertility of Italy.
Their fears were dispelled, however, when on stepping ashore they beheld in Charles
not all irate and ferocious conqueror, come to chastise them for their revolt, but
a pale-faced prince, of winning address and gentle manners, followed by a train of
nobles in the gay costume of Spain, and, like their master, courteous and condescending.[5] This amiable young man,
who arrived among the Italians in smiles, could frown sternly enough on occasion,
as the Protestant deputies, who were at this moment on their way to meet him, were
destined to experience.
The Reformed princes, who gave in the famous protest to the Diet of Spires (1529),
followed up their act by an appeal to the emperor. The ArchDuke Ferdinand, the president
of the Diet, stormed and left the assembly, but the protesters appealed to a General
Council and to posterity. Their ambassadors were now on their way to lay the great
Protest before Charles. Three burgesses, marked rather by their weight of character
than by their eminence of position, had been selected for this mission. Their names
were—John Ehinger, Burgomaster of Memmingen; Michael Caden, Syndic of Nuremberg;
and Alexis Frauentrat, secretary to the Margrave of Brandenburg. Their mission was
deemed a somewhat dangerous one, and before their departure a pension was secured
to their widows in case of misfortune.[6]
They met the emperor at Piacenza, for so far had he got on his way to meet
the Pope at Bologna, to which city Clement had retired, to benefit, it may be, after
his imprisonment, by its healthy breezes, and to forget the devastation inflicted
by the Spaniards on Rome, of which the daily sight of its plundered museums and burned
palaces reminded him while he resided in the capital. Informed of the arrival of
the Protestant deputies, and of the object of their journey, Charles appointed the
12th of September [7]
for an audience. The prospect of appearing in the imperial presence was no
pleasant one, for they knew that they had come to plead for a cause which Charles
had destined to destruction. Their fears were confirmed by receiving an ominous hint
to be brief, and not preach a Protestant sermon to the emperor.
Unabashed by the imperial majesty and the brilliant court that waited upon Charles,
these three plain ambassadors, when the day of audience came, discharged their mission
with fidelity. They gave a precise narrative of all that had taken place in Germany
on the matter of religion since the emperor quitted that country, which was in 1521,
They specially instanced the edict of toleration promulgated by the Diet of 1526;
the virtual repeal of that edict by the Diet of 1529; the Protest of the Reformed
princes against that repeal; their challenge of religious freedom for themselves
and all who should adhere to them, and their resolution, at whatever cost, never
to withdraw from that demand, but to prosecute their Protest to the utmost of their
power. In all matters of the Empire they would most willingly obey the emperor, but
in the things of God they would obey no power on earth.[8] So they spoke. It was no pleasant thing, verily, for the
victor of kings and the ruler of two hemispheres to be thus plainly taught that there
were men in the world whose wills even he, with all his power, could not bend. This
thought was the worm at the root of the emperor's glory. Charles deigned no reply;
he dismissed the ambassadors with the intimation that the imperial will would be
made known to them in writing.[9]
On the 13th October the emperor's answer was sent to the deputies through
his secretary, Alexander Schweiss. It was, in brief, that the emperor was well acquainted,
through his brother Ferdinand and his colleagues, with all that had taken place in
Germany; that he was resolved to maintain the edict of the last Diet of Spires—that,
namely, which abolished the toleration inaugurated in 1526, and which laid the train
for the extinction of the religious movement—and that he had written to the Duke
of Saxony and his associates commanding him to obey the decree of the Diet, upon
the allegiance which he owed to him and to the Empire; and that should he disobey,
he would be necessitated for the maintenance of his authority, and for example's
sake, to punish him.[10]
Guessing too truly what the emperor's answer would be, the ambassadors had prepared
an appeal from it beforehand. This document they now presented to the secretary Schweiss
in presence of witnesses. They had some difficulty in persuading the official to
carry it to his master, but at length he consented to do so. We can imagine how the
emperor's brow darkened as he read it. He ordered Schweiss to go and arrest the ambassadors.
Till the imperial pleasure should be further made known to them, they were not to
stir out of doors, nor write to their friends in Germany, nor permit any of their
servants to go abroad, under pain of forfeiture of goods and life.[11]
It chanced that one of the deputies, Caden, was not in the hotel when the
emperor's orders, confining the deputies to their lodgings, arrived. His servant
slipped out and told him what had happened in his absence. The deputy, sitting down,
wrote an account of the affair—their interview with the emperor, and his declared
resolution to execute the Edict of Worms— to the Senate at Nuremberg, and dispatching
it by a trusty messenger, whom he charged to proceed with all haste on his way, he
walked straight to the inn to share the arrest of his colleagues.
Unless the compulsion of conscience comes in, mankind in the mass will be found too
selfish and too apathetic to purchase, at the expense of their own toil and blood,
the heritage of freedom for their children. Liberty says we may, religion says we
must, die rather than submit. It is a noble sentiment of the poet, and finely expressed,
that Freedom's battle, "bequeathed from bleeding sire to son," though often
lost, is always won in the end, but therewith does not accord the fact. The history
of Greece, of Rome, and of other nations, shows us, on a large view of matters, liberty
dissociated from religion fighting a losing and not a winning battle. The more prominent
instance, though not the only one, in modern times, is France. There we behold a
brave nation fighting for "liberty" in contradistinction to, or rather
as dissociated from "religion," and, after a conflict of well-nigh a century,
liberty is not yet rooted in France.[12]
The little Holland is an instance on the other side. It fought a great battle
for religion, and in winning it won everything else besides. The only notable examples
with which history presents us, of great masses triumphant over established tyrannies,
are those of the primitive Christians, and the Reformers of the sixteenth century.
Charles V. would have walked at will over Christendom, treading all rights and aspirations
into the dust, had any weaker principle than conscience, evoked by Protestantism,
confronted him at this epoch. The first to scale the fortress of despotism are ever
the champions of religion; the champions of civil liberty, coming after, enter at
the breach which the others had opened with their lives.
Setting out from Piacenza on the 23rd October, the emperor went on to meet the Pope
at Bologna. He carried with him the three Protestant deputies as his captives. Travelling
by slow stages he gave ample time to the Italians to mark the splendor of his retinue,
and the number and equipments of his army. The city he was now approaching had already
enjoyed two centuries of eminence. Bologna was the seat of the earliest of those
universities which arose in Europe when the light of learning began again to visit
its sky. The first foundation of this school was in A.D. 425, by Theodosius the younger;
it rose to eminence under Charlemagne, and attained its full splendor in the fifteenth
century, when the scholastic philosophy began to give place to more rational studies,
and the youth of many lands flocked in thousands to study within its walls. It is
in respect of this seat of learning that Bologna stamps upon its coin Bononia docet,
to which is added, in its coat of arms, libertas. Bologna was the second city in
the States of the Church, and was sometimes complimented with the epithet, "Sister
of Rome." It rivalled the capital in the number and sumptuousness of its monasteries
and churches. One of the latter contains the magnificent tomb of St. Dominic, the
founder of the order of Inquisitors. It is remarkable for its two towers, both ancient
in even the days of Charles—the Asinelli, and the Garisenda, which lean like the
Tower of Pisa.
Besides its ecclesiastical buildings, the city boasted not a few palatial edifices
and monuments. One of these had already received Pope Clement under its roof, another
was prepared for the reception of the emperor, whose sumptuous train was on the road.
The site of Bologna is a commanding one. It leans against an Apennine, on whose summit
rises the superb monastery of St. Michael in Bosco, and at its feet, stretching far
to the south, are those fertile plains whose richness has earned for the city the
appellation of Bologna Grassa. While the emperor, with an army of 20,000 behind him,
advances by slow marches, and is drawing nigh its gates, let us turn to the Protestants
of Germany.
CHAPTER 19 Back
to Top
MEETING BETWEEN THE EMPEROR AND POPE AT BOLOGNA.
Meeting of Protestants at Schmalkald—Complete Agreement in Matters of Faith insisted
on—Failure to Form a Defensive League—Luther's Views on War—Division among the Protestants
Over-ruled—The Emperor at Bologna—Interviews between Charles and Clement—The Emperor
Proposes a Council—The Pope Recommends the Sword— Campeggio and Gattinara—The Emperor's
Secret Thoughts—His Coronation—Accident—San Petronio and its Spectacle—Rites of Coronation—Significancy
of Each—The Emperor sets out for Germany.
ON almost the same day on which Charles set out from Piacenza, Caden's letter,
telling what reception the emperor had given their deputies, reached the Senate of
Nuremberg. It created a profound sensation among the councillors. Their message had
been repulsed, and their ambassadors arrested. This appeared to the Protestants tantamount
to a declaration of hostilities on the part of the powerful and irate monarch. The
Elector of Saxony and the Landgrave of Hesse consulted together. They resolved to
call a meeting of the Protestant princes and cities at an early day, to deliberate
on the crisis that had arisen. The assembly met at Schmalkald on November 29, 1529.
Its members were the Elector of Saxony; his son, John Frederick; Ernest and Francis,
Dukes of Luneburg; Philip the Landgrave; the deputies of George, Margrave of Brandenburg;
with representatives from the cities of Strasburg, Ulm, Nuremberg, Heilbronn, Reutlingen,
Constance, Memmingen, Kempten, and Lindau.[1]
The sitting of the assembly was marked by a striking incident. The emperor
having released two of the ambassadors, and the third, Caden, having contrived to
make his escape, they came to Schmalkald just as the Protestants had assembled there,
and electrifying them by their appearance in the Diet, gave a full account of all
that had befallen them at the court of the emperor. Their statement did not help
to abate the fears of the princes. It convinced them that evil was determined, that
it behooved them to prepare against it; and the first and most effectual preparation,
one would have thought, was to be united among themselves.
The necessity of union was felt, but unhappily it was sought in the wrong way. The
assembly put the question, which shall we first discuss and arrange, the matter of
religion or the matter of defense? It was resolved to take the question of religion
first; for, said they, unless we are of one mind on it we cannot be united in the
matter of defense.[2]
Luther and his friends had recently revised the articles of the Marburg Conference
in a strictly Lutheran sense. This revised addition is known as the "Schmalkald
Articles" Under the tenth head a very important change was introduced: it was
affirmed, without any ambiguity, that the very body and blood of Christ are present
in the Sacrament, and the notion was condemned that the bread is simply bread.[3] This was hardly keeping
faith with the Reformed section of Christendom. But the blunder that followed was
still greater. The articles so revised were presented to the deputies at Schmalkald,
and their signatures demanded to them as the basis of a political league. Before
combining for their common defense, all must be of one mind on the doctrine of the
Lord's Supper.
This course was simply deplorable. Apart from religious belief, there was enough
of clear political ground on which to base a common resistance to a common tyranny.
But in those days the distinction between the citizen and the church-member, between
the duties and rights appertaining to the individual in his political and in his
religious character, was not understood. All who would enter the proposed league
must be of one mind on the tenet of consubstantiation. They must not only be Protestant,
but Lutheran.
The deputies from Strasburg and Ulm resisted this sectarian policy. "We cannot
sign these articles," said they, "but are willing to unite with our brethren
in a defensive league." The Landgrave of Hesse strongly argued that difference
of opinion respecting the manner of Christ's presence in the Sacrament did not touch
the foundations of Christianity, or endanger the salvation of the soul, and ought
not to divide the Church of God; much less ought that difference to be made a ground
of exclusion from such a league as was now proposed to be formed. But the Dukes of
Saxony and Luneburg, who were strongly under Luther's influence, would hear of no
confederation but with those who were ready to take the religious test. Ulm and Strasburg
withdrew. The conference broke up, having first resolved that such as held Lutheran
views, and only such, should meet at Nuremberg in the January following,[4] to concert measures for resisting the apprehended attack
of the emperor and the Pope. Thus the gulf between the Lutheran and the Reformed
Churches was deepened at an hour when every sacrifice short of the principle of Protestantism
itself ought to have been made to close it.
It was the views of Luther which triumphed at these discussions. He had beforehand
strongly impressed his sentiments upon the Elector John, and both he and the Margrave
of Brandenburg had come to be very thoroughly of one mind with regard to the necessity
of being one in doctrine and creed before they could lawfully unite their arms for
mutual defense. But to do Luther justice, he was led to the course he now adopted,
not alone by his views on the Sacrament, but also by his abhorrence of war. He shrank
in horror from unsheathing the sword in any religious matter. He knew that the religious
federation would be followed by a military one. He saw in the background armies,
battles, and a great effusion of the blood of man. He saw the religious life decaying
amid the excitement of camps; he pictured the spiritual force ebbing away from Protestantism,
and the strong sword of the Empire, in the issue, victorious over all. No, he said,
let the sword rest in its scabbard; let the only sword unsheathed in a quarrel like
this be the sword of the Spirit; let us spread the light. "Our Lord Christ,"
wrote he to the Elector of Saxony, "is mighty enough, and can well find ways
and means to rescue us from danger, and bring the thoughts of the ungodly princes
to nothing. The emperor's undertaking is a loud threat of the devil, but it will
be powerless. As the Psalm says, 'it will fall on his own pate.'
Christ is only trying us whether we are willing to obey His word or no, and whether
we hold it for certain truth or not. We had rather die ten times over than that the
Gospel should be a cause of blood or hurt by any act of ours. Let us rather patiently
suffer, and as the Psalmist says, be accounted, as sheep for the slaughter; and instead
of avenging or defending ourselves, leave room for God's wrath." If then Luther
must make his choice between the sword and the stake, between seeing the Reformation
triumph on the field of war and triumph on the field of martyrdom, he infinitely
prefers the latter. The Protestant Church, like that of Rome, wars against error
unto blood; but, unlike Rome, she sheds not the blood of others, she pours out her
own.
Had the Lutheran princes and the Zwinglian chiefs at that hour united in a defensive
league, they would have been able to have brought a powerful army into the field.
The enthusiasm of their soldiers, as well as their numbers, was to be counted on
in a trial of strength between them and their opponents. The Geman princes who still
remained on the side of Rome they would have swept from the field—even the legions
of the emperor would have found it hard to withstand them. But to have transferred
the cause of Protestantism at that epoch from the pulpit, from the university, and
the press, to the battle-field, would not have contributed to its final success.
Without justifying Luther in the tenacity with which he clung to his dogma of consubstantiation,
till Reformed Christendom was rent in twain, and without endorsing the judgment of
the Schmalkald Conference, that men must be at one in matters of faith before they
can combine for the defense of their political and religious rights, we must yet
acknowledge that the division between the Lutheran. and the Reformed, although deplorable
in itself, was ruled to ward off a great danger from Protestantism, and to conduct
it into a path where it was able to give far sublimer proofs of its heroism, and
to achieve victories more glorious and more enduring than any it could have won by
arms. It was marching on, though it knew it not, to a battlefield on which it was
to win a triumph the fruits of which Germany and Christendom are reaping at this
hour. Not with "confused noise and garments rolled in blood" was to be
the battle to which the Protestants were now advancing. No wail of widow, no cry
of orphan was to mingle with the paeans of its victors. That battle was to be to
history one of its memorable days. There, both the emperor and the Pope were to be
routed. That great field was Augsburg.
We return to Bologna, which in the interval has become the scene of dark intrigues
and splendid fetes. The saloons are crowded with gay courtiers, legates, archbishops,
ministers, and secretaries. Men in Spanish and Italian uniforms parade the streets;
the church bells are ceaselessly tolled, and the roll of the drum continually salutes
the ear; for religious ceremonies and military shows proceed without intermission.
The palaces in which the Pope and the emperor are lodged are so closely contiguous
that a wall only separates the one from the other. The barrier has been pierced with
a door which allows Charles and Clement to meet and confer at all hours of the day
and night. The opportunity is diligently improved. While others sleep they wake.
Protestantism it mainly is that occasions so many anxious deliberations and sleepless
hours to these two potentates. They behold that despised principle exalting its stature
strangely and ominously from year to year. Can no spell be devised to master it?
can no league be framed to bind it? It is in the hope of discovering some such expedient
or enchantment that Clement and Charles so often summon their "wise counsellors"
by day, or meet in secret and consult together alone when deep sleep rests on the
eyelids of those around them.
But in truth the emperor brought to these meetings a double mind. Despite the oath
he had taken on the confines of the Ecclesiastical States never to encroach upon
the liberties of the Papal See,[5]
despite the lowly obeisance with which he saluted the Pope when Clement came
forth to meet him at the gates of Bologna, and despite the edifying regularity with
which he performed his devotions, Charles thought of the great Spanish monarchy of
which he was the head in the first place, and the Pope in the second place. To tear
up the Protestant movement by the roots would suit Clement admirably; but would it
equally suit Charles? This was the question with the emperor. He was now coming to
see that to extinguish Luther would be to leave the Pope without a rival. Clement
would then be independent of the sword of Spain, and would hold his head higher than
ever. This was not for Charles's interests, or the glory of the vast Empire over
which his scepter was swayed. The true policy was to tolerate Wittenberg, taking,
care that it did not become strong, and play it off, when occasion required, against
Rome. He would muzzle it: he would hold the chain in his hand, and have the unruly
thing under his own control. Luther and Duke John and Landgrave Philip would dance
when he piped, and mourn when he lamented; and when the Pope became troublesome,
he would lengthen the chain in which he held the hydra of Lutheranism, and reduce
Clement to submission by threatening to let loose the monster on him. By being umpire
Charles would be master. This was the emperor's innermost thought, as we now can
read it by his subsequent conduct. In youth Charles was politic: it was not till
his later years that he became a bigot.
The statesmen of Charles's council were also divided on the point. The emperor was
attended on this journey into Germany by two men of great experience and distinguished
abilities, Campeggio and Gattinara, who advocated opposite policies. Campeggio was
for dragging every Protestant to the stake and utterly razing Wittenberg. There is
an "Instruction" of his to the emperor still extant, discovered by the
historian Ranke at Rome, in which this summary process is strongly recommended to
Charles.[6] "If there be any,"
said the legate Campeggio in this "Instruction," referring to the German
princes—"If there be any, which God forbid, who will obstinately persist in
this diabolical path, his majesty may put hand to fire and sword, and radically tear
out this cursed and venomous plant."
"The first step in this process would be to confiscate property, civil or ecclesiastical,
in Germany as well as in Hungary and Bohemia. For with regard to heretics, this is
lawful and right. Is the mastery over them thus obtained, then must holy inquisitors
be appointed, who shall tramp out every remnant of them, proceeding against them
as the Spaniards did against the Moors in Spain."[7] Such was the simple plan of this eminent dignitary of the
Papal Church. He would set up the stake, why should he not? and it would continue
to blaze till there was not another Protestant in all Christendom to burn. When the
last disciple of the Gospel had sunk in ashes, then would the Empire enjoy repose,
and the Church reign in glory over a pacified and united Christendom. If a little
heretical blood could procure so great a blessing, would not the union of Christendom
be cheaply purchased?
Not so did Gattinara counsel. He too would heal the schism and unite Christendom,
but by other means. He called not for an army of executioners, but for an assembly
of divines. "You (Charles) are the head of the Empire," said he, "you
(the Pope) the head of the Church. It is your duty to provide, by common accord,
against unprecedented wants. Assemble the pious men of all nations, and let a free
Council deduce from the Word of God a scheme of doctrine such as may be received
by every people."[8]
The policies of the two counsellors stood markedly distinct— the sword, a
Council.
Clement VII. was startled as if a gulf had yawned at his feet. The word Council has
been a name of terror to Popes in all ages. The mention of it conjured up before
the Pontifical imagination an equal, or it might be a superior authority to their
own, and so tended to obscure the glory and circumscribe the dominion of the Papal
chair. Pius IX. has succeeded at last in laying that terrible bugbear by the decree
of infallibility, which makes him absolute monarch of the Church. But in those ages,
when the infallibility was assumed rather than decreed to be the personal attribute
of the Popes, no threat was more dreadful than the proposal, sure to be heard at
every crisis, to assemble a Council. But Clement had reasons peculiar to himself
for regarding the proposition with abhorrence. He was a bastard; he had got possession
of his chair by means not altogether blameless; and he had squandered the revenues
of his see upon his family inheritance of Florence; and a reckoning would be exceedingly
inconvenient. Though Luther himself had suddenly entered the council-chamber, Clement
could not have been more alarmed and irritated than he was by the proposal of Gattinara.
He did not see what good a Council would do, unless it were to let loose the winds
of controversy all over Europe. "It is not." said he, "by the decrees
of Councils, but by the edge of the sword, that we should decide controversies.[9]
But Gattinara had not made his proposal without previous consultation with
the emperor, whose policy it suited. Charles now rose, and indicated that his views
lay in the direction of those of his minister; and the Pope, concealing his disgust,
seeing how the wind set, said that he would think further on the matter. He hoped
to work upon the mind of the emperor in private.
These discussions were prolonged till the end of January. The passes of the Alps
were locked, avalanches and snow-drifts threatened the man who would scale their
precipices at that season, and the climate of Bologna being salubrious, Charles was
in no haste to quit so agreeable an abode. The ecclesiastical potentate continued
to advocate the sword, and the temporal monarch to call for a Council. It is remarkable
that each distrusted the weapon with which he was best acquainted. "The sword
will avail nought in this affair," urged the emperor; "let us vanquish
our opponents in argument." "Reason," exclaimed the Pope, "will
not serve our turn; let us resort to force." But, though all considerations
of humanity had been put aside, the question of the practicability of bringing all
the Protestants to the scaffold was a serious one. Was the emperor able to do this?
He stood at the head of Europe, but it was prudent not too severely to test his superiority.
The Lutheran princes were by no means despicable, either in spirit or resources.
The Kings of France and England, though they disrelished the Protestant doctrines,
had come to know that the Protestant party was an important political element; and
it was just possible their majesties might prefer that Christendom should remain
divided, rather than that its unity should be restored by a holocaust like that advocated
by Campeggio. And then there was the Turk, who, although he had now retreated into
his own domain, might yet, should a void so vast occur as would be created by the
slaughter of the Protestants, transfer his standards from the shores of the Bosphorus
to the banks of the Danube. It was clear that the burning of 100,000 Protestants
or so would be only the beginning of the drama. The Pope would most probably approve
of so kindly a blaze; but might it not end in setting other States besides Germany
on fire, and the Spanish monarchy among the rest? Charles, therefore, stuck to his
idea of a Council; and being master, as Gattinara reminded him, he was able to have
the last word in the conferences.
Meanwhile, till a General Council could be convened, and as preparatory to it, the
emperor, on the 20th January, 1530, issued a summons for a Diet of the States of
Germany to meet at Augsburg on the 8th April.[10] The summons was couched in terms remarkably gracious, and
surely, if conciliation was to be attempted, at least as a first measure, it was
wise to go about it in a way fitted to gain the object the emperor had in view. "Let
us put an end to all discord," he said; "let us renounce our antipathies;
let us all fight under one and the same leader—Jesus Christ—and let us strive thus
to meet in one communion, one Church, and one unity."[11]
What a relief to the Protestants of Germany! The great sword of the emperor
which had hung over their heads, suspended by a single thread, was withdrawn, and
the olive-branch was held out to them instead. "The heart of kings is in the
hand of God."
One thing only was lacking to complete the grandeur of Charles, namely, that he should
receive the imperial diadem from the hands of the Pope. He would have preferred to
have had the ceremony performed in the Eternal City; the act would have borrowed
additional lustre from the place where it was done; but reasons of State compelled
him to select Bologna. The Pope, so Fra Paolo Sarpi hints, did not care to put so
much honor upon Charles in the presence of a city which had been sacked by his soldiers
just two years before; and Bologna lay conveniently on the emperor's road to the
Diet of Augsburg. Charles had already been crowned as Emperor of Germany at Aix-la-Chapelle.
He now (22nd February) received the iron crown as King of Lombardy, and the golden
one (24th February) as Emperor of the Romans. The latter day, that on which the golden
crown was placed on his brow, he accounted specially auspicious. It was the anniversary
of his birth, and also of the victory of Pavia, the turning-point of his greatness.
The coronation was a histrionic sermon upon the theological and political doctrines
of the age, and as such it merits our attention.
Charles received his crown at the foot of the altar. The sovereignity thus gifted
was not however absolute; it was conditioned and limited in the manner indicated
by the ceremonies that accompanied the investiture, each of which had its meaning.
