Chapter I

I pray thee, peace; I will be flesh and blood,
For there was never yet philosopher,
That could endure the toothache patiently;
However they have writ the style of gods,
And made a pish at chance and sufferance.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

It is more healthful and nutritive to dig the earth, and to eat of
her fruits, than to stare upon the greatest glories of the heavens,
and live upon the beams of the sun: so unsatisfying a thing is
rapture and transportation to the soul; it often distracts the
faculties, but seldom does advantage piety, and is full of danger in
the greatest of its lustre.—JEREMY TAYLOR.

The approach of summer separated the members of the Ashfield circle for a time. Atherton purposed spending a few weeks in Germany, and Willoughby consented to accompany him. They were to visit once more Bonn, Heidelberg, and Frankfort, then to make Strasburg their head quarters, and thence to ramble about Alsace.

As soon as Atherton had left them, Mrs. Atherton and Kate Merivale set out for the West of England, to visit their friends Mr. and Mrs. Lowestoffe. Gower projected a sketching excursion along the banks of the Wye. He knew the Lowestoffes, and gladly bound himself by the promise they exacted, that he would make Summerford House his home for a day or two now and then, in the course of his wanderings. The beauty of the grounds and neighbourhood would have rendered such visits eminently delightful, even had the hospitable host and hostess been less accomplished admirers of art, or had Gower found no irresistible attraction in one of their guests.

The days at Summerford glided by in the enjoyment of those innumerable minor _satisfactions_ which, far more than highly pleasurable excitements, make up the happiness of existence. If you doubt it, consult Abraham Tucker on the matter. To many persons, life at the Lowestoffes’ would have been intolerably dull. There were few visitors. The family seldom emerged from their retirement to visit the neighbouring city. Their amusements and their occupations, though varied, were confined within limits which some would find lamentably narrow. Lowestoffe himself was an early man and a punctual. It cost him something to smile a courteous forgiveness when even a favourite guest transgressed any of the family regulations on which his comfort so much depended. His horses and dogs, his grounds and his flowers, everything about him and all dependent upon him, were methodically cared for, inspected, or commanded by himself in person. In one respect only was there irregularity,—no servant, labourer, or workman could be sure of any moment in which the master might not suddenly appear to see that all went rightly. Though scrupulously just, and of a generous nature, Lowestoffe was only too subject to a nervous dread of being defrauded by those he employed, and used often to declare that men were ruined, not so much by what they spent themselves, as by what they allowed others to spend for them. In his early days he had contented himself with the mere necessaries of his position in life, to discharge the debts which he inherited. He would actually have gone into business (to the horror of his aristocratic friends, but with the applause of every impartial conscience), had there been no other way whereby to emancipate his property and honour. All declared he would have made a fortune if he had. A few years of self-denial, and a few more of frugality and industrious vigilance, realized the full accomplishment of his most cherished desire. His care and activity enabled him to deal very liberally whatever his confidence was at last bestowed, and to expend in discriminating charity a large annual sum. He was a connoisseur and a liberal patron of art, but no solicitation could induce him to purchase an old master. He knew well how skilfully imitations of antiquity are prepared, and had he bought a reputed Titian or Correggio, he would have fidgeted himself into a fever in a fortnight, by ruminating on the probabilities of deception. He spent his money far more wisely on choice pieces by living artists. When the morning was over, the afternoon and evening found him a cheerful and fascinating companion. His cares were thrown off, and he was restless and anxious no longer about little things. Literature and art, even mere frolic, play with a child, or a game of any kind, were welcome. Gower whispered an antithesis one day, to the effect that Lowestoffe gave one half the day to childish wisdom and the other to wise childishness.

We have mentioned what was not to be found at Summerford. What the two sisters did find there was amply sufficient for enjoyment. There was a long avenue winding up to the house, so beset with ancient trees, that it seemed a passage through the heart of a wood. The lawn on which it opened was dotted with islands and rings of flower-bed,—perfect magic circles of horticulture, one all blue, another red, another yellow. There was the house itself, with its old-fashioned terraces, urns, and balustrades, and behind it—oh, joy—a rookery! A conservatory shot out its transparent glittering wing on one side of the edifice. At the foot of a slope of grass descending from the flower-palace lay a pool, shut in by a mound and by fragments of rock overgrown with flowers, and arched above by trees. On the surface spread the level leaves of the water-lilies, with the sparkling bubbles here and there upon their edges, and everywhere the shadowed water was alive with fish, that might be seen darting, like little ruddy flames, in and out among the arrowy sheaves of reeds. Then farther away there were old irregular walks, richly furred with moss, wandering under trees through which the sunbeams shot, now making some glossy evergreen far in among the stems and underwood shine with a startling brightness (so that the passer-by turned to see if there were not running water there, and fancied Undine had been at her tricks again),—now rendering translucent some plume of fern, now kindling some rugged edge of fir, and again glistening on some old tree-trunk, mailed with its circular plates of white lichen. These wood pathways—often broken into natural steps by the roots of the trees which ran across their course—led up a steep hill. From the summit were seen, in front, opposite heights, thickly covered with foliage, through which it was only here and there that a jutting point of rock could show itself to be reddened by the setting sun. Beneath, at a great depth, a shallow brook idled on its pebbles, and you looked down on the heads of those who crossed its rustic bridge. On the one hand, there stretched away to the horizon a gentle sweep of hills, crossed and re-crossed with hedgerows and speckled with trees and sheep, and, on the other, lay the sea, in the haze of a sultry day, seen like a grey tablet of marble veined with cloud-shadows.

All this without doors, and books, pictures, prints, drawing, chess, chat, so choice and plentiful within, made Summerford ‘a dainty place’—

Attempred goodly well for health and for delight.

Meanwhile Atherton in Germany was reviving old acquaintanceships and forming new, studying the historic relics of old Strasburg under the shadow of its lofty minster, and relieving his research by rides and walks, now with student and now with professor. Early in August he and Willoughby returned to England, and repaired straightway to Summerford. There, accordingly, the mystical circuit was complete once more. In a day or two the discovery was made, through some mysterious hints dropped by Willoughby, that Atherton had brought home a treasure from the Rhine. Cross-examination elicited the fact that the said treasure was a manuscript. Something to do with mysticism? Partly so. Then we must hear it. Atherton consented without pretending reluctance. The document purported to be his translation of a narrative discovered among the Strasburg archives, written by one Adolf Arnstein, an armourer of that city,—a personage who appears to have lived in the fourteenth century, and kept some record of what he saw and heard.

