Martin Luther · 3 of 40

II. The Political Course of the Reformation in Germany (1517-1546.) · By PROFESSOR BUCHHEIM.

THERE is hardly any instance on record in the annals of history of a single peaceful event having exercised such a lasting and baneful influence on the destinies of a nation, as the coronation of Charles the Great at Rome towards the close of the eighth century. By placing the Imperial crown on the head of the then most powerful ruler in Christendom, Pope Leo III. symbolically established a spiritual supremacy over the whole Christian world, but more especially over Germany proper. It is true it was alleged that the new Cæsar was to be considered the secular head of the Christian world by the side of the spiritual head, but as it was the latter who crowned the former, it was evident that the sovereign pontiff arrogated to himself superior authority over the sovereign monarch.

Another disadvantage which resulted from that coronation was the peculiar nature of the newly created dignity, which became manifest by the designation, applied to Germany, of the “Holy Roman Empire of the German nation.” This self-contradictory title was intended to convey the notion that the German Emperors were—through transmission from the Greeks—the heirs and successors of the Roman Cæsars. They were not to be German sovereigns of the German monarchy, but Roman Emperors of the German Empire.

It is true the ancient German institution of royalty was not actually abolished, but it was so much eclipsed by the more pompous, though recent dignity, that in the course of time its former existence was almost entirely forgotten, or at least looked upon with contempt; so much so, that a German sovereign of the fourteenth century—Henry VII.—considered it an insult to be addressed as “King of Germany,” instead of as “King of the Romans.” Even the German Electoral Princes claimed to exercise the function of “Roman Senators.” The foreign stamp thus imprinted upon Germany at the time when she had only just begun to emerge from a state of barbarism had, therefore, a most pernicious influence on the Germans, diverting as it did the free development of their national character from its natural course. Thus it may be truly said, that on Christmas Eve of the year 799, Germany was conquered a second time, if not by the Romans, still by Rome.

It was not long before the conflict between the two principal elements in the government of the world—the secular and the clerical—broke out in the two-headed Empire. This antagonism became manifest even under Charles the Great himself, in spite of the splendour of his reign, and the firmness and circumspection of his government. The encroachments of the clergy soon showed in what sense they understood the division of power. It was the practical application of the old fable about the lion’s share. Everything was to be done for the clergy, but without it nothing. This ambitious aim revealed itself more openly and effectively under the descendants of Charles the Great, the internal dissensions of whose reigns greatly facilitated the victory of the clerical order in their interference in secular matters.

Under the powerful rule of Henry I. (919–936), surnamed “The Fowler,” or more appropriately “the founder of the German Empire,” and also under the still more splendid reign of his son, Otho the Great (936–973), nay, even under the first Frankish Emperors (1024–1056), the authority of the Roman hierarchy was considerably diminished, while on the other hand the influence of the German clergy at home had greatly increased; which circumstance was a powerful factor in the conflict between the iron Pope Gregory VII. and the impetuous and vacillating Emperor Henry IV. (1056–1106), and brought about in conjunction with the high-handed dealings of the self-dubbed “Roman Senators” of Germany, the degradation of the German Empire. The Papacy was now in the zenith of its power and glory, so that Gregory VII. could boastingly compare the Pope to the sun, and the Emperor to the moon; and although Henry IV. ultimately succeeded in taking revenge for his humiliation at Canossa, he never could wipe out its shame, and what is more, he was unable to suppress or eradicate the ideas represented by his defeated enemy, which had taken a firm hold on the minds of men. People believed in the supremacy of the Pope, even when he was driven from his seat of government; for his realm was of a spiritual kind and he had his invisible throne, as it were, in the hearts of Christian believers. An erring Pope was still the visible representative of the Church. The priests for the most part remained faithful to him under all circumstances. Such, however, was not the case with the Emperors and the Princes. In the first instance the former had no absolute power; secondly, they were elected by men, who considered themselves their equals, and lastly from the moment they lost their throne—no matter what the reasons were—they ceased to have a claim on the obedience of the people. The priests wished for a powerful Pope, because he was the natural guardian of their interests, whilst the German Princes objected to a powerful Emperor, because they trembled for their own independence and local authority.

If the German Emperors had not been constantly chasing the phantom of royal dignity in Italy, in order to be—plausibly at least—entitled to the vain-glorious designation of “Roman Kings,” they might have directed their whole energy to the consolidation of their power at home, and have held their own against Popes and Prince-Electors. Unfortunately, however, they were constantly attracted by the delusive brilliancy of possessions in Italy, as if by an ignis fatuus; thus leading on the best forces of Germany to moral and physical ruin, and leaving their native country an easy prey to scheming priests and ambitious nobles. The result was that, towards the end of the eleventh century, the Emperor of Germany had neither any influence on the priests, who now depended entirely upon Rome, nor any power over the nobles, whose fiefs had become hereditary; nor did he possess any considerable domains, or actual revenue in his Imperial capacity. He had nothing but the high-sounding titles of successor of the Cæsars and of ruler of the whole Christian world.