In the great Cathedral of San Petronio—the scene of the august ceremony—were erected
two thrones. That destined for the Pope rose half-a-foot higher than the one which
the emperor was to occupy. The Pontiff was the first to take his seat; next came
the emperor, advancing by a foot-bridge thrown across the piazza which separated
the palace in which he was lodged from the cathedral where he was to be crowned.[12] The erection was not
strong enough to sustain the weight of the numerous and magnificent suite that attended
him. It broke down immediately behind the emperor, precipitating part of his train
on the floor of the piazza, amid the debris of the structure and the crowd of spectators.
The incident, so far from discomposing the monarch, was interpreted by him into an
auspicious omen. He had been rescued, by a Power whose favorite he was, from possible
destruction, to wield those high destinies which were this day to receive a new sanction
from the Vicar of God. He surveyed the scene of the catastrophe for a moment, and
passed on to present himself before the Pontiff.
The first part of the ceremony was the investiture of the emperor with the office
of deacon. The government of those ages was a theocracy. The theory of this principle
was that the kingdoms of the world were ruled by God in the person of His Vicar,
and no one had a valid right to exercise any part of that Divine jurisdiction unless
he were part and parcel of that sacred class to whom this rule had been committed.
The emperor, therefore, before receiving the scepter from the Pope, had to be incorporated
with the ecclesiastical estate. Two canons approached, and stripping him of the signs
of royalty, arrayed him in surplice and amice.
Charles had now the honor of being a deacon of St. Peter's and of St. John Lateranus.
The Pope leaving his throne proceeded to the altar and sang mass, the new deacon
waiting upon him, and performing the customary services. Then kneeling down the emperor
received the Sacrament from the Pope's hands.
Charles now reseated himself on his throne, and the princess approaching him removed
his deacon's dress, and robed him in the jewelled mantle which, woven on the looms
of the East, had been brought from Constantinople for the coronation of the Emperors
of Germany.
The emperor now put himself on bended knee before Clement VII. First the Pontiff,
taking a horn of oil, anointed Charles; then he gave him a naked sword; next he put
into his hands the golden orb; and last of all he placed on his head the imperial
crown, which was studded all round with precious stones. With the sword was the emperor
to pursue and smite the enemies of the Church; the orb symbolised the world, which
he was to govern by the grace of the Holy Father; the diadem betokened the authority
by which all this was to be done, and which was given of him who had put the crown
upon his head; the oil signified that Divine puissance which, shed upon him from
the head of that anointed body of which Charles had now become a member, would make
him invincible in fighting the battles of the faith. Kissing the white cross that
adorned the Pope's red slipper, Charles swore to defend with all his powers the rights
and liberties of the Church of Rome.
When we examine the magnificent symbolisation acted out in the Cathedral of Bologna,
what do we see? We behold but one ruler, the head of all government and power, the
fountain of all virtues and graces—the Vicar of the Eternal King. Out of the plenitude
of his great office he constitutes other monarchs and judges, permitting them to
take part with him in his superhuman Divine jurisdiction. They are his vicars just
as he is the Vicar of the Eternal Monarch. They govern by him, they rule for him,
and they are accountable to him. They are the vassals of his throne, the lictors
of his judgment-seat. To him appertains the power of passing sentence, to them the
humble office of using the sword he has put into their hands in executing it. In
this one immense monarch, the Pope namely, all authority, rights, liberties are comprehended.
The State disappears as a distinct and independent society: it is absorbed in the
Church as the Church is absorbed in her head—occupying the chair of St. Peter. It
was against this hideous tyranny that Protestantism rose up. It restored to society
the Divine monarchy of conscience. The theocracy of Rome was uprooted, and with it
sank the Divine right of priests and kings, and all the remains of feudalism.
It was now the beginning of March. Spring had opened the passes of the Alps, and
Charles and his men-at-arms went on their way to meet the Diet he had summoned at
Augsburg.
CHAPTER 20 Back
to Top
PREPARATIONS FOR THE AUGSBURG DIET.
Charles Crosses the Tyrol—Looks down on Germany—Events in his Absence—His Reflections—Fruitlessness
of his Labors—Opposite Realisations-All Things meant by Charles for the Hurt turn
out to the Advantage of Protestantism—An Unseen Leader—The Emperor Arrives at Innspruck—Assembling
of the Princes to the Diet—Journey of the Elector of Saxony—Luther's Hymn—Luther
left at Coburg—Courage of the Protestant Princes—Protestant Sermons in Augsburg—Popish
Preachers—The Torgau Articles—Prepared by Melanchthon— Approved by Luther.
THE emperor was returning to Germany after an absence of nine years. As, in the
first days of May, he slowly climbed the summits of the Tyrolese Alps, and looked
down from their northern slopes upon the German plains, he had time to reflect on
all that had happened since his departure. The years which had passed since he last
saw these plains had been full of labor, and yet how little had he reaped from all
the toil he had undergone, and the great vexation he had experienced! The course
affairs had taken had been just the opposite of that which he had wished and fully
expected. By some strange fatality the fruits of all his campaigns had eluded him.
His crowning piece of good fortune had been Pavia; that event had brought his rival
Francis as a captive to Madrid, and placed himself for a moment at the head of Europe;
and yet this brilliant victory had turned out in the end more damaging to the victor
than to the vanquished. It had provoked the League of Cognac, in which the kings
of Europe, with the Pontiff at their head, united to resist a power which they deemed
dangerous to their own, and curb an ambition that they now saw to be boundless. The
League of Cognac, in its turn, had recoiled on the head of the man who was its chief
deviser. The tempest it had raised, and which those who evoked it intended should
burst on the headquarters of Lutheranism, rolled away in the direction of Rome, and
discharged its lightning-bolts on the City of the Seven Hills, inflicting on the
wealth and glory of the Popes, on the art and splendor of their capital, a blow which
no succeeding age has been able to repair.
For the moment all was again quiet. The Pope and the King of France had become the
friends of the emperor. The Turks who had appeared in greater numbers, and penetrated
farther into Europe than they had ever before been able to do, had suddenly retreated
within their own dominions, and thus all things conspired to remove every obstacle
out of Charles's path that might prevent his long-meditated visit to Germany. The
emperor was now going to consolidate the peace that had so happily followed the tempest,
and put the top-stone upon his own power by extinguishing the Wittenberg movement,
a task not quite so hard, he thought, as that from which he was at this moment returning,
the destruction of the League of Cognac.
And yet when he thought of the Wittenberg movement, which he was advancing to confront,
he must have had some misgivings. His former experience of it must have taught him
that instead of being the easiest to settle of the many matters he had on hand, it
was precisely the one of all others the most difficult. He had won victories over
Francis, he had won victories over the Pope, but he had won no victory over the monk.
The dreaded Suleiman had vanished at his approach, but Luther kept his ground and
refused to flee. Why was this? Nay, not only had the Reformer not fallen before him,
but every step the emperor had taken against him had only lifted Luther higher in
the sight of men, and strengthened his influence in Christendom. At the Diet of Worms,
1521, he had fulminated his ban against the heresiarch. He did not for a moment doubt
that a few weeks, or a few months at the most, and he would have the satisfaction
of seeing that ban executed, and the Rhine bearing the ashes of Luther, as a hundred
years before it had done those of Huss, to the ocean, there to bury him and his cause
in an eternal sepulcher. Far different had the result been. The emperor's ban had
chased the Reformer to the Wartburg, and there, exempt from every other distraction,
Luther had prepared an instrumentality a hundred times more powerful than all his
other writings and labors for the propagation of his movement. The imperial ban,
if it considered Luther to a brief captivity, had liberated the Word of God, imprisoned
in a dead langnage, and now it was traversing the length and breadth of the Fatherland,
and speaking to prince and peasant, to baron and burgher in their own mother tongue.
This, as Charles knew to his infinite chagrin, was all that he had reaped as yet
from the Edict of Worms.
He essayed a second time to extinguish but in reality to strengthen the movement.
He convoked a Diet of the Empire at Spires in 1526, to take steps for executing the
edict which had been passed with their concurrence five years before at Worms. Now
it will be seen whether the bolt does not fall and crush the monk. Again the result
is exactly the opposite of what the emperor had so confidently anticipated. The Diet
decreed that, till a General Council should meet, every one should be at liberty
to act in religious matters as he pleased. This was in fact an edict of toleration,
and henceforward the propagation of Protestant truth throughout the dominions of
the princes was to go on under sanction of the Diet. The movement was now surrounded
by legal securities. How irritating to the potentate who thought that he was working
skilfully for its overthrow! Twice had Charles miscarried; but he will make a third
attempt and it will prosper; so he assures himself. In 1529 he convokes the Diet
anew at Spires. He sent a threatening message from Spain commanding the princes,
by the obedience they owed him as emperor, and under peril of ban, to execute the
edict against Luther. It was now that the Lutheran princes unfurled their great Protest,
and took up that position in the Empire and before all Christendom which they have
ever since, through all variety of fortune, maintained. Every time the emperor puts
forth his hand, it is not to kill but to infuse new life into the movement; it is
to remove impediments from its path and help it onward.
Even the dullest cannot fail to perceive that these most extraordinary events, in
which everything meant for the destruction of the Protestant movement turned out
for its furtherance, did not originate with Luther. He had neither the sagacity to
devise them nor the power to control them. Nor did they take their rise from Frederick
the Wise, Elector of Saxony; nor from Philip the Magnanimous, Landware of Hesse.
Much less did they owe their origin to Charles, for nothing did he less intend to
accomplish than what really took place. Let us then indulge in no platitudes about
these men. Luther indeed was wise, and not less courageous than wise; but in what
did his wisdom consist? It consisted in his profound submission to the will of One
whom he saw guiding the movement through intricacies where his own counsels would
have utterly wrecked it. And in what lay his courage? In this: in his profound faith
in One whose arm he saw shielding Protestantism in the midst of dangers where, but
for this protection, both the Reformer and the cause would have speedily perished.
In these events Luther beheld the footprints of One whom an ancient Hebrew sage styles
"wonderful in counsel, excellent in working."
The emperor and his suite, a numerous and brilliant one, arrived at Innspruck in
the beginning of May. He halted at this romantic little town that he might make himself
more closely acquainted with the state of Germany, and decide upon the line of tactics
to be adopted. The atmosphere on this side of the Alps differed sensibly from the
fervid air which he had just left on the south of them. All he saw and heard where
he now was told him that Lutheranism was strongly entrenched in the Fatherland, and
that he should need to put forth all the power and craft of which he was master in
order to dislodge it.
The appearance of the emperor on the heights of the Tyrol revived the fears of the
Protestants. As when the vulture is seen in the sky, and there is silence and cowering
in the groves, so was it with the inhabitants of the plains, now that the mailed
cohorts of Rome were seen on the mountains above them. And there was some cause for
alarm. With the emperor came Campeggio, as his evil genius, specially commissioned
by the Pope to take care of Charles,[1]
and see that he did not make any compromise with the Lutherans, or entangle
himself by any rash promise of a General Council.
The legate had nothing but the old cure to recommend for the madness which had infected
the Germans—the sword. Gattinara, who had held back the hand of Charles from using
that weapon against Protestantism, and who had come as far as Innspruck, here sickened
and died.[2] Melanchthon mourned
his death as a loss to the cause of moderate counsels. "Shall we meet our adversary
with arms?" asked the Protestant princes in alarm. "No," replied Luther,
"let no man resist the emperor: if he demands a sacrifice, lead me to the altar."[3] Even Maimbourg acknowledges
that "Luther conducted himself on this occasion in a manner worthy of a good
man. He wrote to the princes to divert them from their purpose, telling them that
the cause of religion was to be defended, not by the force of arms, but by sound
arguments, by Christian patience, and by firm faith in the omnipotent God."[4] The Reformer strove
at the same time to uphold the hearts of all by directing their eyes to heaven. His
noble hymn, "A strong Tower is our God," began to be heard in all the churches
in Germany.[5]
Its heroic strains, pealed forth by thousands of voices, and swelling grandly
aloft, kindled the soul and augmented the confidence and courage of the Protestant
host. It continued to be sung in the public assemblies during all the time the Diet
was in session.
The emperor, dating from Bologna, January 21st, 1530, had summoned the Diet to meet
on April 8th. The day was now at hand, and the Protestant princes began to prepare
for their journey to Augsburg. On Sunday, April 3rd, the Elector of Saxony, and the
nobles and theologians who were to accompany him, assembled in the castle-church,
Torgau, to join in prayer that God would inspire them with a spirit becoming the
crisis that had arrived. Luther preached from the text, "Whosoever shall confess
me before men, him will I also confess before my Father who is in heaven."[6]
The key-note struck by the sermon was worthily sustained by the magnanimity
of the princes at Augsburg. On the afternoon of the same day the elector set out,
accompanied by John Frederick, his son; Francis, Duke of Luneburg; Wolfgang, Prince
of Anhalt; and Albert, Count of Mansfeld. The theologians whom the elector took with
him to advise with at the Diet were Luther, Melanchthon, and Jonas. To these Spalatin
was afterwards added. They made a fine appearance as they rode out of Torgau, escorted
by a troop of 160 horsemen,[7]
in scarlet cloaks embroidered with gold. But the spectators saw them depart
with many anxious thoughts. They were going to confess a faith which the emperor
had proscribed. Would they not draw upon themselves the tempest of his wrath? Would
they return in like fashion as they had seen them go? The hymn, "A strong Tower
is our God," would burst forth at intervals from the troop, and rising in swelling
strains which drowned the tramp of their horses and the clang of their armor, increased
yet more the courage in which their journey was begun, continued, and ended.
On the eve of Palm Sunday they arrived at Weimar. They halted here over Sunday, and
Luther again preached. Resuming their journey early in the week, they came at the
close of it to the elector's Castle of Coburg, on the banks of the Itz; the Reformer
delivering an address, or preaching a sermon, at the end of every day's march.[8] Starting from Coburg
on the 23rd of April, the cavalcade proceeded on its way, passing through the towns
of Barnberg and Nuremberg, and on the 2nd of May the elector and his company entered
the gates of Augsburg. It had been confidently predicted that Prince John of Saxony
would not attend the Diet. He was too obnoxious to the emperor, it was said, to beard
the lion in his den. To the amazement of every one,[9] the elector was the first of all the princes to appear on
the scene.
Soon the other princes, Popish and Protestant, began to arrive. Their entrance into
Augsburg was with no little pomp. They came attended by their retainers, whose numbers
and equipments were on a scale that corresponded with the power and wealth of the
lord they followed. Clad in armor, bearing banners blazoned with devices, and proclaiming
their approach with sound of drum and clarion, they looked more like men mustering
for battle than assembling for the settlement of the creed of Christendom, the object
specified in the Emperor's summons. But in those days no discussion, even on religious
questions, was thought to have much weight unless it was conducted amid the symbols
of authority and the blaze of power. On the 12th of May the Landgrave of Hesse entered
Augsburg, accompanied by 120 horsemen. And three days thereafter the deputies of
the good town of Nuremberg arrived to take part in the deliberations, bringing with
them Osiander, the Protestant pastor of that place.
Since the memorable Diet at Worms, 1521, Germany had not been so deeply and universally
agitated as it was at this hour. A decisive trial of strength was at hand between
the two parties. Great and lasting issues must come out of the Diet. The people followed
their deputies to Augsburg with their prayers. They saw the approach of the tempest
in that of the emperor and his legions; but the nearer he came the louder they raised
the song in all their churches and assemblies, "A strong Tower is our God."
The fact that Charles was to be present, as well as the gravity of the crisis, operated
in the way of bringing out a full attendance of princes and deputies. Over and above
the members of the Diet there came a vast miscellaneous assemblage, from all the
cities and provinces of Germany: bishops, scholars, citizens, soldiers, idlers, all
flocked thither, drawn by a desire to be present on an occasion which had awakened
the hopes of some, the fears of others, and the interest of all.
"Is it safe to trust ourselves in a walled city with the emperor?" asked
some of the more timid Protestants. They thought that the emperor was drawing all
the Lutherans into his net; and, once entrapped, that he would offer them all up
in one great holocaust to Clement, from whose presence, the anointing oil still fresh
upon him, the emperor had just come. Charles, to do him justice, was too humane and
too magnanimous to think of such a thing. The venom which in after years vented itself
in universal exterminations, had not yet been engendered, unless in solitary bosoms
such as Campeggio's. The leaders of the Protestants refused to entertain the unworthy
suspicion. The aged John, Elector of Saxony, set the example of courage, being the
first to arrive on the scene.[10]
The last to arrive were the Roman Catholic princes, Duke George of Saxony,
Duke William of Bavaria, and the Elector Joachim of Brandenburg. They had this excuse,
however, that before repairing to Augsburg they had gone to pay their respects to
the emperor at Innspruck, and to encourage him to persevere in his resolution of
putting down the Wittenberg movement, by soft measures if possible, by strong ones
if need were.[11]
Meanwhile, till the Diet should be opened, occasion was taken of the vast
concourse at Augsburg, assembled from the most distant parts, and embracing men of
all conditions, to diffuse more widely a knowledge of the Protestant doctrines.
Scattered on this multitude the seeds of truth would be borne wide over all Germany,
and floated to even remoter lands. The elector and the landgrave opened the cathedrals
and churches, and placed in their pulpits the preachers who had accompanied them
from Saxony and Hesse. Crowded congregations, day by day, hung upon their lips. They
fed eagerly on the bread of the Word. The preachers were animated by the thought
that they had all Germany, in a sense, for their audience. Although the emperor had
sought to inflict a deadly wound on Catholicism, no more effectual way could he have
taken than to summon this Diet. The Papists were confounded by the courage of the
Lutherans; they trembled when they thought what the consequences must be, and they
resolved to counteract the effects of the Lutheran sermons by preaching a purer orthodoxy.
To this there could be no possible objection on the part of the Protestants. The
suffragan and chaplain of the bishop mounted the pulpit, but only to discover when
there that they had not learned how to preach. They vociferated at their utmost pitch;
but the audience soon got tired of the noise, and remarking, with a significant shrug,
that "these predicants were blockheads,"[12] retreated, leaving them to listen to the echoes of their
own voice in their empty cathedrals.
When the elector set out for Augsburg, his cavaliers, in their scarlet cloaks, were
not his only attendants. He invited, as we have seen, Luther, Melanchthon, and Jonas
[13] to accompany him to
the Diet. On these would devolve the chief task of preparing the weapons with which
the princes were to do battle, and directing the actual combatants how to deal the
blow. On the journey, however, it occurred to the elector that over Luther there
still hung the anathema of the Pope and the ban of the Empire. It might not, therefore,
be safe to carry the Reformer to Augsburg while the Edict of Worms was still unrepealed.
Even granting that the elector should be able to shield him from harm, might not
Charles construe Luther's appearance at the Diet into a personal affront?[14] It was resolved accordingly that Luther should remain at
Coburg. Here it was easy to keep him informed of all that was passing in the Diet,
and to have his advice at any moment. Luther would thus be present, although invisible,
at Augsburg.
The Reformer at once acquiesced in this arrangement. The Castle of Coburg, on the
banks of the river Itz, overlooking the town, was assigned him for his residence.
From this place we find him, on April the 22nd, writing to Melanchthon: "I shall
make a Zion of this Sinai; I shall build here three tabernacles—one to the Psalms,
another to the Prophets, and a third to AEsop." He was at that time diversifying
his graver labors by translating AEsop's fables. "I reside," he continues,
"in a vast abode which overlooks the city; I have the keys of all its apartments.
There are scarcely thirty persons within the fortress, of whom twelve are watchers
by night, and two others, sentinels, who are constantly posted on the castle heights."
The Elector John, with statesman-like sagacity as well as Christian zeal—a fine union,
of which that age presents many noble examples—saw the necessity of presenting to
the Diet a summary of Protestant doctrine. Nothing of the sort as yet existed. The
Protestant faith was to be learned, first of all in the Scriptures, next in the numerous
and widely-diffused writings of Luther and other theologians, and lastly in the general
belief and confession of the Christian people. But, over and above these, it was
desirable to have some systematized, accurate, and authoritative statement of the
Protestant doctrines to present to the Diet now about to convene. It was due to the
Reformers themselves, to whom it would serve as a bond of union, and whose apology
or defense it would be to the world; and it was due to their foes, who it was to
be supposed in charity were condemning what, to a large extent, they were ignorant
of. It is worthy of notice that the first suggestion of what has since become so
famous, under the name of the Augsburg Confession, came, not from the clergy of the
Protestant Church, but from the laity. When political actors appear before us on
this great stage, we do them only justice to say that they were inspired by Christian
motives, and aimed at gaining great spiritual ends. John of Saxony and Philip of
Hesse did not covet the spoils of Rome: they sought the vindication of the truth
and the reformation of society.
The Elector of Saxony issued an order in the middle of March (1530) to the theologians
of Wittenberg to draw up a summary of the Protestant faith.[15] It was meant to set forth concisely the main doctrines which
the Protestants held, and the points in which they differed from Rome. Luther, Melanchthon,
Jonas, and Pomeranus jointly undertook the task. Their labors were embodied in seventeen
articles,[16] and were delivered to
the elector at Torgau, and hence their name, the "Torgau Articles." These
articles, a few weeks afterwords, were enlarged and remodeled by Melanchthon,with
a view to their being read in the Diet as the Confession of the Protestants.[17] The great scholar and divine devoted laborious days and nights
to this important work, amid the distractions and din of Augsburg. Nothing did he
spare which a penetrating judgment and a lovely genius could do to make this Confession,
in point of its admirable order, its clearness of statement, and beauty of style,
such as would charm the ears and lead captive the understandings and hearts of the
Roman Catholics in the Diet. "They must listen," said he, "in spite
of themselves." Everything was put in the least offensive form. Wittenberg and
Rome were brought as near to each other as the eternal barrier between the two permitted.
The document when finished was sent to Luther and approved by him. In returning it,
the Reformer accompanied it with a letter to the elector, in which he spoke of it
in the following terms:—"I have read over Master Philip's apology: it pleases
me right well, and I know not how to better or alter anything in it, and will not
hazard the attempt; for I cannot tread so softly and gently. Christ our Lord help
that it bear much and great fruit; as we hope and pray. Amen."
Will the Diet listen? Will the genius of Melanchthon triumph over the conqueror of
Pavia, and induce him to withdraw his ban and sit down at the feet of Luther, or
rather of Holy Scripture? These were the questions men were eagerly asking.
CHAPTER 21 Back
to Top
ARRIVAL OF THE EMPEROR AT AUGSBURG AND OPENING OF THE DIET.
Arrivals—The Archbishop of Cologne, etc.—Charles—Pleasantries of Luther—Diet of the
Crows—An Allegory—Intimation of the Emperor's Coming—The Princes Meet him at the
Torrent Lech—Splendor of the Procession —Seckendorf's Description—Enters Augsburg—Accident—
Rites in the Cathedral—Charles's Interview with the Protestant Princes— Demands the
Silencing of their Preachers—Protestants Refuse—Final Arrangement— Opening of Diet—Procession
of Corpus Christi—Shall the Elector Join the Procession?—Sermon of Papal Nuncio —The
Turk and Lutherans Compared—Calls on Charles to use the Sword against the Latter.
SCARCELY a day passed in these stirring weeks without some stately procession
entering at the gates of Augsburg. On the 17th of May came the Archbishop of Cologne,
and on the day following the Archbishop of Mainz. A few days later, George, Margrave
of Brandenburg, the ally of the elector, passed through the streets, with an escort
of 200 horsemen in green liveries and armor. A German wagon, filled with his learned
men and preachers, brought up the rear. At last came the crown and flower of all
these grand spectacles. Charles, on whose head were united the crown of Spain, the
iron crown of Lombardy, and the imperial diadem, now twice bestowed, made his entry
into Augsburg with great pomp on the 15th of June, 1530. It was long past the day
(April 8th) for which the Diet had been summoned; but the emperor will journey as
his many weighty affairs will permit, and the princes must wait.