So the manuscript was read at intervals, in short portions, sometimes to the little circle grouped on the grass under the trees, sometimes as they sat in the house, with open windows, to let in the evening song of the birds.

Atherton commenced his first reading as follows:—

THE CHRONICLE OF ADOLF ARNSTEIN OF STRASBURG.

_This book was begun in the year after the birth of our Lord, one
thousand three hundred and twenty. Whosoever readeth this book, let
him pray for the soul of Adolf Arnstein, a poor sinful man, who
wrote it. And to all who read the same, or hear it read, may God
grant everlasting life. Amen._

1320. _September. St. Matthew’s Day._—Three days ago I was surprised
by a visit from Hermann of Fritzlar,[71] who has travelled hither
from Hesse to hear Master Eckart preach. How he reminded me of what
seem old times to me now—ay, old times, though I am but twenty this
day—of the days when my honoured father lived and I was a merry boy
of fifteen, little thinking that I should so soon be left alone to
play the man as I best might.

Hermann is the cause of my writing this. We were talking together
yesterday in this room, while the workmen were hammering in the yard
below, and the great forge-bellows were groaning away as usual. I
told him how I envied his wonderful memory. He replied by reminding
me that I could write and he could not. ‘Ah,’ said I, ‘but your mind
is full of things worth writing down. You scarcely hear or read a
legend, a hymn, or a godly sermon, but it is presently your own, and
after it has lain working in your brain for some time, you produce
it again, and say or sing it after a way you have, so that it is
quite delightful to hear.’

[The night before last I had taken him down into the work-shop, and
told the men to stop their clatter for awhile, and hear something to
do them good—none of your Latin mumbling, but a godly history in
their mother-tongue. And then did my friend tell them the Legend of
Saint Dorothea, with such a simple tenderness that my rough fellows
stood like statues till he had done. I saw a tear run down Hans’
sooty face, making a white channel over his cheek. He would have it
afterwards that some dust had blown into his eye.]

‘My good friend,’ said Hermann, ‘I am a dozen years at least older
than you; let me counsel you not to set light by your gift, and let
it lie unused. Had I that same scrivening art at my service, I
should write me a book setting forth what I heard and observed while
it was fresh in my mind. I know many good men who would hold such a
book, written by a God-fearing man, as great treasure. They would
keep it with care and hand it down to those who came after them, so
that the writer thereof should be thought on when his hand was cold.
I have it in my thoughts to dictate one day or other to some cunning
scribe, some of the legends I so love. Haply they may not be the
worse for their passage through the mind of a plain man with a
loving heart, who has carried them about with him whithersoever he
went, lived in them and grown one with them. But you can do much
more if you list. I know, moreover, that you, Adolf, are not the man
to turn away from your father’s old friends because the great ones
despise and daily vex them.’

This evening I do herewith begin to act on the resolution his words
awakened. I am but a layman, and so is he, but for that matter I
have hearkened to teachers who tell me that the layman may be nearer
to heaven than the clerk, and that all such outer differences are of
small account in the eye of God.

* * * * *

My father was an armourer and president of the guild. All looked up
to him as the most fearless and far-seeing of our counsellors. He
taught us how to watch and to resist the encroachments of the bishop
and the nobles. We have to thank his wisdom mainly that our position
has been not a little strengthened of late. Still, how much wrong
have we oftentimes to suffer from the senate and their presidents!
Strasburg prospers—marvellously, considering the dreadful pestilence
seven years back; but there is much to amend, Heaven knows! My
father fell on a journey to Spires, in an affray with Von Otterbach
and his black band. He could use well the weapons he made, and
wounded Von Otterbach well nigh to the death before he was
overpowered by numbers. The Rhenish League was strong enough, and
for once bold enough, to avenge him well. That castle of Otterbach,
which every traveller and merchant trembled to pass, stands now
ruinous and empty. I, alas! was away the while, on my
apprentice-travels. The old evil is but little abated, though our
union has, I doubt not, prevented many of the worst mischiefs of the
fist-law. Every rock along the Rhine is castled. They espy us
approaching from far off, and at every turn have we to wrangle, and
now and then, if strong enough, to fight, with these vultures about
their robber-toll. Right thankful am I that my father died a man’s
death, fighting—that I have not to imagine his fate as like that of
some, who, falling alive into their hands, have been horribly
tortured, and let down by a windlass, with dislocated limbs, into
the loathsome dog-hole of a keep, to writhe and die by inches in
putrid filth and darkness. Yet our very perils give to our calling
an enterprise and an excitement it would otherwise lack. The
merchant has his chivalry as well as the knight. Moreover, as rich
old Gersdorf says, risk and profit run together—though, as to money,
I have as much already as I care for. We thrive, despite
restrictions and extortions innumerable, legal and illegal. My
brother Otto sends me word from Bohemia that he prospers. The
Bohemian throats can never have enough of our wines, and we are good
customers for their metal. Otto was always a rover. He talks of
journeying to the East. It seems but yesterday that he and I were
boys together, taking our reading and writing lessons from that poor
old Waldensian whom my father sheltered in our house. How we all
loved him! I never saw my father so troubled at anything as at his
death. Our house has been ever since a refuge for such persecuted
wanderers.

