Posted by Anonymous on 2019/03/20 under Life When I first received the intelligence of the death of Claude and of
your son Louis, I was so utterly overpowered that for many days I
was fit for nothing but to grieve; and albeit I was somehow upheld
before the Lord by those aids wherewith he sustains our souls in
affliction, among men, however, I was almost a nonentity; so far
at least as regards my discharge of duty, I appeared to myself
quite as unfit for it as if I had been half dead. On the one hand,
I was sadly grieved that a most excellent and faithful friend had
been snatched away from me, a friend with whom I was so familiar,
that none could be more closely united than we were;[257] on the
other hand, there arose another cause of grief, when I saw the
young man, your son, taken away in the very flower of his age, a
youth of most excellent promise, whom I loved as a son, because,
on his part, he shewed such respectful affection toward me as he
would to another father. To this grievous sorrow was still added
the heavy and distressing anxiety we experienced about those whom
the Lord had spared to us. I heard that the whole household were
scattered here and there. The danger of Malherbe caused me very
great misery, as well as the cause of it, and warned me also as to
the rest. I considered that it could not be otherwise but that my
wife[258] must be very much dismayed. Your Charles, I assure you,
was continually recurring to my thoughts; for in proportion as he
was endowed with that goodness of disposition which had always
appeared in him toward his brother as well as his preceptor, it
never occurred to me to doubt but that he would be steeped in sorrow
and soaked in tears. One single consideration somewhat relieved me,
that he had my brother along with him, who, I hoped, would prove
no small comfort in this calamity; even that, however, I could not
reckon upon, when, at the same time, I recollected that both were in
jeopardy, and neither of them was yet beyond the reach of danger.
Thus, until the letter arrived which informed me that Malherbe was
out of danger, and that Charles, my brother, wife, and the others
were safe, I would have been all but utterly cast down, unless,
as I have already mentioned, my heart was refreshed in prayer
and private meditations, which are suggested by His word. These
circumstances I mention on this account lest those exhortations may
seem to you of less value, by which I now desire that you may take
comfort, because you will consider it to be an easy matter to shew
one's-self valiant in contending against another person's grief. I
do not, however, boast here of firmness or fortitude in dealing with
another's sorrow, but since it has been granted me, by the special
goodness of God, that I should be in some degree either delivered
or relieved by him, who, in the communication of his benefits, is
alike common to me as to you: in so far as that is possible in a
short letter, I desire to communicate to you the remedies I took
advantage of, and those which were of greatest benefit. In this
endeavour, however, the consideration of your sadness is so to
be kept in view by me, that, at the same time, I shall remember
that I have to do with a person of a very serious mind and of very
constant and determined character; nor do I conceal from myself
those refuges of defence by which you are regulated, and kept on
all occasions within the limits of patience and moderation. Neither
shall I take advantage of those common topics of consolation which
are customary among men, such as that you should not weep for your
dead whom you had begotten subject to mortality, that you should
shew forth in this sorrowful occurrence that firmness of mind which
your excellent nature and disposition, expanded by the most elegant
accomplishments, which your mature age, your varied experience, and
which, to sum up all, your reputation and esteem among men require,
that, after the fashion of the world, you may take consolation in
the remembrance of your past life. In your case I set aside all
exhortations of this kind, and others of the same description, and
leave them to your own consideration. There is, most assuredly,
one sure and certain, a never-failing source of consolation, in
which you, and men like you, ought to acquiesce, because it flows
from that inward feeling of piety which I know to abound in you;
therefore, take special care to call to mind those thoughts which
are taught us by the most excellent Master of all, and suggested to
our understanding in the school of piety. It is not necessary at
present that I should state these truths, which are all as familiar
to you as to myself. Yet, notwithstanding, because of your singular
piety, and that good-will which you express toward me, you will not,
perhaps, be unwilling to recognize in my letter thoughts which have
spontaneously occurred to your own mind at some other time. The son
whom the Lord had lent you for a season he has taken away. There
is no ground, therefore, for those silly and wicked complaints of
foolish men; O blind death! O horrid fate! O implacable daughters
of destiny! O cruel fortune! The Lord who had lodged him here for
a season, at this stage of his career has called him away. What
the Lord has done, we must, at the same time, consider has not
been done rashly, nor by chance, neither from having been impelled
from without; but by that determinate counsel, whereby he not only
foresees, decrees, and executes nothing but what is just and upright
in itself; but also nothing but what is good and wholesome for
us. Where justice and good judgment reign paramount, there it is
impious to remonstrate. When, however, our own advantage is bound
up with that goodness, how great would be the degree of ingratitude
not to acquiesce, with a calm and well-ordered temper of mind, in
whatever is the wish of our Father! Nevertheless, the faithful have
a sufficient alleviation of their sorrows in the special providence
of God, and the all-sufficiency of his provision, whatsoever may
happen. For there is nothing which is more dispiriting to us than
while we vex and annoy ourselves with this sort of questions–Why
is it not otherwise with us? Why has it so happened that we came to
this place? These questions would be well and suitably put, if there
was somewhat in ourselves that needed reproof. But where there is
no fault on our part, there is no room for this sort of complaints.
