Katharine von Bora: Dr. Martin Luther's Wife

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN.

Wittenberg, in the 16th Century, was a wretched town. The houses, built of wood, were thatched with straw. The narrow, crooked streets were paved roughly, or not at all; and in rainy weather, or during the spring thaws, became almost impassable. A few prominent buildings,—the fine churches, the Elector's palace, the University, the Franciscan and Augustinian convents, and the dwellings of some wealthy citizens, alone raised it to the dignity of a town.

The surrounding country had been meagerly dealt with by nature. Luther was wont to say: "Land,—thou art nothing but sand!" In every direction stretched wastes of sand. In the immediate neighborhood of the town, however, especially toward the South, where rolled the yellow waters of the Elbe, occasional clumps of trees, and even vineyards were to be seen. Here many citizens of Wittenberg had planted charming gardens, whither they went to refresh themselves during the heat of summer.

One garden especially, which lay near the Elster-gate, gave evidence of artistic skill and careful culture. The shrubs and flower beds were tastefully arranged. A little pond, fed by a spring, lay hidden among rustling reeds; and in the midst of a large gravelled space rose a white summer house.

One bright day in the Summer of 1534, a merry little company was gathered here. A strong, active boy of nine, was the leader in their games, and their occasional excursions to the strawberry-beds. It was his birthday, and by reason of this circumstance, and of his seniority, he ruled over the younger ones,—a gentle little maiden of six, and two boys, of two and four.

Within the Summer-house sat the mother, holding a baby in her arms, and watching the play of her children,—now and then calling out a word of warning, when the merriment grew too boisterous, or when the eldest insisted too vigorously upon his rights.

It was Katharine, who after her day's work had come with her children to this favorite spot,—here, under the open sky, and among the flowers, she wished to celebrate the day on which, nine years ago, God's grace had given her her first-born son.

Luther might well say, with the Psalmist: "My wife is as a fruitful vine by the side of my house; my children like olive plants round about my table,"—five healthy, happy children they were; and the mother still fresh and blooming, as though sorrow could not touch her.

Suddenly a shout arose: "Aunt Lena! Aunt Lena is coming!" and the children sprang towards the old woman, as though she were a fortress, to be carried by assault.

They were very fond of the good aunt, who always had time and patience to answer their endless questions, who told them such lovely tales in the twilight; who dressed Lena's dolls, and made soldiers of pasteboard for the boys, and never betrayed their childish wrong-doings to father or mother. But to-day their enthusiastic greeting was largely mingled with self-interest. They wanted her to take charge of the little Gretchen, that their mother might play with them;—this being a great favor, and a rare one, for the mother's hands were always busy. Aunt Lena, being a person of much penetration, guessed their wishes, and did her part most willingly.

They played hide-and-seek and blind man's buff. They counted the peas in the pods, by holding them up to the light, and there was much laughter among the boys, at their mother's failures. She herself felt light-hearted and strong,—were not her children in good health,—-and the Doctor well, and vigorously at work upon his new book?

But in time she wearied of the play and Wolfgang's appearance was a welcome interruption. He announced that the Doctor would probably not come before evening. Then from a basket he emptied a variety of buns and cakes upon the table, which quieted the noisy company for a time.

Hans seemed to have special business with Wolfgang. His eyes betrayed his eagerness; but Wolfgang seemed not to understand this mute appeal. When he found himself unobserved, he whispered: "Wolfgang, let us look after the bird-traps!" Wolfgang was not easy to persuade. He remembered the lecture he had received but the other day, when he presented the Doctor with a tame bullfinch. Luther told him sharply, that he took no pleasure in captive birds, which the Lord had not created to the end that Master Wolfgang Sieberger might snare them in his nets. But Hans pleaded so strongly,—it was his birthday, and Wolfgang yielded.

They stole away secretly. But Martin, the four-year-old, perceiving their intention, cried out after the fugitives, and wanted to be taken along. With many promises and persuasions he was finally pacified, and induced to remain behind.

Not far from the garden, near the University, was a secluded little copse, where multitudes of the feathery tribe were wont to congregate. It was here that Wolfgang had set his traps. As they entered the grove, a flock of finches rose into the air. Their notes sounded like mocking laughter to the bird-catchers, who always came too late, and must needs be content, if after a fortnight's watching, they snared a silly robin or a saucy sparrow. As a bird-catcher, Wolfgang had small luck, at which he wondered greatly, for all his measures were taken strictly according to the rules of the craft, and the spot was well-chosen for his purpose. Perhaps the wood-nymphs spoiled his sport! To-day again he caught nothing. Finally, his patience was exhausted. He sprang up and gave vent to his feelings in a vigorous oath, which the echoes flung back to him with derisive distinctness.

The sportsmen left the copse, in a bad humor. As they approached the garden, Wolfgang exclaimed, in consternation: "The Doctor has come. There will be a fine reception for us, and so forth!" and with lagging footsteps they went to meet their fate.

Luther had arrived earlier than he expected; and finding Hans absent, at once suspected the truth. Seating himself in the summer-house, he soon covered a sheet of paper with writing.

He received the culprits with a stern look. There was no need of questioning them, their guilt was so clearly written upon their faces. Wolfgang stammered something that sounded like an apology, but Luther interrupted him: "Sit here, Wolfgang; and you, Hans, sit beside him; and all the rest come hither, and hear the complaint, which has come to my hands.

When all were assembled, the Doctor read as follows:

"To our well-inclined friend, Dr. Martin Luther, Professor and preacher at Wittenberg. We thrushes, robins, linnets and other honest and peaceable birds, who are sojourning in these parts, would have you know that a certain Wolfgang Sieberger, your servant, has committed a daring and ruthless deed, in that, out of malice and hatred toward us, he has purchased dearly certain old and ragged nets, wherewith he purposes not only to snare our good friends, the finches; but would fain deny to us also, who have in no wise wronged him, the liberty of flying in the air, and of picking up the grains which God has strewn for us. All this being, as you may suppose, a grievous oppression to us poor birds, we would direct to you our humble petition: That you restrain your servant from his evil design; or, failing in this, that you command him, in the evenings to scatter grain upon this place, and in the morning not to rise before eight o'clock. If he consents, we will be content and even grateful to him. But if, on the contrary, he continues to persecute us, we will pray to the good Lord to punish him; and we hope that some day he may find toads, and snails, and grasshoppers, instead of birds, in his net; and that at night the mice, fleas, and other vermin, shall cause him such torment, as to make him forget his evil designs against our liberty. Why does he spare the sparrows, magpies, jackdaws, mice and rats, which do you much harm, which rob and steal, carrying away your corn, oats and barley—while we seek only after crumbs and scattered grains, freeing you moreover from flies, gnats and other troublesome insects? We ask if this be just and reasonable? And we trust that in future we may rest undisturbed by his snares and nets.

"Given in our airy habitation among the trees, under our usual seal."