The wrath of Popes, prelates, and inquisitors hath been especially
kindled of late years against sundry communities, sects, and
residues of sects, which are known by the name of Beghards,
Beguines, Lollards, Kathari, Fratricelli, Brethren of the Free
Spirit,[72] &c. Councils, they tell me, have been held at Cologne,
Mayence, and Narbonne, to suppress the Beghards. Yet their numerous
communities in the Netherlands and the Rhineland are a blessing to
the poor folk, to whom the hierarchy are a curse. The clergy are
jealous of them. They live single, they work with their hands, they
nurse the sick, they lay out the dead, they lead a well-ordered and
godly life in their Beguinasia, under the Magister or Magistra; but
they are bound by no vows, fettered by no harassing minutiæ of
austerity, and think the liberty of the Spirit better than monkish
servitude. Some of them have fallen into the notions of those
enthusiastic Franciscans who think the end of the world at hand, and
that we live in, or near, the days of Antichrist. And no wonder,
when the spiritual heads of Christendom are so unchristian. There
are some sturdy beggars who wander about the country availing
themselves of the name of Beghard to lead an idle life. These I
excuse not. They say some of these Beghards claim the rank of
apostles—that they have subterranean rooms, where both sexes meet to
hear blasphemous preachers announce their equality with God. Yea,
worse charges than these—even of grossest lewdness—do they bring. I
know many of them, both here and at Cologne, but nothing of this
sort have I seen, or credibly heard of. They are the enemies of
clerical pomp and usurpation, and some, I fear, hold strange
fantastical notions, coming I know not whence. But the churchmen
themselves are at fault, and answerable for it all. They leave the
artisans and labourers in besotted ignorance, and when they do get a
solitary religious idea that comes home to them, ten to one but it
presently confounds or overthrows what little sense they have. Many
deeply religious minds among us, both of laity and clergy, are at
heart as indignant at the crimes of the hierarchy as can be the
wildest mob-leading fanatic who here and there appears for a moment,
haranguing the populace, denouncing the denouncers, and bidding men
fight sin with sin. We who sigh for reform, who must have more
spiritual freedom, have our secret communications, our meetings now
and then for counsel, our signs and counter-signs. Folks call the
Rhineland the Parsons’ Walk—so full is it of the clergy, so enjoyed
and lorded over by them. Verily, it is at least as full of those
hidden ones, who, in various wise which they call heresy, do worship
God without man coming in between.

The tide of the time is with us.[73] Our once famous Godfrey of
Strasburg is forgotten. Wolfram von Eschenbach is the universal
model. His _Parzival and Titurel_ live on the lips of the many
rhymesters and minstrels who wander from town to town now, as once
they did from court to court and castle to castle. It is the
religiousness and the learning of Wolfram that finds favour for him
and countless imitators. This is the good sign I mean. Our singers
have turned preachers. They are practical, after their fashion. They
are a Book of Proverbs, and give us maxims, riddles, doctrines,
science, in their verses. If they sing of chivalry, it is to
satirize chivalry—such knighthood as now we have. They are spreading
and descending towards the people. Men may have their songs of
chivalry in Spain, where, under the blessed St. Iago, good knights
and true have a real crusade against those heathen hounds the Moors,
whom God confound. But here each petty lord in his castle has
nothing to do but quarrel with his neighbour and oppress all weaker
than himself. What to such men, robbing, drinking, devouring their
living with harlots, are Arthur and the Round Table, or Oliver and
Roland? So the singers come to us. In good sooth, the old virtues of
knighthood—its truth and honour, its chastity and courage—are found
far more among the citizens than with the nobles. We relish the sage
precepts and quaint abstruseness of Reimar of Zweter, though he be
somewhat of a pedant. Albertus Magnus is the hero with him, instead
of Charlemagne. His learning is a marvel, and he draws all morality
by allegory out of the Seven Sciences in most wondrous wise.
Frauenlob himself (alas! I heard last year that he was dead) could
not praise fair ladies more fairly. He assails, in the boldest
fashion, the Pope and Rome, and their daughters Cologne and Mayence.
The last time he was over here from Bohemia, we laughed nigh to
bursting at his caricature of a tournament, and applauded till the
rafters rang again when he said that not birth, but virtue, made
true nobleness. Then our ballads and popular fables are full of
satire on the vices of ecclesiastics. All this tends to keep men
awake to the abuses of the day, and to deepen their desire for
reform. We shall need all the strength we can gather, political and
religious, if in the coming struggle the name of German is not to be
a shame. Our Holy Father promises to indemnify himself for the
humiliation he suffers at Avignon by heaping insults upon Germany.
If Louis of Bavaria conquers Frederick, I should not wonder if we
Strasburgers wake up some morning and find ourselves excommunicate.
All true hearts must be stirring—we shall have cowards and sluggards
enow on all hands.

Last month the Emperor Louis was here with his army for a few days.
Our bishop Ochsenstein and the Zorn family espouse the cause of his
rival Frederick the Fair. Louis has on his side, however, the best
of us—the family of the Müllenheim, the chief burghers, and the
people generally. Every true German heart, every hater of foreign
domination, must be with him. Many a skirmish has there been in our
streets between the retainers of the two great houses of Zorn and
Müllenheim, and now their enmity is even more bitter than
heretofore. The senate received Louis with royal honours. When
Frederick was here five years ago, we would only entertain him as a
guest. The clergy and most of the nobles hailed him as Emperor. Now,
when Louis came, it was their turn to stand aloof. There were few of
them in the cathedral the other day, when he graciously confirmed
our privileges. The bishop issued orders to put a stop to the
performance of all church offices while Louis was here; whereupon,
either from prudence or consideration for our souls, he shortened
his visit.[74]

1320. _September. St. Maurice’s Day._—A long conversation with
Hermann to-day. He has heard Eckart repeatedly, and, as I looked
for, is both startled and perplexed. Of a truth it is small marvel
that such preaching as his stirred up all Cologne, gathered crowds
of wondering hearers, made him fast friends and deadly enemies, and
roused the wrath of the heretic-hunting archbishop. Hermann brought
me home some of the things this famous doctor said which most struck
him. I wrote them down from his lips, and place them here.

