CHAPTER XXIII.

THE Wartburg, to which, with such apparent rudeness, but with the kindest intentions, Martin Luther had been conducted, was a lonely mountain fortress surrounded, on all sides, by the dark forests of Thuringia. It is still standing, not in ruins, though partially dismantled. The access to it is long and precipitous, just as were most of the approaches to our medieval castles. You ascend by a road very serpentine, and begirt by tall trees or dense thickets, and the garniture of the entire mountain, on the top of which it stands, is that of universal foliage. Looking forth from the window of Luther's chamber, you descry numerous ravines, almost barren ones, which, however, are saved from an aspect of coldness by the rich loamy soil which covers them, as well as by the blushing, though bare, cliffs that overhang them. There is no neighbouring castle or homestead within sight. Far different from many another donjon, it commands the sight of no broad river, the glorious Rhine for instance, on which a captive's eyes might dilate with joy, albeit provoked to bitterness, as he watched the freedom of its meanderings,

and caught the carols and sympathized with the struggles of its boatmen. At the Wartburg all is stillness, stillness to the eye and stillness to the ear, save when the voice of God is among the trees, or the glances of God's eye are seen in the lightning upon the opposite mountain scarps. You can see, from Luther's window, no open sunny glades in which the deer, as they browsed or ruminated, might call away from himself a sad prisoner's thoughts. Sometimes, but not often, a wheeling vulture may break the inanimateness of the scene; but that bird, so isolated in life and passion, only lends dreariness to the view.

It was some days and nights after his captivity before Martin Luther could realize the quietude around him. His eye could not immediately throw off the reflection of the pomp and glare of the Imperial Diet; neither could his ear dismiss those sounds, either military or disputatious, by which it had been dinned; nor could his heart's pulsations subside quickly-those pulsations of natural awe, and of personal anxiety, and of Christian obligation, which had been beating so strongly within his bosom as he confronted the presence of the Cæsar, offered himself up to martyrdom, and assumed the functions and responsibilities of a confessor of a Faith that was still in the infancy and helplessness of a recent resurrection.

We say, it took some days and nights before he could realize the quietude around him. It took some days and nights before his feverish and excited spirit could hear silence. This arose solely from that condi

tion, or law of emotion, to which all men's feelings must be subjected. For, the moment he entered his chamber, the companions who were around him were guarantees to the friendliness and the security of his captivity. He knew full well that captors, such as Hans Von Berletsch, and Burcard Von Hund, and Rupert of Arensberg, could have led him not to a prison but a refuge.

The scene upon his arrival within his chamber was very odd; indeed, but that his young escort were on a mission of solemn earnestness and responsibility, they would have laughed at it, right heartily, as ludicrous. Very reverentially, yet firmly, they uncassocked the great Monk. In the stead of his ancient serge waiscoat they placed a corslet upon his breast, and tied its thongs upon his back behind him. Over his shoulders they threw, in place of his professor's gown, the pallium of the soldier. They made him assume the military high boots. They stole away his plain, black ecclesiastical cap, and surmounted his shaven crown with another, far more warlike and ostentatious. The ruffled brow of Martin Luther had to bear the shadows of a waving feather.

"We bid you welcome, Father Martin, to our poor castle," said Von Berletsch, as soon as this transformation of Luther's person was completed. Hans Von Berletsch was the Chatelain of the Wartburg, and, therefore, was warranted in thus addressing his illustrious guest.

"But what mean you, my merry men," exclaimed

Luther, laughing, "by this odd, this fun-loving metamorphosis you have made of me? Who will teach me how to step out with these seven-leagued boots? Why, I have ever felt it to be hard work to bind on a sandal! And as to this buckler, do ye know and understand, my men, that I want no human shield." Then, with a sudden change of both voice and manner, he continued, and in a very different tone, "Are not my feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace? Do you wish me to barter for your leathern target the shield of faith? Am I, think you, such a fool as to barter God's helmet and the Spirit's sword, for the miserable head-piece or falchion of an armourer? I will have none, and I assure you stoutly, of these wretched, low, these God-dishonouring defences; remove them each and all, as you love me, my Lord Rupert. Let the Devil and the Pope find me, if they wish to find me, clothed only in the righteousness of Christ."

"Squire George," returned Rupert, "we are but doing what our Sovereign has commanded."

"Then render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's," returned the Reformer with a sudden placidness.

Thus far assured of the honourable and considerate intentions of his captors, Martin Luther retired to rest, and slept soundly. But his feelings on awakening in the morning were most painful. His first thought, at that moment, was to spring from his couch, as he had done on so many mornings at Worms, eager for the

*Note 17.

polemic strife, and resolute to meet the dangers of the ensuing day. These acts of self-bracing had been as pleasurable as they were invigorating. But on this occasion his great spirit had to suffer from a collapse. He no longer heard the clarion that had of late summoned both himself and his mighty judges to the Court; the plaint of the bittern was all that met his ear. As a mere matter of habit, he went to his window and unbarred it, for the purpose of drinking in God's freshest air; but while he quaffed it, though he found it far more pure than aught which he had ever tasted in the Imperial City, he felt depressed; for his eye missed objects, that while they had been full of warning had, nevertheless, been full of stimulation whilst he remained at Worms. He could discern no troops, hastening in martial grandeur, to form an escort to the Cæsar who was judging him. He beheld no procession of the Church, whereamong cardinals, bishops, abbots, priests and monks could be discerned, all preceded by incensebearers before the Holy Rood, which incense was to have the double purpose of first invoking Christ's mercy upon themselves, and then of invoking death and damnation upon Martin Luther. Neither did there meet his gaze any crowds of honest Teuton laymen, who, at Worms, had thronged around his door, even from the vesper to the matin hour, in order to be his shield and buckler. There were no glances from his beloved Melancthon, or from Cruciger, to which he could respond.