As a matter of course under these circumstances all progress of national life and culture was impeded. It did not spring spontaneously from within, nor did it receive any impulse from without. The Germans did not benefit intellectually in any way by their contact with the Italians. The conquered have often times become the teachers of their conquerors; but only when the latter settled in the vanquished country and made it their home. The German hordes, however, who crossed the Alps at the behests of their sovereigns, and urged on by the desire for adventure, warfare, and rapine, never permanently settled, as a body, in the flowery plains and flourishing towns of Italy. Numbers of those who survived the sanguinary battles fought in Italy, perished in the unused climate; the others returned home, frequently enriched by plunder and generally tainted by depraved morals. Thus the Germans did not even derive that small advantage from their connection with the Italians—who at that time did not themselves possess any literature or culture in the highest sense of the word—which a permanent settlement in Italy would have conferred on them.

The intellectual life of the Germans did not begin to flourish before the times of the Hohenstaufen (1138–1254). Unfortunately both Frederick I. (Barbarossa) and Frederick II. were almost constantly engaged in warfare with the Popes and the Italians, and both monarchs, especially the latter, utterly neglected the internal affairs of Germany, which country became a prey of the sanguinary contest between Guelphs and Ghibellines. The result was that Conrad IV., the last king from the Hohenstaufen dynasty in Germany, ruled without even a shadow of royal authority, and on his death, in 1254, the dissolution of the old German Empire may be said to have been complete.

During the lawless times of the Interregnum (1254–1273) the power of the German Princes consolidated itself more and more amidst the general anarchy. Order was restored, however, by Rudolf von Hapsburg (1273–1291), who concerned himself with the affairs of the country only. He had a right notion of what a King of Germany should be, and emancipated her—though temporarily only—from the fatal connection as an Empire with Rome. More than half a century later the Electoral Princes went a step further in this direction, by the formation of the Kurverein (1338) or “Election Union,” of Rhens, when the principle was adopted that the election of German Kings depended upon the Electoral Princes alone, and that the Pope had no voice whatever in the matter. This patriotic proceeding received, however, a counter-check in the unworthy dealings of the mercenary Charles IV. (1347–1378), who repaired to Rome to receive there the crown from the Pope. He little thought that by resuming the connection with Rome he conjured up the greatest danger for his own son and successor, Wenceslaus, who was deposed through the conspiracy of Boniface IX. with the priests, and his influence over the Electoral Princes.

In the course of time a new power—the third Estate—arose in Germany; namely, the Middle Classes as represented by the thriving cities of the Empire. The burghers generally sided with the Emperors, to whom they looked up as their natural protectors against the exactions of priests and nobles. But being imbued with a true mercantile spirit, they did not give away their good will for nothing; they asked for sundry privileges as compensating equivalents. The Emperors had, therefore, now to contend against three powerful elements, the clergy, the nobles, and the burghers. The first were, through their chief representatives—as we have seen—at all times the most dangerous antagonists to Imperial authority, and generally achieved the victory in their contests with it. It was only during the time in which the Papacy had transferred its seat of government to Avignon, that the Romish hierarchy received a check, chiefly in consequence of the depravity of the Papal Court and its surroundings. With the return of the Popes to Rome by the Decree of the Council of Constance (1411–1418), the Papacy recovered its former ground; but this recovery of the lost authority was external only, for with the cruel execution of John Huss—which no sensible Roman Catholic ever thought of justifying—the Papacy received a most fatal blow. That scandalous crime could not have been committed at a more unpropitious time both for the Roman hierarchy and the dignity of the Councils, which latter pretended, at times at least, to have received their mandate immediately from Christ, as the sovereign representatives of the universal Roman Catholic Church. The reforms in the Church, advocated by the celebrated French theologians Cardinal Peter d’Ailly and Chancellor John Gerson, had already met with the approval of numerous thinking men, and the doctrines of Wycliffe had also found, through the teaching of John Huss and his disciples, a sympathetic echo in the hearts of a large portion of the Christian community. Had the Council of Constance shown itself, not magnanimous, but merely just, towards the Bohemian Reformer, the ascendancy of the Councils, in general, over the Popes, would probably have been for ever established; whilst as it was, the next great Council—at Basle (1431–1449)—had to give way to the Pope, and the Roman hierarchy was once more re-established in its former strength and power.