While the emperor delayed, and the Diet was not opened, and the courier from Augsburg
posted along the highway, which ran close to the foot of the Castle of Coburg, without
halting to send in letter or message to its occupant, the anxieties of Luther increased
from one day to another. The Reformer, to beguile his thoughts, issued his edict
convoking a Diet at Coburg. The summons was instantly obeyed. Quite a crowd of members
assembled, and Luther does ample justice to their eloquence. "You are about
to go to Augsburg," says he, writing to Spalatin (May 9th), "without having
examined the auspices, and not knowing as yet when they will permit you to commence.
As for me, I am in the thick of another Diet. Here I see magnanimous kings, dukes,
and nobles consult over the affairs of their realm, and with unremitting clang proclaim
their decrees and dogmas through the air. They do not meet in caves, or dens of courts
called palaces; but the spacious heaven is their roof, verdant grass and foliage
their pavement, and their walls are wide as the ends of the earth. They are not arrayed
in gold and silk, but all wear a vestment black, have eyes of a grey hue, and speak
in the same music, save the diversity of youth and age.Horses and harness they spurn
at, and move on the rapid wheels of wings. As far as I understand the herald of their
decrees, they have unanimously resolved to wage this whole year a war on barley,
oats, and every kind of grain; and great deeds will be done. Here we sit, spectators
of this Diet, and, to our great joy and comfort, observe and hear how the princes,
lords, and Estates of the Empire are all singing so merrily and living so heartily.
But it gives us especial pleasure to remark with what knight-like air they swing
their tails, stroke their bills, tilt at one another, and strike and parry; so that
we believe they will win great honor over the wheat, and barley."
So far the allegory. It is told with much naive pleasantry. But the Reformer appends
a moral, and some who may have enjoyed the story may not quite relish the interpretation.
"It seems to me," says he, "that these rooks and jackdaws are after
all nothing else but the sophists and Papists, with their preachings and writings,
who will fain present themselves in a heap, and make us listen to their lovely voices
and beautiful sermons." This correspondence he dates from "the Region of
the Birds," or "the Diet of the Jackdaws."
This and other simiilar creations were but a moment's pause in the midst of Herculean
labors and of anxious and solemn thoughts. But Luther's humor was irrepressible,
and its outburst was never more likely to happen than when he was encompassed by
tragic events. These sallies were like the light breaking in golden floods through
the dark thunder-clouds. They revealed, moreover, a consciousness on the part of
the Reformer of the true grandeur of his position, and that the drama, at the center
of which he stood, was far more momentous than that in which Charles was playing
his part. From his elevation, he could look down upon the pomp of thrones and the
pageantries of empire, and make merry with them. He had but to touch them with his
satire, and straightway their glory was gone, and their hollowness laid bare. It
was not so with the spiritual forces he was laboring to set in motion in the world.
These forces needed not to array themselves in scarlet and gold embroideries to make
themselves grand, or to borrow the help of cannon and armed cohorts to give them
potentiality.
At last Charles moved from Innspruck, and set out for Augsburg. On the 6th of June
he reached Munich, and made his entry through streets hung with tapestry, and thronged
with applauding crowds. On the 15th of June a message reached Augsburg that on that
day the emperor would make his entrance into the city.
The electors, counts, and knights marshalled early in the afternoon and set out to
meet Charles. They halted on the banks of the torrent Lech, which rolls down from
the Alps and falls into the Danube. They took up their position on a rising ground,
whence they might descry the imperial approach. The aspect of the road told that
something extraordinary was going forward. There rolled past the princes all the
afternoon, as had been the case from an early hour in the morning, a continuous stream
of horses and baggage trains, of wagons and foot-passengers, of officers of the emperor's
household, and strangers hastening to enjoy the spectacle; the crack of whip, the
note of horn, and the merry laugh of idle sight-seer enlivening their march. Three
hours wore away, still the emperor was not in sight. The sun was now nearing the
horizon. At length a cloud of dust was seen in the distance; its dusky volume came
nearer and nearer; as it approached the murmur of voices grew louder, and now, close
at hand, its opening folds disclosed to view the first ranks of the imperial cavalcade.
The princes leaped from their saddles, and awaited Charles's approach. The emperor,
on seeing the princes, courteously dismounted and shook hands with them, and the
two companies blended into one on the bank of the stream. Apart, on a low eminence,
seated on his richly caparisoned mule, was seen the Papal legate, Campeggio. He raised
his hands to bestow his benediction on the brilliant multitude. All knelt down, save
the Protestants, whose erect figures made them marked objects in that great assembly,
which awaited, with bowed heads, the Papal blessing. The mighty emperor had his first
intimation that he should not be able to repeat at Augsburg the proud boast of Caesar,
whose successor he affected to be—"I came, I saw, I conquered."
The procession now set forward at a slow pace. "Never," says Seckendorf,
"had the grandeur and power of the Empire been illustrated by so magnificent
a spectacle."[1]
There defiled past the spectator, in long and glittering procession, not only
the ecclesiastical and civil dignitaries of Spain and Italy, but representatives
of nearly all the nationalities which formed the vast Empire of Charles. First came
two companies of lansquenets. Next came the six electors, with the noblemen of their
courts, in rich dresses of velvet and silk, and their armed retainers in their red
doublets, steel helmets and dancing plumes. There were bishops in violet and cardinals
in purple. The ecclesiastics were seated on mules, the princes and counts bestrode
prancing coursers. The Elector John of Saxony marched immediately before the emperor,
bearing the naked imperial sword, an honor to which his rank in the electoral college
entitled him.
"Last came the prince," says Seckendorf, "on whom all eyes were fixed.
Thirty years of age, of distinguished port and pleasing features, robed in golden
garments that glittered all over with precious stones, wearing a small Spanish hat
on the crown of his head:, mounted on a beautiful Polish hackney of the most brilliant
whiteness, riding beneath a rich canopy of red white and green damask borne by six
senators of Augsburg, and casting around him looks in which gentleness was mingled
with gravity, Charles excited the liveliest enthusiasm, and every one exclaimed that
he was the handsomest man in the Empire, as well as the mightiest prince in the world."[2]
His brother, the King of Austria, accompanied Charles. Ferdinand advanced
side by side with the Papal legate, their place being immediately behind the emperor.[3] They were succeeded
by an array of cardinals, bishops, and the ambassadors of foreign Powers, in the
insignia of their rank and office. The procession was swollen, moreover, by a miscellaneous
throng of much lesser personages—pages, heralds, equerries, trumpeters, drummers,
and cross-bearers—whose variegated dresses and flaring colors formed a not unimportant
though vulgar item in the magnificence of the cavalcade.[4] The Imperial Guards and the Augsburg Militia brought up the
rear.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when the gates of Augsburg were reached. The thunder
of cannon on the ramparts, and the peals of the city bells, informed the people of
Augsburg that the emperor was entering their city. The dusk of a summer evening hid
somewhat the glory of the procession, but torches were kindled to light it through
the streets, and permit the citizens a sight of its grandeur. The accident of the
bridge at Bologna was nearly repeated on this occasion. As the cavalcade was advancing
to the sound of clarion and kettledrum, six canons, bearing a huge canopy, beneath
which they were to conduct the emperor to the cathedral, approached Charles. His
horse, startled at the sight, suddenly reared, and nearly threw him headlong upon
the street.[5]
He was rescued, however, a second time. At length he entered the minster,
which a thousand blazing torches illuminated. After the Te Deum came the chanting
of prayers, and Charles, putting aside the cushion offered to him, kneeled on the
bare floor during the service. The assembly, following the emperor's example, threw
themselves on their knees—all save two persons, the Elector of Saxony and the Landgrave
of Hesse, who remained standing.[6]
Their behavior did not escape the notice of Duke George and the prelates;
but they consoled themselves doubtless by thinking that they would make them bow
low enough by-and-by.
When the services in the cathedral were ended, the procession re-formed, and again
swept along through the streets of Augsburg. The trumpets sounded, and the bells
were tolled. The torches were again lighted to illuminate the night. Their rays glittered
on the helmets of the guard, flashed on the faces of the motley crowd of sight-seers,
and catching the fronts of the houses, lighted them up in a gloomy grandeur, and
transformed the street through which the procession was advancing into a long, a
picturesque, and a most impressive vista of red lights and black shadows. Through
a scene of this sort was Charles conducted to the archiepiscopal Palace of the Palatinate,
which he entered about ten o'clock.
This assembly, comprising the pride and puissance of the great Spanish monarchy,
were here to be the witnesses of the triumph of Rome—so they imagined. The Pope and
the emperor had resolved to tolerate the religious schism no longer. Charles, as
both Pallavicino and Sarpi testify, came to Augburg with the firm purpose of putting
forth all the power of the Empire in the Diet, in order to make the revolted princes
re-enter the obedience of the Roman See.[7]
The Protestants must bow the head—so have two Puissances decreed. There is
a head that is destined to bow down, but it is one that for ten centuries has been
lifted up in pride, and has not once during all that time been known to bend—Rome.
The emperor's entry into Augsburg took place on Corpus Christi eve. It was so timed
in order that a pretext might be had for the attempts which were to be made for corrupting
the Protestants. The program of the imperial and ecclesiastical managers was a short
one—wiles; but if these did not prosper they were quite prepared to resort to arms.
The Protestant princes were specially invited to take their place in the solemn procession
of tomorrow, that of Corpus Christi. It would be hard for the Lutheran chiefs to
find an excuse for absence. Even on Lutheran principles it was the literal body of
Christ that was to be carried through the streets; surely they would not refuse this
token of homage to their Savior, this act of courtesy to their emperor. They declined,
however, saying that the body of Christ was in the Sacrament not to be worshipped,
but fed on by faith. The legate professed to be highly displeased at their contumacy;[8] and even the emperor
was not a little chafed. He had nothing for it, however, but to put up with the slight,
for attendance on such ceremonies was no part of the duty which they owed him as
emperor.
The next assault was directed against the Protestant sermons. The crowds that gathered
round the preachers were as great as ever. The emperor was galled by the sight of
these enthusiastic multitudes, and all the more so that not more than a hundred of
the citizens of Augsburg had joined in the grand procession of the day previous,
in which he himself had walked bareheaded, carrying a lighted taper.[9] That the heresy which he had crossed the Alps to extinguish
should be proclaimed in a score of churches, and within earshot of him, was more
than he could endure. He sent for the Lutheran princes, and charged them to enjoin
silence on their preachers. The princes replied that they could not live without
the preaching of the Gospel,[10]
and that the citizens of Augburg would not willingly consent to have the churches
closed. When Charles insisted that it should be so, the Margrave George exclaimed
in animated tones, "Rather than let the Word of God be taken from me, and deny
my God, I would kneel down and have my head struck off." And suiting the action
to the words, he struck his neck with his hand. "Not the head off," replied
Charles, evidently moved by the emotion of the margrave, "dear prince, not the
head off." These were the only German words Charles was heard to utter.[11] After two days' warm altercation it was concluded on the
part of the Protestants— who feared to irritate too greatly the emperor, lest he
should forbid the reading of their Confession in the Diet—that during the sitting
of the Senate the Protestant sermons should be suspended; and Charles on his part
agreed to appoint preachers who should impugn neither creed in their sermons, but
steer a middle course between the old and the new faiths. An edict to this effect
was next day proclaimed through Augsburg by a herald.[12] The citizens were curious to hear the emperor's preachers.
Those who went to witness the promised feat of preaching something that was neither
Popery nor Protestantism, were not a little amused by the performances of this new
sort of preachers. "Their sermons," said they, "are innocent of theology,
but equally innocent of sense."
At length the 20th of June arrived. On this day the Diet was to be opened by a grand
procession and a solemn mass. This furnished another pretext for renewing the attempts
to corrupt the fidelity, or, as the Papists called it, vanquish the obstinacy of
the Protestants. The emperor on that day would go in state to mass. It was the right
or duty of the Elector of Saxony, as Grand Marshal of the Empire, to carry the sword
before Charles on all occasions of state. "Let your majesty," said Campeggio,
"order the elector to perform his office."[13] If John should obey, he would compromise his profession by
being present at mass; if he should refuse, he would incur a derogation of dignity,
for the emperor would assign the honor to another. The aged elector was in a strait.
He summoned the divines who were present in Augsburg, that he might have their advice.
"It is," said they, "in your character of Grand Marshal, and not in
your character of Protestant, that you are called to bear the sword before his majesty.
You assist at a ceremony of the Empire, and not at a ceremony of religion. You may
obey with a safe conscience." And they fortified their opinion by citing the
example of Naaman, the prime minister of the King of Damascus, who, though a disciple
of Elisha, accompanied his lord when he went to worship in the temple of Baal.[14]
The Zwinglian divines did not concur in the opinion expressed by their Lutheran
brethren. They called to mind the instance of the primitive Christians who submitted
to martyrdom rather than throw a few grains of incense upon the altar. Any one, they
said, might be present at any rite of another religion, as if it were a civil ceremony,
whenever the fear of loss, or the hope of advantage, tempted one to institute this
very dangerous distinction. The advice of the Lutheran divines, however, swayed the
elector, and he accordingly took his place in the procession, but remained erect
before the altar when the host was elevated.[15]
At this mass Vincenzo Pompinello, Archbishop of Rosano, and nuncio of the
Pope, made an oration in Latin before the offertory. Three Romish historians—Pallavicino,
Sarpi, and Polano—have handed down to us the substance of his sermon. Beginning with
the Turk, the archbishop "upbraided Germany for having so meekly borne so many
wrongs at the hands of the barbarian. In this craven spirit had not acted the great
captains of ancient Rome, who had never failed to inflict signal chastisement upon
the enemies of the Republic." At this stage of his address, seized it would
seem with a sudden admiration of the Turk, the nuncio set sail on a new tack, and
began to extol the Moslem above the German: "The disadvantage of Germany is,"
he said, "that the Turk obeys one prince only, whereas in Germany many obey
not at all; that the Turks live in one religion, and the Germans every day invent
a new religion, and mock at the old, as if it were become moldy. Being desirous to
change the faith, they had not found out one more holy and more wise." He exhorted
them that "imitating Scipio, Cato, the people of Rome and their ancestors, they
should observe the Catholic religion, forsake these novelties, and give themselves
to the war."[16]
His eloquence reached its climax only when he came to speak of the "new
religion" which the Germans had invented. "Why," exclaimed he, "the
Senate and people of Rome, though Gentries and the worshippers of false gods, never
failed to avenge the insults offered to their rites by fire and sword; but ye, O
Germans, who are Christians, and the worshippers of the true and omnipotent God,
contemn the rites of holy mother Church by leaving unpunished the great audacity
and unheard-of wickedness of enemies. Why do ye rend in pieces the seamless garment
of the Savior? why do you abandon the doctrine of Christ, established with the consent
of the Fathers, and confirmed by the Holy Ghost, for a devilish belief, which leads
to every buffoonery and obscenity?"[17]
But the sting of this address was in its tail. "Sharpen thy sword, O
magnanimous prince," said he, turning to the emperor, "and smite these
opposers. Peace there never will be in Germany till this heresy shall have been utterly
extirpated." Rising higher still he invoked the Apostles Peter and Paul to lend
their powerful aid at this great crisis of the Church.
The zeal of the Papal nuncio, as was to be expected, was at a white heat. The German
princes, however, were more cool. This victory with the sword which the orator promised
them was not altogether to their mind, especially when they reflected that whereas
the archbishop's share in the enterprise was the easy one of furnishing eloquence
for the crusade, to them would remain the more arduous labor of providing arms and
money with which to carry it out.
CHAPTER 22 Back
to Top
LUTHER IN THE COBURG AND MELANCHTHON AT THE DIET.
The Emperor Opens the Diet—Magnificence of the Assemblage—Hopes of its Members—The
Emperor's Speech—His Picture of Europe—The Turk—His Ravages—The Remedy—Charles Calls
for Execution of Edict of Worms —Luther at Coburg—His Labors—Translation of the Prophets,
etc.—His Health—His Temptations—How he Sustains his Faith—Melanchthon at Augsburg—His
Temporisings—Luther's Reproofs and Admonitions.
FROM the cathedral the princes adjourned to the town-hall, where the sittings
of the Diet were to take place. The emperor took his seat on a throne covered with
cloth of gold. Immediately in front of him sat his brother Ferdinand, King of Austria,
On either hand of him were ranged the electors of the Empire. Crowding all round
and filling every part of the hall was the rest of this august assembly, including
forty-two sovereign princes, the deputies of the cities, bishops, ambassadors—in
short, the flower not of Germany only, but of all Christendom. This assemblage— the
representative of so much power, rank, and magnificence—had gathered here to deliberate,
to lay their plans, and to proclaim their triumphs: so they firmly believed. They
were quite mistaken, however. They were here to suffer check after check, to endure
chagrin and discomfiture, and to see at last that cause which they had hoped to cast
into chains and drag to the stake, escaping from their hands, mounting gloriously
upward, and beginning to fill the world with its splendor.
The emperor rose and opened the Diet with a speech. We turn with a feeling of relief
from the fiery harangue of the fanatical nuncio to the calm words of Charles. Happily
Sleidan has handed down to us the speech of the emperor at considerable length. It
contains a sad picture of the Christendom of that age. It shows us the West, groaning
under the twin burdens of priestcraft and despotism, ready to succumb to the Turk,
and the civilization and liberty of the world on the point of being overwhelmed by
the barbarous arms of the East. It shows us also that this terrible catastrophe would
most surely have overtaken the world, if that very Christianity which the emperor
was blindly striving to put down had not come at that critical moment, to rekindle
the all but extinct fires of patriotism and valor. If Charles had succeeded in extirpating
Protestantism, the Turk would have come after him and gathered the spoils. The seat
of Empire would have been transferred from Spain to Constantinople, and the dominant
religion in the end would have been not Romanism, but Mohammedanism.
The emperor, who did not speak German, made his address be read by the count-palatine.
"Sacrificing my private injuries and interests to the common good," said
Charles, "I have quitted the most flourishing kingdom of Spain, with great danger,
to cross the seas into Italy, and, after making peace with my enemies, to pass thence
into Germany. Not only," continued the emperor, "were there great strifes
and dissensions in Germany about religion, but also the Turks had invaded Hungary
and the neighboring countries, putting all to fire and sword, Belgrad and several
other castles and forts being lost. King Lewis and several of the nobles had sent
ambassadors to desire the assistance of the Empire... The enemy having taken Rhodes,
the bulwark of Christendom on that side, marched further into Hungary, overcame King
Lewis in battle, and took, plundered, and burned all the towns and places between
the rivers Save and Drave, with the slaughter of many thousands of men. They had
afterwards made an incursion into Sclavonia, and there having plundered, burned,
and slain, and laid the whole country waste, they had carried away about thirty thousand
of men into miserable slavery, and killed those poor creatures that could not follow
after with the carriages. They had again, the year before, advanced with an innumerable
army into Austria, and laid siege to Vienna, the chief city thereof, having wasted
the country far and near, even as far as Linz, where they had practiced all kinds
oifcruelty and barbarity... That now, though the enemy could not take Vienna,[1] yet the whole country had sustained great damage, which could
hardly be in long time repaired again. And although the Turk had drawn off his army,
yet he had left garrisons and commanders upon the borders to waste and destroy not
only Hungary, but Austria also, and Styria, and the places adjoining; and whereas
now his territory in many places bordered upon ours, it was not to be doubted but
upon the first occasion he would return again with far greater force, and drive on
his designs to the utter ruin chiefly of Germany.
It was well known how many places he had taken from us since he was master of Constantinople,
how much Christian blood he had shed, and into what straits he had reduced this part
of the world, that it ought rather to be lamented and bewailed than enlarged on in
discourse. If his fury be not resisted with greater forces than hitherto, we must
expect no safety for the future, but one province after another being lost, all at
length, and that shortly too, will fall under his power and tyranny. The design of
this most cruel enemy was to make slaves of, nay, to sweep off all Christians from
the face of the earth."
The emperor having drawn this picture of the Turk, who every year was projecting
a longer shadow over Christendom, proceeded next to counsel his hearers to trample
out that spirit which alone was capable of coping with this enemy, by commanding
them to execute the Edict of Worms.[2]
While the Diet is proceeding to business, let us return to Luther, whom we
left, as our readers will recollect, in the Castle of Coburg. Alone in his solitary
chamber, he is, rightly looked at, a grander sight than the magnificent assemblage
we have been contemplating. He is the embodiment of that great power which Charles
has assembled his princes and is about to muster his armies to combat, but before
which he is destined to fall, and with him that mighty Empire over which he so proudly
sways the scepter, and which, nine years before, at the Diet of Worms, he had publicly
staked on the issue.
Luther is again shut up with his thoughts and his books. From the scene of labor
and excitement which Wittenberg had become, how refreshing and fascinating the solitude
of the Coburg! The day was his own, with scarce an interruption, from dawn till dusk.
The Reformer needed rest, and all things around him seemed to invite him to it—the
far-extending plains, the quiet woods, the cawing of the rooks, and the song of the
birds; but Luther was incapable of resting. Scarcely had the tramp of the elector's
horsemen, continuing their journey to Augsburg, died away in the distance, than he
sat down, and wrote to Wittenberg for his books. By the end of April they had arrived,
and he immediately set to work. He returned to his version of Jeremiah, and completed
it before the end of June. He then resumed the Minor Prophets, and before the middle
of August all had been translated, with the exception of Haggai and Malachi. He wrote
an exposition of several of the Psalms—the 2nd, the 113th, and 117th—a discourse
on the necessity of schools for children, and various tracts—one on purgatory, another
on the power of the "keys," and a third on the intercession of saints.
With untiring labor he forged bolt after bolt, and from his retreat discharged them
at the enemy.
But the too active spirit wore out the body. Luther was seized with vertigo. The
plains, with their woods and meadows, seemed to revolve around the Castle of Coburg;
his ears were stunned with great noises; at times it was as if a thunder-peal were
resounding in his head. Then, perforce, the pen was laid down. But again he would
snatch it up, and give Philip the benefit of his dear-bought experience, and bid
him "take care of his own precious little body, and not commit homicide."
"God," he said, "is served by rest, by nothing more than rest, and
therefore He has willed that the Sabbath should be so rigidly kept"—thus anticipating
Milton's beautiful lines
But worse symptoms supervened. In the unstrung condition of his nervous system,
impressions became realities to him. His imagination clothed the dangers which he
apprehended in a palpable form and shape, and they stood before him as visible existences.
His Old Enemy of the Wartburg comes sailing, like black night, to the Castle of Coburg.
The Reformer, however, was not to be overcome, though the Prince of Darkness had
brought all hell behind him. He wrote texts of Scripture upon the walls of his apartment,
upon his door, upon his bed—"I will lay me down in peace and sleep; for thou,
O Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety." Within this "fortress"
he felt he could defy the Prince of Spain and the Prince of the Power of the Air.
Three hours of every day did Luther devote to prayer; to this he added the assiduous
perusal of the Scriptures.[4]
These were the fountains at which he refreshed his soul, and whence he recruited
his strength, Nay, more, the intercessions that ascended from the Coburg came back,
we cannot doubt, upon his friends in Augsburg in needed supplies of wisdom and courage,
and thus were they able to maintain the battle in the presence of their numerous
and powerful adversaries. For days together Luther would be left without intelligence
from the Diet. Post after post arrived from Augburg. "Do you bring me letters?
" he would eagerly inquire. "No," was the answer, with a uniformity
that severely tried his patience, and also his temper. At times he became a prey
to fear—not for himself; his life he held in his hand, ready at any moment to lay
it down for the truth; it was for his friends he feared in these intervals of silence,
lest perchance some disaster had befallen them. Retiring into his closet, he would
again send up his cry to the throne in the heavens. Straightway the clouds of melancholy
would roll away, and the light of coming triumphs would break in upon his soul. He
would go to the window and look forth upon the midnight sky.
The mighty vault, studded with glorious stars, became to him a sign that helped his
faith. "How magnificent! how lofty!" he would exclaim. "Where are
the strong pillars that support this immense dome? I nowhere behold them. Yet the
heavens do not fall." Thus the firmament, upheld by a Hand he could not see,
preached to him peace and prophesied of triumph. It said to him, "Why, Luther,
are you disquieted and in trouble? Be at rest." He saw around him a work in
progress as stupendous as the fabric of the heavens. But why should he take that
work upon himself as if it were his, and as if he must charge himself with its standing
or its falling? As well might he take upon his shoulders the burden of the firmament.
