# Der Lutheraner_St. Louis Missouri_1848 01 25_S87
# AI translation — CHI Digital Archive (demonstration)

customary language of politeness: "it would be agreeable to me."

With that he withdrew, without speaking another word. After the meal was taken, I got into the carriage again, and my courteous escort was already waiting for me on horseback at the door. But as soon as we had left the town, I soon lost sight of him, since the road went now uphill, now downhill regardless, and I did not see him again as long as it was daylight. Dark night had overtaken me, and I was in good spirits in my God, even though I had just before driven into a forest, when my driver suddenly stopped and said: "Now I do not know where we are; I know neither road nor path here." I: "How dare you undertake to guide me, if you do not know the way? If you do not know it, I know it far less." I at once got down from the carriage to look around a little, as far as that was at all possible; but scarcely had I stepped down from the carriage — for so did the faithful Father provide, that even the first embarrassment and anxious care should be spared me — when my faithful escort was there and said: "Have no worry, I know all the roads here; we are near a village where you will find a good bed and can spend the night." I: "What is the village called?" He: "Gangeldorf." I had been warned that I should on no account spend the night in this village, because travelers had already suffered much misfortune there from thieves and murderers. That made me somewhat uneasy; but given the state of affairs at the time, I had, of course, no choice. So I kept silent and let him lead me to the inn. There he showed me the entire arrangement of the lodging, and showed me a room which a nobleman of my acquaintance regularly occupied on his travels through, in which stood a good bed. In front of it was a small antechamber. "Take the room," he said, "and the bed, and I will sleep in the antechamber, so that you may have all the less care and concern." I could not marvel enough at these courtesies and at the wonders of God's providence, which afterward became even clearer to me than they were at the time, when I was, after all, in a certain state of consternation. Let the Christian reader observe with me, however, how precisely my hymn was fulfilled: as, for example, when it says in the third verse: "He teaches you . . . in forests; there is a God who watches over you." In the fifth: "Though you shine on a strange road stripped of all help, yet you learn . . . that you do not walk wholly alone." In the sixth verse: "What does it matter if friends must part, and no companion walks with you, since the angels themselves accompany you, and Jesus stands at your side?" In the eighth: "The dark night need not frighten you . . . When God's wise hand leads you, even the night itself is light to you." In the ninth: "Though I find nothing but strangers, my highest glory knows me still. My refuge, in whom my heart is sunk, shows me His gracious countenance, and says: My child, be not distressed, your faithful Father does not forsake you."

Now further: we then dined that evening on what we could get. My companion said nothing beyond what was strictly necessary; and it had, in any case, already become second nature to me to give more room to meditation, or to quiet reflection, than to talking much. So we then went to rest, in God's name, just as my courteous escort had himself arranged it. Early in the morning I continued on my way. My escort was awake at the same time, but I took no leave of him, since I hoped to see and speak with him again along the way, at least in Jena. But I have neither seen nor heard anything further of him, either on the rest of my journey, or in Jena, or up to now in my whole life — although I inquired carefully in Altenburg whether anyone could name a man whose appearance and the circumstances he had given me, of holding an office at Leuchtenburg, would fit. — Is it not, then, entirely applicable here, what the well-known Herr von Pfeil writes, in the first volume of his spiritual hymns, concerning a similar experience of divine care that once befell him:

Were he no angel whom You sent, when You beheld me gone astray; yet he performed for me, upon my path, an angel's service.

They that trust in the Lord shall not be moved, but shall abide forever, like Mount Zion. (Psalm 125.)

Julius, the third son of Henry the Younger, Duke of Brunswick — that so restless warrior and zealous Catholic — dared to profess the Lutheran faith openly, against which his father had already labored and fought for twenty years, and which had already cost him freedom, honor, and lands. His father conceived the deadliest hatred toward him, and Julius did indeed stake his life. Surrounded by nothing but enemies of his faith, constantly attended by the most fervent zealots against it, he had to fear every moment that he would be killed. His father, his brothers, the court, the whole of Wolfenbüttel hated him. He was reviled, cursed, and declared an apostate. He was denied the necessities of life, all comforts, and attendance. He was not permitted to appear in public; indeed, he did not even receive the clothing he needed. Often his sisters had him fed in secret. Notwithstanding this, Julius remained steadfast in his faith. Whoever loves father or mother more than Christ is not worthy of Him, and whoever loses his life for Christ's sake shall find it. At last he fell into the utmost danger. They sought to force him to renounce his faith. They meant to wall him up alive. — But when need is greatest, God's help is nearest. They that trust in the Lord shall not be moved, but shall abide forever, like Mount Zion. There was found, at the court of Wolfenbüttel, a faithful servant, who gave the prince notice of the danger that threatened him. Since this could not be done otherwise, he wrote, in the prince's presence, with a pair of fire-tongs, the words "fuge, fuge" — in German, "Flee, flee" — into the coals of the fireplace. The prince saw it, understood it, and fled. With his brother-in-law, the Margrave of Brandenburg, John the Wise, he found safe refuge and good lodging at Küstrin. Yet the father's wrath was by no means stilled, even though entreaties came from afar asking him to show mercy to his only son. Rather, after even his two eldest sons, Karl and Philipp, had fallen in the battle of Sievershausen, he did everything possible to exclude Julius from the succession. But in vain. The Lord was with his son. The scepter of the wicked shall not, and cannot, remain over the little flock of the righteous; for the Lord is the shield of the righteous, and the Holy One of Israel their king. All the father's attempts failed. Meanwhile he grew older and weaker. His end drew near. Then he once sent a certain Herr von Quitzow to his son, and had him summoned to Wolfenbüttel. The prince was doubtful whether he should go. At last he asked Herr von Quitzow whether he could assure him, on his honor and oath, that the invitation involved no danger. Quitzow could not assure him of that, but he affirmed his hope that it would be so. "Well then," said Julius, "my dear Dietrich von Quitzow, I trust not only your word, but my father's, and above all God in heaven, and my just cause. I will go with you to Wolfenbüttel in the name of the Holy Trinity, and obey my lord father's command as an obedient child, come of it what may. My life or death lies in the hands of God. He can direct my father's heart. But before God and His pure Gospel I will remain, in spite of the devil and the world, until my end, and upon that I will live and die." So he went to Wolfenbüttel and was received with apparent kindness. Not that the old hatred had vanished; they now hoped, by gentleness and mildness, to win what open hostility had failed to gain. But here too it was in vain. On this faithful confessor of the Gospel, who through God's grace had grown manly and strong, neither the hostile arrows of hatred nor the smooth and flattering words of seduction could take hold. Julius remained steadfast. His father died in 1568; Julius came to the government, and his reign was as fortunate as it was blessed.

Luther as Comforter of the Sick.

A maidservant named Elisabeth had formerly served Dr. Luther, but had left his service out of defiance, and in doing so had become so godless that, by her own confession, she had given her soul to the devil. After some time she fell mortally ill in her new position. When Luther, at her request, came to her, he asked her what she wanted. I wished, she said, to make my apology to you, but I have something heavier still on my conscience: I have given my soul to the evil enemy! "Well," said Luther, "that is nothing! what other sins have you upon you?" She answered: I have surely more besides, but this is nevertheless the greatest, one that cannot be forgiven me, for I have indeed already thrown my soul away. — "Listen," said Luther, "if, during the time when you were in my service, you had given away all my children to