Without adding a word, without a glance at the accused, Luther folded the paper and put it into his pocket. Wolfgang's feelings were those of a convicted criminal, whose sentence is being read. He turned red and white, and would have been glad to slip away, had such an escape been possible.

Hans sat limp and dejected. He was plunged from his eminence as the hero of a birthday celebration! He waited eagerly for a lecture from his father, which would have relieved his conscience. But when he was passed by without a glance, and the father, with tender, loving words turned to the other children, especially to Lena, the gentle little daughter, his torture became well-nigh unbearable. With secret horror he remembered the time when, for a mischievous prank, he had been banished for three days from his father's presence, and all his mother's pleadings had been in vain. His father's words still rang painfully in his ears: "I would rather have a dead son than a disobedient one. It is not for naught that St. Paul says 'a bishop shall rule well his own house, and have his children in subjection,'—that he may set a good example, and not become an offense to other people."

Hans would have wept, but inward fear dried up the source of his tears, and he was denied the relief of turning his trouble into water. At supper he was unable to swallow a morsel; and his father's kind words to the others pierced him like a knife. Lena sat very still;—-now and then her eyes wandered toward her brother,—his sorrow was hers. On a former occasion Luther had said to his wife: "If one would see a living illustration of the Saviour's words: 'Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep,' one needs but look at our little Lena. She has a fine, sensitive soul, like an Æolian harp, that sounds and sings, if but a breath of air touches its strings."

After supper, Lena clung to her father, caressed his hand, and looked up into his face with a wistful smile.

"What would you have, my Lena?" asked her father gently, lifting her upon his knee.

"It is Hans' birthday!" she whispered, and two great tears filled her soft, blue eyes. Her father, touched by her loving heart, folded his little daughter in his arms and kissed her forehead. He beckoned to Hans: "Come hither, thou sinner, thy intercessor has conquered my heart, so that I must needs have pity on thee!"

Hans would fain have shouted for joy, but he restrained himself, and pressing close to his sister, he whispered: "Lena, you shall have my clapper-mill for this!"

Luther turned to his wife and Aunt Lena. "Here you may see," he said, "how powerful a mediator we have in our Lord Jesus Christ, whom the Heavenly Father cannot refuse, when He pleads for sinners. If my daughter thus speedily conquered my heart, how much more able is Christ to dispel the Heavenly Father's anger, that the sinner may go free. When I found this assurance in the Holy Scriptures, that we cannot be saved by our own virtue, but only by the merits and intercession of Jesus Christ,—a new life was born within me, and I was constrained to proclaim it to all the world. I am heartily glad, and thank the Lord, that the Bible has gone forth among the German people, in the German tongue. Many a drop of sweat cleaves to it, yet I labored with pleasure and delight, for now all can see for themselves what God's Word is, and wherefore the Saviour came into the world.—I regard this work as the greatest of my life; and if God were now to call me hence, I should willingly say: Lord, here I am."

Here the little, chubby-faced Paul, bestriding a stick, came prancing along. In his haste he dashed against his father, and was miserably overthrown. Every one laughed at his discomfiture, but his father lifted the little fellow upon his knee, and said: "Paul must one day be a soldier, and ride against the Turks; then doubtless Germany will have peace from that quarter." He stroked the curly head, and turning to Katharine, said: "How fondly parents cling to their youngest children,—it is no doubt, because of their helpless condition. Hans, and Lena, and even Martin can make their wants known,—but these little ones cannot. Yet the love is the same toward them all."

Katharine held out the baby, Gretchen, and said with a smile: "This one needs love more than any,—and yet you do not mention her, dear Doctor."

Luther took the child in his arms and caressed it, saying: "There is a great sacredness about a little child, of whom the Scriptures say: 'Their angels do always behold the face of my Father who is in heaven.' I would give all the honor I have had, and shall have in this world, had I died at the age of this child. A child's life is the happiest: it has no temporal cares, knows nothing of the disturbers of the Church, has no fear of death or hell, but only pure and happy fancies. My dear little child, thou and all who are dear to me are hated of the Pope, Duke George, the Devil and all their friends. But the child is not disturbed, fears nothing, and laughs at their anger."

The Evening had come, and Katharine began to prepare for their return to town, the physician having strictly forbidden Luther to remain in the open air after nightfall. He seemed little inclined to exchange the fresh, pure air for the closeness of the narrow streets, but found himself unable to resist his wife's pleading. With a smile he submitted, saying: "Kate, you persuade me to do your will in all things!"

CHAPTER XIX.

RISEN FROM THE DEAD.

The earth was already thickly covered with snow, yet the heavy, white flakes were still falling. The frost-flowers upon the windows hid the outside world from those within, and the footsteps in the streets sounded as though the ground were strewn with broken glass. Whoever could, stayed within doors.

Katharine was packing her husband's travelling trunk. He was about to undertake a journey. But it was not the thought of the distance, and of her own loneliness, that filled her eyes with tears, and her heart with anxious forebodings. He was ill, and she dreaded the effects of this wintry journey upon his enfeebled body. She would have pleaded with him to remain at home, had not the Elector so urgently desired his presence at Smalcald, where, before the assembled Protestant princes and representatives, he was desired to read the articles he had prepared for submission to the General Church Council, to be held at Mantua.

It was on the first day of February, 1537, when Luther, wrapped in warm furs, and seated in the carriage sent him by the Elector John Frederick, passed out of the Elster gate. Not only Katharine, but many a citizen of Wittenberg looked anxiously after the traveller, secretly reproaching the Elector for asking of the sick man a sacrifice, which might plunge the whole Protestant world into sorrow and confusion.

The days crept slowly by to Katharine. Many letters came to the house of the spiritual leader of Protestantism; yet there was none in the well-known, rugged handwriting, although Luther had promised to send her tidings as soon as possible, especially if any harm should befall him. Week after week glided by; her fears were slowly stilled, and she began to thank God for this new grace.

On the 2d of March, a messenger rode into the court, bringing a letter from the Doctor. Fear seized upon Katharine, and her trembling fingers were scarcely able to open the packet. Yes, there it was written, in terribly plain characters, that her forebodings had not deceived her. The letter was dated from Gotha, the 2 7th of February, and ran as follows:

"Grace and peace in Christ! You will have to hire other horses, if you need them, dear Kate, for His Grace will keep yours, until he can return them to you by Master Philip. I myself, leaving Smalcald yesterday, came hither in the Elector's coach. The reason is this,—I have been ill; rest and sleep forsook me, and food and drink sickened me. I was as one dead, and had commended you and the little ones to my dear Lord, thinking I should never see you again. I was sorely grieved for you,—yet I was prepared for the end. But so many prayers were made in my behalf, that they have prevailed, and I feel as one newly born. Therefore give thanks to God, and tell Aunt Lena and the children, to thank the Father in Heaven, for without His mercy they had surely lost their earthly father. The good prince endeavored by all means to procure me relief, but in vain. Neither did your remedy against indigestion do me any good. It is God alone who has done, and still does wonders for me, through, the intercession of godly persons.

