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 Chronic les of 
 
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 STATE NOR? 
 
 liOS flNCELiEL
 
 CHRONICLES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SCHONBERG-COTTA 
 FAMILY 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES —VOL. I 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 
 1890
 
 I 
 
 - :- J . ?^ 
 
 I 
 
 The portions of these Chronicles which refer to Luther, 
 Melanchthon, Frederic of Saxony, and other historical persons, can 
 be verified from Luther's "Tischreden ;" Luther's "Briefe, Send- 
 schreiben und Bedenken ; " edited by De Wette ; the four volumes 
 called, "Geist aus Luther's Schriften," edited by F. W. Lomler, 
 C. F. Lucius, Dr. T. Rust, I^. Sackreuter, and Dr. Ernst Zim- 
 mermann; Tutschmann's "Friedrich der Weise;" the "History 
 of the Reformation," by Ranke; and that by D'Aubigne; with 
 the ordinary English historical works relating to the period.
 
 CHRONICLES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SCHONBERG COTTA Fx\MlLY. 
 
 ELSE S STORY. 
 
 Friedrich wishes me to wTite a chronicle of my 
 life. Friedrich is my eldest brother. I am sixteen, 
 and he is seventeen, and I have always been in the 
 habit of doing what he wishes; and therefore, although 
 it seems to me a very strange idea, do so now. It is 
 easy for Friedrich to write a chronicle, or anything 
 else, because he has thoughts. But I have so few 
 thoughts, I can only write what I see and hear about 
 people and things. And that is certainly very little to 
 write about, because everything goes on so much tlie 
 same always with us. The people around me are the 
 same I have known since I was a baby, and the things 
 have changed very little; except that the people are 
 more, because there are so many little children in our 
 home now, and the things seem to me to become less, 
 because my father does not grow richer; and there are 
 more to clothe and feed. However, since Fritz wishes 
 it, I will try; especially as ink and paper are the two
 
 8 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 things which are plentiful among us, because my father 
 is a printer. 
 
 Fritz apd I have never been separated all our lives 
 until now. Yesterday he went to the University at 
 Erfurt. It was when I was crying at the thought of 
 parting with him that he told me his plan about the 
 chronicle. He is to write one, and I another. He 
 said it would be a help to him, as our twilight talk 
 has been — when always, ever since I can remember, 
 we two have crept away in summer into the garden:, 
 under the great pear-tree, and in winter into the deep 
 window of the lumber-room inside my father's printing- 
 room, where the bales of paper are kept, and old 
 books are piled up, among which we used to make 
 ourselves a seat. 
 
 It may be a help and comfort to Fritz, but I do 
 not see how it ever can be any to me. He had all 
 the thoughts, and he will have them still. But I — 
 what shall I have for his voice and his dear face, but 
 cold, blank paper, and no thoughts at all! Besides, I 
 am so very busy, being the eldest; and the mother is 
 far from strong, and the father so often wants me to 
 help him at his types, or to read to him while he sets 
 them. However, Fritz wishes it, and I shall do it. I 
 wonder what his chronicle will be like! 
 
 But where am I to begin? What is a chronicle? 
 Two of the books in the Bible are called "Chronicles" 
 in Latin — at least Fritz says that is what the other 
 long word * means — and the first book begins with 
 "Adam," I know, because I read it one day to my 
 father for his printing. But Fritz certainly cannot 
 
 * Paralipomenon.
 
 ELSfe's STORY. 9 
 
 mean me to begin as far back as that. Of course I 
 could not remember. I think I had better begin with 
 the oldest person I know, because she is the furthest 
 on the way back to Adam; and that is our grandmother 
 von Schouberg. She is very old — more than sixty — 
 but her form is so erect, and her dark eyes so piercing, 
 that sometimes she looks almost younger than her 
 daughter, our precious mother, who is often bowed 
 down with ill-health and cares. 
 
 Our grandmother's father was of a noble Bohemian 
 family, and that is what links us with the nobles, al- 
 though my father's family belongs to the burgher class. 
 Fritz and I like to look at the old seal of our grand- 
 father von Schouberg, with all its quarterings, and to 
 hea|J;he tales of our knightly and soldier ancestors — 
 of 5^ader and baron. My mother, indeed, tells us 
 this is a mean pride, and that my father's printing- 
 press is a symbol of a truer nobility than any crest of 
 battle-axe or sword; but our grandmother, I know, 
 thinks it a great condescension for a Schouberg to have 
 married into a burgher family. Fritz feels with my 
 mother, and says the true crusade will be waged by 
 our father's black types far better than by our great- 
 grand-father's lances. But the old warfare was so beau- 
 tiful, with the prancing horses and the streaming 
 banners! And I cannot help thinking it would have 
 been pleasanter to sit at the window of some grand old 
 castle like the Wartburg, which towers above our town, 
 and wave my hand to Fritz, as he rode, in flashing 
 armour, on his war-horse, down the steep hill side, in- 
 stead of climbing up on piles of dusty books at our 
 lumber-room window, and watching him, in his humble 
 buraiter dress, with his wallet (not too well filled),
 
 10 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 walk down the street, while no one turned to look. 
 Ah, well! the parting would have been as dreary, and 
 Fritz himself could not be nobler. Only I cannot help 
 seeing that people do honour the bindings and the 
 gilded titles, in spite of all my mother and Fritz can 
 say; and I should like my precious book to have such 
 a binding, that the people who could not read the in- 
 side, might yet stop to look at the gold clasps and the 
 jewelled back. To those who can read the inside, per- 
 haps it would not matter. For of all the old barons 
 and crusaders my grandmother tells us of, I know well 
 none ever were or looked nobler than our Fritz. His 
 eyes are not blue, like mine — which are only Ger- 
 man Cotta eyes, but dark and flashing. Mine are 
 very good for seeing, sewing, and helping about the 
 printing; but his, I think, would penetrate men's 
 hearts and command them, or survey a battle-field at 
 a glance. 
 
 Last week, however, when I said something of the 
 kind to him, he laughed, and said there were better 
 battle-fields than those on which men's bones lay bleach- 
 ing; and then there came that deep look into his eyes, 
 when he seems to see into a world beyond my reach. 
 
 But I began with our grandmother, and here I am 
 thinking about Friedrich again. I am afraid that he 
 will be the beginning and end of my chronicle. Fritz 
 has been nearly all the world to me. I wonder if that 
 is why he is to leave me. The monks say we must 
 not love any one too much; and one day, when we 
 went to see Aunt Agnes, my mother's only sister, who 
 is a nun in the convent of Nimptschen, I remember her 
 saying to me when I had been admiring the flowers in
 
 else's story. 11 
 
 the convent garden, "Little Els6, will you come and 
 live with us, and be a happy, blessed sister here?" 
 
 I said, " WJiose sister, Aunt Agnes? I am Fritz's 
 sister! May Fritz come too?" 
 
 "Fritz could go into the monastery at Eisenach," 
 she said. 
 
 "Then I would go with him," I said. "I am Fritz's 
 sister, and I would go nowhere in the world without 
 him." 
 
 She looked on me with a cold, grave pity, and mur- 
 mured, "Poor little one, she is like her mother-, the 
 heart learns to idolize early. She has much to unlearn. 
 God's hand is against all idols." 
 
 That is many years ago*, but I remember as if it 
 were yesterday, how the fair convent garden seemed to 
 me all at once to grow dull and cheerless at her words 
 and her grave looks, and I felt it damp and cold like 
 a church-yard ; and the flowers looked like made flowers; 
 and the walls seemed to rise like the walls of a cave, 
 and I scarcely breathed until I was outside again, and 
 had hold of Fritz's hand. 
 
 For I am not at all religious. I am afraid I 
 do not even wish to be. All the religious men and 
 women I have ever seen do not seem to me half so 
 sweet as my poor dear mother; nor as kind, clever, 
 and cheerful as my father; nor half as noble and good 
 as Fritz. And the Lives of Saints puzzle me exceed- 
 ingly, because it seems to me that if every one were to 
 follow the example of St. Catherine, and even our own 
 St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and disobey their parents, 
 and leave their little children, it would make every- 
 thing so very wrong and confused. I wonder if any 
 one else ever felt the same, because these are thoughts
 
 12 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAAtlLY. 
 
 I liave never even told to Fritz ; for he is religious, and 
 I am afraid it would pain liim. 
 
 Our grandmother's husband fled from Bohemia on 
 account of religion; but I am afraid it was not the right 
 kind of religion, because no one seems to like to speak 
 about it; and what Fritz and I know about liim is only 
 what we have picked up from time to time, and put to- 
 gether for ourselves. 
 
 Nearly a hundred years ago, two priests preached 
 in Bohemia, called John Huss and Jerome of Prague. 
 They seem to have been dearly beloved, and to have 
 been thought good men during their life-time ; but 
 people must have been mistaken about them, for they 
 were both burnt alive as heretics at Constance in two 
 following^ years — in 1415 and 1416; which of course 
 proves that they could not have been good men, but 
 exceedingly bad. 
 
 However, their friends in Bohemia would not give 
 up believing what they had learned of these men, al- 
 though they had seen what end it led to. I do not 
 think this was strange, because it is so very difficult to 
 make oneself believe what one ought, as it is, and I do 
 not see that the fear of being burned even would help 
 one to do it; although, certainly, it might keep one 
 silent. But these friends of John Huss were many of 
 them nobles and great men, who were not accustomed 
 to conceal their thoughts, and they would not be silent 
 about what Huss had taught them. What this was, 
 Fritz and I never could fiud out, because my grand- 
 mother, who answers all our other questions, never 
 would tell us a word about this. We are, therefore, 
 afraid it must be something very wicked indeed. And 
 yet, when I asked one day if our grandfather (who, we
 
 else's story. 13 
 
 think, had followed Huss), was a wicked man, her 
 eyes flashed like lightning, and she said vehemently, — 
 
 "Better never lived or died!" 
 
 This perplexes us, but perhaps we shall understand 
 it, like so many other things, when we are older. 
 
 Great troubles followed on the death of Huss. 
 Bohemia was divided into three parties, who fought 
 against each other. Castles were sacked, and noble 
 women and little children were driven into caves and 
 forests. Our forefathers were among the sufferers. In 
 1458 the conflict reached its height; many were beheaded, 
 hung, burned alive, or tortured. My grandfather was 
 killed as he was escaping, and my grandmother en- 
 countered great dangers, and lost all the little property 
 which was left her, in reaching Eisenach, a young wi- 
 dow with two little children, ray mother and Aunt 
 Agnes. 
 
 Whatever it was that my great grandfather believed 
 wrong, his wife did not seem to share it. She took 
 refuge in the Augustinian Convent, where she lived 
 until my Aunt Agues took the veil, and my mother 
 was married, when she came to live with us. She is as 
 fond of Fritz as I am, in her way; although she scolds 
 us all in turn, which is perhaps a good thing, because 
 as she says, no one else does. And she has taught me 
 nearly all I know, except the Apostles' Creed and Ten 
 Commandments, which our father taught us, and the 
 Paternoster and Ave Mary which we learned at our 
 mother s knee. Fritz, of course, knows infinitely more 
 than I do. He can say the Cisio Janus (the Church 
 Calendar) through without one mistake, and also the 
 Latin Grammar, I believe; and he has read Latin 
 books of which I cannot remember the names ; and he
 
 14 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 understands all that the priests read and sing, and can 
 siug himself as well as any of them. 
 
 But the legends of the saints, and the multiplication 
 table, and the names of herbs and flowers, and the ac- 
 count of the Holy Sepulchre, and of the pilgrimage to 
 Rome, — all these our grandmother has taught us. She 
 looks so beautiful, our dear old grandmother, as she 
 sits by the stove with her knitting, and talks to Fritz 
 and me, with her lovely white hair and her dark bright 
 eyes, so full of life and youth, they make us think of 
 the fire on the hearth when the snow is on the roof, 
 all warm within, or, as Fritz says, — 
 
 "It seems as if her heart lived always in the sum- 
 mer, and the winter of old age could only touch her 
 body." 
 
 But I think the summer in which our grandmother's 
 soul lives must be rather a fiery kind of summer, in 
 which there are lightnings as well as sunshine. Fritz 
 thinks we shall know her again at the Resurrection 
 Day by that look in her eyes, only perhaps a little 
 softened. But that seems to me terrible, and very far 
 off; and I do not like to think of it. We often debate 
 which of the saints she is like. I think St. Anna, the 
 mother of Mary, mother of God, but Fritz thinks St. 
 Catherine of Egypt, because she is so like a queen. 
 
 Besides all this, I had nearly forgotten to say I 
 know the names of several of the stars, which Fritz 
 taught me. And I can knit and spin, and do point 
 stitch, and embroider a little. I intend to teach it all 
 to the children. There are a great many children in 
 our home, and more every year. If there had not been 
 so many, I might have had time to learn more, and 
 also to be more religious; but I cannot see what they
 
 else's story. 15 
 
 would do at home if I were to have a vocation. Per- 
 haps some of the younger ones may be spared to be- 
 come saints. I wonder if this should turn out to be 
 so, and if I help them, if any one ever found some 
 little humble place in heaven for helping some one else 
 to be religious! Because then there might perhaps be 
 hope for me after all. 
 
 Our father is the wisest man in Eisenach. The 
 mother thinks, perhaps, in the world. Of this, how- 
 ever, our grandmother has doubts. She has seen other 
 places besides Eisenach, which is perhaps the reason. He 
 certainly is the wisest man I ever saw. He talks about 
 more things that I cannot understand than any one else I 
 know. He is also a great inventor. He thought of the 
 plan of printing books before any one else, and had almost 
 completed the invention before any press was set up. 
 And he always believed there was another world on 
 the other side of the great sea, long before the Admiral 
 Christopher Columbus discovered America. The only 
 misfortune has been that some one else has always 
 stepped in just before he had completed his inventions, 
 when nothing but some little insignificant detail was 
 wanting to make everything perfect, and carried off all 
 the credit and profit. It is this which has kept us 
 from becoming rich, — this and the children. But the 
 father's temper is so placid and even, nothing ever 
 sours it. And this is what makes us all admire and 
 love him so much, even more than his great abilities. 
 He seems to rejoice in these successes of other people 
 just as much as if he had quite succeeded in making 
 them himself. If the mother laments a little over the 
 fame that might have been his, he smiles and says, — -
 
 16 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERU-COXXxV FAMILY. 
 
 "Never mind, little mother. It will be all tlie same 
 a hundred years lience. Let us not grudge any one 
 bis reward. Tlie world has tbe benefit if we have 
 not." 
 
 Then if tbe mother sighs a little over the scanty 
 larder and wardrobe, he replies, — 
 
 •'Cheer up, little mother, there are more Americas 
 yet to be discovered, and more inventions to be made. 
 In fact," he adds, with that deep far seeing look of 
 his, "something else has just occurred to me, which, 
 when I have brought it to perfection, will throw all 
 the discoveries of this and every other age into the 
 shade." 
 
 And he kisses the mother and departs into his 
 printing-room. And the mother looks wonderingly 
 after him, and says, — 
 
 "We must not disturb the father, children, with 
 our little cares. He has great things in his mind, 
 which we shall all reap the harvest of some day." 
 
 So, she goes to patch some little garment once 
 more, and to try to make one day's dinner expand 
 into enough for two. 
 
 What the father's great discovery is at present, 
 Fritz and I do not quite know. But we think it has 
 something to do , either with the planets and the stars, 
 or with that wonderful stone the philosophers have 
 been so long occupied about. In either case, it is sure 
 to make us enormously rich all at once; and, mean- 
 time, we may well be content to eke out our living as 
 best we can. 
 
 Of the mother I cannot think of anything to say.
 
 else's story. 17 
 
 She is just the mother — our own dear, patient, lov- 
 ing, little mother — unlike every one else in the 
 world; and yet it seems as if there was nothing to say 
 about her by which one could make any one else 
 understand what she is. It seems as if she were to 
 other people (with reverence I say it) just what the 
 blessed Mother of God is to the other saints. St. Ca- 
 therine has her wheel and her crown, and St. Agnes 
 her lamb and her palm, and St. Ursula her eleven 
 thousand virgins; but Mary, the ever-blessed, has only 
 the Holy Child. She is the blessed woman, the Holy 
 Mother, and nothing else. That is just what the mother 
 is. She is the precious little mother, and the best 
 woman in the world, and that is all. I could describe 
 her better by saying what she is not. She never says 
 a harsh word to any one nor of any one. She is never 
 impatient with the father, like our grandmother. She 
 is never impatient with the children, like me. She 
 never complains or scolds. She is never idle. She 
 never looks severe and cross at us, like Aunt Agnes. 
 But I must not compare her with Aunt Agnes, because 
 she herself once reproved me for doing so; she said 
 Aunt Agnes was a religious, a pure, and holy woman, 
 far, far above her sphere or ours; and we might be 
 thankful, if we ever reached heaven if she let us kiss 
 the hem of her garment. 
 
 Yes, Aunt Agnes is a holy woman — a nun; I 
 must be careful what 1 say of her. She makes long, 
 long prayers, they say. — so long that she has been 
 found in the morning fainting on the cold floor of the 
 convent church. She eats so little that Father Christopher, 
 •who is the convent confessor and ours, says he some- 
 Schonberg-Cotta Family, L 2
 
 18 CHKONICLES OF THE SUHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY, 
 
 times thinks she must be sustained hj angels. But 
 Fritz and I think that, if that is true, the angel's food 
 cannot be very nourishing; for, when we saw her last, 
 through the convent grating, she looked like a shadow 
 in her black robe, or like that dreadful picture of death 
 we saw in the convent chapel. She wears the coarsest 
 sackcloth, and often, they say, sleeps on ashes. One 
 of the nuns told my mother, that one day when she 
 fainted, and they had to unloose her dress, they found 
 scars and stripes, scarcely healed, on her fair neck and 
 arms, which she must have inflicted on herself. They 
 all say she will have a very high place in heaven-, but 
 it seems to me, unless there is a very great difference 
 between the highest and lowest places in heaven, it is 
 a great deal of trouble to take. But, then, I am not 
 religious; and it is altogether so exceedingly difficult 
 to me to understand about heaven. Will every one in 
 heaven be always struggling for the high places? Be- 
 cause when every one does that at church on the great 
 festival days, it is not at all pleasant; those who suc- 
 ceed look proud, and those who fail look cross. But, 
 of course, no one will be cross in heaven, nor proud. 
 Then how will the saints feel who do not get the highest 
 places? Will they be pleased or disappointed? If 
 they are pleased, what is the use of struggling so much 
 to climb a little higher? And if they are not pleased, 
 would that be saint-like? Because the mother always 
 teaches us to choose the lowest places, and the eldest 
 to give up to the little ones. Will the greatest, then, 
 not give up to the little ones in heaven? Of one thing 
 I feel sure: if the mother had a high place in heaven, 
 she would always be* stooping down to help some one 
 else up, or making room for others. And then, what
 
 ELSE S STORY. 19 
 
 are the highest places in heaven? At the emperor's 
 court, I know, they are the places nearest him; the 
 seven Electors stand close around the throne. But can 
 it he possible that any would ever feel at ease, and 
 happy so very near the Almighty? It seems so ex- 
 ceedingly difficvilt to please Him here, and so very 
 easy to offend Him, that it does seem to me it would 
 be happier to be a little further off, in some little quiet 
 corner near the gate, with a good many of the saints 
 between. The other day, Father Christopher ordered 
 me such a severe penance for dropping a crumb of the 
 sacred Host; although I could not help thinking it was 
 as much the priest's fault as mine. But he said God 
 would be exceedingly displeased; and Fritz told me 
 the priests fast and torment themselves severely some- 
 times, for only omitting a word in the Mass. 
 
 Then the awful picture of the Lord Christ, with 
 the lightnings in his hand! It is very different from 
 the carving of him on the cross. Why did he suffer 
 so? Was it, like Aunt Agnes, to get a higher place 
 in heaven? or, perhaps, to have the right to be severe, 
 as she is with us? Such very strange things seem to 
 offend and to please God, I cannot understand it at 
 all; but that is because I have no vocation for religion. 
 In the convent, the mother says, they grow like God, 
 and so understand him better. 
 
 Is Aunt Agnes, then, more like God than our 
 mother? That face, still and pale as death; those 
 cold, severe eyes; that voice, so hollow and monoton- 
 ous , as if it came from a metal tube or a sepulchre, 
 instead of from a heart! Is it with that look God will 
 meet us, with that kind of voice he will speak to us? 
 Indeed, the Judgment-day is very dreadful to think of; 
 
 2*
 
 20 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 find one must indeed need to live many yeai's in tlie 
 convent not to be afraid of going to heaven. 
 
 Oil, if only our mother Avere the saint — the kind 
 of good woman that pleased God — instead of Aunt 
 Agnes, how sweet it would be to try and be a saint 
 then; and how sure one would feel that one might 
 hope to reach heaven, and that, if one reached it, one 
 would be happy there! 
 
 Aunt Ursula Gotta is another of the women I wish 
 were the right kind of saint. She is my father's first 
 cousin's wife ; but we have always called her aunt, be- 
 cause almost all little children who know her do, — 
 she is so fond of children, and so kind to every one. 
 She is not poor like us, although Cousin Conrad Cotta 
 never made any discoveries, or even nearly made any. 
 There is a picture of St. Elizabeth of Thuringia, our 
 sainted Landgravine, in our parish church, which al- 
 ways makes me think of Aunt Ursula. St. Elizabeth is 
 standing at the gate of a beautiful castle, something 
 like our castle of the Wartburg, and around her are 
 kneeling a crowd of very poor people — cripples, and 
 blind, and poor thin mothers, with little hungry-looking 
 children — all stretching out their hands to the lady, 
 who is looking on with such kindly, compassionate 
 looks, just like Aunt Ursula-, except that St. Elizabeth 
 is very thin and pale, and looks almost as nearly starved 
 as the beggars around her, and Aunt Ursula is rosy 
 and fat, with the pleasantest dimples in her round face. 
 But the look in the eyes is the same — so loving, and 
 true, and earnest, and compassionate. The thinness and 
 pallor are, of course, only just the difi'erence there 
 must be between a saint who fasts, and does so much 
 penance, and keeps herself awake whole nights saying
 
 else's story. 21 
 
 prayers, as St. Elizabeth did, and a prosperous burgher's 
 wife, who eats and sleeps like other people, and is only 
 like the good Landgravine in being so kind to every 
 one. 
 
 The other half of the story of the picture, however, 
 would not do for Aunt Ursula. In the apron of the 
 saint, instead of loaves of bread are beautiful clusters 
 of red roses. Our grandmother told us the meaning 
 of this. The good Landgravine's husband did not 
 quite like her giving so much to the poor ; because 
 she was so generous she would have left the treasury 
 bare. So she used to give her alms unknown to him. 
 But on this day when she was giving away those 
 loaves to the beggars at the castle gate, he happened 
 suddenly to return, and finding her occupied in this 
 way, he asked her rather severely what she had in her 
 apron. She said "roses!" 
 
 "Let me see," said the Landgrave. 
 
 And God loved her so much, that to save her from 
 being blamed, he wrought a miracle. When she opened 
 her apron, instead of the loaves she had been distribut- 
 ins.-, there were beautiful flowers. And this is what the 
 picture represents. I always wanted to know the end 
 of the story. I hope God worked another miracle 
 when the Landgrave went away, and changed the roses 
 back into loaves. I suppose He did, because the 
 starving people look so contented. But our grand- 
 mother does not know. Only in this, I do not think 
 Aunt Ursula would have done the same as the Land- 
 gravine. I think she would have said boldly if Cousin 
 Gotta had asked her, "I have loaves in my apron, and 
 I am giving them to these poor starving subjects of 
 yours and mine," and never been afraid of what he
 
 22 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 would say. And then, perhaps, Cousin Cotta — I 
 mean tlie Landgrave's — heart would have been so 
 touched, that he would have forgiven her, and even 
 praised her, and brought her some more loaves. And 
 then instead of the bread being changed to flowers, the 
 Landgrave's heart would have been changed from stone 
 to flesh, which does seem a better thing. But when I 
 once said this to grandmother, she said it was very 
 wrong to fancy other ends to the legends of the saints, 
 just as if they were fairy tales; that St. Elizabeth really 
 lived in that old castle of the Wartburg, not more than 
 three hundred years ago, and walked through those 
 very streets of Eisenach, and gave alms to the poor 
 here, and went into the hospitals, and dressed the most 
 loathsome wounds that no one else would touch, and 
 spoke tender loving words to wretched outcasts no one 
 else would look at. That seems to me so good and 
 dear of her ; but that is not what made her a saint, 
 because Aunt Ursula and our mother do things like 
 that, and our mother has told me again and again that 
 it is Aunt Agnes who is like the saint, and not she. 
 
 It is what she suffered, I suppose, that has made 
 them put her in the Calendar; and yet it is not suffer- 
 ing in itself that makes people saints, because I do not 
 believe St. Elizabeth herself suffered more than our 
 mother. It is true she used to leave her husband's 
 side and kneel all night on the cold floor, while he 
 was asleep. But the mother has done the same as that 
 often and often. When any of the little ones has been 
 ill, how often she has walked up and down hour after 
 hour, with the sick child in her arms, soothing and 
 fondling it, and quieting all its fretful cries with un- 
 wearying tender patience. Then St. Elizabeth fasted
 
 else's story. 23 
 
 antil she was almost a shadow, but how often have I 
 seen our mother quietly distribute all that was nice 
 and good in our frugal meals to my father and the 
 children, scarcely leaving herself a bit, and hiding her 
 plate behind a dish that the father might not see. And 
 Fritz and 1 often say how wasted and worn she looks; 
 not like the Mother of Mercy as we remember her, 
 but too much like the wan pale Mother of Sorrows 
 with the pierced heart. Then as to pain, have not I 
 seen our mother suffer pain compared with which Aunt 
 Agnes or St. Elizabeth's discipline must be like the 
 prick of a pin. 
 
 But yet all that is not the right kind of suffering 
 to make a saint. Our precious mother walks up and 
 down all night not to make herself a saint, but to 
 soothe her sick child. She eats no dinner, not because 
 she chooses to fast, but because we are poor, and bread 
 is dear. She suffers, because God lays suffering upon 
 her, not because she takes it on herself And all this 
 cannot make her a saint. When I say anything to 
 compassionate or to honour her, she smiles and says, — • 
 
 "My Els^, I chose this lower life instead of the 
 high vocation of your Aunt Agnes, and I must take 
 the consequences. We cannot have our portion both 
 in this world and the next." 
 
 If the size of our mother's portion in the next 
 world were to be in proportion to its smallness in this, 
 I think she might have plenty to spare ; but this I do 
 not venture to say to her. 
 
 There is one thing St. Elizabeth did which certainly 
 our mother would never do. She left her little father- 
 less children to go into a convent. Perhaps it was 
 this that pleased God and the Lord Jesus Christ so
 
 24 CHKONICLEC) Ok' THE SCHOi«BiiKG-COXTA l^AMLLY. 
 
 very much, that they took her up to be so high in 
 heaven. If this is the case, it is a great mercy for 
 our father and for us that our mother has not set her 
 heart on being a saint. We sometimes think, however, 
 that perhaps although He cannot make her a saint on 
 account of the rules they have in heaven about it, God 
 may give our mother some little good thing, or some 
 kind word, because of her being so very good to us. 
 She says this is no merit, however, because of her 
 loving us so much. If she loved us less, and so found 
 it more a trouble to work for us; or if we were little 
 stranger beggar children she chose to be kind to, in- 
 stead of her own, I suppose God would like it better. 
 
 There is one thing, moreover, in St. Elizabeth's 
 history which once brought Fritz and me into great 
 trouble and perplexity. When we were little children, 
 and did not understand things as we do now, but 
 thought we ought to try and imitate the saints, and 
 that what was right for them must be right for us, and 
 when our grandmother had been telling us about the 
 holy Landgravine privately selling her jewels, and 
 emptying her husband's treasury to feed the poor, we 
 resolved one day to go and do likewise. We knew a 
 very poor old woman in the next street, with a great 
 many orphan grandchildren, and we planned a long 
 time together before we thought of the way to help her 
 like St. Elizabeth. At length the opportunity came. 
 It was Christmas eve, and for a rarity there were some 
 meat, and apples, and pies in our store-room. We crept 
 into the room in the twilight, filled my apron with 
 pies, and meat, and cakes, and stole out to our old 
 woman's to give her our booty. 
 
 The next morning the larder was found despoiled
 
 ilLSE's SXOKY. 25 
 
 of lialf of what was to have been our Christmas dinner. 
 The children cried, and the mother looked almost as 
 distressed as they did. The father's placid temper for 
 once was roused, and he cursed the cat and the rats, 
 and wished he had completed his new infallible rat 
 trap. Our grandmother said very quietly, — 
 
 "Thieves more discriminating- than rats or mice 
 have been here. There are no crumbs, and not a thing 
 is out of place. Besides, I never heard of rats or mice 
 eating pie- dishes. 
 
 Fritz and I looked at each other, and began to 
 fear we had done wrong, when little Christopher said — 
 
 "I saw Fritz and Elsfe carry out the pies last 
 night." 
 
 "Els^! Fritz!" said our father, "what does this 
 mean?" 
 
 I would have confessed, but I remembered St. Eli- 
 zabeth and the roses, and said, with a trembling 
 voice — 
 
 "They were not pies you saw, Christopher, but 
 roses." 
 
 "Roses," said the mother very gravely, "at Christ- 
 mas!" 
 
 I almost hoped the pies would have reappeared on 
 the shelves. It was the very juncture at which they 
 did in the legend; but they did not. On the contrary, 
 everything seemed to turn against us. 
 
 "Fritz," said our father very sternly, "tell the truth, 
 or 1 shall give you a tioggiug." 
 
 This was a part of the story where St. Elizabeth's 
 example quite failed us. I did not know what she 
 would have done if some one else had been punished 
 for her generosity 5 but I felt no doubt what I must do
 
 26 CHEONICLES OF THE SCHOfTBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "0 father!" I said, "it is my fault — it was my 
 thouglit! We took the things to the poor old woman 
 in the next street for her grandchildren." 
 
 "Then she is no better than a thief," said our 
 father, "to have taken them. Fritz and Els^, foolish 
 children, shall have no Christmas dinner for their pains •, 
 and Els^ shall, moreover, be locked into her own room, 
 for telling a story." 
 
 I was sitting shivering in my room, wondering 
 how it was that things succeeded so differently with 
 St. Elizabeth and with us, when Aunt Ursula's round 
 pleasant voice sounded up the stairs, and in another 
 minute she was holding me laughing in her arms. 
 
 "My poor little Els6! We must wait a little be- 
 fore we imitate our patron saint; or we must begin at 
 the other end. It would never do, for instance, for 
 me to travel to Eome with eleven thousand young 
 ladies like St. Ursula." 
 
 My grandmother had guessed the meaning of our 
 foray, and Aunt Ursula coming in at the time, had 
 heard the narrative, and insisted on sending us another 
 Christmas dinner. Fritz and I secretly believed that 
 St. Elizabeth had a good deal to do with the replacing 
 of our Christmas dinner; but after that, we understood 
 that caution was needed in transferring the holy ex- 
 ample of the saints to our own lives, and that at 
 present we must not venture beyond the ten com- 
 mandments. 
 
 Yet to think that St. Elizabeth, a real canonized 
 saint — whose picture is over altars in the churches — 
 whose good deeds are painted on the church windows, 
 and illumined by the sun shining through them — whose 
 bones are laid up in reliquaries, one of wliich I wear
 
 else's story. 27 
 
 always next my heart — actually lived aud prayed in 
 that dark old castle above us, and walked along these 
 very streets — perhaps even had been seen from this 
 window of Fritz's and my beloved lumber-room. 
 
 Only three hundred years ago! If only I had lived 
 three hundred years earlier, or she three hundi-ed years 
 later, I might have seen her and talked to her, and 
 asked her what it was that made her a saint. There 
 are so many questions I should like to have asked her. 
 I would have said, "Dear St. Elizabeth, tell me what 
 it is that makes you a saint? It cannot be your charity, 
 because no one can be more charitable than Aunt Ursula, 
 and she is not a saint; and it cannot be your sufferings, 
 or your patience, or your love, or your denying yourself 
 for the sake of others, because our mother is like you in 
 all that, and she is not a saint. Was it because you 
 left your little children, that God loves you so much? 
 or because you not only did and bore the things God 
 laid on you, as our mother does, but chose out other 
 things for yourself, which you thought harder?" And 
 if she were gentle (as I think she was), and would 
 have listened, I would have asked her, "Holy Land- 
 gravine, why are things which were so right and holy 
 in you, wrong for Fritz and me?" And I would 
 also have asked her, "Dear St. Elizabeth, my patro- 
 ness, what is it in heaven that makes you so happy 
 there?" 
 
 But I forgot — she would not have been in heaven 
 at all. She would not even have been made a saint, 
 because it was only after her death, when the sick and 
 crippled were healed by touching her body, that they 
 found out what a saint she had been. Perhaps, even, 
 she would not herself have known she was a saint.
 
 28 CHRONlCLEiS OF XHB fciCnoKBEfiG-COTXA FAJVULY. 
 
 Aud if so, I wonder if it can be possible that our 
 mother is a saint after all, only she does not know it! 
 
 Fritz and I are four or five years older than any 
 of the children. Two little sisters died of the plague 
 before any more were born. One was baptized, and 
 died when she was a year old, before she could soil 
 her baptismal robes. Therefore we feel sure she is in 
 paradise. I think of her whenever I look at the cloud 
 of glory around the Blessed Virgin in St. George's 
 Church. Out of the cloud peep a number of happy 
 childfaces — some leaning their round soft cheeks on 
 their pretty dimpled hands, and all looking up with 
 such confidence at the dear mother of God. I suppose 
 the little children in heaven especially belong to her. 
 It must be very happy, then, to have died young. 
 
 But of that other little nameless babe who died at 
 the same time none of us ever dare to speak. It was 
 not baptized, and they say the souls of little unbaptized 
 babes hover about for ever in the darkness between 
 heaven and hell. Think of the horror of falling from 
 the loving arms of our mother into the cold and the 
 darkness, to shiver and wail there for ever, and belong 
 to no one. At Eisenach we have a Foundling Hospital, 
 attached to one of the nunneries founded by St. Eliza- 
 beth, for such forsaken little ones. If St. Elizabeth 
 could only establish a Foundling somewhere near the 
 gates of paradise for such little nameless outcast child- 
 souls! But I suppose she is too high in heaven, and 
 too far from the gates to hear the plaintive cries of 
 such abandoned little ones. Or perhaps God, who was 
 so much pleased with her for deserting lier own little 
 children, would not allow it. I suppose the saints in
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 29 
 
 lieaven who have been mothers, or even elder sisters 
 like me, leave their mother's hearts on earth, and that 
 in paradise they are all monks and nuns like Aunt 
 Agnes and Father Cliristopher. 
 
 Next to that little nameless one came the twin girls 
 Chriemhild (named after our grandmother), and Atlantis, 
 so christened by our father on account of the discovery 
 of the great world beyond the sea which he had so 
 often thought of, and which the great admiral Chris- 
 topher Columbus accomplished about that time. Then 
 the twin boys Boniface Pollux and Christopher Castor; 
 their names being a compromise between our father, 
 who was struck with some remarkable conjunction of 
 their stars at their birth, and my mother, who thought 
 it only right to counterbalance such Pagan appellations 
 with names written in heaven. Then another boy, 
 who only lived a few weeks; and then the present 
 baby, Thekla, who is the plaything and darling of 
 us all. 
 
 These are nearly all the people I know well ; except, 
 indeed, Martin Luther, the miner's son, to whom Aunt 
 Ursula Cotta has been so kind. He is dear to us all 
 as one of our own family. He is about the same age 
 as Fritz, who thinks there is no one like him. And 
 he has such a voice, and is so religious, and yet so 
 merry withal; at least at times. It was his voice and 
 his devout ways which first drew Aunt Ursula's atten- 
 tion to him. She had seen him often at the daily 
 prayers at church. He used to sing as a chorister with 
 the boys of the Latin school of the parish of St. George, 
 Vrhere Fritz and he studied. The ringing tones of his
 
 30 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 voice, SO clear and true, often attracted Aunt Ursula's 
 attention; and lie always seemed so devout. But we 
 knew little about him. He was very poor, and had a 
 pinched, half-starved look when first we noticed him. 
 Often I have seen him on the cold winter evenings 
 singing about the streets for alms, and thankfully re- 
 ceiving a few pieces of broken bread and meat at the 
 doors of the citizens; for he was never a bold and im- 
 pudent beggar as some of the scholars are. Our 
 acquaintance with him, however, began one day which 
 I remember well. I was at Aunt Ursula's house, which 
 is in George Street, near the church and school. I had 
 watched the choir of boys singing from door to door 
 through the street. No one had given them anything: 
 they looked disappointed and hungry. At last they 
 stopped before the window where Aunt Ursula and I 
 were sitting with her little boy. That clear, high, 
 ringing voice was there again. Aunt Ursula went to 
 the door and called Martin in, and then she went her- 
 self to the kitchen, and after giving him a good meal 
 himself, sent him away with his Avallet full, and told 
 him to come again very soon. After that, I suppose 
 she consulted with Cousin Conrad Cotta, and the result 
 was that Martin Luther became an inmate of their 
 house, and has lived among us familiarly since then 
 like one of our own cousins. 
 
 He is wonderfully changed since that day. Scarcely 
 any one would have thought then what a joyous nature 
 his is. The only thing in which it seemed then to 
 flow out was in his clear true voice. He was subdued 
 and timid like a creature that had been brought up 
 without love. Especially he used to be shy with young 
 maidens, and seemed afraid to look in a woman's face.
 
 eliSe'w story. 31 
 
 1 tliiuk they must have been very severe with him at 
 home. Indeed, he confessed to Fritz that he had often 
 as a child been beaten till the blood came for trifling 
 offences, such as taking a nut, and that he was afraid 
 to play in his parents' presence. And yet he would 
 not hear a word reflecting on his parents. He says 
 his mother is the most pious woman in Mansfeld, where 
 his family live, and his father denies himself in every 
 way to maintain and educate his children, especially 
 Martin, who is to be the learned man of the family. 
 His parents are inured to hardships themselves, and 
 believe it to be the best early discipline for boys. 
 Certainly poor Martin had enough of hardship here. 
 But that may be the fault of his mother's relations at 
 Eisenach, who, they hoped, would have been kind to 
 him, but who do not seem to have cared for him at 
 all. At one time he told Fritz he was so pinched and 
 discouraged by the extreme poverty he suffered, that 
 he thought of giving up study in despair, and return- 
 ing to Mansfeld to work with his father at the smelting 
 furnaces, or in the mines under the mountains. Yet 
 indignant tears start to his eyes if any one ventures to 
 hint that his father might have done more for him. 
 He was a poor digger in the mines, he told Fritz, and 
 often he had seen his mother carrying fire-wood on her 
 shoulders from the pine-woods near Mansfeld. 
 
 But it was in the monastic schools, no doubt, that 
 he learned to be so shy and grave. He had been taught 
 to look on married life as a low and evil thing; and, 
 of course, we all know it cannot be so high and pure 
 as the life in the convent. I remember now his look 
 of wonder when Aunt Ursula, who is not fond of monks, 
 said to him one day, "There is nothing on earth more
 
 32 CimONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 lovely than tlie love of husband and wife, wLen it is 
 in the fear of God." 
 
 In the warmth of her bright and sunny heart, his 
 whole nature seemed to open like the flowers in sum- 
 mer. And now there is none in all our circle so 
 popular and sociable as he is. He plays on the lute, 
 and sings as we think no one else can. And our chil- 
 dren all love him , he tells them such strange , beautiful 
 stories about enchanted gardens and crusaders, and 
 about his own childhood, among the pine-forests and the 
 mines. 
 
 It is from Martin Luther, indeed, that I have heard 
 more than from any one else, except fijcm our grand- 
 mother, of the great world beyond Eisenach. He has 
 lived already in three other towns, so that he is quite 
 a traveller, and knows a great deal of the world, al- 
 though he is not yet twenty. Our father has certainly 
 told us wonderful things about the great islands beyond 
 the seas which the Admiral Columbus discovered, and 
 which will one day, he is sure, be found to be only 
 the other side of tlie Indies and Tokay and Araby. 
 Already the Spaniards have found gold in those islands, 
 and our father has little doubt that they are the Ophir 
 from which King Solomon's ships brought the gold for 
 the temple. Also, he has told us about the strange 
 lands in the south, in Africa, where the dwarfs live, 
 and the black giants, and the great hairy men who 
 climb the trees and make nests there, and the dreadful 
 men-eaters, and the people who have their heads be- 
 tween their shoulders. But we have not yet met with 
 any one who has seen all those wonders, so that Martin 
 Luther and our grandmother are the greatest travellers 
 Fritz and I are acquainted with.
 
 ELSE .S STORY. 33 
 
 Martin was born at Eisleben. His mother's is a 
 burgher family. Thi-ee of her brothers live here at 
 Eisenach, and here she was married. But his father 
 came of a peasant race. His grandfather had a little 
 farm of his own at Mohra, among the Thuringian pine- 
 forests-, but Martin's father was the second sou; their 
 little property went to the eldest, and he became a 
 miner, went to Eisleben, and then settled at Mansfeld, 
 near the Hartz mountains, where the silver and copper 
 lie buried in the earth. 
 
 At Mansfeld Martin lived until he was thirteen. 
 I should like to see the place. It must be so strange 
 to watch the great furnaces, where they fuse the copper 
 and smelt the precious silver, gleaming through the 
 pine-woods, for they burn all through the night in the 
 clearings of the forest. When Martin was a little boy 
 he may have watched by them with his father, who 
 now has furnaces and a foundry of his own. Then 
 there are the deep pits under the hills, out of which 
 come from time to time troops of grim-looking miners. 
 Martin is fond of the miners; they are such a brave 
 and hardy race, and they have fine bold songs and 
 choruses of their own which he can sing, and wild 
 original pastimes. Chess is a favourite game with 
 them. They are thoughtful too, as men may well be 
 who dive into the secrets of the earth. Martin, when 
 a boy, has often gone into the dark, mysterious pits 
 and winding caverns with them, and seen the veins of 
 precious ore. He has also often seen foreigners of 
 various nations. They come from all parts of the 
 world to Mansfeld for the silver, — from Bavaria and 
 Switzerland, and even from the beautiful Venice, which 
 is a city of palaces, where the streets are canals filled 
 
 ^fhonberg-Coitn Family. J, '6
 
 34 CHEOKICLES OF THE SCHONBEEG-GOTTA FAiULY, 
 
 by the blue sea, and instead of waggons tliey use 
 boats, from which people land on the marble steps of 
 the palaces. All these things Martin has heard described 
 by those who have really seen them, besides what he 
 has seen himself. His father also frequently used to 
 have the schoolmasters and learned men at his house, 
 that his sons might profit by their wise conversation. 
 But I doubt if he can have enjoyed this so much. It 
 must have been difficult to forget the rod with which 
 once he was beaten fourteen times in one morning, so 
 as to feel sufficiently at ease to enjoy their conversa- 
 tion. Old Count Gunther of Mansfeld thinks much of 
 Martin's father, and often used to send for him to con- 
 sult him about the mines. 
 
