Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family

by Elizabeth Rundle Charles

  II.

  Extracts from Friedrich's Chronicle.

  ERFURT, 1503.

  At last I stand on the threshold of the world I have so long desired toenter. Else's world is mine no longer; and yet, never until this weekdid I feel how dear that little home-world is to me. Indeed, Heavenforbid I should have left it finally. I look forward to returning to itagain, nevermore, however, as a burden on our parents, but as their stayand support, to set our mother free from the cares which are slowlyeating her precious life away, to set our father free to pursue hisgreat projects, and to make our little Else as much a lady as any of thenoble baronesses our grandmother tells us of. Although, indeed, as itis, when she walks beside me to church on holidays, in her crimsondress, with her round, neat, little figure in the black jacket with thewhite stomacher, and the silver chains, her fair hair so neatly braided,and her blue eyes so full of sunshine,--who can look better than Else?And I can see I am not the only one in Eisenach who thinks so. I wouldonly wish to make all the days holidays for her, and that it should notbe necessary when the festival is over for my little sister to lay asideall her finery so carefully in the great chest, and put on herAschputtel garments again, so that if the fairy prince we used to talkof, were to come, he would scarcely recognise the fair little princesshe had seen at church. And yet no fairy prince need be ashamed of ourElse even in her working, every-day clothes;--he certainly would not bethe right one if he were. In the twilight, when the day's work is done,and the children are asleep, and she comes and sits beside me with herknitting in the lumber-room or under the pear tree in the garden, whatprincess could look fresher or neater than Else, with her smooth fairhair braided like a coronet? Who would think that she had been toilingall day, cooking, washing, nursing the children. Except, indeed, becauseof the healthy colour her active life gives her face, and for that sweetlow voice of hers, which I think women learn best by the cradles oflittle children.

  I suppose it is because I have never yet seen any maiden to compare toour Else that I have not yet fallen in love. And, nevertheless, it isnot of such a face as Else's I dream, when dreams come, or even exactlysuch as my mother's. My mother's eyes are dimmed with many cares; is itnot that very worn and faded brow that makes her sacred to me? Moresacred than any saintly halo! And Else, good, practical little Else, sheis a dear household fairy; but the face I dream of has another look init. Else's eyes are good, as she says, for seeing and helping; andsweet, indeed, they are for loving--dear, kind, true eyes. But the eyesI dream of have another look, a fire like our grandmother's, as if froma southern sun; dim, dreamy, far-seeing glances, burning into thehearts, like the ladies in the romances, and yet piercing into heaven,like St. Cecilia's when she stands entranced by her organ. She should bea saint, at whose feet I might sit and look through her pure heart intoheaven, and yet she should love me wholly, passionately, fearlessly,devotedly, as if her heaven were all in my love. My love! and who am Ithat I should have such dreams? A poor burgher lad of Eisenach, apenniless student of a week's standing at Erfurt! The eldest son of alarge destitute family, who must not dare to think of loving the mostperfect maiden, in the world, when I meet her, until I have rescued afather, mother, and six brothers and sisters from the jaws of bitingpoverty. And even in a dream it seems almost a treachery to put anycreature above Else. I fancy I see her kind blue eyes filling withreproachful tears. For there is no doubt that in Else's heart I have norival, even in a dream. Poor, loving, little Else!

  Yes, she must be rescued from the pressure of those daily fretting caresof penury and hope deferred, which have made our mother old so early. IfI had been in the father's place, I could never have borne to see wintercreeping so soon over the summer of her life. But he does not see it. Orif for a moment her pale face and the grey hairs which begin to comeseem to trouble him, he kisses her forehead, and says,

  "Little mother, it will soon be over; there is nothing wanting now butthe last link to make this last invention perfect, and then--"

  And then he goes into his printing-room; but to this day the missinglink has never been found. Else and our mother, however, always believeit will turn up some day. Our grandmother has doubts. And I havescarcely any hope at all, although, for all the world, I would notbreathe this to any one at home. To me that laboratory of my father's,with its furnace, its models, its strange machines, is the mostmelancholy place in the world. It is like a haunted chamber,--hauntedwith the helpless, nameless ghosts of infants that have died at theirbirth,--the ghosts of vain and fruitless projects; like the ruins of acity that some earthquake had destroyed before it was finished, ruinedpalaces that were never roofed, ruined houses that were never inhabited,ruined churches that were never worshipped in. The saints forbid that mylife should be like that! and yet what it is which has made him sounsuccessful, I can never exactly make out. He is no dreamer. He is noidler. He does not sit lazily down with folded arms and imagine hisprojects. He makes his calculations with the most laborious accuracy; heconsults all the learned men and books he has access to. He weighs, andmeasures, and constructs the neatest models possible. His room is amuseum of exquisite models, which seem as if they must answer, and yetnever do. The professors, and even the Elector's secretary, who has comemore than once to consult him, have told me he is a man of remarkablegenius.