It is God, therefore, who has sought back from you your son, whom
he had committed to you to be educated, on the condition, that he
might always be his own. And, therefore, he took him away, because
it was both of advantage to him to leave this world, and by this
bereavement to humble you, or to make trial of your patience. If you
do not understand the advantage of this, without delay, first of
all, setting aside every other object of consideration, ask of God
that he may show you. Should it be his will to exercise you still
farther, by concealing it from you, submit to that will, that you
may become wiser than the weakness of your own understanding can
ever attain to. In what regards your son, if you bethink yourself
how difficult it is, in this most deplorable age, to maintain an
upright course through life, you will judge him to be blessed,
who, before encountering so many coming dangers which already were
hovering over him, and to be encountered in his day and generation,
was so early delivered from them all. He is like one who has set
sail upon a stormy and tempestuous sea, and before he has been
carried out into the deeps, gets in safety to the secure haven.
Nor, indeed, is long life to be reckoned so great a benefit of
God, that we can lose anything, when, separated only for the space
of a few years, we are introduced to a life which is far better.
Now, certainly, because the Lord himself, who is the Father of us
all, had willed that Louis should be put among the children as a
son of his adoption, he bestowed this benefit upon you, out of the
multitude of his mercies, that you might reap the excellent fruit
of your careful education before his death; whence also you might
know your interest in the blessing that belonged to you, "I will
be thy God, and the God of thy seed." From his earliest boyhood,
so far as his years allowed, he was grounded in the best studies,
and had already made such a competent proficiency and progress,
that we entertained great hope of him for the future. His manners
and behaviour had met with the approval of all good men. If at any
time he fell into error, he not only patiently suffered the word of
admonition, but also that of reproof, and proved himself teachable
and obedient, and willing to hearken to advice. At times, indeed,
he was rather unruly, but never so far as to be obstinate or sulky.
Those sallies, therefore, wherein he exceeded due bounds, were
repressed with little trouble. That, however, which we rate most
highly in him was, that he had drunk so largely into the principles
of piety, that he had not merely a correct and true understanding
of religion, but had also been faithfully imbued with the unfeigned
fear and reverence of God. This so exceeding kindness of God toward
your offspring, ought with good reason to prevail more effectually
with you in soothing the bitterness of death, than death itself has
power to inflict grief upon you. With reference to my own feelings,
if your sons had never come hither at all, I should never have
been grieved on account of the death of Claude and Louis. Never,
however, shall this most crushing sorrow, which I suffer on account
of both, so overcome me, as to reflect with grief upon that day
on which they were driven hither by the hand of God to us, rather
than led by any settled purpose of their own, when that friendship
commenced which has not only continued undiminished to the last,
but which, from day to day, was rather increased and confirmed.
Whatever, therefore, may have been the kind or model of education
they were in search of, I rejoice that they lived under the same
roof with me. And since it was appointed them to die, I rejoice also
that they died under my roof, where they rendered back their souls
to God more composedly, and in greater circumstances of quiet, than
if they had happened to die in those places where they would have
experienced greater annoyance from the importunity of those by
whom they ought to have been assisted, than from death itself. On
the contrary, it was in the midst of pious exhortations, and while
calling upon the name of the Lord, that these sainted spirits fled
from the communion of their brethren here to the bosom of Christ.