 Their house at Mansfeld stood at some distance 
 from the school-house, which was on the hill, so that, 
 when he was little, an older boy used to be kind to 
 him, and carry him in his arms to school. I daresay 
 that was in winter, when his little feet were swollen 
 with chilblains, and his poor mother used to go up to 
 the woods to gather faggots for the hearth. 
 
 His mother must be a very good and holy woman, 
 but not, I fancy, quite like our mother; rather more 
 like Aunt Agnes. I think I should have been rather 
 afraid of her. Martin says she is very religious. He 
 honours and loves her very much, although she was 
 very strict with him, and once, he told Fritz, beat 
 him, for taking a nut from their stores, until the blood 
 came. She must be a brave, truthful woman, who 
 would not spare herself or others; but I think I should 
 have felt more at home with his father, who used so 
 often to kneel beside Martin's bed at night, and pray 
 God to make him a good and useful man. Martin's
 
 ELSjfc's STORY. 35 
 
 father, however, does not seem so fond of the monks 
 and nuns, and is therefore, I suppose, not so religious 
 as his mother is. He does not at all wish Martin to 
 become a priest or a monk, but to be a great lawyer, 
 or doctor, or professor at some university. 
 
 Mansfeld, however, is a very holy place. There 
 are many monasteries and nunneries there, and in one 
 of them two of the countesses were nuns. There is 
 also a castle there, and our St. Elizabeth worked miracles 
 there as well as here. The devil also is not idle at 
 Mansfeld. A wicked old witch lived close to Martin's 
 house, and used to frighten and distress his mother 
 much, bewitching the children so that they nearly cried 
 themselves to death. Once even, it is said, the devil 
 himself got up into the pulpit, and preached, of course 
 in disguise. But in all the legends it is the same. 
 The devil never seems so busy as where the saints are, 
 which is another reason why I feel how difficult it 
 would be to be religious. 
 
 Martin had a sweet voice, and loved music as a 
 child, and he used often to sing at people's doors as 
 he did here. Once, at Christmas time, he was singing 
 carols from village to village among the woods with 
 other boys, when a peasant came to the door of his 
 hut, where they were singing, and said in a loud gruff 
 voice, "Where are you, boys?" The children were 
 so frightened that they scampered away as fast as they 
 could, and only found out afterwards that the man 
 with a rough voice had a kind heart, and had brought 
 them out some sausages. Poor Martin was used to 
 blows in those days, and had good reason to dread 
 them. It must have been pleasant, however, to hear 
 the boys' voices carolling through the woods about 
 
 3*
 
 36 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 Jesus bom at Bethleliem. Voices echo so strangely 
 among the silent pine-forests. 
 
 When Martin was thirteen he left Mansfeld and 
 went to Magdeburg, where the Archbishop Ernest lives, 
 the brother of our Elector, who has a beautiful palace, 
 and twelve trumpeters to play to him always when he 
 is at dinner. Magdeburg must be a magnificent city, 
 very nearly, we think, as grand as Eome itself. There 
 is a great cathedral there, and knights and princes and 
 many soldiers, who prance about the streets; and 
 tournaments and splendid festivals. But our Martin 
 heard more than he saw of all this. He and John 
 Reineck of Mansfeld (a boy older than himself, who is 
 one of his greatest friends), went to the school of the 
 Franciscan Cloister, and had to spend their time with 
 the monks, or sing about the streets for bread, or in 
 the church-yard when the Franciscans in their grey 
 robes went there to fulfil their office of burying the 
 dead. But it was not for him, the miner's son, to 
 complain, when, as he says, he used to see a Prince of 
 Anhalt going about the streets in a cowl begging bread, 
 with a sack on his shoulders like a beast of burden, 
 insomuch that he was bowed to the ground. The poor 
 prince, Martin said, had fasted and watched and 
 mortified his flesh until he looked like an image of 
 death, with only skin and bones. Indeed, shortly after 
 he died. 
 
 At Magdeburg, also, Martin saw the picture of 
 which he has often told us. "A great ship was painted, 
 meant to signify the Church, wherein there was no 
 layman, not even a king or prince. There were none 
 but the pope with his cardinals and bishops in the 
 prow, with the Holy Ghost hovering over them, the
 
 else's story. o7 
 
 priests and monks with their oars at the side; and thus 
 they were sailing on heavenward. The laymen were 
 swimming along in the water around the ship. Some 
 of them were drowning; some were drawing themselves 
 up to the ship by means of ropes, which the monks, 
 moved with pity, and making over their own good 
 works, did cast out to them to keep them from, drown- 
 ing, and to enable them to cleave to the vessel and to 
 go with the others to heaven. There was no pope, nor 
 cardinal, nor bishop, nor priest, nor monk in the water, 
 but laymen only." 
 
 It must have been a very dreadful picture, and 
 enough to make any one afraid of not being religious, 
 or else to make one feel how useless it is for any one, 
 except the monks and nuns, to try to be religious at 
 all. Because however little merit any one had acquired, 
 some kind monk might still be found to throw a rope 
 out of the ship and help him in; and, however many 
 good works any layman might do, they would be of 
 no avail to help him out of the flood, or even to keep 
 him from drowning, unless he had some friend in a 
 cloister. 
 
 I said Martin was merry; and so he is, with the 
 children, or when he is cheered with music or singing. 
 And yet, on the whole, I think he is rather grave, and 
 often he looks very thoughtful, and even melancholy. 
 His merriment does not seem to be so much from care- 
 lessness as from earnestness of heart, so that whether 
 he is telling a story to the little ones, or singing a lively 
 song, his whole heart is in it, — in his play as well as 
 in his work. 
 
 In his studies Fritz says there is no one at 
 Eisenach who can come near him, whether in reciting,
 
 38 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 or writing prose or verse, or translating, or churcb 
 music. 
 
 Master Trebonius, the head of St. George's school, 
 is a very learned man and very polite. He takes off 
 his hat, Fritz says, and bows to his scholars when he 
 enters the school, for he says that "among these boys 
 are future burgomasters, chancellors, doctors, and 
 magistrates." This must be very different from the 
 masters at Mansfeld. Master Trebonius thinks very much 
 of Martin. I wonder if he and Fritz will be burgomasters 
 or doctors one day. 
 
 Martin is certainly very religious for a boy, and so is 
 Fritz. They attend mass very regularly, and confession, 
 and keep the fasts. 
 
 From what I have heard Martin say, however, I 
 think he is as much afraid of God and Christ and the 
 dreadful day of wrath and judgment as I am. Indeed 
 I am sure he feels, as every one mii.st, there would be 
 no hope for us were it not for the Blessed Mother of 
 God who may remind her Son how she nursed and 
 cared for him, and move him to have some pity. 
 
 But Martin has been at the University of Erfurt 
 nearly two years, and Fritz has now left us to study 
 there with him; and we shall have no more music, 
 and the children no more stories until no one knows 
 when. 
 
 These are the people I know. I have nothing else 
 to say except about the things I possess, and the place 
 we live in. 
 
 The things are easily described. I have a silver 
 reliquary, with a lock of the hair of St. Elizabeth in 
 it. That is my greatest treasure. I have a black
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 39 
 
 rosary with a large iron cross which Aunt Agnes gave 
 me. I have a missal, and part of a volume of the 
 Nibelungen Lied; and besides my every-day dress, a 
 black taffetas jacket and a crimson stuff petticoat, and 
 two gold ear-rings, and a silver chain for holidays, 
 which Aunt Ursula gave me. Fritz and I between us 
 have also a copy of some old Latin hymns, with 
 woodcuts, printed at Niirnberg. And in the garden I 
 have two rose -bushes; and I have a wooden crucifix 
 carved in Rome out of wood which came from Bethlehem, 
 and in a leather purse one gulden my godmother gave 
 me at my christening; and that is all. 
 
 The place we live in is Eisenach, and I think it a 
 beautiful place. But never having seen any other 
 town, perhaps I cannot very well judge. There are 
 nine monasteries and nunneries here, many of them 
 founded by St. Elizabeth. And there are I do not 
 know how many priests. In the churches are some 
 beautiful pictures of the sufferings and glory of the 
 saints; and painted windows, and on the altars gor- 
 geous gold and silver plate, and a great many wonder- 
 ful relics which we go to adore on the great saints' 
 days. 
 
 The town is in a valley, and high above the houses 
 rises the hill on which stands the Wartburg, the castle 
 where St. Elizabeth lived. I went inside it once with 
 our father to take some books to the Elector. The 
 rooms were beautifully furnished with carpets and 
 velvet-covered chairs. A lady dressed in silk and 
 jewels, like St. Elizabeth in the pictures, gave me 
 sweetmeats. But the castle seemed to me dark and 
 gloomy. I wondered which was the room in which 
 the proud mother of the Landgrave lived, who was so
 
 40 CHROKICLES OF THE SCHOJSBERG-COXXA FAMILY. 
 
 discourteous to St. Elizabeth when she came a young 
 maiden from her royal home far away in Hungary, 
 and which was the cold wall against which she pressed 
 her burning brow, when she rushed through the castle 
 in despair on hearing suddenly of the death of her 
 husband. 
 
 I was glad to escape into the free forest again, for 
 all around the castle, and over all the hills, as far as 
 we can see around Eisenach, it is forest. The tall 
 dark pine woods clothe the hills; but in the valleys 
 the meadows are very green beside the streams. It is 
 better in the valleys among the wild flowers than in 
 that stern old castle, and I did not wonder so much 
 after being there that St. Elizabeth built herself a hut 
 in a lowly valley among the woods, and preferred to 
 live and die there. 
 
 It is beautiful in summer in the meadows , at the 
 edge of the pine woods, when the sun brings out the 
 delicious aromatic perfume of the pines, and the birds 
 sing, and the rooks caw. I like it better than the in- 
 cense in St. George's Church, and almost better than 
 the singing of the choir, and certainly better than the 
 sermons which are so often about the dreadful fires 
 and the judgment-day, or the confessional where they 
 give us such hard penances. The lambs, and the 
 birds, and even the insects, seem so happy, each with 
 its own little bleat, or warble, or coo, or bi;zz of content. 
 
 It almost seems then as if Mary, the dear Mother 
 of God, were governing the world instead of Christ, 
 the Judge, or the Almighty with the thunders. Every 
 creature seems so blithe and so tenderly cared for, I 
 cannot help feeling better there than at church. But 
 that is because I have so little religion.
 
 FlilEDRICH's STOBX. 41 
 
 II. 
 
 EXTRACTS TROM FRIEDRICh's CHRONICLE. 
 
 Erpubt, 1503. 
 
 At last I stand on the threshold of the world I 
 have so long desired to enter. Elsfe's world is mine 
 no longer; and yet, never until this week did I feel 
 how dear that little home-world is to me. Indeed, 
 Heaven forbid I should have left it finally. I look 
 forward to returning to it again, never more, however, 
 as a burden on our parents, but as their stay and sup- 
 port, to set our mother free from the cares which are 
 slowly eating her precious life away, to set our father 
 free to pursue his great projects, and to make our 
 little Els6 as much a lady as any of the noble baron- 
 esses our grandmother tells us of. Although, indeed, 
 as it is, when she walks beside me to church on holi- 
 days, in her crimson dress, with her round, neat, little 
 figure in the black jacket with the white stomacher, 
 and the silver chains, her fair hair so neatly braided, 
 and her bhie 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 would only 
 wish to make all the days holidays for her, and that 
 it should not be necessary when the festival is over for 
 ray little sister to lay aside all her finery so carefully 
 in the great chest, and put on her Aschpiittel garments 
 again, so that if the fairy prince we used to talk of 
 were to come, he would scarcely recognise the fair 
 little princess he had seen at church. And yet no fairy
 
 42 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBBRG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 prince need he ashamed of our Els^, even in her work- 
 ing, everyday clothes; — he certainly would not be 
 the 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 her knitting in the 
 lumber-room or under the pear-tree in the garden, 
 what princess could look fresher or neater than EIs^, 
 with her smooth fair hair braided like a coronet? Who 
 would think that she had been toiling all day, cooking, 
 washing, nursing the children. Except, indeed, be- 
 cause of the healthy colour her active life gives her 
 face, and for that sweet low voice of hers, which I 
 think women learn best by the cradles of little 
 children. 
 
 I suppose it is because I have never yet seen any 
 maiden to be compared to our Els6 that I have not 
 yet fallen in love. And, nevertheless, it is not of 
 such a face as Else's I dream, when dreams come, or 
 even exactly such as my mother's. My mother's eyes 
 are dimmed with many cares; is it not that very worn 
 and faded brow that makes her sacred to me? More 
 sacred than any saintly halo! And Els^, good, prac- 
 tical little Els6, she is a dear household fairy; but the 
 face I dream of has another look in it. Else's eyes 
 are good, as she says, for seeing and helping; and 
 sweet, indeed, they are for loving — dear, kind, true 
 eyes. But the eyes I dream of have another look, a 
 fire like our grandmother's, as if from a southern sun; 
 dim, dreamy, far-seeing glances, burning into hearts, 
 like the ladies in the romances, and yet piercing into 
 heaven, like St. Cecilia's when she stands entranced 
 by her organ. She should be a saint, at whose feet I 
 might sit and look through her pure heart into heaven,
 
 priedrich's story. 43 
 
 and yet slie should love me wholly, passionately, fear- 
 lessly, devotedly, as if her heaven were all in my love. 
 My love! and who am I that I should have such 
 dreams? A poor burgher lad of Eisenach, a penniless 
 student of a week's standing at Erfurt! The eldest 
 son of a large destitute family, who must not dare to 
 think of loving the most perfect maiden in the world, 
 when I meet her, until I have rescued a father, 
 mother, and six brothers and sisters from the jaws of 
 biting poverty. And even in a dream it seems almost 
 a treachery to put any creature above Elsfe. I fancy 
 I see her kind blue eyes filling with reproachful tears. 
 For there is no doubt that in Else's heart I have no 
 rival, even in a dream. Poor loving little Els^! 
 
 Yes, she must be rescued from the pressure of those 
 daily fretting cares of penury and hope deferred, which 
 have made our mother old so early. If I had been in 
 the father's place, I could never have borne to see 
 winter creeping so soon over the summer of her life. 
 But he does not see it. Or if for a moment her pale 
 face and the grey hairs which begin to come seem to 
 trouble him, he kisses her forehead, and says, 
 
 "Little mother, it will soon be over; there is no- 
 thing wanting now but the last link to make this last 
 invention perfect, and then — " 
 
 And then he goes into his printing-room; but to 
 this day the missing link has never been found. Elsfe 
 and OUT mother, however, always believe it will turn 
 up some day. Our grandmother has doubts. And I 
 have scarcely any hope at all, although, for all the 
 world, I would not breathe this to any one at home. 
 To me that laboratory of my father's, with its furnace, 
 its models, its strange machines, is the most melan-
 
 44 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-OUTTA FAMILY. 
 
 choly place in tlie world. It is like a haunted chamber, 
 — haunted with the helpless, nameless ghosts of in- 
 fants that have died at their birth, — the ghosts of 
 vain and fruitless projects ; like the ruins of a city that 
 some earthquake had destroyed before it was finished, 
 ruined palaces that were never roofed, ruined houses 
 that were never inhabited, ruined churches that were 
 never worshipped in. The saints forbid that my life 
 should be like that! and yet what it is which has made 
 him so unsuccessful, I can never exactly make out. 
 He is no dreamer. He is no idler. He does not sit 
 lazily down with folded arms and imagine his projects. 
 He makes his calculations with the most laborious ac- 
 curacy, he consults all the learned men and books he 
 has access to. He weighs, and measures, and con- 
 structs the neatest models possible. His room is a 
 museum of exquisite models, which seem as if they 
 must answer, and yet never do. The professors, and 
 even the Elector's secretary, who has come more than 
 once to consult him, have told me he is a man of re- 
 markable genius. 
 
 What can it be, then, that makes his life such a 
 failure? I cannot think; unless it is that other great 
 inventors and discoverers seem to have made their dis- 
 coveries and inventions as it were hy the way^ in the 
 course of their everyday life. As a seaman sails on 
 his appointed voyage to some definite port, he notices 
 drift-wood or weeds which must have come from un- 
 known lands beyond the seas. As he sails in his call- 
 ing from port to port, the thought is always in his 
 mind; everything he hears groups itself naturally 
 around this thought, he observes the winds and cur- 
 rents; he collects information from mariners who have
 
 friedrich's story. 45 
 
 been driven out of their course, in the direction where 
 he believes this unknown land to lie. And at length 
 he persuades some prince that his belief is no mere 
 dream, and like the great admiral Christopher Colum- 
 bus, he ventures across the trackless unknown Atlantic 
 and discovers the Western Indies. But before he was 
 a discoverer, he was a mariner. 
 
 Or some engraver of woodcuts thinks of applying 
 his carved blocks to letters, 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 
 them in his path, the path of his daily calling. It 
 seems to me people do not become great, do not be- 
 come discoverers and inventors by trying to be so, 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; each improvement is tested 
 as it is made by practical use, until at length the 
 happy thought comes, not like an elf from the wild 
 forests, but like an angel on the daily path; and the 
 little improvements become the great invention. There 
 is another great advantage, moreover, in this method 
 over our father's. If the invention never comes, at all 
 events we have the improvements, which are worth 
 something. Every one cannot invent the printing-press 
 or discover the New Indies; but every engraver may 
 make his engravings a little better, and every mariner 
 may explore a little further than his predecessors. 
 
 Yet it seems almost like treason to write thus of 
 our father. What would Elsfe or our mother think, 
 who believe there is nothing but accident or the blind- 
 ness of mankind between us and greatness? Not that 
 they have learned to think thus from our father. Never
 
 46 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 in my life did I hear him say a grudging or depreciat- 
 ing word of any of those who have most succeeded 
 where he has failed. He seems to look on all such 
 men as part of a great brotherhood and to rejoice in 
 another man hitting the point which he missed, just as 
 he would rejoice in himself succeeding in something 
 to-day Avhich he failed in yesterday. It is this noble- 
 ness of character which makes me reverence him more 
 than any mere successes could. It is because I fear, 
 that in a life of such disappointment my character 
 would not prove so generous, but that failure would 
 sour my temper and penury degrade my spirit as they 
 never have his, that I have ventured to search for the 
 rocks on which he made shipwreck, in order to avoid 
 them. All men cannot return wrecked, and tattered, 
 and destitute from an unsuccessful voyage, with a 
 heart as hopeful, a temper as generous, a spirit as free 
 from envy and detraction, as if they brought the 
 golden fleece with them. Our father does this again 
 and again-, and therefore I trust his argosies are laid 
 up for him as for those who follow the rules of evan- 
 gelical perfection, where neither moth nor rust can 
 corrupt. I could not. I would never return until I 
 could bring what I had sought, or I should return a 
 miserable man, shipwrecked in heart as well as in for- 
 tune. And therefore I must examine my charts, and 
 choose my port and my vessel carefully, before I sail. 
 All these thoiights came into my mind as I stood 
 on the last height of the forest, from which I could 
 look back on Eisenach, nestling in the valley under 
 the shadow of the Wartburg. May the dear mother 
 of God, St. Elizabeth, and all the saints, defend it 
 evermore !
 
 friedrich's story. 47 
 
 But there was not much time to linger for a last 
 \aew of Eisenach. The winter days were short; some 
 snow had fallen in the previous night. The roofs of 
 the houses in Eisenach were white with it, and the 
 carvings of spire and tower seemed inlaid with ala- 
 baster. A thin covering lay on the meadows and hill- 
 sides, and light feather-work frosted the pines. I had 
 neai'ly thirty miles to walk through forest and plain 
 before I reached Erfurt. The day was as bright and 
 the air as light as my heart. The shadows of the pines 
 lay across the frozen snow, over which my feet crunched 
 cheerily. In the clearings, the outline of the black 
 twigs were pencilled dark and clear against the light 
 blue of the winter sky. Every outline was clear, and 
 crisp, and definite, as I resolved my own aims in life 
 should be. I knew my purposes were pure and high, 
 and I felt as if Heaven must prosper me. 
 
 But as the day wore on, I began to wonder Avhen 
 the forest would end, until, as the sun sank lower and 
 lower, I feared I must have missed my way; and at 
 last, as I climbed a height to make a survey, to my 
 dismay it was too evident I had taken the wrong turn- 
 ing in the snow. Wide reaches of the forest lay all 
 around me, one pine-covered hill folding over another; 
 and only in one distant opening could I get a glimpse 
 of the level land beyond , where I knew Erfurt must 
 lie. The daylight was fast departing; my wallet was 
 empty. I knew there were villages hidden in the val- 
 leys here and there; but not a wreath of smoke could 
 I see, nor any sign of man, except here and there 
 fagots piled in some recent clearing. Towards one of 
 these clearings I directed my steps, intending to follow 
 the wood-cutters' track, which I thought would pro-
 
 48 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 bably lead me to the hut of some charcoal burner, 
 where I might find fire and shelter. Before I reached 
 this spot, however, night had set in. The snow began 
 to fail again, and it seemed too great a risk to leave 
 the broader path to follow any unknown track. I re- 
 solved, therefore, to make the best of my circum- 
 stances. They were not unendurable. I had a flint 
 and tinder, and gathering some dry wood and twigs, I 
 contrived with some difficulty to light a fire. Cold 
 and hungry I certainly was, but for this I cared little. 
 It was only an extra fast, and it seemed to me quite 
 natural that my journey of life should commence with 
 difficulty and danger. It was always so in legend of 
 the saints, romance, or elfin tale, or when anything 
 great was to be done. 
 
 But in the night, as the wind howled through the 
 countless stems of the pines, not with the soft varieties 
 of sound it makes amidst the summer oak-woods, but 
 with a long monotonous wail like a dirge, a tumult 
 awoke in my heart such as I had never known before. 
 I knew these forests were infested by robber-bands, 
 and I could hear in the distance the baying and 
 howling of the wolves; but it was not fear which tossed 
 my thoughts so wildly to and fro, at least not fear of 
 bodily harm. I thought of all the stories of wild 
 huntsmen, of wi-etched guilty men, hunted by packs of 
 fiends; and the stories which had excited a wild delight 
 in Elsfe and me, as our grandmother told them by the 
 fire at home, now seemed to freeze my soul with hor- 
 ror. For was not I a guilty creature, and were not 
 the devils indeed too really around me? — and what 
 was to prevent their possessing me? Who in all the 
 uuiversfi was on my side? Could I look up with coa-
 
 friedrich's story. 49 
 
 fidence to God? He loves only the holy. Or to Christ? 
 He is the judge; and more terrible than any cries of 
 legions of devils will it be to the sinner to hear his 
 voice from the awful snow-white throne of judgment. 
 Then, my sins rose before me — my neglected prayers, 
 penances imperfectly performed, incomplete confessions. 
 Even that morning, had I not been full of proud and 
 ambitious thoughts — even, perhaps, vainly comparing 
 myself with my good father, and picturing myself as 
 conquering and enjoying all kinds of worldly delights? 
 It was true, it could hardly be a sin to wish to save 
 my family from penury and care; but it was certainly 
 a sin to be ambitious of worldly distinction, as Father 
 Christopher had so often told me. Then, how difficult 
 to separate the two! Where did duty end, and ambi- 
 tion and pride begin? I determined to find a confessor 
 as soon as I reached Erfurt, if ever I reached it. And 
 yet, what could even the wisest confessor do for me in 
 such difficulties? How could I ever be sure that I had 
 not deceived myself in examining my motives, and 
 then deceived him, and thus obtained an absolution on 
 false pretences, which could avail me nothing? And if 
 this might be so with future confessions, why not with 
 all past ones? 
 
 The thought was horror to me, and seemed to open 
 a fathomless abyss of misery yawning under my feet. 
 I could no more discover a track out of my miserable 
 perplexities than out of the forest. 
 
 For if these apprehensions had any ground, not 
 only the sins I had failed to confess Avere unpardoned, 
 but the sins I had confessed and obtained absolution 
 for on false grounds. Thus it might be that at that 
 moment my soul stood utterly unsheltered, as my body 
 
 Schonberg-Cotta Family. I, 4
 
 50 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMU-Y. 
 
 from the snows, exposed to the wrath of God, the 
 judgment of Christ, and the exulting cruelty of 
 devils. 
 
 It seemed as if only one thing could save me, and 
 that could never be had. If I could find an infallible 
 confessor who could see down into the depth of my 
 heart, and back into every recess of my life, who could 
 unveil me to myself, penetrate all my motives, and as- 
 sign me the penances I really deserved, I would travel 
 to the end of the world to find him. The severest 
 penances he could assign, after searching the lives of 
 all the holy Eremites and Martyrs, for examples of 
 mortification, it seemed to me would be ligbt indeed, 
 if I could only be sure they were the right penances 
 and would be followed by a true absolution. 
 
 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 me I had been 
 honest with myself? What absolution could ever give 
 me a right to believe that the baptismal robes, soiled 
 as they told me "before I had left ofi" my infant 
 socks," could once more be made white and clean? 
 
 Then for the first time in my life the thought 
 flashed on me, of the monastic vows, the cloister and 
 the cowl. I knew there was a virtue in the monastic 
 profession which many said was equal to a second 
 baptism. Could it be possible that the end of all my 
 aspirations might after all be the monk's frock? What 
 then would become of father and mother, dear Else, 
 and the little ones? The thought of their dear faces 
 seemed for an instant to drive away these gloomy
 
 friedrich's story. 51 
 
 fears, as they say a heartli-fire keeps off the wolves. 
 But then a hollow voice seemed to whisper, "If God is 
 against you, and the saints, and your conscience, what 
 help can you render yoiu- family or any one else?" 
 The conflict seemed more than I could bear. It was 
 so impossible to me to make out which suggestions 
 were from the devil and which from God, and which 
 from my own sinful heart; 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, but 
 paced up and down reciting the Ten Commandments, 
 the Creed, the Paternoster, the Ave Maria, the Litanies 
 of the Saints, and all the collects and holy ejaculations 
 I could think of. By degrees this seemed to calm me, 
 especially the Creeds and the Paternoster, whether be- 
 cause these are spells the fiends especially dread, or 
 because there is something so comforting in the mere 
 words, "Our Father," and "the remission of sins," I 
 do not know. Probably for both reasons. 
 
 And so the morning dawned, and the low sun- 
 beams slanted up through the red stems of the pines; 
 and I said the Ave Maria, and thought of the sweet 
 mother of God, and was a little cheered. 
 
 But all the next day I could not recover from the 
 terrors of that solitary 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 
 object in life might not be temptations of the world, 
 the flesh, and the devil; and that with all my labour- 
 ing for my dear ones at home, my sins might not 
 bring on them more troubles than all my successes 
 could avert? 
 
 As I left the shadow of the forest, however, my 
 
 4*
 
 52 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 heart seemed to grow lighter. I shall always hence- 
 forth feel sure that the wildest legends of the forests 
 may be true, and that the fiends have especial haunts 
 among the solitary woods at night. 
 
 It was pleasant to see the towers of Erfurt' rising 
 before me on the plain. 
 
 I had only one friend at the University, but that 
 is Martin Luther, and he is a host in himself to me. 
 He is already distinguished among the students here; 
 and the professors expect great things of him. 
 
 He is especially studying jurisprudence, because 
 his father wishes him to be a great lawyer. This also 
 is to be my profession, and his counsel, always so 
 heartily given, is of the gi'eatest use to me. 
 
 His life is, indeed, changed since we first knew 
 him at Eisenach, when Aunt Ursula took compassion 
 on him, a destitute scholar, singing at the doors of the 
 houses in St. George Street for a piece of bread. His 
 fatlier's hard struggles to maintain and raise his family 
 have succeeded at last; he is now the owner of a 
 foundry and some smelting-furnaces, and supports 
 Martin liberally at the University. The icy morning 
 of Martin's struggles seems over, and all is bright be- 
 fore him. 
 
 Erfurt is the first University in Germany. Com- 
 pared with it, as Martin Luther says, the other uni- 
 versities are mere private academies. At present we 
 have from a thousand to thirteen hundred students. 
 Some of our professors have studied the classics in 
 Italy, under the descendants of the ancient Greeks 
 and Romans. The Elector Frederic has, indeed, lately 
 founded a new University at Wittenberg, but we at
 
 fkiedrich's story. 53 
 
 Erfurt have little fear of Wittenberg outstripping our 
 ancient institution. 
 
 The Humanists , or disciples of the ancient heathen 
 learning, are in great force here, with Mutianus Rufus 
 at their head. They meet often, especially at his house, 
 and he gives them subjects for Latin versification, such 
 as the praises of poverty. Martin Luther's friend 
 Spalatin joined these assemblies; but he himself does 
 not, at least not as a member. Indeed, strange things 
 are reported of their converse, which make the names 
 of poet and philosopher in which they delight very 
 much suspected in orthodox circles. These ideas 
 Mutianus and his friends are said to have imported 
 with the classical literature from Italy. He has even 
 declared and written in a letter to a friend, that "there 
 is but one God, and one goddess, although under 
 various forms and various names, as Jupiter, Sol, Apollo, 
 Moses, Christ-, Luna, Ceres, Proserpine, Tellus, Mary." 
 But these things he warns his disciples not to speak of 
 in public. "They must be veiled in silence," he says, 
 "like the Eleusinian mysteries. In the affairs of religion 
 we must make use of the mask of fables and enigmas. 
 Let us by the grace of Jupiter, that is, of the best and 
 highest God, despise the lesser gods. When I say 
 Jupiter, I mean Christ and the true God." 
 
 Mutianus and his friends also in their intimate 
 circles speak most slightingly of the Cliurch ceremonies, 
 calling the Mass a comedy, and the holy relics ravens' 
 bones;* speaking of the service of the altar as so much 
 lost time; and stigmatizing the prayers at the canonical 
 hours as a mere baying of hounds, or the humming, 
 not of busy bees, but of lazy drones. 
 
 * That is, skeletons left on the gallowa for the ravens to peck at.
 
 54 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 If you reproached them with such irreverent say- 
 ings, they would probably reply that they had only 
 uttered them in an esoteric sense, and meant nothing 
 by them. But when people deem it right thus to mask 
 their truths, and explain away their errors, it is diffi- 
 cult to distinguish which is the mask and which the 
 reality in their estimation. It seems to me also that 
 they make mere intellectual games or exercises out of 
 the most profound and awful questions. 
 
 This probably, more than the daring character of 
 their speculations, deters Martin Luther from number- 
 ing himself among them. His nature is so reverent in 
 spite of all the courage of his character. I think he 
 would dare or suffer anything for what he believed 
 true; but he cannot bear to have the poorest fragment 
 of what he holds sacred trifled with or played with as 
 a mere feat of intellectual gymnastics. 
 
 His chief attention is at joresent directed, by his 
 father's especial desire, to Roman literature and law, 
 and to tlie study of the allegories and philosophy of 
 Aristotle. He likes to have to do with what is true 
 and solid; poetry and music are his delight and recrea- 
 tion. But it is in debate he most excels. A few even- 
 ings since, he introduced me to a society of students, 
 where questions new and old are debated; and it was 
 glorious to see how our Martin carried off the palm; 
 sometimes swooping down on his opponents like an 
 eagle among a flock of small birds, or setting down his 
 great lion's paw and quietly crushing a host of objec- 
 tions, apparently unaware of the mischief he had done, 
 until some feeble wail of the prostrate foe made him 
 sensible of it, and he withdrew with a good-humoured 
 apology for having hurt any one's feelings. At other
 
 PRIEIVRICn's STOKY. 55 
 
 times lie withers an unfair argument or a confused 
 statement to a cinder by some lightning-flash of humour 
 or satire. I do not think he is often perplexed by 
 seeing too much of the other side of a disputed ques- 
 tion. He holds the one truth he is contending for, 
 and he sees the one point he is aiming at, and at that 
 he charges with a force compounded of the ponderous 
 weight of his will, and the electric velocity of his 
 thoughts, crushing whatever comes in his way, scattering 
 whatever escapes right and left, and never heeding 
 how the scattered forces may reunite and form in his 
 rear. He knows that if he only turns on them, in a 
 moment they will disperse again. 
 
 I cannot quite tell how this style of warfare would 
 answer for an advocate, who had to make the best of 
 any cause he is engaged to plead. I cannot fancy 
 Martin Luther quietly collecting the arguments from 
 the worst 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. The professors and learned men have 
 the most brilliant expectations as to his career. And 
 what is rare (they say), he seems as much the favourite 
 of the students as of the professors. His nature is so 
 social-, his musical abilities and his wonderful powers 
 of conversation make him popular wdth all. 
 
 And yet, underneath it all, we who know him well 
 can detect at times that tide of thoughtful melancholy 
 which seems to lie at the bottom of all 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, T see
 
 56 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 that his conscience is anything but at ease. Has he 
 passed through conflicts such as mine in the forest on 
 that terrible night? Perhaps through conflicts as much 
 fiercer and more terrible, as his character is stronger 
 and his mind deeper than mine. But who can tell? 
 What is the use of unfolding perplexities to each other, 
 which it seems no intellect on earth can solve? The 
 inmost recesses of the heart must always, I suppose, be 
 a solitude, like that dark 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 it is, if we only need enter it once 
 a year, and not carry about the consciousness of its 
 dark secrets with us everywhere. But, alas! once 
 entered we can never forget it. It is like the chill, 
 dark crypts underneath our churches, where the masses 
 for the dead are celebrated, and where in some monastic 
 churches the embalmed corpses lie shrivelled to mum- 
 mies, and visible through gratings. Through all the 
 joyous festivals of the holidays above, the conscious- 
 ness of those dark chambers of death below seems to 
 creep up; like the damps of the vaults through the 
 incense, like the muffled wail of the dirges through the 
 songs of praise. 
 
 Erfurt, April 1S03. 
 
 We are just returned from an expedition which 
 might have proved fatal to Martin Luther. Early in 
 the morning, three days since, we started to walk to 
 Mansfeld on a visit to his family, our hearts as full of 
 ho])e as the woods were full of song. We were armed
 
 friedrich's storv. 57 
 
 ^yitll swords-, our wallets were full; and spirits light as 
 the air. Our way was to lie through field and forest, 
 and then along the banks of the river Holme, through 
 the Golden Meadow where are so many noble cloisters 
 and imperial palaces. 
 
 But we had scarcely been on our way an hour 
 when Martin, by some accident, ran his sword into his 
 foot. To my dismay the blood gushed out in a stream. 
 He had cut into a main artery. I left him under the 
 care of some peasants, and ran back to Erfurt for a 
 physician. When he arrived, however, there was great 
 difficulty in closing the wound -svith bandages. I longed 
 for Els^ or our mother's skilful fingers. AVe contrived 
 to carry him back to the city. I sat up to watch with 
 him. But in the middle of the night his wound burst 
 out bleeding afresh. The danger was very great, and 
 Martin himself giving up hope, and believing death 
 was close at hand, committed his soul to the blessed 
 Mother of God. Merciful and pitiful, knowing sorrow, 
 yet raised glorious above all sorrow, with a mother's 
 heart for all, and a mother's claim on Him who is the 
 judge of all, where indeed can we so safely flee for re- 
 fuge as to Mary? It was edifying to see Martin's 
 devotion to her, and no doubt it was greatly owing to 
 this that at length the remedies succeeded, the bandages 
 closed the wound again, and the blood was stanched. 
 
 Many an Ave will I say for this to the sweet Mother 
 of Mercy. Perchance she may also have pity on me. 
 sweetest Lady, "eternal daughter of the eternal 
 Father, heart of the indivisible Trinity," thou seest my 
 desire to help my own careworn mother; aid me, and 
 have mercy on me, thy sinful child.
 
 58 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 Erfurt, June 1503. 
 
 Martin Lutber has taken his first degree. He is a 
 fervent student, earnest in this as in everything. Cicero 
 and Virgil are his great companions among the Latins. 
 He is now raised quite above the pressing cares of 
 penury, and will probably never taste them more. His 
 father is now a prosperous burgher of Mansfeld, and 
 on the way to become burgomaster. I wish the pro- 
 spects at my home were as clieering. A few years less 
 of pinching poverty for myself seems to matter little, 
 but the cares of our mother and Els^ weigh on me 
 often heavily. It must be long yet before I can help 
 them efiectually, and meantime the bright youth of my 
 little Els6, and the very life of our toilworn patient 
 mother, will be wearing away. 
 
 For myself I can fully enter into what Martin says, 
 "The young should learn especially to endure suffering 
 and want; for such suffering doth them no harm. It 
 doth more harm for one to prosper without toil than it 
 doth to endure suffering." He says also, "It is God's 
 way, of beggars to make men of power, just as he made 
 the world out of nothing. Look upon the courts of 
 kings and princes, upon cities and parishes. You will 
 there find jurists, doctors, councillors, secretaries, and 
 preachers who were commonly poor, and always such 
 as have been students, and have risen and flown so 
 high through the quill that they are become lords." 
 
 But the way to wealth through the quill seems long; 
 and lives so precious to me are being worn out mean- 
 time, while I climb to the point where I could help 
 them! Sometimes I wish I had chosen the calling of 
 a merchant, men seem to prosper so much more rapidly
 
 feiedrich's story. 59 
 
 througli trade tlian through study; and nothing on earth 
 seems to me so well worth working for as to lift the 
 load from their hearts at home. But it is too late. 
 Eolling stones gather no moss. I must go on now in 
 the track I have chosen. Only sometimes again the 
 fear which came over me on that night in the forest. 
 It seems as if heaven were against me, and that it is 
 vain presumption for such as I even to hope to benefit 
 any one. 
 
 Partly, no doubt, it is the depression, caused by 
 poor living, which brings these thoughts. Martin Luther 
 said so to me one day when he found me desponding. 
 He said he knew so well what it was. He had suffered 
 so much from penury at Magdeburg, and at Eisenach 
 had even seriously thought of giving up study alto- 
 gether and returning to his father's calling. He is kind 
 to me and to all who need, but his means do not yet 
 allow him to do more than maintain himself. Or rather, 
 they are not his but his father's, and he feels he has 
 no right to be generous at the expense of his father's 
 self-denial and toil. 
 
 I find life look different, I must say, after a good 
 meal. But then I cannot get rid of the thought of the 
 few such meals they have at home. Not that Els^ 
 writes gloomily. She never mentions a thing to sadden 
 me. And this week she sent me a gulden, which she 
 said belonged to her alone, and she had vowed never 
 to use unless I would take it. But a student who saw 
 them lately said our mother looked wan and ill. And 
 to increase their difficulties, a month since the father 
 received into the house a little orphan girl, a cousin of 
 our mother's, called Eva von Schonberg. Heaven 
 forbid that I should grudge the orphan her crust, but
 
 60 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 when it makes a crust less for the mother and the little 
 ones, it is difficult to rejoice in such an act of charity. 
 
 Erfurt, July iS03. 
 
 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 for my own main- 
 tenance. The rules are very strict, and they are en- 
 forced with 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 is even inad- 
 vei'tently omitted, I involve myself in the guilt of per 
 jury. However, it is a step onward in the way to in- 
 dependence; and a far heavier yoke might well be 
 borne with such an object. 
 
 We (the beneficiaries on this foundation) have so- 
 lemnly vowed to observe the seven canonical hours, 
 never omitting the prayers belonging to each. This 
 insures early rising, which is a good thing for a student. 
 The most difficult to keep is the midnight hour, after 
 a day of hard study; but it is no more than soldiers on 
 duty have continually to go through. We have also 
 to chant the Miserere at funerals, and frequently to 
 hear the eulogy of the Blessed Virgin Mary. This last 
 can certainly not be called a hardship, least of all to 
 me who desire ever henceforth to have an especial 
 devotion to Our Lady, to recite daily the Rosary, com- 
 memorating the joys of Mary, the Salutation, the journey 
 across the mountains, the birth without pain, the find- 
 ing 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 con- 
 scientiously write to Els6 now, that I shall not need
 
 FRIEDRICH S STORY. 
 
 61 
 
 anotlier penny of their scanty store, 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 and students are in great anxiety about him. 
 He has so many friends; and no wonder! He is no 
 cold friend himself, and all expect great honour to the 
 University from his abilities. I scarcely dare to think 
 what his loss would be to me. But this morning an 
 aged priest who visited him inspired us with some hope. 
 As Martin lay, apparently in the last extremity, and 
 himself expecting death, this old priest came to his 
 bed-side, and said gently, but in a firm tone of con- 
 viction, — 
 
 "Be of good comfort, my brother, you will not die 
 at this time; God will yet make a great man of you, 
 who shall comfort many others. Whom God loveth 
 and proposeth to make a blessing, upon him he early 
 layeth the cross, and in that school, who patiently 
 endure learn much." 
 
 The words came with a strange kind of power, and 
 I cannot help thinking that there is a little improve- 
 ment in the patient since they were uttered. Truly, 
 good words are like food and medicine to body and 
 soul. 
 
 Ekpurt, August 1303. 
 
 Martin Luther is recovered! The Almighty, the 
 Blessed Mother, and all the saints be praised. 
 
 The good old priest's words have also brought some 
 especial comfort to me. If it could only be possible
 
 C2 CHRONICLES OF THE SCUONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 tliat those troubles aud cares which have weighed so 
 heavily on Else's early life and mine, are not the rod 
 of an^o;er, but the cross laid on those God loveth! But 
 who can tell? For Els^, at least, I will try to believe 
 this. 
 
 The world is wide in those days, with the great 
 New World opened by the Spanish mariners beyond 
 the Atlantic, and the noble Old World opened to 
 students throiigh the sacred fountains of the ancient 
 classics, once more unsealed by the revived study of 
 the ancient languages; and this new discovery of print- 
 ing, which will, my father thinks, diffuse the newly 
 unsealed fountains of ancient wisdom in countless chan- 
 nels among high and low. 
 
 These are glorious times to live in. So much al- 
 ready unfolded to us! And who knows what beyond? 
 For it seems as if the hearts of men everywhere were 
 beating high with expectation; as if, in these days, 
 nothing were too great to anticipate, or too good to 
 believe. 
 
 It is well to encounter our dragons at the threshold 
 of life; instead of at the end of the race — at the 
 threshold of death; therefore, I may M^ell be content. 
 In this wide and ever widening world, there must be 
 some career for me and mine. What will it be? 
 
 And what will Martin Luther's be? Much is ex- 
 pected from him. Famous every one at the University 
 says he must be. On what field will he win his 
 laurels? Will they be laurels or palms? 
 
 When I hear him in the debates of the students, 
 all waiting for his opinions, and appLiuding his elo- 
 quent words, I see the laurel already among his black 
 hair, wreathing his massive homely forehead. But
 
 miEDRlCU S STORY. 
 
 63 
 
 when I remember the debate which I know there is 
 within him, the anxious fervency of his devotions, his 
 struggle of conscience, his distress at any omission of 
 duty, and watch the deep melancholy look which there 
 is sometimes in his dark eyes, I think not of the tales 
 of the heroes, but of the legends of the saints, and 
 wonder in what victory over the old dragon he will 
 win his palm. 
 
 I3ut the bells are sounding for compline, and I 
 must not miss the sacred hour.
 
 64 CimONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 111. 
 
 else's chronicle. 
 
 Eisenach, 1504. 
 