  What can it be, then, that makes his life such a failure? I cannotthink; unless it is that other great inventors and discoverers seem tohave made their discoveries and inventions as it were _by the way_, inthe course of their every-day life. As a seaman sails on his appointedvoyage to some definite port, he notices drift-wood or weeds which musthave come from unknown lands beyond the seas. As he sails in his callingfrom port to port, the thought is always in his mind; everything hehears groups itself naturally around this thought; he observes the windsand currents; he collects information from mariners who have been drivenout of their course, in the direction where he believes this unknownland to lie. And at length he persuades some prince that his belief isno mere dream, and like the great admiral Christopher Columbus, heventures across the trackless unknown Atlantic and discovers the WesternIndies. But before he was a discoverer, he was a mariner.

  Or some engraver of woodcuts thinks of applying his carved blocks toletters, and the printing-press is invented. But it is in his calling.He has not gone out of his way to hunt for inventions. He has found themin his path, the path of his daily calling. It seems to me people do notbecome great, do not become discoverers and inventors by trying to beso, but by determining to do in the very best way what they have to do.Thus improvements suggest themselves, one by one, step by step; eachimprovement is tested as it is made by practical use, until at lengththe happy thought comes, not like an elf from the wild forest, but likean angel on the daily path; and the little improvements become the greatinvention. There is another great advantage, moreover, in this methodover our father's. If the invention never comes, at all events we havethe improvements, which are worth something. Every one cannot invent theprinting-press or discover the New Indies; but every engraver may makehis engravings a little better, and every mariner may explore a littlefurther than his predecessors.

  Yet it seems almost like treason to write thus of our father. What wouldElse or our mother think, who believe there is nothing but accident orthe blindness of mankind between us and greatness? Not that they havelearned to think thus from our father. Never in my life did I hear himsay a grudging or depreciating word of any of those who have mostsucceeded where he has failed. He seems to look on all such men as partof a great brotherhood, and to rejoice in another man hitting the pointwhich he missed, just as he would rejoice in himself succeeding insomething to-day which he failed in yesterday. It is this nobleness ofcharacter which makes me reverence him more than any mere successescould. It is because I fear, that in a life of such disappointments mycharacter would not prove so generous, but that failure would sour mytemper and penury degrade my spirit as they never have his, th
at I haveventured to search for the rocks on which he made shipwreck, in order toavoid them. All men cannot return wrecked, and tattered, and destitutefrom an unsuccessful voyage, with a heart as hopeful, a temper asgenerous, a spirit as free from envy and detraction, as if they broughtthe golden fleece with them. Our father does this again and again; andtherefore I trust his argosies are laid up for him as for those whofollow the rules of evangelical perfection, where neither moth nor rustcan corrupt. I could not. I would never return until I could bring whatI had sought, or I should return a miserable man, shipwrecked in heartas well as in fortune. And therefore I must examine my charts, andchoose my port and my vessel carefully, before I sail.

  All these thoughts came into my mind as I stood on the last height ofthe forest, from which I could look back on Eisenach, nestling in thevalley under the shadow of the Wartburg. May the dear mother of God, St.Elizabeth, and all the saints, defend it evermore!

  But there was not much time to linger for a last view of Eisenach. Thewinter days were short; some snow had fallen in the previous night. Theroofs of the houses in Eisenach were white with it, and the carvings ofspire and tower seemed inlaid with alabaster. A thin covering lay on themeadows and hill-sides, and light feather-work frosted the pines. I hadnearly thirty miles to walk through forest and plain before I reachedErfurt. The day was as bright and the air as light as my heart. Theshadows of the pines lay across the frozen snow, over which my feetcrunched cheerily. In the clearings, the outline of the black twigs werepencilled dark and clear against the light blue of the winter sky. Everyoutline was clear, and crisp, and definite, as I resolved my own aims inlife should be. I knew my purposes were pure and high, and I felt as ifHeaven must prosper me.