The heavens did not fall although his hand was not steadying its pillars, and this
work would go on whether he lived or died. He saw the Pope and the emperor and the
Prince of Hell fighting against it with all their might; nevertheless, it was borne
up and carried forward. It was not he that was causing it to advance, nor was it
Melanchthon, nor the Elector John; agencies so feeble were wholly inadequate to effects
so grand. There was an omnipotent Hand guiding this movement, although to him it
was invisible; and if that Hand was there, was his weak arm needed? and if it should
be withdrawn, was it Luther's that could uphold it? In that Hand, the Hand of the
God-man, of Him who made and who upholds the world, would he leave this cause. If
it should fall, it was not Luther that would fall, but the Monarch of heaven and
earth; and he would rather fall with Christ than stand with Charles. Such was the
train of courageous thoughts that would awaken in the mind of Luther. In this way
did he strengthen his faith, and being strengthened himself he strengthened his brethren.
Nor were the counsels and encouragements of Luther unneeded at Augsburg. Melanchthon,
constitutionally timid, with a mind to penetrate rather than to dare, a soul to expatiate
on the beauty of truth rather than to delight in the rude gusts and tempests of opposition,
at all times bending under apprehensions, was at this time bowed down to almost the
very ground. In fact, he was trying to uphold the heavens. Instead of leaving the
cause in the hands of Him whose it was, as Luther did, he was taking it upon his
own shoulder, and he felt its weight crushing him. He was therefore full of thoughts,
expedients, and devices. Every day he had some new explanation, some subtle gloss,
or some doubtful compromise which he thought would gain the Catholics. He kept running
about continually, being now closeted with this bishop, now with that; now dancing
attendance on the legate, and now on the emperor.[5] Melanchthon never had the same clear and perfect conviction
as Luther that there were two diametrically opposite Churches and faiths in the matter
he was handling, and that he was but wasting time and risking character, and, what
was infinitely more, truth, in these attempts to reconcile the two. He had no fruit
of these efforts, save the consuming anxiety which they caused him now, and the bitter
mortification which their failure gave him afterwards.
"I dwell in perpetual tears,"[6]
wrote he to Luther. In reply Luther points out, with admirable fidelity and
skill, at once the malady and its cure. The cure is expressed in one word—Faith.
"Grace and peace in Christ! in Christ, I say, and not in the world. Amen. I
hate with exceeding hatred those extreme cares which consume you. If the cause is
unjust, abandon it; if the cause is just, why should we belie the promises of Him
Who commands us to sleep without fear? Can the devil do more than kill us? Christ
will not be wanting to the work of justice and of truth. He lives; He reigns: what
fear then can we have? God is powerful to upraise His cause if it is overthrown,
to make it proceed if it remains motionless; and, if we are not worthy of it, He
will do it by others.
"I have received your Apology,[7]
and I cannot understand what you mean when you ask what we must concede to
the Papist. We have already conceded too much. Night and day I meditate on this affair,
turning it over and over, dingently searching the Scriptures, and the conviction
of the truth of our doctrine becomes every day stronger in my mind. With the help
of God, I will not permit a single letter of all that we have said to be torn from
us.
"The issue of this affair torments you, because you cannot understand it. But
if you could, I would not have the least share in it. God has put it in a 'common-place'
that you will not find in either your rhetoric or your philosophy. That place is
called Faith. It is that in which subsist all things that we can neither understand
nor see. Whoever wishes to touch them, as you do, will have tears for his sole reward.
"If Christ is not with us, where is He in the whole universe? If we are not
the Church, where, I pray, is the Church? Is it the Duke of Bavaria? is it Ferdinand?
is it the Pope? is it the Turk who is the Church? If we have not the Word of God,
who is it that possesses it?
"Only we must have faith, lest the cause of faith should be found to be without
faith.
"If we fall, Christ falls with us—that is to say, the Master of the world. I
would rather fall with Christ than remain standing with Caesar."[8]
CHAPTER 23 Back
to Top
READING OF THE AUGSBURG CONFESSION.
The Religious Question First—Augsburg Confession—Signed by the Princes—The Laity—Princes
Demand to Read their Confession in Public Diet—Refusal—Demand Renewed—Granted—The
Princes Appear before the Emperor and Diet—A Little One become a Thousand— Mortification
of Charles—Confession Read in German—Its Articles — The Trinit — Christ— Justification—
The Ministry— Good Works —The Church—The Lord's Supper, etc.—The Mass, etc.— Effect
of Reading the Confession—Luther's Triumph.
THE Diet was summoned for two causes—first, the defense of Christendom against
the Turk; secondly, and mainly, the settlement of the religious question. It was
resolved to take into consideration first the matter of religion.
In order to an intelligent decision on this question, it seemed equitable, and indeed
indispensable, that the Diet should hear from the Protestants a statement of the
doctrine which they held. Without this, how could the Diet either approve or condemn?
Such a manifesto, based on the "Torgau Articles," had been drawn up by
Melanchthon, approved by Luther, and was now ready to be presented to the Diet, provided
the emperor would consent to the public reading of it.
On the morning of the 23rd of June, the Protestants met in the apartments of the
Elector of Saxony to append their signatures to this important deed. It was first
read in German. The Elector John took the pen, and was about to append his name,
when Melanchthon interposed. "It was the ministers of the Word, and not the
princes of the State," he said, "that ought to appear in this matter. This
was the voice of the Church." "God forbid," replied the elector, "that
you should exclude me from confessing my Lord. My electoral hat and my ermine are
not so precious to me as the cross of Jesus Christ." On this Melanchthon suffered
him to proceed, and John, Duke of Saxony, was the first whose name was appended to
this document.
After the Elector of Saxony had subscribed, George, Margrave of Brandenburg, and
Ernest, Duke of Luneburg, appended their signatures, and then the pen was handed
to Philip of Hesse. The landgrave accompanied his signature with an intimation that
he dissented from the article on the Lord's Supper. He stood with Zwingli in this
matter.[1] Then followed John Frederick,
son of the Elector of Saxony; and Francis, Duke of Luneburg. Wolfgang, Prince of
Anhalt, came last.
"I would rather renounce my subjects and my States," said he, when he took
the pen to sign, "I would rather quit the country of my fathers staff in hand,
than receive any other doctrine than that which is contained in this Confession."[2] The devotion of the
princes inspirited the theologians. Of the cities only two as yet subscribed the
Confession, Nuremberg and Reutlingen. Those we have mentioned were the nine original
subscribers. The document received a number of signatures afterwards; princes, ecclesiastics,
and cities pressed forward to append their names to it. The ministers, one may think,
ought to have had precedence in the matter of subscription. But the only names which
the deed bore when carried to the Diet were those of the seven princes and the two
cities, all lay signatures. One great end, however, was gained thereby: it gave grand
prominence to a truth which for ages had been totally lost sight of, and purposely
as profoundly buried. It proclaimed the forgotten fact that the laity form part of
the Church. Rome practically defined the Church to be the priesthood. This was not
a body Catholic, it was a caste, a third party, which stood between God and the laity,
to conduct all transactions between the two. But when the Church revives at this
great era, she is seen to be not a mutilated body, a mere fragment; she stands up
a perfect, a complete society.
The Protestants agreed to demand that their Confession should be read publicly in
the Diet. This was a vital point with them. They had not kindled this light to put
it under a bushel, but to set it in a very conspicuous place; indeed, in the midst
even of the princedoms, hierarchies, and powers of Christendom now assembled at Augsburg.
To this, however, obstacles were interposed, as it was foreseen there would be. The
Confession was subscribed on the 23rd of June; it was to be presented on the 24th.
On that day the Diet met at three o'clock of the afternoon. The Protestant princes
appeared and demanded leave to read their Confession. The legate Campeggio rose and
began to speak. He painted the bark of Peter struggling in a tempestuous sea, the
great billows breaking over it, and ready every moment to engulf it; but it was his
consolation to know that a strong arm was near, able to still these mighty waves,
and rescue that imperilled bark from destruction.[3] The strong arm to which he referred was that of the emperor.
He ran on a long while in this vein of rhetoric. The legate was speaking against
time. Next came deputies from Austria, who had a long and doleful recital of the
miseries the Turk had inflicted upon them to lay before the Diet.[4] This scene had all been arranged beforehand.
It came at length to an end. The Protestant princes rose again and craved permission
to read their paper. "It is too late," was the emperor's reply.
"But," insisted the princes, "we have been publicly accused, and we
must be permitted publicly to justify ourselves." "Then," said the
emperor, who felt it would be well to make a show of yielding, "tomorrow at
the Palatinate Chapel." The "Palatinate Chapel" was not the usual
place of the Diet's meeting, but an apartment in the emperor's own palace, capable
of containing about two hundred persons.[5]
It was seen that the emperor wished the audience to be select.
The morrow came, the 25th of June, 1530. Long before the hour of the Diet a great
crowd was seen besieging the doors of the Palatinate. At three o'clock the emperor
took his seat on his throne. Around him was gathered all that his vast Empire could
furnish of kingly power, princely dignity, august station, brilliant title, and gorgeous
munificence. There was one lofty head missing, one seat vacant in that brilliant
assembly. Campeggio stayed away,[6]
and his absence anticipated a decree afterswards passed in a consistory of
the cardinals at Rome disapproving the Diet's entering on the religious question,
seeing that was a matter the decision of which appertained exclusively to the Pope.
The eventful moment was now come. The princes stood up at the foot of the emperor's
throne to present their Confession—John of Saxony, John Frederick, his son, Philip
of Hesse, George of Brandenburg, Wolfgang of Anhalt, Ernest and Francis of Luneburg,
and the two deputies of Nuremberg and Reutlingen. All eyes were fixed upon them.
"Their air was animated," says Scultet, "and their faces radiant with
joy."[7] It was impossible but
that the scene of nine years ago should forcibly present itself at this moment to
the emperor's mind.
Then, as now, he sat upon his throne with the princes of his kingdom around him,
and a solitary monk stood up in his presence to confess his faith. The astounding
scene was reproducing itself. The monk again stands up to confess his faith; not,
indeed, in his own person, but in that of confederate princes and cities, inspired
with his spirit and filled with his power. Here was a greater victory than any the
emperor had won, and he had gained not a few since the day of Worms. Charles, ruler
of two worlds, could not but feel that the monk was a greater sovereign than himself.
Was not this the man and the cause against which he had fulminated his ban? Had he
not hoped that, long ere this day, both would have sunk out of sight, crushed under
its weight? Had he not summoned Diet after Diet to deal this cause the finishing
blow? How, then, did it happen that each new Diet gave it a new triumph? Whence did
it derive that mysterious and wondrous life, which the more it was oppressed the
more it grew? It embittered his state to see this "Mordecai" sitting at
the gate of his power, and refusing to do obeisance; nor could he banish from his
mind the vaticinations which "his wise men, and Zeresh his wife," addressed
to an ambitious statesman of old: "If thou hast begun to fall before him, thou
shalt not prevail against him, but shalt surely fall before him."
The two chancellors of the elector, Bruck and Bayer, rose, holding in their hand,
the one a German and the other a Latin copy of the "Chief Articles of the Faith."
"Read the Latin copy," suggested the emperor. "No," replied the
Elector of Saxony respectfully, "we are Germans and on German soil, we crave
to speak in German."[8]
Bayer now began to read, and he did so in a voice so clear and strong that
every word was audible to the vast crowd of eager listeners that filled the ante-chambers
of the hall.
"Most invincible Emperor, Caesar Augustus, most gracious lord," so spoke
the chancellor, "we are here in obedience to the summons of your Majesty, ready
to deliberate and confer on the affairs of religion, in order that, arriving at one
sincere and true faith, we may fight under one Christ, form one Christian Church,
and live in one unity and concord." As their contribution to this great work
of pacification, the Protestants went on to say, through Bayer, that they had prepared
and brought with them to the Diet a summary of the doctrines which they held, agreeable
to Holy Scripture, and such as had aforetime been professed in their land, and taught
in their Church. But should, unhappily, the conciliation and concord which they sought
not be attained, they were ready to explain their cause in a "free, general
Christian Council."[9]
The reading of the Confession proceeded in deep silence.
Article I. confessed the TRINITY. "There is one
Divine essence who is God, eternal, incorporeal, indivisible, infinite in power,
wisdom, and goodness; and there are three persons of the same essence and power and
co-eternity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit."
Article II. confessed ORIGINAL SIN. "Since the
fall of Adam all men descending from him by ordinary generation are born in sin,
which places under condemnation and bringeth eternal death to all who are not born
again by baptism and the Holy Ghost." [WStS Note: Please read "Must
We Then Sin?" ---New Window]
Article III. confessed the PERSON AND OFFICE OF CHRIST.
"The Son of God assumed humanity and has thus two natures, the divine and human,
in His one person, inseparably conjoined: one Christ, very God and very man. He was
born of the Virgin, He truly suffered, was crucified, died and was buried, that He
might reconcile us to the Father, and be the sacrifice, not only for the original
sin, but also for all the actual transgressions of men."
Article IV. confessed the doctrine of JUSTIFICATION.
"Men cannot be justified before God by their own strength, merits, or works.
They are justified freely on Christ's account through faith, when they believe in
the free pardon of their sins for the sake of Christ, Who has made satisfaction for
them by His death. This faith God imputes to them for righteousness."
The "antithesis" or condemnation of the opposite doctrines professed by
the Arians, Pelagians, Anabaptists, and more ancient heretical sects, was not stated
under this article, as under the previous ones. We see in this omission the prudence
of Melanchthon.
Article V. confessed the institution of the MINISTRY.
"For by the preaching of the Word, and the dispensation of the Sacraments, the
Holy Spirit is pleased to work faith in the heart."
Article VI. confessed GOOD WORKS. "Faith ought
to bear good fruits, not that these may justify us before God, but that they may
manifest our love to God."
Article VII. confessed the CHURCH, "which is the
congregation of the holy, in which the Gospel is rightly taught and the Sacraments
rightly administered. To the real unity of the Church it is sufficient that men agree
in the doctrine of the Gospel and the administration of the Sacraments; nor is it
necessary that the rites and ceremonies instituted by men should be everywhere the
same."
Article VIII. confessed the CHURCH VISIBLE. "Although
the Church is properly the assembly of saints and true believers, yet in this life
there are mixed up in it many hypocrites and manifest sinners."[10]
Article IX. set forth the necessity of BAPTISM
to salvation, "for through baptism is offered the grace of God," and the
lawfulness of infant baptism.
Article X. set forth the doctrine of the LORD'S SUPPER.
"We teach that the body and blood of Christ are really present, and administered
to those who partake of the Lord's Supper."[11]
Articles XI. and XII. stated the doctrine of
the Lutheran confessors on confession and penance.
Article XIII. set forth more explicitly the nature and
use of the Sacraments, affirming that they were not mere "notes of profession"
among men, but "signs and testimonies of the good-will of God toward us;"
and that therefore to the "use of the Sacrament" faith must be added, which
takes hold of the promises exhibited and held forth by the sacrament. And in the
antithesis to this article they condemned those who taught that the Sacrament accomplishes
its end ex opere operato, and that faith is not required in order to the remission
of sins.
The articles that follow to the end are occupied with church order and rites, civil
government, the final judgment, free will, and good works. On the latter the framers
of the Confession were careful to distinguish between the power which man has to
do "good or evil," within the sphere of natural and civil justice, and
the sphere of holiness. Man can do many things, they said. He can love his children,
his neighbors, his country; he can study an art, practice a profession, or guide
the State; he can bless society by his virtues and talents, or afflict it by his
vices and crimes; but those actions only are righteous in the sight of God which
spring from a gracious principle, implanted by the Holy Spirit, and which are directed
to a heavenly end. To love God, and love and labor for man for God's sake, is a power,
they taught, which fallen man does not possess, and which must be given him from
above; according to the saying of Ambrose, that "Faith is the mother of good
desires and holy actions"—words which are but the echo of those of a greater
Teacher, "Without me ye can do nothing."[12]
In conclusion, the Protestants returned in their Confession to their grand
cardinal doctrine, salvation by grace. They especially attacked the mass, on which
Rome had suspended the salvation of the world, making the priest, and not Christ,
the savior of men; the sacrifice on the altar, and not the sacrifice on the cross,
the real propitiation; thus compelling men to come to her and not to God for pardon,
making merchandise of heaven, changing worship into mountebankery, and the Church
into a fair. "If the mass," said they, "takes away the sins of the
living and the dead, ex opere operato, then justification hangs on a mere rite,"
and Christ died in vain.[13]
With the Bible they would know no sacrifice for sin but that made by Christ,
once for all, on Calvary, everlasting, and never needing to be repeated, inasmuch
as its efficacy is wide as the populations of the globe, and lasting as eternity.
Nor would they put any conditions upon the enjoyment of these merits other than had
been put upon them by Him whose they were. These merits they would not give as the
wages of work, nor as the equivalent of gold; they would give them on the same terms
on which the Gospel offered them, "without money and without price." Thus
they labored to overthrow the mass, with that whole system of salvation by works
of which it was the pre-eminent symbol, and to restore the cross.
We have said that under the Fourth Article, that relating to justification, the antithesis
was not formally stated. The Confession did not say, "We condemn Papists, etc.,
who hold a doctrine opposed to justification by faith." This omission arose
from no want of courage, for in what follows we find the errors of Romanism boldly
attacked. The mass, as we have seen, was not spared; but the Protestants did not
single out the mass alone.
There was scarcely an abuse or error of the system that was not passed in review,
and dismissed with the brand of reprobation upon it. On one and all was the sentence
pronounced, "Unknown to Scripture and to the Fathers." Priestly absolution,
distinction of meats, monastic vows, feast-days, the pernicious mixing up of ecclesiastical
and civil authority, so hurtful to the character of the ministers of the Word, and
so prolific of wars and bloodshed to the world—all were condemned on many grounds,
but on this above all others, that they "obscured the doctrine ofgrace, and
of the righteousness of faith, which is the cardinal article, the crowning glory
of the Gospel."[14]
The Confession—with conspicuous boldness, when we think that it was read before
an assembly in which so many prince-bishops had a seat— condemned one of the grand
errors of the Middle Ages, namely, the confusion of Church and State, and the blending
of things spiritual and secular, which had led to such corruption in the Church and
inflicted so many calamities upon the world. It explained, with great clearness and
at considerable length, that Church and State are two distinct societies, and, although
co-related, each has its own boundaries, its own rights and duties, and that the
welfare of both requires the maintenance of the independence of each.
"Many," Bayer continued, "have unskilfully confounded the episcopal
and the temporal power; and from this confusion have resulted great wars, revolts,
and seditions. It is for this reason, and to reassure men's consciences, that we
find ourselves constrained to establish the difference which exists between the power
of the Church and the power of the sword.
"We, therefore, teach that the power of the keys or of the bishops is, conformably
with the Word of the Lord, a commandment emanating from God, to preach the Gospel,
to remit or retain sins, and to administer the Sacraments. This power has reference
only to eternal goods, is exercised only by the minister of the Word, and does not
trouble itself with political administration. The political administration, on the
other hand, is busied with everything else but the Gospel. The magistrate protects,
not souls, but bodies and temporal possessions. He defends them against all attacks
from without, and by making use of the sword and of punishment, compels men to observe
civil justice and peace.
"For this reason we must take particular care not to mingle the power of the
Church with the power of the State. The power of the Church ought never to invade
an office that is foreign to it; for Christ Himself said: 'My kingdom is not of this
world.' And again: 'Who made me a judge over you?' St. Paul said to the Philippians:
'Our citizenship is in heaven.' And to the Corinthians: 'The weapons of our warfare
are not carnal, but mighty through God.' "It is thus that we distinguish the
two governments and the two powers, and that we honor both as the most excellent
gifts that God has given us here on earth.
"The duty of the bishops is therefore to preach the Gospel, to forgive sins,
and to exclude from the Christian Church all who rebel against the Lord, but without
human power, and solely by the Word of God. If the bishops act thus, the Churches
ought to be obedient to them, according to this declaration of Christ: 'Whoever heareth
you heareth Me.'
"But if the bishops teach anything that is contrary to the Gospel, then the
Churches have an order from God which forbids them to obey (Matthew 7:15, Galatians
1, and 2 Corinthians 13:8, 10). And St. Augustine himself, in his letter against
Pertilian, writes: "We must not obey the Catholic bishops, if they go astray,
and teach anything contrary to the canonical Scriptures of God.'"
Bayer then came to the epilogue of the Confession.
"It is not from hatred that we have spoken," said he, "nor to insult
any one, but we have explained the doctrines that we maintain to be essential, in
order that it may be understood that we admit of neither dogma nor ceremony which
is contrary to the Holy Scriptures, and to the usage of the Universal Church."
"Such," said Bayer, having finished the document, "is a summary of
our faith. Other things might have been stated, but for brevity's sake they are omitted.
But what has been said is sufficient to show that in our doctrines and ceremonies
nothing has been admitted which is inconsistent with Scripture, or with the Church
catholic."[15]
The reading of the Confession occupied two hours. Not a word was spoken all
that time. This assembly of princes and warriors, statesmen and ecclesiastics, sat
silent, held fast in the spell, not of novelty merely, but of the simplicity, beauty,
and majesty of the truths which passed before them in the grand spiritual panorama
which Melanchthon's powerful hand had summoned up. Till now they had known the opinions
of the Protestants only as rumor had exaggerated, or ignorance obscured, or hatred
misrepresented and vilified them: now they learned them from the pen of the clearest
intellect and most accomplished scholar in the Lutheran host. Melanchthon, knowing
that he had to speak to an audience that were dull of ear, and yet more dull of heart,
had put forth all his powers to throw the charm of an elegant style and lucid illustration
around his theological theses; and such was his success that he was alike intelligible
to layman and ecclesiastic, to warrior, baron, and scholar in the Diet. But this
was the least of Melanchthon's triumphs.
In the two hours which the reading of the Confession occupied, what a work had been
accomplished, what an advance made in the great cause of the Reformation! The errors
which had been growing up during the course of ages had sentence of doom pronounced
upon them, and from that hour began to wither away; such was the clearness and pertinency
of the proofs with which Melanchthon confirmed the Protestant doctrines. It was as
when the morning dawns, and the clouds which all night long had rested on the sides
of the Alps break up, and rolling away disclose the stupendous, snow-clad, glorious
peaks: so now, the fogs of mediaevalism begin to scatter, and lo! in majestic and
brilliant array, those eternal verities which the Holy Spirit had revealed in ancient
times for the salvation of men those Alps of the spiritual world, those mountain-peaks
that lift their heads into heaven, bathed with the light of the throne of God—are
seen coming forth, and revealing themselves to man's ravished eye. The Confession,
moreover, added not a few influential converts to the ranks of Protestantism. The
effect on some was surprise; on others, conviction; on most, it was the creation
of a more conciliatory spirit towards the Lutherans.
Thirteen years before (1517) a solitary monk, bearing a scroll in one hand and a
hammer in the other, is seen forcing his way through a crowd of pilgrims, and nailing
his scroll, with its ninety-five theses, to the door of the castle-church of Wittenberg.
The scene repeats itself, but on a grander scale. Now a phalanx of princes and free
cities is beheld pressing through the throng of the Diet of Augsburg, and, in presence
of the assembled princedoms and hierarchies of Christendom, it nails the old scroll—for
what is the Confession of Augsburg but the monk's scroll enlarged, and more impregnably
supported by proof?—it nails this scroll to the throne of Charles V.
CHAPTER 24 Back
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AFTER THE DIET OF AUGSBURG.
The Great Protest—The Cities asked to Abandon it—The Augsburg Confession—Theological
Culmination of Reformation in Germany— Elation of the Protestants—Three Confessions—Harmony—New
Converts—Consultations and Dialogues in the Emperor's Antechamber—The Bishop of Salzburg
on Priests—Translation of the Confession into French—The Free Protesting Towns—Asked
to Abandon the Protest of 1529—Astonishment of the Deputies—The Vanquished affecting
to be the Victor—What the Protest of 1529 enfolded—The Folly of the Emperor's Demand.