 I CANNOT say that things have prospered much with 
 us since Fritz left. The lumher-room itself is changed. 
 The piles of old books are much reduced, because we 
 have been obliged to pawn many of them for food. 
 Some even of the father's beautiful models have had 
 to be sold. It went terribly to his heart. But it paid 
 our debts. 
 
 Our grandmother has grown a little querulous at 
 times lately. And I am so tempted to be cross some- 
 times. The boys eat so much, and wear out their 
 clothes so fast. Indeed, I cannot see that poverty 
 makes any of us any better, except it be my mother, 
 who needed improvement least of all. 
 
 September ISOi. 
 
 The father has actually brought a new inmate into 
 the house, a little girl, called Eva von Schonberg, a 
 distant cousin of our mother. 
 
 Last week he told us she was coming, very ab- 
 ruptly. I think he was rather afraid of what our 
 grandmother would say, for we all know it is not of 
 the least use to come round her with soft speeches. 
 She always sees what you are aiming at, and with her 
 keen eyes cuts straight througli all your circumlocu- 
 tions, and obliges you to descend direct on your point, 
 with more rapidity than grace.
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 65 
 
 Accordingly, lie said, quite suddenly, one day at 
 dinner, — 
 
 "I forgot to tell you, little mother, I have just had 
 a letter from your relations in Bohemia. Your great- 
 uncle is dead. His son, you know, died before him. 
 A little orphan girl is left with no one to take care of 
 hei'. I have desired them to send her to us. I could 
 do no less. It was an act, not of charity, but of the 
 plainest duty. And besides," he added, apologetically, 
 "in the end it may make our fortunes. There is pro- 
 perty somewhere in the family, if we could get it; and 
 this little Eva is the descendant of the eldest branch. 
 Indeed, I do not know but that she may bring many 
 valuable family heirlooms with her." 
 
 These last observations he addressed especially to 
 my grandmother, hoping thereby to make it clear to 
 her that the act was one of the deepest worldly wisdom. 
 Then turning to the mother, he concluded, — 
 
 "Little mother, thou wilt find a place for the 
 orphan in thy heart, and Heaven will no doubt bless 
 us for it." 
 
 "No doubt about the room m my daughter's heart!" 
 murmured our grandmother; "the question, as I read 
 it, is not about hearts, but about larders and wardrobes. 
 And, certainly," she added, not very pleasantly, "there 
 is room enough there for any family jewels the young 
 heiress may bring." 
 
 As usual, the mother came to the rescue. 
 
 "Dear grandmother," she said, "Heaven, no doubt, 
 will repay us; and besides, you know, we may now 
 venture on a little more expense, since we are out of 
 debt." 
 
 "There is no doubt, I suppose," retorted oui- gi-and 
 
 Schonherg-Cotta Famila. 1. "^
 
 66 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHOisBERG-COXXA FAMILY. 
 
 mother, "about Heaven repaying you; but there seems 
 to me a good deal of doubt whether it will be in cur- 
 rent coin." 
 
 Then, I suppose fearing the effect of so doubtful a 
 sentiment on the children, she added rather queru- 
 lously, but in a gentler tone, — 
 
 "Let the little creature come. Room may be made 
 for her soon in one way or another. The old creep 
 out at the churchyard gate, while the young bound in 
 at the front door." 
 
 And in a few days little Eva came; but, unfor- 
 tunately without the family jewels. But the saints 
 forbid I should grow mercenary or miserly, and grudge 
 the orphan her crust! 
 
 And who could help welcoming little Eva? As she 
 lies on my bed asleep, with her golden hair on the 
 pillow, and the long lashes shading her cheek, flushed 
 with sleep and resting on her dimpled white hand, who 
 could wish her away? And when I put out the lamp 
 (as I must very soon) and lie down beside her, she 
 will half awake, just to nestle into my heart, and 
 murmur in her sleep, "Sweet cousin Els^!" And I 
 shall no more be able to wish her gone than my 
 guardian angel. Indeed I think she is something like 
 one. 
 
 She is not quite ten years old; but being an only 
 child, and always brought up with older people, she 
 has a quiet, considerate way, and a quaint, thoughtful 
 gravity, which sits with a strange charm on her bright, 
 innocent, child-like face. 
 
 At first she seemed a little afraid of our children, 
 especially the boys, and crept about everywhere by the 
 side of my mother, to whom she gave her confidence
 
 else's story. (J7 
 
 from the beginning. She did not so immediately take 
 to our grandmother, who was not very warm in her 
 reception \ but the second evening after her arrival, she 
 deliberately took her little stool up to our grand- 
 mother's side, and seating herself at her feet, laid her 
 two little, soft hands on the dear, thin, old hands, and 
 said, — 
 
 "You must love me, for I shall love you very much. 
 You are like my great-aunt who died." 
 
 And, strange to say, our grandmother seemed quite 
 flattered; and ever since they have been close friends. 
 Indeed she commands us all, and there is not one in 
 the house who does not seem to think her notice a 
 favour. I wonder if Fritz would feel the same! 
 
 Our father lets her sit in his printing-room when 
 he is making experiments, which none of us ever dared 
 to do. She perches herself on the window-sill, and 
 watches him as if she understood it all, and he talks 
 to her as if he thought she did. 
 
 Then she has a wonderful way of telling the le- 
 gends of the saints to the children. When our grand- 
 mother tells them, I think of the saints as heroes and 
 warriors. When I try to relate the sacred stories to 
 the little ones, I am afraid I make them too much like 
 fairy tales. But when little Eva is speaking about 
 St. Agnes or St. Catherine, her voice becomes soft and 
 deep, like church music; and her face grave and beau- 
 tiful, like one of the child-angels in the pictures; and 
 her eyes as if they saw into heaven. I wish Fritz 
 could hear her. I think she must be just what the 
 saints were when they were little children, except for 
 that strange, quiet way she has of making every one 
 do what she likes. If our St. Elizabeth had resembled
 
 68 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 our little Eva in that, I scarcely think the Landgravine- 
 motlier would have ventured to have been so cruel to 
 her. Perhaps it is little Eva who is to be the saint 
 among us-, and by helping her we may best please 
 God, and be admitted at last to some humble place in 
 heaven. 
 
 Eisenach, Decemher. 
 
 It is a great comfort that Fritz writes in such 
 good spirits. He seems full of hope as to his prospects, 
 and already he has obtained a place in some excellent 
 institution, where, he says, he lives like a cardinal, 
 and is quite above wanting assistance from any one. 
 This is very encouraging. Martin Luther, also, is on 
 the way to be quite a great man, Eritz says. It is 
 difficult to imagine this; he looked so much like any 
 one else, and we are all so completely at home with 
 him, and he talks in such a simple, familiar way to us 
 all — not in learned words, or about difficult, abstruse 
 subjects, like the other wise men I know. Certainly it 
 always interests us all to hear him, but one can under- 
 stand all he says — even I can; so that it is not easy 
 to think of him as a philosopher and a great man. I 
 suppose wise men must be like the saints: one can only 
 see what they are when they are at some distance 
 from us. 
 
 What kind of great man will Martin Luther be, I 
 wonder? As great as our burgomaster, or as Master 
 Trebonius? Perhaps even greater th n these; as great, 
 even, as the Elector's secretary, who came to see our 
 father about his inventions. But it is a great comfort 
 to think of it, especially on Fritz's account; for I am 
 sure Martin will never forget old friends. 
 
 I cannot quite comprehend Eva's religion. It seems
 
 else's story. 09 
 
 to make her liappy. I do not think she is afraid of 
 God, or even of confession. She seems to enjoy going 
 to church as if it were a holiday in the woods-, and the 
 name of Jesus seems not terrible, but dear to her, as 
 the name of the sweet Mother of God is to me. This 
 is very difficult to understand. I think she is not 
 even very much afraid of the judgment-day, and this 
 is the reason why I think so : — The other night when 
 we were both awakened by an awful thunder-storm, I 
 hid my face under the clothes, in order not not to see 
 the flashes, until I heard the children crying in the 
 next room, and rose of course, to soothe them, because 
 our mother had been very tired that day, and was, I 
 trusted, asleep. When I had sung and talked to the 
 little ones, and sat by them till they were asleep, I 
 returned to our room, trembling in every limb; but I 
 found Eva kneeling by the bed-side, with her crucifix 
 pressed to her bosom, looking as calm and happy as if 
 the lightning flashes had been morning sunbeams. 
 
 She rose from her knees when I entered •, and when 
 I was once more safely in bed, with my arm around 
 her, and the storm had lulled a little, I said, — 
 "Eva, are you not afraid of the lightning?" 
 "I ihink it might hurt us, Cousin Els^," she said; 
 "and that was the reason I was praying to God." 
 
 "But, Eva," I said, "supposing the thunder should 
 be the archangel's voice! I always think every 
 thunder-storm may be the beginning of the day of 
 wrath — the dreadful judgment-day. What should 
 you do then?" 
 
 She was silent a little, and then she said, — 
 "I think I should take my crucifix and pray, and 
 try to ask the Lord Christ to remember that he died
 
 70 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 on the cross for us once. I tliiuk he would take pity 
 on us if we did. Besides, Cousin Els6," she added, 
 after a pause, "I have a sentence which always com- 
 forts me. My father taught it me when I was a very 
 little girl, in the prison, before he died. I could not 
 remember it all, but this part I have never forgotten: 
 ' God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son.'' There 
 was more, which I forgot-, but that bit I always re- 
 membered, because I was my father's only child, and 
 he loved me so dearly. I do not quite know all it 
 means; but I know they are God's words, but I feel 
 sure it means that God lores us very much, and that 
 he is in some way like my father." 
 
 "I know," I replied, "the Creed says, 'God the 
 Father Almighty,' but 1 never thought that the Al- 
 mighty Father meant anything like our own father. I 
 thought it meant only that he is very great, and that 
 we all belong to him, and that we ought to love him. 
 Are you sure, Eva, it means he loves m " 
 
 "I believe so, Cousin Els^," said Eva. 
 
 "Perhaps it does mean that he loves you, Eva," I 
 answered. "But you are a good child, and always 
 have been, I should think; and we all know that God 
 loves people who are good. That sentence says no- 
 thing, you see, about God loving people who are not 
 good. It is because I am never sure that I am doing 
 the things that please him, that I am afraid of God 
 and of the judgment-day." 
 
 Eva was silent a minute, and then she said, — 
 
 "I wish I could remember the rest of the sentence. 
 Perhaps it might tell." 
 
 "Where does that sentence come from, Eva?" 1 
 asked. "Perhaps we might find it. Do you think
 
 ELSE S STORY. 71 
 
 God said it to your father from heaven, in a vision or 
 a dream, as he speaks to the saints?" 
 
 "I think not, Cousin Els6," she replied thought- 
 fully, "because my father said it was in a book, which 
 he told me where to find, when he was gone. But 
 when I found the book, a priest took it from me, and 
 said it was not a good book for little girls; and I 
 never had it again. So I have only my sentence, 
 Cousin Els^. I wish it made you happy, as it does 
 me." 
 
 I kissed the darling child and wished her good 
 night; but I could not sleep. I wish I could see the 
 book. But perhaps, after all, it is not a right book; 
 because (although Eva does not know it) I heard my 
 grandmother say her father was a Hussite, and died 
 on the scaffold for believing something wrong. 
 
 In the morning Eva was awake before me. Her 
 large dark eyes were watching me, and the moment I 
 woke she said, — 
 
 "Cousin Else, I think the end of that sentence has 
 something to do with the cnicifix; because I always 
 think of them together. You know the Lord Jesus 
 Christ is God's only Son, and he died on the cross 
 for us." 
 
 And she rose and dressed, and said she would go 
 to matins and say prayers for me, that I might not be 
 afraid in the next thunder-storm. 
 
 It must be true, I am sure, that the cross and the 
 blessed Passion were meant to do us some good; but 
 then they can only do good to those who please God, 
 and that is precisely what it is so exceedingly difficult 
 to find out how to do. 
 
 I cannot think, however, that Eva can in any way
 
 72 CllRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMLLV. 
 
 be believing wrong, because she is so religious and so 
 good. She attends most regularly at the confessional, 
 and is always at church at the early mass, and many 
 times besides. Often, also, I find her at her devotions 
 before the crucifix and the picture of the Holy Virgin 
 and Child in our room. She seems really to enjoy 
 being religious, as they say St. Elizabeth did. 
 
 As for me, there is so very much to do between 
 the printing, and the house, and our dear mother's ill 
 health, and the baby, and the boys, who tear their 
 clothes in such incomprehensible ways, that I feel 
 more and more how utterly hopeless it is for me ever 
 to be like any of the saints — unless, indeed, it is 
 St. Christopher, whose legend is often a comfort to me, 
 as our grandmother used to tell it to us, which was in 
 this way: — 
 
 Ofi'erus was a soldier, a heathen, who lived in the 
 land of Canaan. He had a body twelve ells long. 
 He did not like to obey, but to command. He did not 
 care what harm he did to others, but lived a wild life, 
 attacking and plundering all who came in his way. 
 He only wished for one thing — to sell his services to 
 the Mightiest-, and as he heard that the emperor was in 
 those days the head of Christendom, he said, "Lord 
 Emperor, will you have me? To none less will I sell 
 my heart's blood." 
 
 The emperor looked at his Samson strength, his 
 giant chest, and his mighty fists, and he said, "If 
 thou wilt serve me for ever, Ofi'erus, I will accept 
 thee." 
 
 Immediately the giant answered, "To serve you 
 for ev$r is not so easily promised; but as long as I
 
 else's story. 73 
 
 am your soldier, none in east or west shall trouble 
 you." 
 
 Thereupon he went with the emperor througli all 
 the land, and the emperor was delighted with him. 
 All the soldiers, in the combat as at the wine-cup, 
 were miserable, helpless creatures compared with Of- 
 ferus. 
 
 Now the emperor had a harper who sang from 
 morning till bed-time; and whenever the emperor was 
 weary vrith the march this minstrel had to touch his 
 harp-strings. Once, at eventide, they pitched the tents 
 near a forest. The emperor ate and drank lustily, 
 the minstrel sang a merry song. But as, in his song, 
 he spoke of the evil one, the emperor signed the cross 
 on his forehead. Said Offerus aloud to his comrades, 
 "What is this? What jest is the Prince making now?" 
 Then the emperor said, "Offerus, listen: I did it on 
 account of the wicked fiend, who is said often to haunt 
 this forest with great rage and fury." That seemed 
 marvellous to Offerus, and he said, scornfully, to the 
 emperor, "I have a fancy for wild boars and deer. 
 Let us hunt in this forest." The emperor said softly, 
 "Offerus, no! Let alone the chase in this forest, for 
 in filling thy larder thou mightst harm thy soul." 
 Then Offerus made a wry face, and said, "The grapes 
 are sour; if your highness is afraid of the devil, I will 
 enter the service of this lord, who is mightier than 
 you." Thereupon he coolly demanded his pay, took 
 his departure, with no very ceremonious leave-taking, 
 and strode off cheerily into the thickest depths of the 
 forest. 
 
 In a wild clearing of the forest he found the devil's 
 altar, built of black cinders; and on it, in the moon-
 
 74 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 light gleamed the white skeletons of men and horses. 
 Offerns was in no way terrified, but quietly inspected 
 the skulls and bones; then he called three times in a 
 loud voice on the evil one, and seating himself fell 
 asleep, and soon began to snore. When it was mid- 
 night, the earth seemed to crack, and on a coal-black 
 horse he saw a pitch-black rider, who rode at him 
 furiously, and sought to bind him with solemn promises. 
 But Ofi'erus said, "We shall see." Then they went 
 together through the kingdoms of the world, and 
 Ofi'erus found him a better master than the emperor; 
 needed seldom to polish his armour, but had plenty of 
 feasting and fun. However, one day as they went 
 along the high-road, three tall crosses stood before 
 them. Then the Black Prince suddenly had a cold, 
 and said, "Let us creep round by the bye-road." Said 
 Ofi'erus, "Methinks you are afraid of those gallows 
 trees," and, drawing his bow, he shot an arrow into the 
 middle cross. "What bad manners!" said Satan, softly; 
 " do you not know that he who in his form as a servant 
 is the son of Mary, now exercises great power?" If 
 that is the case," said Ofi'erus, "I came to you fettered 
 by no promise; now I will seek further for the mightiest, 
 whom only I will serve." Then Satan went off" with a 
 mocking laugh, and Ofi'erus went on his way asking 
 every traveller he met for the Son of Mary. But, alas ! 
 few bare Him in their hearts; and no one could tell 
 the giant where the Lord dwelt, until one evening 
 Ofi'erus found an old pious hermit, who gave him a 
 night's lodging in his cell, and sent him next morning 
 to the Carthusian cloister. There the lord prior listened 
 to Ofi'erus, showed him plainly the path of faith, and 
 told him he must fast and pray, as John the Baptist
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 75 
 
 did of old in the wilderness. But lie replied, "Locusts 
 and wild honey, my lord, are quite contrary to my na- 
 ture, and I do not know any prayers. I should lose 
 my strength altogether, and had rather not go to heaven 
 at all than in that way." "Reckless man!" said the 
 prior. "However, you may try another way: give your- 
 self up heartily to achieve some good work." "Ah! let 
 me hear," said OfFerus; "I have strength for that." 
 "See, there flows a mighty river, which hinders pilgrims 
 on their way to Rome. It has neither ford nor bridge. 
 Carry the faithful over on thy back." "If I can please the 
 Saviour in that way, willingly will I carry the travellers 
 to and fro," replied the giant. And thereupon he built 
 a hut of reeds, and dwelt thenceforth among the water- 
 rats and beavers on the borders of the river, carrying 
 pilgrims over the river cheerfully, like a camel or an 
 elephant. But if any one oflFered him ferry-money, he 
 said, "I labour for eternal life." And when now, after 
 many years, Offerus's hair had grown white, one stormy 
 night a plaintive little voice called to him, "Dear, good, 
 tall Oflferus, carry me across." Offerus was tired and 
 sleepy, but he thought faithfully of Jesus Christ, and 
 with weary arms seizing the pine trunk which was his 
 staff when the floods swelled high, he waded through 
 the water and nearly reached the opposite bank; but 
 he saw no pilgrim there, so he thought, "I was dream- 
 ing," and went back and lay down to sleep again. But 
 scarcely had he fallen asleep when again came the little 
 voice, this time very plaintive and touching, "Offerus, 
 good, dear, great, tall Offerus, carry me across." 
 Patiently the old giant crossed the river again, but 
 neither man nor mouse was to be seen, and he went 
 back and lay down again, and was soon fast asleep;
 
 76 CHRONICLES OF TLLE SCHONBEKG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 wlien once more came tlie little voice, clear and plain- 
 tive, and imploring, "Good, dear, giant Offerus, carry 
 me across." The third time he seized his pine-stem 
 and went through the cold river. This time he found 
 a tender, fair little boy, with golden hair. In his left 
 hand was the standard of the Lamb-, in his right, the 
 globe. He looked at the giant with eyes full of love 
 and trust, and Offerus lifted him up with two fingers; 
 but, when he entered the river, the little child weighed 
 on him like a ton. Heavier and heavier grew the 
 weight, until the water almost reached his chin; great 
 drops of sweat stood on his brow, and he had nearly 
 sunk in the stream with the little one. However, he 
 straggled through, and tottering to the other side, set 
 the child gently down on the bank, and said, "My little 
 lord, prithee, come not this way again, for scarcely 
 have I escaped this time with life." But the fair child 
 baptized Offerus on the spot, and said to him, "Know 
 all thy sins are forgiven; and although thy limbs tot- 
 tered, fear not, nor marvel, but rejoice; thou hast car- 
 ried the Saviour of the world! For a token, plant thy 
 pine-trunk, so long dead and leafless, in the earth; to- 
 morrow it shall shoot out green twigs. And henceforth 
 thou shalt be called not Offerus, but Christopher." 
 Then Christopher folded his hands and prayed and 
 said, "I feel my end draws nigh. My limbs tremble; 
 my strength fails; and God has forgiven me all my 
 sins." Thereupon the child vanished in light; and 
 Christopher set his staff in the earth. And so on the 
 morrow, it shot out gi-een leaves and red blossoms like 
 an almond. And three days afterwards the angels car- 
 ried Christopher to Paradise. 
 
 This is the legend whicli gives me more hope than
 
 ELS£;'S STORY. 77 
 
 any other. How sweet it would be, if, wlien I had 
 tried in some humble way to help one and another on 
 the way to the holy city, when the last burden was 
 borne, and the strength was failing, the holy child 
 should appear to me and say, "Little Else, you have 
 done the work I meant you to do — your sins are for- 
 given;" and then the angels were to come and take 
 me up in their arms, and caiTy me across the dark 
 river, and my life were to grow young and bloom 
 again in Paradise, like St. Christopher's withered staff! 
 
 But to watch all the long days of life by the river, 
 and carry the burdens, and not know if we are doing 
 the right thing after all — that is what is so hard! 
 
 Sweet, when the river was crossed, to find that in 
 fulfilling some little, humble, everyday duty, one had 
 actually been serving and pleasing the mightiest, the 
 Saviour of the world! But if one could only know it 
 whilst one was struggling through the flood, how de- 
 lightful that would be! How little one would mind the 
 icy water, or the aching shoulders, or the tottering, 
 failing limbs! 
 
 Eisenach, January i505. 
 
 Fritz is at home with us again. He looks as much 
 a man now as our father, with his moustache and his 
 sword. How cheerful the sound of his firm step and 
 his deep voice makes the house! When I look at him 
 sometimes, as he tosses the children and catches them 
 in his arms, or as he flings the balls with Christopher 
 and Pollux, or shoots with bow and arrows in the 
 evenings at the city games, my old wish recurs that he 
 had lived in the days when our ancestors dwelt in the 
 castles in Bohemia, and that Fritz had been a knight,
 
 78 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILV. 
 
 to ride at the head of his retainers to battle for some 
 good cause, — against the Turks, for instance, who are 
 now, they say, threatening the empire, and all Christen- 
 dom. My little world at home is wide indeed, and full 
 enough for me, but this burgher lite seems narrow and 
 poor for him. I should like him to have to do with 
 men instead of books. Women can read, and learn, 
 and think, if they have time (although, of course, not 
 as well as men can)-, I have even heard of women 
 writing books. St. Barbara and St. Catherine under- 
 stood astronomy, and astrology, and philosophy, and 
 could speak I do not know how many languages. But 
 they could not have gone forth armed with shield and 
 spear like St. George of Cappadocia, to deliver the 
 fettered princess and slay the great African dragon. 
 And I should like Fritz to do what women cannot do. 
 There is such strength in his light, agile frame, and 
 such power in his dark eyes-, although, certainly after 
 all he had written to us about his princely fare at the 
 House at Erfurt, where he is a beneficiary, oar mother 
 and I did not expect to have seen his face looking so 
 hollow and thin. 
 
 He has brought me back my godmother's gulden. 
 He says he is an independent man, earning his own 
 livelihood, and quite above receiving any such gratuities. 
 However, as I devoted it to Fritz I feel I have a right 
 to spend it on him, which is a great comfort, because 
 I can provide a better table than we can usually afford, 
 during the few days ho will stay with us, so that he 
 may never guess how pinched we often are. 
 
 I am ashamed of myself, but there is something in 
 this return of Fritz which disappoints me. I have 
 looked forward to it day and night through all these
 
 else's story. 79 
 
 two years with such longing. I thought we should 
 hegin again exactly where we left oflf. I pictured to 
 myself the old daily life with him going on again as 
 of old. I thought of our sitting in the lumber-room, 
 and chatting over all our perplexities, our own and the 
 family's, and pouring our hearts into each other's without 
 reserve or fear, so that it was scarcely like talking at 
 all, but like thinking aloud. 
 
 And, now, instead of our being acquainted with 
 every detail of each other's daily life, so that we are 
 aware what we are feeling without speaking about it, 
 there is a whole history of new experience to be nar- 
 rated step by step, and we do not seem to know where 
 to begin. None of the others can feel this as I do. 
 He is all to the children and our parents that he ever 
 was, and why should I expect more? Indeed, I 
 scarcely know what I did expect, or what I do want. 
 Why should Fritz be more to me than to any one else ? 
 It is selfish to wish it, and it is childish to imagine 
 that two years could bring no change. Could I have 
 wished it? Do I not glory in his strength, and in his 
 free and manly bearing? And could I wish a student 
 at the great University of Erfurt, who is soon to be a 
 Bachelor of Arts, to come and sit on the piles of old 
 books in our lumber-room, and to spend his time in 
 gossiping with me? Besides, what have I to say? And 
 yet, this evening, when the twilight-hour came round 
 for the third time since he returned, and he seemed to 
 forget all about it, I could not help feeling troubled, 
 and so took refuge here by myself. 
 
 Fritz has been sitting in the family-room for the 
 last hour, with all the children round him, telling them 
 histories of what the students do at Erfurt; of their
 
 80 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 poetical club, where tliey meet and recite their own 
 verses, or translations of the ancient books which have 
 been unburied lately, and yet are fresher, he says, than 
 any new ones, and set every one thinking; of the 
 debating meeting, and the great singing parties where 
 hundreds of voices join, making music fuller than any 
 organ, — in both of which Martin Luther seems a 
 leader and a prince; and then of the fights among the 
 students, in which I do not think Martin Luther has 
 joined, but which, certainly, interest Christopher and 
 Pollux more than anything else. The boys were 
 standing on each side of Fritz, listening with wide open 
 eyes; Chriemhild and Atlantis had crept close behind 
 him with their sewing; little Thekla was on his knee, 
 playing with his sword-girdle; and little Eva was 
 perched in her favourite place on the window-sill, in 
 front of him. At first she kept at a distance from him, 
 and said nothing; not, I think, from shyness, for I do 
 not believe that child is afraid of any one or any thing, 
 but from a quaint way she has of observing people, as 
 if she were learning them through like a new language, 
 or, like a sovereign making sure of the character of a 
 new subject before she admits him into her service. 
 The idea of the little creature treating our Fritz in 
 that grand style! But it is of no use resisting it. He 
 has passed through his probation like the rest of us, 
 and is as much flattered as the grandmother, or any 
 of us, at being admitted into her confidence. When I 
 left, Eva, who had been listening for some time with 
 great attention to his student-stories, had herself be- 
 come the chief speaker, and the whole party were 
 attending with riveted interest while she related to them 
 her favourite Legend of St. Catherine. They had all
 
 ELSfe's STORY. 81 
 
 heard it before, but in some way when Eva tells these 
 histories they always seem new. I suppose it is be- 
 cause she believes them so fervently 5 it is not as if she 
 Avere repeating something she had heard, but quietly 
 narrating something she has seen, much as one would 
 imagine an angel might who had been watching unseen 
 while it all happened. And, meantime, her eyes, when 
 she raises them, with their fringe of long lashes, seem 
 to look at once into your heart and into heaven. 
 
 No wonder Fritz forgets the twilight-hour. But it 
 is strange he has never once asked about our chronicle. 
 Of that, however, I am glad, because I would not for 
 the world show him the narrative of our struggles. 
 
 Can it be possible I am envious of little Eva — 
 dear, little, loving, orphan Eva? I do rejoice that all 
 the world should love him. Yet, it was so happy to 
 be Fritz's only friend; and why should a little stranger 
 child steal my precious twilight-hour from me? 
 
 "Well, 1 suppose Aunt Agnes was right, and I 
 made an idol of Fritz , and God was angry, and I am 
 being punished. But the saints seemed to find a kind 
 of sacred pleasure in their punishments, and I do not; 
 nor do I feel at all the better for them, but the worse 
 — which is another proof how hopeless it is for me to 
 try to be a saint. 
 
 Eisenach, Fehrumii. 
 
 As I wrote those last words in the deepening twi- 
 light, two strong hands were laid very gently on my 
 shoulders, and a voice said — 
 
 "Sister Elsfe, why can you not show me your chro- 
 nicle?" 
 
 I could make no reply. 
 
 "You are convicted," rejoined the same voice. 
 
 Schonierg-Cotta Family. I. 6
 
 82 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "Do you tbink I do not know where tbat gulden 
 came from? Let. me see your godmother's purse." 
 
 I began to feel the tears choking me; but Fritz did 
 not seem to notice them. 
 
 "Els6," he said, "you may practise your little de- 
 ceptive arts on all the rest of the family, but they will 
 not do with me. Do you think you will ever persuade 
 me you have grown thin by eating sausages and cakes 
 and wonderful holiday puddings every day of your 
 life? Do you think the hungry delight in the eyes of 
 those boys was occasioned by their everyday, ordinary 
 fare? Do you think," he added, taking my hands 
 in one of his, "I did not see how blue and cold, and 
 covered with chilblains, these little hands were, which 
 piled up the great logs on the hearth when I came in 
 this morning?" 
 
 Of course I could do nothing but put my head on 
 his shoulder and cry quietly. It was of no use deny- 
 ing anything. Tlien he added rapidly, in a low deep 
 voice — 
 
 "Do you think I could help seeing our mother at 
 her old dcA'ices, pretending she had no appetite, and 
 liked nothing so much as bones and sinews?" 
 
 "0 Fritz," I sobbed, "I cannot help it. What am 
 I to do?" 
 
 "At least," he said, more cheerfully, "promise me, 
 little woman, you will never make a distinguished 
 stranger of your brother again, and endeavour by all 
 kinds of vain and deceitful devices to draw the whole 
 weight of the family cares on your own shoulders." 
 
 "Do you think it is a sin I ought to confess, Fritz?" 
 1 said; "I did not mean it deceitfully; but I am always
 
 else's story. 83 
 
 making such blunders about right and wrong. What 
 can I do?" 
 
 "Does Aunt Ursula know?" he asked rather fiercely. 
 
 "No, the mother will not let me tell any one. She 
 thinks they would reflect on our father; and he told 
 her only last week, he has a plan about a new way of 
 smelting lead, which is, I think, to turn it all into 
 silver. That would certainly be a wonderful discovery; 
 and he thinks the Elector would take it up at once, 
 and we should probably have to leave Eisenach and 
 live near the Electoral Court. Perhaps even the Em- 
 peror would require us to communicate the secret to 
 him, and then we should have to leave the country 
 altogether; for you know there are great lead-mines in 
 Spain; and if once people could make silver out of 
 lead, it would be much easier and safer than going 
 across the great ocean to procure the native silver from 
 the Indian savages." 
 
 Fritz drew a long breath. 
 
 "And meantime?" he said. 
 
 "Well, meantime?" I said, "it is, of course, some- 
 times a little difficult to get on." 
 
 He mused a little while, and then he said — 
 
 "Little Elsfe, I have thought of a plan which may, 
 I think, bring us a few guldens — until the process of 
 transmuting lead into silver is completed." 
 
 "Of course," I said, "after that we shall want no- 
 thing, but be able to give to those who do want. And 
 oh, Fritz! how well we shall understand how to help 
 people who are poor. Do you think that is why God 
 lets us be so poor ourselves so long, and never seems 
 to hear our pravers?" 
 
 6«
 
 84 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "It would be pleasant to tbink so, Els^," said Fritz, 
 gravely, "but it is very difficult to understand bow to 
 please God, or bow to make our prayers reacb bim at 
 all — at least wben we are so often feeling and doing 
 wrong." 
 
 It cbeered me to see tbat Fritz does not despair of 
 tbe great invention succeeding one day. He did not 
 tell me wbat bis own plan is. 
 
 Does Fritz, tben, also feel so sinful and so perplexed 
 bow to please God? Perbaps a great many people feel 
 tbe same. It is very sti-ange. If it bad only pleased 
 God to make it a little plainer! I wonder if tbat book 
 Eva lost would tell us anytbing! 
 
 After tbat evening tbe barrier between me and Fritz 
 was of course quite gone, and we seemed closer tban 
 ever. We bad deligbtful twiligbt talks in our lumber- 
 room, and I love bim more tban ever. So tbat Aunt 
 Agnes would, I suppose, tbiuk me more of an idolater 
 tban before. But it is very strange tbat idolatry sbould 
 seem to do me so mucb good. I seem to love all tbe 
 world better for loving Fritz, and to find everytbing 
 easier to bear, by baving liim to unburden everytbing 
 on, so tbat I bad never fewer little sins to confess tlian 
 during tbe two weeks Fritz was at bome. If God bad 
 only made loving brotbers and sisters and tbe people 
 .at bome tbe way to please bim, instead of not loving 
 tbem too mucb, or leaving tbem all to bury one's self 
 in a cold convent, like Aunt Agnes! 
 
 Little Eva actually persuaded Fritz to begin teacb- 
 ing ber tbe Latin grammar! I suppose sbe wisbes to 
 be like ber beloved St. Catberine, wbo was so learned. 
 And sbe says all tbe boly books, tbe prayers and tbe 
 bynins, are in Latin, so tbat sbe tbinks it must be a
 
 KLSE S Si'OUY. 
 
 85 
 
 language God particularly loves. She asked me a few 
 days since if they speak Latin in heaven. 
 
 Of course I could not tell. I told her I believed 
 the Bible was originally written in two other languages, 
 the languages of the Greeks and the Jews, and that I 
 had heard some one say Adam and Eve spoke the Jews' 
 language in paradise, which I suppose God taught 
 them. 
 
 But I have been thinking over it since, and I should 
 not wonder if Eva is right. 
 
 Because, unless Latin is the language of the saints 
 and holy angels in heaven, why should God wish the 
 priests to speak it everywhere, and the people to say 
 the Ave and Paternoster in it? We should understand 
 it all so much better in German ; but of course if Latin 
 is the language of the blessed saints and angels, that 
 is a reason for it. If we do not always understand, 
 THEY do, which is a great comfort. Only I think it is a 
 very good plan of little Eva's to try and learn Latin; 
 and when I have more time to be religious, perhaps I 
 may try also.
 
 80 CIIRONrCLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM KKIEDRICH's CHRONICLE. 
 
 Ekfurt, 1505. 
 
 The university soeins rather a cold world after the 
 dear old home at Eisonach. lint it went to my heart 
 to see how our mother and Elsfe struggle, and how worn 
 and thin they look. Happily for them, they have still 
 hope in the great invention, and I would not take it 
 away for the world. But meantime, I must at once do 
 something to help. I can sometimes save some viands 
 from my meals, which are portioned out to us liberally 
 on this foundation, and sell them; and I can occa- 
 sionally earn a little by copying themes for the richer 
 students, or sermons and postils for the monks. The 
 printing-press lias certainly made that means of mainten- 
 ance more precarious; but printed books are still very 
 dear, and also very large, and the priests are often 
 glad of small copies of fragments of the postils, or ora- 
 tions of the fathers, written off in a small, clear hand, 
 to take with them on their circuits around the villages, 
 lliere is also writing to be done for the lawyers, so that 
 I do not despair of earning something: and if my stu- 
 dies are retarded a little, it does not so much matter. 
 It is not for me to aspire to great things, unless, indeed, 
 they can be reached by small and patient steps. I have 
 a work to do for the family. My youth must be given 
 to supporting them by the first means I can find. If 
 I succeed, perhaps Christopher or Pollux will have
 
 FRIEDRICH S STORY 
 
 '. . . 87 
 
 leisure to aim liigher than I can; or, perhaps, in middle 
 and later life I myself shall have leisure to pursue the 
 studies of these great old classics, which seem to make 
 the horizon of our thoughts so wide, and the world so 
 glorious and large, and life so deep. It would certainly 
 be a great delight to devote one's self, as Martin Luther 
 is now able to do, to literature and philosophy. His career 
 is opening nobly. This spring he has taken his degree 
 as Master of Arts , and he has been lecturing on Aris- 
 totle's physics and logic. He has great power of mak- 
 ing dim things clear, and old things fresh. His lec- 
 tures are crowded. He is also studying law, in order 
 to qualify himself for some office in the State. His 
 parents (judging from his father's letters) seem to centre 
 all their hopes in him; and it is almost the same here 
 at the university. Great things are expected of him; 
 indeed there scarcely seems any career that is not open 
 to him. And he is a man of such heart, as well as in- 
 tellect, that he seems to make all the university, the 
 professors as well as the students, look on him as a 
 kind of possession of their own. All seem to feel a 
 property in his success. Just as it was with our little 
 circle at Eisenach, so it is with the great circle at the 
 university. He is our Master Martin; and in every 
 step of his ascent we ourselves feel a little higher. I 
 wonder, if his fame should indeed spread as we an- 
 ticipate, if it will be the same one day with all Ger- 
 many? if the whole land will say exultingly by-and- 
 by — (mr Martin Luther? 
 
 Not that he is without enemies; his temper is too 
 hot and his heart too warm for that negative distinction 
 of phlegmatic negative natures.
 
 88 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBEKG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 June, ^SOS. 
 
 Martin Luther came to me a few days since, look- 
 ing terribly agitated. His friend Alexius has been 
 assassinated, and lie takes it exceedingly to heart; not 
 only, I think, because of the loss of one he loved, but 
 because it brings death so terribly near, and awakens 
 again those questionings which I know are in the depths 
 of his heart, as well as of mine, about God, and judg- 
 ment, and the dark, dread future before us, which we 
 cannot solve, yet cannot escape nor forget. 
 
 To-day we met again, and he was full of a book 
 he had discovered in the university library, where he 
 spends most of his leisure hours. It was a Latin Bible, 
 which he had never seen before in his life. He mar- 
 velled greatly to see so much more in it than in the 
 Evangelia read in the churches, or in the Collections 
 of Homilies. He was called away to lecture, or, he 
 said, he could have read on for hours. Especially one 
 history seems to have impressed him deeply. It was 
 in the Old Testament. It was the story of the child 
 Samuel and his mother Hannah. "He read it quickly 
 through," he said, "with hearty delight and joy; and 
 because this was all new to him, he began to wish from 
 the bottom of his heart that God would one day bestow 
 on him such a book for his own." 
 
 I siippose it is the thought of his own pious mother 
 which makes this history interest him so peculiarly. 
 It is indeed a beautiful history, as he told it me, and 
 makes one almost wish one had been bom in the times 
 of the old Hebrew monarchy. It seems as if God 
 listened so graciously and readily then to that poor 
 sorrowful woman's prayers. And if we could only,
 
 friedrich's story. 89 
 
 each of us, hear that voice from heaven, how joyful it 
 would be to reply, like that blessed child, "Speak, 
 Lord, for thy servant heareth;" and then to learn, 
 without possibility of mistake, what God really requires 
 of each of us. I suppose, however, the monks do feel 
 as sure of their vocation as the holy child of old, when 
 they leave home and the world for the service of the 
 Church. It would be a great help if other people had 
 vocations to their various works in life, like the prophet 
 Samuel and (I suppose) the monks, that we might all 
 go on fearlessly, with a firm step, each in his appointed 
 path, and feel sure that we are doing the right thing, 
 instead of perhaps drawing down judgments on those 
 we would die to serve, by our mistakes and sins. It 
 can hardly be intended that all men should be monks 
 and nuns. Would to Heaven, therefore, that laymen 
 had also their vocation, instead of this terrible uncer- 
 tainty and doubt that will shadow the heart at times, 
 that we may have missed our path (as I did that night 
 in the snow-covered forest), and, like Cain, be flying 
 from the presence of God, and gathering on us and 
 ours his curse. 
 
 July /2, uos. 
 
 There is a great gloom over the university. The 
 plague is among us. Many are lying dead who, only 
 last week, were full of youth and hope. Numbers of 
 the professors, masters, and students have fled to their 
 homes, or to various villages in the nearest reaches of 
 the Thuringian forest. The churches are thronged at 
 all the services. The priests and monks (those who 
 remain in the infected city) take advantage of the 
 terror the presence of the pestilence excites, to remind
 
 90 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERa-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 people of the more awful terrors of that dreadful day 
 of judgment and wrath which no one will be able to 
 flee. Women, and sometimes men, are borne fainting 
 from the churches, and often fall at once under the in- 
 fection, and never are seen again. Martin Luther 
 seems much troubled in mind. This epidemic, follow- 
 ing 80 close on the assassination of his friend, seems to 
 overwhelm him. But he does not talk of leaving the 
 city. Perhaps the teiTors which weigh most on him 
 are those the preachers recall so vividly to us just now, 
 from which there is no flight by change of place, but 
 only by change of life. During this last week, espe- 
 cially since he was exposed to a violent thunder-storm 
 on the high road near Erfurt, he has seemed strangely 
 altered. A deep gloom is on his face, and he seems 
 to avoid his old friends. I have scarcely spoken to 
 him. 
 
 July 1i. 
 
 To-day, to my great surprise, Martin has invited 
 me and several other of his friends to meet at his 
 rooms on the day after to-morrow, to pass a social 
 evening in singing and feasting. The plague has 
 abated; yet I rather wonder at any one thinking of 
 merry-making yet. They say, however, that a merry 
 heart is the best safe-guard. 
 
 July n. 
 
 The secret of Martin Luther's feast is opened now. 
 The whole university is in consternation. He has 
 decided on becoming a monk. Many think it is a 
 sudden impulse, which may yet pass away. I do not. 
 I believe it is the result of the conflicts of years, and
 
 fribdrich's story. 91 
 
 that he has only yielded, in this act, to convictions 
 which have been recurring to him continually during 
 all his brilliant university career. 
 
 Never did he seem more animated than yesterday 
 evening. The hours flew by in eager, cheerful con- 
 versation. A weight seemed removed from vis. The 
 pestilence was departing; the professors and students 
 were returning. We felt life resuming its old course, 
 and ventured once more to look forward with hope. 
 Many of us had completed our academical course, and 
 were already entering the larger world beyond — the 
 university of life. Some of us had appointments al- 
 ready promised, and most of us had hopes of great 
 things in the future; the less definite the prospects, 
 perhaps the more brilliant. Martin Luther did not 
 hazard any speculations as to his future career; but 
 that surprised none of us. His fortune, we said, was 
 insured already; and many a jesting claim was put in 
 for his future patronage, when he should be a great 
 man. 
 
 We had excellent music also, as always at any 
 social gathering where Martin Luther is. His clear, 
 true voice was listened to with applause in many a 
 well-known song, and echoed in joyous choruses after- 
 ward by the whole party. So the evening passed, 
 ipntil the university hour for repose had nearly arrived; 
 when suddenly, in the silence after the last note of the 
 last chorus had died away, he bid us all farewell; for 
 on the morrow, he said, he purposed to enter the 
 Augustinian monastery as a novice! At first, some 
 treated this as a jest; but his look and bearing soon 
 banished that idea. Then all earnestly endeavoured 
 to dissuade him from his purpose. Some spoke of the
 
 92 CURONICLES OF THE SCHONBEEGCOTTA FAMILY. 
 
 expectations the university had formed of him — others, 
 of the career in the world open to him; but at all this 
 he only smiled. When, however, one of us reminded 
 him of his father, and the disappointment it might 
 cause in his home, I noticed that a change came over 
 his face, and I thought there was a slight quiver on 
 his lip. But all, — friendly remark, calm remonstrance, 
 fervent, affectionate entreaties, — all were unavailing. 
 
 "To-day," he said, "you see me; after this you will 
 see me no more." 
 
 Thus we separated. But this morning, when some 
 of his nearest friends went to his rooms early, with the 
 faint hope of yet inducing him to listen, while we 
 pressed on him the thousand unanswerable arguments 
 which had occurred to us since we parted from him, 
 his rooms were empty, and he was nowhere to be 
 found. To all our inquiries we received no reply but 
 that Master Martin had gone that morning, before it 
 was light, to the Augiistiuian cloister. 
 