Nor would I desire now to be free from all sorrow at the cost of
never having known them. Their memory will ever be sacred to me to
the end of my days, and I am persuaded that it will also be sweet
and comforting. But what advantage, you will say, is it to me to
have had a son of so much promise, since he has been torn away from
me in the first flower of his youth? As if, forsooth, Christ had
not merited, by his death, the supreme dominion over the living and
the dead! And if we belong to him, (as we ought,) why may he not
exercise over us the power of life and of death? However brief,
therefore, either in your opinion or in mine, the life of your son
may have been, it ought to satisfy us that he has finished the
course which the Lord had marked out for him. Moreover, we may not
reckon him to have perished in the flower of his age, who had grown
ripe in the sight of the Lord. For I consider all to have arrived
at maturity who are summoned away by death; unless, perhaps, one
would contend with him, as if he can snatch away any one before
his time. This, indeed, holds true of every one; but in regard to
Louis, it is yet more certain on another and more peculiar ground.
For he had arrived at that age when, by true evidences, he could
prove himself a member of the body of Christ: having put forth
this fruit, he was taken from us and transplanted. Yes, instead of
this transient and vanishing shadow of life, he has regained the
real immortality of being. Nor can you consider yourself to have
lost him, whom you will recover in the blessed resurrection in
the kingdom of God. For they had both so lived and so died, that
I cannot doubt but they are now with the Lord; let us, therefore,
press forward toward this goal which they have reached. There can
be no doubt but that Christ will bind together both them and us in
the same inseparable society, in that incomparable participation of
his own glory. Beware, therefore, that you do not lament your son as
lost, whom you acknowledge to be preserved by the Lord, that he may
remain yours for ever, who, at the pleasure of his own will, lent
him to you only for a season. Nor will you derive small consolation
from this consideration, if you only weigh carefully what is left
to you. Charles survives to you, of whom we all entertain this
sentiment, that there is not one of us who does not desire that he
might have such a son. Do not suppose that these expressions are
only intended for your hearing, or that there is exaggeration here,
in order to bespeak your favour. This is no more my habit than it is
my disposition. I therefore express what are my real sentiments, and
what I would say among strangers, that the young man excels, in the
first place, in singular piety and in the true fear of God, which is
the beginning and the end of all wisdom; then in the kindliness of
his disposition, in gentleness of manner, and in rare modesty and
continence. Nor do I assign these virtues to him upon mere rumour
or hearsay; for I have always been anxious upon this head, and kept
close observation of his particular disposition. During the lifetime
of both the brothers, I have remarked this distinction between them:
Louis excelled in quickness of apprehension, but Charles, in solid
judgment and intelligence, was much in advance of his brother. The
deceased brother was more ready in bringing into play what he had
read or heard; the other is slower, but also surer. The one was
more ready and quick in mastering the various arts as well as in
the active business of life; the other more considerate and more
steady: his constitution of body, also, indicated as much. Louis,
however, as he was of a more sanguine temperament, was also more
lively and cheerful. Charles, who has somewhat of melancholy in his
disposition, is not so easily drawn out of himself. He was always
the more modest and courteous of the two, which distinguished him
to such a degree, that he could subdue his brother's impetuosity by
the forbearance which he exercised. In moderation, in gravity like
that of manhood, and in a certain equability of demeanour, in these
points he was far the superior. You will, therefore, yourself be
judge how far the possessing such a son ought to avail for taking
off the pain of the bereavement wherewith the Lord has now afflicted
you, and you will then conclude, that even on this account you
must not be ungrateful to God. It is difficult, notwithstanding,
you will say, so to shake off or suppress the love of a father, as
not to experience grief on occasion of the loss of a son. Neither
do I insist upon your laying aside all grief. Nor, in the school of
Christ, do we learn any such philosophy as requires us to put off
that common humanity with which God has endowed us, that, being men,
we should be turned into stones. These considerations reach only so
far as this, that you do set bounds, and, as it were, temper even
your most reasonable sadness; that, having shed those tears which
were due to nature and to fatherly affection, you by no means give
way to senseless wailing. Nor do I by any means interfere because
I am distrustful of your prudence, firmness, or high-mindedness;
but only lest I might here be wanting and come short in my duty to
you. Although, however, this letter shall be superfluous, (which I
can suppose,) you will nevertheless take in good part, because of
your distinguished and kindly courtesy, this my perhaps over-anxious
importunity,–pardonable, however, notwithstanding, because it
proceeds from my unbounded affection towards you. Moreover, I have
requested Melanchthon and Bucer that they would also add their
letters to mine, because I entertained the hope that it would not
be unacceptable that they too should afford some evidence of their
good will toward you. Adieu, most distinguished sir, and my much
respected in the Lord. May Christ the Lord keep you and your family,
and direct you all with his own Spirit, until you may arrive where
Louis and Claude have gone before.