"This I write you, thinking that His Grace may have given orders to have you brought to meet me, that, in case I died upon the way, you might once more see me and speak with me. But there is no longer any need of it, and you can remain at home, God having helped me so abundantly that I hope soon to return to you in good health.

"To-day we are at Gotha. I have written you four times, and am surprised that nothing has reached you.

"MARTIN LUTHER."
        "Tuesday after Reminiscere, 1537."

With tear-dimmed eyes Katharine read the letter, and then broke out in passionate lamentations, that she should be so far away from her beloved husband, when he most needed her care. She pictured to herself his sufferings, which her imagination painted in colors more somber than the reality. Full of her sorrow, she forgot to thank God for what He had done, until Aunt Lena reminded her of her duty.

"He wrote me four letters, and I received none of them," she complained. "Oh, how he must have longed for his wife and children. Yet none but strange faces were around him, and strange hands ministered to him. No doubt, they were kind and faithful, but his friends are not the same as his wife!"

She felt like a captive, and would fain have taken to herself wings, and hastened to him, whom her soul loved. Aunt Lena's arguments were without effect; and indeed, her uneasiness was but the instinct of an anxious heart. Through the magic tie of love, the souls of husband and wife were so linked together, that each in a measure felt the other's pain. Katharine's torturing anxiety, nowithstanding the reassuring tone of the letter, was but the premonition of further trouble. A relapse again brought her husband to the brink of the grave. It seemed to her as though he were stretching out his hands, and crying: "Come hither, and help me!"

She was not deceived. At Gotha Luther again lay sick unto death. Beside him stood Bugenhagen, and administered the Body of our Lord. Gathering up the last remnants of strength, the sick man said to his friends:

"I know, thank God, that I did right in storming the papacy with the Word of God; for it is a slanderer of God, of Christ and the Gospel. Pray my dear Philip, Jonas, Cruciger and others, to forgive me, wherein I may have wronged them. Comfort my Kate, and tell her to accept this sorrow with patience, forasmuch as she has had twelve years of happiness with me. She has served me faithfully,—may God reward her! You will care for her and the children, as far as you are able. My gracious prince, the Elector, said to me at Smalcald: 'Have no fear for your wife,—she shall be to me as my wife, and your children as my children.' And I trust in his promise, for he is a truthful man. Greet the deacons of our church, tell them to labor in God's name for the Gospel, as the Holy Spirit prompts them. I will not prescribe to them the manner and measure of their labors. May the merciful God strengthen them and all others, that they abide by the pure doctrine, and thank Him for their deliverance from the Antichrist. I have earnestly commended them to the Lord,—He will preserve them. I am now ready to die, if it is His Will. I commit my soul into the hands of the Father and of my Lord Jesus Christ, whom I preached and confessed here upon earth!"

Thus he spoke, waiting for death, and his voice, feeble as it was, yet reached to Wittenberg and was felt by the keen sense of love. Katharine's uneasiness became unbearable, her fears urging her to go to him,—perhaps she might be able to save his life.

She hired a carriage and hurried to Altenberg, praying and pleading without ceasing. Spalatin met her with the glad news: "The Doctor is coming,—he has announced his arrival." And he read to her the verses which he had received the day before:

"See Christ the Lord, my Spalatin,
In him who seeks a sheltering inn.
'Tis Luther, ill, would rest with thee,
'Till he to health restored may be.
Do so to Luther!—God regard thee—
As unto Him, God will reward thee.
Read in His word,—'tis written there:
'All of Christ's Body members are.'"

"Be comforted, dear Mistress Luther," continued Spalatin; "it fares better with him, for Melanchthon has added a few verses, written in a merry vein."

Katharine's suspense was soon relieved; her husband arrived on the following day. Although the disorder was not wholly cured, yet under her gentle care he soon regained his strength. She endeavored, with redoubled attention, to make up for what she had been unable to do before, and felt rejoiced when with a silent pressure of the hand, or a grateful look, the Doctor spoke his thanks.

When on Maundy Thursday the bells called the citizens of Wittenberg to the town-church, they once more beheld in the pulpit the well-beloved, familiar face, and again received from his inspired lips the words of life.

CHAPTER XX.

"LORD" KATE.

Two miles south of Leipsic, on the road which leads to Altenburg, lay, among green meadows and grain fields, a secluded little estate, named Zulsdorf. The buildings, overshadowed by great oaks, were in a ruinous condition, the leaking roofs and gaping wounds in the masonry crying out for repair. In the spacious court-yard stood three wagons, loaded with tiles and timber, sent by the Elector's orders. Carpenters and masons were already at hand, to repair the ravages of time, and to put the little vine-covered dwelling-house in a habitable condition.

A woman, going from room to room, was giving directions, and noting the progress of the work; she encouraged the workmen to industry, for soon, she said, her husband would arrive, and all must be in readiness. From the house she went into the stable, and inquired of the overseer into the condition of the fields; then she hastened to the garden, to direct the maids, who were at work there. Immediately adjoining the garden was a marsh, overgrown with bushes and tangled vines. Here, four men were busily engaged in draining and filling the waste place with good earth. These also received a passing visit and words of encouragement.

It was evident at a glance that this woman was no farmer's wife. Yet it was easy to see that she ruled with pleasure over her little domain. She looked rather pale and wan, as though but lately risen from a sick-bed,—but strong, joyous life beamed from her eyes.

From the orchard near by were heard ringing, childish voices. A little girl of twelve came running to her mother: "Mother, help me. Paul will not come down from the pear-tree; he has torn his jacket, and Margaret is eating too many pears!"

"Paul is a wild fellow!" said the mother, following her little daughter to the orchard, where punishment was speedily meted out to the culprits; but of so mild a nature, that the merriment was scarcely interrupted.

"Come into the house, children," she then said, "and hear what the dear father has written from Eisenach;" and all together they repaired to the sitting-room, which had already been made comfortable.

No doubt the reader has guessed that this busy mother is no other than Mistress Katharine Luther, and probably wonders, through what means she came into this neighborhood.

A cousin of Luther's, and the former owner of Zulsdorf, had fallen into debt. Urged by Katharine, Luther took pity on him, and for 610 florins, lent him by the Elector, bought the estate.

When he brought his wife the deeds of the purchase, her face beamed with pleasure. Life in the country had always been her secret desire; and her garden, her dairy and barn-yard, which for so many years had supplied the necessities of the large household, had become her pride.

Luther, too, was glad of the acquisition of this retired spot, seeing in it a sheltered home for his wife, when he should leave this world.

For a time it seemed as though God meant to provide for Katharine another resting place,—out yonder, where the peaceful dead lay sleeping in their silent chambers. Hitherto it had been her lot often-times to watch by her husband's sickbed,—now it was Luther, who knelt beside his suffering wife. The plague, which in the year 1539 again visited Wittenberg with renewed fury, had spared Luther's house. But in February of the following year, Katharine fell ill, and grew so rapidly worse, that the physician gave up all hope. But there is one remedy,—more potent than all the apothecary's drugs, and this remedy Luther knew well how to apply. The great master of the art of prayer lay upon his knees, and with his prayers wrested his wife from the grasp of death. On the 3d of March he wrote to a friend: "My Kate has recovered from her illness, which was nigh unto death. She again eats and drinks with appetite, and by means of tables and benches, she creeps about the house, and is once more learning to walk."