 Thither we followed him, and knocked loudly at 
 the heavy convent gates. After some minutes they 
 were slightly opened, and a sleepy porter appeared. 
 
 "Is Martin Luther here*?" we asked. 
 
 "He is here!" was the reply, not, we thought, 
 without a little triumph in the tone. 
 
 "We wish to speak with him," demanded one 
 of us. 
 
 "No one is to speak -nath him," was the grim re- 
 joinder. 
 
 "Until when?" we asked. 
 
 There was a little whispering inside, and then came 
 the decisive answer, "Not for a month at least." 
 
 We would have lingered to parley further, but the
 
 priedrich's story. 93 
 
 heavy nailed doors were closed against us, we heard 
 the massive bolts rattle as they were drawn, and all 
 our assaults with fists or iron staffs on the convent 
 gates, from that moment did not awaken another sound 
 within. 
 
 "Dead to the world, indeed!" murmured one at 
 length; "the grave could not be more silent." 
 
 Baffled, and hoarse with shouting, we wandered 
 back again to Martin Luther's rooms. The old familiar 
 rooms, where we had so lately spent hours with him 
 in social converse ; where I and many of us had spent 
 so many an hour in intimate, affectionate intercourse, 
 — his presence would be there no more •, and the un- 
 altered aspect of the mute, inanimate things only made 
 the emptiness and change more painful by the con- 
 trast. 
 
 And yet, when we began to examine more closely, 
 the aspect of many things was changed. His flute and 
 lute, indeed, lay on the table, just as he had left them 
 on the previous evening. But the books — scholastic, 
 legal, and classical — were piled up carefully in one 
 corner, and directed to the booksellers. In looking 
 over the well-known volumes, I only missed two, Virgil 
 andPlautus; I suppose he took these with him. "Whilst 
 we were looking at a parcel neatly rolled up in another 
 place, the old man who kept his rooms in order came 
 in, and said, "That is Master Martin's master's robe, 
 his holiday attire, and his master's ring. They are to 
 be sent to his parents at Mansfeld." 
 
 A choking sensation came over me as I thought of 
 the father who had struggled so hard to maintain his 
 son, and had hoped so much from him, receiving that 
 Dacket. Not from the dead. Worse than from the
 
 94 CHEONICLES OF THE SCHONBERGCOTTA FAMILY. 
 
 dead, it seemed to me. Deliberately self-entombed; 
 deliberately with bis own bands building up a barrier 
 between bim and all who love him best. With the 
 dead, if they are happy, we may hold communion — 
 at least the Creed speaks of the communion of saints; 
 we may pray to them; or, at the worst, we may pray 
 for them. But between the son in the convent and the 
 father at Mansfeld the barrier is not merely one of 
 stone and earth. It is of the impenetrable iron of will 
 and conscience. It would be a temptation now for 
 Martin Luther to pour out his heart in affectionate 
 words to father, mother, or friend. 
 
 And yet, if he is right, — if the flesh is only to 
 be subdued, if God is only to be pleased, if heaven is 
 only to be won in this way, — it is of little moment 
 indeed what the suffering may be to us or any be- 
 longing to us in this fleeting life, down which the grim 
 gates of death which close it, ever cast their long 
 shadow. 
 
 May not Martin serve his family better in the 
 cloister than at the emperor's court, for is not the 
 cloister the court of a palace more imperial ? — we 
 may say, the very audience-chamber of the King of 
 kings. Besides, if he had a vocation, what curse might 
 not follow despising it ? Happy for those whose voca- 
 tion is so clear that they dare not disobey it; or whose 
 hearts are so pure that they would not if they dared ! 
 
 Julji 19. 
 
 These two days the university has been in a fer- 
 ment at the disappearance of Martin Luther. Many 
 are indignant with him, and more with the monks, 
 who , they say , have taken advantage of a fervent im-
 
 friedrich's story. 95 
 
 piilse, and drawn him into their net. Some, however, 
 especially those of the school of Mutianus — the Hu- 
 manists   — laugh, and say there are ways through the 
 cloister to the court, — and even to the tiara. But 
 those misunderstand Martin. We who know him are 
 only too sure that he will be a true monk, and that 
 for him there is no gate from the cloister back into the 
 world. 
 
 It appears now that he had been meditating this 
 step more than a fortnight. 
 
 On the first of this month (July) he was walking 
 on the road between Erfurt and Stotterheim, when a 
 thunder-storm which had been gathering over the Thu- 
 ringian forest, and weighing with heavy silence on the 
 plague-laden air, suddenly burst over his head. He 
 was alone, and far from shelter. Peal followed peal, 
 succeeded by terrible silences ; the forked lightning 
 danced wildly around him, until at length one terrific 
 flash tore up the ground at his feet, and nearly stunned 
 him. He was alone, and far from shelter-, he felt his 
 soul equally alone and unsheltered. The thunder seemed 
 to him the angry voice of an irresistible, olfeuded God, 
 The next flash might wither his body to ashes, and 
 smite his soul into the flames it so terribly recalled; 
 and the next thunder-peal which followed might echo 
 like the trumpet of doom over him lying unconscious, 
 deaf, and mute in death. Unconscious and mute as to 
 his body ! but who could imagine to what terrible in- 
 tensity of conscious, everlasting anguish his soul might 
 have awakened; what wailings might echo around his 
 lost spirit, what cries of unavailing entreaty he might 
 be pouring forth? Unavailing then! not, perhaps wholly 
 unavailing now! He fell on his knees, — he prostrated
 
 96 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMH^Y. 
 
 himself on tlie earth, and cried in his anguish and 
 terror, "Help, beloved St. Anne, and I will straightway 
 become a monk." 
 
 The storm rolled slowly away, but the irrevocable 
 words had been spoken, and the peals of thunder, as 
 they rumbled more and more faintly in the distance, 
 echoed on his heart like the dirge of all his worldly 
 life. 
 
 He reached Erfurt in safety, and, distrustful of his 
 own steadfastness, breathed nothing of his purpose ex- 
 cept to those who would, he thought, sustain him in it. 
 1'his was no doubt the cause of his absent and estranged 
 looks, and of his avoiding us during that fortnight. 
 
 He confided his intention first to Andrew StafiPel- 
 stein, the rector of the university, who applauded and 
 encouraged him, and took him at once to the new 
 Franciscan cloister. The monks received him with de- 
 light, and urged his immediately joining their order. 
 He told them he must first acquaint his father of his 
 purpose, as an act of confidence only due to a parent 
 who had denied himself so much and toiled so hard to 
 maintain his son liberally at the university. But the 
 rector and the monks rejoined that he must not consult 
 with flesh and blood; he must "forsake father and mo- 
 ther, and steal away to the cross of Christ." "Whoso 
 putteth his band to the plough and looketh back," said 
 they, "is not worthy of the kingdom of God." To 
 remain in the world was peril. To return to it was 
 perdition. 
 
 A few religious women to whom the rector men- 
 tioned Martin's intentions, confirmed him in them with 
 fervent words of admiration and encouragement. 
 
 Did not one of them relent, and take pity on his
 
 '" — 97 
 
 FRIEDRICH S STORY. 
 
 mother and his father? And yet, I doubt if Martin's 
 mother would have interposed one word of remonstrance 
 between him and the cloister. She is a very religious 
 woman. To offer her son, her pride, to God, would 
 have been offering tlie dearest part of herself; and 
 women have a strength in self-sacrifice, and a mys- 
 terious joy, which I feel no doubt would have carried 
 her through. 
 
 With Martin's father it would no doubt have been 
 different. He has not a good opinion of the monks, 
 and he has a very strong sense of paternal and filial 
 duty. He, the shrewd, hardworking, successful pea- 
 sant, looks on the monks as a company of drones, who, 
 in imagining they are giving up the delights of the 
 world, are often only giving up its duties. He was 
 content to go through any self-denial and toil that 
 Martin, the pride of the whole family, might have 
 scope to develop his abilities. But to have the fruit 
 of all his counsel, and care, and work buried in a con- 
 vent, will be very bitter to him. It was terrible ad- 
 vice for the rector to give a son. And yet, no doubt, 
 God has the first claim; and to expose Martin to any 
 influence which might have induced him to give up 
 his vocation, would have been perilous indeed. No 
 doubt the conflict in Martin's heart was severe enough 
 as it was. His nature is so affectionate, his sense of 
 filial duty so strong, and his honour and love for his 
 parents so deep. Since the step is taken, Holy Mary 
 aid him not to draw back ! 
 
 December, iSOS. 
 
 This morning I saw a sight I never thought to have 
 seen. A monk, in the grey frock and cowl of the 
 
 SchOnbm-g-CoUa Family. 1, 7
 
 98 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 Augustinians , was pacing slowly tlirougli the streets 
 with a heavy sack on his shoulders. The ground was 
 covered with snow, his feet were bare; but it was no 
 unfrequent sight, and I was idly and half-unconsciously 
 watching him pause at door after door, and humbly 
 receiving any contributions that were offered, stow 
 them away in the convent-sack, when at length he 
 stopped at the door of the house I was in, and then, 
 as his face turned up towards the window where I stood, 
 I caught the eye of Martin Luther! 
 
 I hurried to the door with a loaf in my hand, and, 
 before offering it to him, would have embraced him as 
 of old ; but he bowed low as he received the bread, 
 until his forehead nearly touched the ground, and 
 murmuring a Latin "Gratias," would have passed on. 
 
 "Martin," I said, "do you not know me?" 
 
 "I am on the service of the convent," he said. "It 
 is against the rules to converse or to linger." 
 
 It was hard to let him go without another word. 
 
 "God and the saints help thee, Brother Martin!" I 
 said. 
 
 He half turned, crossed himself, bowed low once 
 more, as a maid-servant threw him some broken meat, 
 said meekly, "God be praised for every gift he be- 
 stoweth," and went on his toilsome quest for alms with 
 stooping form and downcast eyes. But how changed 
 his face was! The flush of youth and health quite 
 faded from the thin, hollow cheeks; the fire of wit and 
 fancy all dimmed in the red, sunken eyes! Fire there 
 is indeed in them still, but it seemed to me of the 
 kind that consumes — not that warms and cheers. 
 
 They are surely harsh to him at the convent. To 
 send him who was the pride and ornament of the
 
 fkiedrich's story. 99 
 
 university not six months ago, begging from door to 
 door, at the houses of friends and pupils, with whom 
 he may not even exchange a greeting! Is there no 
 pleasure to the obscure and ignorant monks in thus 
 humbling one who was so lately so far above them? 
 The hands which wield such rods need to be guided 
 by hearts that are very noble or very tender. Never- 
 theless, I have no doubt that Brother Martin inflicts 
 severer discipline on himself than any that can be 
 laid on him from without. It is no external conflict 
 that has thus worn and bowed him down in less than 
 half a year. 
 
 I fear he will impose some severe mortification on 
 himself for having spoken those few words to which I 
 tempted him. 
 
 But if it is his vocation, and if it is for heaven, 
 and if he is thereby earning merits to bestow on others, 
 any conflict could no doubt be endured! 
 
 July, 1506. 
 
 Brother Martin's novitiate has expired, and he has 
 taken the name of Augustine, but we shall scarcely 
 learn to call him by it. Several of us were present a 
 few days since at his taking the final vows in the 
 Augustinian Church. Once more we heard the clear, 
 pleasant voice which most of us had heard, in song 
 and animated conversation, on that farewell evening. 
 It sounded weak and thin, no doubt with fasting. The 
 garb of the novice was laid aside, the monk's frock 
 was put on, and kneeling below the altar steps, with 
 the prior's hands on his bowed head, he took the vow 
 in Latin: — 
 
 "I, Brother Martin, do make profession and promise 
 
 7*
 
 100 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 obedience unto Almighty God, unto Mary, ever virgin, 
 and unto tliee, my brother, prior of this cloister, in the 
 name and in the stead of the general prior of the 
 order of the Eremites of St. Augustine, the bishop and 
 his regular successors, to live in poverty and chastity 
 after the rule of the said St. Augustine until death." 
 
 Then the burning taper, symbol of the lighted and 
 evervigilant heart, was placed in his hand. The prior 
 murmured a prayer over him, and instantly from the 
 whole of the monks burst the hymn, "Veni Sancte 
 Spiritus." 
 
 He knelt while they were singing; and then the 
 monks led him up the steps into the choir, and wel- 
 comed him with the kiss of brotherhood. 
 
 Within the screen, within the choir, among the 
 holy brotherhood inside, who minister before the altar! 
 And we, his old friends, left outside in the nave, 
 separated from him for ever by the screen of that irre- 
 vocable vow! 
 
 For ever! Is it for ever? Will there indeed be 
 such a veil an impenetrable barrier, between us and 
 him at the judgment-day? And we outside? A barrier 
 impassable for ever then, but not now, not yet! 
 
 January, iS07. 
 
 I have just returned from another Christmas at 
 home. Things look a little brighter there. This last 
 year, since I took my master's degree, I have been 
 able to help them a little more effectually with the 
 money I receive from my pupils. It was a delight to 
 take our dear, self-denying, loving Els6 a new dress 
 for holidays, although she protested her old crimson 
 petticoat and black jacket were as good as ever. Tlie
 
 friedrich's story. 101 
 
 child Eva Las still tliat deep, calm, earnest look in her 
 eyes, as if slie saw into the world of things unseen and 
 eternal, and saw there what filled her heart with joy. 
 I suppose it is that angelic depth of her eyes, in con- 
 trast with the guileless, rosy smile of the childlike lips, 
 which gives the strange charm to her face, and makes 
 one think of the pictures of the child-angels. 
 
 She can read the Church Latin now easily, and 
 delights especially in the old hymns. When she repeats 
 them in that soft, reverent, childish voice, they seem 
 to me deeper and more sacred than when sung by the 
 fullest choir. Her great favourite is St. Bernard's "Jesu 
 Dulcis Memoria," and his "Salve Caput Cruentatum •, " 
 but some verses of the "Dies Iraa" also are very often 
 on her lips. I used to hear her warbling softly about 
 the house, or at her work, with a voice like a happy 
 dove hidden in the depths of some quiet wood, — 
 
 " Querens me sedisti lassus," 
 
 or 
 
 Jesu mi dulcissime, Domine ccelorum, 
 Conditor omnipotens, Rex uiiiversorum; 
 Quis jam actus sufficit mirari gestorum, 
 Qus te ferre compulit salus miserorum. 
 
 Te de cceIo caritas traxit animarum, 
 Pro quibus palatium deserens prreclarum ; 
 Miseram ingrediens vallem lacryxQarum, 
 Opus durum suscipis, et iter amarum. * 
 
 The sonorous words of the ancient imperial language 
 sound so sweet and strange, and yet so familiar from 
 
 * "Jesu, Sovereign Lord of heaven, sweetest Friend to me. 
 King of all the universe, all was made by thee ; 
 Who can know or comprehend the wonders thou hast wrought. 
 Since the saving of the lost thee so low hath brought? 
 
 Thee the love of souls drew down from beyond the sky, — 
 Drew thee from thy glorious home, thy palace bright and high ! 
 To this narrow vale of tears thou thy footsieps bendest: 
 Hard the work thou tak'st ou thee, rough the way thou wendest."
 
 102 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERQ-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 the fresh childish voice. Latin seems from her lips 
 no more a dead language. It is as if she had learned 
 it naturally in infancy from listening to the songs of 
 the angels who watched her in her sleep, or from the 
 lips of a sainted mother bending over her pillow from 
 heaven. 
 
 One thing, however, seems to disappoint little Eva. 
 She has a sentence taken from a book her father left 
 her before he died, but which she was never allowed 
 to see afterwards. She is always hoping to find the 
 book in which this sentence was, and has not yet suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 I have little doubt myself that the book was some 
 heretical volume belonging to her father, who was 
 executed for being a Hussite. It is to be hoped, there- 
 fore, she will never find it. She did not tell me this 
 herself, probably because Els^, to whom she mentioned 
 it, discouraged her in such a search. We all feel it is 
 a great blessing to have rescued that innocent heart 
 from the snares of those pernicious heretics, against 
 whom our Saxon nation made such a noble struggle. 
 There are not very many of the Hussites left now in 
 Bohemia. As a national party they are indeed de- 
 stroyed, since the Calixtines separated from them. 
 There are, however, still a few dragging out a miser- 
 able existence among the forests and mountains; and it 
 is reported that these opinions have not yet even been 
 quite crushed in the cities, in spite of the vigorous 
 measures used against them, but that not a few secretly 
 cling to their tenets, although outwardly conforming 
 to the Church. So inveterate is the poison of heresy, 
 and so great the danger from which little Eva has been 
 rescued.
 
 friedrich's story. 103 
 
 Erfurt, May 2, /507. 
 
 To-day once more the seclusion and silence whicli 
 have enveloped Martin Luther since he entered the 
 cloister have been broken. This day he has been con- 
 secrated priest, and has celebrated his first mass. There 
 was a great feast at the Augustinian convent-, offerings 
 poured in abundance into the convent treasury, and 
 Martin's father, John Luther, came from Mansfeld to 
 be present at the ceremony. He is reconciled at last 
 to his son (whom for a long time he refused to see); 
 although not, I believe, to his monastic profession. It 
 is certainly no willing sacrifice on the father's part. 
 And no wonder. After toiling for years to place his 
 favourite son in a position where his great abilities 
 might have scope, it must have been hard to see every- 
 thing thrown away just as success was attained, for 
 what seemed to him a wilful, superstitious fancy. And 
 without a word of dutiful consultation to prepare him 
 for the blow! 
 
 Having, however, at last made up his mind to for- 
 give his son, he forgave him like a father, and came 
 in pomp with precious gifts to do him honour. He 
 rode to the convent gate with an escort of twenty 
 horsemen, and gave his son a present of twenty florins. 
 
 Brother Martin was so cheered by the reconciliation, 
 that at the ordination feast he ventured to try to obtain 
 from his father not only pardon, but sanction and 
 approval. It was of the deepest interest to me to hear 
 his familiar eloquent voice again, pleading for his 
 father's approval. But he failed. In vain he stated 
 in his own fervent words the motives that had led to 
 his vow, in vain did the monks around siipport and
 
 104 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAaiLLY. 
 
 applaud all lie said. The old man was not to be 
 moved. 
 
 "Dear father," said Martin, "what was the reason 
 of thy objecting to my choice to become a monk? 
 Why wert thou then so displeased, and perhaps art not 
 reconciled yet? It is such a peaceful and godly life 
 to live." 
 
 I cannot say that Brother Martin's worn and fur- 
 rowed face spoke much for the peacefulness of his life •, 
 but Master John Luther boldly replied in a voice that 
 all at the table might hear, — 
 
 "Didst thou never hear that a son must be obedient 
 to his parents? And, you learned men, did you never 
 read the Scriptures, 'Thou shalt honour thy father and 
 thy mother?' God grant that those signs you speak 
 of may not prove to be lying wonders of Satan." 
 
 Brother Martin attempted no defence. A look of 
 sharp pain came over his face, as if an arrow had 
 pierced his heart; but he remained quite silent. 
 
 Yet he is a priest; he is endued with a power 
 never committed even to the holy angels — to tran- 
 substantiate bread into God — to sacrifice for the living 
 and the dead. 
 
 He is admitted into the inner circle of the court of 
 heaven. 
 
 He is on board that sacred ark which once he saw 
 portrayed at Magdeburg, where priests and monks sail 
 safely amidst a drowning world. And what is more, 
 he himself may, from his safe and sacred vessel, stoop 
 down and rescue perishing men; perhaps confer un- 
 speakable blessings on the soul of that very father 
 -whose words so wounded him. 
 
 For such ends well may he bear that the aiTOw
 
 fkiedrich's story. 105 
 
 slaould pierce his heart. Did not a sword pierce thine, 
 O mournful mother of consolations? 
 
 And he is certain of his vocation. He does not 
 think as we in the world so often must, "Is God 
 leading me, or the devil? Am I resisting His higher 
 calling in only obeying the humbler call of everyday 
 duty? Am I bringing down blessings on those I love, 
 or curses?" 
 
 Brother Martin, without question, has none of these 
 distracting doubts. He may well bear any other an- 
 guish Avhich may meet him in the ways of God, and 
 because he has chosen them. At least he has not to 
 listen to such tales as I have heard lately from a 
 young knight, Ulrich von Hutten, who is studying 
 here at present, and has things to relate of the monks, 
 priests, and bishops in Rome itself which tempt one to 
 think all invisible things a delusion, and all religion 
 a pretence.
 
 106 CHRONICLES OF THE SCH(>NBERa-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 else's CHRONICLE. 
 
 Eisenach, January iSiO. 
 
 We have passed througli a terrible time; if, indeed, 
 we are tlirough it! 
 
 The plague has been at Eisenach; and, alas! is 
 here still. 
 
 Fritz came home to us as usual at Christmas. Just 
 before he left Erfurt the plague had broken out in the 
 University. But he did not know it. When first he 
 came to us he seemed quite well, and was full of 
 spirits; but on the second day he complained of cold 
 and shivering, with pain in the head, which increased 
 towards the evening. His eyes then began to have a 
 fixed, dim look, and he seemed unable to speak or 
 think long connectedly. 
 
 I noticed that the mother watched him anxiously 
 that evening; and at its close, feeling his hands feverish, 
 she said very quietly that she should sit up in his 
 room that night. At first he made some resistance, 
 but he seemed too faint to insist on anything; and, as 
 he rose to go to bed, he tottered a little, and said he 
 felt giddy, so that my mother drew his arm within hers 
 and supported him to his room. 
 
 Still I did not feel anxious; but when Eva and I 
 reached our room, she said, in that quiet, convincing 
 manner which she had even as a child, fixing her large 
 eyes on mine, — 
 
 "Cousin EIs^, Fritz is very ill."
 
 else's story. 107 
 
 "I think not, Eva," I said; "and no one would 
 feel anxious about him as soon as I should. He caught 
 a chill on his way from Erfurt. You know it was late 
 when he arrived, and snowing fast, and he was so 
 pleased to see us, and so eager in conversation that 
 he would not change his things. It is only a slight 
 feverish cold. Besides, our mother's manner was so 
 calm when she wished us good night. I do not think 
 she is anxious. She is only sitting up with him for 
 an hour or two to see that he sleeps." 
 
 "Cousin Els^," replied Eva, "did you not see the 
 mother's lip quiver when she turned to wish us good 
 night?" 
 
 "No, Eva," said I; "I was looking at Fritz." 
 
 And so we went to bed. But I thought it strange 
 that Eva, a girl of sixteen, should be more anxious 
 than I was, and I his sister. Hope is generally so 
 strong, and fear so weak, before one has seen many 
 fears realized, and many hopes disappointed. Eva, 
 however, had always a way of seeing into the truth of 
 things. I was very tired with the day's work (for I 
 always rise earlier than usual when Fritz is here, to 
 get everything done before he is about), and I must 
 very soon have fallen asleep. It was not midnight 
 when I was roused by the mother's touch upon my 
 arm. 
 
 The light of the lamp she held showed me a pale- 
 ness in her face and an alarm in her eyes which awoke 
 me thoroughly in an instant. 
 
 "Els^," she said, "go into the boys' room and send 
 Christopher for a physician. I cannot leave Fritz. 
 But do not alarm your father!" she added, as she 
 crept again out of the room after lighting our lamp.
 
 108 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERa-€OTTA FAMILY. 
 
 I called Christopher, and in five minutes lie was 
 dressed and out of the house. When I returned to 
 our room Eva was sitting dressed on the bed. She 
 had not been asleep, I saw. I think she had been 
 praying, for she held the crucifix in her clasped hands, 
 and there were traces of tears on her cheek, although 
 when she raised her eyes to me, they were clear and 
 tearless. 
 
 "What is it. Cousin Els^?" she said. "When I 
 went for a moment to the door of his room he was 
 talking. It was his voice, but with such a strange, 
 wild tone in it. I think he heard my step, although 
 I thought no one would, I stepped so softly, for he 
 called 'Eva, Eva!' but the mother came to the door 
 and silently motioned me away. But you may go, 
 Elsfe," she added, with a passionate rapidity very 
 unusual with her. "Go and see him." 
 
 I went instantly. He was talking very rapidly 
 and vehemently, and in an incoherent way it was diffi- 
 cult to understand. My mother sat quite still, holding 
 his hand. His eyes were not bright as in fever, but 
 dim and fixed. Yet he was in a raging fever. His 
 hand, when I touched it, burned like fire, and his face 
 was flushed crimson. I stood there quite silently beside 
 my mother until the physician came. At first Fritz's 
 eyes followed me; then they seemed watching the door 
 for some one else; but in a few minutes the dull 
 vacancy came over them again, and he seemed con- 
 scious of nothing. 
 
 At last the physician came. He paused a moment 
 at the door, and held a bag of myrrh before him; then 
 advancing to the bed, he drew aside the clothes and 
 looked at Fritz's arm,
 
 else's story. 109 
 
 "Too plain!" he exclaimed, starting back as he 
 perceived a black swelling there. "It is the plague!" 
 
 My mother followed him to the door. 
 
 "Excuse me, madam," he said; "life is precious, 
 and I might carry the infection into the city." 
 
 "Can nothing be done?" she said. 
 
 "Not much!" he said bluntly; and then, after a 
 moment's hesitation, touched by the distress in her 
 face, he returned to the bedside. "I have touched 
 him," he murmured, as if apologizing to himself for 
 incurring the risk; "the mischief is done, doubtless, 
 already." And taking out his lancet he bled my 
 brother's arm. 
 
 Then, after binding up the arm, he turned to me 
 and said, — 
 
 "Get cypress and juniper wood, and burn them in 
 a brazier in this room, with rosin and myrrh. Keep 
 your brother as warm as possible — do not let in a 
 breath of air! And," he added, as I followed him to 
 the door, "on no accoxxnt suffer him to sleep for a mo- 
 ment,* and let no one come near him but you and 
 your mother." 
 
 When I returned to the bedside, after obeying 
 these directions, Fritz's mind was wandering; and al- 
 though we could understand little that he said, he waa 
 evidently in great distress. He seemed to have com- 
 prehended the physician's Avords, for he frequently re- 
 peated, "The plague! the plague! I have brought a 
 curse upon my house!" and then he would wander 
 strangely calling on Martin Luther and Eva to in- 
 tercede and obtain pardon for him, as if he were in- 
 
 * An approved method of treatment of the pLague in those timea.
 
 110 CHKONICLES OF THE SCUOKBERG-COTTA FAJVULY. 
 
 voting saints in heaven; and occasionally he would 
 repeat fragments of Latin hymns. 
 
 It was dreadful to have to keep him awake; to 
 have to rouse him, whenever he showed the least 
 symptom of slumber, to thoughts which so perplexed 
 and troubled his poor brain. But on the second night 
 the mother fainted away, and I had to carry her to 
 her room. Her dear thin frame was no heavy weight 
 to bear. I laid her on the bed in our room, which 
 was the nearest. Eva appeared at the door as I stood 
 beside our mother. Her face was as pale as death. 
 Before I could prevent it, she came up to me, and 
 taking my hands said, — 
 
 "Cousin Els^, only promise me one thing; — if he 
 is to die, let me see him once more." 
 
 "I dare not promise anything, Eva," I said; "con- 
 sider the infection!" 
 
 "What will the infection matter to me if he dies?" 
 she said; "I am not afraid to die." 
 
 "Think of the father and the children, Eva," I 
 said; "if our mother and I should be seized next, what 
 would they do?" 
 
 "Chriemhild will soon be old enough to take care 
 of them," she said very calmly; "promise me, promise 
 me, Els^, or I will see him at once." 
 
 And I promised her, and she threw her arms 
 around me, and kissed me. Then I went back to 
 Fritz, leaving Eva chafing my mother's hands. It was 
 of no avail, I thought, to try to keep her from con- 
 tagion, now that she had held my hands in hers. 
 
 When I came again to Fritz's bedside he was 
 asleep! Bitterly I reproached myself; but what could 
 I have done? He was asleep — sleeping quietly, with
 
 ELsic's STORY. Ill 
 
 soft even breathing. I liad not courage to awake him; 
 but I knelt down and implored the blessed Virgin and 
 all the saints to have mercy on me and spare him. 
 And they must have heard me; for, in spite of my 
 failure in keeping the physician's orders, Fritz began 
 to recover from that very sleep. 
 
 Our grandmother says it was a miracle; "unless," 
 she added, "the doctor was wrong!" 
 
 He awoke from that sleep refreshed and calm, but 
 weak as an infant. 
 
 It was delightful to meet his eyes when first he 
 awoke, with the look of quiet recognition in them, in- 
 stead of that wild, fixed stare, or that restless wander- 
 ing; to look once more into his heart through his eyes. 
 He looked at me a long time with a quiet content, 
 without speaking, and then he said, holding out his 
 hand to me, — 
 
 "Elsfe, you have been watching long here. You 
 look tired; go and rest." 
 
 "It rests me best to look at you," I said, "and see 
 you better." 
 
 He seemed too weak to persist, and after taking 
 some food and cooling drinks, he fell asleep again, and 
 so did I ; for the next thing I was conscious of was our 
 mother gently placing a pillow underneath my head, 
 which had sunk on the bed where I had been kneeling, 
 watching Fritz. I was ashamed of being such a bad 
 nurse; but our mother insisted on my going to our 
 room to seek rest and refreshment. And for the next 
 few days we took it in turns to sit beside him, until 
 he began to regain strength. Then we thought he 
 might like to see Eva; but when she came to the door, 
 he eagerly motioned her away, and said, —
 
 112 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY, 
 
 "Do not let her venture near me. Think if I were 
 to bring this judgment of God on her!" 
 
 Eva turned away, and was out of sight in an in- 
 stant-, but the troubled, perplexed expression came back 
 into my brother's eyes, and the feverish flush into his 
 face, and it was long before he seemed calm again. 
 
 I followed Eva. She was sitting with clasped hands 
 in our room. 
 
 "Oh, Els^," she said, "how altered he is! Are you 
 sure he will live, even now?" 
 
 I tried to comfort her with the hope which was 
 naturally so much stronger in me, because I had seen 
 him in the depths from which he was now slowly 
 rising again to life. But something in that glimpse of 
 him seemed to weigh on her very life; and as Fritz 
 recovered, Eva seemed to grow paler and weaker, 
 until the same feverish symptoms came over her which 
 we had learned so to dread, and then the terrible 
 tokens, the plague-spots, which could not be doubted, 
 appeared on the fair, soft arms, and Eva was lying 
 with those dim, fixed, pestilence- veiled eyes, and the 
 wandering brain. 
 
 For a day we were able to conceal it from Fritz, 
 but no longer. 
 
 On the second evening after Eva was stricken, I 
 found him standing by the window of his room , look- 
 ing into the street. I shall never forget the expres- 
 sion of horror in his eyes as he turned from the window 
 to me. 
 
 "Els^," he said, "how long have those fires been 
 burning in the streets?" 
 
 "For a week," I said. "They are fires of cypress-
 
 else's story. 113 
 
 wood and juniper, and myrrli and pine gums. The 
 physicians say they purify the air." 
 
 "I know too well what they are," he said. "And, 
 Els^," he said, "why is Master Biirer's house opposite 
 closed?" 
 
 "He has lost two children," I said. 
 
 "And why are those other windows closed all down 
 the street?" he rejoined. 
 
 "The people have left, brother," I said; "but the 
 doctors hope the worst is over now." 
 
 "0 just God!" he exclaimed, sinking on a chair 
 and covering his face; "I was flying from thee, and I 
 have brought the curse on my people!" 
 
 Then, after a minute's pause, before I could think 
 of any words to comfort him, he looked up, and sud- 
 denly demanded, — 
 
 "Who are dead in this house, Els^?" 
 
 "None, none," I said. 
 
 "Who are stricken?" he asked. 
 
 "All the childi-en and the father are well," I said, 
 "and the mother." 
 
 "Then Eva is stricken!" he exclaimed — "the in- 
 nocent for the guilty! She will die and be a saint in 
 heaven, and I, who have murdered her, shall live, and 
 shall see her no more, for ever and for ever." 
 
 I could not comfort him. The strength of his 
 agony utterly stunned me. I could only burst into 
 tears, so that be had to try to comfort me. But he 
 did not speak; he only took my hands in his kindly, 
 as of old, without saying another word. At length I 
 said — 
 
 "It is not you who brought the plague, dear Fritz-, 
 it is God who sent it!" 
 
 Schdiiherg-Cotta Famffy. I, 8
 
 114 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHOKBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "I know it is God!" lie replied, witli sucli an in- 
 teuse bitterness in liis tone that I did not attempt an- 
 other sentence. 
 
 That night Eva wandered much as I watched be- 
 side her; but her delirium was quite different from that 
 of Fritz. Her spirit seemed floating away on a quiet 
 stream into some happy land we could not see. She 
 spoke of a palace, of a home, of fields of fragrant 
 lilies, of white-robed saints walking among them mth 
 harps and songs, and of One who welcomed her. Oc- 
 casionally, too, she murmured snatches of the same 
 Latin hymns that Fritz had repeated in his delirium, 
 but in a tone so different, so child-like and happy! 
 If ever she appeared troubled, it was when she seemed 
 to miss some one, and be searching here and there for 
 them; but then she often ended with, "Yes, I know 
 they will come; I must wait till they come." And so 
 at last she fell asleep, as if the thought had quieted 
 her. 
 
 I could not hinder her sleeping, whatever the phy- 
 sician said; she looked so placid, and had such a 
 happy smile on her lips. Only once, when she had 
 lain thus an hour quite still, while her chest seemed 
 scarcely to heave with her soft, tranquil breathing, I 
 grew alarmed lest she should glide thus from us into 
 the arms of the holy angels; and I whispered softly, 
 "Eva, dear Eva!" 
 
 Her lips parted slightly, and she murmured — 
 
 "Not yet; wait till they can come." 
 
 And then she turned her head again on the pillow, 
 and slept on. 
 
 She awoke quite collected and calm , and then she 
 said quietly —
 
 else's story. 115 
 
 "Wiere is the mother?" 
 
 "She is resting, darling Eva." 
 
 She gave a little contented smile, and then, in broken 
 words at intervals, she said — 
 
 '"Now, I should like to see Fritz. You promised 
 I should see him again; and now, if I die, I think he 
 would like to see me once more." 
 
 I went to fetch my brother. He was pacing up 
 and down his room, with the crucifix clasped to his 
 breast. At first, to raj surprise, he seemed very re- 
 luctant to come-, but when I said how much she wished 
 it, he followed me quite meekly into her room. Eva 
 Avas resuming her old command over us all. She held 
 out her hand, with a look of such peace and rest on 
 her face. 
 
 "Cousin Fritz," she said at intervals, as she had 
 strength , " you have taught me so many things 5 you 
 have done so much for me! Now I wish you to learn 
 my sentence, that if I go, it may make you happy, as 
 it does me." Then very slowly and distinctly she re- 
 peated the words — "'''God so loved the world, that he 
 gave his only Son.'' Cousin Fritz," she added, "I do 
 not know the end of the sentence. I have not been 
 able to find it; but you must find it. I am sure it 
 comes from a good book, it makes me love God so 
 much to think of it. Promise me you will find it, if 
 I should die." 
 
 He promised, and she was quite satisfied. Her 
 strength seemed exhausted, and in a few moments, with 
 my arms round her as I sat beside her, and with her 
 hand in Fritz's, she fell into a deep, sleep. 
 
 I felt from that time she would not die, and I 
 whispered very softly to Fritz — 
 
 8*
 
 lie CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "She will not die; she will recover, and you will 
 not have killed her; you will have saved her!" 
 
 But when I looked into his face, expecting to meet 
 a thankful, happy response, I was appalled by the ex- 
 pression there. 
 
 He stood immovable, not venturing to withdraw 
 his hand, but with a rigid, hopeless look in his worn, 
 pale face, which contrasted terribly with the smile of 
 deep repose on the sleeping face on which his eyes 
 were fixed. 
 
 And so he remained until she awoke, when his 
 whole countenance changed for an instant to return her 
 smile. 
 
 Then he said softly, "God bless you, Eva!" and 
 pressing her hand to his lij)s, he left the room. 
 
 When I saw him again that day, I said — 
 
 "Fritz, you saved Eva's life! She rallied from the 
 time she saw you." 
 
 "Yes," he replied, very gently, but with a strange 
 impassiveness in his face; "I think that may be true. 
 I have saved her." 
 
 Biat he did not go into her room again; and the 
 next day, to our surprise and disappointment, he said 
 suddenly that he must leave us. 
 
 He said few words of farewell to any of us, and 
 would not see Eva to take leave of her. He said it 
 might disturb her. 
 
 But when he kissed me before he went, his hands 
 and his lips were as cold as death. Yet as I watched 
 him go down the street, he did not once turn to wave 
 a last good-bye, as he always used to do; but slowly 
 and steadily he went on till he was out of sight. 
 
 I turned back into the house with a very heavy
 
 else's story. 117 
 
 heart; but when I went to tell Eva Fritz was gone, 
 and tried to account for his not coming to take leave 
 of her, because I thought it would give her pain (and 
 it does seem to me rather strange of Fritz), she looked 
 up with her quiet, trustful, contented smile, and 
 said — 
 
 "I am not at all pained, Cousin Els^. I know 
 Fritz had good reasons for it — some good, kind 
 reasons — because he always has; and we shall see 
 him again as soon as he feels it right to come."
 
 118 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 VI. 
 
 priedrich's story. 
 
 St. Sebastian, Erfdkt, January 20, 1510. 
 
 The irrevocable step is taken. I have entered the 
 Augustinian cloister. I write in Martin Lntlier's cell. 
 Truly I have forsaken father and mother, and all that 
 was dearest to me, to take refuge at the foot of the 
 cross. I have sacrificed everything on earth to my 
 vocation, and yet the conflict is not over. I seem 
 scarcely more certain of my vocation now than while 
 I remained in the world. Doubts buzz around me like 
 wasps, and sting me on every side. The devil, trans- 
 forming himself into an angel of light, perplexes me 
 with the very words of Scripture. The words of 
 Martin Luther's father recur to me, as if spoken by a 
 divine voice. "Honour thy father and thy mother!" 
 echoes back to me from the chants of the choir, and 
 seems written everywhere on the white walls of my 
 cell. 
 
 And, besides the thunder of these words of God, 
 tender voices seem to call me back by every plea of 
 duty, not to abandon them to fight the battle of life 
 alone. Elsfe calls me from the old lumber-room, "Fritz! 
 brother! who is to tell me now what to do?" My 
 mother does not call me back; but I seem ever to see 
 her tearful eyes, full of reproach and wonder which 
 she tries to repress, lifted up to heaven for strength; 
 and her worn, pale face, growing more wan every day. 
 In one voice and one face only I seem never to hear
 
 friedrich's story. 119 
 
 or see reproacli or recall; and yet, Heaven forgive me, 
 those pure and saintly eyes which seem only to say, 
 "Go on, Cousin Fritz, God will help thee, and I will 
 pray!" — those sweet, trustful, heavenly eyes, draw 
 me back to the world with more power than anything 
 else. 
 
 Is it, then, too late? Have I lingered in the world 
 so long that my heart can never more be torn from it? 
 Is this the punishment of my guilty hesitation, that, 
 though I have given my body to the cloister, God will 
 not have my soul, which evermore must hover like a 
 lost spirit about the scenes it was too reluctant to 
 leave? Shall I evermore, when I lift my eyes to 
 heaven, see all that is pure and saintly there embodied 
 for me in a face which it is deadly sin for me to re- 
 member? 
 
 Yet I have saved her life! If I brought the curse 
 on my people by my sin, was not my obedience ac- 
 cepted? From the hour when, in my room alone, after 
 hearing that Eva was stricken, I prostrated myself be- 
 fore God, and not daring to take His insulted name 
 on my lips, approached him through His martyred 
 saint, and said, "Holy Sebastian, by the arrows which 
 pierced thy heart, ward off the arrows of pestilence 
 from my home, and I will become a monk, and change 
 my own guilty name for thine," — from that moment 
 did not Eva begin to recover, and from that time were 
 not all my kindred unscathed? "Cadent a latere tuo 
 mille, et decem millia a dextris tuis; ad te autem non 
 approprinquabit." Were not the words literally ful- 
 filled; and while many still fell around us, was one 
 afterwards stricken in my home? 
 
 Holy Sebastian, infallible protector against pestilence,
 
 120 CHRONICLES 01' THE SCHONBEKG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 by thy firmness when accused, confirm my wavering 
 will; by thy double death, save me from the second 
 death-, by the arrows which could not slay thee, thou 
 liast saved us from the arrow that flieth by day, by 
 the cruel blows which sent thy spirit from the circus 
 to paradise, strengthen me against the blows of Satan; 
 by thy body rescued from ignominious sepulture and 
 laid in the catacombs among the martyrs, raise me 
 from the filth of sin; by thy generous pleading for thy 
 fellow-sufferers amidst thine own agonies, help me to 
 plead for those who suffer with nie; and by all thy 
 sorrows, and merits, and joys, plead — oh plead for 
 me, who henceforth bear thy name! 
 
 St. Scholastica, February 10. 
 
 I have been a month in the monastery. Yesterday 
 my first probation was over, and I was invested with 
 tlie white garments of the novitiate. 
 
 The whole of the brotherhood were assembled in 
 the church, when, kneeling before the prior, he asked 
 me solemnly whether I thought my strength sufficient 
 for the burden I purposed to take on myself. 
 
 In a low, grave voice, he reminded me what those 
 burdens are — the rough plain clothing; the abstemious 
 living; the broken rest and long vigils; the toils in the 
 service of the order; the reproach and poverty; the 
 humiliations of the mendicant; and, above all, the re- 
 nunciation of self-will and individual glory, to be a 
 member of the order, bound to do whatever the supe- 
 riors command, and to go whithersoever they direct. 
 
 "With God for my help," I could venture to say, 
 "of this will I make trial." 
 
 Then the prior replied, —
 
 friedrich's story. 121 
 
 "We receive thee, tlierefore, on probation for one 
 year-, and may God, who has begun a good work in 
 thee, carry it on unto perfection." 
 
 The whole brotherhood responded in a deep amen, 
 and then all the voices joined in the hymn, — 
 
 "Magna Pater Augustine, preces nostras suscipe, 
 Et per eas conditori nos placare satage, 
 Atque rege gregem tnum, summum decus pra?sulum. 
 
 Amatorem pauportatis, to collaudant pauperes; 
 
 Assertorem veritatis auiant veri judices; 
 
 Frangis nobis favos mellis de Scripturis dissorens. 
 
 Quje obscura prius eraut nobis plana faciens, 
 Tu de verbis Salvatoris dulccm panera tonflcis, 
 Et propinas potum vitaj de ijsalmorum uectare. 
 
 Tu de vita clericoruni sanetam scribis regnlam, 
 Quam qui amaut et sequuntur viam tenent regiain, 
 Atque tuo sanoto duetu redeunt ad patriam. 
 