‘He who is at all times alone is worthy of God. He who is at all
times at home, to him is God present. He who standeth at all times
in a present Now, in him doth God the Father bring forth his son
without ceasing.[75]

‘He who finds one thing otherwise than another—to whom God is dearer
in one thing than another, that man is carnal, and still afar off
and a child. But he to whom God is alike in all things hath become a
man.[76]

‘All that is in the Godhead is one. Thereof can we say nothing. It
is above all names, above all nature. The essence of all creatures
is eternally a divine life in Deity. God works. So doth not the
Godhead. Therein are they distinguished,—in working and not working.
The end of all things is the hidden darkness of the eternal Godhead,
unknown and never to be known.[77]

‘I declare, by good truth and truth everlasting, that in every man
who hath utterly abandoned self, God must communicate Himself
according to all His power, so completely that he retains nothing in
His life, in His essence, in His Nature, and in His Godhead—He must
communicate all to the bringing forth of fruit.[78]

‘When the Will is so united that it becometh a One in oneness, then
doth the Heavenly Father produce his only-begotten Son in Himself
and in me. Wherefore in Himself and in me? I am one with Him—He
cannot exclude me. In the self-same operation doth the Holy Ghost
receive his existence, and proceeds from me as from God. Wherefore?
I am in God, and if the Holy Ghost deriveth not his being from me,
He deriveth it not from God. I am in nowise excluded.[79]

‘There is something in the soul which is above the soul, divine,
simple, an absolute Nothing, rather unnamed than named, unknown than
known. So long as thou lookest on thyself as a _Something_, so long
thou knowest as little what this is as my mouth knows what colour
is, or as my eye knows what taste is. Of this I am wont to speak in
my sermons, and sometimes I have called it a Power, sometimes an
uncreated Light, sometimes a divine Spark. It is absolute and free
from all names and forms, as God is free and absolute in Himself. It
is higher than knowledge, higher than love, higher than grace. For
in all these there is still distinction. In this power doth blossom
and flourish God, with all His Godhead, and the Spirit flourisheth
in God. In this power doth the Father bring forth His only-begotten
Son, as essentially as in Himself, and in this light ariseth the
Holy Ghost. This Spark rejects all creatures, and will have only
God, simply as he is in Himself. It rests satisfied neither with the
Father, nor the Son, nor the Holy Ghost, nor with the three Persons,
as far as each exists in its respective attributes. I will say what
will sound more marvellous yet. This Light is satisfied only with
the super-essential essence. It is bent on entering into the simple
Ground, the still Waste, wherein is no distinction, neither Father,
Son, nor Holy Ghost,—into the Unity where no man dwelleth. There is
it satisfied in the light, there it is one; then is it in itself, as
this Ground is a simple stillness in itself, immoveable; and yet by
this Immobility are all things moved.[80]

‘God in himself was not God—in the creature only hath He become God.
I ask to be rid of God—that is, that God, by his grace, would bring
me into the Essence—that Essence which is above God and above
distinction. I would enter into that eternal Unity which was mine
before all time, when I was what I would, and would what I was;—into
a state above all addition or diminution;—into the Immobility
whereby all is moved.[81]

‘Folks say to me often—“Pray God for me.” Then I think with myself,
“Why go ye out? Why abide ye not in your own selves, and take hold
on your own possession? Ye have all truth essentially within
you?.”[82]

‘God and I are one in knowing. God’s Essence is His knowing, and
God’s knowing makes me to know Him. Therefore is His knowing my
knowing. The eye whereby I see God is the same eye whereby He seeth
me. Mine eye and the eye of God are one eye, one vision, one
knowledge, and one love.[83]

‘If any man hath understood this sermon, it is well for him. Had not
a soul of you been here, I must have spoken the very same words. He
who hath not understood it, let him not trouble his heart therewith,
for as long as a man is not himself like unto this truth, so long
will he never understand it, seeing that it is no truth of
reflection, to be thought out, but is come directly out of the heart
of God without medium.’[84]

Of all this I can understand scarcely anything. The perpetual
incarnation of God in good Christians, the nameless Nothing, the
self-unfolding and self-infolding of God (I know not what words to
use) are things too high for my grosser apprehension. I shall let
the sayings lie here; some one else who reads may comprehend them. I
am content to be a child in such matters. I look with awe and
admiration on men who have attained while yet in the flesh heights
of wisdom which will be, perhaps to all eternity, beyond the reach
of such as I am.

1320. _October. St. Francis’ Day._—Went with Hermann this morning to
hear mass. Master Eckart preached again. Dr. Tauler in the church.
How every one loves that man! As several of his brethren made their
way to their places, I saw the people frown on some of them, and
laugh and leer to each other as two or three of them passed. They
had reason, I know, to hate and to despise certain among them. But
to Tauler all bowed, and many voices blessed him. He has a kind
heart to feel for us, the commonalty. He and his sermons are one and
the same. He means all he says, and we can understand much, at
least, of what he means. There is a cold grandeur about Master
Eckart. He seems above emotion: his very face, all intellect, says
it is a weakness to feel. At him we wonder; with Master Tauler we
weep. How reverently did Tauler listen, as a son to a father, to the
words of the great Doctor. No doubt he understood every syllable. He
is and shall be my sole confessor. I will question him, some day,
concerning these lofty doctrines whereby it would seem that the
poorest beggar may outpass in wisdom and in blessedness all the
Popes of Christendom.

Master Eckart said to-day:—‘Some people are for seeing God with
their eyes, as they can see a cow, and would love God as they love a
cow (which thou lovest for the milk and for the cheese, and for
thine own profit). Thus do all those who love God for the sake of
outward riches or of inward comfort; they do not love aright, but
seek only themselves and their own advantage.[85]

‘God is a pure good in Himself, and therefore will He dwell nowhere
save in a pure soul. There He may pour Himself out; into that He can
wholly flow. What is Purity? It is that man should have turned
himself away from all creatures, and have set his heart so entirely
on the pure good, that no creature is to him a comfort, that he has
no desire for aught creaturely, save as far as he may apprehend
therein the pure good which is God. And as little as the bright eye
can endure aught foreign in it, so little can the pure soul bear
anything in it, any stain, aught between it and God. To it all
creatures are pure to enjoy, for it enjoyeth all creatures in God,
and God in all creatures. Yea, so pure is that soul that she seeth
through herself, she needeth not to seek God afar off, she finds him
in herself, when, in her natural purity, she hath flowed out into
the super-natural of the pure Godhead. And thus is she in God and
God in her, and what she doeth that she doeth in God and God doeth
it in her.[86]