The purchase of Zulsdorf now seemed like an inspiration from on high. There, in the country-quiet, in the fresh, wholesome air, his dear Kate would regain her health and strength.

She hailed the proposition with grateful joy, yet she refused to leave, while her husband remained in Wittenberg. He was soon to go to Hagenau, on the Elector's business, and in loving forgetfulness of self, she made the preparations for his journey. After his departure, Katharine, with Lena, Paul and Gretchen repaired to Zulsdorf. John and Martin were obliged to stay behind, because of their studies, but obtained the promise, that they should follow, when their father returned from his journey.

Katharine had already passed several weeks in the pure air, and amid the congenial occupations of her country home, and felt so revived and invigorated, that she was able to give her husband the most satisfactory reports of her progress.

Luther's letters also were full of cheering news. His faith had achieved another victory, and had saved the life of his dear friend, Philip Melanchthon, who on the journey to Hagenau, suddenly fell ill. The famous physician Sturz, who had attended Luther during his illness at Smalcald, stood helpless by the sick man's bedside, when Dr. Martin Luther, that hero of love and trusting faith, entered the room.

His heart misgave him at the sight of his friend's glassy eyes and sunken cheeks, and he exclaimed, "God preserve us! How has the Devil marred this vessel of thy grace!" His fear endured but for a moment. He turned to the window, and with a loud voice pleaded with the Lord, to spare the life of his friend,—and the dying man was restored.

The rumor reached Zulsdorf; and soon after, a letter, dated the 10th of July, came from Eisenach, containing the following: "Master Philip has again returned from death to life. He still looks pale, but is of good cheer; jests and laughs with us, and eats with a hearty appetite. God be praised for His goodness! and do you also with us thank the dear Father in Heaven."

A few days later, another letter arrived.

"To my gracious Mistress Katharine Luther, of Bora and Zulsdorf, my sweetheart. My dear Mistress Kate. This is to inform your grace, that we are all, thank God, in good health. We eat like Bohemians, yet with moderation; drink like Germans, also with moderation, and are of good cheer, for our gracious lord Bishop Amsdorf, of Magdeburg, is our companion at table.—We have had such heat and drought, that day and night are well nigh unbearable. Come, thou blessed Judgment Day. Amen.

"Your lover, MARTIN LUTHER."

In a third letter he announced his coming, and it was this one, which Katharine now read to her children:

"To the Lady of Zulsdorf, Mistress Katharine Luther, my love. To-morrow—Tuesday—we purpose to leave this place. The diet at Hagenau has accomplished nothing,—labor, and time, and money have been wasted. Yet, even though we have done little else, we have drawn Master Philip from the grave, and will bring him home in good health, if it be God's will. Amen.

I am not certain, whether these letters will find you in Wittenberg or in Zulsdorf, otherwise I would write you more fully. God bless you!

"Your lover, MARTIN LUTHER."

Monday after St. James' Day, 1540.

The reading was interrupted by shouts of joy from the children. Only Lena's face was thoughtful and she said: "Dear father does not know where we are. How will he come to us?"

"Never fear, my child," returned her mother, "your father will not fail to find the way."

Three days later the children, who many times each day climbed the hill behind the house, from whence they could see a long stretch of the road, observed in the distance a cloud of dust,—a coach became visible, and in hot haste, they ran to meet their father, the two older ones mercilessly disregarding the little Gretchen, who in her hurry had stumbled and fallen.

Their shouts brought Mistress Katharine to the door. She saw her beloved husband, surrounded by the children, whom he had lifted into the wagon, and waved a welcome to him with her handkerchief.

With proud satisfaction she led the Doctor, who had scarcely been granted time to change his dusty traveling clothes, through her new kingdom, eager to show him all its glories. It took time,—-for everything had to be praised and explained. Luther listened patiently, for her joy was his, and with undisguised admiration he said at last: "Dear Lord Kate, I perceive that you are well qualified to rule over your new realm, and I will not withhold my respectful homage. But more than the kingdom, does the king himself please me, who has such round, rosy cheeks, and such a fresh, cheerful spirit."

In the sitting-room, the maids had in the mean time prepared a repast; and Luther proved to them that he had not exaggerated, when he wrote that he could eat like a Bohemian, and drink like a German. Even though, as was his custom, he ate and drank sparingly, yet his food and drink seemed to refresh him, and Katharine and the children listened with delight, as he related the incidents of his journey.

Interrupting his story, he suddenly said: "An old heathen of Rome, who was so happy as to possess a Zulsdorf of his own beyond the city walls, said of it:

"Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes
Angulus ridet."

"Which, interpreted, means 'Of all the places on the earth, this one to me is dearest.' Thus would I also sing. The Lord is very good. He does above all that we ask or think. If we petition Him for a piece of bread, He gives us a whole field of grain. I prayed God to give me back your life,—He gave me that, and Zulsdorf besides, and an abundant, fruitful year. This is like Paradise, and makes my heart warm! Truly, if after the heat and burden of the day, God grants me a season of rest at the end of my life, I would fain enjoy it here. I feel each day, that my strength is failing, and that my life is drawing to a close. When the time comes, I will yield the sovereignty to you, and you shall be my 'lord' Kate indeed, to whom I will become an obedient subject."

CHAPTER XXI.

LUTHER'S LAST WILL.

"Man proposes—God disposes." He who had labored more than all the others, was not to enjoy the coveted rest. Much still remained for him to do. Amid ceaseless toil and endeavor, the great life was to reach its end. Many a hard road must be traveled, before he should hear the Master's well-beloved voice: "Well done, thou good and faithful servant,—enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."

Yet he was weary, and his thoughts were constantly fixed upon death. To the many loving questions of friends he had but one answer: "Old age has come upon me, which is unsightly, cold and dreary. The pitcher is carried to the fountain until it breaks. I have lived long enough, and now my desire is, that God grant me a peaceful end, and that my useless body be put beneath the earth among His dead, and furnish food for the worms. Methinks the days that are past, were better than those that are to come; for it seems as though evil times were drawing near. God help His own. Amen."

When the Elector, in his loving anxiety, sent his court-physician to the ailing man, Luther thanked his gracious sovereign for the kindness shown to his old and worn-out body, and added: "I would have been pleased, had the dear Lord Jesus taken me from hence, for I am of little further use upon the earth."