  But as the day wore on, I began to wonder when the forest would end,until, as the sun sank lower and lower, I feared I must have missed myway; and at last as I climbed a height to make a survey, to my dismay itwas too evident I had taken the wrong turning in the snow. Wide reachesof the forest lay all around me, one pine-covered hill folding overanother; and only in one distant opening could I get a glimpse of thelevel land beyond, where I knew Erfurt must lie. The daylight was fastdeparting; my wallet was empty. I knew there were villages hidden in thevalleys here and there; but not a wreath of smoke could I see, nor anysign of man, except here and there faggots piled in some recentclearing. Towards one of these clearings I directed my steps, intendingto follow the wood-cutters' track, which I thought would probably leadme to the hut of some charcoal burner, where I might find fire andshelter. Before I reached this spot, however, night had set in. The snowbegan to fall again, and it seemed too great a risk to leave the broaderpath to follow any unknown track. I resolved, therefore, to make thebest of my circumstances. They were not unendurable. I had a flint andtinder, and gathering some dry wood and twigs, I contrived with somedifficulty to light a fire. Cold and hungry I certainly was, but forthis I cared little. It was only an extra fast, and it seemed to mequite natural that my journey of life should commence with difficultyand danger. It was always so in legend of the saints, romance, or elfintale, or when anything great was to be done.

  But in the night, as the wind howled through the countless stems of thepines, not with the soft varieties of sound it makes amidst the summeroak-woods, but with a long monotonous wail like a dirge, a tumult awokein my heart such as I had never known before. I knew these forests wereinfested by robber-bands, and I could hear in the distance the bayingand howling of the wolves; but it was not fear which tossed my thoughtsso wildly to and fro, at least not fear of bodily harm. I thought of allthe stories of wild huntsmen, of wretched guilty men, hunted by packs offiends; and the stories which had excited a wild delight in Else and me,as our grandmother told them by the fire at home, now seemed to freezemy soul with horror. For was not I a guilty creature, and were not thedevils indeed too really around me?--and what was to prevent theirpossessing me? Who in all the universe was on my side? Could I look upwith confidence to God? He loves only the holy. Or to Christ? He is thejudge; and more terrible than any cries of legions of devils will it beto the sinner to hear his voice from the awful snow-white throne ofjudgment. Then, my sins rose before me--my neglected prayers, penancesimperfectly performed, incomplete confessions. Even that morning, had Inot been full of proud and ambitious thoughts--even perhaps vainlycomparing myself with my good father, and picturing myself as conqueringand enjoying all kinds of worldly delights? It was true, it could hardlybe a sin to wish to save my family from penury and care; but it wascertainly a sin to be ambitious of worldly distinction, as FatherChristopher had so often told me. Then, how difficult to separate thetwo? Where did duty end, and ambition and pride begin? I determined tofind a confessor as soon as I reached Erfurt, if ever I reached it. Andyet, what could even the wisest confessor do for me in suchdifficulties? How could I ever be sure that I had not deceived myself inexamining my motives, and then deceived him, and thus obtained anabsolution on false pretences, which could avail me nothing? And if thismight be so with future confessions, why not with all past ones?

  The thought was horror to me, and seemed to open a fathomless abyss ofmisery yawning under my feet. I could no more discover a track out of mymiserable perplexities than out of the forest.

  For if these apprehensions had any ground, not only the sins I hadfailed to confess were unpardoned, but the sins I had confessed andobtained absolution for on false grounds. Thus it might be that at thatmoment my soul stood utterly unsheltered, as my body from the snows,exposed to the wrath of God, the judgment of Christ, and the exultingcruelty of devils.

  It seemed as if only one thing could save me, and that could never behad. If I could find an infallible confessor, who could see down intothe depth of my heart, and back into every recess of my life, who couldunveil me to myself, penetrate all my motives, and assign me thepenances I really deserved, I would travel to the end of the world tofind him. The severest penances he could assign, after searching thelives of all the holy Eremites and Martyrs, for examples ofmortification, it seemed to me would be light indeed, if I could only besure they were the right penances and would be followed by a trueabsolution.