WE are now arrived at a stage where we can look around and take a survey of this
great movement of regeneration as it develops itself in other countries. Everywhere,
on the right and on the left, from the Baltic to the Alps, and from the Atlantic
to the gates of Vienna, the doctrines of Protestantism are being scattered and are
taking vigorous root. Nay, even beyond the mountains that wall in Italy and Spain,
Protestant movements are springing up, and Rome is beginning to be assailed in those
countries where she deemed her power to be so deeply seated in the traditional beliefs,
the blind devotion, and the pleasure-loving habits of the people, that no one would
be mad enough to attack her. But before withdrawing our eyes from Germany, let us
briefly note the events immediately consequent on the Confession of Augsburg.
The presentation of the Confession to the Diet [1] was the culmination of the movement on German soil. It was
the proudest hour of the Lutheran Church. To this point the labors of Luther and
of the forces that operated around him had tended, and now that it was reached, the
crown was put upon the theological development. The Augsburg Confession was not a
perfectly accurate statement of Scripture truth by any means, but as a first attempt,
made before the Reformation had completed its second decade, it was a marvellous
effort, and has not been cast into the shade by even the noblest of those Confessions
which have since followed it, and for which it so largely helped to prepare the way.
When this Confession was laid on the imperial table, the movement had no longer Luther
as its sole or chief embodiment. The Reformation now stood before the world in a
body of Articles, drawn from the Bible, and comprehensively embracing those principles
which God has made known as a basis of justice and order to nations, and the means
of renewal and eternal life to individuals; and whatever might become of Luther,
though he were this moment to be offered as a martyr, or, which was possible but
hardly conceivable, were to apostatise, and destroy the faith he once preached, here
was a greater preacher of the truth, standing before the nations, and keeping open
to them the road to a glorious future.
Was the Confession of Augsburg to come in the room of the Bible to the Protestants?
Far from it. Let us not mistake the end for which it was framed, and the place it
was intended to occupy. The Confession did not create the faith; it simply confessed
it. The doctrines it contained were in the Confession because they were first of
all in the Bible. A terrestrial chart has authority and is to be followed only when
for every island and continent marked on it there is a corresponding island and continent
on the surface of the globe; a manual of botany has authority only when for every
term on its page there is a living flower or tree in the actual landscape; and a
map of the heavens is true only when for every star named in it there is an actual
star shining in the sky. So of the Augsburg Confession, and all Confessions, they
are true, and of authority, and safe guides only when every statement they contain
has its corresponding doctrine in the Scriptures. Their authority is not in themselves,
but in the Word of God. Therefore they do not fetter conscience, or tyrannise over
it, except when perverted; they but guard its liberty, by shielding the understanding
from the usurpation of error, and leaving the conscience free to follow the light
of the Word of God.
Both parties felt the vast consequences that must needs follow from what had just
taken place. The Protestants were elated. They had carried their main object, which
was nothing less than to have their faith published in presence of the Diet, and
so of all Christendom. "By the grace of God," exclaimed Pontanus, as he
handed the Latin copy to the emperor's secretary, "this Confession shall prevail
in spite of the gates of hell."
"Christ has been boldly confessed at Augsburg," said Luther, when the news
reached him. "I am overjoyed that I have lived to this hour." The Churches,
as we have seen, had been closed against the Protestant ministers; but now we behold
the pulpit set up in the Diet itself, and great princes becoming preachers of the
Gospel.
The Popish members were dismayed and confounded when they reflected on what had been
done. The Diet had been summoned to overthrow the Reformation; instead of this it
had established it. In the wake of this Confession came other two, the one written
by Bucer, and signed by four cities which in the matter of the Lord's Supper leaned
to the Zwinglian rather than to the Lutheran view—Strasbourg, Constance, Memmingen,
and Lindau;[2]
hence its name, the Tetrapolitan Confession; and the other presented in the
name of Zwingli, and containing a statement of his individual views. Thus the movement,
instead of shrinking into narrower dimensions, or hiding itself from view, was coming
boldly out in the presence of its opponents, and the feeble hope which the Romanists
founded upon the circumstance that there were three representations, or "a schism
in the schism," as they termed it, vanished when these several documents were
examined, and it was seen that there was substantial agreement among them; that on
one point only did they differ,[3]
and that all were united in their repudiation and condemnation of Rome.
Moreover, powerful princes were passing from the Romanist to the Protestant side.
The Archbishop Hermann, Elector of Cologne, the Count Palatine Frederick, Duke Eric
of Brunswick-Luneburg, Duke Henry of Mecklenburg, and the Dukes of Pomerania were
gained to the truth, and their accession wellnigh doubled the political strength
of the Reformation.
These trophies of the power of the Confession were viewed as pledges of more numerous
conversions to be effected in time to come. Nor were these hopes disappointed. The
Confession was translated into most of the languages of Europe, and circulated in
the various countries; the misrepresentations and calumnies which had obscured and
distorted the cause were cleared away; and Protestantism began to be hailed as a
movement bringing with it renovation to the soul and new life to States.
It was the morning of the day following that on which the Confession had been read,
the 26th of June. The emperor had just awoke. He had slept badly, and was wearied
and irritable. The affair of yesterday recurred to his mind, and a feeling of melancholy
began to weigh upon him. He had made a bad beginning of the enterprise arranged between
himself and the Pope at Bologna. Lutheranism stood better in the eyes of the world,
and had more adherents around it now than when he entered Augsburg. He must bethink
him how he can correct his first false move. At that moment the count palatine, looking
as much out of sorts as his master, entered the imperial apartment. His eye caught
the anxious face of the emperor, and divining the cause of his uneasiness, "We
must," said he, "yield something to the Lutheran princes." A feeling
of relief to the mind of Charles accompanied these words; and the count went on to
say that it might not be ungraceful to make the concessions which the Emperor Maximilian
was willing to grant. "What were they?" inquired the monarch. "These
three: communion in both kinds, the marriage of priests, and freedom with regard
to fasts," rejoined the count palatine. The thing pleased Charles. It left untouched
the mass and the authority of the Church. It was a small sacrifice to prevent a great
evil.
In a little, while Granvelle and Campeggio arrived. They were told the counsel which
the count palatine had given, and which seemed good in the eyes of the emperor. It
was not equally good in the eyes of these Churchmen. At the conferences at Bologna,
Campeggio, as we have seen, had only one course to recommend, one remedy for all
the heresies of the day—the sword. He was of the same opinion at Augsburg as at Bologna.
Concession would only lead to greater concessions. "The counsel of the count
palatine was not good," said the cardinal, and Campeggio had the art to persuade
Charles to reject it.
Other arrivals soon followed, mainly ecclesiastics, who reinforced the legate in
the position he had taken up. "I stay with the mother," exclaimed the Bishop
of Wurzburg. "Spoken like a true and obedient son," said the courtier Brentz;
"but pray, my lord, do not, for the mother, forget either the father or the
son." "It is not the cure, but the physician who prescribes it, that I
dislike," said the Archbishop of Salzburg, who had been peculiarly bitter against
the Reformers. "I would oblige the laity with the cup, and the priests with
wives, and all with a little more liberty as regards meats, nor am I opposed to some
reformation of the mass; but that it should be a monk, a poor Augustine, who presumes
to reform us all, is what I cannot get over."[4] "Nor I," responded another bishop, "that a
little town should teach all the world; and that the ancient and orthodox waters
of Rome should be forsaken for the heretical and paltry stream that Wittenberg sends
forth, is not to be thought of." It was the old objection, "Can any good
thing come out of Nazareth?"
Of the men now assembling around Charles, some blamed themselves as well as the Lutherans.
The Bishop of Salzburg, whom we have just mentioned as more than ordinarily hostile
to the Reformation, was by no means blind to the degeneracy of Rome, and made a very
frank confession on that head one day to Melanchthon, who was insisting on a reformation
in the lives of the clergy. The archbishop could not help expressing his opinion
of the hopelessness of such a thing, not because it was not needed, but simply because
it was chimerical. "What," he exclaimed abruptly, "reform us?"
we priests have always been good for nothing." The archbishop was of opinion
that there was not left enough of backbone in the priesthood to stand the process.
The cure would certainly kill it. A Greater had pronounced the same judgment on the
corrupt priesthood of a former age. "If the salt have lost its savor, it is
fit neither for the land nor for the dunghill, but men cast it out and it is trodden
under foot."
Charles had got the Diet which he had summoned in so high hopes, and to which he
had come in such magnificent state, not doubting that he was advancing to a scene
of victory; he had got more: he had got the Lutheran Confession—not a confession
of trespass against their mother the Church, and a cry for the pardon of the Pope
and the emperor, which he had prepared himself to hear, but a bold justification
of all the doctrines the princes had professed, and all the steps they had taken—in
short, a flag of revolt unfurled at the very foot of the imperial throne. Before
punishing the offenses of nine years ago by executing the Edict of Worms, he must
deal with this new development of Lutheranism. If he should pass it over in silence,
on the pretext that it was an affair of dogmas merely, he would be visually tolerating
the Protestant faith, and must nevermore mention the Worms proscription. If, on the
other hand, he should call on the princes to retract, he must be prepared with something
like reasonable grounds for demanding their submission, and, if need were, extorting
it. He must steer between the Scylla of coercion and the Charybdis of toleration.
This was all as yet the Diet had done for him. It had brought him new perplexities—
more sleepless nights. It was mortifying to have to write to Clement VII. that the
project they had spent a winter together at Bologna in concocting was speeding so
ill—was, in fact, marching backwards.
Every hour was precious. Before sitting down to breakfast, steps had to be taken.
Of the two courses open to him—tolerate or coerce? —it was clear that the latter
was the one that must be taken in the last resort. But the emperor's edicts must
be backed by reasons; and now it was that Charles painfully felt his unskilfulness
in theology. Distracted rather than aided by the conflicting opinions and contrary
counsels of the men around him, he resolved to look a little into this matter for
himself, and for this end he ordered his secretary to prepare a French translation
of the Confession.
Two copies, as we have said, had been handed to Charles, the one in Latin and the
other in German; but he thought he could better see the theological bearings of Lutheranism
and the idiomatic beauties of Melanchthon in French than in either of the other two
languages. He required perfect accuracy of his secretary. "See," said he,
"that not a word be wanting."
The Lutheran princes who heard these words were pleased with the emperor's wish to
be well-informed in their cause; and took them as a sign that he leaned to their
side—a somewhat narrow foundation for so great a conclusion. The courtiers who knew
the emperor better, shook their heads when they learned that the Lutherans were reckoning
Charles among the converts of the eloquent document of Melanchthon. It had already
made some illustrious disciples among the lay princes; and one or two prince-bishops,
as Cologne and Augsburg, it had almost persuaded to be Lutherans; but the head that
wore the diadem was not to be numbered among those that were to bow to the force
of truth.
While the emperor is seated at the breakfast table, the ante-chamber begins to be
filled with a crowd of deputies. Who are they, and why are they here at this early
hour? They are the ambassadors from the imperial cities, and they are here by command
of the emperor. Before beginning his first lesson in Lutheran divinity, Charles will
try what can be done with the towns.
Free towns have in all ages been objects of special jealousy and dislike to despots.
The free cities of Germany were no exception to this rule. Charles viewed them with
suspicion and abhorrence. They were the great stumbling-blocks in his path to that
universal monarchy which it was his ambition to erect. But of the free imperial towns
fourteen had given special cause of displeasure to the emperor. They had refused
to submit to the Recess of the last Diet of Spires, that of 1529. The names of the
offending cities were Strasburg, Nuremberg, Constance, Ulm, Reutlingen, Heilbronn,
Memmingen, Lindau, Kempten, Windshelm, Isny, and Weissenberg. Their non-adherence
to the Recess of the Diet had created a split in the Empire.
An attempt must be made to heal the breach, and bring back the contumacious cities
before their evil example had been followed by the others. Their deputies were now
gathered, along with the rest, into the imperial ante-chamber. Frederick, count palatine,
was sent to them to say, "that in the last Diet of Spires (1529) a decree had
been made, which had been obeyed by most of the States, much to the emperor's satisfaction,
but that some of the cities had rejected it, to the weakening of the Empire, and
that Charles now called on them to submit to the Diet."[5]
Little had they expected, when they assembled that morning in the ante-chamber
of the monarch, to have a demand like this made upon them. The eloquent words of
Melanchthon were still ringing in their ears; they felt more convinced than ever,
after listening to his beautifully perspicuous and powerfully convincing exposition,
that their faith was founded on the Word of God, and that they could not abandon
it without peril to their souls; they had witnessed, only the day before, the elation
of their brethren at this triumphant vindication, and they had shared their feelings.
They had marked, too, the obvious perplexity into which the reading of the Confession
had thrown the Romanists, how troubled their faces, how uneasy their attitudes, how
significant the glances they exchanged with one another, and how frankly some of
them had confessed that Melanchthon's paper contained only the truth! A concession
or an overture of conciliation would not have surprised them; but that the minister
of Charles should on the morrow after this great triumph be the bearer of such a
demand from the emperor did beyond measure astonish them. They had won the field;
with them had remained the moral victory; but the vanquished suddenly put on the
air of a conqueror.
The Protestant cities were asked to submit to the edict of the Diet of 1529. Let
us see how much was involved in that demand. The Diet of 1529 abolished the toleration
of 1526. Not only so: it placed all arrest upon the Protestant movement, and enacted
that it should advance not a foot- breadth beyond the limits it had reached when
the Recess of the Diet was published. As regarded all who were already Protestants,
it graciously permitted them to remain so; but from this day forward, while Germany
stood, not a prince, not a city, not an individual could enrol his name in the Protestant
ranks or leave the Church of Rome, whatever his convictions or wishes might be. It
went further; it provided for the re-introduction of the mass, and the whole machinery
of Romanism, into Protestant provinces and cities. While it stringently forbade all
proselytising on the Protestant side, it gave unbounded licence to it on the Popish.
What could happen, under an arrangement of this sort, but that Protestantism should
wither and disappear? One could prognosticate the year, almost the very day, when
it would be extinct. It was at this hour, with the Augsburg Confession lying on the
emperor's table, that the free cities were asked to assist in arranging for the funeral
obsequies of Protestantism.
Nor does even this fully bring out the folly which Charles committed in making such
a demand, and the treason of which the free cities would have been guilty against
the truth and the world, had they yielded to it. The Recess of 1529 was the act that
had led them to send forth the great Protest from which they took their name. To
adhere to the Recess was to abandon their Protest—was to pull down their flag as
it floated before the eyes of all Christendom, a sign and promise to the nations
of a glorious redemption from a great slavery.
They had not thought much of the act at the time; but the more they pondered it,
the more they saw they had been led by a wisdom not their own to take up a position
that was one of the most comprehensive and sublime in all history. With their Protest
had come new liberties to the soul of man, and new rights and powers to human society.
Their Protest had deposited in Christendom the one everlasting corner-stone of freedom
and virtue—an emancipated conscience. But an emancipated conscience did not mean
a lawless conscience, or a conscience guided by itself. Above conscience their Protest
placed the Word of God—the light—the voice saying, "This is the way." Above
the Word they placed the Spirit that speaks in it. They gave to no man and no Church
the power of authoritatively interpreting the Scriptures; and they took care to guard
against the tyranny of which Scripture had been made the instrument in the hands
of infallible interpreters; for he who can interpret the law as he pleases, can make
the law to be what it suits him. Scripture alone, they said, can interpret Scripture.
Thus they proclaimed the supremacy of Scripture, not as a fetter on the understanding,
but a Divine bulwark around it. Above the Supremacy of Scripture they placed the
supremacy of the Spirit Who inspired it; and in doing so they reared another rampart
around the liberty of the understanding.
An emancipated conscience they committed to the guardianship of the Bible: and the
supremacy of the Bible they placed under the sovereignty of God. Thus they brought
conscience in immediate contact with her Lord, and human society they placed under
the rule of its rightful and righteous king.
The Protest of 1529 was thus a grand era of restoration and reconciliation. It restored
society to God. Rome had divorced the two. She had come in between God and society
by her assumed exclusive and infallible power of interpreting the Scriptures. She
made the law speak what she pleased, and thus for the government of God she had substituted
her own.
Protestantism came to reinstate the Divine government over the world. It did so by
placing the authority of Scripture above the chair of the Pope, and lifting the crown
of Christ above the throne of the emperor.
So grand a restoration could not be evolved in a day, or even in a century. But the
Protest of 1529 had all this in it. The stable basis, the majestic order, the ever-expanding
greatness and power of Protestant States lay all enfolded in its three mighty principles—Conscience,
the Scriptures, the Spirit—each in its order and subordination. This simple Protest
contained all, as the acorn contains the oak, or as the morning contains the noonday.
CHAPTER 25 Back
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ATTEMPTED REFUTATION OF THE CONFESSION.
What is to be done with the Confession?—Perplexity of the Romanists— The Confession
to be Refuted—Eck and Twenty Others chosen for this Work—Luther's Warnings—Melanchthon's
and Charles's Forecast— Wrestlings in the Coburg—The Fourteen Protestant Free Cities—
Refutation of the Confession —Vapid and Lengthy—Rejected by the Emperor—A Second
Attempt—The Emperor's Sister—Her Influence with Charles—The Play of the Masks.
"ADHERE to the Recess of 1529 and abandon your Protest," was the message
delivered from Charles to the ambassadors of the fourteen free cities, gathered in
the imperial ante-chamber on the morning of the 26th June, 1530. When we think that
that Protest meant a new age, which was bearing in with it Luther and the Protestant
princes and cities, instead of being borne in by them, how foolish does that demand
look, even when it comes from one who wore so many crowns, and had so numerous armies
at his command! The deputies made answer that in a matter of so great moment time
must be given them to deliberate. They retired, to return with their answer in writing
only on the 7th of July. While the cities are preparing their reply, another matter
calls for consideration. What is to be done with the Confession lying on the emperor's
table? and what steps are to be taken to bring over the Elector John and the other
Protestant princes?
We have seen the emperor dismiss the representatives of the Protestant cities with
an injunction to take counsel and bring him word how they meant to act in the matter
of the Decree of Spires, and whether they were prepared to abandon their Protest
of 1529. Scarcely have they left his presence when he summons a council of the Popish
members of the Diet. They have been called together to give advice respecting another
matter that claims urgent attention from the emperor. The Confession of the Protestant
princes is lying on his table; what is to be done with it?
Lutheranism is not at Wittenberg only: it is here, in the Palatinate Palace of Augburg,
protesting with eloquent voice against the tyranny that would suppress it, crying
aloud before the Diet, as by-and-by, if not silenced, it will cry before all Christendom,
that Rome has corrupted the faith, and is become apostate. "What shall we do?"
asked the emperor, of the princes and bishops now gathered round him, "how shall
we dispose of this document?"
The emperor's interrogatory was the signal for the expression of a number of contrary
opinions. It was not wise guidance, but distraction and embarrassment, that Charles
found in the multitude of his counsellors. There were three distinct parties in the
body around him. "We shall not," said one party," chop logic with
our opponents; while we are entangled in a theological labyrinth, they may escape.
We have but one course to pursue, namely, to execute the Edict of Worms."[1] Another party, better
acquainted with the secret wishes of Charles, said, "Let us refer the matter
to the decision of the emperor." There came yet a third, formed of those who
were somewhat vain of their traditional lore, and not unwilling to show it. "Let
a few doctors," said they, "be appointed to write a Refutation of the Lutheran
Confession, which may be read to the princes, and ratified by the emperor."
It was not the bishops who urged the emperor to extreme and violent courses. They
rather, on the whole, employed their influence to check the sanguinary zeal of others.
"I cannot advise his majesty to employ force," said Albert of Mainz, but
the reason he assigned for his temperate counsels somewhat detracts from their generosity,
"lest when the emperor retires the Lutherans retaliate upon the priests, and
the Turk come in, in the end of the day, and reap with his scimitar what the Lutheran
sword may have left." The Bishop of Augsburg drew upon himself the suspicion
of a heretic in disguise by the lengths he was willing to go in conciliating the
Protestants. The Sacraments in both kinds, and the marriage of the priests, he was
prepared to concede; even more, were it necessary— pointing evidently to private
masses. "Masses!" exclaimed some; "abolish masses! why not say at
once the kitchens of the cardinals?" All the ecclesiastics, however, were not
so conciliatory. The Archbishop of Salzburg said tartly, "The Lutherans have
laid before us a Confession written with black ink on white paper. Well, if I were
emperor, I would answer them with red ink." [2]
Some of the lay princes were the most fanatical and fiery in the council.
George of Saxony and Joachim of Brandenburg outdid the most violent of the priests.
The former hated Luther with a fervor that seemed to increase with his years, and
the latter was known as a hare-brained fool, whom the mere mention of the word "Lutheran"
sufficed to kindle into a rage. These two nobles pressed forward and gave their voices
for war. Argument was tedious and uncertain, they urged, especially with sophists
like those of Wittenberg; the sword was summary and much more to be relied upon.
There was present a certain Count Felix of Verdenberg, whom the word war seemed to
electrify. Scenting the battle from afar, he started up, and said, "If there
is to be fighting against the Lutherans, I offer my sword, and I swear not to return
it to its scabbard till the stronghold of Luther has been laid in the dust."
Count Felix doubtless would have backed these valorous words by not less valorous
deeds but for the circumstance that, regaling himself with too copious draughts from
the wine-flagon, he died a few days thereafter. It was the fanatical men who carried
it in the council. Even the proposal of the middle party was rejected, which was
to leave the matter to the adjudication of the emperor. That implied, the extreme
men argued, that there were two parties and two causes. This was to misapprehend
the matter wholly, said they. There was but one party—the Empire—and but one cause;
for that of the Lutherans was rebellion, and to be dealt with only by the sword.
But before unsheathing the sword, they would first make trial with the pen. They
would employ violence with all the better grace afterwards. They agreed that a Refutation
of the Confession should be drawn up.
Of course the theologians of the party were the men who were looked to, to undertake
this task—an impossible one if the Bible was to count for anything, but at Augsburg
the Bible had about as little standing as the Confession. Most of the Popish princes
had brought their divines and learned men with them to the Diet. "Some,"
said Jonas, "have brought their ignoramuses." Cochlaeus, Jonas ranks in
this class. Faber and Eck held a better position, being men of some learning, though
only of second-rate ability, if so much. There was but one man of surpassing talent
and scholarship outside the Protestant pale, Erasmus, and he was not at Augsburg.
He had been invited by both proxies, but their solicitations failed to woo him from
his retreat at Basle. The great scholar sent characteristic excuses of absence to
both. To the Protestants he wrote, "Ten councils could not unravel the deep
plot of your tragedy, much less could I. If any one starts a proposition that has
common sense on its side, it is at once set down as Lutheranism." But, changing
his tactics when he addressed himself to the other side, he found for the Romanists
a few pleasant words at the expense of the Lutherans. What a memorable example is
Erasmus of the difference between the Renaissance and the Reformation—the revival
of letters and the revival of principles!
But the Confession must be refuted, and for the preparation of such a work Rome can
employ only such theologians as she possesses. Faber, who haa been promoted to the
Archbishopric of Vienna; Eck, the opponent and vituperator of Luther; Cochlaeus,
the Archdeacon of Frankfort, with seventeen others, mostly Dominican monks, twenty
in all, were told off to write an answer to the Confession of the Protestant princes.
These were all extreme Romanists. It was clear what sort of instrument would issue
from such a workshop. That these men would make any attempt to meet the views of
the Lutherans, or that they would look candidly at the reasonings of Melanchthon,
and grapple seriously with them, much less overturn them, was what no one expected.
Campeggio is believed to have been the man who gave in this list of names; but no
one knew better than himself the utter futility of what he was setting his nominees
to do. The decided character of the committee was a virtual declaration that there
was to be no concession, and that Rome was meditating no surrender. Those who feared
conciliation were now able to dismiss their fears, and those who wished for it were
compelled to lay aside their vain hopes. "Doctor," inquired the Duke of
Bavaria, addressing Eck, "can you confute that paper out of the Bible?"