‘Then shall a man be truly poor when he is as free from his creature
will as he was before he was born. And I say to you, by the eternal
truth, that so long as ye desire to fulfil the will of God, and have
any desire after eternity and God, so long are ye not truly poor. He
alone hath true spiritual poverty who wills nothing, knows nothing,
desires nothing.[87]

‘For us, to follow truly what God willeth, is to follow that whereto
we are most inclined,—whereto we feel most frequent inward
exhortation and strongest attraction. The inner voice is the voice
of God.’[88]

After the service, Hermann left me to go and see a sick friend. I
mingled with the crowd. There was a knot of people gathered before
All-Saints, discussing what they had heard. A portly, capon-lined
burgomaster declared he had first been hungry, then sleepy, and that
was all he knew. He had verily, as a wag presently told him, obeyed
the master, and lost consciousness of all external things. Whereat
the jolly citizen was so tickled that he took the joker home to dine
with him, promising mountains of pickled pork, a whole Black Forest
of sauer kraut, and boundless beakers of hippocras.

An innocent novice from the country (looking fresh as a new-caught
trout) began to say, ‘Well, it doth seem to me that though Doctor
Eckart received his Doctorate from Rome, at the hands of our Holy
Father, though he hath studied and taught at Paris, though he hath
been Provincial of our order in Saxony, and Vicar-General in
Bohemia—where he played the cat with the mice, I can tell you—yet
that some things he said were——’

‘Hold your tongue for a jackass,’ quoth a senior brother, who liked
not, methinks, to hear a whisper against the orthodoxy of the order,
by whomsoever or against whomsoever uttered.

‘He is a blasphemer,’ said a friar. ‘Good people, did not you hear
him say that what burned in hell was the Nothing?[89] Then nothing
burns; _ergo_, there is no hell.’

‘I don’t think he believes in God at all,’ cried one:—‘Did he not
say something about caring no more for God than for a stone?’

‘Ay, but,’ urged the friar, ‘no hell, and so no purgatory—think of
that. Why, he has swept the universe as clean of the devil as a
housewife’s platter at a christening.’

Some one in the crowd shouted out, ‘That fellow cares not what
becomes of God, but he can’t give up his devil.’ Whereon the friar
grew very red in the face, as we all laughed, but could not bethink
him of any answer, and went capped with the name of Brother
Brimstone ever after.

‘What was that he said,’ asked a slip-shod, sottish-looking tailor,
‘about doing what you like, and that is what God likes?’

‘Friends,’ cries next a rainbow-coloured, dandified puppy, a
secretary of the bishop’s, stroking the down of a would-be
moustache, evidently as yet only in a state of Becoming
(_Werden_)—‘I would fain have moderately kicked him,——

‘My friends’ (smiling with a patronizing blandness at the tailor),
‘you are right; the public morals are in danger. Evil men and
seducers wax worse and worse. But the Holy Church will protect her
children. We have heard pestilent heresy this day. To hear that man
talk, you would fancy he thought there was as much divinity in his
little finger as in the whole body of the Virgin Mother of God.’

Whereupon up starts a little man whom I knew for one of the brethren
of the Free Spirit—takes his place on a stone that lay in the mud of
the middle of the street, and begins—‘Good people, did you not hear
the doctor say that those who cannot understand his doctrine are to
hold by the common faith? Did not Saint Peter say of the Epistles of
the blessed Saint Paul that there were some things therein hard to
be understood, which the ignorant would wrest to their own
destruction? I’ll tell you the ignorance he means and the knowledge
he means. Friend Crispin there, whom you carried home drunk in a
barrow last night, and Master Secretary here, who transgresses in
like wise and worse in a daintier style, and hath, by the way, as
much perfumery about him as though the scent thereof, rising towards
heaven, were so much incense for the taking away of his many
sins—they are a couple of St. Paul’s ignoramuses. The knowledge St.
Paul means is the thoughtful love of doing the right thing for the
love of Christ. But the Pope himself may be one of these witless
ones, if the love of sin be stronger in him than the love of
holiness. The preaching of all the twelve Apostles would be turned
to mischief and to licence by such as you, you feather-brained,
civet-tanned puppet of a man, you adulterous, quill-driving
hypocrite.’

‘Seize him,’ shouts my Secretary, and darted forward; but an
apprentice put out his foot, and over he rolled into the mire,
grievously ruffling and besmutching all his gay feathers, while the
little man mingled with the laughing people, and made his escape. I
hope he is out of Strasburg, or he may be secluded in a darkness and
a solitude anything but divine. He was a trifle free of tongue,
assuredly; I suppose that makes a part of the freedom of the Spirit
with him. He had right, however, beyond question.

The confusion created by this incident had scarcely ceased, when I
saw advancing towards us the stately form of Master Eckart himself.
He looked with a calm gravity about upon us, as he paused in the
midst—seemed to understand at once of what sort our talk had been,
and appeared about to speak. There was a cry for silence—‘Hear the
Doctor! hear him!’ Whereon he spoke as follows:—

‘There was once a learned man who longed and prayed full eight years
that God would show him some one to teach him the way of truth. And
on a time, as he was in a great longing, there came unto him a voice
from heaven, and said, “Go to the front of the church, there wilt
thou find a man that shall show thee the way to blessedness.”

‘So thither he went, and found there a poor man whose feet were
torn, and covered with dust and dirt, and all his apparel scarce
three hellers worth. He greeted him, saying, “God give thee good
morrow.” Thereat made he answer, “I never had an ill morrow.” Again
said he, “God prosper thee.” The other answered, “Never had I aught
but prosperity.”

‘“Heaven save thee,” said the scholar, “how answerest thou me so?”

‘“I was never other than saved.”

‘“Explain to me this, for I understand not.”

‘“Willingly,” quoth the poor man. “Thou wishest me good morrow. I
never had an ill morrow, for, am I an hungered, I praise God; am I
freezing, doth it hail, snow, rain, is it fair weather or foul, I
praise God; and therefore had I never ill morrow. Thou didst say,
God prosper thee. I have been never unprosperous, for I know how to
live with God; I know that what he doth is best, and what God giveth
or ordaineth for me, be it pain or pleasure, that I take cheerfully
from Him as the best of all, and so I had never adversity. Thou
wishest God to bless me. I was never unblessed, for I desire to be
only in the will of God, and I have so given up my will to the will
of God, that what God willeth I will.”