  But this it was, indeed, impossible I could ever find.

  What sure hope then could I ever have of pardon or remission of sins?What voice of priest or monk, the holiest on earth, could ever assure meI had been honest with myself? What absolution could ever give me aright to believe that the baptismal robes, soiled as they told me"before I had left off my infant socks," could once more be made whiteand clean?

  Then, for the first time in my life the thought flashed on me, of themonastic vows, the cloister and the cowl. I knew there was a virtue inthe monastic profession which many said was equal to a second baptism.Could it be possible that the end of all my aspirations might after allbe the monk's frock? What then would become of father and mother, dearElse, and the little ones? The thought of their dear faces seemed for aninstant to drive away these gloomy fears, as they say a hearth-firekeeps off the wolves. But then a hollow voice seemed to whisper, "If Godis against you, and the saints, and your conscience, what help can yourender your family or any one else?" The conflict seemed more than Icould bear. It was so impossible to me to make out which suggestionswere from the devil and which from God, and which from my own sinfulheart; and yet it might be the unpardonable sin to confound them.Wherefore for the rest of the night I tried not to think at all, butpaced up and down reciting the Ten Commandments, the Creed, thePaternoster, the Ave Maria, the Litanies of the Saints, and all thecollects and holy ejaculations I could think of. By degrees this seemedto calm me, especially the Creeds and the Paternoster, whether becausethese are spells the fiends especially dread, or because there issomething so comforting in the mere words, "Our Father," and "theremission of sins," I do not know. Probably for both reasons.

  And so the morning dawned, and the low sunbeams slanted up through thered stems of the pines; and I said the Ave Maria, and thought of thesweet mother of God, and was a little ch
eered.

  But all the next day I could not recover from the terrors of thatsolitary night. A shadow seemed to have fallen on my hopes and projects.How could I tell that all which had seemed most holy to me as an objectin life might not be temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil;and that with all my labouring for my dear ones at home, my sins mightnot bring on them more troubles than all my successes could avert?

  As I left the shadow of the forest, however, my heart seemed to growlighter. I shall always henceforth feel sure that the wildest legends ofthe forests may be true, and that the fiends have especial haunts amongthe solitary woods at night.

  It was pleasant to see the towers of Erfurt rising before me on theplain.

  I had only one friend at the University; but that is Martin Luther, andhe is a host in himself to me. He is already distinguished among thestudents here; and the professors expect great things of him.

  He is especially studying jurisprudence, because his father wishes himto be a great lawyer. This also is to be my profession, and his counsel,always so heartily given, is of the greatest use to me.

  His life is, indeed, changed since we first knew him at Eisenach, whenAunt Ursula took compassion on him, a destitute scholar, singing at thedoors of the houses in St. George Street for a piece of bread. Hisfather's hard struggles to maintain and raise his family have succeededat last; he is now the owner of a foundry and some smelting-furnaces,and supports Martin liberally at the university. The icy morning ofMartin's struggles seems over, and all is bright before him.

  Erfurt is the first University in Germany. Compared with it, as MartinLuther says, the other universities are mere private academies. Atpresent we have from a thousand to thirteen hundred students. Some ofour professors have studied the classics in Italy, under the descendentsof the ancient Greeks and Romans. The Elector Frederic has, indeed,lately founded a new University at Wittemberg, but we at Erfurt havelittle fear of Wittemberg outstripping our ancient institution.

  The Humanists, or disciples of the ancient heathen learning, are ingreat force here, with Mutianus Rufus at their head. They meet often,especially at his house, and he gives them subjects for Latinversification, such as the praises of poverty. Martin Luther's friendSpalatin joined these assemblies; but he himself does not, at least notas a member. Indeed, strange things are reported of their converse,which make the names of poet and philosopher in which they delight verymuch suspected in orthodox circles. These ideas Mutianus and his friendsare said to have imported with the classical literature from Italy. Hehas even declared and written in a letter to a friend, that "there isbut one God, and one goddess, although under various forms and variousnames, as Jupiter, Sol, Apollo, Moses, Christ; Luna, Ceres, Proserpine,Tellus, Mary." But these things he warns his disciples not to speak ofin public. "They must be veiled in silence," he says, "like theEleusinian mysteries. In the affairs of religion we must make use of themask of fables and enigmas. Let us by the grace of Jupiter, that is ofthe best and highest God, despise the lesser gods. When I say Jupiter, Imean Christ and the true God."