"No," replied he, "but it may be easily done from the Fathers and
Councils." "I understand," rejoined the duke, "I understand;
the Lutherans are in Scripture, and we are outside."[3] The worthy Chancellor of Ingolstadt was of the same opinion
with another of his co-religionists, that nothing is to be made of Protestants so
long as they remain within the castle of the Bible; but bring them from their stronghold
down into the level plain of tradition, and nothing is easier than to conquer them.
The clear eye of Luther saw what was coming. He knew that it was not in Dr. Eck,
and the whole cohort of his coadjutors to boot, to refute the Confession of Melanchthon,
and that there wasbut one alternative, namely, that the strong sword of Charles should
come in to repress what logic could not confute. "You are waiting for your adversaries'
answer," wrote he to his friends at Augsburg; "it is already written, and
here it is: The Fathers, the Fathers, the Fathers; the Church, the Church, the Church;
usage, custom; but of the Scriptures—nothing.[4] Then the emperor, supported by the testimony of these arbiters,
will pronounce against you; and then will you hear boastings on all sides that will
ascend up to heaven, and threatenings that will descend even to hell."
The same issue was now shaping itself to the eye of other two men— Melanchthon and
the Emperor Charles. But though all three—Luther, Melanchthon, and Charles—had arrived
at this conclusion, they had arrived at it by different roads. Luther in the Coburg,
like the astronomer in his watchtower, with eyes uplifted from earth and fixed on
heaven, deduced the future course of affairs from the known laws of the Divine government,
and the known facts of the Protestant and Popish systems.
Melanchthon came to his conclusion to a large extent by sense. At Augsburg he had
a close view of the parties arrayed against him; he heard their daily threats, and
knew the intrigues at work around him, and felt that they could have only a violent
end. The emperor divined the denuament on grounds peculiar to himself. He had sounded
Luther as to whether he was willing to abide by his decision of the question. The
Reformer replied through the Elector John: "If the emperor wish it, let him
be judge. But let him decide nothing contrary to the Word of God. Your highness cannot
put the emperor above God Himself.[5]
This was Luther's way of saying that in spiritual things the State possessed
no jurisdiction. This swept away a hope to which till now the emperor had clung—that
the matter would be left to his arbitration. This he saw could not now be. On the
other hand, the extreme party among the Romanists were the majority at Augsburg.
They were ruling in the Diet; they were ruling at Rome also; and they would no more
leave the final determination of the question in the hands of Charles than the Protestants
would. To the emperor nothing would remain but the by no means enviable and dignified
task of executing the resolve on which he saw the fanatical advisers of the Papacy
were determined to precipitate the controversy—namely, the employment of force.
This forecast of the issue on the part of all three affected each of them very differently.
Melanchthon it almost overwhelmed in despair; Charles it stung into a morose and
gloomy determination to avenge himself on a cause which had thrust itself into the
midst of his great projects to thwart and vex him; Luther, on the other hand, it
inspired with courage, we might say with defiance, if we can so characterise that
scornful yet holy disdain in which he held all who were warring against Protestantism,
from Charles down to Dr. Eck and Cochlaeus. As regards Luther and Melanchthon, the
difference between them was this: Melanchthon thought that the sword of the emperor
would kill the cause, Luther knew that it would kill only its adherents, and through
their death give life to the cause. The cause was God's: of this he had the firmest
possible conviction. That surely meant victory. If not, it came to this, that the
King of Heaven could do only what the King of Spain permitted Him to do; and that
Christ must go forward or must turn back, must uphold this cause and abandon that,
as the emperor willed—in other words, that Charles and not God was the ruler of the
world.
We are compelled to ask, when we see the courageous man shut up in the Coburg, and
the timid and trembling one sent into the field, was this the best arrangement? Was
the right man in the right place? The arrangement we would have made would have been
exactly the reverse. We would have sent the strong man to fight the battle, and withdrawn
the weak and feeble one into the retreat of the Coburg, there to commune and to pray.
But in this, as in other instances, we are taught that God's ways are not as our
ways, nor His thoughts as our thoughts. The actual arrangement was the best. It was
the strong man that was needed to pray; it was the weak one that was fitted to receive
and act upon the answer. It is only the prayer of faith that prevails, and it is
only to a great faith that great blessings are given. Melanchthon, therefore, would
have been out of place in the Coburg, but his weakness in the field illustrated the
power of his Master, and showed who was doing the work. Besides, the lengths he was
willing to go to meet the Papists—and he went much further than Luther would have
done—only the more manifestly put Rome in the wrong, and left the blame of the final
rupture with her.
But if Luther with uplifted hands drew down daily strength from the skies, as the
conductor draws down the electric fire from the clouds, it was to send on the Divine
influence, which descended from above, to those who had so much need of it at Augsburg.
Faith begets faith, and Luther became as God to Melanchthon and the men around him.
Let us enter the Coburg.
The voice as of a man in a great agony falls on our ear. He groans, he cries; he
cries yet more earnestly. Whose voice is it? Listen. It is Luther's. We need not
enter his chamber; we can distinctly hear every word where we stand outside his closet
door in the corridor. "I have once heard him praying," wrote Veit Dietrich,
a friend, who at times visited the Reformer in the castle, "communing with God
as a Father and Friend, and reminding Him of His own promises from the Psalms, which
he was certain would be made good—'I know, O God, Thou art our dear God and Father:
therefore am I certain that Thou wilt destroy the persecutors of Thy Church. If Thou
dost not destroy them, Thou art in like danger with us. It is Thy own cause. The
enemies of the cross of Christ assault us. It appertains to Thee and the honor of
Thy name to protect Thy confessors at Augsburg.
Thou hast promised, Thou wilt do it; for Thou hast done it from the beginning. Let
Thine help shine forth in this extremity.'"
The prayer has gone up; it has knocked at the gates of the eternal temple; it has
unlocked the fountains of God's power; and now an air celestial fills the chamber
of the Coburg, and a Divine strength is infused into the soul of its inmate. What
Luther has freely received he freely gives to others. He sends it onward to Augsburg
thus:—"What is the meaning," writes he to Melanchthon, "of fearing,
trembling, caring, and sorrowing? Will He not be with us in this world's trifles
who has given us His own Son? In private troubles I am weak, and you are strong—if,
at least, I can call private the conflicts I have with Satan—but in public trials
I am what you are in private. The cause is just and true—it is Christ's cause. Miserable
saintling that I am! I may well turn pale and tremble for myself, but I can never
fear for the cause." "I pray, have prayed, and shall pray for thee, Philip,"
he wrote in another letter, "and I have felt the Amen in my heart." "Our
Lord Jesus Christ," he wrote to Jonas, "is King of kings and Lord of lords.
If He disown the title at Augsburg, He must disown it in heaven and earth. Amen."[6]
So did the battle proceed on the two sides. Wiles, frowns, threats, with the
sword as the last resort, are seen on the one side—prayers, tears, and faith on the
other. The Emperor Charles, the legate Campeggio, and the Popish theologians at Augsburg
saw only Melanchthon. They beheld him dejected, bending under a load of anxieties,
and coming to them each day with a new concession or explanation, if haply it might
end the battle. The adversary with whom they were all the while contending, however,
was one they saw not—one who was out of their reach—the man of prayer in the Coburg,
or rather the God-man at the right hand of Power in heaven— the Ancient of Days.
We have seen the emperor send away two commissions, with instructions to each to
deliberate on the matter referred to it, and return on a future day with the answer.
They are here, in the presence of the emperor, to give in their report. First come
the representatives of the fourteen cities which had refused adherence to the Edict
of Spires, 1529. Of these cities some were of Zwingli's sentiments on the Sacrament,
while others agreed with the Augsburg Confession. This difference of opinion had
introduced the wedge of discord, and had raised the hopes of the emperor. Nevertheless,
in the presence of the common foe, they were united and firm. They replied to Charles
"that they were not less desirous than their ancestors had been to testify all
loyalty and obedience to his imperial majesty, but that they could not adhere to
the Recess of Spires without disobeying God, and compromising the salvation of their
souls."[7]
Thus the hope vanished which the emperor had cherished of detaching the cities
from the princes, and so weakening the Protestant front.
The next body to appear at the foot of the emperor's throne, with an account of their
labors, were the twenty theologians to whom had been entrusted the important matter
of preparing an answer to the Protestant Confession. They had gone to work with a
will, meeting twice a day; and we can do justice to their zeal only when we reflect
that it was now on the eve of the dog-days. Eck and his company showed themselves
experts at producing what they understood to be wanted, a condemnation rather than
a refutation. Eck had declared beforehand that the latter could not be forthcoming
if Scripture were allowed a hearing. This very considerably simplified and lightened
the task, and in a fortnight Eck and his coadjutors gave in a document of not less
than 280 pages. In point of bulk this performance might have sufficed to refute not
one but a dozen such Confessions as that of Augsburg. Charles surveyed the ponderous
Refutation with dismay. He appeared to divine that it would only fortify that which
it was meant to overthrow, and overthrow that which it was intended to fortify. It
did not improve on closer acquaintance. It was vapid as well as bulky. It was pointless
as a "Refutation," and vigorous only in its abuse. Its call for "blood"
was unmistakable.[8]
Charles saw that it would never do to give the world an opportunity of contrasting
the lumbering periods and sanguinary logic of Eck, with the terse and perspicuous
style and lofty sentiments of Melanchthon. Her worst foe could not do Rome a more
unkindly act, or Wittenberg a greater service, than to publish such a document. Another
Refutation must be prepared; yet even this inspired but little hope, for to whom
could the emperor commit the task, except to the old hands? Letters, too, alas! were
going over to the side of Wittenberg; and soon nothing would remain with Rome but
one thing—the sword.
But the Reformation was not yet able to endure persecution, and meanwhile friends
of the Gospel were placed one after another near Charles, to pluck away his hand
when it was laid on his sword's hilt, with intent to unsheathe and use it against
the Gospel. He had buried Gattinara, the friend of toleration, at Innspruck. This
left the legate Campeggio without a rival in the imperial councils. But only three
days after the reading of the Confession two ladies of high rank came to Augsburg,
whose quiet but powerful influence restored the balance broken by the death of Gattinara.
The one was Maw, the sister of the emperor, and widow of Louis, King of Hungary;
the other was her sisterin-law, the Queen of Bohemia, and wife of Ferdinand of Austria.
The study of the Scriptures had opened in both the way to peace. Their hearts had
been won for the Gospel, and when Campeggio approached to instil his evil counsel
into the ear of the emperor, these two ladies were able, by a word fitly spoken,
to neutralise its effects upon the mind of their brother, and draw him back from
the paths of violence to which, at the instigation of the legate, he seemed about
to commit himself.[9]
In those days truth could sometimes be spoken to princes, in a figure when it dared
not be told them in plain language. One day, during his stay in Augsburg, as Charles
sat at dinner with his lords, a message was brought to him that some comedians wished
to amuse him and his guests. Instant permission was given, for the request was in
accordance with the manners of the age, and excited no suspicion. First an old man,
in a doctor's gown, tottered across the floor, carrying a burden of sticks, some
long, some short. Throwing down the sticks on the hearth in confusion, he turned
to retire. On his back, now displayed to the courtiers, was the name—JOHN REUCHLIN.
A second mask now entered, also attired as a doctor. He went up to the hearth, and
began deftly arranging the sticks. He worked assiduously for a little while, but,
despite his pains, the long and short, the crooked and the straight, would not pair;
so, giving up his task, with a sardonic smile on his countenance, he made his exit.
Charles and his lords, as he walked out, read on his back—ERASMUS OF ROTTERDAM. The
comedy was beginning to have interest. A third now entered: this time it was a monk,
in the frock and cowl of the Augustines. With keen eye and firm step he crossed the
hall, bearing a brazier filled with live coals. He raked the sticks together, not
waiting to sort them, put a coal underneath the heap, blew it up, and soon a blazing
fire was roaring on the hearth. As he withdrew he showed on his back—MARTIN LUTHER.
The plot was thickening.
A fourth appeared—a stately personage, covered with the insignia of empire. He gazes
with displeasure at the fire. He draws his sword, and plunges it in amongst the burning
faggots; the more they are stirred the more fiercely they blaze. He strikes again
and again; the flame mounts higher, and the red sparks fall thicker around. It is
plain that he is feeding, not quenching, the fire. The mask turns and strides across
the hall in great anger He has no name, nor is it necessary; every one divines it,
though no one utters it.
Yet another—a fifth! He comes forward with solemn and portly air. His robes, which
are of great magnificence, are priestly. He wears a triple crown on his head, and
the keys of St. Peter are suspended from his girdle. On seeing the fire this great
personage is seized with sudden anguish, and wrings his hands. He looks round for
something with which to extinguish it. He espies at the farther end of the hall two
vessels, one containing water and the other oil. He rushes eagerly to get hold of
the one containing the water; in his hurry he clutches the wrong vessel, that filled
with the oil, and empties it on the fire [10]
The fire blazes up with a fury that singes his priestly robe, and compels
its unfortunate wearer to escape for his safety. The comedy is at an end.
The authors of this play never came forward to receive the praise due to their ingenuity,
or to claim the pecuniary reward usually forth-coming on such occasions. They doubtless
held it would be reward enough if the emperor profited by its moral. "Let thy
gifts be to thyself," said the prophet, when he read the writing on the wall
of the king's palace. So said the men who now interpreted in the Palatinate Palace
of Augsburg the fate of the Empire and the Papacy.[11]
CHAPTER 26 Back
to Top
END OF THE DIET OF AUGSBURG.
Diplomacy—The Protestant Princes—John the Steadfast—Bribes and Threatenings—Second
Refutation of the Confession—Submission Demanded from the Protestants—They Refuse—Luther's
Faith— Romanists resume Negotiations—Melancthon's Concessions— Melancthon's Fall—All
Hopes of Reconciliation Abandoned—Recess of the Diet—Mortification and Defeat of
the Emperor.
CHARLES V. laughed at the humor of the comedy, but did not ponder the wisdom of
its moral. He went on poking amongst the red faggots, first with diplomacy and next
with the sword, but with no other result than that which the nameless authors of
the piece acted in the Palace of the Palatinate had warned him would ensue, that
of kindling a fire on the wide hearth of Europe, which would in the end not merely
singe the hem of the Pontifical robe and the fringe of the Imperial mantle, but would
consume the body of both Empire and Papacy.
The emperor had endeavored to introduce the thin end of the wedge, which he hoped
would split up the Protestant free cities: an attempt, however, which came to nothing.
The Lutheran princes were to be next essayed. They were taken one by one, in the
hope that they would be found less firm when single than they were when taken together.
Great offers—loftier titles, larger territories, more consideration—were made to
them, would they but return to the Church.[1]
When bribes failed to seduce them, threats were had recourse to. They were
given to understand that, stripped of title and territory, they would be turned adrift
upon the world as poor as the meanest of their subjects. They were reminded that
their religion was a new one; that their adherence to it branded all their ancestors
as heretics; that they were a minority in the Empire; and that it was madness in
them to defy the power and provoke the ire of the emperor. Neither were threats able
to bend them to submission. They had come to the Diet of 1526 with the words written
upon their shields, Verbum Domini manet in eternum—the word of the Lord endureth
for ever—and, steadfast to their motto, their faith taught them not to fear the wrath
of the powerful Charles. No efforts were spared to compel the Elector John to bow
the neck. If he should yield, the strength of the confederacy would be broken—so
it was thought—and the emperor would make short work with the theologians. Why the
latter should be so obstinate the emperor could not imagine, unless it were that
they stood behind the broad shield of the elector. Charles sent for John, and endeavored
to shake him by promises.
When it was found that these could not detach him from the Protestant Confession,
the emperor strove to terrify him by threats. He would take from him his electoral
hat; he would chase him from his dominions; he would let loose against him the whole
power of the Empire, and crush him as a potsherd. John saw himself standing on the
brink of an abyss. He must make his choice between his crown and his Savior. Melancthon
and all the divines conjured the elector not to think of them. They were ready that
moment to endure any manner of death the emperor might decree against them, if that
would appease his wrath. The elector refused to profit by this magnanimous purpose
of self-devotion. He replied with equal magnanimity to the theologians that "he
also must confess his Lord." He went back to the emperor, and calmly announced
his resolution by saying that "he had to crave of his majesty that he would
permit him and his to render an account to God in those matters that concerned the
salvation of their souls." John risked all; but in the end he retained all,
and amply vindicated his title to the epithet given him—"John the Constant."
After six weeks, the tlqo—Faber, Eck, and Cochlaeus—produced, with much hard labor
and strain of mind, another Refutation of the Confession, or rather the former remodelled
and abbreviated. Charles could show no less honor to the work of his doctors than
had been shown to the Confession of Melancthon. On the 3rd September he sat down
upon his throne, and calling his princes round him, commanded the Refutation to be
read in their presence. In those doctrines which are common to both creeds, such
as the Trinity and the Divinity of Christ, the Refutation agreed with the Confession.
It also made an admission which would, but for the statement that followed, and which
largely neutralised it, have been a most important one, namely, that faith is necessary
in the Sacrament.[2]
But it went on to affirm that man is born with the power of performing good
works, and that these works co-operate with faith in the justification of the sinner:
thus rearing again the old fabric of salvation by works, which the former admission
respecting the necessity of faith appeared to have thrown down. On another vital
point the Refutation and the Confession were found to be in direct and fatal antagonism.
Eck and his colleagues maintained the Divine authority of the hierarchy, and of course
the correlative duty of absolute submission to it; the Protestants acknowledged no
infallible rule on earth but the Scriptures. The two Churches, after very laborious
effort on both sides, had come as near to each other as it appeared possible to come;
but neither could conceal from itself the fact that there was still a gulf between
them—an impassable gulf, for neither could pass to the other without ceasing to be
what it had hitherto been. Should the Papacy pass over, it left ten centuries behind
it; the moment it touched the Wittenberg shore it threw off its allegianco to Councils
and traditions, and became the subject of another power. Should Protestantism pass
over, it left the Bible behind it, and submitting to the old yoke of the Seven Hills,
confessed that the Wittenberg movement had been a rebellion.
When the reading was finished the emperor addressed the elector and the other Protestant
princes to the effect that, seeing their Confession had now been refuted, it was
their duty to restore peace to the Church, and unity to the Empire, by returning
to the Roman obedience. He demanded, in fine, consent to the articles now read, under
pain of the ban of the Empire.
The Protestant princes were not a little surprised at the emperor's Peremptoriness.
They were told that they had been refuted, but unless they should be pleased to take
the emperor's word for it, they had no proof or evidence that they had been so. Their
own understandings did not tell them so. The paper now read had assented to some
of the articles of their Confession, it had dissented from a good many others, but
as to confuting even one of them, this, to the best of their judgment, it had not
done; and as they knew of no power possessed by the emperor of changing bad logic
into good, or of transforming folly into wisdom, the Protestant princes—a copy of
the Refutation having been denied them intimated to Charles that they still stood
by their Confession.
The design for which the Diet had been summoned was manifestly miscarrying. Every
day the Protestants were displaying fresh courage, and every day their cause was
acquiring moral strength. In the same proportion did the chagrin, anger, and perplexities
of the Romanists increase. Every new movement landed them in deeper difficulties.
For the emperor to fulminate threats which those against whom they were directed
openly defied, and which the man who uttered them dared not carry into execution,
by no means tended to enhance the imperial dignity. The unhappy Charles was at his
wit's end; he knew not how to hide his mortification and discomfiture; and, to complete
the imbroglio, an edict arrived from a consistory of cardinals held at Rome, 6th
July, 1530, disallowing and forbidding the ultimatum of the Protestants as "opposed
to the religion and prejudicial to the discipline and government of the Church."
[3]
Ere this an event had taken place which helped to expedite the business. On
the night of Saturday, the 6th of August, Philip of Hesse made his escape from Augsburg.
Amid the cajoleries and threatenings of the Diet he was firm as a rock amid the waves,
but he saw no purpose to be served by longer attendance at the Assembly. Chafed by
continual delays, indignant at the dissimulations of the Papists, tempted today by
brilliant offers from the emperor, and assailed tomorrow by as terrible threats;
moreover looked askance upon by the Lutheran princes, from his known leaning to Zwingli
on the question of the Lord's Supper—thoroughly wearied out from all these causes,
he resolved on quitting the city. He had asked leave of the emperor, but was refused
it. Donning a disguise, he slipped out at the gate at dusk, and, attended by a few
horsemen, rode away. Desirous of preventing his flight, the emperor gave orders over-night
to have the gates watched, but before the guards had taken their posts the landgrave
was gone, and was now many leagues distant from Augsburg.
All was consternation at the court of the emperor when the flight of the landgrave
became known next morning. The Romanists saw him, in imagination, returning at the
head of an army. They pictured to themselves the other Protestant princes making
their escape and sounding the tocsin of war. All was alarm, and terror, and rage
in the Popish camp. The emperor was not yet prepared for hostilities; he shrunk back
from the extremity to which he had been forcing matters, and from that day his bearing
was less haughty and his language less threatening to the Protestants.
Luther, apart in his Castle of Coburg, was full of courage and joy. He was kept informed
of the progress of affairs at Augsburg, and of the alternate fears and hopes that
agitated his friends. Like the traveler in the Alps, who sees the clouds at his feet
and hears the thunder rolling far beneath him, while around him is eternal sunshine,
the Reformer, his feet planted on the mountain of God's power, looked down upon the
clouds that hung so heavily above his friends in Augsburg, and heard far beneath
the mutterings of imperial wrath; but neither could the one darken the sunshine of
his peace, nor the other shake his confidence in that throne to which, in faith and
prayer, his eyes were continually uplifted. His letters at this time show a singular
elevation of faith, and a corresponding assurance of victory. To take an instance,
"I beheld," says he, writing to his friends, "thick clouds hanging
above us like a vast sea; I could neither perceive ground on which they reposed,
nor cords by which they were suspended; and yet they did not fall upon us, but saluted
us rapidly and passeel away." Emperors and armies, and all the array of earthly
power, what are they? black vapors, which seem charged with tempest and destruction,
but, just as they are about to burst, they are driven away by the breath of the Almighty,
as clouds are driven before the wind. But fully to realize this we must mount to
Luther's elevation. We must stand where we have the cloud beneath, not above us.
Meanwhile in the Diet promises had been tried and failed; threats had been tried
and failed; negotiations were again opened, and now the cause had wellnigh been wrecked.
Luther lived above the cloud, but unhappily Melancthon, who had to sustain the chief
part in the negotiations, lived beneath it, and, not seeing the cords that held it
up, and imagining that it was about to fall, was on the point of surrendering the
whole cause to Rome. During the slow incubation of the Refutation, seven men were
chosen (13th August) on each side, to meet in conference and essay the work of conciliation.[4] They made rapid progress
up to a certain point; but the moment they touched the essentials of either faith,
they were conclusively stopped. The expedient was tried of reducing the commission
to three on each side, in the hope that with fewer members there would be fewer differences.
The chief on the Protestant side was Melancthon, of whom Pallavicino says that "he
had a disposition not perverse, although perverted, and was by nature as desirous
of peace as Luther was of contention."[5]
Well did Melancthon merit this compliment from the pen of the Catholic historian.
For the sake of peace he all but sacrificed himself, his colleagues, and the work
on which he had spent so many years of labor and prayer. His concessions to the Romanists
in the Commission were extraordinary indeed. He was willing to agree with them in
matters of ceremony, rites, and feasts. In other and more important points, such
as the mass, and justification by faith, findings were come to in which both sides
acquiesced, being capable of a double interpretation. The Papists saw that they had
only to bide their time to be able to put their own construction on these articles,
when all would be right. As regarded the marriage of priests, communion in both kinds,
and some similar matters, the Romanists agreed to allow these till the meeting of
the next General Council. Touching the government of the Church, Melancthon, and
his colleagues in the Commission, were willing to submit to the restored jurisdiction
of the bishops, and to acknowledge the Pope as Head of the Church, by human right.
There was not much behind to surrender; a concord on this basis would have been the
burial of the Reformation.
Melancthon, in fact, was building unconsciously a sepulcher in which to entomb it.
The lay Christians in Augsburg felt as if they were witnessing its obsequies.[6] Consternation and grief took possession of the Swiss Protestants.