The results of the Councils of Constance and Basle were, however, particularly disastrous to Germany. The former brought about the terrible wars of the Hussites, while the latter was the indirect cause of placing the Imperial power in the hands of Frederick III. (1440–1493), who was a staunch adherent of the Pope and delivered over to him the few rights and privileges which were still left to the German Empire. The Imperial dignity existed now in name only; for Frederick, who, as Heeren says, “had slumbered away more than half a century on the throne,” cared so little for Germany proper, that he remained absent from it for the space of full twenty-seven years. No wonder then that whilst the Imperial authority sank to the lowest level, the Papal supremacy rose higher than ever, and the Emperor became nothing more than the satellite of the Pope. Under these circumstances the German Princes began to raise the voice of opposition against their sluggish head; but as he was supported by the influential and subtle Pius II., all their efforts to make a stand against the encroachments of the Church were in vain.

A new order of things arose, however, when Maximilian, the son of Frederick III., was elected “Roman King” in 1486 by the Electoral Princes. The young King acquiesced in the constitutional demands of the Estates for concessions in return for various grants. Feuds were abolished for ever, an independent Chamber of Justice, Kammergericht, was established, and Germany received a new Imperial constitution. Nevertheless there were almost constant conflicts between the adventurous Maximilian and the Imperial Estates, so that the national unity, earnestly aimed at by both parties, could not be effected, in consequence of the absence of any connecting link between them. The only step which Maximilian took for the partial emancipation of Germany was his assumption of the title of “elected King of Rome” without being crowned by the Pope, and what is more, he also adopted the ancient title of King of Germany. This designation was, however, not intended to convey at the same time the notion of a severance from Rome in spiritual matters. This was now soon to be accomplished, but not by one bearing the imaginary crown of the Cæsars, nor by the decrees of a stately assembly. It was destined for one lowly born to break the fatal bondage in which Germany had been for centuries kept in durance vile by Rome.

One of the few blessings which Germany derived in former times from her otherwise deplorable decentralization, was the establishment, throughout the country, of educational and other beneficial institutions, which even found their way into the most obscure nooks and corners, where under other political conditions no Government would have thought of founding any establishment of the kind. This is the reason why culture and learning—but more especially the latter—spread more generally in Germany than in other countries. What great centralized Government would ever have chosen the insignificant place of Wittenberg, which resembled more a village than a town, as the seat of an University? And this, too, by the side of the Universities of Leipzig and Erfurt which already enjoyed a high reputation and were well endowed? Yet this was done by the Prince Elector of Saxony, Frederick, surnamed the Wise. He had himself received a learned education, and it was his legitimate ambition to see his petty electoral principality adorned by a High School. The Elector himself was, as is well known, very poor. The only means at his disposal for such a learned foundation were the proceeds from the sale of Indulgences in his Electorate, which had been collected in 1501 for the purpose of a war against the Turks. Those moneys were deposited with him, and he refused to give them up to the Pope even at the intercession of the Emperor, unless they were employed for the purpose for which they had been collected. The war against the Turks was not undertaken at the time, and so Frederick employed the money for the endowment of the new University. It was also a significant fact, that Wittenberg was the first German University which did not receive its “Charter” from the Pope, but from the then Emperor of Germany—Maximilian I. The Prince Elector hit further upon the expedient of connecting several clerical benefices with some of the professorial chairs, and he hoped, moreover, that the members of the Augustine Order, settled at Wittenberg, would furnish some teachers for the learned institution, which was established by him in 1502. The connection of the new University with that Order was in many respects an intimate one. It was specially dedicated to St. Augustine; and Staupitz, the vicar of that Order at Erfurt, was the first Dean of the Theological Faculty. Through his influence it was that several Augustine monks received a call to the University, and among those who responded was the monk Martin Luther.

The early history of the poor miner’s son may, in fact, serve as an illustration of the wholesome spread of education throughout Germany. Poor as his parents were, he had received a learned education, and became, in consequence of the religious turn of his mind, a monk. It was then in his double capacity of scholar and priest that he became connected with the University of Wittenberg (1508), and composed, and sent forth into the world, his famous 95 Theses, against the wholesale disposal of Indulgences (31st Oct., 1517). Luther issued his challenge to the theological world from religious motives only, and it so happened that it fully coincided with the political views of the Elector; but, to the credit of both Prince and monk, it should be remembered that there was no mutual understanding between them. They had never seen each other before the publication of the 95 Theses; nor did they correspond on the subject, although they were of one accord about it. Frederick always viewed it with disfavour, and begrudged that such large amounts of money should be sent to Rome under the cloak of Indulgences, and we have seen how he had employed the proceeds resulting from their former sale. Now, however, he must have objected still more to the attempt to drain his poor country, because the object of the sale was not a holy war—if ever a war can be so called—but the alleged erection of St. Peter’s Church. If such was really the case, it might be truly said that Leo X. undermined the Chair of St. Peter for the sake of the Church of St. Peter. But people were incredulous. It was whispered, that the Pope required the money for the benefit of his family. Another disagreeable element in the whole transaction was the then commonly known fact, that the Archbishop of Mentz had actually “farmed” the sale of the Indulgences in his own episcopal territory on condition that one half of the proceeds should fall to his share. He had promised to bear the expenses of obtaining the Pall himself, and having borrowed a considerable amount of money from the celebrated house of Fugger, he allowed their agents to travel about in company with the notorious Tetzel, as commercial controllers, and to take possession of half of the proceeds as they came in. Through this and other circumstances the affair assumed the ugly aspect of a very worldly and mercenary transaction, carried on in the meanest spirit. There was, besides, a tension between Frederick and the Prince Elector of Mentz; it was, therefore, natural that the step which Luther had taken should meet with his tacit approval. More than this Luther did not expect, for he well knew the lethargic character of Frederick; but under the circumstances that was quite sufficient, for the latter granted him shelter and protection, in spite of the urgent entreaties of zealots to deliver up the bold Augustinian monk at once to Rome.