 Regi regum salus, vita, decus et emperiuin ; 
 Trinitati laus et honor sit per omne sEeculum, 
 Qui concives nos ascribat superuorum civium."* 
 
 * " Great Father Augustine, receive our prayers, 
 And through them effectually reconcile the Creator; 
 And rule thy flock, the highest glory of rulers. 
 
 The poor praise thee, lover of poverty; 
 True judges love thee, defender of truth; 
 
 Breaking the honeycomb of the honey of Scripture, thou distributest 
 it to us. 
 
 Making smooth to us what before was obscure ; 
 
 Thou, from the words of the Saviour, furnishest us with wholesome 
 
 bread. 
 And givest to drink draughts of life from the nectar of the psalms. 
 
 Thou writest the holy rule for the life of priests. 
 Which, whosoever love and follow, keep the royal road. 
 And by thy holy leading return to their fatherland. 
 
 Salvation to the King of kings, life, glory, and dominion ; 
 Honour and praise be to the Trinity throughout all ages. 
 To Him who declareth us to be fellow-citizens with the citizens of 
 heaven."
 
 122 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 As tlie sacred words were chanted, tliey mingled 
 strangely in my mind with the ceremonies of the in- 
 vestiture. My hair was shorn with the clerical tonsure; 
 my secular dress was laid aside; the garments of the 
 novice were thrown on; and I was girded with the 
 girdle of rope, whilst the prior murmured softly to me, 
 that with the new robes I must put on the new man. 
 
 Then, as the last notes of the hymn died away, I 
 knelt and bowed low to receive the prior's blessing, in- 
 voked in these words: — 
 
 "May God, who hath converted this young man 
 from the world, and given him a mansion in heaven, 
 grant that his daily walk may be as becometh his call- 
 ing; and that he may have cause to be thankful for 
 what has this day been done." 
 
 Versicles were then chanted responsively by the 
 monks, who, forming in procession, moved towards the 
 choir, where we all prostrated ourselves in silent 
 prayer. 
 
 After this they conducted me to the great hall of 
 the cloister, where all the brotherhood bestowed on me 
 the kiss of peace. 
 
 Once more I knelt before the prior, who reminded 
 me that he who persevereth to the end shall be saved; 
 and gave me over to the direction of the preceptor, 
 whom the new Vicar-General Staupitz has ordered to 
 be appointed to each novice. 
 
 Thus the first gi-eat ceremony of my monastic life 
 is over, and it has left me with a feeling of blank and 
 disappointment. It has made no change that I can 
 feel in my heart. It has not removed the world further 
 ofi" from me. It has only raised another impassable 
 barrier between me and all that was dearest to me; —
 
 priedrich's STOKr. 123 
 
 impassable as an ocean without ships, infrangible as 
 the strongest iron, I am determined my will shall make 
 it; but to my hearty alas! thin as gossamer, since every 
 faintest, wistful tone of love, which echoes from the 
 past, can penetrate it and pierce me with sorrow. 
 
 My preceptor is very strict in enforcing the rules 
 of the order. Trespasses against the rules are divided 
 into four classes, — small, great, greater, and greatest, 
 to each of which is assigned a different degree of pen- 
 ance. Among the smaller are, failing to go to church 
 as soon as the sign is given, forgetting to touch the 
 ground inst ntly with the hand and to smite the breast 
 if in reading in the choir or in singing the least error 
 is committed; looking about during the service; omit- 
 ting prostration at the Annunciation or at Christmas; 
 neglecting the benediction in coming in or going out; 
 failing to return books or garments to their proper 
 places; dropping food; spilling drink; forgetting to say 
 grace before eating. Among the great trespasses are: 
 contending, breaking the prescribed silence at fasts, 
 and looking at women, or speaking to them, except in 
 brief replies. 
 
 The minute rules are countless. It is difficult at 
 first to learn the various genuflexions, inclinations, and 
 prostrations. The novices are never allowed to con- 
 verse except in presence of the prior, are forbidden to 
 take any notice of visitors, are enjoined to walk with 
 downcast eyes, to read the Scriptures diligently, to 
 bow low in receiving every gift, and say, "The Lord 
 be praised in his gifts." 
 
 How Brother Martin, with his free, bold, daring 
 nature, bore those minute restrictions, I know not. To
 
 124 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COXTA FAMILY. 
 
 me there is a kind of dull, deadening relief in them, 
 they distract my thoughts, or prevent my thinking. 
 
 Yet it must be true, my obedience will aid my 
 kindred more than all my toil could ever have done 
 whilst disobediently remaining in the world. It is 
 not a selfish seeking of my own salvation and ease 
 which has brought me here, whatever some may think 
 and say, as they did of Martin Luther. I think of 
 that ship in the picture at Magdeburg he so often told 
 me of. Am I not in it, — actually i)i it noiv? and 
 shall I not hereafter, when my strength is recovered 
 from the fatigue of reaching it, hope to lean over and 
 stretch out my arms to them, still struggling in the 
 waves of this bitter world? and save them! 
 
 Save them; yes, save their souls! Did not my 
 vow save precious lives? And shall not my fastings, 
 vigils, disciplines, prayers be as effectual for their 
 souls? And, then, hereafter, in heaven, where those 
 dwell who, in virgin purity, have followed the Lamb, 
 sliall I not lean over the jasper-battlements and help 
 them from Purgatory up the steep sides of Paradise, 
 and be first at the gate to welcome them in! And 
 then, in Paradise, where love will no longer be in 
 danger of becoming sin, may we not be together for 
 ever and for ever? And then, shall I regret that I 
 abandoned the brief polluted joys of earth for the pure 
 joys of eternity? Shall I lament then that I chose, 
 according to my vocation, to suflTer apart from them 
 that their souls might be saved, rather than to toil 
 with them for the perishing body? 
 
 Then! tlim! I, a saint in the City of God! I, a 
 hesitating, sinful no\-ice in the Augustinian monastery . 
 at Erfurt, who, after resisting for years, have at last j
 
 friedrich's story, 125 
 
 yielded up my body to the cloister, but have no more 
 power than ever to yield up my heart to God! 
 
 Yet I am in the sacred vessel; the rest will surely 
 follow. Do all monks have such a conflict? No doubt 
 the Devil fights liard for every fresh victim he loses. 
 It is, it must be, the Devil who beckons me through 
 those dear faces, who calls me through those familiar 
 voices ; for tJiey would never call me back. They would 
 hide their pain, and say, "Go to God, if he calls thee; 
 leave us and go to God." Els^, my mother, all would 
 say that; if their hearts broke in trying to say it! 
 
 Had Martin Luther such thoughts in this very cell ? 
 If they are from the Evil One, I think he had, for his 
 assaults are strongest against the noblest; and yet I 
 scarcely think he can have had such weak doubts as 
 those which haunt me. He was not one of those who 
 draw back to perdition; nor even of those who, having 
 put their hand to the plough, look back, as I, alas! 
 am so continually doing. And what does the Scripture 
 say of such? — "They are not fit for the kingdom of 
 God." No exception, no reserve — monk, priest, 
 saint; if a man look back, he is not fit for the kingdom 
 of God. Then what becomes of my hopes of Paradise, 
 or of acquiring merits which may aid others? Turn 
 lack, draw back, I will never , although all the devils 
 were to drive me, or all the world entice me; but look 
 back, who can help that? If a look can kill, what 
 can save? Mortification, crucifixion, not for a day, 
 but daily; — I must die daily; I must be dead — dead 
 to the world. This cell must to me be as a tomb, 
 where all that was most living in my heart must die 
 and be buried. Was it so to Martin Luther? Is the 
 cloister that to those bands of rosy, comfortable monks,
 
 126 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERa-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 who drink beer from great cans, and feast on tlie best 
 of the land, and fast on the choicest fish? The Tempter! 
 the Tempter again! Judge not, and ye shall not be 
 judged. 
 
 St. EulaI/Ia, Erfurt, February i2, iSIO. 
 
 To-day one of the older monks came to me, seeing 
 me, I suppose, look downcast and sad, and said, "Fear 
 not. Brother Sebastian, the strife is often hard at first; 
 but remember the words of St. Jerome: 'Though thy 
 father should lie before thy door weeping and lament- 
 ing, though thy mother should show thee the body 
 that bore thee, and the breasts that nursed thee, see 
 that thou trample them under foot, and go on straight- 
 way to Christ.'" 
 
 I bowed my head, according to rule, in acknow- 
 ledgment of his exhortation, and I suppose he thought 
 his words comforted and strengthened me; but Heaven 
 knows the conflict they awakened in my heart when I 
 sat alone to-night in my cell. "Cruel, bitter, wicked 
 words!" my earthly heart would say; my sinful heart, 
 that vigils, scourging, scarcely death itself, I fear, can 
 kill. Surely, at least, the holy father Jerome spoke 
 of heathen fathers and mothers. My mother would not 
 show her anguish to win me back; she would say, 
 "My son, my first-born, God bless thee; I give thee 
 freely iip to God." Does she not say so in this letter 
 which I have in her handwriting, — which I have and 
 dare not look at, because of the storm of memories it 
 brings rushing on my heart? 
 
 Is there a word of reproach or remonstrance in her 
 letter? Ifthere were, I would read it; it would strengthen 
 me. The saints had that to bear. It is because those
 
 friedrich's story. 127 
 
 holy, tender words echo in my heart, from a voice 
 weak with feeble health, that day by day, and hour 
 by hour, my heart goes back to the home at Eisenach, 
 and sees them toiling unaided iu the daily struggle for 
 bread, to which I have abandoned them, unsheltered 
 and alone. 
 
 Then at times the thought conies, Am I, after all, 
 a dreamer, as I have sometimes ventured to think 
 my father, — neglecting my jjlain daily task for some 
 Atlantis? and if my Atlantis is in Paradise instead of 
 beyond the ocean, does that make so much difference? 
 
 If Brother Martin were only here, he might un- 
 derstand and help me; but he has now been nearly 
 two years at Wittenberg, where he is, they say, to 
 lectui-e on theology at the Elector's new university, 
 and to be preacher. The monks seem nearly as proud 
 of him as the University of Erfurt was. 
 
 Yet, perhaps, after all, he might not understand 
 my perplexities. His nature was so firm and straight- 
 forward and strong. He would probably have little 
 sympathy with wavering hearts and troubled consciences 
 like mine. 
 
 March 7. — SS. Perpetija and Felicitas. — 
 Erfurt, Augustinian Cloister. 
 
 To-day I have been oiit on my first quest for 
 alms. It seemed very strange at first to be begging 
 at familiar doors, with the frock and the convent sack 
 on my shoulders; but although I tottered a little at 
 times under the weight as it grew heavy (for the 
 plague and fasting have left me weak), I returned to 
 the cloister feeling better and easier in mind, and 
 more hopeful as to my vocation, than I had done for 
 some days. Perhaps, however, the fresh air had some-
 
 128 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 # 
 
 thing to do with it, and, after all, it was only a little 
 bodily exultation. But certainly such bodily loads 
 and outward mortifications are not the burdens which 
 weigh the spirit down. There seemed a luxury in the 
 half-scornful looks of some of my former fellow- 
 students, and in the contemptuous tossing to me of 
 scraps of meat by some grudging hands ; just as a tight 
 pressure, which in itself would be pain were we at ease, 
 is relief to severe pain. 
 
 Perhaps, also, holy Perpetua and Felicitas, 
 whose day it is, and especially thou, holy Perpetua, 
 who, after encouraging thy sons to die for Christ, wast 
 martyred thyself, hast pleaded for my forsaken mother 
 and for me, and sendest me this day some ray of 
 hope. 
 
 St. Joseph. — March i9. — 
 Adgdstinian Cloistek, Ekfuet. 
 
 St. Joseph, whom I have chosen to be one of the 
 twenty-one patrons whom I especially honour, hear 
 and aid me to-day. Thou whose glory it was to have 
 no glory, but meekly to aid others to win their higher 
 crowns, give me also some humble place on high; and 
 not to me alone, but to those also whom I have left 
 still struggling in the stormy seas of this perilous 
 world. 
 
 Here, in the sacred calm of the cloister, surely at 
 length the heart must grow calm, and cease to beat 
 except with the life of the universal Church, — the 
 feasts in the calendar becoming its events. But when 
 will that be to me? 
 
 March 20. 
 
 Has Brother Martin attained this repose yet? An 
 aged monk sat with me in my cell yesterday, who told
 
 fkiedrich's story. 129 
 
 me strange tidings of him, wliicli liave given me some 
 kind of bitter comfort. 
 
 It seems that the monastic life did not at once bring 
 repose into his heart. 
 
 This aged monk was brother Martin's confessor, 
 and he has also been given to me for mine. In his 
 countenance there is such a peace as I long for; — not 
 a still, death-like peace, as if he had fallen into it after 
 the conflict; but a living, kindly peace, as if he had 
 won it through the conflict, and enjoyed it even while 
 the conflict lasted. 
 
 It does not seem to me that Brother Martin's 
 scruples and doubts were exactly like mine. Indeed, 
 my confessor says that in all the years he has exercised 
 his office he has never found two troubled hearts trou- 
 bled exactly alike. 
 
 I do not know that Brother Martin doubted his 
 vocation, or looked back to the world; but he seems 
 to have suffered agonies of inward torture. His con- 
 science was so quick and tender, that the least sin 
 wounded him as if it had been the grossest crime. He 
 invoked the saints most devoutly — choosing, as I 
 have done from his example, twenty-one saints, and 
 invoking three eveiy day, so as to honour each every 
 week. He read mass every day, and had an especial 
 devotion for the blessed Virgin. He wasted his body 
 with fastings and watching. He never intentionally 
 violated the minutest rule of the order; and yet the 
 more he strove, the more wretched he seemed to be. 
 Like a musician whose ear is cultivated to the highest 
 degree, the slightest discord was torture to him. Can 
 it then be God's intention that the growth of our 
 spii-itual life is only growing sensitiveness to pain? Is 
 
 Schonberg-Cotfa Family. I. "^
 
 130 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY, 
 
 tliis true growth? — or is it tliat monstrous develop- 
 ment of one faculty at the expense of others, which 
 is deformity or disease? 
 
 The confessor said thoughtfully, when I suggested 
 this — 
 
 "The world is out of tune, my son, and the heart 
 is out of tune. The more our souls vibrate truly 
 to the music of heaven, the more perhaps they must 
 feel the discords of earth. At least it was so with 
 Brother Martin; until at last, omitting a prostration or 
 a genuflexion would weigh on his conscience like a 
 crime. Once, after missing him for some time, we went 
 to the door of his cell, and knocked. It was barred, 
 and all our knocking drew no response. We broke open 
 the door at last, and found him stretched senseless on 
 the floor. We only succeeded in reviving him by 
 strains of sacred music, chanted by the choristers whom 
 we brought to his cell. He always dearly loved music, 
 and believed it to have a strange potency against the 
 wiles of the devil." 
 
 "He must have suflPered grievously," I said. "I 
 suppose it is by such suff'erings merit is acquired to aid 
 others!" 
 
 "He did suff'er agonies of mind," replied the old 
 monk. "Often he would walk up and down the cold 
 corridors for nights together." 
 
 "Did nothing comfort him?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, my son; some words I once said to him 
 comforted him greatly. Once, when I found him in 
 an agony of despondency in his cell, I said, 'Brother 
 Martin, dost thou believe in "the forgiveness of sins," 
 as saith the Creed?' His face lighted tip at once." 
 
 "The forgiveness of sins!" I repeated slowly.
 
 friedrich's story. 131 
 
 "Father, I also believe in that. But forgiveness 
 only follows on contrition, confession, and penance. 
 How can I ever be sure that I have been sufficiently 
 contrite, that I have made an honest and complete 
 confession, or that I have performed my penance 
 aright?" 
 
 "Ah, my son," said the old man, "these were 
 exactly Brother Martin's perplexities, and I could only 
 point him to the crucified Lord , and remind him again 
 of the forgiveness of sins. All we do is incomplete, 
 and when the blessed Lord says he forgiveth sins, I 
 suppose he means the sins of sinners, who sin in their 
 confession as in everything else. My son. He is more 
 compassionate than you think, perhaps than any of us 
 think. At least this is my comfort; and if, when I 
 stand before Him at last, I find I have made a mis- 
 take, and thought Him more compassionate than He is, 
 I trust He will pardon me. It can scarcely, I think, 
 grieve Him so miich as declaring Him to be a hard 
 master would." 
 
 I did not say anything more to the old man. His 
 words so evidently were strength and joy to him, that 
 I could not venture to question them further. To me, 
 also, they have given a gleam of hope. And yet, if 
 the way is not rough and difficult, and if it is not a 
 hard thing to please Almighty God, why all those 
 severe rules and renunciations — those heavy penances 
 for trifling offences? 
 
 Merciful we know He is. But the emperor may 
 be merciful; and yet, if a peasant were to attempt to 
 enter the imperial presence without the prescribed 
 forms, would he not be driven trom the palace with
 
 132 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 curses, at the point of tlie sword? Aud what are 
 those rules at the court of heaven? 
 
 If perfect purity of heart and life, who can lay 
 claim to that? 
 
 If a minute attention to the rules of an order such 
 as this of St. Augustine, Avho can be sure of having 
 never failed in this ? The inattention which caused the 
 neglect would jJ^obably let it glide from the memory. 
 And then, what is the worth of confession? 
 
 Christ is the Saviour, but only of those who follow 
 him. There is forgiveness of sins, but only for those 
 who make adequate confession. I, alas! have not fol- 
 lowed him fully. What priest on earth can assure me 
 I have ever confessed fully? 
 
 Therefore I see him merciful, gracious, holy — a 
 Saviour, but seated on a high throne, where I can 
 never be sure petitions of mine will reach him; and, 
 alas! one day to be seated on a great white throne, 
 whence it is too sure his summoning voice will reach 
 me. 
 
 Mary, mother of God , Virgin of virgins , mother of 
 divine grace — holy Sebastian and all martyrs — great 
 father Augustine and all holy doctors, intercede for 
 me, that my penances may be accepted as a satisfaction 
 for my sins, and may pacify my Judge. 
 
 March 25. — Annunciation of the Holt Virqik. 
 
 My preceptor has put into my hands the Bible 
 bound in red morocco which Brother Martin, he says, 
 used to read so much. I am to study it in all the 
 intervals which the study of the fathers, expeditions for 
 begging, the services of the Church, and the menial 
 offices in the house which fall to the share of novices,
 
 friedrich's story. 133 
 
 allow. These are not many. I have never had a Bible 
 in my hands before, and the hours pass quickly indeed 
 in my cell which I can spend in reading it. The pre- 
 ceptor, when he comes to call me for the midnight 
 service, often finds me still reading. 
 
 It is very diflPerent from what I expected. There 
 is nothing oratorical in it, there are no laboured dis- 
 quisitions, and no minute rules, at least in the New 
 Testament. 
 
 I wish sometimes I had lived in the Old Jewish 
 times, when there was one temple wherein to worship, 
 certain definite feasts to celebrate, certain definite cere- 
 monial rules to keep. 
 
 If I could have stood in the Temple courts on that 
 great day of atonement, and seen the victim slain, and 
 watched till the high priest came out from the holy 
 place with his hands lifted up in benediction, I should 
 have known absolutely that God was satisfied, and re- 
 turned to my home in peace. Yes, to my home! There 
 were no monasteries, apparently, in those Jewish times. 
 Family life was God's appointment then, and family 
 affections had his most solemn sanctions. 
 
 In the New Testament, on the contrary, I cannot 
 find any of those definite rules. It is all addressed to 
 the heart; and who can make the heart right? I sup- 
 pose it is the conviction of this which has made the 
 Church since then restore many minute rules and dis- 
 cipline, in imitation of the Jewish ceremonial; for in 
 the Gospels and Epistles I can find no ritual, ceremonial, 
 or definite external rules of any kind. 
 
 What advantage, then, has the New Testament over 
 the old? Christ has come. "God so loved the world, 
 that he gave his only begotten Son." This ought surely
 
 134 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERQ-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 to make a great difference between us and the Jews. 
 But how? 
 
 April 9. — St. Gregory of Nyssa. 
 
 I have found, in my reading to-day, the end of 
 Eva's sentence — "God so loved the world, that he 
 gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever helieveth in 
 him should not perish^ hut have everlasting life.'''' 
 
 How simple the words are! — "Believeth;" that 
 would mean, in any other book, "trusteth," "has re- 
 liance" in Christ; — simply to confide in him, and then 
 receive his promise not to perish. 
 
 But here — in this book, in theology — it is neces- 
 sarily impossible that believing can mean anything so 
 simple as that-, because at that rate, any one who 
 merely came to the Lord Jesus Christ in confiding 
 trust would have everlasting life, without any further 
 conditions; and this is obviously out of the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 For what can be more simple than to confide in 
 one worthy of confidence? and what can be gi-eater than 
 everlasting life? 
 
 And yet we know, from all the teaching of the 
 doctors and fathers of the Church, that nothing is more 
 difficult than obtaining everlasting life; and that, for 
 this reason, monastic orders, pilgrimages, penances, 
 have been multiplied from century to century; for this 
 reason saints have forsaken every earthly joy, and 
 inflicted on themselves every possible torment; — all to 
 obtain everlasting life, which, if this word "believeth" 
 meant here what it would mean anywhere but in theology, 
 would be offered freely to every petitioner. 
 
 Wherefore it is clear that "believeth," in the
 
 priedkich's story. 135 
 
 Scriptures, means something entirely different from 
 what it does in any secular book, and must include 
 contrition, confession, penance, satisfaction, mortifica- 
 tion of the flesh, and all else necessary to salvation. 
 
 Shall I venture to send this end of Eva's sentence 
 to her? 
 
 It might mislead her. Dare I for her sake ? — dare 
 I still more for my own? 
 
 One hour I have sat before this question-, and 
 whither has my heart wandered? What confession can 
 retrace the flood of bitter thoughts which have rushed 
 over me in this one hour? 
 
 I had watched her grow from childhood into early 
 womanhood; and until these last months, until that 
 week of anguish, I had thought of her as a creature 
 between a child and an angel. I had loved her as a 
 sister who had yet a mystery and a charm about her 
 different from a sister. Only when it seemed that death 
 might separate us did it burst upon me that there was 
 something in my affection for her which made her not 
 one among others, but in some strange sacred sense the 
 only one on earth to me. 
 
 And as I recovered came the hopes I must never 
 more recall, which made all life like the woods in 
 spring, and my heart like a full river set free from its 
 ice- fetters, and flomng through the world in a tide of 
 blessing. 
 
 I thought of a home which might be, I thought of 
 a sacrament which should transubstantiate all life into 
 a symbol of heaven, a home which was to be peaceful 
 and sacred as a church, because of the meek, and pure, 
 and heavenly creature who should minister and reign 
 there.
 
 136 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 And tlien came to me that terrible vision of a city 
 smitten by the pestilence which I had brought, with 
 the recollection of the impulse I had had in the forest 
 at midnight, and more than once since then, to take 
 the monastic vows. I felt I was like Jonah flying from 
 God-, yet still I hesitated until she was stricken. And 
 then I yielded. I vowed if she were saved I would 
 become a monk. 
 
 Not till she was stricken, whose loss would have 
 made the whole world a blank to me: not till the 
 sacrifice was worthless, — did I make it! And will 
 God accept such a sacrifice as this? 
 
 At least Brother Martin had not this to reproach 
 himself with. He did not delay his conversion until 
 his whole being had become possessed by an image no 
 prayers can erase; nay, which prayer and holy medita- 
 tions on heaven itself, only rivet on the heart, as the 
 purest reflection of heaven memory can recall. 
 
 Brother Martin, at least, did not trifle with his 
 vocation until too late.
 
 ELSil's STORY. 137 
 
 vn. 
 
 else's story. 
 
 January 23. 
 
 It is too plain now why Fritz would not look back 
 as he went down the street. He thought it would be 
 looking back from the kingdom of God. 
 
 The kingdom of God, then, is the cloister, and the 
 world, we are that! — father, mothers, brothers, sister, 
 friends, home, that is the world! I shall never under- 
 stand it. For if all my younger brothers say is true, 
 either all the priests and monks are not in the kingdom 
 of God, or the kingdom of God is strangely governed 
 here on earth. 
 
 Fritz was helping us all so much. He would have 
 been the stay of our parents' old age. He was the 
 example and admiration of the boys, and the pride 
 and delight of us all; and to me! My heart grows so 
 bitter when I write about it, I seem to hate and reproach 
 every one. Every one but Fritz; I cannot, of course, 
 hate him. But why was all that was gentlest and 
 noblest in him made to work toward this last dreadful 
 step? 
 
 If oiir father had only been more successful, Fritz 
 need not have entered on that monastic foundation at 
 Erfurt, which made his conscience so sensitive; if my 
 mother had only not been so religious, and taught us 
 to reverence Aunt Agnes as so much better than herself, 
 he might never have thought of the monastic life; if I 
 had been more religious he might have confided more
 
 138 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 in me, and I miglit liave induced him to pause, at 
 least, a few years before taking this unalterable step. 
 If Eva had not been so wilful, and insisted on braving 
 the contagion from me, she might never have been 
 stricken, and that vow might not yet, might never 
 have been taken. If God had not caused him so inno- 
 cently to bring the pestilence among us! But I must 
 not dare to say another word of complaint, or it will 
 become blasphemy. Doubtless it is God who has willed 
 to bring all this misery on us-, and to rebel against 
 God is a deadly sin. As Aunt Agnes said, "The 
 Lord is a jealous God," he will not suffer us to make 
 idols. We must love him best, first, alone. We must 
 make a great void in our heart by renouncing all 
 earthly affections, that he may fill it. We must mortify 
 the flesh, that we may live. Wliat, then, is the flesh? 
 I suppose all our natural affections, which the monks 
 call our fleshly lusts. These Fritz has renounced. 
 Then if all our natural affections are to die in us, 
 what is to live in us? The "spiritual life," they say 
 in some of the sermons, and "the love of God." But 
 are not my natural affections my heart; and if I am 
 not to love God with my heart, with the heart with 
 which I love my father and mother, what am I to lovo 
 him with? 
 
 It seems to me , the love of God to us is some- 
 thing quite different from any human being's love 
 to us. 
 
 When human beings love us they like to have us 
 with them; they delight to make us happy; they de- 
 light in our being happy, whether they make us so or 
 not, if it is a right happiness, a happiness that does 
 us good.
 
 ELSES STORY. 139 
 
 But with God's love it must be quite diflferent. He 
 warns us not on any account to come too near Him. 
 We have to place priests, and saints, and penances be- 
 tween us and Him, and then approach Him with the 
 greatest caution, lest, after all, it should be in the 
 wrong way, and He should be angry. And, instead of 
 delighting in our happiness, He is never so much 
 pleased as when we renounce all the happiness of our 
 life, and make other people wretched in doing so, as 
 Fritz, our own Fritz, has just done. 
 
 Therefore, also, no doubt, the love God requires 
 we should feel for Him is something entirely different 
 from the love we give each other. It must, I suppose, 
 be a serious, severe, calm adoration, too sublime to 
 give either joy or sorrow, such as had left its stamp 
 on Aunt Agnes's grave impassive face. I can never, 
 never even attempt to attain to it. Certainly at pre- 
 sent I have no time to think of it. 
 
 Thank Heaven, thou livest still, mother of mercy! 
 In thy face there have been tears, real, bitter, human 
 tears; in thine eyes there have been smiles of joy, real, 
 simple, human joy. Thou wilt understand and have 
 pity. Yet oh, couldst not thou, even thou, sweet mo- 
 ther, have reminded him of the mother he has left to 
 battle on alone? thou who art a mother, and didst 
 bend over a cradle, and hadst a little lowly home at 
 Nazareth once? 
 
 But I know my own mother would not even her- 
 self have uttered a word to keep Fritz back. When 
 first we heard of it, and I entreated her to write and 
 remonstrate, although the tears were streaming from 
 her eyes, she said, "Not a word, Els^, not a syllable. 
 Shall not I give my son up freely to Him who gave
 
 140 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMUiY. 
 
 him to me. God migM have called him away from 
 earth altogether when he lay smitten with the plague, 
 and shall I grudge him to the cloister? I shall see him 
 again," she added, "once or twice at least. "When he 
 is consecrated priest, shall I not have joy then, and 
 see him in his white robes at the altar, and, perhaps, 
 even receive my Creator from his hands!" 
 
 "Once or twice! — mother!" I sobbed, "and in 
 church, amongst hundreds of others! What pleasure 
 will there be in that?" 
 
 "Elsfe," she said softly, but with a firmness un- 
 usual with her, "my child, do not say another word. 
 Once I myself had some faint inclination to the cloister, 
 which , if I had nourished it, might have gi'own into a 
 vocation. But I saw jour father, and I neglected it. 
 And see what troubles my children have to bear! Has 
 there not also been a kind of fatal spell on all your 
 father's inventions? Perhaps God will at last accept 
 from me in my son what I withheld in myself, and 
 will be pacified towards us, and send us better days; 
 and then your father's great invention will be com- 
 pleted yet. But do not say anything of what I told 
 you to him!" 
 
 I have never seen our father so troubled about 
 anything. 
 
 "Just as he was able to understand my projects!" 
 he said, "and I would have bequeathed them all to 
 him!" 
 
 For some days he never touched a model; but now 
 he has crept back to his old folios and his instruments, 
 and tells us there was something in Fritz's horoscope 
 which might have prepared us for this, had he only 
 understood it a little before. However, this discovery,
 
 else's story. 141 
 
 although too late to warn us of the blow, consoles 
 our father, and he has resumed his usual occupa- 
 tions. 
 
 Eva looks very pale and fragile, partly, no doubt, 
 from the effects of the pestilence; but when first the 
 rumour reached us, I sought some sympathy from her, 
 and said, "0 Eva, how strange it seems, when Fritz 
 always thought of us before himself, to abandon us all 
 thus without one word of warning." 
 
 "Cousin Els6," she said, "Fritz has done now as 
 he always does. He has thought of us first, I am as 
 sure of it as if I could hear him say so. He thought 
 he would serve us best by leaving us thus, or he would 
 never have left us." 
 
 She understood him best of all, as she so often 
 does. When his letter came to our mother, it gave 
 just the reasons she had often told me she was sure 
 had moved him. 
 
 It is difficult to tell what Eva feels, because of 
 that strange inward peace in her which seems always 
 to flow under all her other feelings. 
 
 I have not seen her shed any tears at all; and 
 whilst I can scarcely bear to enter our dear old lum- 
 ber-room, or to do anything I did with him, her great 
 delight seems to be to read every book he liked, 
 and to learn and repeat every hymn she learned with 
 him. 
 
 Eva and the mother cling very closely together. 
 She will scarcely let my mother do any household 
 work, but insists on sharing every laborious task which 
 hitherto we have kept her from, because of her slight 
 and delicate frame. 
 
 It is true I rise early to save them all the work I
 
 112 CHKONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTXA FAMILY. 
 
 can, because tliey have neither of them half the strength 
 I have, and I enjoy stirring about. Thoughts come 
 so much more bitterly on me when I am sitting still. 
 
 But when I am kneading the dough, or pounding 
 the clothes with stones in the stream on washing-days, 
 I feel as I were pounding at all my perplexities-, and 
 that makes my hands stronger and my perplexities 
 more shadowy, until even now I find myself often 
 singing as I am wringing the clothes by the stream. 
 It is so pleasant in the winter sunshine, with the 
 brook babbling among the rushes and cresses, and 
 little Thekla prattling by my side, and pretending to 
 help. 
 
 But when I have finished my day's work, and 
 come into the house, I find the mother and Eva sitting 
 close side by side-, and perhaps Eva is silent, and my 
 mother brushes tears away as they fall on her knitting; 
 but when they look up, their faces are calm and peace- 
 ful, and then I know they have been talking about 
 Fritz. 
 
 Eisenach, February 2. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I found Eva translating a 
 Latin hymn he loved, to ovir mother, and then she 
 sang it through in her sweet clear voice. It was about 
 the dear, dear country in heaven, and Jerusalem the 
 Golden. 
 
 In the evening I said to her — 
 
 "OEva, how can you bear to sing the hymns Fritz 
 loved so dearly? I could not sing a line steadily of 
 any song he had cared to hear me sing! And he de- 
 lighted always so much to listen to you. His voice 
 would echo 'never, never more' to every note I sung, 
 and the songs would all end in sobs."
 
 EliSfe's STORY. 143 
 
 "But I do not feel separated from Fritz, Cousin 
 Els^," she said, "and I never shall. Instead of hear- 
 ing that melancholy chant you think of, 'never, never 
 more' echo from all the hymns he loved, I always 
 seem to hear his voice responding, 'For ever and for 
 evermore.' And I think of the time when we shall 
 sing them together again." 
 
 "Do you mean in heaven, Eva?" I said, "that is 
 so very far off, if we ever reach it — " 
 
 "Not so very far off. Cousin Else," she said. "I 
 often think it is very near. If it were not so, how 
 could the angels be so much with us and yet with 
 God?" 
 
 "But life seems so long, now Fritz is gone." 
 
 "Not so very long. Cousin Else," she said. "I 
 often think it may be very short, and often I pray it 
 may." 
 
 "Eva!" I exclaimed, "you surely do not pray that 
 you may die?" 
 
 "Why not?" she said, very quietly. "I think if 
 God took us to himself, we might help those we love 
 better there than at Eisenach, or perhaps even in the 
 convent. And it is there we shall meet again, and 
 there are never any partings. My father told me so," 
 she added, "before he died." 
 
 Then I understood how Eva mourns for Fritz, and 
 why she does not weep-, but I could only say — 
 
 "0 Eva, do not pray to die. There are all the 
 saints in heaven : and you help us so much more 
 here!" 
 
 February 8. 
 
 1 cannot feel at all reconciled to losing Fritz, nor 
 do I think I ever shall. Like all the other troubles, it
 
 144 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 was no doubt meant to do me good; but it does me 
 none, I am sure, although, of course, that is my fault. 
 What did me good was being happy, as I was when 
 Fritz came back; and that is passed for ever. 
 
 My great comfort is our grandmother. The mother 
 and Eva look on everything from such sublime heights; 
 but my grandmother feels more as I do. Often, indeed, 
 she speaks very severely of Fritz, which always does 
 me good, because, of course, I defend him, and then 
 she becomes angry, and says we are an incomprehensible 
 family, and have the strangest ideas of right and wrong, 
 from my father downward, she ever heard of; and then 
 I grow angry, and say my father is the best and wisest 
 man in the Electoral States. Then our grandmother 
 begins to lament over her poor, dear daughter, and 
 the life she has led, and rejoices, in a plaintive voice, 
 that she herself has nearly done with the world alto- 
 gether; and then I try to comfort her, and say that I 
 am sure there is not much in the world to make any 
 one wish to stay in it; and, having reached this point 
 of despondency, we both cry and embrace each other, 
 and she says I am a poor, good child, and Fritz was 
 always the delight of her heart, which I know very 
 well; — and thus we comfort each other. We have, 
 moreover, solemnly resolved, our grandmother and I, 
 that, whatever comes, of it, we will never call Fritz 
 anything but Fritz. 
 
 "Brother Sebastian, indeed!" she said; "your mother 
 might as well take a new husband as your brother a 
 new name! Was not she married, and was not he 
 christened in church? Is not Friedrich a good, honest 
 name, which hundreds of your ancestors have borne?
 
 else's story. 145 
 
 And shall we call him instead a lieatben foreign name, 
 that none of your kindred were ever known by?" 
 
 "Not heathen, grandmother," I ventured to suggest. 
 "You remember telling us of the martyrdom of St. 
 Sebastian by the heathen emperor?" 
 
 "Do you contradict me, child?" she exclaimed. 
 "Did I not know the whole martyrology before your 
 mother was born? I say it is a heathen name. No 
 blame to the saint if his parents were poor benighted 
 Pagans, and knew no better name to give him; but 
 that oui- Fritz should adopt it instead of his own is a 
 disgrace. My lips at least are too old to learn such 
 new-fashioned nonsense. I shall call him the name I 
 called him at the font and in his cradle , and no 
 other." 
 
 Yes, Fritz! Fritz! he is to us, and shall be al- 
 ways. Fritz in our hearts till death! 
 
 Fehruary i5. 
 
 We have just heard that Fritz has finished his first 
 month of probation, and has been invested with the 
 frock of the novice. I hate to think of his thick, dark, 
 waving hair clipped in the circle of the tonsure. But 
 the worst part of it is the effect of his becoming a 
 monk has had on the other boys , Christopher and 
 Pollux. 
 
 They, who before this thought Fritz the model of 
 everything good and great, seem repelled from all re- 
 ligion now. I have difficulty even in getting them to 
 church. 
 
 Christopher said to me the other day — 
 
 "Els^, why is a man who suddenly deserts his 
 family to become a soldier called a villain, while the 
 
 Schmthefg-Cotta Family. I. ■»•*-'
 
 116 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 man who deserts those who depend on him to become 
 a monk is called a saint?" 
 
 It is very unfortunate the boys should come to me 
 with their religious perplexities, because I am so per- 
 plexed myself", I have no idea how to answer them. I 
 generally advise them to ask Eva. 
 
 This time I could only say, as our grandmother 
 had so often said to me,, — 
 
 "You must wait till yo^^ are older, and then you 
 will understand." But I added, "Of course it is quite 
 different: one leaves his home for God, and the other 
 for the world." 
 
 But Christopher is the worst, and he continued, — 
 
 "Sister Els^, I do not like the monks at all. You 
 and Eva and our mother have no idea how Avicked 
 many of them are, Reinhardt says he has seen them 
 drunk often, and heard them swear, and that some of 
 them make a jest even of the mass , and that the 
 priests' houses are not fit for any honest maiden to 
 visit, and, — " 
 
 "Reinhardt is a bad boy," I said, colouring; "and 
 I have often told you I do not want to hear anything 
 he says." 
 
 "But I, at all events, shall never become a monk 
 or a priest," retorted Christopher; "I think the mer- 
 chants are better. Women cannot understand about 
 these things," he added, loftily, "and it is better they 
 should not; but I know; and I intend to be a merchant 
 or a soldier." 
 
 Christopher and Pollux are fifteen, and Fritz is 
 two-and-twenty; but lie never talked in that lofty way 
 to me about women not understanding! 
 
 It did make me indignant to hear Christopher, who
 
 EliSE S STORY. 147 
 
 is ah\ays tearing Lis clothes, and getting into scrapes, 
 and perplexing us to get him out of them, comparing 
 himself with Fritz, and looking down on his sisters; 
 and I said, "It is only hoys who talk scornfully of 
 women. Men, true men, honour women." 
 
 "The monks do not!" retorted Christopher. "I 
 have heard them say things myself worse than I have 
 ever said about any woman. Only last Sunday, did 
 not Father Boniface say half the mischief in the world 
 had been done by women, from Eve to Helen and 
 Cleopatra?" 
 
 "Do not mention our mother Eve with those heathens, 
 Christopher," said our grandmother, coming to my rescue, 
 from her corner by the stove. "Eve is in the Holy 
 Scriptures, and many of these pagans are not fit for 
 people to speak of. Half the saints are women, you 
 know very well. Peasants and traders," she added 
 sublimely, "may talk slightingly of women; but no 
 man can be a true knight who does." 
 
 "The monks do!" muttered Christopher doggedly. 
 
 "I have nothing to say about the monks," rejoined 
 our grandmother tartly. And accepting this imprudent 
 concession of our grandmother's, Christopher retired 
 from the contest. 
 
 March 25. 
 
 I have just been looking at two letters addressed, 
 to Father Johauu Braun, one of our Eisenach priests, 
 by Martin Luther. They were addressed to him as "the 
 holy and venerable priest of Christ and of Mary." So 
 much I could understand, and also that he calls him- 
 self Brother Martin Luther, not Brother Aixgustine, a 
 name he assumed on first entering the cloister. There- 
 
 10*
 
 148 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA TAMILY. 
 
 fore certainly I may call our Fritz, Brother Friedrich 
 Cotta. 
 
 March 29, ISiO. 
 
 A young man was at Aunt Ursula Cotta's this 
 evening, who told us strange tilings about the doings 
 at Annaberg. 
 
 Dr. Tetzel has been there two years, selling the 
 papal indulgences to the people; and lately, out of 
 regard, he says, to the great piety of the German 
 people, he has reduced their price. 
 
 There was a great deal of discussion about it, which 
 I rather regretted the boys were present to hear. My 
 father said indulgences did not mean forgiveness of 
 sins, but only remission of certain penances which the 
 Church had imposed. But the young man from Anna- 
 berg told us that Dr. John Tetzel solemnly assured the 
 people, that since it was impossible for them, on account 
 of their sins, to make satisfaction to Grod by their works, 
 our Holy Father the Pope, who has the control of all 
 the treasury of merits accumulated by the Church 
 throughout the ages, now graciously sells those merits 
 to any who will buy, and thereby bestows on them for- 
 giveness of sins (even of sins which no other priest can 
 absolve), and a certain entrance into eternal life. 
 
 The young man said, also, that the great red cross 
 has been erected in the nave of the principal church, 
 with the crown of thorns, the nails, and spear sus- 
 pended from it, and that at times it has been granted 
 to the people even to see the blood of the Crucified 
 flow from the cross. Beneath this cross are the banners 
 of the Church, and the papal standard, with the triple 
 crown. Before it is the large, strong iron money chest. 
 On one side stands the pulpit, where Dr. Tetzel preaches
 
 else's story. 149 
 
 daily, and exhorts tlie people to purchase this inestim- 
 able favour while yet there is time, for themselves and 
 their relations in purgatory, — and translates the long 
 parchment mandate of the Lord Pope, with the papal 
 seals hanging from it. On the other side is a table, 
 where sit several priests, with pen, ink, and writing- 
 desk, selling the indulgence tickets, and counting the 
 money into boxes. Lately, he told us, not only have the 
 prices been reduced, but at the end of the letter affixed 
 to the churches, it is added, '■'• Pauper ihus dentur gratis.'" 
 
 "Freely to the poor!" That certainly would suit 
 us! And if I had only time to make a pilgrimage to 
 Annaberg, if this is the kind of religion that pleases 
 God, it certainly might be attainable even for me. 
 
 If Fritz had only known it before, he need not 
 have made that miserable vow. A journey to Annaberg 
 would have more than answered the purpose. 
 
 Only, if the Pope has such inestimable treasures at 
 his disposal, why could he not always give them "freely 
 to the poor," always and everywhere? 
 
 But I know it is a sin to question what the Lord 
 Pope does. I might almost as well question what the 
 Lord God Almighty does. For He also, who gave 
 those treasures to the Pope, is He not everywhere, and 
 could He not give them freely to us direct? It is plain 
 these are questions too high for me. 
 
 I am not the only one perplexed by those indul- 
 gences, however. My mother says it is not the way 
 she was taught, and she had rather keep to the old 
 paths. Eva said, "If I were the Lord Pope, and had 
 such a treasure, I think I could not help instantly leav- 
 ing my palace and my beautiful Rome, and going over 
 the mountains and over the seas, into every city and
 
 150 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 every village; every hut in the forests, and every room 
 in the lowest streets, that none might miss the blessing, 
 although I had to walk barefoot, and never saw holy 
 Rome again." 
 
 "But then," said our father, "the great church at 
 St. Peter's would never be built. It is on that, you 
 know, the indulgence money is to be spent." 
 