‘“But if God were to cast thee into hell,” said the scholar, “what
wouldst thou do then?”

‘“Cast me into hell? His goodness holds him back therefrom. Yet if
he did, I should have two arms to embrace him withal. One arm is
true Humility, and therewith am I one with his holy humanity. And
with the right arm of Love, that joineth his holy Godhead, I would
embrace him, so He must come with me into hell likewise. And even
so, I would sooner be in hell, and have God, than in heaven, and not
have Him.”

‘Then understood this Master that true Abandonment, with utter
Abasement, was the nearest way to God.

‘Moreover the Master asked: “From whence comest thou?”

‘“From God.”

‘“Where hast thou found God?”

‘“Where I abandoned all creatures. I am a king. My kingdom is my
soul. All my powers, within and without, do homage to my soul. This
kingdom is greater than any kingdom on the earth.”

‘“What hath brought thee to this perfection?”

‘“My silence, my heavenward thoughts, my union with God. For I could
rest in nothing less than God. Now I have found God, and have
everlasting rest and joy in Him.”[90]

With that Master Eckart ceased, and went on his way again, leaving
us in wonderment; and I watched him, as far as I could see along the
winding street, walking on under the over-hanging gables, with his
steady step and abstract air, and his silver locks fluttering out in
the wind from under his doctor’s hat. When I looked round, I found
myself almost alone. He is a holy man, let what will be said about
heresy.

I set down here a new hymn Hermann sang me—sweet, as he sang it—with
a ringing repetition that chimes right pleasantly, and makes amends
for some lack of meaning in the words.[91]

Oh be glad, thou Zion’s daughter,
Joyous news to thee are sent;
Thou shalt sing a strain of sweetness,
Sing it to thy heart’s content.
Now the friend of God thou art,
Therefore shalt thou joy at heart,
Therefore know no sorrow-smart.
Lo! ’tis ju-ju-jubilation,
Meditation;
Ju-ju-ju-ju-jubilation,
Contemplation;
Ju-ju-ju-jubilation;
Ju-ju-ju-jubilation;
Speculation;
Ju-ju-ju-jubilation,
Conciliation!

Meditation, that is goodly,
When a man on God will muse;
Jubilation worketh wonder,
’Tis the harp the soul doth use.
Speculation, that is sheen,
Contemplation crowns, I ween,
Concord leads, the dance’s queen,
Lo! ju-ju-ju-
Conciliation!
’Tis jubilation
At the sweets of contemplation!

Have been haunted by this ju-ju, in-doors and out, whatever I have
been doing for the last three days, and I hear it in every stroke
upon the anvil.

1320. _Second week in October._—A ride over to Fegersheim about Sir
Rudolf’s new bascinet with the beaked ventaille. As I reached the
castle the ladies were just coming out for hawking, with a brave
company of knights and squires. They were fair to see, with their
copes and kirtles blue and white, and those fanciful new-fashioned
crowns on their heads, all glittering with gold and jewels. Sir
Rudolf stayed for me awhile and then followed them.

On my way back, rested at noon at a little hostelry, where I sat
before the door at a table, chatting with mine host. There ride up a
priest and monk with attendants. Holy Mary, what dresses! The monk
with bells on his horse’s bridle, his hood fastened with a great
golden pin, wrought at the head into a true-love knot, his hair
growing long so as to hide his tonsure, his shoes embroidered and
cut lattice-wise.[92] There was the priest with broad gold girdle,
gown of green and red, slashed after the newest mode, and a long
sword and dagger, very truly militant. I marvelled at the variety
and unction of the oaths they had at their service. The advantage of
a theological training was very manifest therein.

Scarcely were these worthies, with bag and baggage, well on their
way again when I espied, walking towards the inn, a giant of a
man—some three inches higher than I am (a sight I have not often
seen), miserably attired, dusty and travel-worn. When he came to
where I was he threw down his staff and bundle, cast his huge limbs
along the bench, gave a careless, surly glance at me, and, throwing
back his shaggy head of black hair, seemed about to sleep. Having
pity on his weariness I said, ‘Art thirsty, friend? the sun hath
power to-day.’ Thereupon he partly raised himself, looked fixedly at
me, and then drank off the tankard I pushed towards him, grunting
out a something which methought was meant for thanks. Being now
curious, I asked him straight, ‘Where he came from?’

_He._ I never came from anywhere.

_I._ What are you?

_He._ I am not.

_I._ What will you?

_He._ I will not.

_I._ This is passing strange. Tell me your name.

_He._ Men call me the Nameless Wild.

_I._ Not far off the mark either; you talk wildly enough. Where do
you come from? whither are you bound?

_He._ I dwell in absolute Freedom.

_I._ What is that?

_He._ When a man lives as he list, without distinction (Otherness,
_Anderheit_), without before or after. The man who hath in his
Eternal Nothing become nothing knows nought of distinctions.

_I._ But to violate distinction is to violate order, and to break
that is to be a slave. That is not the freedom indeed, which the
truth gives. He that committeth sin is the servant of sin. No man
can be so utterly self-annihilated and lost in God,—can be such a
very nothing that there remains no remnant of the original
difference between creature and Creator. My soul and body are one,
are not separate; but they are distinct. So is it with the soul
united to God. Mark the difference, friend, I prithee, between
separation and distinction (_Geschiedenheit und Unterschiedenheit_).

_He._ The teacher saith that the saintly man is God’s son, and what
Christ doth, that doth he.

_I._ He saith that such man followeth Christ in righteousness. But
our personality must ever abide. Christ is son of God by nature, we
by grace. Your pride blinds you. You are enlightened with a false
light, coming whence I know not. You try and ‘break through’ to the
Oneness, and you break through reason and reverence.