The defence of the 95 Theses, which Luther transmitted to the Pope, was of no avail; for Leo X., urged by the fanatical Dominican Prierias—so notorious from the Reuchlin trial—cited the Wittenberg monk before an inquisitorial tribunal at Rome. Now for the first time it was seen how fortunate it was for Luther and the cause he defended, that he had found a prudent and humane protector in the Prince who exercised sovereign power in his own limited territory. To repair to Rome under the accusation of heresy would have been like plunging with open eyes into an abyss. Confiding and courageous as Luther was, he saw this himself very clearly, and it was at his request that the Saxon Court preacher, Spalatin, who was one of his most constant and zealous friends, persuaded the Emperor Maximilian as well as the Prince Elector—both of whom were at that time (1518) at the Diet of Augsburg—that the accused monk should be arraigned before a German tribunal. Frederick readily acquiesced, although, as he repeatedly declared, he did not fully share the views of Luther; and the Emperor also consented, partly because he required the moral support of the Prince Elector at the approaching election of a successor in the Imperial dignity, and partly because he hoped one day to make use of the enlightened monk, in his endeavour to bring about the much-needed reforms in the Church. In this sense it undoubtedly was, that he said to Frederick’s councillor, Pfeffinger: “Luther is sure to begin a game with the priests. The Prince Elector should take good care of the monk, as he might one day be of use.” It seems, therefore, that both friends and foes recognised (at an early stage) the great capacity which still lay hidden in the insignificant-looking monk. The Papal Nuncio, Cajetan, discovered at once, in his interview with him at Augsburg (1518), that he had to do with a superior power, when he heard the conclusive and thoughtful arguments of the Augustinian monk, and saw the divine fire of genius flashing from his eyes; and his friends already considered him of importance sufficient to induce them to bring about his sudden escape at night-time.

Urged by the wrathful Papal Legate not to disgrace the honour of his Electoral house by giving shelter to a heretic friar, Frederick, encouraged by his own University, drily replied that as no scholar, either in his own or in foreign lands, had as yet refuted the theories of Luther, he would continue to give him shelter until that was done. This was no subterfuge on the part of Frederick. It was the key-note of his conduct, from the beginning of the Reformation to the end of his own life, to have the teachings of Luther properly tested by a learned discussion. The Pope, being desirous of securing the Elector’s co-operation at the impending Imperial election, humoured his learned whim, and tried to win him over by unctuous kindliness. Frederick was still a staunch Roman Catholic. He possessed a regular treasure of reliques—partly brought home from the Holy Land—which were displayed for the spiritual benefit of the devout on certain occasions, and it was known that he was yearning for the acquisition of the Golden Rose. Leo X. bestowed, therefore, on him that mark of apostolic favour, and dispatched to him as his Nuncio the Elector’s own agent at Rome, Carl von Miltitz, a native of Saxony.

What the imperious haughtiness of the pompous Papal Legate was unable to achieve was, partly at least, effected by the shrewd bonhomie of Miltitz. He imploringly appealed to Luther’s German good-nature, not to create any scandal in the Church, and after having agreed that the controversy should be submitted for investigation to the Archbishops of Würzburg and Treves, he obtained the promise of Luther to observe perfect silence on religious matters, provided his enemies would do the same, and to write an apologetic letter to the Pope. It is well known how badly the antagonists of Luther kept faith with him, and that he was obliged, in consequence, to break his conditionally promised silence, and to take part in the great public Disputation at Leipzig, in 1519. He now had to vindicate against Dr. Eck, his most bitter opponent, not only his own honour, but also that of his University, and this circumstance formed the subject of his justification before the Prince Elector, to whose personal esteem he attached the highest value. When, however, that Disputation ended, as is the case with most learned discussions, in something like a drawn battle, Luther was driven to a declaration virtually involving his secession from Rome.