  Mutianus and his friends also in their intimate circles speak mostslightingly of the Church ceremonies, calling the Mass a comedy, and theholy relics ravens' bones;[2] speaking of the service of the altar as somuch lost time: and stigmatizing the prayers at the canonical hours as amere baying of hounds, or the humming, not of busy bees, but of lazydrones.

  If you reproached them with such irreverent sayings, they would probablyreply that they had only uttered them in an esoteric sense, and meantnothing by them. But when people deem it right thus to mask theirtruths, and explain away their errors, it is difficult to distinguishwhich is the mask and which the reality in their estimation. It seems tome also that they make mere intellectual games or exercises out of themost profound and awful questions.

  [Footnote 2: That is, skeletons left on the gallows for the ravens topeck at.]

  This probably, more than the daring character of their speculations,deters Martin Luther from numbering himself among them. His nature is soreverent in spite of all the courage of his character. I think he woulddare or suffer anything for what he believed true; but he cannot bear tohave the poorest fragment of what he holds sacred trifled with or playedwith as a mere feat of intellectual gymnastics.

  His chief attention is at present directed, by his father's especialdesire, to Roman literature and law, and to the study of the allegoriesand philosophy of Aristotle. He likes to have to do with what is trueand solid; poetry and music are his delight and recreation. But it is indebate he most excels. A few evenings since, he introduced me to asociety of students, where questions new and old are debated and it wasglorious to see how our Martin carried off the palm; sometimes swoopingdown on his opponents like an eagle among a flock of small birds, orsetting down his great lion's paw and quietly crushing a host ofobjections, apparently unaware of the mischief he had done, until somefeeble wail of the prostrate foe made him sensible of it, and hewithdrew with a good-humored apology for having hurt any one's feelings.At other times he withers an unfair argument or a confused statement toa cinder by some lightning-flash of humor or satire. I do not think heis often perplexed by seeing too much of the other side of a disputedquestion. He holds the one truth he is contending for, and he sees theone point he is aiming at, and at that he charges with a forcecompounded of the ponderous weight of his will, and the electricvelocity of his thoughts, crushing whatever comes in his way, scatteringwhatever escapes right and left, and never heeding how the scatteredforces may reunite and form in his rear. He knows that if he only turnson them, in a moment they will disperse again.

  I cannot quite tell how this style of warfare would answer for anadvocate, who had to make the best of any cause he is engaged to plead.I cannot fancy Martin Luther quietly collecting the arguments from theworst side, to the end that even the worst side may have fair play;which is, I suppose, often the office of an advocate.

  No doubt, however, he will find or make his calling in the world. Theprofessors and learned men have the most brilliant expectations as tohis career. And what is rare (they say), he seems as much the favoriteof the students as of the professors. His nature is so social; hismusical abilities and his wonderful powers of conversation make himpopular with all.

  And yet, underneath it all, we who know him well can detect at timesthat tide of thoughtful melancholy, which seems to lie at the bottom ofall hearts which have looked deeply into themselves or into life.

  He is as attentive as ever to religion, never missing the daily mass.But in our private conversations, I see that his conscience is anythingbut at ease. Has he passed through conflicts such as mine in the foreston that terrible night? Perhaps through conflicts as much fiercer andmore terrible, as his character is stronger and his mind deeper thanmine. But who can tell? What is the use of unfolding perplexities toeach other, which it seems no intellect on earth can solve? The inmostrecesses of the heart must always, I suppose, be a solitude, like thatdark and awful sanctuary within the veil of the old Jewish temple,entered only once a year, and faintly illumined by the light without,through the thick folds of the sacred veil.

  If only that solitude were indeed a holy of holies--or, being what itis, if we only need enter it once a year, and not carry about theconsciousness of its dark secrets with us everywhere. But, alas! onceentered we can never forget it. It is like the chill, dark cryptsunderneath our churches, where the masses for the dead are celebrated,and where in some monastic churches the embalmed corpses lie shrivelledto mummies, and visible through gratings. Through all the joyousfestivals of the holidays above, the consciousness of those darkchambers of death below seems to creep up; like the damps of the vaultsthrough the incense, like the muffled wail of the dirges through thesongs of praise.