 "But Jerusalem the Golden would be built. Uncle 
 Gotta!" said Eva; "and would not that be better?" 
 
 "We had better not talk about it, Eva," said the 
 mother. "The holy Jerusalem is being built; and I 
 suppose there are many different ways to the same end. 
 Only I like the way I know best." 
 
 The boys, I regret to say, had made many in'everent 
 gestures during this conversation about the indulgences, 
 and aftei-wards I had to speak to them. 
 
 "Sister Elsfe," said Christopher, "it is quite useless 
 talking to me. I hate the monks, and all belonging 
 to them. And I do not believe a word they say — at 
 least, not because they say it. The boys at school say 
 this Dr. Tetzel is a very bad man, and a great liar. 
 Last week Reinhardt told us something he did, which 
 will show you what he is. One day he promised to 
 show the people a feather which the devil plucked out of 
 the wing of the archangel Michael. Reinhardt says he 
 supposes the devil gave it to Dr. Tetzel. However that 
 may be, during the night some students in jest found 
 their way to his relic-box, stole the feather, and re- 
 placed it by some coals. The next day, when Dr. 
 Tetzel had been preaching fervently for a long time on 
 the wonders of this feather, when he opened the box 
 there was nothing in it but charcoal. But he was not 
 to be disconcerted. He merely said, 'I have taken
 
 else's story. 151 
 
 the wrong box of relics, I perceive; these are some 
 most sacred cinders — the relics of the holy body of 
 St. Laurence, who was roasted on a gridiron.'" 
 
 "Schoolboys' stories," said I. 
 
 "They are as good as monks' stories, at all events," 
 rejoined Christopher. 
 
 I resolved to see if Pollux was as deeply possessed 
 with this irreverent spirit as Chi-istopher, and therefore 
 this morning, when I found him alone, I said, "Pollux, 
 you used to love Fritz so dearly, you would not surely 
 take up thoughts which would pain him so deeply if 
 he knew of it." 
 
 "I do love Fritz," Pollux replied, "but I can never 
 think he was right in leaving us all-, and I like the 
 religion of the Creeds and the Ten Commandments 
 better than that of the monks." 
 
 Daily, hourly I feel 'the loss of Fritz. It is not 
 half as much the money he earned; although, of course, 
 that helped us; we can and do struggle on without that. 
 It is the influence he had over the boys. They felt he 
 was before them in the same race; and when he remon- 
 strated with them about anything, they listened. But 
 if I blame them, they think it is only a woman's ignor- 
 ance, or a woman's superstition, — and boys, they 
 say, cannot be like women. And now it is the same 
 with Fritz. He is removed into another sphere, which 
 is not theirs; and if I remind them of what he did or 
 said, they say, "Yes, Fritz thought so; but you know 
 he has become a monk; but we do not intend ever to 
 be monks, and the religion of monks and laymen are 
 different things." 
 
 April 2. 
 
 The spring is come again. I wonder if it sends the
 
 152 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 thrill of joy into Fritz's cell at Erfurt that it does into 
 all the forests around us here, and into my heart! 
 
 I suppose there are trees near him, and birds — 
 little happy birds — making their nests among them, 
 as they do in our yard, and singing as they work. 
 
 But the birds are not monks. Their nests are little 
 homes, and they wander freely whither they will, only 
 brought back by love. Perhaps Fritz does not like to 
 listen to the birds now, because they remind him of 
 home, and of our long spring days in the forest. Per- 
 haps, too, they are part of the world he has renounced; 
 and he must be dead to the world! 
 
 April 3. 
 
 We have had a long day in the forest, gathering 
 sticks and dry twigs. Every creature seemed so happy 
 there ! It was such a holiday to 'watch the ants roofing 
 their nests with fir twigs, and the birds flying hither 
 and thither with food for their nestlings; and to hear 
 the wood-pigeons, which Fritz always said were like 
 Eva, cooing softly in the depths of the forest. 
 
 At mid- day we sat down in a clearing of the forest, 
 to enjoy the meal we had brought with us. A little 
 quiet brook prattled near us, of which we drank, and 
 the delicate young twigs on the topmost boughs of the 
 dark, majestic pines trembled softly, as if for joy, in 
 the breeze. 
 
 As we rested, we told each other stories. Pollux 
 began with wild tales of demon hunts, which flew with 
 the baying of demon dogs through these very forests at 
 midnight. Then, as the children began to look fear- 
 fully around, and shiver, even at mid-day, while they 
 listened, Christopher delighted them with quaint stories
 
 ELSi:'s STORY. 153 
 
 of wolves in sheeps' clothing politely offering themselves 
 to the farmer as shepherds, which, T suspect, were from 
 some dangerous satirical book, but, without the applica- 
 tion, were very amusing. 
 
 Chriemhild and Atlantis had their stories of Kobolds, 
 who played strange tricks in the cow-stall •, and of Riibe- 
 zahl and the misshapen dwarf gnomes, who guarded 
 the treasures of gold and silver in the glittering caves 
 under the mountains; and of the elves, who danced be- 
 side the brooks at twilight. 
 
 "And I," said loving little Thekla, "always want 
 to see poor Nix, the water-sprite, who cries by the 
 streams at moonlight, and lets his tears mix with the 
 waters, because he has no soul, and he wants to live 
 for ever. I should like to give him half mine." 
 
 "We should all of us have been afraid to speak of 
 these creatures, in their own haunts among the pines, 
 if the sun had not been high in the heavens. Even as 
 it was, I began to feel a little uneasy, and I wished to 
 turn the conversation from these elves and sprites, who, 
 many think, are the spirits of the old heathen gods, 
 who linger about their haunts. One reason why people 
 think so is, that they dare not venture within the sound 
 of the church bells; which makes some, again, think 
 they are worse than poor, shadowy, dethroned heathen 
 gods, and had, indeed, better be never mentioned at 
 all. I thought I could not do better than tell the 
 legend of my beloved giant Offerus, who became 
 Christopher and a saint by carrying the holy child 
 across the river. 
 
 Thekla wondered if her favourite Nix could be 
 saved in the same way. She longed to see him and 
 tell him about it.
 
 154 CHRONICLES OF TIIE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 But Eva had still lier story to tell, and she related 
 to us her legend of St. Catharine. 
 
 "St. Catharine," she said, "was a lady of royal 
 birth, the only child of the king and queen of Egypt. 
 Her parents were heathens, but they died and left her 
 an orphan when she was only fourteen. She was more 
 beautiful than any of the ladies of her court, and richer 
 than any princess in the world-, but she did not care 
 for pomp, or dress, or all her precious things. God's 
 golden stars seemed to her more magnificent 'than all 
 the splendour of her kingdom, and she shut herself up 
 in her palace, and studied philosophy and the stars 
 until she grew wiser than all the wise men of the 
 East. 
 
 "But one day the Diet of Egypt met, and resolved 
 that their young queen must be persuaded to 'marry. 
 They sent a deputation to her in her palace, who 
 asked her, if they could find a prince beautiful beyond 
 any, surpassing all philosophers in wisdom , of noblest 
 mind and richest inheritance, would she marry him? 
 The queen replied, 'He must be so noble that all men 
 shall worship him, so great that I shall never think I 
 have made him king, so rich that none sha,ll ever say 
 I enriched him, so beautiful that the angels of Grod 
 shall desire to behold him. If ye can find such a 
 prince, he shall be my husband and the lord of my 
 heart.' Now, near the queen's palace there lived a 
 poor old hermit in a cave, and that very night the holy 
 Mother of God appeared to him, and told him the 
 King who should be lord of the queen's heart was none 
 other than her Son. Then the hermit went to the 
 palace and presented the queen with a picture of the 
 Virgin and Child; and when St. Catharine saw it her
 
 ELSE S STORY. 155 
 
 heart was so filled with its holy beauty that she forgot 
 her books, her spheres, and the stars-, Plato and So- 
 crates became tedious to her as a twice-told tale, and 
 she kept the sacred picture always before her. Then 
 one night she had a dream: — She met on the top of 
 a high mountain a glorious company of angels, clothed 
 in white, with chaplets of white lilies. She fell on her 
 face before them, but they said, 'Stand up, dear sister 
 Catharine, and be right welcome.' Then they led her 
 by the hand to another company of angels more glori- 
 ous still, clothed in purple with chaplets of red roses. 
 Before these, again, she fell on her face, dazzled with 
 their glory; but they said, 'Stand up, dear sister 
 Catharine; thee hath the King delighted to honour.' 
 Then they led her by the hand to an inner chamber 
 of the palace of heaven, where sat a queen in state; 
 and the angels said to her, 'Our most gi-acious sovereign 
 Lady, Empress of heaven, and Mother of the King of 
 Blessedness, be pleased that we present unto you this 
 our sister, whose name is in the Book of Life, be- 
 seeching you to accept her as your daughter and hand- 
 maid.' Then our blessed Lady rose and smiled graci- 
 ously, and led St. Catharine to her blessed Son; but 
 he turned from her, and said sadly, 'She is not fair 
 enough for Me.' Then St. Catharine awoke, and in 
 her heart all day echoed the words, ''She is not fair 
 eyiougJi for Me;' and she rested not until she became a 
 Christian and was baptized. And then, after some 
 years, the tyrant Maximin put her to cruel tortures, 
 and beheaded her because she was a Christian. But 
 the angels took her body, and laid it in a white marble 
 tomb on the top of Mount Sinai, and the Lord Jesus 
 Christ received her soul, and welcomed her to heaven
 
 150 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 as his pure and spotless bride; for at last lie liad made 
 Ler ''fair enough for liim^ And so slie has lived ever 
 since ia heaven, and is the sister of the angels." 
 
 After Eva's legend we began our work again; and 
 in the evening, as we returned with our faggots, it was 
 pleasant to see the goats creeping on before the long 
 shadows which evening began to throw from the forests 
 across the green valleys. 
 
 The hymns which Eva sang as we went, seemed 
 quite in tune with everything else. I did not want to 
 understand the words; everything seemed singing in 
 words I could not help feeling, — 
 
 "God is good to us all. He gives twigs to the 
 ants, and grain to the birds, and makes the trees their 
 palaces, and teaches them to sing; and will He not 
 care for you?" 
 
 Then the boys were so good! They never gave 
 me a moment's anxiety, not even Christopher, but 
 collected faggots twice as large as ours in half the 
 time, and then finished ours, and then performed all 
 kinds of feats in climbing trees and leaping brooks, 
 and brought home countless treasures for Thekla. 
 
 These are the days that always make me feel so 
 much better; even a little religious, and as if I could 
 almost love God! It is only when I come back again 
 into the streets, under the shadow of the nine monasteries, 
 and see the monks and priests in dark robes flitting 
 silently about with downcast eyes, that I remember we 
 are not like the birds or even the ants, for they have 
 never sinned, and that, therefore, God cannot care for 
 us and love us as he seems to do the least of his other 
 creatures, until we have become holy, and worked our
 
 ELSE S STORY. 157 
 
 way througli tliat great wall of sin which keeps us from 
 him and shadows all our life. 
 
 Eva does not feel thus. As we returned she laid 
 her basket down on the threshold of St. George's 
 Church, and crossing herself with holy water, went 
 softly up to the high altar, and there she knelt while 
 the lamp burned before the Holy Sacrament. And 
 when I looked at her face as she rose, it was beaming 
 with joy. 
 
 "You are happy, Eva, in the church and in the 
 forest," I said to her as we went home; "you seem at 
 home everywhere." 
 
 "Is not God everywhere?" she said; "and has He 
 not loved the world?" 
 
 "But our sins!'''' I said. 
 
 "Have we not the Saviour?" she said, bowing her 
 head. 
 
 "But think how hard people find it to please him," 
 I said. "Think of the pilgrimages, the penances, the 
 indulgences!" 
 
 "I do not quite understand all that," she said; "I 
 only quite understand my sentence and the crucifix 
 which tells us tlie Son of God died for man. That 
 must have been from love, and I love him; and all the 
 rest I am content to leave." 
 
 "But to-night as I look at her dear childlike face 
 asleep on the pillow, and see how thin the cheek is 
 which those long lashes shade, and how transparent the 
 little hand on which she rests, a cold fear comes over 
 me lest God should even now be making her spirit 
 "fair enough for him," and so too fair for earth and 
 for us.
 
 158 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTXA FAMILY. 
 
 April i. 
 
 This afternoon I was quite clieered by seeing 
 Christopher and Pollux bending together eagerly over 
 a book, which they had placed before them on the 
 window-sill. It reminded me of Fritz, and I went up 
 to see what they were reading. 
 
 I found, however, to my dismay, it was no church- 
 book or learned Latin school-book; but, on the contrary, 
 a German book full of woodcuts, which shocked me 
 very much. It was called Reinecke Fuchs, and as far 
 as I could understand made a jest of everything. There 
 were foxes with monk's frocks, and even in cardinal's 
 hats, and wolves in cassocks with shaven crowns. Al- 
 together it seemed to me a very profane and perilous 
 book; but when I took it to our father, to my amaze- 
 ment he seemed as much amused with it as the boys, 
 and said there were evils in the world which were 
 better attacked by jests than by sermons. 
 
 April, St. Mark's Daij. 
 
 1 have just heard a sermon about despising the 
 world, from a great preacher, one of the Dominican 
 friars, who is going through the land to awaken people 
 to religion. 
 
 He spoke especially against money, which he called 
 "delusion, and dross, and worthless dust, and a soul- 
 destroying canker." To monks no doubt it may be 
 so; for what could they do with it? Bixt it is not so 
 to me. Yesterday money filled my heart with one of 
 the purest joys I have ever known, and made me thank 
 God as I hardly ever thanked him before. 
 
 The time had come round to pay for some of the 
 printing materials, and we did not know where to turn
 
 ELSJi's STORY. 159 
 
 for the sum we needed. Lately I Lave been employing 
 my leisure hours in embroidering some tine Venetian 
 silk Aunt Ursula gave me; and not having any copies, 
 I had brought in some fresh leaves and flowers from 
 the forest and tried to imitate them , hoping to sell them. 
 
 "When I had finished, it was thought pretty, and I 
 carried it to the merchant who took the father's pre- 
 cious models, long ago. 
 
 He has always been kind to us since, and has pro- 
 cured us ink and j)aper at a cheaper rate than others 
 can buy it. 
 
 When I showed him my work he seemed surprised, 
 and instead of showing it to his wife, as I had expected, 
 he said smiling, — 
 
 "These things are not for poor honest burghers 
 like me. You know my wife might be fined by the 
 sumptuary laws if she aped the nobility by wearing 
 anything so tine as this. I am going to the "Wartburg 
 to speak about a commission I have executed for the 
 Elector-Frederick, and if you like I will take you and 
 your embroidery with me." 
 
 I felt dismayed at first at such an idea, but I had 
 on the new dress Fritz gave me a year ago, and I re- 
 solved to venture. 
 
 It was so many years since I had passed through 
 that massive gateway into the great court-yard; and I 
 thought of St. Elizabetli distributing loaves, perhaps, 
 at that very gate, and inwardly entreated her to make 
 the elector or the ladies of his court propitious to me. 
 
 I was left standing what seemed to me a long time, 
 in an ante-room. Some very gaily dressed gentlemen 
 and ladies passed me and looked at me rather scorn- 
 fully. I thought the courtiers were not much im-
 
 160 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 proved since tlie days when tliey were so rude to St. 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 But at last I was summoned into the Elector's pre- 
 sence. I trembled very much, for I thought — If the 
 servants are so haughty, what will the master be? But 
 he smiled on me quite kindly, and said, "My good 
 child , 1 like this work of thine ; and this merchant tells 
 me thou art a dutiful daughter. I will purchase this 
 at once for one of my sisters, and pay thee at once." 
 
 I was so surprised and delighted with his kindness 
 that I cannot remember the exact words of what he 
 said afterwards, but the substance of them was that 
 the elector is building a new church at his new uni- 
 versity town of Wittenberg which is to have choicer 
 relics than any church in Germany. And I am en- 
 gaged to embroider altar-cloths and coverings for the 
 reliquaries. And the sum already paid me nearly 
 covers our present debt. 
 
 No! whatever that Dominican preacher might say, 
 nothing would ever persuade me that these precious 
 guldens, which I took home yesterday evening with a 
 heart brimming over with joy and thankfulness, which 
 made our father clasp his hands in thanksgiving, and 
 our mother's eyes overflow with happy tears, are mere 
 delusion, or dross, or dust. 
 
 Is not money what ive make it? Dust in the miser's 
 chests; canker in the proud man's heart; but golden 
 sunbeams, streams of blessing earned by a child's 
 labour and comforting a parent's heart, or lovingly 
 poured from rich men's hands into poor men's homes. 
 
 A'gnltO. 
 
 Better days seem dawning at last. Dr. Martin,
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 161 
 
 wlio preaches now at the elector's new university of 
 Wittenberg, must, we think, have spoken to the elec- 
 tor for us, and our father is appointed to superintend 
 the printing-press especially for Latin books, which is 
 to be set up there. 
 
 And sweeter even than this, it must be from Fritz 
 that this boon comes to us. Fritz, dear unselfish Fritz, 
 is the benefactor of the family after ^11. It must have 
 been he who asked Dr. Martin Luther to speak for us. 
 There, in his lonely cell at Erfurt, he thinks then of 
 us! And he prays for us. He will never forget us. 
 His new name will not alter his heart. And, perhaps 
 one day, when the novitiate is over, we may see him 
 again. But to see him as no more our Fritz, but Bro- 
 ther Sebastian! — his home, the Augustinian cloister! 
 • — - his mother, the church! — his sisters, all holy wo- 
 men! — would it not be almost worse than not seeing 
 him at all? 
 
 We are all to move to Wittenberg in a month, ex- 
 cept Pollux, who is to remain with Cousin Conrad 
 Cotta, to learn to be a merchant. 
 
 Christopher begins to help about the printing. 
 
 There was another thing also in my visit to the 
 Wartburg, which gives me many a gleam of joy when 
 I think of it. If the elector, whose presence I so 
 trembled to enter, proved so much more condescending 
 and accessible than his courtiers, — oh, if it could 
 only be possible that we are making some mistake 
 about God, and that He after all may be more gracious 
 and ready to listen to us than His priests, or even 
 than the saints who wait on Him in His palace in 
 heaven! 
 
 Schonheig-Cotta Family. J. 11
 
 162 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Fritz's story. 
 
 Erfdrt, Augustinian Convent, April 1. 
 
 I SUPPOSE conflict of mind, working on a constitu- 
 tion weakened by the plague, brought on the illness 
 from which I am just recovering. It is good to feel 
 strength returning as I do. There is a kind of natural 
 in-esistible delight in life, however little we have to 
 live for, especially to one so little prepared to die as I 
 am. As I write, the rooks are cawing in the church- 
 yard elms , disputing and chattering like a set of busy 
 prosaic burghers. But retired from all this noisy 
 public life, two thrushes have built their nest in a 
 thorn just under the window of my cell. And early 
 in the morning they wake me with song. He flies 
 hither and thither as busy as a bee, with food for liis 
 mate, as she broods secure among the thick leaves, 
 and then he perches on a twig, and sings as if he had 
 nothing to do but to be happy. All is pleasure to 
 him, no doubt — the work as well as the singing. 
 Happy the creatures for whom it is God's will that 
 they should live according to their nature, and not 
 contrary to it. 
 
 Probably in the recovering from illness, when the 
 body is still weak, yet thrilling with reviving strength, 
 the heart is especially tender, and yearns more towards 
 home and former life than it will when strength returns 
 and brings duties. Or, perhaps, this illness recalls the 
 last, — and the loving faces and soft hushed voices 
 that were around me then.
 
 Fritz's story. 163 
 
 Yet I have nothing to complain of. My aged con- 
 fessor has scarcely left my bedside. From the first he 
 brought his bed into my cell, and watched over me 
 like a father. 
 
 And his words minister to my heart as much as his 
 hands to my bodily wants. 
 
 If my spirit would only take the comfort he offers, 
 as easily as I receive food and medicine from his hands! 
 
 He does not attempt to combat my difficulties one 
 by one. He says — • 
 
 "I am little of a physician. I cannot lay my hand 
 on the seat of disease. But there is One who cau." 
 And to Him I know the simple-hearted old man prays 
 for me. 
 
 Often he recurs to the declaration in the creed, "I 
 believe in the forgiveness of sins." "It is the com- 
 mand of God," he said to me one day, "that we 
 should believe in the forgiveness of sins ; not of David's 
 or Peter's sins, but of ours^ our own, the very sins 
 that distress our consciences." He also quoted a ser- 
 mon of St. Bernard's on the annunciation. 
 
 "The testimony of the Holy Ghost given in thy 
 heart is this, 'Thy sins are forgiven thee.'" 
 
 Yes, forgiven to all penitents! But who can assure 
 me I am a true penitent? 
 
 These words, he told me, comforted Brother Martin, 
 and he wonders they do not comfort me. I suppose 
 Brother Martin had "the testimony of the Holy Ghost 
 in his heart;" but who shall give that to me? to me 
 who resisted the vocation of the Holy Ghost so long; 
 who in my deepest heart obey it so imperfectly still! 
 
 Brother Martin was faithful, honest, thorough, single- 
 hearted, — all that God accepts; all that I am not! 
 
 11*
 
 164 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 The affection and compassion of my aged confessor 
 often, however, comfort me, even when his words have 
 little power. They make me feel a dim hope now and 
 then that the Lord he serves may have something of 
 the same pity in his heart. 
 
 Ekfurt, April iS. 
 
 The Vicar- General , Staupitz, has visited our con- 
 vent. I have confessed to him. He was very gentle 
 with me, and to my surprise prescribed me scarcely 
 any penance, although I endeavoured to unveil all to 
 him. 
 
 Once he murmured, as if to himself, looking at me 
 with a penetrating compassion, "Yes, there is no draw- 
 ing back. But I wish I had known this before." And 
 then he added to me, "Brother, we must not confuse 
 suffering with sin. It is sin to turn back. It may be 
 anguish to look back and see what we have renounced, 
 but it is not necessarily sin, if we resolutely press for- 
 ward still. And if sin mingles with the regret; re- 
 member we have to do not with a painted, but a real 
 Saviour; and he died not for painted but for real sins. 
 Sin is never overcome by looking at it, but by looking 
 away from it to Him who bore our sins, yours and 
 mine, on the cross. The heart is never won back to 
 God by thinking we ought to love him, but by learn- 
 ing what he is, all worthy of our love. True repent- 
 ance begins with the love of God. The Holy Spu-it 
 teaches us to know, and, therefore, to love God. Eear 
 not, but read the Scriptures, and pray. He will em- 
 ploy thee in his service yet, and in his favour is life, 
 and in his service is freedom." 
 
 This confession gave me great comfort for the time. 
 I felt myself understood, and yet not despaired of.
 
 Fritz's story. 165 
 
 And that evening, after repeating the Hours, I ven- 
 tured in my own words to pray to God, and found it 
 solemn and sweet. 
 
 But since then my old fear has recurred. Did I 
 indeed confess completely even to the Vicar-General? 
 If I had, would not his verdict have been different? 
 ]3oes not the very mildness of his judgment prove that 
 I have once more deceived myself — made a false 
 confession, and, therefore, failed of the absolution ! But 
 it is a relief to have his positive command as my su- 
 perior to study the Holy Scriptures, instead of the 
 scholastic theologians , to whose writings my preceptor 
 had lately been exclusively directing my studies. 
 
 Ap>a 23. 
 
 I have this day, to my surprise, received a com- 
 mand, issuing from the Vicar-General, to prepare to 
 set off on a mission to Rome. 
 
 The monk under whose direction I am to journey 
 I do not yet know. 
 
 The thought of the new scenes we shall pass 
 through, and the wonderful new world we shall enter 
 on, — new and old, — fills me with an almost childish 
 delight. Since I heard it, my heart and conscience 
 seem to have become strangely lightened, which proves, 
 1 fear, how little real earnestness there is in me. 
 
 Another thing, however, has comforted me greatly. 
 In the course of my confession I spoke to the Vicar- 
 General about my family, and he has procured for my 
 father an appointment as superintendent of the Latin 
 printing press, at the Elector's new University of Wit- 
 tenberg. 
 
 I trust now that the heavy pressure of pecuniary
 
 IGC CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 care wliicli has weiglied so long on my mother and 
 Elsfe will be relieved. It would have been sweeter to 
 me to have earned this relief for them by my own 
 exertions. But we must not choose the shape or the 
 time in which divine messengers shall appear. 
 
 The Vicar- General has, moreover, presented me 
 with a little volume of sermons by a pious Dominican 
 friar, named Tauler. These are wonderfully deep and 
 heart-searching. I find it difficult to reconcile the 
 sublime and enrapt devotion to God which inspires 
 them, with the minute rules of our order, the details of 
 scholastic casuistry, and the precise directions as to the 
 measure of worship and honour, Dulia, Hyperdulia, and 
 Latria to be paid to the various orders of heavenly 
 beings, which make prayer often seem as perplexing to 
 me as the ceremonial of the imperial court would to a 
 peasant of the Thuringian forest. 
 
 This Dominican speaks as if we might soar above 
 all these lower things, and lose ourselves in the One 
 Ineffable Source, Ground, Beginning, and End of all 
 Being; the One who is all. 
 
 Dearer to me, however, than this, is an old manu- 
 script in our convent library, containing the confessions 
 of the patron of our order himself, the gi-eat father 
 Augustine. 
 
 Straight from his heart it penetrates into mine, as 
 if spoken to me to-day. Passionate, fervent, struggling, 
 wandering, trembling, adoring heart, I feel its pulses 
 tlu-ough every line ! 
 
 And was this the experience of one who is now a 
 saint on the most glorious heights of heaven ? 
 
 Then the mother! Patient, lowly, noble, saintly 
 Monica; mother, and more than martyr. She rises
 
 Fritz's story. 167 
 
 before me in the likeness of a beloved form I may re- 
 member without sin, even here, even now. St. Monica 
 speaks to me with my mother's voice; and in the nar- 
 rative of her prayers I seem to gain a deeper insight 
 into what my mother's have been for me. 
 
 St. Augustine was happy, to breathe the last words 
 of comfort to her himself as he did, to be with her 
 dwelling in one house to the last. This can scarcely 
 be given to me. "That sweet habit of living together" 
 is broken for ever between us; broken by my deliberate 
 act. "For the glory of God!" may God accept it; if 
 not, may he forgive ! 
 
 That old manuscript is worn with reading. It has 
 lain in the convent library for certainly more than a 
 hundred years. Generation after generation of those 
 who now lie sleeping in the field of God below our 
 windows have turned over those pages. Heart after 
 heart has doubtless come, as I came, to consult the 
 oracle of that deep heart of old times, so nearly ship- 
 wrecked, so gloriously saved. 
 
 As I read the old thumbed volume, a company of 
 spirits seems to breathe in fellowship around me, and 
 I think how many, strengthened by these words, are 
 perhaps even now, like him who penned them, amongst 
 the spirits of the just made perfect. 
 
 In the convent library, the dead seem to live again 
 around me. In the cemetery are the relics of the cor- 
 ruptible body. Among these worn volumes I feel the 
 breath of the living spirits of generations passed away. 
 
 I must say, however, there is more opportunity for 
 solitary communion with the departed in that library 
 than I could wish. The books are not so much read, 
 certainly, in these days, as the Vicar-General would
 
 1G8 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 desire, although the Aiigustinian has the reputation of 
 being among the more learned orders. 
 
 I often question what brought many of these easy 
 comfortable monks here. But many of the faces give 
 no reply to my search. No history seems written on 
 them. The wrinkles seem mere ruts of the wheels of 
 Time, not furrows sown with the seeds of thought, — 
 happy at least if they are not as fissures rent by the 
 convulsions of inward fires. 
 
 I suppose many of the brethren became monks just 
 as other men become tailors or shoemakers, and with 
 no further spiritual aim, because their parents planned 
 it so. But I may wrong even the meanest in saying 
 so. The shallowest human heart has depths some- 
 where, let them be crusted over by ice ever so thick, 
 or veiled by flowers ever so fair. 
 
 And I — I and this unknown brother are actually 
 about to journey to Italy, the glorious land of sun- 
 shine, and vines, and olives, and ancient cities — the 
 land of Rome, impei'ial, saintly Rome, where countless 
 martyrs sleep, where St. Augustine and Monica so- 
 journed, where St. Paul and St. Peter preached and 
 suffered, — where the vicar of Christ lives and reigns ? 
 
 May y. 
 
 Tlic brother with whom I am to make the pil- 
 grimage to Tiome arrived last niglit. To my inex- 
 pressible delight it is none other than Brother Martin 
 — Martin Luther ! Professor of Theology in the Elec- 
 tor's new University of Wittenberg. He is much 
 changed again since I saw him last, toiling through 
 the streets of Erfurt with the sack on his shoulder. 
 The hollow, worn look, has disappeared from his facej
 
 FUITZ'S STORY. 169 
 
 and the fire has come back to his eyes. Their ex- 
 pression varies, indeed, often from the sparkle of mer- 
 riment to a grave earnestness, when all their light 
 seems withdrawn inward; but underneath there is that 
 kind of repose I have noticed in the countenance of 
 my aged confessor. 
 
 Brother Martin's face has, indeed, a history written 
 on it, and a history, I deem, not yet finished. 
 
 Heidelberg, May 23. 
 
 I wondered at the lightness of heart with which I 
 set out on our journey from Erfurt. 
 
 The Vicar-General himself accompanied us hither. 
 We travelled partly on horseback, and partly in wheeled 
 carriages. 
 
 The conversation turned much on the prospects of 
 the new university, and the importance of finding good 
 professors of the ancient languages for it. Brother 
 Martin himself proposed to make use of his sojourn at 
 Eome, to improve himself in Greek and Hebrew, by 
 studying under the learned Greeks and rabbis there. 
 They counsel me also to do the same. 
 
 The business which calls us to Rome is an appeal 
 to the Holy Father, concerning a dispute between some 
 convents of our Order and the Vicar-General. 
 
 But they say business is slowly conducted at Rome, 
 and will leave us much time for other occupations be- 
 sides those which are most on our hearts, namely, 
 paying homage at the tombs of the holy postles and 
 martyrs. 
 
 They speak most respectfully and cordially of the 
 Elector Frederick, who must indeed be a very de- 
 vout prince. Not many years since, he accomplished
 
 170 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 a, pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and took with him the 
 painter Lucas Cranach, to make drawings of the various 
 holy places. 
 
 About ten years since, he built a church dedicated 
 to St. Ursula, on the site of the small chapel erected 
 in 1353, over the Holy Thorn from the Crown of 
 Thorns, presented to a former elector by the king of 
 France. 
 
 This church is already, they say, through the Elector 
 Frederick's diligence, richer in relics than any church 
 in Europe, except that of Assisi, the birthplace of St. 
 Francis. And the collection is still continually being 
 increased. 
 
 They showed me a book printed at "Wittenberg 
 a year or two since, entitled, "A Description of the 
 Venerable Relics ," adorned with one hundred and nine- 
 teen woodcuts. 
 
 The town itself seems to be still poor and mean 
 compared with Eisenach and Erfurt; and the students, 
 of whom there are now nearly five hundred, are at 
 times very turbulent. There is much beer-drinking 
 among them. In 1507, three years since, the Bishop 
 of Brandenburg laid the whole city under interdict for 
 some insult offered by the students to his suite, and 
 now they are forbidden to wear guns, swords, or 
 knives. 
 
 Brother Martin, however, is full of hope as to the 
 good to be done among them. He himself received 
 the degree of Biblicus (Bible teacher) on the 9th of 
 March last year-, and every day he lectures between 
 twelve and one o'clock. 
 
 Last summer, for the first time, he was persuaded 
 by the Vicar-Greneral to preach publicly. I heard.
 
 Fritz's story. 171 
 
 some conversation between tliem in reference to tliis, 
 which afterwards Brother Martin explained to me. 
 
 Dr. Staupitz and Brother Martin were sitting last 
 summer in the convent garden at Wittenberg together, 
 under the shade of a pear tree, whilst the Vicar- 
 General endeavoured to prevail on him to preach. He 
 was exceedingly unwilling to make the attempt. "It 
 is no little matter," said he to Dr. Staupitz, "to appear 
 before the people in the place of God." "I had fifteen 
 arguments," he continued, in relating it to me, "where- 
 with I purposed to resist my vocation ; but they availed 
 nothing. At the last I said, 'Dr. Staupitz, you will 
 be the death of me , for I cannot live under it three 
 months.' 'Very well,' replied Dr. Staupitz, 'still go 
 on. Our Lord God hath many great things to accom- 
 plish, and he has need of wise men in heaven as well 
 as in earth.' " 
 
 Brother Martin could not further resist, and after 
 making a trial before the brethren in the refectory, at 
 last, with a trembling heart he mounted the pulpit of 
 the little chapel of the Augustinian cloister. 
 
 "When a preacher for the first time enters the 
 pulpit," he concluded, "no one would believe how- 
 fearful he is; he sees so many heads before him. When 
 I go into the pulpit, I do not look on any one. I 
 think them only to be so many blocks before me, and 
 I speak out the words of my God." 
 
 And yet Dr. Staupitz says his words are like 
 thunder-peals. Yet! do I say? Is it not lecause? He 
 feels himself nothing; he feels his message everything; 
 he feels God present. What more could be needed to 
 make a man of his power a great preacher? 
 
 With such discourse the journey seemed accom-
 
 172 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 plished quickly indeed. Aud yet, almost the happiest 
 hours to me were those when we were all silent, and 
 the new scenes passed rapidly before me. It was a 
 great rest to live for a time on what I saw, and cease 
 from thought, and remembrance, and inward question- 
 ings altogether. For have I not been commanded this 
 journey by my superiors, so that in accordance with 
 my vow of obedience, my one duty at present is to 
 travel; and therefore what pleasure it chances to bring 
 I must not refuse. 
 
 We spent some hours in Niirnberg. The quaint 
 rich carvings of many of the houses were beautiful. 
 There also we saw Albrecht Diirer's paintings, and 
 heard Hans Sachs, the shoemaker and poet, sing his 
 godly German hymns. And as we crossed the Bava- 
 rian plains, the friendliness of the simple peasantry 
 made up to us for the sameness of the country. 
 
 Near Heidelberg again I fancied myself once more in 
 the Thuriugian forest, especially as we rested in the con- 
 vent of Erbach in the Odenwald. Again the familiar 
 forests and green valleys with their streams were around 
 me. I fear Els^ and the others will miss the beauty of the 
 forest-covered hills around Eisenach, when they remove 
 to Wittenberg, which is situated on a barren, mono- 
 tonous flat. About this time they will be moving! 
 
 Brother Martin has held many disputations on theo- 
 logical and philosophical questions in the University of 
 Heidelberg-, but I, being only a novice, have been 
 free to wander whither I would. 
 
 This evening it was delightful to stand in the 
 woods of the Elector Palatine's castle, and from among 
 the oaks and delicate birches rustling about me, to 
 look down on the hills of the Odenwald folding over
 
 Fritz's story. 173 
 
 each otlier. Far up among them I traced the narrow, 
 quiet Neckar, issuing from the silent depths of the 
 forest; while on the other side, below the city, it 
 wound on through the plain to the Rhine, gleaming 
 here and there with the gold of sunset or the cold grey 
 light of the evening. Beyond, far oflF, I could see the 
 masts of ships on the Rhine. 
 
 I scarcely know why, the river made me think of 
 life, of mine and Brother Martin's. Already he has 
 left the shadow of the forests. Who can say what 
 people his life will bless, what sea it will reach, and 
 through what perils? Of this I feel sure, it will 
 matter much to many what its course shall be. For 
 me it is otherwise. My life, as far as earth is con- 
 cerned, seems closed, — ended; and it can matter 
 little to any, henceforth, through what regions it passes, 
 if only it reaches the ocean at last, and ends, as they 
 say, in the bosom of God. If only we could be sure 
 that God guides the course of our lives as he does 
 that of rivers ! And yet , do they not say that some 
 rivers lose themselves in sand-wastes, and others trickle 
 meanly to the sea through lands they have desolated 
 into untenantable marshes? 
 
 Black Forest, May H, ISiO. 
 
 Brother Martin and I are now faudy on our pil- 
 grimage alone, walking all day, begging our provisions 
 and our lodgings, which he sometimes repays by per- 
 forming a mass in the parish church, or by a promise 
 of reciting certain prayers or celebrating masses on the 
 behalf of our benefactors, at Rome. 
 
 These are, indeed, precious days. My whole 
 frame seems braced and revived by the early rising,
 
 174 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 the constant movement in the pure air, the pressing 
 forward to a definite point. 
 
 But more, infinitely more than this, my heart seems 
 reviving. I begin to have a hope and see a light 
 which, until now, I scarcely deemed possible. 
 
 To encourage me in my perplexities and conflicts, 
 Brother Martin unfolded to me what his own had 
 been. To the storm of doubt, and fear, and anguish 
 in that great heart of his, my troubles seems like a 
 passing spring shower. Yet to me they were tempests 
 which laid my heart waste. And God, Brother Martin 
 believes, does not measure his pity by what our sor- 
 rows are in themselves, but what they are to us. Are 
 we not all children, little children, in his sight? 
 
 "I did not learn my divinity at once," he said, 
 "but was constrained by my temptations to search 
 deeper and deeper; for no man without trials and 
 temptations can attain a true understanding of the Holy 
 Scriptures. St. Paul had a devil that beat him with 
 fists, and with temptations drove him diligently to 
 study the Holy Scriptures. Temptations hunted me 
 into the Bible, wherein I sedulously read ; and thereby, 
 God be praised, at length attained a true understanding 
 of it." 
 
 He then related to me what some of these tempta- 
 tions were; — the bitter disappointment it was to him 
 to find that the cowl, and even the vows and the 
 priestly consecration, made no change in his heart; 
 that Satan was as near him in the cloister as outside, 
 and he no stronger to cope with him. He told me of 
 his endeavours to keep every minute rule of the order, 
 and how the slightest deviation weighed on his con- 
 science. It seems to have been like trying to restrain
 
 Fritz's story. 175 
 
 a fire by a fence of willows, or to guide a mountain 
 torrent in artificial windings through a flower-garden, 
 to bind his fervent nature by these vexatious rules. 
 He was continually becoming absorbed in some thought 
 or study, and forgetting all the rules, and then pain- 
 fully he would turn back and retrace his steps; some- 
 times spending weeks in absorbing study, and then 
 remembering he had neglected his canonical hours, and 
 depriving himself of sleep for nights to make up the 
 missing prayers. 
 
 He fasted, disciplined himself, humbled himself to 
 perform the meanest offices for the meanest brother; 
 forcibly kept sleep from his eyes wearied with study, 
 and his mind worn out with conflict, until every now 
 and then Nature avenged herself by laying him uncon- 
 scious on the floor of his cell, or disabling him by a 
 fit of illness. 
 
 But all in vain; his temptations seemed to grow 
 stronger, his strength less. Love to God he could not 
 feel at all; but in his secret soul the bitterest question- 
 ing of God, who seemed to torment him at once by 
 the law and the gospel. He thought of Christ as the 
 severest judge, because the most righteous; and the 
 very phrase, "the righteousness of God," was torture 
 to him. 
 
 Not that this state of distress was continual with 
 him. At times he gloried in his obedience, and felt 
 that he earned rewards from God by performing the 
 sacrifice of the mass, not only for himself but for 
 others. At times, also, in his circuits, after his con- 
 secration, to say mass in the villages around Erfurt, 
 he would feel his spirits lightened by the variety of 
 the scenes he witnessed, and would be greatly amused
 
 176 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 at tlie ridiculous mistakes of tlie village choirs; for 
 instance, their chanting the "Kyrie" to the music of 
 the "Gloria." 
 
 Then, at other times, his limhs would totter with 
 teiTor when he offered the holy sacrifice, at the thought 
 that he, the sacrificing priest, yet the poor, sinful 
 Brother Martin, actually stood before God "without a 
 Mediator." 
 
 At his first mass he had difficulty in restraining 
 himself from flying from the altar — so great was his 
 awe and the sense of his unworthiness. Had he done 
 so, he would have been excommunicated. 
 
 Again, there were days when he performed the 
 services with some satisfaction, and would conclude 
 with saying, "0 Lord Jesus, I come to thee, and 
 entreat thee to be pleased with whatsoever I do and 
 suffer in my order; and I pray thee that these burdens 
 and this straitness of my rule and religion may be a 
 full satisfaction for all my sins." 
 
 Yet then again, the dread would come that perhaps 
 he had inadvertently omitted some word in the service, 
 such as "enim" or "internum," or neglected some pre- 
 scribed genuflexion, or even a signing of the cross; 
 and that thus, instead of offering to God an acceptable 
 sacrifice in the mass, he had committed a grievous 
 sin. 
 
 From such terrors of conscience he fled for refuge 
 to some of his twenty-one patron saints, or oftener to 
 Mary, seeking to touch her womanly heart, that she 
 might appease her Son. He hoped that by invoking 
 three saints daily, and by letting his body waste away 
 mth fastings and watchings, he should satisfy the law, 
 and shield his conscience against the goad of the driver.
 
 Fritz's story. 177 
 
 But it all availed him nothing. The further he went 
 on iu this way, the more he was ten-ified. 
 
 And then he related to me hoAv the light broke 
 upon his heart; slowly, intermittently, indeed-, yet it 
 has dawned on him. His day may often be dark and 
 tempestuous; but it is day, and not night. 
 
 Dr. Staupitz was the first who brought him any 
 comfort. The Vicar- General received his confession 
 not long after he entered the cloister, and from that 
 time won his confidence, and took the warmest interest 
 in him. Brother Martin frequently wrote to him; and 
 once he used the words, in reference to some neglect 
 of the rules which troubled his conscience, "Oh, my sins, 
 my sins!" Dr. Staupitz replied, "You would be without 
 sin, and yet you have no proper sins. Christ forgives 
 true sins, such as parricide, blasphemy, contempt of 
 God, adultery, and sins like these. These are sins 
 indeed. Yon must have a register in which stand 
 veritable sins, if Christ is to help you. You would be 
 a painted sinner, and have a painted Christ as a Saviour. 
 You must make up your mind that Christ is a real 
 Saviour, and you a real sinner." 
 
 These words brought some light to Brother Martin, 
 but the darkness came back again and again; and 
 tenderly did Dr. Staupitz sympathize with him and 
 rouse him — Dr. Staupitz, and that dear aged con- 
 fessor, who ministered also so lovingly to me. Brother 
 Martin's great terror was the thought of the righteous- 
 ness of God , by which he had been taught to under- 
 stand his inflexible severity in executing judgment on 
 sinners. 
 
 Dr. Staupitz and the confessor explained to him 
 that the righteousness of God is not against the sinner 
 SchvHberg-Cotta Famitij. I, 12
 
 178 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBEKG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 who believes in the Lord Jesus Christ, but /or him — 
 not against us to condemn, but for us to justify. 
 