It was not the despondency of approaching age, which caused him to take this gloomy view of events,—but rather the inspired, prophetic eye, which foresaw a troubled future. The present was already fraught with evil. The waves of political strife ran high. The relations between the Protestant and Catholic parties were strained to the utmost. In Wittenberg itself,—in the very city which had once been the torch-bearer of the Reformation, Luther was forced to censure the profligacy of the students; and had personally entered the lists against the jurists, and their perversion of equity. But the world's answer to his cry of anguish, wrung from a Christian conscience, and to the honest testimony of the champion of truth, was hatred and enmity. In their blindness, men forgot the debt which Christianity owed to Dr. Martin, and repaid him with insult and calumny. All this weighed upon the giant spirit, and made the thought of death most welcome to him.

In this mood he sat in his study one day, in the beginning of the year 1542, and wrote his last Will and Testament. He was prepared for its departure,—now he would arrange his temporal affairs, and put his house in order.

The document unconsciously shaped itself into a testimonial of honor and gratitude toward his wife. It seemed as though her husband desired to fix finally, in imperishable words, the love and respect he had never wearied of expressing.

The Will, which is still preserved, runs as follows: "I, Dr. Martin Luther, do herewith set forth, in my own handwriting, that on this present day, and in virtue of this document, I bequeath to my beloved and faithful wife Katharine, during her life-time, and to use according to her own pleasure:

"Firstly. The estate of Zulsdorf, which I have bought and put in order;

"Secondly. For her dwelling, the Bruno house, which was bought in Wolfgang's name;

"Thirdly. The cups and the trinkets,—such as rings, chains, silver and gold coins, which may be worth altogether about 1,000 florins.

"This I do, Firstly, because as my pious, true and faithful wife, she has at all times given me love and honor; and has borne to me and reared by God's blessing five living children;

"Secondly. Because I desire that she assume and discharge all my debts, (unless I pay them during my lifetime), which, as far as I know, amount to about 450 florins,—perhaps more.

"Thirdly and chiefly, Because I desire that she shall not receive from the children, but they from her; and that they honor her, and be subject to her, as God has commanded. I have seen how the Devil, by means of evil tongues, incites children to disobey this commandment,—especially where the mother is a widow, and the sons take wives, and the daughters husbands. I hold that a mother is the best guardian of her children, and will not use her property to their hurt or injury, but rather to their profit and advantage, they being her own flesh and blood.

"If, after my death, she should find herself under the necessity, or otherwise prompted to take another husband,—for I cannot set a limit to God's Will,—I have the sure confidence that she will continue to be a faithful mother to our children, and justly share with them her inheritance.

"And I herewith humbly pray my lord, the Elector John Frederick, that his grace will kindly confirm and administer this my bequest.

"I moreover request my friends, that they bear witness to the innocence of my dear Kate, if evil tongues should seek to work mischief, as though she had withheld anything from the children. I herewith testify that there is nothing beyond the cups and trinkets above enumerated. Everybody knows what has been my income from my gracious master; there has not been a farthing beyond, save such gifts as are reckoned with the trinkets. Yet my small income has sufficed for the support of a large household, which I count as a great and peculiar blessing. The marvel is, not that there is a lack of ready money, but that the debts are so few. I make this request, because the Devil, having failed to destroy me, may seek by all means to molest my Kate, because she has been, and, thank God, still is, Dr. Martin's wedded wife. This is my earnest and well-considered wish.

"MARTIN LUTHER.

"Given on the Day of the Epiphany, 1542."

On the same day, Luther sent for his friends, Melanchthon, Cruciger, and Bugenhagen, to affix their signatures as witnesses to the document. It was not shown to his wife, the Doctor fearing to arouse the sadness which overwhelmed her at the thought of separation.

A heavy weight was lifted from his mind, after he had thus fulfilled his duty toward his wife and children; and he was able, with greater fervor than ever, to say in his daily prayer: "I desire to depart and to be with Christ."

CHAPTER XXII.

LITTLE LENA.

It is written that "we must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God," and that "whom He loveth, He chasteneth."

Martin Luther and his wife had already passed through deep waters of grief and sorrow,—he, the hero in spiritual warfare, leading the way, and she following, keenly alive to every trouble that assailed her husband. But the season of trials was not yet past,—they were still, by God's Will, to taste the bitterest pain that can afflict a parent's heart.

One day, as they sat together under the pear-tree, surrounded by their children, the conversation chanced upon the sacrifice of Isaac.

"Good God," said Luther, "what a heart-break it must have been to Abraham, when he was commanded to slay his only and well-beloved son Isaac! What a painful journey that was, to Mount Moriah,—doubtless he told his wife nothing about it. Truly, had I been in his place, I believe I should have withstood."

His wife answered with a sigh: "I cannot grasp the thought, that God should require of us to sacrifice our own child."

Her objection again brought Luther upon the right path: "Dear Kate, yet you can believe that God suffered His only Son, our dear Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, to die for us? There was none He loved more, in Heaven or on earth, than His Son;—and yet He permitted Him to be crucified for us. Would not human reason say that God had shown Himself more tender and fatherly towards Caiaphas, Pilate, Herod, and the others, than toward His only Son? Abraham surely believed in the resurrection of the dead, when he was required to sacrifice his son, concerning whom the promise had been given, that through him the Messiah should be born, as the Epistle to the Hebrews testifies."

Katharine could not but admit that he was right; yet her eyes rested wistfully upon her children, at the thought that God might demand them of her.

This conversation was forgotten and the blooming health of her children reassured the mother's heart. Yet the angel of death was about to gather the fairest flower of them all.

One day in September of 1542, Lena, who was sitting at work beside her mother, grew suddenly pale and complained of great pain in her breast. The physician, who was summoned immediately, was unable to discover the seat of the disorder. He prescribed a potion; but in spite of the remedy, the child grew rapidly worse.

Father and mother watched by her bedside, each questioning the other's eyes, as though seeking comfort, and then, in their utter helplessness turning to Him, Who alone can save from death.

The child suffered much pain, but she lay quiet and uncomplaining, only the twitching muscles betrayed her agony. Her face seemed to grow more beautiful at the approach of death, as though the pure soul were shining through its transparent garment of flesh. When Katharine, seeing the anguish, which she was unable to relieve, could not restrain her tears, Lena's sweet, pleading eyes seemed to say to her: Do not grieve!

One morning Lena raised herself in bed, and said to her father: "Dear father, I have a great desire to see my brother Hans. Will you not send to Torgau, and ask Master Krodel, to give him leave of absence? He is diligent, and will quickly make up the lost time."

Luther tenderly stroked the cold forehead, and promised.

Two days later, Hans arrived. He did not know, why he was called home; for in his letter to Master Marcus Krodel, under whose instruction Hans was placed, Luther had begged him, not to mention Lena's illness, therefore great was the boy's alarm, when he saw his little sister thus changed.

Their meeting was touching,—even Luther, the strong man, turned away, to hide his tears.

From day to day the parents' hearts alternated between hope and fear. Katharine's anxious eyes sought to read the physician's face, dreading to put her question into words.

There was no lack of sympathy. All the friends of the family,—indeed, all Wittenberg, shared in their sorrow.