  ERFURT, _April_, 1503.

  We are just returned from an expedition which might have proved fatal toMartin Luther. Early in the morning, three days since, we started towalk to Mansfe
ld on a visit to his family, our hearts as full of hope asthe woods were full of song. We were armed with swords; our wallets werefull; and spirits light as the air. Our way was to lie through field andforest, and then along the banks of the river Holme, through the GoldenMeadow where are so many noble cloisters and imperial palaces.

  But we had scarcely been on our way an hour when Martin, by someaccident, ran his sword into his foot. To my dismay the blood gushed outin a stream. He had cut into a main artery. I left him under the care ofsome peasants, and ran back to Erfurt for a physician. When he arrived,however, there was great difficulty in closing the wound with bandages.I longed for Else or our mother's skillful fingers. We contrived tocarry him back to the city. I sat up to watch with him. But in themiddle of the night his wound burst out bleeding afresh. The danger wasvery great, and Martin himself giving up hope, and believing death wasclose at hand, committed his soul to the blessed Mother of God. Mercifuland pitiful, knowing sorrow, yet raised glorious above all sorrow, witha mother's heart for all, and a mother's claim on Him who is the judgeof all, where indeed can we so safely flee for refuge as to Mary? It wasedifying to see Martin's devotion to her, and no doubt it was greatlyowing to this that at length the remedies succeeded, the bandages closedthe wound again, and the blood was stanched.

  Many an Ave will I say for this to the sweet Mother of Mercy. Perchanceshe may also have pity on me. O sweetest Lady, "eternal daughter of theeternal Father, heart of the indivisible Trinity," thou seest my desireto help my own careworn mother; aid me, and have mercy on me, thy sinfulchild.

  ERFURT, _June_, 1503.

  Martin Luther has taken his first degree. He is a fervent student,earnest in this as in everything. Cicero and Virgil are his greatcompanions among the Latins. He is now raised quite above the pressingcares of penury, and will probably never taste them more. His father isnow a prosperous burgher of Mansfeld, and on the way to becomeburgomaster. I wish the prospects at my home were as cheering. A fewyears less of pinching poverty for myself seems to matter little, butthe cares of our mother and Else weigh on me often heavily. It must belong yet before I can help them effectually, and meantime the brightyouth of my little Else, and the very life of our toilworn patientmother, will be wearing away.

  For myself I can fully enter into what Martin says, "The young shouldlearn especially to endure suffering and want; for such suffering doththem no harm. It doth more harm for one to prosper without toil than itdoth to endure suffering." He says also, "It is God's way, of beggars tomake men of power, just as he made the world out of nothing. Look uponthe courts of kings and princes, upon cities and parishes. You willthere find jurists, doctors, councillors, secretaries, and preachers whowere commonly poor, and always such as have been students, and haverisen and flown so high through the quill that they are become lords."

  But the way to wealth through the quill seems long; and lives soprecious to me are being worn out meantime, while I climb to the pointwhere I could help them! Sometimes I wish I had chosen the calling of amerchant, men seem to prosper so much more rapidly through trade thanthrough study; and nothing on earth seems to me so well worth workingfor as to lift the load from their hearts at home. But it is too late.Rolling stones gather no moss. I must go on now in the track I havechosen. Only sometimes again the fear which came over me on that nightin the forest. It seems as if heaven were against me, and that it isvain presumption for such as I even to hope to benefit any one.

  Partly, no doubt, it is the depression, caused by poor living, whichbrings these thoughts. Martin Luther said so to me one day when he foundme desponding. He said he knew so well what it was. He had suffered somuch from penury at Magdeburg, and at Eisenach had even seriouslythought of giving up study altogether and returning to his father'scalling. He is kind to me and to all who need, but his means do not yetallow him to do more than maintain himself. Or rather, they are not hisbut his father's, and he feels he has no right to be generous at theexpense of his father's self-denial and toil.

  I find life looks different, I must say, after a good meal. But then Icannot get rid of the thought of the few such meals they have at home.Not that Else writes gloomily. She never mentions a thing to sadden me.And this week she sent me a gulden, which she said belonged to heralone, and she had vowed never to use unless I would take it. But astudent who saw them lately said our mother looked wan and ill. And toincrease their difficulties, a month since the father received into thehouse a little orphan girl, a cousin of our mother's, called Eva vonSchoenberg. Heaven forbid that I should grudge the orphan her crust, butwhen it makes a crust less for the mother and the little ones, it isdifficult to rejoice in such an act of charity.

