At the same time, they err greatly who imagine that this man’s courage was ferocity—mere coarse, disobedient obstinacy and savagery—as many do. Far from that. There may be an absence of fear, which arises from the absence of thought or affection, from the presence of hatred and stupid fury. We do not value the courage of the tiger highly. With Luther it was far otherwise; no accusation could be more unjust than this mere ferocious violence brought against him. A most gentle heart withal, full of pity and love, as, indeed, the truly valiant heart ever is. The tiger before a stronger foe flies. The tiger is not what we call valiant, only fierce and cruel. I know few things more touching than those soft breathings of affection—soft as a child’s or a mother’s—in this great, wild heart of Luther. So honest, unadulterated with any cant; homely, rude in their utterance; pure as water welling from the rock. What, in fact, was all this downpressed mood of despair and reprobation which we saw in his youth but the outcome of pre-eminent, thoughtful gentleness, affections too keen and pure? It is the curse such men as the poor poet Cowper fall into. Luther, to a slight observer, might have seemed a timid, weak man; modesty, affectionate, shrinking tenderness the chief distinction of him. It is a noble valor which is roused in a heart like this, once stirred up into defiance, all kindled into a heavenly blaze.
In Luther’s “Table-Talk,” a posthumous book of anecdotes and sayings collected by his friends—the most interesting now of all the books proceeding from him—we have many beautiful, unconscious displays of the man and what sort of nature he had. His behavior at the death-bed of his little daughter—so still, so great and loving—is among the most affecting things. He is resigned that his little Magdalene should die, yet longs inexpressibly that she might live—follows, in awe-struck thought, the flight of her little soul through those unknown realms. Awestruck—most heartfelt, we can see; and sincere—for, after all dogmatic creeds and articles, he feels what nothing it is that we know or can know. His little Magdalene shall be with God, as God wills; for Luther, too, that is all.
Once he looks out from his solitary Patmos, the castle of Coburg, in the middle of the night. The great vault of immensity, long flights of clouds sailing through it—dumb, gaunt, huge—who supports all that? “None ever saw the pillars of it; yet it is supported.” God supports it. We must know that God is great, that God is good; and trust, where we can not see. Returning home from Leipsic once, he is struck by the beauty of the harvest-fields. How it stands, that golden yellow corn, on its fair taper stem, its golden head bent, all rich and waving there; the meek earth, at God’s kind bidding, has produced it once again—the bread of man! In the garden of Wittenberg, one evening at sunset, a little bird has perched for the night. That little bird, says Luther; above it are the stars and deep heaven of worlds; yet it has folded its little wings; gone trustfully to rest there as in its home. The maker of it has given it, too, a home! Neither are mirthful turns wanting—there is a great, free, human heart in this man.
The common speech of him has a rugged nobleness; idiomatic, expressive, genuine; gleams here and there with beautiful poetic tints. One feels him to be a great brother man. His love of music, indeed—is not this, as it were, the summary of all these affections in him? Many a wild unutterability he spoke forth from him in the tones of his flute. The devils fled from his flute, he says. Death-defiance on the one hand, and such love of music on the other—I could call these the two opposite poles of a great soul; between these two all great things had room.
Luther’s face is to me expressive of him. In Kranach’s best portraits I find the true Luther. A rude plebeian face, with its huge, crag-like brows and bones—the emblem of rugged energy—at first, almost a repulsive face. Yet in the eyes especially there is a wild, silent sorrow; an unnamable melancholy, the element of all gentle and fine affections; giving to the rest the true stamp of nobleness. Laughter was in this Luther, as we said; but tears also were there. Tears also were appointed him; tears and hard toil. The basis of his life was sadness, earnestness. In his latter days, after all triumphs and victories, he expresses himself heartily weary of living. He considers that God alone can and will regulate the course things are taking, and that perhaps the day of judgment is not far. As for him, he longs for one thing—that God would release him from his labor, and let him depart and be at rest. They understood little of the man who cite this in discredit of him! I will call this Luther a true great man; great in intellect, in courage, affection, and integrity; one of our most lovable and precious men. Great, not as a hewn obelisk, but as an Alpine mountain; so simple, honest, spontaneous; not setting up to be great at all; there for quite another purpose than being great! Ah, yes, unsubduable granite, piercing far and wide into the heavens; yet, in the clefts of its fountains, green, beautiful valleys with flowers! A right spiritual hero and prophet; once more, a true son of nature and fact, for whom these centuries, and many that are to come yet, will be thankful to Heaven.
IGNATIUS DE LOYOLA (SAINT), FOUNDER OF THE ORDER OF JESUS.
By Sir JAMES STEPHEN.
[Don Inigo Lopez de Recalde de Loyola, born in 1491, died in 1556. The scion of one of the noblest families in Spain, he was courtier and soldier till he was severely wounded in defending the city of Pampeluna against the French. A prisoner and a cripple, he became a religious enthusiast and ascetic, and conceived the idea of forming a body of religious soldiery for the defense of the Roman hierarchy against the assaults of its foes. After studying for the priesthood and taking orders, he went to Rome and with some difficulty persuaded the pontiff Paul III, who dreaded the fanatical discipline of such an order as much as he recognized its value, to issue a bull in sanction of his plan. The Society of Jesus was thus organized, and soon became, as it has continued to be, the most powerful bulwark of Romanism, the most active center of aggression and propagandism. The foundation of this order is recognized by historians as an epoch in the history of religion.]
Descended from an illustrious family, Ignatius had in his youth been a courtier and a cavalier, and, if not a poet, at least a cultivator of poetry. At the siege of Pampeluna his leg was broken, and, after the failure of mere vulgar leeches, was set by a touch from the hand of the prince of apostles. Yet St. Peter’s therapeutic skill was less perfect than might have been expected from so exalted a chirurgeon; for a splinter still protruded through the skin, and the limb was shrunk and shortened. To regain his fair proportions, Ignatius had himself literally stretched upon the rack; and expiated by a long confinement to his couch this singular experiment to reduce his refractory bones and sinews. Books of knighthood relieved the lassitude of sickness, and when these were exhausted, he betook himself to a series of still more marvelous romances. In the legends of the Saints the disabled soldier discovered a new field of
LOYOLA.