For two weeks, Katharine had scarcely slept, watching her child with the strength of self-forgetting love. But at last nature demanded her right. She sank exhausted upon her bed, and while sleep brought a few blessed hours of unconsciousness, her spirit was soothed with a lovely dream-vision. She saw her little daughter, radiant with light, floating upon a cloud, and two fair youths coming to lead the maiden to the marriage feast.

In the morning she related her dream to her husband, and added: "Nothing is impossible with God. I take my dream to be a happy omen."

Melanchthon, who was present, smiled sadly, and when Katharine had left the room, he said: "Do you read the vision thus, dear Martin? I would not take from your wife her hope, but knowing that you have already yielded the dear child to the Lord, I will tell you, what I take its meaning to be. The fair youths are the blessed angels, who will lead the maiden into the heavenly kingdom, to the true bridegroom."

Luther bowed his head and clasped his hands. After awhile he said: "I love her very dearly, and would fain keep her, if it is our Lord's will; but if it pleases Thee, dear Father, to take her, I will gladly know her to be with Thee."

After Melanchthon had gone, Luther returned to the sickroom, and seated himself beside the bed. The child's eyes were breaking, and her skin was almost transparent.

"Magdalena, my little daughter," said her father, with quivering lips, "you are content to stay with your father here,—and also content to go to the Father above?"

Softly, faintly, came the answer: "Yes, dear father, as God pleases."

The mother was kneeling upon the floor, weeping,—her face buried in her hands,—she could not witness the child's death.

Luther sought to comfort her: "Dear Kate, remember, whither Lena is going. The lines have fallen unto her in pleasant places. She has a goodly heritage."

But in the face of the last struggle, his strength forsook him. He sank upon his knees beside the bed, and wept bitterly, crying aloud: "O Lord, have mercy, and end her suffering!"

And God's angels flew softly through the chamber, kissed the maiden's brow, and led her home, to the heavenly bridegroom.

* * * * * * * * * *

Outside, upon the stairs, the other children were watching, silently holding each other's hands, when one of the maids, with tear-swollen eyes, came to them and said; "You have no longer a sister Lena!"

The children cried out, and stared in dismay at the messenger of sorrow. Paul sprang to his feet, and exclaimed angrily: "It is not true! She is not dead!"

"She is not dead!" repeated Gretchen, and rose to go to her sister. Then their mother came toward them, and in her face the children read the truth.

The house was very silent. Every one stepped softly, as though Lena were sleeping, and must not be awakened. And not only was Luther's house a house of mourning, but every household in Wittenberg grieved in sympathy.

With a trembling hand the stricken father wrote to his friend Justus Jonas, who in the preceding year had removed to Halle:

"My dearest Jonas! This is to tell you, that my dear daughter Magdalena has been born again, into the eternal kingdom of Christ. We,—that is my wife and I,—should truly feel only joy and gratitude at this happy and blessed departure, by which our child is removed from the power of the flesh, the world, the Turk and the devil. Yet natural love so masters us, that we cannot submit without sobs and tears and much heart-breaking. For she had taken a strong hold upon our affections,—our gentle, obedient daughter—by her looks, her words and her behavior, in life and in death,—and even the death of Christ cannot wholly wipe away our grief. She was, as you know, of a sweet and gentle disposition, and well-beloved of all. Praised be our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath thus called and glorified her. Oh, that we, and all who are dear to us, might have such a death,—yea, and such a life! This I ask of God, the Father of all grace and mercy. MARTIN LUTHER."

Then he sought in prayer the strength he needed, for what remained to be done. When he entered the death-chamber, the mother was kneeling beside her child, whom she had herself prepared for her last resting-place, and was placing a branch of rosemary between the cold fingers.

How fair and lovely she was, her sweet, little Magdalena. Even death could not mar nor destroy her gentle beauty, which seemed only glorified,—as it will be upon the last day, when the grave shall yield up its prey, and what was sown in corruption, shall be raised in incorruption.

On the third day, the mortal remains of little Lena lay in her flower-strewn coffin, which, because of the crowds of people, had been placed in the court under the pear-tree. Luther pressed a last kiss upon the still face. "Thou dear child,—it is well with thee! Thou wilt rise again, and shine as a star,—yea, as the sun. My spirit rejoices, but according to the flesh I am very sorrowful; for parting is painful beyond measure. It is strange,—to know that she is at peace,—and yet to mourn!"

He thanked the people who had came to testify their sympathy, adding: "Rejoice with me, for I have now a blessed saint in Heaven. Oh! may we all have such a death as hers!"

"Yes, Reverend Doctor," exclaimed a voice from the crowd, "you say truly,—yet every one would fain keep his own."

Luther replied: "I am glad, that she is in Heaven; my sorrow is all of the flesh."

Then Katharine, supported by Melanchthon's wife, tottered toward the coffin, to bid her child a last farewell. At the sight of her, the bystanders began to weep and lament aloud, and Wolfgang, who had also approached, turned away—he could not see the mother's grief.

Lena's grave was beside that of her sister Elizabeth, and for the second time, Wolfgang must needs force his trembling hands to fashion a cross, upon which Luther wrote these words:

"I little Magdalen, sleep here,
I'm Doctor Luther's daughter dear,
In this small chamber I shall rest,
Till summoned forth with all the blest;
Tho' born in sin, not lost am I—
As was decreed—eternally.
I live, and all is well and good:
Christ ransomed me with His own blood."

When Luther returned from the burial, he said to his wife. "Our little daughter is at rest, both in body and soul. We Christians should not murmur,—knowing that it must be thus, and being sure of eternal life: for God's promise, given through His dear Son, cannot fail."

"Ah, you are a strong man," sighed Katharine; "but a mother cannot so quickly master her sorrow, and a woman's heart is a weak and timid thing. God will have patience with me—I will not murmur."

"Weep freely, dearest Kate," said Luther, "therefore were tears given us, and God knows best, what miserable vessels of clay we are. He remembers, that we are but dust, and bears with us, that His strength may be made perfect in our weakness. And consider this: Time is short; in a little while we shall meet again with rejoicing, and our joy no man taketh from us."

She clasped her hands, lifted her sad eyes toward Heaven, and prayed: "Yea, Lord Jesus, come quickly."

CHAPTER XXIII.

ONCE MORE IN ZULSDORF.

Three years had passed. To the loss of their child, another sorrow was added. Soon after Lena's death, the wife of Justus Jonas died. She was a good and noble woman, Katharine's dearest friend; and it was to her, Luther hoped, his wife might after his death, look for comfort and support. Once more, Luther's house was turned into a house of mourning. But in time the wounds healed,—and sharp grief gave place to loving, tender memories.

The simple, peaceful life at Zulsdorf had done much to restore the stricken hearts. Small and modest as was their home, yet to the great man it was a paradise, and to Katharine's contented spirit, a kingdom. Her taste for improvements involved her in many a struggle with the Elector's dishonest officials, who sought to draw their own profit from every delivery of building material. Yet these annoyances were as nothing, compared with the delights of country life.