He replied by telling me that I was in thick darkness, and the boy
coming with my horse, I left him.[93]

As I rode homeward I thought on the contrast I had seen. This man
who came last is the natural consequent on the two who preceded him.
So doth a hypocritical, ghostly tyranny produce lawlessness. I have
seen the Priest and the Levite, and methinks one of the
thieves,—where is our good Samaritan? I know not which extreme is
the worst. One is selfish absoluteness, the other absolute
selfishness. Oh, for men among us who shall battle with each in the
strength of a truth above them both! Poor Alsace!

Here Atherton laid aside his manuscript, and conversation commenced.

Footnote 71:

The _Heiligenleben_ of Hermann von Fritslar has been recently edited
by Franz Pfeiffer, in his _Ausgabe der Deutschen Mystiker_ (Leipsig,
1845). Hermann says himself repeatedly that he had caused his book to
be written (_schreiben lassen_) and there is every reason to believe
that he was, like Rulman Merswin and Nicholas of Basle, his
contemporaries, a devout layman,—one of a class among the laity
characteristic of that age and neighbourhood, who, without entering
into an order, spent the greater part of their time in the exercises
of religion, and of their fortune on religious objects. Though he
could not write, he could read, and his book is confessedly a
compilation from many books and from the sermons and the sayings of
learned and godly men. He says, Diz buch ist zu sammene gelesen ûzze
vile anderen bucheren und ûzze vile predigâten und ûzze vil
lêrêren.—_Vorrede._

Footnote 72:

Concerning these sects, see Ullmann, _Reformatoren vor der
Reformation_, vol. ii. pp. 1-18. The fullest account is given of them
in a masterly Latin treatise by Mosheim, _De Beghardis et Beguinabus_.
He enters at length into the discussion of their name and origin;
details the various charges brought against them, and gives the bulls
and acts issued for their suppression. See especially the circular of
John Ochsenstein, Bishop of Strasburg, cap. iv. § xi. p. 255.

Footnote 73:

Authority for these statements concerning the literature of the
period, will be found in Gervinus, _Geschichte der poetischen
National-Literatur der Deutschen_, part vi. §§ 1, 2, 5.

Footnote 74:

_Johannes Tauler von Strasburg_, by Dr. Carl Schmidt, pp. 8-10; and
Laguille’s _Histoire d’Alsace_, liv. xxiv.

Footnote 75:

Meister Eghart spricht: wer alle cit allein ist, der ist gottes
wirdige; vnt wer alliu cit do heimenen ist, dem ist got gegenwürtig;
vnt wer alliu cit stat in einem gegenwürtigen nu, in dem gebirt got
der vatter sinen sune an vnderlas.—_Sprüche Deutscher Mystiker_, in
Wackernagel’s _Altdeutsches Lesebuch_, p. 889.

Footnote 76:

Meister Eghart sprach: vnt wem in einem anders ist denne in dem
andern, vnt dem got lieber ist in einem denne in dem andern, der
mensche ist grobe, vnt noch verre vnt ein kint. Aber dem got gelich
ist in allen, der ist ce man worden.—_Ibid._

Both this saying and the foregoing are expressions for that total
indifference and self-abandonment so strenuously inculcated by the
mystics. He who lives weaned from the world, alone with God, without
regrets, without anticipations, ‘stands in a present Now,’ and sees
the divine love as clearly in his sorrows as in his joys,—does not
find ‘one thing other than another.’ There is exaggeration in
suppressing, as Eckart would do, the instinct of thanksgiving for
special benefaction; but in his strong language lies couched a great
truth,—that only in utter self-surrender can man find abiding peace.

Footnote 77:

Alles das in der gottheyt ist, das ist ein, vnd davon ist nicht zu
sprechen. Got der würcket, die gotheyt nit, sy hat auch nicht zu
würckende, in ir ist auch kein werck. Got vnt gotheyt hat underscheyd,
an würcken vnd an nit würcken.

Was ist das letst end? Es ist die verborgen finsternusz der ewigen
gotheit, vnd ist unbekant, vnd wirt nymmerme bekant. (See a paper on
Eckart, by Dr. Carl Schmidt in the _Theol. Stud. u. Kritiken_, 1839,
3, p. 693.) Comp. the following:—Got ist noch gut noch besser, noch
allerbest, vnd ick thue also unrecht, wenn ick Got gut heisse, rechte
ase ob ick oder er etwas wiz weiss und ick es schwarz heisse.—_Ibid._
p. 675. This last assertion was one of the counts of accusation in the
bull of 1330.

Footnote 78:

Martensen’s _Meister Eckart_ (Hamburg, 1842), p. 22.—The divine
communication assumes with Eckart the form of philosophical necessity.
The man emptied of Self is infallibly full of Deity, after the fashion
of the old principle, ‘Nature abhors a vacuum.’ Yet even this doctrine
is not wholly false. It is the misrepresentation of a Christian truth.
Its correlative verity is this,—that the kingdom of grace, like the
kingdom of nature, has its immutable laws. He who seeks shall find; as
we sow we reap, with unerring certainty. Gravitation is not more sure
than the announcement, ‘With that man will I dwell who is of a meek
and contrite spirit.’

Footnote 79:

Martensen, p. 23. Comp. _Stud. u. Krit._ _loc. cit._ Alles das denn
got yn gegab seinem eingebornen sun, das hat er mir gegeben.... _Was
got würcket, das ist ein_, darumb gebiret er mich seinen sun, on aller
underscheyd.—These words exhibit the pantheistic principle on which
this assumption is based. All spirit (whether in so called creature or
Creator) is substantially one and the same. It cannot be divided; it
can have no distinctive operations. Our dividual personal
consciousness is, as it were, a temporary accretion on the Universal
Soul with which we are in contact. Escaping this consciousness, we
merge in—that is, we become—the Universal Soul. We are brought into
the Essence,—the calm, unknown oneness beyond all manifestation, above
creation, providence, or grace. This is Eckart’s escape from
distinction,—lapse into the totality of spirit. This doctrine he
teaches, not in opposition to the current Christian doctrine, but as a
something above it,—at once its higher interpretation and its climax.