 He began to study the Bible with a new zest. He 
 had had the greatest longing to understand rightly the 
 Epistle of St. Paul to the Romans, but was always 
 stopped by the word "righteousness" in the first chapter 
 and seventeenth verse, where Paul says the righteous- 
 ness of God is revealed by the gospel. "I felt very 
 angry," he said, "at the term, 'righteousness of God;' 
 for, after the manner of all the teachers, I was taught 
 to understand it in a philosophic sense, of that righte- 
 ousness by which God is just and punisheth the guilty. 
 Though I had lived without reproach, I felt myself to 
 be a great sinner before God, and was of a very quick 
 conscience, and had not confidence in a reconciliation 
 with God to be produced by any work or satisfaction 
 or merit of my own. For this cause I had in me no 
 love of a righteous and angry God, but secretly hated 
 him, and thought within myself. Is it not enough that 
 God has condemned us to everlasting death by Adam's 
 sin, and that we must suffer so much trouble and 
 misery in this life? Over and above the terror and 
 threatening of the law, must he needs increase by the 
 gospel our misery and anguish, and, by the preaching 
 of the same, thunder against us his justice and fierce 
 wrath? My confused conscience ofttimes did cast me 
 into fits of anger, and 1 sought day and night to make 
 out the meaning of Paul-, and at last I came to appre- 
 hend it thus: Through the gospel is revealed the 
 righteousness which availeth with God — a righteous- 
 ness by which God, in his mercy and compassion, justi- 
 fieth us-, as it is written, ''The just shall live hy faith* 
 Straightway I felt as if I were born anew, it was as
 
 Fritz's story. 179 
 
 if I had found the door of Paradise thrown wide open. 
 Now I saw the Scriptures altogether in a new light — 
 ran through their whole contents as far as my memory- 
 would serve, and compared them — and found that 
 this righteousness was the more surely that by which 
 he makes us righteous, because everything agreed 
 thereunto so well. The expression, 'the righteousness 
 of God,' which I so much hated before, became now 
 dear and precious — my darling and most comforting 
 word. That passage of Paul was to me the true door 
 of Paradise." 
 
 Brother Martin also told me of the peace the words, 
 "I believe in the forgiveness of sins," brought to him, 
 as the aged confessor had previously narrated to me; 
 for, he said, the devil often plucked him back, and, 
 taking the very form of Christ, sought to terrify him 
 again with his sins. 
 
 As I listened to him, the conviction came on me 
 that he had ideed drunk of the well-spring of ever- 
 lasting life, and it seemed almost within my own reach ; 
 but I said — 
 
 "Brother Martin, your sins were mere transgres- 
 sions of human rules, but mine are different." And I 
 told him how I had resisted my vocation. He replied — • 
 
 "The devil gives heaven to people before they sin; 
 but after they sin, brings their consciences into despair. 
 Christ deals quite in the contrary way, for he gives 
 heaven after sins committed, and makes troubled con- 
 sciences joyful." 
 
 Then we fell into a long silence, and from time 
 to time, as I looked at the calm which reigned on his 
 rugged and massive brow, and felt the deep light in 
 bis dark eyes, the conviction gathered strength — 
 
 12*
 
 180 CHRONICLES OF TUB SCHONBERGCOTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "This solid rock on which that tempest-tossed spirit 
 rests is Truth!" 
 
 His lips moved now and then, as if in prayer, and 
 his eyes were lifted up from time to time to heaven, as 
 if his thoughts found a home there. 
 
 After this silence, he spoke again, and said — - 
 
 "The gospel speaks nothing of our works, or of 
 the works of the law, but of the inestimable mercy and 
 love of God towards most wretched and miserable 
 sinners. Our most merciful Father, seeing us over- 
 whelmed and oppressed with the curse of the law , and 
 so to be holden under the same that we could never 
 be delivered from it by our own power, sent his only 
 Son into the world, and laid upon him the sins of all 
 men, saying, 'Be thou Peter, that denier-, Paul, that 
 persecutor, blasphemer, and cruel oppressor; David, 
 that adulterer; that sinner that did eat the apple in 
 Paradise; that thief that hanged upon the cross; and 
 briefly, be thou the person that hath committed the 
 sins of all men, and pay and satisfy for them.' For 
 God trifleth not with us, but speaketh earnestly and of 
 great love, that Christ is the Lamb of God who beareth 
 the sins of us all. He is just, and the justifier of him 
 that believeth in Jesus." 
 
 I could answer nothing to this, but walked along 
 pondering these words. Neither did he say any more 
 at that time. 
 
 The sun was sinking low, and the long shadows of 
 the pine-trunks were thrown athwart our green forest- 
 path, so that we were glad to find a charcoal-burner's 
 hut, and to take shelter for the night beside his fires. 
 
 But that night I could not sleep; and when all
 
 Fritz's story. 181 
 
 were sleeping arouud me, I rose and went out into the 
 forest. 
 
 Brother Martin is not a man to parade his inmost 
 conflicts before the eyes of others, to call forth their 
 Bympathy or their idle wonder. He has suffered too 
 deeply and too recently for that. It is not lightly that 
 he has unlocked the dungeons and torture-chambers of 
 his past life for me. It is as a fellow-sufferer and a 
 fellow-soldier, to show me how I also may escape and 
 overcome. 
 
 It is surely because he is to be a hero and a leader 
 of men that God has caused him to tread these bitter 
 ways alone. 
 
 A new meaning dawns on old words for me. There 
 is nothing new in what he says; but it seems new to 
 me, as if God had spoken it first to-day, and all things 
 seem made new in its light. 
 
 God, then, is more earnest for me to be saved than 
 I am to be saved! 
 
 He so loved the world, that he gave his Son. 
 
 He loved not saints, not penitents, not the religious, 
 not those who love him; but "the world,''' secular men, 
 profane men, hardened rebels, hopeless wanderers and 
 sinners! 
 
 He gave not a mere promise, not an angel to teach 
 us, not a world to ransom us, but his Son — his Only- 
 begotten! 
 
 So much did God love the world, sinners, me! I 
 believe this; I must believe it; I believe on him who 
 says it. How can I then do otherwise than rejoice? 
 
 Two glorious visions rise before me and begin to 
 fill the world and all my heart with joy. 
 
 I see the Holiest, the Perfect, the Son made the
 
 182 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 victim, tlie lamb, the curse, willingly yielding himself 
 up to death on the cross for me. 
 
 I see the Father — inflexible in justice yet de- 
 lighting in mercy — accepting him, the spotless Lamb 
 whom he had given; raising him from the dead; set- 
 ting him on his right hand. Just, beyond all my 
 terrified conscience could picture him , he justifies me 
 the sinner. 
 
 Hating sin as love must abhor selfishness, and life 
 death, and purity corruption, he loves me — the selfish, 
 the corrupt, the dead in sins. He gives his Son, the 
 Only-begotten, for me; he accepts his Son, the spotless 
 Lamb, for me; he forgives me; he acquits me; he will 
 make me pure. 
 
 The thought overpowered me. I knelt among the 
 pines and spoke to Him who hears when we have no 
 words, for words failed me altogether then. 
 
 Munich, May i8. 
 
 All the next day and the next that joy lasted. 
 Every twig, and bird, and dew-drop spoke in parables 
 to me; sang to me the parable of the son who had re- 
 turned from the far country, and as he went towards 
 his father's house prepared his confession; but never 
 finished the journey, for the father met him when he 
 was yet a great way ofi'; and never finished the con- 
 fession, for the father stopped his self-reproaches with 
 embraces. 
 
 And on the father's heart what child could say, 
 "Make me as one of thy hired servants?" 
 
 I saw His love shining in every dew-drop on the 
 grassy forest glades; I heard it in the song of every 
 bird; I felt it in every pulse.
 
 Fritz's story. 18S 
 
 I do not know that we spoke much during tliose 
 days, Brother Martin and I. 
 
 I have known something of love; but I have never 
 felt a love that so fills, overwhelms, satisfies, as this 
 love of God. And when first it is "thou and I" be- 
 tween God and the soul, for a time, at least, the heart 
 has little room for other fellowship. 
 
 But then came doubts and questionings. Whence 
 came they? Brother Martin said from Satan. 
 
 "The devil is a wretched, unhappy spirit," said he, 
 "and he loves to make us wretched." 
 
 One thing that began to trouble me was, whether 
 I had the right kind of faith. Old definitions of faith 
 recurred to me, by which faith is said to be nothing 
 unless it is informed with charity and developed into 
 good works, so that when it saith we are justified by 
 faith, the part is taken for the whole — and it means 
 by faith, also hope, charity, all the graces, and all good 
 works. 
 
 But Brother Martin declared it meaneth simply be- 
 lieving. He said, — 
 
 "Faith is an almighty thing, for it giveth glory to 
 God, which is the highest service that can be given to 
 him. Now, to give glory to God, is to believe in him-, 
 to count him true, wise, righteous, merciful, almighty. 
 The chiefest thing God requireth of man is, that he 
 giveth unto him his glory and divinity; that is to say, 
 that he taketh him not for an idol, but for God; who 
 regardeth him, heareth him, showeth mercy unto him, 
 and helpeth him. For faith saith thus, 'I believe thee, 
 O God, when thou speakest.'" 
 
 But our great wisdom, he says, is to look away
 
 184 CHRONICLES OP THE SCnONBERa-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 from all these questionings, — from our sins, our works, 
 ourselves, to Christ, who is our righteousness, our Sa- 
 viour, our all. 
 
 Then at times other things perplex me. If faith 
 is so simple, and salvation so free, why all those orders, i 
 rules, pilgrimages, penances? 
 
 And to these perplexities we can neither of us find 
 any answer. But we must be obedient to the Church, 
 What we cannot understand we must receive and obey. 
 This is a monk's duty, at least. | 
 
 Then at times another temptation comes on me. 
 "If thou hadst known of this before," a voice says j 
 deep in my heart, "thou couldst have served God joy- ' 
 fully in thy home, instead of painfully in the cloister; 
 couldst have helped thy parents and Els6, and spoken 
 with Eva on these things, which her devout and simple 
 heart has doubtless received already." But, alas! I 
 know too well what tempter ventures to suggest that 
 name to me, and I say, "Whatever might have been, 
 malicious spirit, now I am a religious, a devoted man, 
 to whom it is perdition to draw back!" 
 
 Yet, in a sense, I seem less separated from my be- 
 loved ones during these past days. 
 
 There is a brotherhood, there is a family, more 
 permanent than the home at Eisenach, or even the 
 Order of St. Augustine, in which we may be united 
 still. There is a home in which, perhaps, we may yet 
 be one household again. 
 
 And meantime, God may have some little useful 
 work for me to do here, which in his presence may 
 make life pass as quickly as this my pilgrimage to 
 Rome in Brother Martin's company.
 
 PRITZ'S STORY. 185 
 
 Benedictine Monastery in Lombardt. 
 
 God has given us during these last days to see, as 
 I verily believe, some glimpses into Eden. The moun- 
 tains with snowy summits , like the white steps of His 
 throne; the rivers which flow from them and enrich the 
 land; the crystal seas, like glass mingled with fire, 
 when the reflected snow-peaks burn in the lakes at 
 dawn or sunset; and then this Lombard plain, watered 
 with rivers which make its harvests gleam like gold; 
 this garner of God, where the elms or chestnuts grow 
 among the golden maize, and the vines festoon the 
 trees, so that all the land seems garlanded for a per- 
 petual holy day. We came through the Tyrol by 
 Fiisseh, and then struck across by the mountains and 
 the lakes to Milan. 
 
 Now we are entertained like princes in this rich 
 Benedictine abbey. Its annual income is 36,000 florins. 
 "Of eating and feasting," as Brother Martin says, 
 "there is no lack;" for 12,000 florins are consumed 
 on guests, and as large a sum on building. The re- 
 sidue goeth to the convent and the brethren. 
 
 They have received us poor German monks with 
 much honour, as a deputation from the great Angus - 
 tinian Order to the Pope. 
 
 The manners of these southern people are very 
 gentle and courteous; but they are lighter in their 
 treatment of sacred things than we could wish. 
 
 The splendour of the furniture and dress amazes 
 us: it is difficult to reconcile it with the vows of poverty 
 and renunciation of the world. But I suppose they 
 regard the vow of povei-ty as binding not on the com- 
 munity, but only on the individual monk. It must, 
 however, at the best, be hard to live a severe and
 
 186 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG GOTTA FAMILY. 
 
 ascetic life amidst sucli luxm-ies. Many, no doubt, do 
 not try. 
 
 The tables are supplied witJi tbe most costly and 
 delicate viands; the walls are tapestried; the dresses 
 are of fine silk; the floors are inlaid with rich marbles. 
 
 Poor, poor splendours, as substitutes for the humblest 
 home! 
 
 Bologna, June. 
 
 We did not remain long in the Benedictine monas- 
 tery, for this reason: Brother Martin, I could see, had 
 been much perplexed by their luxurious living; but as 
 a guest, had, I suppose, scarcely felt at liberty to re- 
 monstrate, until Friday came, when, to our amazement, 
 the table was covered with meats and fruits, and all 
 kinds of viands, as on any other day, regardless not 
 only of the rules of the Order, but of the common laws 
 of the whole Church. 
 
 He would touch none of these dainties; but not 
 content with this silent protest, he boldly said before 
 the whole company, "The Church and the Pope forbid 
 such things!" 
 
 We had then an opportunity of seeing into what the 
 smoothness of these Italian manners can change when 
 ruffled. 
 
 The whole brotherhood burst into a storm of indig- 
 nation. Their dark eyes flashed , their white teeth 
 gleamed with scornful and angry laughter, and their 
 voices rose in a tempest of vehement words, many of 
 which were unintelligible to us. 
 
 "Intruders," "barbarians," "coarse and ignorant 
 Germans," and other biting epithets, however, we could 
 too well understand. 
 
 Brother Martin stood like a rock amidst the torrent,
 
 Fritz's story. 187 
 
 and tlireatened to make their luxury and disorder known 
 at Rome. 
 
 When the assembly broke up, we noticed the bre- 
 thren gather apart in small groups, and cast scowling 
 glances at us when we chanced to pass near. 
 
 That evening the porter of the monastery came to 
 us privately, and warned us that this convent was no 
 longer a safe resting-place for us. 
 
 Whether this was a friendly warning, or merely a 
 device of the brethren to get rid of troublesome guests, 
 I know not; but we had no wish to linger, and before 
 the next day dawned we crept in the darkness out of a 
 side gate into a boat, which we found on the river 
 which flows beneath the walls, and escaped. 
 
 It was delightful to-day winding along the side of 
 a hill, near Bologna, for miles, under the flickering 
 shade of trellises covered with vines. But Brother 
 Martin, I thought, looked ill and weary. 
 
 Bologna. 
 
 Thank God, Brother Martin is reviving again. He 
 has been on the very borders of the grave. 
 
 Whether it was the scorching heat through which 
 we have been travelling, or the malaria, which affected 
 us with catarrh one night when we slept with our win- 
 dows open, or whether the angry monks in the Bene- 
 dictine Abbey mixed some poison with our food, I know 
 not; but we had scarcely reached this place when he be- 
 came seriously ill. 
 
 As I watched beside him I learned something of the 
 anguish he passed through at our convent at Erfurt. 
 The remembrance of his sins and the terrors of God's 
 judgment rushed on his mind, weakened by sufi'ering.
 
 188 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 At times he recognised tliat it was tLe Land of the evil 
 one which was keeping him down. "The devil," he 
 would say, "is the accuser of the brethren, not Christ. 
 Thou, Lord Jesus, art my forgiving Saviour!" And 
 then he would rise above the floods. Again his mind 
 would bewilder itself with the unfathomable — the 
 origin of evil, the relation of our free will to God's al- 
 mighty will. 
 
 Then I ventured to recall to him the words of Dr. 
 Staupitz he had repeated to me: "Behold the wounds 
 of Jesus Christ, and then thou shalt see the counsel of 
 God clearly shining forth. "We cannot comprehend 
 God out of Jesus Christ. In Clirist you will find what 
 God is, and what he requires. You will find him 
 nowhere else, whether in heaven or on earth." 
 
 It was strange to find myself, untried recruit that 
 I am, thus attempting to give refreshment to such a 
 veteran and victor as Brother Martin-, but when the 
 strongest are brought into single combats such as these, 
 which must be single, a feeble hand may bring a draught 
 of cold water to revive the hero between the pauses of 
 the fight. 
 
 The victory, however, can only be won by the 
 combatant himself; and at length Brother Martin fought 
 his way through once more, and as so often happens, 
 just when the fight seemed hottest. It was with an old 
 weapon he overcame — ''''The just shall live hy faiths 
 
 Once more the words which have helped him so 
 often, which so frequently he has repeated on this journey, 
 came with power to his mind. Again he looked to the 
 crucified Saviour; again he believed in Him triumphant 
 and ready to forgive on the throne of grace; and again 
 his spirit was in the light.
 
 Fritz's story. 189 
 
 His strengtli also soon began to return; and in a 
 few days we are to be in Eome. 
 
 Rome. 
 
 The pilgrimage is over. The holy city is at length 
 reached. 
 
 Across burning plains, under trellised vine-walks 
 on the hill-sides, over -wild, craggy mountains, through 
 valleys green with chestnuts, and olives, and thickets 
 of myrtle, and fragrant with lavender and cistus, we 
 walked, until at last the sacred towers and domes burst 
 on our sight, across a reach of the Campagna — the 
 city where St. Paul and St. Peter were martyred — the 
 metropolis of the kingdom of God. 
 
 The moment we came in sight of the city Brother 
 Martin prostrated himself on the earth , and , lifting up 
 his hands to heaven, exclaimed — 
 
 "Hail, sacred Rome! thrice sacred for the blood of 
 the martyrs here shed." 
 
 And now we are within the sacred walls, lodged in 
 the Augustinian monastery, near to the northern gate, 
 through which we entered, called by the Eomans the 
 "Porta del Popolo." 
 
 Already Brother Martin has celebrated a mass in 
 the convent church. 
 
 And to-morrow we may kneel where apostles and 
 martyrs stood! 
 
 "We may perhaps even see the holy father himself! 
 
 Are we indeed nearer heaven here? 
 
 It seems to me as if I felt God nearer that night in 
 the Black Forest. 
 
 There is so much tumult, and movement, and pomp 
 around us in the great city. 
 
 "When, however, I feel it more familiar and home- 
 like, perhaps it will seem more heaven-like.
 
 190 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ELks's STORY. 
 
 Eisenach, April. 
 
 The last words I shall write in our dear old 
 lumber-room, Fritz's and mine! I have little to regret 
 in it now, however, that our twilight talks are over for 
 ever. We leave early to-morrow morning for Witten- 
 berg. It is strange to look out into the old street, and 
 think how all will look exactly the same there to- 
 morrow evening, — the monks slowly pacing along in 
 pairs, the boys rushing out of school, as they are now, 
 the maid-servants standing at the doors with the baby 
 in their arms, or wringing their mops, — and we gone. 
 How small a blank people seem to make when they 
 are gone, however large the space they seemed to fill 
 when they were present, — except, indeed, to two or 
 three hearts! I see this with Fritz. It seemed to me 
 our little world must fall when he, its chief pillar, was 
 withdrawn. Yet now everything seems to go on the 
 same as before he became a monk, — except, indeed, 
 with the mother and Eva and me. 
 
 The mother seems more and more like a shadow 
 gliding in and out among us. Tenderly, indeed, she 
 takes on her all she can of our family cares; but to 
 family joys she seems spiritless and dead. Since she 
 told me of the inclination she thinks she neglected in 
 her youth towards the cloister, I understand her better, 
 — the trembling fear with which she receives any 
 good thing, and the hopeless submission with which 
 she bows to every trouble, as to the blows of a rod
 
 ELSfe's STORY. 191 
 
 always suspended over her, and only occasionally 
 mercifully withheld from striking. 
 
 In the loss of Fritz the blow has fallen exactly 
 where she would feel it most keenly. She had, I feel 
 sure, planned another life for him. I see it in the 
 peculiar tenderness of the tie which binds her to Eva. 
 She said to me to-day, as we were packing up some of 
 Fritz's books, "The sacrifice I was too selfish to make 
 myself my son has made for me. Elsfe , my child, 
 give at once, at once, whatever God demands of you. 
 What he demands must be given at last; and if only 
 wrung out from us at last, God only knows with what 
 fearful interest the debt may have to be paid." 
 
 The words weigh on me like a curse. I cannot 
 help feeling sometimes, as I know she feels always, 
 that the family is under some fatal spell. 
 
 But oh, how terrible the thought is that this is the 
 way God exacts retribution! — a creditor, exacting to 
 the last farthing for the most trifling transgression; and 
 if payment is delayed, taking life or limb, or what is 
 dearer, in exchange. I cannot bear to think of it. For 
 if my mother is thus visited for a mistake, for neglect- 
 ing a doubtful vocation, my pious, sweet mother, what 
 hope is there for me, who scarcely pass a day without 
 having to repent of saying some sharp word to those 
 boys (who certainly are often very provoking), or doing 
 what I ought not, or omitting some religious duty, or 
 at least without envying some one who is richer, or 
 inwardly murmuring at our lot, — even sometimes 
 thinking bitter thoughts of our father and his dis- 
 coveries ! 
 
 Our dear father has at last arranged and fitted in 
 all his treasures, and is the only one, except the
 
 192 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 children, wlio seems thoroughly pleased at the thought 
 of our emigration. All day he has been packing, and 
 unpacking, and repacking his machines into some 
 specially safe comers of the great waggon which cousin 
 Conrad Cotta has lent us for our journey. 
 
 Eva, on the other hand, seems to belong to this 
 world as little as the mother. Not that she looks de- 
 pressed or hopeless. Her face often perfectly beams 
 with peace-, but it seems entirely independent of every- 
 thing here, and is neither ruffled by the difficulties we 
 encounter, nor enhanced when anything goes a little 
 better. I must confess it rather provokes me, almost 
 as much as the boys do. I have serious fears that one 
 day she will leave us, like Fritz, and take refuge in a 
 convent. And yet I am sure I have not a fault to 
 find with her. I suppose that is exactly what our 
 grandmother and I feel so provoking. Lately she has 
 abandoned all her Latin books for a German book 
 entitled "Theologia Teutsch," or "Theologia Ger- 
 manica," which Fritz sent us before he left the Erfurt 
 convent on his pilgrimage to Rome. This book seems 
 to make Eva very happy, but as to me, it appears to 
 me more unintelligible than Latin. Although it is 
 quite different from all the other religious books I ever 
 read, it does not suit me any better. Indeed, it seems 
 as if I never should find the kind of religion that 
 would suit me. It all seems so sublime and vague, 
 and so far out of my reach; — only fit for people who 
 have time to climb the heights; whilst my path seems 
 to lie in the valleys, and among the streets, and amidst 
 all kinds of little every-day secular duties and cares, 
 which religion is too lofty to notice. 
 
 I can only hope that some day at the end of my
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 193 
 
 life God will graciously give me a little leisure to be 
 religious and to prepare to meet him, or that Eva's and 
 Fritz's prayers and merits will avail for me. 
 
 WlTTENBEEG, Ma)) iSIO. 
 
 We are beginning to get settled into our new home, 
 which is in the street near the University buildings. 
 Martin Luther, or Brother Martin, has a great name 
 here. They say his lectures are more popular than 
 any one's. And he also frequently preaches in the 
 city church. Our grandmother is not pleased with the 
 change. She calls the town a wretched mud village, 
 and wonders what can have induced the Electors of 
 Saxony to fix their residence and found a university 
 in such a sandy desert as this. She supposes it is 
 very much like the deserts of Arabia. 
 
 But Christopher and I think differently. There are 
 several very fine buildings here, beautiful churches, 
 and the University, and the Castle, and the Augustinian 
 Monastery, and we have no doubt that in time the 
 rest of the town will grow up to them. I have heard 
 our grandmother say that babies with features too large 
 for their faces often prove the handsomest people when 
 they grow up to their features. And so, no doubt, it 
 will be with Wittenberg, which is at present certainly 
 rather like an infant with the eyes and nose of a full- 
 grown man. The mud walls and low cottages with 
 thatched roofs look strangely out of keeping with the 
 new buildings, the Elector's palace and chm-ch at the 
 western end, the city church in the centre, and the 
 Augustinian cloister and university at the eastern ex- 
 tremity, near the Elster gate, close to which we live. 
 
 It is true that there are no forests of pines, and 
 
 Schonberg-Cotta Family. I, lo
 
 194 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 wild hills, and lovely green valleys here, as around 
 Eisenach. But our grandmother need not call it a 
 wilderness. The white sand-hills on the north are 
 broken with little dells and copses; and on the south, 
 not two hundred rods from the town, across a heath, 
 flows the broad, rapid Elbe. 
 
 The great river is a delight to me. It leads one's 
 thoughts back to its quiet sources among the moun- 
 tains, and onwards to its home in the great sea. We 
 had no great river at Eisenach, which is an advantage 
 on the side of Wittenberg. And then the banks are 
 fringed with low oaks and willows, which bend affec- 
 tionately over the water, and are delightful to sit 
 amongst on summer evenings. 
 
 If I were not a little afraid of the people! The 
 father does not like Eva and me to go out alone. The 
 students are rather wild. This year, however, they 
 have been forbidden by the rector to carry arms, which 
 is some comfort. But the town's-people also are war- 
 like and turbulent, and drink a great deal of beer. 
 There are one hundred and seventy breweries in the 
 place, although there are not more than three hundred 
 and fifty houses. Few of the inhabitants send their 
 children to school, although there are five hundred 
 students from all parts of Germany at the university. 
 
 Some of the poorer people, who come from the 
 country aronnd to the markets, talk a language I can- 
 not understand. Our grandmother says they are Wends, 
 and that this town is the last place on the borders of 
 the civilized world. Beyond it, she declares, there 
 are nothing but barbarians and Tartars. Indeed, she 
 is not sure whether our neighbours themselves are 
 Christians.
 
 else's story. 195 
 
 St. Boniface , the great apostle of the Saxons , did 
 not extend his labours further than Saxony; and she 
 says the Teutonic knights who conquered Prussia and 
 the regions beyond us, were only Christian colonists 
 living in the midst of half-heathen savages. To me it 
 is rather a gloomy idea, to think that between Witten- 
 berg and the Turks and Tartars, or even the savages 
 in the Indies beyond, which Christopher Columbus has 
 discovered, there are only a few half-civilized Wends, 
 living in those wretched hamlets which dot the sandy 
 heaths around the town. 
 
 But the father says it is a glorious idea, and that, 
 if he were only a little younger, he would organize a 
 land expedition, and traverse the country until he 
 reached the Spaniards and the Portuguese, who sailed 
 to the same point by sea. 
 
 "Only to think," he says, "that in a few weeks, 
 or months at the utmost, we might reach Cathay, El 
 Dorado, and even Atlantis itself, where the houses are 
 roofed and paved with gold, and return laden with 
 treasures!" It seems to make him feel even his ex- 
 periments with the retorts and crucibles in which he is 
 always on the point of transmuting lead into silver, 
 to be tame and slow processes. Since we have been 
 here, he iias for the time abandoned his alchemical ex- 
 periments, and sits for hours with a great map spread 
 before him, calculating in the most accurate and elaborate 
 manner how long it would take to reach the new 
 Spanish discoveries byway of Wendish Prussia. "For," 
 he remarks, "if I am never able to carry out the 
 scheme myself, it may one day immortalize one of 
 my sons, and enrich and ennoble the whole of our 
 family!" 
 
 13*
 
 196 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 Our journey from Eisenach was one continual fete 
 to the children. For my mother and the baby — now 
 two years old — we made a couch in the waggon, of 
 the family bedding. My grandmother sat erect in a 
 nook among the furniture. Little Thekla was enthroned 
 like a queen on a pile of pillows, where she sat 
 hugging her own especial treasures, — her broken 
 doll, the wooden horse Christopher made for her, a 
 precious store of cones and pebbles from the forest, 
 and a very shaggy disreputable foundling dog which 
 she has adopted, and can by no means be persuaded 
 to part with. She calls the dog Nix, and is sure that 
 he is always asking her with his wistful eyes to teach 
 him to speak, and give him a soul. With these, her 
 household gods, preserved to her, she showed little 
 feeling at parting from the rest of our Eisenach world. 
 
 The father was equally absorbed with his treasures, 
 his folios, and models, and instruments, which he 
 jealously guarded. 
 
 Eva had but one inseparable treasure, the volume 
 of the "Theologia Germanica," which she has appro- 
 priated. 
 
 The mother's especial thought was the baby. Chriem- 
 hild was overwhelmed with the parting with Pollux, 
 who was left behind with Cousin Conrad Cotta; and 
 Atlantis was so wild with delight at the thought of the 
 new world and the new life, from which she was per- 
 suaded all the cares of the old were to be extracted 
 for ever, that, had it not been for Christopher and me, 
 I must say the general interests of the family would 
 have been rather in the background. 
 
 For the time there was a truce between Christopher 
 and me concerning "Reinecke Fuchs," and our various
 
 ELSfc'S STORY. 197 
 
 differences. All Lis faculties — wliicli have been so 
 prolific for mischief — seemed suddenly turned into 
 useful channels , like the mischievous elves of the farm 
 and hearth, when they are capriciously bent on doing 
 some poor human being a good turn. He scarcely 
 tried my temper once during the whole journey. Since 
 we reached Wittenberg, however, I cannot say as 
 much. I feel anxious about the companions he has 
 found among the students, and often, often I long that 
 Fritz's religion had led him to remain among us, at 
 least until the boys had grown up. 
 
 I had nerved myself beforehand for the leave-taking 
 with the old friends and the old home, but when the 
 moving actually began, there was no time to think of 
 anything but packing in the last things which had 
 been nearly forgotten, and arranging every one in 
 their places. I had not even a moment for a last look 
 at the old house, for at the instant we turned the 
 corner, Thekla and her treasures nearly came to an 
 untimely end by the downfall of one of the father's 
 machines; which so discouraged Thekla, and excited 
 our grandmother, Nix, and the baby, that it required 
 considerable soothing to restore every one to equanimity; 
 and, in the meantime, the comer of the street had 
 been turned, and the dear old house was out of sight. 
 I felt a pang, as if I had wronged it, the old home 
 which had sheltered us so many years, and been the 
 silent witness of so many joys, and cares, and sor- 
 rows! 
 
 We had few adventures during the first day, ex- 
 cept that Thekla's peace was often broken by the diffi- 
 culties in which Nix's self-confident but not very 
 courageous disposition frequently involved him with
 
 198 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 the cats and dogs in the villages, and their proprie- 
 tors.. 
 
 The first evening in the forest was delightful. We 
 encamped in a clearing. Sticks were gathered for a 
 fire, round which we arranged such bedding and furni- 
 ture as we could unpack, and the children were wild 
 with delight at thus combining serious household work 
 with play, whilst Christopher foddered and tethered the 
 horses. 
 
 After our meal we began to tell stories, but our 
 grandmother positively forbade our mentioning the name 
 of any of the forest sprites, or of any evil or question- 
 able creature whatever. 
 
 In the night I could not sleep. All was so strange 
 and grand around us, and it did seem to me that there 
 were wailings and sighings and distant meanings among 
 the pines, not quite to be accounted for by the wind. 
 I grew rather uneasy, and at length lifted my head to 
 see if any one else was awake. 
 
 Opposite me sat Eva, her face lifted to the stars, 
 her hands clasped , and her lips moving as if in prayer. 
 I felt her like a guardian angel, and instinctively drew 
 nearer to her. 
 
 "Eva," I whispered at last, "do you not think 
 there are rather strange and unaccountable noises around 
 us? I wonder if it can be true that strange creatures 
 haunt the forests." 
 
 " I think there are always spirits around us, Cousin 
 Els^," she replied, "good and evil spirits prowling around 
 us, or ministering to us. I suppose in the solitude we 
 feel them nearer, and perhaps they are." 
 
 I was not at all re-assured. 
 
 "Eva," I said, "I wish you would say some prayers;
 
 else's story. 199 
 
 I feel afraid I may not think of the right ones. But 
 are you really not at. all afraid?" 
 
 "Why should I be?" she said softly; "God is 
 nearer us always than all the spirits, good or evil, — • 
 nearer and greater than all. And he is the Supreme 
 Goodness. I like the solitude. Cousin Els^, because 
 it seems to lift me above all the creatures to the One 
 who is all and in all. And I like the wild forests," 
 she continued, as if to herself, "because God is the 
 only owner there, and I can feel more unreservedly, 
 that we, and the creatures, and all we most call our 
 own, are His, and only His. In the cities, the houses 
 are called fter the names of men, and each street and 
 house is divided into little plots, of each of which some 
 one says, 'It is mine.' But here all is visibly only 
 God's, undivided, common to all. There is but one 
 table, and that is His; the creatures live as free pensioners 
 on His bounty." 
 
 "Is it then sin to call anything our own?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "My book says it was this selfishness that was the 
 cause of Adam's fall," she replied. "Some say it was 
 because Adam ate the apple that he was lost, or fell; 
 but my book says it was 'because of his claiming some- 
 thing for his o^vn; and because of his saying, I, mine, 
 me, and the like.' " 
 
 "That is very difficult to understand." I said, 
 "Am I not to say, Mt/ mother, my father, my Fritz? 
 Ought I to love every one the same because all are 
 equally God's? If property is sin, then why is steal- 
 ing sin? Eva, this religion is quite above and beyond 
 me. It seems to me in this way it would be almost as 
 wrong to give thanks for what we have, as to covet
 
 200 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 what we have not, because we ought not to think we 
 have anything. It perplexes me extremely." 
 
 I lay down again, resolved not to think any more 
 about it. Fritz and I proved once, a long time ago, 
 how useless it is for me , at least , to attempt to get beyond 
 the Ten Commandments. But trying to comprehend 
 what Eva said so bewildered me, that my thoughts 
 soon wandered beyond my control altogether. I heard 
 no more of Eva or the winds, but fell into a sound 
 slumber, and dreamt that Eva and an angel were talking 
 beside me all night in Latin, which I felt I ought to 
 understand, but of course could not. 
 
 The next day we had not been long on our journey 
 when, at a narrow part of the road, in a deep valley, 
 a company of horsemen suddenly dashed down from a 
 castle which towered on our right, and barred our 
 further progress with serried lances. 
 
 "Do you belong to Erfurt?" asked the leader, 
 turning our horses' heads, and pushing Christopher 
 aside with the butt end of his gun. 
 
 "No," said Christopher, "to Eisenach." 
 
 "Give way, men," shouted the knight to his fol- 
 lowers; "we have no quarrel with Eisenach. This is 
 not what we are waiting for." 
 
 The cavaliers made a passage for us, but a young 
 knight who seemed to lead them rode on beside us for 
 a time. 
 
 "Did you pass any merchandise on your road?" 
 he asked of Christopher, using the form of address he 
 would have to a peasant. 
 
 "We are not likely to pass anything," replied 
 Christopher, not very courteously, "laden as we are." 
 
 "What is your lading?" asked the knight.
 
 else's story. 201 
 
 "All om- worldly goods," replied Christopher, 
 curtly. 
 
 "What is your name, friend, and where are you 
 bound?" 
 
 "Cotta," answered Christopher. "My father is the 
 director of the Elector's printing press at the new 
 University of Wittenberg." 
 
 "Cotta!" rejoined the knight more respectfully, "a 
 good burgher name;" and saying this he rode back to 
 the waggon, and saluting our father, surveyed us all 
 with a cool freedom, as if his notice honoured us, until 
 his eye lighted on Eva, who was sitting with her arm 
 round Thekla, soothing the frightened child, and helping 
 her to arrange some violets Christopher had gathered a 
 few minutes before. His voice lowered when he saw 
 her, and he said, — 
 
 "This is no burgher maiden, surely? May I ask 
 your name, fair Fraulein?" he said, doffing his hat 
 and addressing Eva. 
 
 She made no reply, but continued arranging her 
 flowers, without changing feature or colour, except that 
 her lip curled and quivered slightly. 
 
 "The Fraulein is absorbed with her bouquet; would 
 that we were nearer our Schloss, that I might offer her 
 flowers more worthy of her handling." 
 
 "Are you addressing me?" said Eva at length, 
 raising her large eyes, and fixing them on him with 
 her gravest expression; "I am no Fraulein, I am a 
 burgher maiden; but if I were a queen, any of God's 
 flowers would be fair enough for me. And to a true 
 knight," she added, "a peasant maiden is as sacred as 
 a queen." 
 
 No one ever could trifle with that earnest expres-
 
 202 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 sion of Eva's face. It was his turn to be abashed. 
 His effrontery failed him altogether, and he murmured, 
 "I have merited the rebuke. These flowers are too 
 fair, at least for me. If you would bestow one on me, 
 I would keep it sacredly as a gift of my mother's or 
 as the relics of a saint." 
 
 "You can gather them anywhere in the forest," 
 said Eva; but little Thekla filled both her little hands 
 with violets, and gave them to him. 
 
 "You may have them all if you like," she said; 
 "Christopher can gather us plenty more." 
 
 He took them carefully from the child's hand, and, 
 bowing low, rejoined his men who were in front. He 
 then returned, said a few words to Christopher, and 
 with his troop retired to some distance behind us, and 
 followed us till we were close to Erfurt, when he 
 spurred on to my father's side, and saying rapidly, 
 "You will be safe now, and need no further convoy," 
 once moi'e bowed respectfully to us, and rejoining his 
 men, we soon lost the echo of their horse-hoofs, as they 
 galloped back through the forest. 
 
 "What did the knight say to you, Christopher?" 
 I asked, when we dismounted at Erfurt that evening. 
 
 "He said that part of the forest was dangerous at 
 present, because of a feud between the knights and the 
 burghers, and if we would allow him, he would be our 
 escort until we came in sight of Erfurt." 
 
 "That, at least, was courteous of him," I said. 
 
 "Such courtesy as a burgher may expect of a 
 knight," rejoined Christopher, uncompromisingly; "to 
 insult us without provocation, and then, as a favour, 
 exemp-t us from their own illegal oppressions! But
 
 ELSe'6 iJTOllY. 203 
 
 women are always fascinated with what men on horse- 
 back do." 
 
 "No one is fascinated with any one," I replied. 
 For it always provokes me exceedingly when that boy 
 talks in that way about women. And our grandmother 
 interposed, — "Don't dispute, children-, if your grand- 
 father had not been unfortunate, you M-ould have been 
 of the knights' order yourselves, therefore it is not for 
 you to run down the nobles." 
 
 "I should never have been a knight," persisted 
 Christopher, "or a priest or a robber." But it was con- 
 solatory to my grandmother and me to consider how 
 exalted our position would have been, had it not been 
 for certain little unfortunate hindrances. Our grand- 
 mother never admitted my father ioto the pedigree. 
 
 At Leipsic we left the children, while our grand- 
 mother, our mother, Eva, and I went on foot to see 
 Aunt Agnes at the convent of Nimptschen, whither she 
 had been transferred, some years before, from Eisenach. 
 
 We only saw her through the convent grating. 
 But it seemed to me as if the voice, and manner, and 
 face were entirely unchanged since that last interview 
 when she terrified me as a child by asking me to be- 
 come a sister, and abandon Fritz. 
 
 Onlv the voice sounded to me even moie like a 
 muffled bell used only for funerals, especially when 
 she said, in reference to Fritz's entering the cloister, 
 "Praise to God, and the blessed Virgin, and all the 
 saints. At last, then. He has heard my unworthy 
 prayers; one at least is saved!" 
 
 A cold shudder passed over me at her Avords. Had 
 she then, indeed, all these years been praying that our 
 happiness should be ruined and our home desolated?
 
 204 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 And had God heard her? "Was the fatal spell, which 
 my mother feared was binding us, after all nothing else 
 than Aunt Agnes's terrible prayers? 
 
 Her face looked as lifeless as ever, iu the folds of 
 white linen which bound it into a regular oval. Her 
 voice was metallic and lifeless; the touch of her hand 
 was impassive and cold as marble when we took leave 
 of her. My mother wept, and said, "Dear Agnes, per- 
 haps we may never meet again on earth." 
 
 "Perhaps not," A^as the reply. 
 
 "You will not forget us, sister?" said my mother. 
 
 "I never forget you," was the reply, in the same 
 deep, low, firm, ii-responsive voice, which seemed as if 
 it had never vibrated to anything more human than an 
 organ playing Gregoiian chants. 
 
 And the words echo in my heart to this instant, 
 like a knell. 
 
 She never forgets us. 
 
 Nightly in her vigils, daily in church and cell, she 
 watches over us, and prays God not to let us be too 
 happy. 
 
 And God hears her, and grants her prayers. It is 
 too clear He does! Had she not been asking Him to 
 make Fritz a monk? and is not Fritz separated from 
 us for ever? 
 
 "How did you like the convent, Eva?" I said to 
 her that night when we were alone. 
 
 "It seemed very still and peaceful," she said. "I 
 think one could be very happy there. There would be 
 so much time for prayer. One could perhaps more 
 easily lose self there, and become nearer to God." 
 
 "But what do you think of Aunt Agnes?" 
 
 "I felt drawn to her. I think she has suffered."
 
 else's storf. 205 
 
 "She seems to be dead alike to joy or suffering," 
 i said. 
 
 "But people do not thus die without pain," said 
 Eva very gravely. 
 
 Our house at Wittenberg is small. From the upper 
 windows we look over the city walls, across the heath, 
 to the Elbe, which gleams and sparkles between its 
 willows and dwarf oaks. Behind the house is a plot 
 of neglected ground, which Christopher is busy at his 
 leisure hom-s trenching and spading into an herb-garden. 
 We are to have a few flowers on the borders of the 
 straight walk which intersects it, — daffodils, pansies, 
 roses, and sweet violets and gilliflowers, and wallflowers. 
 At the end of the garden are two apple trees and a 
 pear tree, which had shed their blossoms just before 
 we arrived, in a carpet of pink and white petals. 
 Under the shade of these I carry my embroidery frame, 
 when the house work is finished; and sometimes little 
 Thekla comes and prattles to me, and sometimes Eva 
 reads and sings to me. I cannot help regretting that 
 lately Eva is so absorbed with that "Theologia Ger- 
 manica." I cannot understand it as well as I do the 
 Latin hymns when once she has translated them to 
 me; for these speak of Jesus the Saviour, who left the 
 heavenly home and sat weary by the way seeking for 
 us; or of Mary his dear mother; and although some- 
 times they tell of wrath and judgment, at all events I 
 know what it means. But this other book is all to me 
 one dazzling haze, without sun, or moon, or stars, or 
 heaven, or earth, or seas, or anything distinct, — but 
 all a blaze of indistinguishable glory, which is God; 
 the One who is all — a kind of ocean of goodness, in 
 which, in some mysterious way, we ought to be ab-
 
 206 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 sorbed. But I am not an ocean, or any part of one; 
 and I cannot love an ocean because it is infinite, or 
 unfathomable, or all-sufficient, or anything else. 
 
 My mother's thought of God, as watching lest we 
 should be too happy and love any one more than him- 
 self, remembering the mistakes and sins of youth , and 
 delaying to punish them until just the moment when 
 the punishment would be most keenly felt, is dreadful 
 enough. But even that is not to me so bewildering 
 and dreary as this all-absorbing Being in Eva's book. 
 The God my mother dreads has indeed eyes of severest 
 justice, and a frown of wrath against the sinner; but if 
 once one could learn how to please him, the eyes might 
 smile, the frown might pass. It is a countenance; and 
 a heart which might meet ours! But when Eva reads 
 her book to me, I seem to look up into heaven and 
 see nothing but heaven — light, space, infinity, and 
 still on and on, infinity and light; a moral light, in- 
 deed — perfection, purity, goodness; but no eyes I 
 can look into, no heart to meet mine — none whom I 
 could speak to, or touch, or see! 
 