Again, we find her busy in her domain, assisting Gretchen in wreathing the entrance with evergreens, and in strewing fresh sand upon the paths.

It was a glorious morning in July. Sweet summer scents rose from the fields, the clear air rang with the song of birds and the chirping of insects, and all created things seemed full of the joy of life.

"They must soon be coming," said Katharine, her eyes scanning the distant road. But hours passed; and it was already afternoon, when Katharine, from the garden, heard the sound of approaching wheels. She hastened to the court,—a wagon rolled in at the gate, and Luther and his son John alighted.

"Praised be God, we are here," exclaimed Luther, after the first greeting was over. "I feel like a mariner, who has reached a safe harbor, after the dangers and tempests of the sea. I thank the dear heavenly Father, that He has prepared this refuge for me. His mercy is with me evermore."

He seemed tired, and his face was pale and worn. After he had refreshed himself with a cup of milk and a piece of bread, he sat down beside his wife, and turning to John and Margaret, said:

"Go away for a little while, children; I need rest."

He lay down upon a couch, and taking his wife's hand, looked long and earnestly into her face. "My dear wife," he said at last, "I have much to tell you, that will no doubt astonish you. I cannot continue in Wittenberg, and I have bidden farewell to the city, where I labored for seven and thirty years."

"Doctor," cried Katharine, in amazement.

Luther continued: "It was a difficult decision to make; but it must needs be. My heart has grown cold, and I cannot abide in a city, where disorder and lawlessness reign supreme; where none heed my voice, and even the theologians no longer stand firm. Among the young people the profligacy of former times has broken out again, and even honest maidens go about the streets, arrayed in an unseemly manner. The priests aid the disorderly doings, by favoring secret betrothals. It is my wish therefore, that you sell our house, and all that we possess in Wittenberg. It would be best for us to continue here at Zulsdorf, while I am with you; and my salary, which the Elector will not withdraw, will assist in keeping the household. After my death the various elements in Wittenberg will not suffer you to dwell there. It were better, therefore, that the change were made during my life-time. On my journey hither, I learned many things, that made me weary of the town, and I will not return to it, unless it be God's Will. The day after to-morrow I wish to go to Merseburg, where our dear prince George of Anhalt is at present administering the bishopric. He has been found faithful beyond measure, not only attending diligently to the outward duties of his office, but preaching to his people from the pulpit. I will rather eat the bread of poverty hereafter, than torture my few remaining days with the sight of the misrule at Wittenberg, and lose the fruits of my toilsome life. They know nothing as yet of my determination, which was formed on the way. I will write to Bugenhagen and to master Philip,—they may make it known to the University."

While he spoke, Katharine moved closer to her husband. Her eyes brightened, as he proceeded. When he paused, she pressed his hand, and said: "Dearest Doctor, you are giving me a great pleasure. I have long wished that we might remain here, where it is so full of God's peace. Yet I fear, that they will not suffer you to rest, but will urge you back again into the struggle."

"Be at ease, dear wife," said Luther, "it shall be as God wills. I will write at once."

She brought him pen, ink and paper, and an hour later, he entrusted to the coachman, who had brought him, two letters, to be delivered on his return to Wittenberg.

Three happy, restful days followed. The quiet restored Luther's spirits. He noted with interest the well-planned improvements made by his wife; tasted and enjoyed the various fruits, grown on his own trees, and addressed many a merry, jesting speech to his "lord" Kate. The affection and trustfulness of his laborers gave him much pleasure. He conversed with them in their own language, and they were greatly rejoiced at the kindliness of the great man, of whom they knew that he was the friend of kings and nobles.

After a few days he felt so refreshed, that he was able to set out upon the journey to Merseburg, in the carriage sent him by prince George. On the ad of August, he accompanied the princely ecclesiastic to Halle, where the latter was to receive the rite of ordination at his hands. He preached in the Cathedral to vast crowds of people, and then proceeded to Leipsic, where men were longing to hear the words of truth from his lips.

When he returned to Zulsdorf, he found his wife in tears. Again, her forebodings had been verified. "Ah, dearest Doctor," she cried, "our joy is at an end. Here is a letter from the Elector,—it came yesterday."

Luther read the Elector's words of dismay and sorrow at his determination. The sovereign gave his solemn promise, if Luther consented to remain at Wittenberg, to use his influence in removing the causes of his complaints, whose justice he admitted. He most urgently entreated him to desist from his purpose, which would have further disastrous consequences; Melanchthon having declared that he would not remain in Wittenberg, without his friend Martin.

Luther had scarcely finished, when a stir was heard without. As he opened the door, Melanchthon and the burgomaster of Wittenberg, Ambrose Reuter entered. They added their pleadings to those of the Elector, and were, if possible, even more pressing.

Luther could not resist. "As God pleases," he said resignedly, with a glance toward his wife, who stood by the window, scarcely able to restrain her tears.

It was like a triumphal procession, when on the 16th of August, Luther, with his wife and eldest son, seated in the carriage sent him by the Senate of Wittenberg, entered the Elstergate. The better elements welcomed the beloved teacher with jubilant delight; many of the erring ones repented, and those that remained incorrigible, were summarily dealt with by the University and the municipal authorities. With inward satisfaction, Luther saw this return to better things, a result to which he gladly sacrificed the coveted rest; as, all his life long, it had been the rule of his thinking and acting, to forget himself, for the welfare of others.

CHAPTER XXIV.

PARTING.

The storm raged furiously, dashing heavy masses of snow against the windows. The rooks hid in the crevices of the masonry, scarcely venturing forth in search of their daily bread. Men whose business forced them to go abroad, wrapped themselves in their warm cloaks, which failed to defend them against the piercing cold.

Mistress Katharine sat at home, with Margaret, her youngest child. Her face was pale and care-worn, and told of many sleepless nights. Anxiety for her husband lay like a stone upon her heart; for again he had been obliged to leave his home,—the man, now old, feeble, and broken in health, for whom there was to be no rest upon earth.

In October and December of the past year, at the request of the counts of Mansfeld, he had journeyed to his former home, to act as peacemaker between the discordant factions. Now, he had gone for the third time, and days of sorrow and anxiety had followed his departure. Katharine had no peace. She sought the seclusion of her chamber, to dwell in spirit with her absent husband, until the solitude grew unbearable. But when she saw in Margaret's eyes the reflection of her own fears, she again longed to be alone.

She knew that her husband was tenderly cared for by her three sons and their tutor, Ambrose Rudtfelt; but it was not within their power to stay the inclemency of the weather, nor relieve the pains which tortured him. And from her heart rose the passionate prayer: "Lord, if Thou wouldst but send the springtime, for Thy servant's sake!"

And behold,—the spring came!

The wind changed, the ice broke, and the snow melted before the warm breath of the south.

With a grateful heart, Katharine breathed the balmy air. The lark's trill overhead seemed to her the voice of an angel, bringing God's answer to her prayer; and her lips whispered: "Thou art the God, that doest wonders!"