"They are preparing their return to Rome," said Zwingli. Luther was startled
and confounded. He read the proposed concessions, took his pen and wrote forthwith
to Augsburg as follows:—
"I learn that you have begun a marvellous work, namely, to reconcile Luther
and the Pope; but the Pope will not be reconciled, and Luther begs to be excused.
And if in despite of them you succeed in this affair, then, after your example, I
will bring together Christ and Belial."[7]
This, one would think, should have torn the bandage from the eyes of Melancthon,
and revealed to him the abyss towards which he was advancing. He was not to be counselled
even by Luther. His patience was fretted, his temper soured, he began to brow-beat
his colleagues, and was about to consummate his work of conciliation as he termed
it, but in reality of surrender, when deliverance came from another quarter.
Smitten with madness in their turn the Romanists drew back when on the very point
of grasping the victory. The matter in dispute between the two parties had been reduced
to three points nominally, really to one—Does man merit by his good works? The Protestants
maintained the negative, and the Papists the affirmative, on this point. The first
briefly sums up the Protestant theology; the last is the corner-stone of the Roman
faith.
Neither party would yield, and the conferences were broken off.[8] Thus Rome lost the victory, which would in the end have fallen
to her, had she made peace on the basis of Melancthon's concessions. Her pride saved
the German Reformation.
It now remained only for the emperor to draw up the Recess of the Diet. The edict
was promulgated on the 22nd September, and was to the following effect:—That the
Protestant princes should be allowed till the 15th April next to reconcile themselves
to the Pope and to the rest of Christendom, and that meanwhile they should permit
in their dominions no innovations in religion, no circulation of Protestant books,
and no attempts at proselytism, and that they should assist the emperor in reducing
the Anabaptists and Zwinglians.[9]
This edict Charles would have enforced at once with the sword, but the spirit
displayed by the Protestant princes, the attitude assumed by the Turk, and the state
of the emperor's relations with the other sovereigns of Europe put war out of his
power; and the consequence was that the monarch who three months before had made
his entry into Augsburg with so much pomp, and in so high hopes of making all things
and parties bend to his will, retired from it full of mortification and chagrin,
disappointed in all his plans, and obliged to conceal his discomfiture under a show
of moderation and leniency.
CHAPTER 27 Back
to Top
A RETROSPECT—1517-1530—PROGRESS.
Glance back—The Path continually Progressive—The Gains Of Thirteen Years—Provinces
and Cities Evangelised in Germany—Day Breaking in other Countries—German Bible—German
Church—A Saxon Paradise—Political Movements—Their Subordination to Protestantism—Wittenberg
the Center of the Drama—Charles V. and his Campaigns—Attempts to Enforce the Edict
of Worms—Their Results— All these Attempts work in the Opposite Direction—Onward
March of Protestantism—Downward Course of every Opposing Interest— Protestantism
as distinguished from Primitive Christianity—The Two Bibles.
BEFORE the curtain rises on a new development of the great drama, let us pause,
and cast a glance back on the track over which we have passed. The few moments we
may spend in this retrospect will amply repay us by disclosing, more clearly perhaps
than we saw them while we were narrating them, the successive and ascending stages
of the movement. It may well amaze us to think how short our journey has been, measured
by the time it has occupied; yet how long it is, measured by the progress which has
been made. It was but yesterday that the monk's hammer awakened the echoes of the
streets of Wittenberg, and now it seems as if centuries had rolled away since that
day, and brought with them the new world in which we find ourselves. On ordinary
occasions, many years, it may be ages, must pass before an idea can establish for
itself a universal dominion in the minds of men. Hardly has Luther uttered his great
idea when, like the light, it breaks out on the right hand and on the left, and shines
from one end of heaven even unto the other.
How notable, too, the circumstance that our journey has been a continually progressive
one! Steps backward there have been none. The point reached today has ever been in
advance of that arrived at on the day before. How wonderful is this when we think
that no one had marked out the Church's path from her house of bondage to a land
of liberty! And still more wonderful is it when we reflect that those who were the
first to tread that path often found their wisdom at fault. Ever and anon their courage
failed and their faith faltered; and never were more than a few steps of their road
visible at one time. All beyond lay hid in night, overhung by lowering clouds that
seenled charged with thunder. But ever as the little Wittenberg band went forward,
the cloud removed and stood further off. One, unseen but mighty,walked before them.
And if at times the clouds returned, and the storm threatened to burst, they heard
a sublime Voice speaking to them out of the darkness and saying, "When thou
passest through the waters I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall
not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burned: neither
shall the flame kindle upon thee."[1]
Of these thirteen fruitful years between the 31st October, 1517, when Luther
posted up his Theses, and the 25th June, 1530, when the Augsburg Confession was read
in presence of the emperor, how surprising the gains when we come to reckon them
up! Electoral Saxony is Reformed, and its sovereign is seen marching in the van of
the Reforming princes. Hesse is evangelised, and its magnanimous landgrave has placed
himself by the side of the elector as his companion in arms in the great battle of
Protestantism. In Franconia, Silesia, East Friesland, Prussia, Brunswick, Luneburg,
and Anhalt the light is spreading. The Gospel has been welcomed in the free towns
of Nuremberg, Ulm, Augsburg, Strasburg, Lubeck, Bremen, Hamburg, and many others,
bringing with it a second morning to the arts, the commerce, and the liberties of
these influential communities. Every day princes, counts, and free cities press forward
to enroll themselves in the Protestant host and serve under the Protestant banner;
and in many cases where the ruler remains on the side of Rome, a not inconsiderable
portion of his subjects have forsaken the old faith and embraced the Reformation.
Wider still does the light spread. It breaks out on all sides. The skies of Bohemia,
Moravia, and Hungary have brightened anew— and already in these countries have been
laid the foundations of a powerful Protestant Church, destined, alas! to sink all
too soon under the gathering tempests of persecution. In Denmark and Sweden the Reformation
is marching on to its establishment. The Protestant standard has been planted on
the shores of Zurich, and the neighboring cantons are rallying round it. The Alps
brighten from one hour to another, and the radiance with which they glow is reflected
on the plains of Northern Italy. In France, at the court of Francis I., and in the
Sorbonne, so jealous of its fame for orthodoxy, there are men who are not ashamed
to confess that they have bowed to the authority of the Gospel, and consecrated their
lives to its service. In England the Lollard movement, which appeared to have gone
to sleep with the ashes of its martyrs, is awakening from slumber, and girding itself
for a second career more glorious than the first. In Scotland the light of the new
day is gladdening the eyes, and its breath stirring the souls of men.
Luther's tracts and Tyndale's New Testaments have entered that country.[2] In 1528 the die is cast, and Scotland is secured for the
Reformation; for now Patrick Hamilton is burned at the stake atSt. Andrews, and his
martyr-pile becomes the funeral torch of the Papacy in that country. So wide is the
sphere which thirteen short years have sufficed to fill with the light of Protestantism.
Nor must we omit to note that in the midst of the German nation, like a pillar of
light, now stands the German Bible. The eye that sees this Light rejoices in it;
the ear that hears this Voice blesses it. In the presence of this Divine teacher,
human authority, which had so long held the understanding in chains, is overthrown,
and the German people, escaping from the worst of all bondage, enter on possession
of the first and highest of all liberty, the liberty of conscience.
Further, in Saxony and Hesse there is now an organized Church. The ground, cleared
of monasteries, convents, indulgence-boxes, and other noxious growths of mediaevalism,
begins to be covered with congregations, and planted with schools. Pastors preach
the Gospel, for whom salaries have been provided; and an ecclesiastical board administers
Church discipline and exercises a general supervision over the clergy.
Protestantism, no longer a system of abstract doctrines, has now found an instrumentality
through which to elevate the lives of men and reform the constitutions of society.
Germany, from the wilderness it was a few years ago, is becoming a garden. Luther
luxuriates over the rich verdure that begins to clothe Saxony. His pen has left us
a fascinating description of it, and his words have all the warm coloring of the
sacred idyll from which indeed his imagery would appear to be borrowed: "I went
down into the garden of nuts, to see the fruits of the valley, and to see whether
the vine flourished, and the pomegranates budded."[3] "It gives me great and singular pleasure," says
the Reformer, writing to the elector, 22nd May,1530,"when I see that boys and
girls can now understand and speak better concerning God and Christ, than formerly
could have been done by the colleges, monasteries, and schools of the Papacy, or
than they can do even yet. There is thus planted in your highness's dominions a very
pleasant Paradise, to which there is nothing similar in the whole world. It is as
if God should say, 'Most beloved Prince John, I commend these children to thee, as
my most precious treasure; they are my celestial Paradise of pleasant plants. Be
thou a father to them. I place them under thy protection and rule, and honor thee
by making thee the president and patron of this heavenly garden.'"
Nor can we fall to mark, in fine, how entire and complete, all through this epoch,
is the subordination of Political events to the Protestant movement.
If we take our stand at Wittenberg and cast our eyes over the wide field around us,
attentively observing the movements, the plots, the combinations, and the battles
that mark the progress of the great drama, our convictions become only the stronger
the longer we gaze, that we are standing in the center of the field, and that this
is the heart of the action.
From any other point of view all is confusion; from this, and from this alone, all
is order. Events far and near, on the Bosphorus and on the Tagus, in the land of
the Moslem and in the dominions of the Spaniard, find here their common point of
convergence. Emperors and kings, dukes and princes, Popes and bishops, all move around
Luther, and all have been given into his hand to be used by him as the work may require.
We see Charles waging great campaigns and fighting great battles; all this hard service
is for Romanism, he believes, but Protestantism comes in and gathers the spoils.
In truth the emperor is about as helpful to the movement as the Reformer himself;
for never does he put his hand upon his sword-hilt to strike it but straightway it
bounds forward. His touch, so far from paralizing it, communicates new life to it.
Let us mark how all things work in the reverse order, and establish the very thing
which the emperor wishes to overthrow. Of this the Edict of Worms is a striking example.
It was promulgated in the confident hope that it would effect the extinction of Protestantism:
it becomes, on the contrary, one of the main means of establishing it. Each successive
attempt to enforce that edict only resulted in lifting up Protestantism to a higher
platform. The first effort made to execute it, in 1521, sent Luther to the Wartburg.
No greater service could any one have done the Reformation at that hour. The Reformer
is out of sight indeed, but only to do a most essential work. A few months elapse,
and the German Bible is seen at the hearths of the German people.
The second attempt to put this edict in force at the Diet of Nuremberg, 1522, evoked
the "Hundred Grievances" of the German nation. This was a second great
advance, inasmuch as it identified the Protestant movement with the cause of Germany's
independence. The third attempt, at the Diet of Nuremberg, 1524, to enforce the edict
led to the virtual toleration of Protestantism. All that the princes could promise
the emperor was that they would execute his decree against the Reformer if possible,
but they had previously declared that this was not possible. Thus, under the tutelage
of Protestantism a public opinion had been formed so powerful as to bring the imperial
authority into a dead-lock.
The fourth attempt to execute the Edict of Worms, made at the Diet of Spires, 1526,
led to. another most important concession to the Re-formel~. The virtual toleration
of Protestantism by the previous Diet was now changed into a legal toleration, the
princes agreeing by a majority of votes that, till a General Council should assemble;
the States should take order about religion as each might judge right. Yet another
attempt, the fifth, to enforce the edict, was made at the Diet of Spires, 1529. This
most of all was helpful to it, for it evoked the famous Protest of the Lutheran princes.
Protestantism had now become the public creed of the princes, States, and Churches
of one half of Germany. It was idle longer to talk of the Edict of Worms; from this
time forward Protestantism, could be suppressed only at the cost of a civil war.
Nevertheless, the emperor did make another attempt, the sixth, to execute the redoubtable
edict, which so far had been formidable only to himself. Charles had just triumphed
over the "Holy League," and sealed his new alliance with the Pope by the
promise of turning the whole influence of his policy, and should that not sufilce,
the whole force of his arms, to the extermination of Protestantism. In order to fulfill
that promise he convokes the Diet of Augsburg, 1530, and goes thither in person to
make sure that this time his project shall not miscarry. It is now that he puts the
top-stone upon the fabric which he had hoped to raze. The Augsburg Confession, prepared
in prospect of this assembly, and read before the emperor and the Diet, formed the
culmination of the German Reformation.
Protestantism in Germany was now in its zenith; it shone with a splendor it had never
before and has never since attained. Thus at every new attempt to put the ban of
the Empire in motion in order to crush Luther and extirpate Protestantism, it recoils
on the throne of Charles himself. The sword unsheathed at Worms in 1521, instead
of dealing the fatal stroke to the great movement which the man who drew it forth
most firmly believed it would, becomes the instrument to open the Reformation's way
through innumerable difficulties, and lead it on step by step to its consummation
and glory.
Protestantism, then, is no petty cause which stole upon the stage of the world at
this supreme hour, and which, intruding itself unbidden and without occasion amongst
the great affairs of kings and emperors, was unable from its insignificance to make
its influence be felt on the great issues then being determined. This is the only
position which some historians of name have been able to find for it. According to
them, Charles is the great master-spirit of the age; his battles are the great events
that constitute its history; and his closet is the source and spring of all those
influences that are changing the world, and molding the destinies of the nations.
How superficial this view is we need not say. Our history has lifted the veil, and
placed us in presence of a mightier Power.
Protestantism is the master; Charles is but the servant. It is as Protestantism wins
that he sheathes or unsheathes the sword, that he makes peace or war: and as it is
to serve its interests so is the emperor lifted up or cast down; so are his arms
made resplendent with victory, or darkened with disaster and defeat. All men and
things exist for the Reformation. It is this Power that originates, that controls,
and that extorts the service of all around it. Every one who has eyes to see, and
a heart to understand, must acknowledge that Protestantism stands at the very center
of the field, lifting its head king-like above all other actors, and looking serenelydown
upon the hosts of its foes. It girds itself with no weapons of war, it leads forth
no armed hosts, it brandishes no battle-axe in its defense; yet it alone is safe.
The lightnings flash, but their bolts pass without striking it. The thunder-cloud
gathers, but rolls away and bursts in another quarter of the sky. The Powers that
struggle and fight around it are smitten, one after another, first with decadence
and in the end with ruin; but this grand cause is seen marching steadily onward to
triumph. France is humiliated; her sovereign's head is bowed on the field of Pavia,
not again to be lifted up with the knightly grace that adorned it of yore. A sudden
bolt lays the glory of Rome in the dust, and the queen-like beauty then marred is
fated nevermore to flourish in the same high degree. The mighty Empire of Charles
V. is shattered by the rude shocks it sustains, and before going to the tomb that
monarch is destined to see that consumption of the Spanish power setting in which
was to continue till Spain should become the frightful wreck which we behold it at
this day. But as regards Protestantism, its progress is liker that of a monarch going
to be crowned.
Every step carries it into a wider arena, and every year lifts it to a higher platform,
till at length on the 25th of June, 1530, the crowning honor is placed on its brow,
in presence of the assembled puissances, spiritual and temporal, of the Empire, with
the emperor at their head, who, here to assist at its obsequies, becomes the unintentional
witness of its triumph.
The characteristic of the Reformation as distinguished from primitive Christianity
was its power of originating social action. It put forth on nations an influence
of a kind so powerful that nothing like it is to be found in any previous age of
the world. As the Gospel, in early times, held on its way among the nations, it called
one individual here and another there to be its disciple. Those whom it thus gathered
out of the mass it knit into a holy brotherhood, an evangelical Church. Still, though
a great multitude, comprehending men of every kindred and tongue, these disciples
remained blended with their several nationalities: they did not stand out before
the world as a distinct social and Political community. They were a spiritual kingdom
only. When the magistrate permitted them the open profession of their faith, they
thankfully accepted the privilege; when they were denied it, they were content to
die for the Gospel: they never thought of combining to demand as a right the open
and unchallenged profession of their faith.
But the Reformation, by quickening and evolving the social instinct in man, brought
with it a new order of things. It gave birth not merely to regenerated individuals,
like primitive Christianity, but to regenerated societies. No doubt the Gospel in
the sixteenth century began where the Gospel in the first century had begun, with
the renewal even of the individual; but it did not end there. It called bodies corporate
into being, it communicated to them the idea of social rights, and supplied an organization
for the acquisition and the exercise of these rights. The Reformation thus erected
a platform on which it was possible to develop a higher civilization, and achieve
a more perfect liberty, than the human race had yet known. Even leaving out of view
the Christian graces, which formed of course the basis of that civilization, the
civic virtues now shot up into a stature, and blazed forth with a splendor, which
far transcended anything of the kind that Greece and Rome had witnessed in their
short-lived heroic age. Where-ever the Reformation came, the world seemed to be peopled
with a new race. Fired with the love of liberty, and with the yet more sacred love
of truth, men performed deeds which brightened the lands in which they were done
with their glory. Whatever country it made its home it ennobled by its valor, enriched
by its industry, and sanctified by its virtues. The fens of Holland, the mountains
of Switzerland, and the straths of Scotland became its seat, and straightway, though
till now rude and barbarous, these regions were illumin ed with a glory brighter
than that which letters and arms had shed on Italy and France. There it converted
burghers and artisans, weavers and tillers of the soil into heroes and martyrs. Such
was the new life which the Reformation gave, and such the surprising and hitherto
unknown transformations which it wrought on the world.
Under the Reformation society attained its manhood. The manhood of the individual
Christian was reached under primitive Christianity, but the manhood of society was
not realized till the Reformation came. Till that time society was under tutors and
governors. Despotism flourished previous to that epoch, as being the only form of
government compatible in those ages with the peace and good order of States. Till
the Reformation permeated nations with the Gospel, they had absolutely no basis for
freedom. The two great necessities of States are liberty and order. The Gospel is
the only power known to man that can bestow these two indispensable gifts. Atheism,
by emancipating the conscience from superstitious thraldom, can give liberty, but
in giving liberty it destroys order. Despotism and superstition can give order, but
in maintaining order they extinguish liberty. But Christianity gives both. Inasmuch
as it sets free the conscience, it gives liberty; and inasmuch as it rules the conscience,
it maintains order. Thus the Reformation, making the influence of the Bible operative
over the whole domain of society, was the first to plant in nations a basis for freedom;
and along with liberty and order it bestowed the capacity of a terrestrial immortality.
The nations of antiquity, after a short career of splendor and crime, followed each
other to the grave. If atheism did not precipitate them into anarchy, and so cause
them to perish in their own violence, superstition held them in her chains till they
sunk in rottenness and disappeared from the earth. The balance, in their case, was
ever being lost between the restraint which conscience imposes and the liberty which
knowledge gives, and its loss was ever followed by the penalty of death; but the
Gospel is able to maintain that balance for ever, and so to confer on nations a terrestrial,
even as it confers on the individual a celestial, immortality.
History is just a second Bible, with this difference, that it is written, not like
the first in letters, but in great facts. The letters and the facts, however, are
charged with the same meaning. In the first Bible—that written in letters—the Creator
has made known the attributes of his character, and the great principles on which
he conducts his government of his creatures; and he has warned nations that, if they
would aspire to greatness and seek to be happy, they must base their power on the
principles of truth and righteousness on which he rules the world. In harmony with
his government theirs cannot be otherwise than stable and prosperous; but if they
place themselves in opposition to it, by adopting as their fundamental and guiding
maxims those principles which he has condemned, they will inevitably, sooner or later,
come into collision with his omnipotent and righteous rule, and be broken in pieces
by the shock and ground to powder. This great truth we read in the one Bible in words
plain and unmistakable; we read it in the other in those beacons of warning and examples
for imitation that rise on every side of us—in this nation overthrown, and covered
with the darkness of ruin; in that seated on the foundations of truth, and rising
sublime with the lights of liberty and morality shining around it.
Five lines, or five words, may suffice to announce a great principle; but five centuries
or ten centuries may pass away before a nation has made full proof of the truth or
the falsehood of that principle. The nation selects it as its corner-stone; it frames
its law and policy according to it; its national spirit and action are simply the
development of that principle; it goes on, working out its problem, for centuries;
the end comes at last; the nation rises, we shall suppose, to wealth, to liberty,
to renown; how manifest is it that the principle was true, and that in selecting
it the nation chose "the better part!" Or it brings disaster, disgrace,
and overthrow; equally manifest is it that the principle was false, and that in selecting
it the nation chose "the worse part."
Let us take an instance illustrating each side of the principle. Spain fallen from
the summit of power, her sierras treeless and flowerless, her plains a desert, her
towns hastening to decay, her people steeped in ignorance, in poverty, and in barbarism,
proclaims the supreme folly of which she was guilty when she chose to rest her greatness
upon a conscience governed by the inquisition.
Britain, the seat of law, the sanctuary of justice, the fountain of knowledge, the
emporium of commerce, and the bulwark of order and liberty, proclaims not less emphatically
the wisdom of her choice when she made her first requisite a conscience emancipated
and guided by the Bible.
Providence ever sends its instructors into the world, as the first preachers of Christianity
were sent into it, by twos. Here have we Spain and Britain, the two great instructors
of the world. They differ in that each is representative of a different principle;
but they agree in that each teaches, the one negatively and the other positively,
the self-same lesson to mankind. They are a tree of the knowledge of good and evil
to the nations, as really as was the tree in the midst of the garden of old. How
manifest is it that a fertilising dew has descended upon the one, and that a silent
malediction has smitten the other! The Mount Ebal of Christendom, with the curse
upon its top, stands over against the Mount Gerizim, from whose summit the blessing,
like a star, beams out before the nations.
With history's page open before us, we have verily no need that one should demonstrate
to us that there is a God, and that the Bible is a revelation of his character and
will. The latter truth is continually receiving authentication and fulfillment in
acts of righteousness and dispensations of terror for what are the annals of the
world and the chronicles of the race but a translation into fact of the laws and
principles made known in Holy Writ? God in no age, and in no land, leaves himself
without a witness. The facts of history are the testimony of his being, and the proof
of his Word. They are the never-ceasing echo of that awful Voice, which at the very
dawn of national history proclaimed the attributes of the Divine character, and the
principles of the Divine government, from the top of Sinai. In history that Voice
is speaking still.
FOOTNOTES
VOLUME FIRST
BOOK NINTH
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 1
[1] Muller, vol. 3, p. 55.
[2] Sleidan, p. 51.
[3] Robertson, Hist. of Charles V., vol. 1, p. 115; Edin., 1829.
[4] Ranke, Hist. of Popes, vol. 1, p. 66; Bohn's ed., 1847.
[5] Ibid., vol. 1, p. 67. "He has died like a heretic without confession and without the Sacrament," said the populace. The celebrated Italian poet, Sannazaro, made the following distich upon the occurrence:—"Sacra, sub extrema, si forte requiris, hora, Cur Leo non potuit sumere? Vendiderat." (Are you curious to know why Pope Leo could not receive the Sacrament in his last hour? The reason is, he had sold it.)
[6] Pallavicino, tom. 1, lib. 2, cap. 2, p. 123.
[7] Sleidan, p. 56. Ranke, vol. 1, pp. 68, 69.
[8] Pallavicino, tom. 1, lib. 2, cap. 3, p. 126. Ranke,vol. 1, p. 70. D'Aubigne, vol. 3, p. 122.
[9] Comm. in lib. iv., Sententiarum Quest. de Sacr. Confirm.; Romae, 1522; apud D'Aubigne, bk. 10, chap. 2.
[10] Pallavicino, tom. 1, cap. 4. Platina, Vit. Ad. 6. No. 222, Som. Pont.
[11] The Archbishop of Mainz had resumed the sale of indulgences. The money raised was to be devoted to combatting the Mussulman hordes. Luther, from the Wartburg, sent a severe letter to the archbishop, to which he returned a meek reply, promising amendment touching the matter which had drawn upon him Luther's reprimand.
[12] Michelet, Life of Luth., pp. 103, 104; Lond., 1846.
[13] These versions were published, says Seckendorf, at Nuremberg, in the years stated in the text, but they were wholly useless, for not only was the typography of the versions execrable, but the people were not permitted to read them. (Seckendorf, lib. 1, sec. 51, p. 204.)
[14] Seckendorf, lib. 1, sec. 51, p. 204.
[15] Seckendorf, lib. 1, sec. 51, p. 203.
