With such tremendous trials there came also to the outcast monk at the Wartburg other minor temptations. He had long ago, by almost superhuman intellectual activity, overcome what were then regarded with great distrust as fleshly impulses; now nature asserted herself vigorously, and he several times asked his friend Melanchthon to pray for him on this account. Then Fate would have it that during these very weeks the restless mind of Carlstadt in Wittenberg fell upon the question of the marriage of priests, and reached the conclusion, in a pamphlet on celibacy, that the vow of chastity was not binding on priests and monks. The Wittenbergers in general agreed—first of all, Melanchthon, whose position in this matter was freest from prejudice, since he had never received ordination and had been married for two years.

So at this point a tangle of thoughts and moral questions was caused from without in Luther's soul, the threads of which were destined to involve his whole later life. Whatever heartfelt joy and worldly happiness was granted him from this time on depended on the answer which he found to this question. It was the happiness of his home-life which made it possible for him to endure the later years. Only in it did the flower of his abundant affection develop. So Fate graciously sent the lonely man the message which was to unite him anew and more firmly than ever with his people; and the way in which Luther dealt with this question is again characteristic. His pious disposition and the conservative strain in his nature revolted against the hasty and superficial manner in which Carlstadt reasoned.

It may be assumed that much in his own feelings, at that particular time, made him suspicious that the Devil might be using this dubious question to tempt the children of God, and yet at this very moment, in his confinement, he had special sympathy for the poor monks behind monastery walls. He searched the Scriptures. He had soon disposed of the marriage of priests, but there was nothing in the Bible about monks. "The Scripture is silent; man is uncertain." And then he was struck by the ridiculous idea that even his nearest friends might marry. He writes to the cautious Spalatin, "Good Lord! Our Wittenbergers want to give wives to the monks too. Well, they are not going to hang one on my neck;" and he gives the ironical warning, "Look out that you do not marry too." But the problem still occupied him incessantly. Life is lived rapidly in such great times. Gradually, through Melanchthon's reasoning, and, we may assume, after fervent prayer, he found certainty. What settled the matter, unknown to himself, must have been the recognition that the opening of the monasteries had become reasonable and necessary for a more moral foundation of civil life. For almost three months he had struggled over the question. On the first of November, 1521, he wrote the letter to his father already cited.

The effect of his words upon the people was incalculable. Everywhere there was a stir in the cloisters. From the doors of almost all the monasteries and convents monks and nuns stole out—at first singly and in secret flight; then whole convents broke up. When Luther with greater cares weighing upon him returned the next spring to Wittenberg, the runaway monks and nuns gave him much to do. Secret letters were sent to him from all quarters, often from excited nuns who, the children of stern parents, had been put into convents, and now, without money and without protection, sought aid from the great reformer. It was not unnatural that they should throng to Wittenberg. Once nine nuns came in a carriage from the aristocratic establishment at Nimpfschen—among them a Staupitz, two Zeschaus, and Catherine von Bora. At another time sixteen nuns were to be provided for, and so on. He felt deep sympathy for these poor souls. He wrote in their behalf and traveled to find them shelter in respectable families. Sometimes indeed he felt it too much of a good thing, and the hordes of runaway monks were an especial burden to him. He complains that "they wish to marry immediately and are the most incompetent people for any kind of work." Through his bold solution of a difficult question he gave great offense. He himself had painful experiences; for among those who now returned in tumult to civil life there were, to be sure, high-minded men, but also those who were rude and worthless. Yet all this never made him hesitate for a moment. As usual with him, he was made the more determined by the opposition he met. When, in 1524, he published the story of the sufferings of a novice, Florentina of Oberweimar, he repeated on the title page what he had already so often preached: "God often gives testimony in the Scriptures that He will have no compulsory service, and no one shall become His except with pleasure and love. God help us! Is there no reasoning with us? Have we no sense and no hearing? I say it again, God will have no compulsory service. I say it a third time, I say it a hundred thousand times, God will have no compulsory service."

So Luther entered upon the last period of his life. His disappearance in the Thuringian forest had caused an enormous stir. His adversaries trembled before the anger which arose in town and country against those who were called murderers. But the interruption of his public activity became fateful for him. So long as in Wittenberg he was the central point of the struggle, his word, his pen, had held sovereign control over the great intellectual movement in north and south; now it worked without method in different directions, in many minds. One of the oldest of Luther's allies began the confusion. Wittenberg itself became the scene of a strange commotion. Then Luther could endure the Wartburg no longer. Once before he had been secretly in Wittenberg; now, against the Elector's will, he returned there publicly. And there began a heroic struggle against old friends, and against the conclusions drawn from his own doctrine. His activity was superhuman. He thundered without cessation from the pulpit, in the cell his pen flew fast; but he could not reclaim every dissenting mind. Even he could not prevent the rabble of the towns from breaking out in savage fury against the institutions of the ancient Church and against hated individuals, nor the excitement of the people from brewing political storms, nor the knights from rising against the princes, and the peasants against the knights. What was more, he could not prevent the intellectual liberty which he had won for the Germans from producing, even in pious and learned men, an independent judgment about creed and life, a judgment which was contrary to his own convictions. There came the gloomy years of the Iconoclasts, the Anabaptists, the Peasant Wars, the regrettable dissensions over the sacrament. How often at this time did Luther's form rise sombre and mighty over the contestants! How often did the perversion of mankind and his own secret doubts fill him with anxious care for the future of Germany!