Footnote 80:

These statements concerning the ‘füncklin der vernunfft’ are the
substance of passages given by Martensen, pp. 26, 27, and Schmidt
(_Stud. u. Krit._ _l. c._), pp. 707, 709.—Ich sprich es bey gutter
warheit, und bey yemmerwerender warheit, und bey ewiger warheit, das
disem liechte nit benüget an dem einfaltigem stilstanden götlichen
wesen, von wannen disz wesen harkommet, es will in den einfaltigen
grundt in die stillen wüste, das nye underscheyd ingeluget, weder
vatter noch sun noch heiliger geist, in dem einichen, da niemant
daheim ist, da benüget es im liechte, und da ist es einicher, denn
es sey in im selber, wann diser grundt ist ein einfeltig stille die
in ir selber unbeweglich ist, und von diser Unbeweglichkeit werdent
beweget alle ding, &c. Hermann von Fritslar, in a remarkable
passage, enumerates the various and conflicting names given to this
organ of mysticism. ‘Und das leben was daz licht der lûte.’ Daz
meinet, daz di sêle einen funken in ir hât, der ist in gote
êwiclîchen gewest leben und licht. Und dirre funke ist mit der sêle
geschaffen in allen menschen und ist ein lûter licht in ime selber
und strafet allewege umme sunde und hat ein stête heischen zu der
tugende und kriget allewege wider in sînen ursprung.... Dar umme
heizen in etlîche meistere einen wechter der sêle. Also sprach
Daniêl: ‘der wechter ûf dem turme der rufet gar sêre. Etliche heizen
disen funken einen haven der sêle. Etlîche heizen in di worbele
(axis, or centre) der sêle. Etelîche heizen in ein gotechen in der
sêle. Etelîche heizen in ein antlitze der sêle. Eteliche heizen
_intellectus_, daz ist ein instênde kraft in der sêle. Etlîche
heizen _in sinderisis_. Etliche heizen in daz wô der sêle. Etlîche
heizen in daz nirgen der sêle.—_Heiligenleben. Di dritte messe_, p.
32.

Footnote 81:

Martensen, p. 27. Schmidt, _loc. cit._

Footnote 82:

The passage in Martensen, p. 20.

Footnote 83:

Martensen, pp. 19, 29.

Footnote 84:

_Ibid._ p. 29.

Footnote 85:

Etlich leut wöllent got mit den ougen ansehn, als sy ein ku ansent
unnd wöllent gott liebhan, als sy ein ku liebhaben (die hastu lieb umb
die milch, und umb den kätz, und umb dein eigen nutz). Also thund alle
die leut die got liebhand, um uszwendigen reichtum, oder umb
inwendigen trost, und die hand gott nit recht lieb, sunder sy suchent
sich selbs und ir eigen nutz.—_Schmidt_, p. 712.

Footnote 86:

Got ist ein luter guot an ime selben, vnt do von wil er nienen wonen
denne in einer lutern sele: in die mag er sich ergiessen vnt
genzeclichen in si fliessen. was ist luterkeit? das ist das sich der
mensche gekeret habe von allen creaturen, vnt sin herce so gar uf
gerichtet habe gen dem lutern guot, das ime kein creature trœstlichen
si, vnt ir ouch nit begere denne als vil als si das luter guot, das
got ist, darinne begriffen mag. vnt also wenig das liechte ouge icht
in ime erliden mag, also wenig mag diu luter sele icht an ir erliden
keine vermasung vnt das si vermitlen mag. ir werdent alle creaturen
luter ce niessen: wanne si niusset alle creaturen in got vnt got in
allen creaturen. Denne si ist also luter, das si sich selben
durschowet, denne endarf si got nit verre suochen: si vindet in ir
selben, wanne si in ir natiurlichen luterkeit ist geflossen in das
übernatiurliche der lutern gotheit. vnt also ist si in got, vnt got in
ir; vnt was si tuot, das tuot si in got, vnt tuot es got in
ir.—_Wackernagel_, p. 891.

Footnote 87:

Wann sol der mensch warlich arm sein, so soll er seynes geschaffnen
willes also ledig sein, als er was do er noch nit was. Und ich sag
euch bey der ewigen warheit, _als lang ir willen hand zu erfüllend den
willen gottes, vnd icht begerung hand der ewigkeit und gottes, also
lang seind ir nitt recht arm_, wann das ist ein arm mensch der nicht
wil, noch nicht bekennet, noch nicht begeret—_Schmidt_, p. 716. Here
again is the most extravagant expression possible of the doctrine of
_sainte indifférence_, in comparison with which Madame Guyon is
moderation itself.

Footnote 88:

See _Schmidt_, p. 724.

Footnote 89:

He was charged with denying hell and purgatory, because he defined
future punishment as deprivation,—‘Das Nicht in der helle
brinnet.’—_Schmidt_, p. 722.

Footnote 90:

The narrative here put into the mouth of Eckart is found in an
appendix to Tauler’s _Medulla animæ_. There is every reason to believe
that it is Eckart’s. Martensen gives it, p. 107.

Footnote 91:

A literal translation of a curious old hymn in Wackernagel’s
collection, p. 896.

Footnote 92:

C. Schmidt (_Johannes Tauler von Strasburg_, p. 42) gives examples of
the extravagant display in dress common among the clergy at that time.

Footnote 93:

The substance of this dialogue will be found in the works of Heinrich
Suso (ed. Melchior Diepenbrock, Regensburg, 1837), Book iii. chap.
vii. pp. 310-14. Suso represents himself as holding such a
conversation with ‘ein vernunftiges Bilde, das war subtil an seinen
Worten und war aber ungeübt an seinen Werken und war ausbrüchig in
florirender Reichheit,’ as he sat lost in meditation on a summer’s
day. Atherton has ventured to clothe this ideal of the enthusiast of
those times in more than a couple of yards of flesh and blood, and
supposed Arnstein to have picked up divinity enough in his
sermon-hearing to be able to reason with him just as Suso does in his
book.

The wandering devotees, who at this time abounded throughout the whole
region between the Netherlands and Switzerland, approximated, some of
them, to Eckart’s portraiture of a religious teacher, others to Suso’s
ideal of the Nameless Wild. In some cases the enthusiasm of the same
man may have approached now the nobler and now the baser type.