[16] Seckendorf, lib. 1, sec. 51; Additio.
[17] The cicerone of the Wartburg was careful to draw the author's attention, as he does that of every visitor, to the indentation in the wall produced, as he affirms, by Luther's inkstand. The plaster, over against the spot where Luther must have sat, is broken and blackened as if by the sharp blow of some body of moderate weight.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 2
[1] Melan., Vit. Luth., p. 19; Vratislavae, 1819.
[2] Seckendorf, lib. 1, p. 214; Add. l, 216. Sleidan, 3, 49.
[3] Seckendorf, lib. 1, sec. 54; Additio i.
[4] Sleidan, bk. 3, p. 52. Seckendorf, lib. 1, sec. 49, p.197.
[5] Michelet, Life of Luth., p. 114.
[6] Seckendorf, lib. 1, sec. 48; Additio, pp. 192, 193.
[7] Sleidan, bk., 3, p. 52.
[8] Luth. Opp. (L) 18, 225; apud D'Aubigne 3, 67, 68.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 3
[1] D'Aubigne, bk. 9, chap. 11.
[2] Sleidan, bk. 3, p. 55.
[3] Pallavicino, tom. 1, lib. 2, cap. 7, p. 140. Sleidan, 3, 55.
[4] Sleidan, bk. 4, p. 59. Pallavicino, tom. 1, lib. 2, cap. 7, p. 141.
[5] Pallavicino, tom. 1, p. 141.
[6] Sleidan, bk. 4, p. 60.
[7] Ibid, bk. 4, p. 63. Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 8.
[8] "Che in questo tempo si predicasse piamente e mansuetamente il puro Evangelio e la Scrittura approvata secondo resposizione approvata e ricevuta dlla Chiesa"—"That in the meantime the pure Gospel be preached piously and soberly, according to the exposition of Scripture received and approved by the Church." (Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 8, p. 146.) The decree was ambiguous, remarks Pallavicino. Each put his own interpretation upon the phrase "the pure Gospel." The phrase "exposition hitherto in use" was also variously interpreted. According, said some, to the manner of Thomas Aquinas and other medieval doctors; according, said others, to that of the more ancient, Cyprian, Augustine, etc. The decree, nevertheless, helped to shield the Protestant preachers.
[9] See Adrian's energetic epistle, in D'Aubigne, pp.132-185; Edin., 1846.
[10] The execution of the third, Lambert Thorn, followed that of the first two by a few days.
[11] Sleidan, bk. 4, pp. 63, 64.Ranke, vol. 1, p. 75.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 4
[1] Ranke, vol. 1, p. 75.
[2] Cochlaeus, p. 82. D'Aubigne, vol. 3, p. 148
[3] Sleidan, bk. 4, p. 68.
[4] Ibid., bk. iv., p. 69. Fra-Paolo Sarpi, livr. 1, pp. 64, 65. "It is evident," says the French translator and editor (Pierre Francois le Courayer) of Sarpi's History of the Council of Trent, "that both the Pope and the legate believed themselves justified in this falsehood for the good of the cause. For it is not doubted that the 'Hundred Grievances' had been received at the court of Rome, and Pallavicino even does not leave us ignorant that the legate was instructed to dissemble the fact of their reception, in order to treat on more favorable terms with the princes."
[5] Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 10, p. 155.
[6] Cochlaeus, p. 84. D'Aubigne, vol. 3, p. 145.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 5
[1] One is surprised to learn how many of the arts in daily use were invented in Nuremberg. The oldest specimens of stained glass are said to be here. Playing-cards were manufactured here as early as 1380. In 1390 a citizen of Nuremberg built a paper-mill, undoubtedly the first in Germany. There are records of cannon being cast here as early as 1356. Previously cannon were constructed of iron bars placed lengthwise and held together by hoops. The celebrated cannon "Mons Meg," at Edinburgh Castle, is constructed after that fashion. The common opinion, supported by Polydore Virgil and other learned writers, is that gunpowder was also invented at Nuremberg, by a Franciscan friar named Berthold Schwartz, in 1378. Here the first watches were made, in 1500; they were called "Nuremberg eggs." Here the air-gun was invented, 1560; the clarionet, 1690. Here Erasmus Ebner, in 1556, hit upon that particular alloy of metals which forms brass. The brass of former times was a different combination.
[2] Decline and Fall, vol. 9, p. 216; Edin., 1832.
[3] The discovery of the mariner's compass gave a great blow to the prosperity of Nuremberg. The mariner's compass, as every one knows, revolutionized the carrying trade of the world, closing old channels of commerce and opening new. After this invention, ships freighted in the harbors of the East unloaded only when they reached the ports of the Western world. The commerce that had flowed for centuries across the plain on which Nuremberg stands, making it one of its main depots, was after this carried through the Straits or round the Cape; and Nuremberg would have become like a stranded galleon from which the tide had receded, but for the scientific and artistic genius of her sons. They still continued, by their skill and industry, to supply the other cities of Europe with those necessary or luxurious articles which they had not yet learned to create for themselves. The railroad is bringing back, in part at least, the trade and wealth that Nuremberg lost by the mariner's compass. It is the center of the trade between Southern and Northern Germany; besides, it has not wholly lost the artistic skill and mechanical industry for which it was so famous in olden times.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 6
[1] D'Aubigne, bk. 10, chap. 5.
[2] Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 11. Sleidan, bk. 4, p. 74. Fra-Paolo Sarpi, livr. 1, p. 67; Basle, 1738.
[3] Fra-Paolo Sarpi, livr. 1, p. 68. Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 11.
[4] Sleidan, bk. 4, pp. 75, 76. Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 10. Fra-Paolo Sarpi, livr. 1, pp. 69, 70.
[5] Sleidan, bk. 4, p. 75. Luth. Opp., lib. 19, p. 330. D'Aubigne, vol. 3, pp. 151—155; Glas., 1855.
[6] Luther to Hausmann, 1524, p. 563.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 7
[1] Camerarius, p. 94.
[2] The order was instituted in A.D. 1190, and the first Master was chosen in the camp before Ptolemais. (Sleidan.)
[3] Robertson, Hist. Charles V., bk. 4:Sleidan, bk. 5, pp. 98, 99.
[4] Seckendorf. lib. 1, sec. 61, p. 304.
[5] Seckendorf. lib. 1, sec. 61, p. 304.
[6] Seckendorf, lib.2, sec. 2
[7] Seckendorf, lib.2, sec. 2
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 8
[1] Robertson, Hist. Charles V., bk. 4, p. 150.
[2] Sir James Mackintosh, in his Vindiciae Gallicoe.
[3] Sleidan, bk. 5, p. 83.
[4] Ibid., p. 90.
[5] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 3, pp. 7, 8.
[6] Sleidan, bk. 5, pp 90-95. D'Aubigne, vol. 3, pp. 185, 186.
[7] , Hist. Charles V., bk. 4, p. 151.
[8] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 4, p. 9.
[9] Sleidan, bk. 4, p. 80.
[10] Ibid., p. 81.
[11] Sleidan bk. 5, pp. 85, 86. Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 4, pp. 9.10.
[12] Sleidan, bk. 4, p. 81.
[13] Luth. Opp., lib. 19, p. 297. D'Aubigne, vol. 3, p. 194
[14] Sleidan, bk. 5, p. 87.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 9
[1] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 102.
[2] Sleidan, bk. 6, pp. 102, 103. Robertson, bk. 4, pp. 149, 150.
[3] Sleidan, bk. 5, p. 96.
[4] Ibid, bk. vi., p. 103.
[5] Sleidan, bk. 5, p. 97.
[6] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 5, pp. 15, 16.
[7] The portraits of Kate, from originals by Lucas Cranach, represent her with a round full face, a straight pointed nose, and large eyes. Romanist writers have been more complimentary to her, as regards beauty, than Protestants, who generally speak of her as plain.
[8] Melch. Adam., Vit. Luth., p. 131. Seckendorf, 2, 5, p. 18.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 10
[1] Ranke, bk. 1, chap. 3, p. 77; Lond., 1847.
[2] Bulllar, Mag. Rom., 10, 55; Luxem., 1741. The bull of Clement styles the league "Confideratio atque Sanctissimum Foedus," and names "Our dear son in Christ, Henry, King of England and Lord of Ireland, Defender of the Faith, protector and conservator of it."
[3] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 105—where the reader win find a summary of the conditions of the league between the Pope and his confederates. Ranke, bk. 1, chap. 3, pp. 77, 78. D'Aubigne, vol. 4, p. 10.
[4] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 105.
[5] "'The command of God endures through Eternity, Verbum Dei Manet In AEternum,' was the Epigraph and Life-motto which John the Steadfast had adopted for himself; V. D. M. I. AE., these initials he had engraved on all the furnitures of his existence, on his standards, pictures, plate, on the very sleeves of his lackeys, and I can perceive, on his own deep heart first of all. V.D.M. I.E.: —or might it not be read withal, as Philip of Hessen sometimes said (Philip, still a young fellow, capable of sport in his magnanimous scorn), 'Verbum Diaboli Manet in Episcopis, The Devil's Word sticks fast in the Bishops'?" (Carlyle, Frederick the Great, bk. 3, chap. 5.)
[6] Psalm 20:7.
[7] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 9.
[8] Cochlaeus complains of this as a tempting of the faithful by the savor of wines and meats (p. 138).
[9] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 9.
[10] Sleidan, bk. 6, pp. 103. 104.
[11] Sleidan, bk. 6, pp. 103, 104.
[12] At that time the Pope had not concluded his alliance with France.
[13] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 103. Fra-Paolo Sarpi, livr. 1, p. 71.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 11
[1] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 103.
[2] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 104.
[3] Ranke, bk. 1, chap. 3, p. 80.
[4] D'Aubigne, vol. 4, p. 12.
[5] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 107; see the correspondence between the emperor, the Pope, and the cardinals in his pages.
[6] The authorities consulted for this account of the sack of Rome are Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 111; Guiciardini, Wars of Italy, 2, 723; Ranke, vol. 1, pp. 80—83; D'Aubigne, vol. 4, pp. 14—20.
[7] Quoted by Ranke, vol. 1, p. 82 (foot-note). For a picture of the Rome of the early part of the sixteenth century, see the Memoirs of a Roman of that age—Benvenuto Cellini.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 12
[1] Luther, Theologie, 2, 126—135. Dorner, Hist. Protest. Theol, vol. 1, p. 174; Clerk, Edin., 1871.
[2] Dorner, vol. 1, pp. 172—175.
[3] Corpus Ref., 2, 990—D'Aubigne, vol. 4, p. 35.
[4] Corpus Ref.—D'Aubigne, vol. 4, p. 35.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 13
[1] Paradoxa Lamberti—Scultet, Annal.
[2] See details of the Hessian Church constitution in D' Aubigne, vol. 4, pp. 24—30, taken from the Moumenta Hassiaca, vol. 2, p. 588.
[3] J. H. Kurtz, D.D., Hi.st. of the Christian Church, p. 30; Edin., 1864.
[4] "Alibi licentius ageret." (Letter to John, Duke of Saxony, April 23, 1523—Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 13: Additio 1.)
[5] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 13; Additio 1.
[6] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 13; Additio 1.
[7] Ibid.
[8] Ibid.
[9] Ibid.
[10] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 14, p. 130.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 14
[1] Ranke, vol. 1, p. 84.
[2] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 115.
[3] Werk,. 9, 542. Michelet, Luther, p. 210.
[4] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 13, p. 94.
[5] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 114.
[6] Seckendorf, lib. 2, see. 13, pp. 95—98.
[7] See details in Sleidan, bk. 6; Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 13; D'Aubigne, bk 8, chap. 4; Michelet, Luther, bk. 3, chap. 1. Some mystery rests on this affair still, but when we take into account the league formed at Ratisbon four years before, the principles and practices of the men at whose door this design was laid, and the fact that the most of the Popish princes agreed to pay a large sum as an indemnity to the Lutheran princes for the expense to which they had been put in raising armaments to defend themselves, we may be disposed to think that Luther's opinion was not far from the truth; that the league if not concluded had been conceived.
[8] Sleidan, bk. 6., p. 110.
[9] Scutlet., 2, 110.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 15
[1] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 117.
[2] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 14, p. 129.
[3] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 115.
[4] Corp. Ref., 1.1040—D'Aubigne, bk 8, chap. 5.
[5] Sleiden, bk. 6, p. 118
[6] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 14; Additio.
[7] Ibid., p. 129.
[8] Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 18. Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 118. Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 14, p. 127. The edict contained other articles, such as that Sacramentarians or Zwinglians should be banished from all the lands of the Empire, and that Anabaptists should be punished with death. (Pallavicino, lib. 2, cap. 18.)
[9] The date of this edict is variously given. Seckendorf says it passed on the 4th April; D'Aubigne says the 7th, on the authority of Sleidan, but this is a mistake, for Sleidan gives no date. The continuator of M. Fleury makes the date of the edict the 13th April. Sleidan says that the Protest of the princes against it was read on the 19th April, while Pallavicino makes the date of the edict the 23rd April. The most probable reconcilement of these differences is, that the edict was passed on the 13th April, published on the 23rd, and that the Protest was given in on the 19th.
[10] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 120.
[11] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 120.
[12] Pallavicino thinks that they would have been more truly named had they been called "Rebels against the Pope and Caesar"—Ribella al Papa ed al Cesare (lib. 2, cap. 18).
[13] D'Aubigne, bk 8, chap. 6.
[14] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 120. D'Aubigne, bk 8, chap. 6.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 16
[1] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 121.
[2] Luth. Cor., Aug. 2, 1529—Michelet, bk. 3, ch. 1, p. 217.
[3] Ruchat, tom. 2, p. 143.
[4] Sleidan, bk. 6, P. 121. Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 18; Additio.
[5] Scultet, Annal., ad 1529.
[6] Scultet, tom. 2, p. 198. Ruchat. tom. 2, p. 143.
[7] Scultet, 2, 217. Ruchat, 2, 145.
[8] Ibid.
[9] D'Aubigne, bk 8, chap. 7.
[10] Scultet. 2, 220-228. Ruchat, 2, 148-155.
[11] Luth. Cor.—Michelet, pp. 217, 218; Lond., 1846.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 17
[1] Scult., p. 207.
[2] Zwing. Opp., 4, 203.
[3] Ibid., p. 194.
[4] Zwing, Opp., 4, 203.
[5] Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 1. Seckendorf, lib. 3, sec. 17, p. 158. Ruchat, tom. 2, pp. 156—159.
[6] Scultet, p. 282.
[7] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 12l.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 18
[1] "Heer predigt wider die Turken."—L. Opp. (W) 20, 2691.
[2] Sleidan, bk. 6, p. 12l.
[3] Luth. Opp., 3, 324.
[4] Worsley, Life of Luther, vol. 2, p. 193.
[5] Robertson, Hist. Charles V., bk. 5, p. 171; Edin., 1829.
[6] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 123.
[7] Ibid.
[8] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 16; Additio, 134.
[9] Sleidan. bk. 7, p. 124. D'Aubigne, bk. 14, chap. 1.
[10] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 124. Seckendorf, lib. 2, p. 133.
[11] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 125. Seckendorf, lib. 2, p. 133.
[12] The progress towards constitutional government which some Continental nations, and France in particular, have made since 1870, may be supposed to traverse the above argument, which may therefore be thought to require further explanation. The experience of a couple of decades is too limited to settle so large a question either way. Another decade may sweep away what had been won during its predecessors. One thing is certain, namely, that the permanent liberty of States must rest on a moral basis, and a moral basis true religion alone can create. France does well to dissociate her battle from Popery, the genius of which is so hostile to freedom, but her prospects of victory will be brighter according to the degree in which she allies herself with the religion of the Bible. The Continental nations are by no means at the end of their struggle. It is a great step to success to cast out the Papacy, but unless they fill its place by a Scriptural faith, Nihilism, or some other form of atheism, will rush in, and order and liberty will eventually perish.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 19
[1] Sleidan, bk. 7, p: 125.
[2] Seckendorf, lib. 2,sec. 16; Additio.
[3] The articles are given in Walch, 16, p. 681.
[4] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 126. D'Aubigne, bk. 14, chap. 1.
[5] Sleidan, 7, 126. Robertson, Hist. Charles V., 5, 171.
[6] Instructio data Caesari a Reverendmo Campeggio in Dieta Augustana, 1530. "I found it," says Ranke, "in a foot-note, in a Roman library, in the handwriting of the time, and beyond all doubt authentic." (Ranke, vol. I., p. 85; Bohn's edition, 1847.)
[7] Ranke, bk. 1, chap. 3.
[8] Oratio de Congressu Bononiensi, in Melanchthonis, Orationum, 4, 87, and Caelestinus, Hist. Council, 1530. Augustae, 1, 10. D'Aubigne, bk. 9, chap. 1.
[9] "Non concilii decretis sed armis controversias dirimendas." Scultet., p. 248. Maimbourg, 2, 177. Fra Paolo Sarpi, Histoire du Concile de Trent, tom. 1, pp. 95—97; Basle, 1738.)
[10] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 126.
[11] D'Aubigne, bk. 9, chap. 1.
[12] In front; of the palace at Bologna is a tablet with an inscription, in which this and other particulars of the coronation are mentioned: "Fenestra haec ad dextrum fuit porta Praetoria; et egressus Caesar per pontem sublicium, in AEdem D. Petronii deductus. Sacris ritis peractis a Pont. Max. auream coronam Imperii caeteraque insignia accepit." (The window on the right was the Praetorian gate, out of which Caesar passed by a wooden bridge to the temple of San Petronio. The sacred rites being performed by the supreme Pontiff, he received the golden crown and the rest of the imperial insignia.)—Maximilian Misson, Travels, vol. 2, part 1; Lond., 1739.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 20
[1] Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, p. 99.
[2] Sleidan, 7, 127. Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 21; Additio 4.
[3] Seckendorf., lib. 2, sec. 20, pp. 150, 151.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Seckerdorf, lib. 2, sec. 20, pp. 150, 151.
[6] Matthew 10:32.
[7] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 21, p. 152.
[8] Ibid.
[9] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 21, p. 153.
[10] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 127.
[11] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 21; Additio 2.
[12] Corpus Ref., 2, 86: "Audires homines stupidissimos atque etiam sensu communi carentes."
[13] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 127.
[14] Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 3, p. 193. Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 21, p. 153.
[15] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 20, p. 151.
[16] Confessio Christianae Doctrines et Fidei, per D. Martinum Lutherum; edita a P.Mullero, Lipsiae et Jenae, 1705
[17] Corpus Ref., 2, 40.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 21
[1] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 24, p. 160.
[2] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 24, p. 160.
[3] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 127.
[4] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 24, p. 161.
[5] Urkunden, 1, 26. D'Aubigne, vol. 4, p. 143.
[6] D'Aubigne, vol. 4, p. 143.
[7] Sarpi, tom. 1, lib. 1 Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 3.
[8] Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, p. 99. Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 3, p. 190.
[9] Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 3.
[10] Corp. Ref., 2, 115.
[11] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 25, p. 162.
[12] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 127. Polano, Hist. Conc. Trent, lib. 1, p. 52.
[13] Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, p. 99.
[14] Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 3, p. 191. Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, pp. 99, 100. Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 27, p. 167.
[15] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 127. Polano, lib. 1, pp. 52, 53. D'Aubigne, Vol. 4, pp. 156, 157.
[16] Polano, lib. 1, p. 53. Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, p. 100.
[17] "Con una diabolica persuasione sbandiscono e traggono ad ogni scherno ed impudicizia." (Pallavicino, tom. 1, lib. 3, cap. 3, p. 192.)
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 22
[1] The Turks had made a breach in the walls of Vienna, and were on the point of entering and taking the city, when a mysterous panic seized them and they fled.
[2] Sleidan, bk. 7, pp. 127—129.
[3] Sonnets, No. 19:(on his blindness).
[4] Corp. Ref., 2, 159.
[5] Zwing,.Epp., 2, 473. D'Aubigne. vol 4, p. 165
[6] Corp. Ref., 2, 140.
[7] The Confession, afterwards read in the Diet.
[8] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 32, p. 182.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 23
[1] Corp. Ref. 2, 155.
[2] We have taken the names and order of the subscribers to this memorable deed from the Augustana Confessio, printed at Leipsic and Jena (1705), and carefully edited by Philip Mullero, from the first printed copy at Leipsic, 1580.
[3] Seckendorf, lib. 2, p. 169.
[4] Corp. Ref., 2, 154.
[5] Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, lib. 1, p. 101. Polano, lib. 1,' p. 54.
[6] Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, p. 102.
[7] Scultet, tom. 1, p.273
[8] Seckendorf, lib. 2, p.170
[9] Augustana Confessio—Praefatio ad Caesarem; Lipsiae et Jenae, 1705.
[10] "Quanquam ecclesia" etc. "cum in hac vita multi hypocritae et mali admixti sunt." (Augustana Confessio.)
[11] "De Coena Domini docent, quod corpus et sanguis Christi vere adsint, et distribuantur vescentibus in Coena Domini." (Ibid.)
[12] Augustarna Confessio, art. 20, De Bonis Operibus.
[13] Si missa tollit peccata vivorum et mortuorum ex opere operato contingit justificatio ex opere Missarum, non ex fide." (Augustaria Confessio, art. 24, De Missa.)
[14] Primo obscurata est doctrina de gratia et justitia fidei, quae est praecipua pars evangelii." (Augustana Confessio, art. 26.)
[15] Augustana Confessio—Epilogus.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 24
[1] You may see in the bishop's palace the chamber where the famous Confession of Augsburg was presented to the Emperor Charles V. From thence we went to the cathedral, where there is a gate of brass, over which many places of the sacred history are represented in basso relievo, and they made us observe in the history of the creation that it was the Virgin Mary who created Eve, and formed her out of one of Adam's ribs." (Misson, vol. 1, p. 135.)
[2] Corp. Ref., p. 187. Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 130.
[3] Fra Paolo Sarpi, tom. 1, lib. 1, p. 102.
[4] Corp. Ref., 2, 155.
[5] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 130.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 25
[1] Corp. Ref., 2, 154—D'Aubigne, bk. 14, chap 8.
[2] Ibid, 2, 147—D'Aubigne.
[3] Mathesius, Hist., p. 99.
[4] Luth. Opp., 4, 96.—D'Aubigne, bk. 14, chap. 8.
[5] Ibid., 4, 83—D'Aubigne.
[6] Seckendorf, lib. 2, sec. 32, p. 182.
[7] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 130.
[8] Corp. Ref., 2. 193—198.
[9] Seckendorf, lib. 2,sec. 32, p. 183.
[10] This, of course, was before the Vatican decree of 1870. Such a mistake is not conceivable now; although it perplexes one to think that the Popes of the age of Leo X. were, according to the decree, as infallible as those of the days of Pio Nono; seeing the latter—with greater generosity than prudence—admitted all his predecessors to partnership with him in his attribute of infallibility.
[11] D'Aubigne, bk. 14, chap. 9. Worsley, Life of Luther, vol. 2, pp 226, 227.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 26
[1] Sleidan, bk. 7, pp. 132. 133.
[2] D'Aubigne, 4, 209.
[3] Pallavicino, bk. 3, chap. 4, p. 195.
[4] Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 132. Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 4, p. 195.
[5] Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 4, p. 195.
[6] Pallavicino says that Melancthon "had fallen into hatred and reproach with his own party" (in odio ed in biasimo de' suoi), and Sleidan informs us that when chosen one of the Committee of Three it was on the condition that he should make no more concessions (Pallavicino, p. 196; Sleidan, p. 132). Pallavicino (lib. 3, cap. 4, p. 135) gives a letter of Melancthon's addressed to Campeggio, which is all but an unqualified submission to Rome. Its genuineness has been questioned, but D'Aubigne sees no reason to doubt it.
[7] Luth. Opp., 4, pp. 144-151.
[8] Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 4, p. 197.
[9] Pallavicino, lib. 3, cap. 4. Sleidan, bk. 7, p. 135.
VOLUME FIRST- BOOK NINTH- CHAPTER 27
[1] Isaiah 43:2.
[2] See Scottish Reformation, by Peter Lorimer, D.D., Professor of Theology, English Presbyterian College, London. Lond., 1860.
[3] Song of Solomon 6:11.
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