For in a savage age which was accustomed to slay with fire and sword, this German had a high, pure conception of the battles of the intellect such as no other man attained. Even in the times of his own greatest danger he mortally hated any use of violence. He himself did not wish to be sheltered by his prince—indeed he desired no human protection for his doctrine. He fought with a sharp quill against his foes, but he burnt only a paper at the stake. He hated the Pope as he did the Devil, but he always preached a love of peace and Christian tolerance of the Papists. He suspected many of being in secret league with the Devil, but he never burned a witch. In all Catholic countries the pyres flamed high for the adherents of the new creed; even Hutten was under strong suspicion of having cut off the ears of a few monks. So humane was Luther's disposition that he entertained cordial sympathy with the humiliated Tetzel and wrote him a consolatory letter. To obey the authorities whom God has established was his highest political principle. Only when the service of his God demanded it did his opposition flame up. When he left Worms he had been ordered not to preach—he who was just on the point of being declared an outlaw. He did not submit to the prohibition, but his honest conscience was fearful that this might be interpreted as disobedience. His conception of the position of the Emperor was still quite the antiquated and popular one. As subjects obey the powers that be, so the princes and electors had to obey the Emperor according to the law of the land.

With the personality of Charles V. he had human sympathy all his life—not only at that first period when he greeted him as "Dear Youngster," but also later, when he well knew that the Spanish Burgundian was granting nothing more than political tolerance to the German Reformation. "He is pious and quiet," Luther said of him; "he talks in a year less than I do in a day. He is a child of fortune." He liked to praise the Emperor's moderation, modesty, and forbearance. Long after he had condemned Charles' policy, and in secret distrusted his character, he insisted upon it among his table companions that the master of Germany should be spoken of with reverence, and said apologetically to the younger ones, "A politician cannot be so frank as we of the clergy."

Even as late as 1530 it was his view that it was wrong for the Elector to take arms against his Emperor. Not until 1537 did he fall in reluctantly with the freer views of his circle, but he thought then that the endangered prince had no right to make the first attack. The venerable tradition of a firm, well articulated federal State was still thus active in this man of the people at a time when the proud structure of the old Saxon and Franconian empires was already crumbling away. Yet in such loyalty there was no trace of a slavish spirit. When his prince once urged him to write an open letter, his sense of truth rose against the title of the Emperor, "Most Gracious Lord," for he said the Emperor was not graciously disposed toward him. And in his frequent intercourse with those of rank, he showed a reckless frankness which more than once alarmed the courtiers. In all reverence he spoke truths to his own prince such as only a great character may express and only a good-hearted one can listen to. On the whole he cared little for the German princes, much as he esteemed a few. Frequent and just were his complaints about their incapacity, their lawlessness, and their vices. He also liked to treat the nobility with irony; the coarseness of most of them was highly distasteful to him. He felt a democratic displeasure toward the hard and selfish jurists who managed the affairs of the princes, worked for favor, and harassed the poor; for the best of them he admitted only a very doubtful prospect of the mercy of God. His whole heart, on the other hand, was with the oppressed. He sometimes blamed the peasants for their stolidity, and their extortions in selling their grain, but he often praised their class, looked with cordial sympathy upon their hardships, and never forgot that by birth he belonged among them.

But all this belonged to the temporal order; he served the spiritual. The popular conception was also firmly fixed in his mind that two controlling powers ought to rule the German nation in common—the Church and the princes; and he was entirely right in proudly contrasting the sphere where lay his rights and duties with that of the temporal powers. In his spiritual field there were solidarity, a spirit of sacrifice, and a wealth of ideals, while in secular affairs narrow selfishness, robbery, fraud, and weakness were to be found everywhere. He fought vigorously lest the authorities should assume to control matters which concerned the pastor and the independence of the congregations. He judged all policies according to what would benefit his faith, and according to the dictates of his Bible. Where the Scriptures seemed endangered by worldly politics, he protested, caring little who was hit. It was not his fault that he was strong and the princes were weak, and no blame attaches to him, the monk, the professor, the pastor, if the league of Protestant princes was weak as a herd of deer against the crafty policy of the Emperor. He himself was well aware that Italian diplomacy was not his strong point. If the active Landgrave of Hesse happened not to follow the advice of the clergy, Luther, in his heart, respected him all the more: "He knows what he wants and succeeds, he has a fine sense of this world's affairs."

Now, after Luther's return to Wittenberg, the flood of democracy was rising among the people. He had opened the monasteries; now the people called for redress against many other social evils, such as the misery of the peasants, the tithes, the traffic in benefices, the bad administration of justice. Luther's honest heart sympathized with this movement. He warned and rebuked the landed gentry and the princes. But when the wild waves of the Peasant War flooded his own spiritual fields, and bloody deeds of violence wounded his sensibilities; when he felt that the fanatics and demagogues were exerting upon the hordes of peasants an influence which threatened destruction to his doctrine; then, in the greatest anger, he threw himself into opposition to the uncouth mob. His call to the princes sounded out, wild and warlike; the most horrible thing had fallen upon him—the gospel of love had been disgraced by the wilful insolence of those who called themselves its followers. His policy here was again the right one; there was, unfortunately, no better power in Germany than that of the princes, and the future of the Fatherland depended upon them after all, for neither the serfs, the robber barons, nor the isolated free cities which stood like islands in the rising flood, gave any assurance. Luther was entirely right in the essential point, but the same obstinate, unyielding manner which previously had made his struggle against the hierarchy so popular, turned now against the people themselves. A cry of amazement and horror shot through the masses. He was a traitor! He who for eight years had been the favorite and hero of the people suddenly became most unpopular. His safety and his life were again threatened; even five years later it was dangerous for him, on account of the peasants, to travel to Mansfeld to visit his sick father. The indignation of the people also worked against his doctrine. The itinerant preachers and the new apostles treated him as a lost, corrupted man.