German fiction -- Translations into English; Holy Roman Empire -- History -- Charles V, 1519-1556 -- Fiction
Many another passage of Scripture had strengthened the courage of
the young Bible student when at last, with a look of intelligence, he
pledged Wolf, and remarking, “How could I venture the attempt to lead
you to break so sacred an oath?” instantly brought forward every plea
that a son who, in religious matters, followed a different path from his
mother could allege in his justification.
A short time before, in Brussels, Wolf had seen a superior of the
new Society of Jesus, whose members were now appearing everywhere
as defenders of the violently assailed papacy, seek to win back to
Catholicism the son of evangelical parents with the very same arguments.
He told his friend this, and also expressed the belief that the Jesuit,
too, had spoken in good faith.
Erasmus shrugged his shoulders, saying “Doubtless there are many
mansions in our Father’s house, but who will blame us if we left
the dilapidated old one, where our liberty was restricted and our
consciences were burdened, and preferred the new one, in which man is
subject to no other mortal, but only to the plain words of the Bible and
to the judge in his own breast? If we prefer this mansion, which stands
open to every one whose heart the old one oppresses, to the ruinous one
of former days----”
“Yet,” interrupted Wolf, “you must say to yourselves that you leave
behind in the old one much which the new one lacks, no matter with how
many good things you may equip it. The history of our religion and its
development does not belong to your new home--only to the old one.”
“We stand upon it as every newer thing rests on the older,” replied
Erasmus eagerly. “What we cast aside and refuse to take into the new
home with us is not the holy faith, but merely its deformity, abasement,
and falsification.”
“Call it so,” replied Wolf calmly. “I have heard others name and
interpret differently what you probably have in mind while using these
harsh epithets. But is it not the old house, and that alone, in which
the martyrs shed their blood for Christianity? Where did it fulfil its
lofty task of saturating the heart of mankind with love, softening
the customs of rude pagans, clearing away forests, transforming barren
wastes into cultivated fields, planting the cross on chapels and
churches, summoning men with the consecrated voice of the bell to the
sermon which proclaims love and peace? Where did it open the doors of
the school which prepares the intellect to satisfy its true destiny, and
first qualifies man to become the image of God? By the old mansion this
country, covered with marshes, moors; and impenetrable forests, was
rendered what it now is; from it proceeded that fostering of science and
the arts of which as yet I have seen little in your circles.”
“Give us time,” cried the theologian, “and perhaps in our home their
flowering will attain an unsurpassed richness of development. With what
loose bonds the humanists are still united to you!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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