The following day, she was able to add: "Thou doest exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think!" A letter arrived, dated from Halle, which quieted her fears. Again she read the precious, familiar, jesting words, and knew that her husband was of good cheer. Gretchen was quickly called, to hear the letter read:

"To my dear, kind Katharine Luther in Wittenberg. Grace and peace in the Lord. Dear Kate: We arrived in Halle to-day at 8 o'clock, but did not go to Eisleben, having met a huge Anabaptist, with high waves and masses of ice, which overran the earth, and threatened us with immersion. Neither could we return, because of the Mulda, and must fain lie quiet here at Halle, between the waters. Not that we desire to drink them, for we have good Rhenish wine, and Torgau beer; we have refreshed ourselves and are of good cheer, waiting for the Saale to spend its fury. The coachmen, and we also, fear to tempt God by venturing into the water, inasmuch as the Devil hates us, and we think it wiser to avoid misfortune, than to regret it afterwards; nor do we deem it necessary, to give the pope and his servants cause for rejoicing. I had not believed it possible, that the Saale could cause such a disturbance, and that it would thus flood the stony roads. Had you been here, you would have advised us to do as we have done; and for once, your advice would have been followed.

"God bless you, Amen! MARTIN LUTHER.

"Halle, on the feast of the Conversion
    of St. Paul, A.D. 1546."

The joy caused by this letter was still fresh, when another followed, dated from Eisleben:

"To my dearest mistress Katharine Luther, Doctor of Zulsdorf, lady of the pig market, and so forth.

"Grace and peace in Christ, and my poor, old, worn-out love to you, my dear Kate. I was very faint on the road, as we neared Eisleben,—by my own fault. Had you been here, you would have said it was the Jews' doing; for near Eisleben we passed through a village, where many Jews are living. Perhaps it was they who attacked me with so fierce a blast; for as we reached the village, a cold wind blew into the carriage and upon my head, that it seemed as though my brain were turning to ice. This may have caused the dizziness. But I am now, thank God, well again, except that the fair women of this place give me much trouble.

"When the more important matters are arranged, I must see to it, that we take some measures with regard to the Jews. Count Albert does not favor them, and if it is God's Will, I shall help him from the pulpit...

"The day before yesterday, your sons went to Mansfeld, Hans having begged the others to go with him. I do not know what they are doing there. If it were still cold, they might be shivering; but now that it is warm, they may do and suffer other things, as it pleases them. May God bless you and all the household. My greetings to all.

"MARTIN LUTHER, your old lover.

"February 1st, 1546."

The letters which followed, written on the sixth, seventh, and tenth of February, brought good tidings, and relieved Katharine of all uneasiness. Luther jestingly thanked her, "the saintly mistress Katharine Luther, in Wittenberg," for her anxiety in his behalf, which kept her awake at night. He tells her that, since she has been thus troubling herself, a fire broke out near his chamber-door, which might have consumed him; and that furthermore, a great stone almost fell upon his head, by which he would have been crushed, as in a mousetrap. "I fear, if you do not cease from troubling, that the earth will open and swallow us, and the elements pursue us to our destruction. Do you pray, and leave the care of us all to God; for it is written: Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee."

Luther's last letter, of the 14th, brought great rejoicing to his family, "Father is coming! Father is coming!" shouted little Margaret, falling upon her mother's neck.

He has finished his work; he has reconciled the factions, and sent home a basket of trout, a gift from the Countess Albert, and his bodily suffering is less. Everywhere he received high honors, he says, yet he longs to be at home, and hopes to reach it before the end of the week.

"Father is coming! Father is coming!"

He came; but his home-coming was not as the fond hearts of his wife and child had hoped.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Why are the bells tolling thus mournfully throughout the German land? What is the meaning of the bitter tears, shed by the German people! Why does the Elector's messenger stand sad and trembling at the door of Luther's house in Wittenberg, fearing to deliver to mistress Luther the letter he bears? His heart is well-nigh breaking,—he brings her the message, that since yesterday, she is a widow—her children orphans!

* * * * * * * * * * *

A long and mournful procession moved along the road from Eisleben. They were bringing the man of God, who had journeyed to his old home, that his birth-place might also become the place of his death. Behind the heavy, leaden coffin followed a stream of mourners. All had lost a beloved father,—all were orphaned by his death. From every church-tower the brazen tongues sent forth their last farewell. In the villages the peasants left their work, put on their holiday attire, and in silence received the procession; from the city gates, the clergy, the Senate, the people and the schools, chanting psalms and hymns, came forth to meet the sad convoy.

As they approached Wittenberg, its streets grew silent and deserted, for all the people had hastened out upon the road leading to Pratau.

In her lonely chamber sits a widow; her hands lie folded in her lap; her eyes are red with weeping; she is weary—oh so weary. Her heart is exhausted; she can scarcely grasp a thought; and like a blessed gift of God, a dull apathy has settled upon her spirit, and blunted her grief. Her husband is dead, and she could not be at his side, at the supreme moment. If, by God's counsel, she was destined to lose him, must she be denied the last consolation of ministering to him, and closing his eyes?

She sat still,—unknowing, unheeding, overwhelmed by her great, unspeakable grief!

Hark! the bells are tolling! The people are streaming into the streets!

She rose and pressed both hands to her head. The faithful Wolfgang entered, pale and trembling. Scarcely restraining his sobs, he took her hand.

"The Doctor is coming,—let us go to meet him!"

Katharine suffered him to lead her. She saw nothing of the surging crowd. The world was blotted from her sight,—all, save the coffin that held her husband's clay, and was followed by an endless procession of lords and noblemen on horseback, professors, students, senators, and countless multitudes of men, women and children, all weeping and lamenting aloud.

She was led to a little carriage that had been provided for her, and thus she followed her beloved husband, whose face she was never again to see upon earth.

The procession moved toward the Castle-church, and entered the door, upon which, twenty-nine years ago, the hands, now cold in death, had nailed the ninety-five theses, and the blows of whose hammer re-echoed throughout Christendom. Justus Jonas, who in Eisleben had spoken before the open coffin, preached the funeral sermon on 1 Thess. 4: 13-18. His words were scarcely heard amid the sobs and cries of the people. Melanchthon, in the name of the University, then delivered a latin address, and the remains of the prophet of God sank into their last resting place at the foot of the altar.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Katharine looked on. Her heart was empty. She had no tears.

When all was over, Melanchthon, the faithful, took her by the hand, and led her to her home, now so silent and desolate. He sought to comfort her, but his words seemed cold and powerless, over against such sorrow as hers. She found her children and her household awaiting her. When they saw her, they broke out into fresh lamentations.

Then God sent her help. In the face of the universal mourning, her heart awoke to renewed trust in God; and with glowing eyes and uplifted hands she cried: "My flesh and my heart faileth; but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever."

BOOK THIRD.

KATHARINE VON BORA;

THE WIDOW