  ERFURT, _July_, 1503.

  I have just obtained a nomination on a foundation, which will, I hope,for the present at least, prevent my being any burden on my family formy own maintenance. The rules are very strict, and they are enforcedwith many awful vows and oaths which trouble my conscience not a little,because, if the least detail of these rules to which I have sworn iseven inadvertently omitted, I involve myself in the guilt of perjury.However, it is a step onward in the way to independence; and a farheavier yoke might well be borne with such an object.

  We (the beneficiaries on this foundation) have solemnly vowed to observethe seven canonical hours, never omitting the prayers belonging to each.This insures early rising, which is a good thing for a student. The mostdifficult to keep is the midnight hour, after a day of hard study; butit is no more than soldiers on duty have continually to go through. Wehave also to chant the _Miserere_ at funerals, and frequently to hearthe eulogy of the Blessed Virgin Mary. This last can certainly not becalled a hardship, least of all to me who desire ever henceforth to havean especial devotion to Our Lady, to recite daily the Rosary,commemorating the joys of Mary, the Salutation, the journey across themountains, the birth without pain, the finding of Jesus in the Temple,and the Ascension. It is only the vows which make it rather a bondage.But, indeed, in spite of all, it is a great boon. I can conscientiouslywrite to Else now, that I shall not need another penny of their scantystore, and can even, by the next opportunity, return what she sent,which, happily, I have not yet touched.

  _August_, 1503.

  Martin Luther is very dangerously ill; many of the professors andstudents are in great anxiety about him. He has so many friends; and nowonder! He is no cold friend himself, and all expect great honour to theUniversity from his abilities. I scarcely dare to think what his losswould be to me. But this morning an aged priest who visited him inspiredus with some hope. As Martin lay, apparently in the last extremity, andhimself expecting death, this old priest came to his bed-side, and saidgently, but in a firm tone of conviction,--

  "Be of good comfort, my brother, you will not die at this time; God willyet make a great man of you, who shall comfort many others. Whom Godloveth and proposeth to make a blessing, upon him he early layeth thecross, and in that school, who patiently endure learn much."

  The words came with a strange kind of power, and I cannot help thinkingthat there is a little improvement in the patient since they wereuttered. Truly, good words are like food and medicine to body and soul.

  ERFURT, _August_, 1503.

  Martin Luther is recovered! The Almighty, the Blessed Mother, and allthe saints be praised.

  The good old priest's words have also brought some especial comfort tome. If it could only be possible that those troubles and cares whichhave weighed so heavily on Else's early life and mine, are not the rodof anger, but the cross laid on those God loveth! But who can tell? ForElse, at least, I will try to believe this.

  The world is wide in these days, with the great New World opened by theSpanish mariners beyond the Atlantic, and the noble Old World opened tostudents through the sacred fountains of the ancient classics, once moreunsealed by the r
evived study of the ancient languages; and this newdiscovery of printing, which will, my father thinks, diffuse the newlyunsealed fountains of ancient wisdom in countless channels among highand low.

  These are glorious times to live in. So much already unfolded to us! Andwho knows what beyond? For it seems as if the hearts of men everywherewere beating high with expectation; as if, in these days, nothing weretoo great to anticipate, or too good to believe.

  It is well to encounter our dragons at the threshold of life; instead ofat the end of the race--at the threshold of death; therefore, I may wellbe content. In this wide and ever widening world, there must be somecareer for me and mine. What will it be?

  And what will Martin Luther's be? Much is expected from him. Famousevery one at the University says he must be. On what field will he winhis laurels? Will they be laurels or palms?

  When I hear him in the debates of the students, all waiting for hisopinions, and applauding his eloquent words, I see the laurel alreadyamong his black hair, wreathing his massive, homely forehead. But when Iremember the debate which I know there is within him, the anxiousfervency of his devotions, his struggle of conscience, his distress atany omission of duty, and watch the deep melancholy look which there issometimes in his dark eyes, I think not of the tales of the heroes, butof the legends of the saints, and wonder in what victory over the olddragon he will win his palm.

  But the bells are sounding for compline, and I must not miss the sacredhour.