 This evening we opened our window and looked out 
 across the heath to the Elbe. 
 
 The town was quite hushed. The space of sky 
 above us over the plain looked so large and deep. 
 We seemed to see range after range of stars beyond 
 each other in the clear air. The only sound was the 
 distant, steady rush of the broad river, which gleamed 
 here and there in the starlight. 
 
 Eva was looking up with her calm, bright look. 
 "Thine!" she murmured, "all this is Thine; and we 
 are Thine, and Thou art here! How much happier it 
 is to be able to look up and feel there is no barrier of
 
 ELSE S STORY. 207 
 
 bur own poor ownership between us and Him, the 
 Possessor of heaven and earth! How much poorer we 
 should be if we were lords of this land, like the Elector, 
 and if we said, 'All this is mine!' and so saw only I 
 and mine in it all, instead of God and Grod's!" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "if we ended in saying I and mine-, 
 but I should be very thankful if God gave us a little 
 more out of his abundance, to use for our wants. And 
 yet, how much better things are with us than they 
 were! — the appointment of my father as director of 
 the Elector's printing establishment, instead of a pre- 
 carious struggle for ourselves; and this embroidery of 
 mine! It seems to me, Eva, sometimes, we might be a 
 happy family yet." 
 
 "My book," she replied thoughtfully, "says we 
 shall never be truly satisfied in God, or truly free, un- 
 less all things are one to us, and One is all, and some- 
 thing and nothing are alike. I suppose I am not quite 
 truly free, Cousin Els^, for I cannot like this place 
 quite as much as the old Eisenach home." 
 
 I began to feel quite impatient, and I said, — "Nor 
 can I or any of us ever feel any home quite the same 
 again, since Fritz is gone. But as to feeling something 
 and nothing are alike, I never can, and I will never 
 try. One might as well be dead at once." 
 
 "Yes," said Eva gravely, "I suppose we shall never 
 comprehend it quite, or be quite satisfied and free, until 
 we die." 
 
 We talked no more that night; but I heard her 
 singing one of her favourite hymns : * — 
 
 • Ad perennis vitse fontem mens aitivlt arida, 
 
 Claustra carnis prjest6 frangi clausa quferit anima, 
 Gliscit, ambit, electatur, exul frul patria. 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 The translation only is given above.
 
 208 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 lu the fount of life perennial the parched heari its thirst would slake, 
 And the soul, in flesh imprisoned, longs her prison-walls to break, — 
 Exile, seeking, sighing, yearning in her Fatherland to wake. 
 
 When with cares oppressed and sorrows, only groans her grief can tell, 
 Then she contemplates the glory which she lost when first she fell : 
 Memory of the vanished good the present evil can but swell. 
 
 Wlio can utter what the pleasures and the peace unbroken are 
 Whore arise the pearly mansions, shedding silvery light afar — 
 Festive seats and golden roofs, which glitter like the evening star? 
 
 Wholly of fair stones most precious are those radiant structures made ; 
 With pure gold, like glass transparent, are those shining streets inlaid ; 
 Nothing that defiles can enter, nothing that can soil or fade. 
 
 Stormy winter, burning summer, rage within those regions never ; 
 
 But perpetual bloom of roses, and unfading spring for ever ; 
 
 Lilies gleam, the crocus glows, and dropping balms their scents deliver; 
 
 Honey pui-e, and greenest pastures, — this the land of promise is: 
 Liquid odours soft distilling, perfumes breathing on the breeze; 
 Fruits immortal cluster always on the leafy, fadeless trees. 
 
 There no moon shines chill and changing, there no stars with twipkling 
 
 ray, — 
 For the Lamb of that blest city is at once the sun and day ; 
 Night and time are known no longer, — day shall never fade away. 
 
 There the saints, like suns, are radiant, — like the sun at dawn they glow ; 
 
 Crownfed victors after conflict, all their joys together flow; 
 
 And, secure, they count the battles where they fought the prostrate foe. 
 
 Every stain of flesh is cleansfed, every strife is left behind; 
 Spiritual are their bodies, — perfect unity of mind; 
 Dwelling in deep peace for ever, no offence or grief they find. 
 
 Putting off their mortal vesture, in their Source their souls they steep, — 
 Truth by actual vision learning, on its form their gaze they keep, — 
 Drinking from the living Fountain draughts of living waters deep. 
 
 Time, with all its alternations, enters not those hosts among, — 
 
 Glorious , wakeful , blest, no shade of chance or change o'er them is flung ; 
 
 Sickness cannot touch the deathless, nor old age the ever young. 
 
 There their being is eternal, — things that cease have ceased to be; 
 All corruption there has perished, — there they flourish strong and free ; 
 Thus mortality is swallowed up of life eternally. 
 
 Nought from them is hidden, — knowing Him to whom all things are 
 
 known 
 All the spirit's deep recesses, sinless, to each other shown, — 
 Unity of will and purpose, heart and mind for ever one.
 
 else's story. 209 
 
 Diverse as their varied labours the revrards to each that fall ; 
 But Love, what she loves in others evermore her own doth call: 
 Thus the several joy of each becomes the common joy of all. 
 
 Where the body is, there ever are the eagles gathered ; 
 
 For the saints and for the angels one most blessed feast Is spread, — 
 
 Citizens of either country living on the self-same bread. 
 
 Ever filled and ever seeking, what they have they still desire 
 Hunger there shall fret them never, nor satiety shall tire, — 
 Still enjoying whilst aspiring, in their joy they still aspire. 
 
 There the nev/ song, new for ever, those melodious voices sing, — 
 Ceaseless streams of fullest music through those blessed regions ring ! 
 Crown&d victors ever bringing praises worthy of the King! 
 
 Blessed who the King of Heaven in his beauty thus behold, 
 And, beneath his throne rejoicing, see the universe unfold, — 
 Sun and moon, and stars and planets, radiant in his light unrolled. 
 
 Christ, the Palm of faithful victors! of that city make me free; 
 When my warfare shall be ended, to its mansions lead thou me ; 
 Grant me, with its happy inmates, sharer of thy gifts to be ! 
 
 Let thy soldier, still contending, still be with thy strength supplied; 
 Thou wilt not deny the quiet when the arms are laid aside ; 
 Make me meet with thee for ever in that country to abide ! 
 
 Passion Week. 
 
 Wittenberg has been very full this week. There 
 have been great mystery -plays in the City Church; and 
 in the Electoral Church {Schloss Kirche) all the relics 
 have been solemnly exhibited. Crowds of pilgrims 
 have come from all the neighbouring villages, Wendish 
 and Saxon. It has been very unpleasant to go about 
 the streets, so much beer has been consumed; and the 
 students and peasants have had frequent encounters. 
 It is certainly a comfort that there are large indulgences 
 to be obtained by visiting the relics, for the pilgrims 
 seem to need a great deal of indulgence. 
 
 The sacred mystery-plays were very magnificent. 
 The Judas was wonderfully hateful, — hunchbacked, 
 and dressed like a rich Jewish miser; and the devils 
 
 Schonberg-Cotta Family. I, 14
 
 210 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 -were dreadful enough to terrify tlie cliildren for a year. 
 Little Thekla was dressed in white, with gauze wings, 
 and made a lovely angel — and enjoyed it very much. 
 They wanted Eva to represent one of the holy women 
 at the cross, but she would not. Indeed she nearly 
 wept at the thought, and did not seem to like the whole 
 ceremony at all. "It all really happened!" she said; 
 "they really crucified Him! And He is risen, and living 
 in heaven; and I cannot bear to see it performed, like 
 a fable." 
 
 The second day there was certainly more jesting and 
 satire than I liked. Christopher said it reminded him 
 of "Reinecke Fuchs." 
 
 In the middle of the second day we missed Eva, 
 and when in a few hours I came back to the house to 
 seek her, I found her kneeling by our bed-side, sobbing 
 as if her heart would break. I drew her towards me, 
 but I could not discover that anything at all was^ the 
 matter, except that the young knight who had stopped 
 us in the forest had bowed very respectfully to her, 
 and had shown her a few dried violets, which he said 
 he should always keep in remembrance of her and her 
 words. 
 
 It did not seem to me so unpardonable an oft'ence, 
 and I said so. 
 
 "He had no right to keep anything for my sake!" 
 she sobbed. "No one will ever have any right to keep 
 anything for my sake; and if Fritz had been here, he 
 would never have allowed it." 
 
 "Little Eva," I said, "what has become of your 
 'Theologia Teutsch?' Your book says you are to take 
 all things meekly, and be indifferent, I suppose, alike 
 to admiration and reproach."
 
 ELSi:'s STORY. 211 
 
 "Cousin Elsfe," said Eva very gravely, rising and 
 standing erect before me with clasped bands, "I bave 
 not learned the 'Tbeologia' through well yet, but I 
 mean to try. The world seems to me very evil, and 
 very sad. And there seems no place in it for an orphan 
 girl like me. There is no rest except in being a wife 
 or a nun. A wife I shall never be, and therefore, dear, 
 dear Els^," she continued, kneeling down again, and 
 throwing her arms around me, "I have just decided — 
 I will go to the convent where Aunt Agnes is, and be 
 a nun." 
 
 I did not attempt to remonstrate; but the next day 
 I told the mother, who said gravely, " She will be hap- 
 pier there, poor child! "We must let her go." 
 
 But she became pale as death, her lip quivered, 
 and she added, — • "Yes, Grod must have the clioicest 
 of alb It is in vain indeed to fight against Him!" 
 Then, fearing she might have wounded me, she kissed 
 me and said, — "Since Fritz left, she has grown so 
 very dear! But how can I murmur when my loving 
 Els6 is spared to us?" 
 
 "Mother," I said, "do you think Aunt Agnes has 
 been praying again for this?" 
 
 "Probably!" she replied, with a startled look. "She 
 did look very earnestly at Eva." 
 
 "Then, mother," I replied, "I shall write to Aunt 
 Agnes at once, to tell her that she is not to make any 
 such prayers for you or for me. For, as to me, it is 
 entirely useless. And if you were to imitate St. Eliza- 
 beth, and leave us, it would break all our hearts, and 
 the family would go to ruin altogether." 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Elsfe?" replied my 
 mother meekly. "It is too late indeed fur me to think 
 
 14*
 
 212 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHOXBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 of being a saint. I can never hope for anything beyond 
 this, that God in his great mercy may one day pardon 
 me my sins, and receive me as the lowest of his 
 creatures, for the sake of his dear Son who died npon 
 the cross. What could you mean by my imitating St. 
 Elizabeth?" 
 
 I felt re-assured, and did not pursue the subject, 
 fearing it might suggest what I dreaded to my mother. 
 
 Wittenberg, June ii. 
 
 And so Eva and Fritz are gone, the two religious 
 ones of the family. They are gone into their separate 
 convents, to be made saints, and have left us all to 
 struggle on in the world without them, — with all that 
 helped us to be less earthly taken from us. It seems 
 to me as if a lovely picture of the Holy Mother had 
 been removed from the dwelling-room since Eva has 
 gone, and instead we had nothing left but family por- 
 traits, and paintings of common earthly things; or as if 
 a window opening towards the stars had been covered 
 by a low ceiling. She was always like a little bit of 
 heaven among us. 
 
 I miss her in our little room at night. Her prayers 
 seemed to hallow it. I miss her sweet, holy songs at 
 my embroidery; and now I have nothing to turn my 
 thoughts from the arrangements for to-morrow, and the 
 troubles of yesterday, and the perplexities of to-day. I 
 had no idea how I must have been leaning on her. 
 She always seemed so child-like, and so above my 
 petty cares — and in practical things I certainly under- 
 stood much more; and yet, in some way, whenever I 
 talked anything over with her, it always seemed to 
 take the burden away, — to change cares into duties
 
 ELSi:'s STORY. 213 
 
 and clear my thoughts wonderfully, — just by lighten- 
 ing my heart. It was not that she suggested what to 
 do; but she made me feel things were working for good, 
 not for harm — that God in some way ordered them — 
 and then the right thoughts seemed to come to me 
 naturally. 
 
 Our mother, I am afraid, grieves as much as she 
 did for Fritz; but she tries to hide it, lest we should 
 feel her ungrateful for the love of her children. 
 
 I have a terrible dread sometimes that Aunt Agnes 
 will get her prayers answered about our precious mother 
 also, — if not in one way, in another. She looks so 
 pale and spiritless. 
 
 June 20. 
 
 Christopher has just returned from taking Eva to 
 the convent. He says she shed many tears when he 
 left her; which is a comfort. I could not bear to think 
 that something and nothing were alike to her yet! He 
 told me also one thing, which has made me rather 
 anxious. On the journey, Eva begged him to take 
 care of our father's sight, which, she said, she thought 
 had been failing a little lately. And just before they 
 separated she brought him a little jar of distilled eye- 
 water, which the nuns were skilful in making, and sent 
 it to our father with Sister Ave's love. 
 
 Certainly my father has read less lately; and now 
 I think of it, he has asked me once or twice to find 
 things for him, and to help him about his models, in a 
 way he never used to do. 
 
 It is strange that Eva, with those deep, earnest, 
 quiet eyes, which seemed to look about so little, always 
 saw before any of us what every one wanted. Darling 
 child! she will remember us, then, and our little cares.
 
 214 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 And she will Lave some eye-water to make, which will 
 be much better for her than reading all day in that 
 melancholy "Theologia Tentsch." 
 
 But are we to call our Eva, Ave? She gave these 
 lines of the hymn in her own writing to Christopher, 
 to bring to me. She often used to sing it, and has 
 explained the words to me: — 
 
 "Ave, maris stella 
 Dei mater alma 
 Atque semper virgo 
 Felix coeli porta. 
 
 Summs illud Ave 
 Gabrielis ore 
 Funda nos in pace 
 Mutans nomen EvoEy 
 
 It is not an uncommon name, I know, with nuns. 
 
 Well, dearly as I loved the old name, I cannot 
 complain of the change. Sister Ave will be as dear 
 to me as Cousin Eva, only a little bit further off, and 
 nearer heaven. 
 
 Her living so near heaven, while she was with us, 
 never seemed to make her further off, but nearer to 
 us all. 
 
 Now, however, it cannot, of course, be the same. 
 
 Our grandmother remains steadfast to the baptismal 
 name. 
 
 "Receiving that Ave from the lips of Gabriel, the 
 blessed Mother transformed the name of our mother 
 Eva! And now our child Eva is on her way to be- 
 come Saint Ave, — God's angel Ave in heaven! 
 
 June 30. 
 
 The young knight we met in the forest has called 
 at our house to-day.
 
 else's story. 215 
 
 I could scarcely command my voice at first to tell 
 him where our Eva is, because I cannot help partly 
 blaming him for her leaving us at last. 
 
 "At Nimptschen!" he said; "then she was noble, 
 after all. None but maidens of noble houses are ad- 
 mitted there." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "our mother's family is noble." 
 
 "She was too heavenly for this world!" he mur- 
 mured. "Her face, and something in her words and 
 tones, have haunted me like a holy vision, or a church 
 hymn, ever since I saw her." 
 
 I could not feel as indignant with the young knight 
 as Eva did. And he seemed so interested in our 
 father's models, that we could not refuse him permis- 
 sion to come and see us again. 
 
 Yes, our Eva was, I suppose, as he says, too reli- 
 gious and too heavenly for this world. 
 
 Only, as so many of us have, after all, to live in 
 the world, unless the world is to come to an end alto- 
 gether, it would be a great blessing if God had made 
 a religion for us poor, secular people, as well as one 
 for the monks and nuns.
 
 216 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FASIILY. 
 
 FRITz's STORY. 
 
 Rome, Augustinian Convent. 
 
 Holy as this city necessarily must be, consecrated 
 by relics of the church's most holy dead, consecrated 
 by the presence of her living Head, I scarcely think 
 religion is as deep in the hearts of these Italians as of 
 our poor Germans in the cold north. 
 
 But I may mistake; feeling of all kinds mani- 
 fests itself in such different ways with different char- 
 acters. 
 
 Certainly the churches are thronged on all great 
 occasions, and the festas are brilliant. But the people 
 seem rather to regard them as holidays and dramatic 
 entertainments, than as the solemn and sacred festivals 
 we consider them in Saxony. This morning, for in- 
 stance, I heard two women criticizing a procession in 
 words such as these, as far as the little Italian I have 
 picked up enabled me to understand them: — 
 
 "Ah, Nina mia, the angels are nothing to-day, you 
 should have seen our Lucia last year! Every one said 
 she was heavenly. If the priests do not arrange it 
 better, people will scarcely care to attend. Besides, the 
 music was execrable." 
 
 "Ah, the nuns of the Cistercian convent understand 
 how to manage a ceremony. They have ideas! Did 
 you see their Bambino last Christmas? Such lace! and 
 the cradle of tortoise-shell, fit for an emperor, as it 
 should be! And then their robes for the Madonna on
 
 Fritz's story. 217 
 
 her fetes! Cloth of gold embroidered with pearls and 
 brilliants worth a treasury!" 
 
 "Yes," replied the other, lowering her voice, "I 
 have been told the history of those robes. A certain 
 lady who was powerful at the late Holy Father's court, 
 is said to have presented the dress in which she ap- 
 peared on some state occasion to the nuns just as she 
 wore it." 
 
 "Did she become a penitent, then?" 
 
 "A penitent? I do not know, such an act of 
 penitence would purchase indulgences and masses to 
 last at least for some time." 
 
 Brother" Martin and I do not so much affect these 
 gorgeous processions. These Italians, with their 
 glorious skies and the rich colouring of their beautiful 
 land require more splendour in their religion than our 
 German eyes can easily gaze on undazzled. 
 
 It rather perplexed us to see the magnificent capa- 
 risons of the horses of the cardinals; and more especially 
 to behold the Holy Father sitting on a fair palfrey, 
 bearing the sacred Host. In Germany, the loftiest 
 earthly dignity prostrates itself low before that In- 
 effable Presence. 
 
 But my mind becomes confused. Heaven forbid 
 that I should call the Vicar of Christ an earthly 
 dignitary! Is he not the representative and oracle of 
 God on earth? 
 
 For this reason, — no doubt in painful contradic- 
 tion to the reverent awe natural to every Christian be- 
 fore the Holy Sacrament, — the Holy Father submits 
 to sitting enthroned in the church, and receiving the 
 body of our Creator through a golden tube presented 
 to him by a kneeling cardinal.
 
 218 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 It must be very difficult for liim to separate be- 
 tween the office and the person. It is difficult enough 
 for us. But for the human spirit not yet made per- 
 fect to receive these religious honours must be over- 
 whelming. 
 
 Doubtless, at night, when the holy father humbles 
 himself in solitude before God, his self-abasement is as 
 much deeper than that of ordinary Christians as his 
 exaltation is greater. 
 
 I must confess that it is an inexpressible relief to 
 me to retire to the solitude of my cell at night, and 
 pray to Him of whom Brother Martin and I spoke in 
 the Black Forest; to wiiom the homage of the universe 
 is no burden, because it is not mere prostration before 
 an office, but adoration of a person. "Holy, holy, holy, 
 Lord God Almighty: heaven and earth are full of thy 
 
 glory'\ 
 
 Holiness — to which almightiness is but an attri- 
 bute, — Holy One, who hast loved and given thine 
 Holy One for a sinful world, miserere nobis! 
 
 KOME, JmIi). 
 
 We have diligently visited all the holy relics, and 
 offered prayers at every altar at which especial indul- 
 gences are procured, for ourselves and others. 
 
 Brother Martin once said he could almost wish his 
 father and mother (whom he dearly loves) were dead, 
 that he might avail himself of the privileges of this 
 holy city to deliver their souls from purgatory. 
 
 He says masses whenever he can. But the Italian 
 priests are often impatient with him because he recites 
 the office so slowly. I heard one of them say, con- 
 temptuously, he had accomplished thirty masses while
 
 Fritz's story. 219 
 
 Brother Martin only finished one. And more than 
 once they hurry him forward, saying "Passa! passa!" 
 
 There is a strange disappointment in these cere- 
 monies to me, and, I think, often to him. I seem to 
 expect so much more , — not more pomp , of that there 
 is abundance; but when the ceremony itself begins, to 
 which all the pomp of music, and processions of ca- 
 valiers, and richly-robed priests, and costly shrines, 
 are mere preliminary accessories, it seems often so 
 poor! The kernel inside all this gorgeous shell seems 
 to the eye of sense like a little poor withered dust. 
 
 To the eye of sense! Yes, I forget. These are the 
 splendours oi faith, which faith only can behold. 
 
 To-day we gazed on the Veronica, — the holy im- 
 pression left by our Saviour's face on the cloth St. 
 Veronica presented to him to wipe his brow, bowed 
 under the weight of the cross. We had looked forward 
 to this sight for days; for seven thousand years of in- 
 dulgence from penance are attached to it. 
 
 But when the moment came Brother Martin and I 
 could see nothing but a black board hung with a cloth, 
 before which another white cloth was held. In a few 
 minutes this was withdrawn, and the great moment 
 was over, the glimpse of the sacred thing on which 
 hung the fate of seven thousand years! For some 
 time Brother Martin and I did not speak of it. I 
 feared there had been some imperfection in my looking, 
 which might affect the seven thousand years; but ob- 
 serving his countenance rather downcast, I told my 
 difficulty, and found that he also had seen nothing but 
 a white cloth. 
 
 The skulls of St. Peter and St. Paul perplexed us 
 still more because they had so much the appearance
 
 220 CHRONICLES OF (THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 of being carved in wood. But in the crowd we could 
 not approach very close; and doubtless Satau uses de- 
 vices to blind the eyes even of the faithful. 
 
 One relic excited my amazement much — the halter 
 with which Judas hanged himself! It could scarcely 
 be termed a hohj relic. I wonder who preserved it, 
 when so many other precious things are lost. Scarcely 
 the apostles-, perhaps the scribes, out of malice. 
 
 The Eomans, I observe, seem to care little for 
 what to us is the kernel and marrow of these cere- 
 monies — the exhibition of the holy relics. They 
 seem more occupied in comparing the pomp of one 
 year, or of one church, with another. 
 
 We must not, I suppose, measure the good things 
 do us by our own thoughts and feelings, but simply 
 accept it on the testimony of the Church. 
 
 Otherwise I might be tempted to imagine that the 
 relics of pagan Rome do my spirit more good than 
 gazing on the sacred ashes or bones of martyrs or 
 apostles. When I walk over the heaps of shapeless 
 ruin, so many feet beneath which lies buried the 
 grandeur of the old imperial city; or when I wander 
 among the broken arches of the gigantic Coliseum, 
 where the martyrs fought with wild beasts, — great 
 thoughts seem to grow naturally in my mind, and I 
 feel how great truth is, and how little empires are. 
 
 I see an empire solid as this Coliseum crumble into 
 ruins as undistinguishable as the dust of those streets, 
 before the word of that once despised Jew of Tarsus, 
 "in bodily presence weak," who was beheaded here. 
 Or, again, in the ancient Pantheon, when the music 
 of Christian chants rises among the shadowy forms of 
 the old vanquished gods painted on the walls, and the
 
 rniTz's STORY. 221 
 
 liglit streams down, not from painted windows in the 
 walls, but from the glowing heavens above, every note 
 of the service echoes like a peal of triumph, and fills 
 my heart with thankfulness. 
 
 But my happiest hours here are spent in the church 
 of my patron, St. Sebastian, without the walls, built 
 over the ancient catacombs. 
 
 Countless martyrs, they say, rest in peace in these 
 ancient sepulchres. They have not been opened for 
 centuries; but they are believed to wind in subterranean 
 passages far beneath the ancient city. In those dark 
 depths the ancient Church took refuge from persecu- 
 tion; there she laid her martyrs; and there, over their 
 tombs, she chanted hymns of triumph, and held com- 
 munion with Him for wliom they died. In that church 
 I spend hours. I have no wish to descend into those 
 sacred sepulchres, and pry among the graves the re- 
 surrection trump will open soon enough. I like to 
 think of the holy dead, lying undisturbed and quiet 
 there; of their spirits in Paradise; of their faith triumph- 
 ant in the city which massacred them. 
 
 No doubt they also had their perplexities, and 
 wondered why the wicked triumph, and sighed to God, 
 "How long, Lord, how long?" 
 
 And yet I cannot help wishing I had lived and 
 died among them, and had not been born in times 
 when we see Satan appear, not in his genuine hideous- 
 ness , but as an angel of light. 
 
 For of the wickedness that prevails in this Christian 
 Rome, alas, who can speak! of the shameless sin, the 
 violence, the pride, the mockery of sacred things! 
 
 In the Coliseum, in the Pantheon, in the Church 
 of St. Sebastian, I feel an atom — but an atom in a
 
 222 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 solid, God-governed world, where truth is mightiest; 
 — insignificant in myself as the little mosses which 
 flutter on these ancient stones; but yet a little moss on 
 a great rock which cannot be shaken — the rock of 
 God's providence and love. In the busy city, I feel 
 tossed hither and thither on a sea which seems to rage 
 and heave at its own wild will, without aim or mean- 
 ing — a sea of human passion. Among the ruins, I 
 commune with the spirits of our great and holy dead, 
 who live unto God. At the exhibition of the sacred 
 relics, my heart is drawn down to the mere perishable 
 dust, decorated with the miserable pomps of the little 
 men of the day. 
 
 And then I return to the convent and reproach 
 myself for censoriousness, and unbelief, and pride, and 
 try to remember that the benefits of these ceremonies 
 and exhibitions are only to be understood by faith, 
 and are not to be judged by inward feeling, or even 
 by their moral results. 
 
 The Church, the Holy Father, solemnly declare 
 that pardons and blessings incalculable, to ourselves 
 and others, flow from so many Paternosters and Aves 
 recited at certain altars, or from seeing the Veronica 
 or the other relics. I have perfonned the acts, and I 
 must at my peril believe in their efficacy. 
 
 But Brother Martin and I are often sorely dis- 
 couraged at the wickedness we see and hear around us. 
 A few days since he was at a feast with several pre- 
 lates and great men of the Church, and the fashion 
 among them seemed to be to jest at all that is most 
 sacred. Some avowed their disbelief in one portion of 
 the faith, and some in others; but all in a light and 
 laughing way, as if it mattered little to any of them.
 
 FRITZ S STORY. 223 
 
 One present related lio-w tliey sometimes substituted the 
 words panis es, et panis manelis in the mass , instead of 
 the words of consecration, and then amused themselves 
 with watching the people adore what was, after all, no 
 consecrated Host, but a mere piece of bread. 
 
 The Romans themselves we have heard declare, 
 that if there be a hell, Rome is built over it. They 
 have a couplet, — 
 
 "Vivere qui sancte vultis, discedite Roma: 
 Omnia liic esse licent, non licet esse probum."* 
 
 Rome! in sacredness as Jerusalem, in wicked- 
 ness as Babylon, how bitter is the conflict that breaks 
 forth in the heart at seeing holy places and holy 
 character thus disjoined! How overwhelming the 
 doubts that rush back on the spirit again and again, 
 as to the very existence of holiness or truth in the 
 universe, when we behold the deeds of Satan prevailing 
 in the very metropolis of the kingdom of God! 
 
 Rome, August. 
 
 Mechanically, we continue to go through every 
 detail of the prescribed round of devotions, believing 
 against experience, and hoping against hope. 
 
 To-day Brother Martin went to accomplish the as- 
 cent of the Santa Scala — the Holy Staircase — which 
 once, they say, formed part of Pilate's house. I had 
 crept up the sacred steps before, and stood watching 
 him as, on his knees, he slowly mounted step after 
 step of the hard stone, worn into hollows, by the 
 knees of penitents and pilgrims. An indulgence for a 
 
 * ["Ye who would live holily, depart from Rome: all things are 
 allowed here, except to be upright."]
 
 224 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 tlaousand years — indulgence from penance — is at- 
 tached to this act of devotion. Patiently he crept half 
 way up the staircase, when, to my amazement, he sud- 
 denly stood erect, lifted his face heavenward, and, in 
 another moment, turned and walked slowly down 
 again. 
 
 He seemed absorbed in thought when he rejoined 
 me; and it was not until some time afterwards that he 
 told me the meaning of this sudden abandonment of 
 his purpose. 
 
 He said that, as he was toiling up, a voice, as if 
 from heaven, seemed to whisper to him the old, well- 
 known words, which had been his battle-cry in so many 
 a victorious combat, — "77«e just shall live hij faithy 
 
 He seemed awakened, as if from a nightmare, and 
 restored to himself. He dared not creep up another 
 step; but, rising from his knees, he stood upright, like 
 a man suddenly loosed from bonds and fetters, and, 
 with the firm step of a freeman, he descended the 
 Staircase and walked from the place. 
 
 August iSH. 
 
 To-night there has been an assassination. A corpse 
 was found near our convent gates, pierced with many 
 wounds. But no one seems to think much of it. Such 
 things are constantly occurring, they say; and the only 
 interest seems to be as to the nature of the quarrel 
 which led to it. 
 
 "A prelate is mixed up with it," the monks whisper; 
 "one of the late Pope's family. It will not be in- 
 vestigated." 
 
 But these crimes of passion seem to me com- 
 prehensible and excusable, compared with the spirit of
 
 Fritz's story. 225 
 
 of levity and mockery wliicli pervades all classes. In 
 such acts of revenge you see human nature in ruins; 
 yet in the ruins you can trace something of the ancient 
 dignity. But in this jesting, scornful spirit, which 
 mocks at sacredness in the service of God, at virtue in 
 women, and at truth and honour in men, all traces of 
 God's image seem crushed and trodden into shapeless, 
 incoherent dust. 
 
 From such thoughts I often take refuge in the 
 Campagna, and feel a refreshment in its desolate 
 spaces, its solitary wastes, its traces of- material ruin. 
 
 The ruins of empires and of imperial edifices do 
 not depress me. The immortality of the race and of 
 the soul rises grandly in contrast. In the Campagna 
 we see the ruins of imperial Eome; but in Rome we 
 see the ruin of our race and nature. And what shall 
 console us for that, when the presence of all that Christ- 
 ians most venerate is powerless to arrest it? 
 
 Were it not for some memories of a home at 
 Eisenach, on which I dare not dwell too much, it aeems 
 at times as if the very thought of purity and truth 
 would fade from my heart. 
 
 Rome, August 
 
 Brother Martin, during the intervals of the business 
 of his Order, which is slowly winding its way among 
 the intricacies of the Roman courts, is turning his at- 
 tention to the study of Hebrew, under the Rabbi Elias 
 Levita. 
 
 I study also with the Rabbi, and have had the great 
 benefit, moreover, of hearing lectures from the Byzantine 
 Greek professor, Argyropylos 
 
 Two altogether new worlds seem to open to me 
 
 Sckonberg-Cotta Family. I. 15
 
 226 CHRONICLES OF THE SCUONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 through these men, — one in the far distances of time, 
 and the other in those of space. 
 
 The Rabbi, one of the race which is a by-word and 
 a scorn among us from boyhood, to my surprise seems 
 to glory in his nation and his pedigree, with a pride 
 which looks down on the antiquity of our noblest 
 lineages as mushrooms of a day. I had no conception 
 that underneath the misery and the obsequious de- 
 meanour of the Jews such lofty feelings existed. And 
 yet, what wonder is it! Before Rome was built, Jeru- 
 salem was a sacred and royal city; and now that the 
 empire and the people of Rome have passed for centuries, 
 this nation, fallen before their prime, still exists to wit- 
 ness their fall. 
 
 I went once to the door of their synagogue, in the 
 Ghetto. There were no shrines in it, no altars, no 
 visible symbols of sacred things, except the roll of the 
 Law, which was reverently taken out of a sacred 
 treasury and read aloud. Yet there seemed something 
 sublime in this symbolizing of the presence of God 
 only by a voice reading the words which, ages ago, 
 He spoke to their prophets in the Holy Land. 
 
 "Why have you no altar?" I asked onoe of one 
 of the Rabbis. 
 
 "Our altar can only be raised when our temple is 
 built," was the reply. "Our temple can only rise in 
 the city and on the hill of our God. But," he con- 
 tinued, in a low, bitter tone, "when our altar and 
 temple are restored, it will not be to offer incense to 
 the painted image of a Hebrew maiden." 
 
 I have thought of the words often since. But were 
 they not blasphemy? I must not dare recall them. 
 
 But those Greeks! they are Christians, and yet not
 
 FRITZ S STORY. 227 
 
 of our communion. As Argyropylos speaks, I under- 
 stand for the first time that a Church exists in the 
 East, as ancient as the Church of Western Europe, and 
 as extensive, which acknowledges the Holy Trinity and 
 the Creeds, but owns no allegiance to the Holy Father 
 the Pope. 
 
 The world is much larger and older than Elsfe or 
 I thought at Eisenach. May not God's kingdom be 
 much larger than some think at Eome? 
 
 In the presence of monuments which date back to 
 days before Christianity, and of men who speak the 
 language of Moses, and, with slight variations, the lan- 
 guage of Homer, our Germany seems in its infancy 
 indeed. Would to God it were in its infancy, and 
 that a glorious youth and prime may succeed, when 
 these old, decrepit nations are worn out and gone! 
 
 Yet Heaven forbid that I should call Rome de- 
 crepit — Rome, on whose brow rests, not the perishable 
 crown of earthly dominion, but the tiara of the king- 
 dom of God. 
 
 September. 
 
 The mission which brought Brother Martin hither 
 is nearly accomplished. We shall soon — we may at 
 a day's notice — leave Rome and return to Germany. 
 
 And what have we gained by our pilgrimage? 
 
 A store of indulgences beyond calculation. And 
 knowledge; eyes opened to see good and evil. En- 
 nobling knowledge! glimpses into rich worlds of human 
 life and thought, which humble the heart in expanding 
 the mind. Bitter knowledge ! illusions dispelled, aspira- 
 tions crushed. We have learned that the heart of 
 Christendom is a moral plague-spot; that spiritual 
 privileges and moral goodness have no kind of connec- 
 
 15*
 
 228 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 tion, because wliere the former are at the highest per- 
 fection, the latter is at the lowest point of degradation. 
 
 We have learned that on earth there is no place to 
 which the heart can turn as a sanctuary, if by a sanc- 
 tuary we mean not merely a refuge from the punish- 
 ment of sin, but a place in which to grow holy. 
 
 In one sense, Rome may, indeed, be called the 
 sanctuary of the world ! It seems as if half the criminals 
 in the world had found a refuge here. 
 
 When I think of Eome in future as a city of the 
 living, I shall think of assassination, treachery, avarice, 
 a spirit of universal mockery, which seems only the 
 foam over an abyss of universal despair; mockery of 
 all virtue, based on disbelief in all truth. 
 
 It is only as a city of the dead that my heart will 
 revert to Rome as a holy place. She has indeed built, 
 and built beautifully, the sepulchres of the prophets. 
 
 Those hidden catacombs, where the holy dead rest, 
 far under the streets of the city, — too far for traf- 
 fickers in sacred bones to disturb them, — among these 
 the imagination can rest, like those beatified ones, in 
 peace. 
 
 The spiritual life of Rome seems to be among her 
 dead. Among the living all seems spiritual corruption 
 and death. 
 
 May Grod and the saints have mercy on me if I 
 say what is sinful. Does not the scum necessarily rise 
 to the surface? Do not acts of violence and words of 
 mockery necessarily make more noise in the world than 
 prayers? How do I know how many humble hearts 
 there are in those countless convents there, that secretly 
 ofi'er acceptable incense to God, and keep the perpetual 
 lamp of devotion burning in the sight of God?
 
 Fritz's story. 229 
 
 How do I know what deeper and better thoughts 
 lie hidden under that veil of levity? Only I often feel 
 that if God had not made me a believer through his 
 word, by the voice of Brother Martin in the Black 
 Forest, Rome might too easily have made me an in- 
 fidel. And it is certainly true, that to be a Christian 
 at Rome as well as elsewhere, (indeed, more than else- 
 where) one must breast the tide, and must walk by 
 faith, and not by sight. 
 
 But we have performed the pilgrimage. We have 
 conscientiously visited all the shrines; we have recited 
 as many as possible of the privileged acts of devotion, 
 Paters and Aves, at the privileged shrines. 
 
 Great benefits must result to us from these things. 
 
 But benefits of what kind ? Moral ? How can that 
 be ? When shall I efface from my memory the polluting 
 words and works I have seen and heard at Rome? 
 Spiritual? Scarcely, if by spiritual we are to under- 
 stand a devout mind, joy in God, and nearness to him. 
 When, since that night in the Black Forest, have I 
 found prayer so difficult, doubts so overwhelming, the 
 thoughts of God and heaven so dim, as at Rome ? 
 
 The benefits, then, that we have received, must be 
 ecclesiastical, — those that the Church promises and 
 dispenses. And what are these ecclesiastical benefits? 
 Pardon? But is it not written that God gives this 
 freely to those who believe on his Son? Peace? But 
 is not that the legacy of the Saviour to all who love 
 him? 
 
 What then? Indulgences. Indulgences from what? 
 From the temporal consequences of sin ? Too obviously 
 not these. Do the ecclesiastical indulgences save men 
 from disease, and sorrow, and death ? Is it, then, from
 
 230 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERQ-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 the eternal consequences of sin ? Did not tlie Lamb of 
 God, dying for us on tlie cross, bear oiir sins tbere, 
 and blot tliem out? What then remains, which the in- 
 dulgences can deliver from ? Penance and purgatory. 
 What then are penance and purgatory ? Has penance 
 in itself no curative effect, that we can be healed of 
 our sins by escaping as well as by performing it? 
 Have purgatorial fires no purifying power, that we can 
 be pui'ified as much by repeating a few words of de- 
 votion at certain altars as by centuries of agony in the 
 flames ? 
 
 All these questions rise before me from time to 
 time , and I find no reply. If I mention them to my 
 confessor, he says, — 
 
 "These are temptations of the Devil. You must 
 not listen to them. They are vain and presumptuous 
 questions. There are no keys on earth to open these 
 dooi-s." 
 
 Are there any keys on earth to loch them again, 
 when once they have been opened ? 
 
 "You Germans," others of the Italian priests say, 
 "take everything with such desperate seriousness. It 
 is probably owing to your long winters and the heavi- 
 ness of your northern climate, which must, no doubt, 
 be very depressing to the spirits." 
 
 Holy Mary ! and these Italians, if life is so ligbt a 
 matter to them, will not they also have one day to 
 take death "with desperate seriousness," and judgment 
 and eternity, although there will be no long winters, T 
 suppose, and no heavy northern climate, to depress the 
 spirits in that other world. 
 
 We are going back to Germany at last. Strangely ( 
 has the world enlarged to me since we came here. We
 
 Fritz's stort. 231 
 
 are accredited pilgrims; we have performed every pre- 
 scribed duty, and availed ourselves of every proffered 
 privilege. And yet it is not because of the regret of 
 C[uitting the Holy City that our hearts are full of the 
 gravest melancholy as we turn away from Rome. 
 
 When I compare the recollections of this Rome 
 with those of a home at Eisenach, I am tempted in my 
 heart to feel as if Germany, and not Rome, were the 
 Holy Place, and our pilgrimage were beginning, instead 
 of ending, as we turn our faces northward !
 
 232 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 XI. 
 
 EVA's STORY. 
 
 Cistercian Convent, Nimptschen, 1511. 
 
 Life cannot, at the utmost, last very long, althougli 
 at seventeen we may be tempted to think the way be- 
 tween us and heaven interminable. 
 
 For the convent is certainly not heaven; I never 
 expected it would be. It is not nearly so much like 
 heaven , I think , as Aunt Cotta's home ; because love 
 seems to me to be the essential joy of heaven, and 
 there is more love in that home than here. 
 
 I am not at all disappointed. I did not expect a 
 haven of rest, but only a sphere where I might serve 
 God better, and, at all events, not be a burden on dear 
 Aunt Cotta. For I feel sure Uncle Cotta will become 
 blind; and they have so much difficulty to struggle on, 
 as it is. 
 
 And the world is full of dangers for a young 
 orphan girl like me ; and I am afraid they might want 
 me to marry some one, which I never could. 
 
 I have no doubt God will give me some work to 
 do for him here, and that is all the happiness I look 
 for. Not that I think there are not other kinds of 
 happiness in the world which are not wrong; but they 
 are not for me. 
 
 I shall never think it was wrong to love them all 
 at Eisenach as much as I did, and do, whatever the 
 confessor may say. I shall be better all my life, and 
 all the life beyond, I believe, for the love God gave
 
 eva's story. 233 
 
 them for me, and me for them, and for having known 
 Cousin Fritz. I wish very much he would write to 
 me ; and sometimes I think I will write to him. I feel 
 sure it would do us both good. He always said it did 
 him good to talk and read the dear old Latin hymns 
 with me •, and I know they never seemed more real 
 and true than when I sang them to him. But the 
 father confessor says it would be exceedingly perilous 
 for our souls to hold such a correspondence ; and he 
 asked me if I did not think more of my cousin than 
 of the hymns when I sang them to him, which, he 
 says, would have been a great sin. I am sure I can- 
 not tell exactly how the thoughts were balanced, or 
 from what source each drop of pleasure flowed. It 
 was all blended together. It was joy to sing the 
 hymns, and it was joy for Fritz to like to hear them; 
 and where one joy overflowed into the other I cannot 
 tell. I believe God gave me both ; and I do not see 
 that I need care to divide one from the other. Who 
 cares, when the Elbe is flowing past its willows and 
 oaks at Wittenberg, which part of its waters was dis- 
 solved by the sun from the pure snows on the moun- 
 tains, and which came trickling from some little humble 
 spring on the sandy plains ? Both springs and snows 
 came originally from the clouds above; and both, as 
 they flow blended on together, make the grass spring 
 and the leaf-buds swell, and all the world rejoice. 
 
 The heart with which we love each other and with 
 which we love God, is it not the same? Only God is 
 all good, and we are all His, therefore we should love 
 Him best. I think I do, or I should be more desolate 
 here than I am, away from all but him. 
 
 That is what I understand by my "Theologia Ger-
 
 234 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERaCOTTA FAMILY. 
 
 manica," which Elsfe does not like. I begin with my 
 father's legacy — "God so loved the world, that he 
 gave his Son;" and then I think of the crucifix, and 
 of the love of Him who died for us; and, in the light 
 of these, I love to read in my book of Him who is the 
 Supreme Goodness, whose will is our rest, and who is 
 himself the joy of all our joys, and our joy when we 
 have no other joy. The things I do not comprehend 
 in the book, I leave, like so many other things. I am 
 but a poor girl of seventeen, and how can I expect to 
 understand everything ? Only I never let the things I 
 do not understand perplex me about those I do. 
 
 Therefore, when my confessor told me to examine 
 my heart, and see if there were not wrong and idola- 
 trous thoughts mixed up with my love for them all at 
 Eisenach, I said at once, looking up at him — 
 
 "Yes, father, I did not love them half enough, for 
 all their love to me." 
 
 I think he must have been satisfied; for although 
 he looked perplexed, he did not ask me any more ques- 
 tions. 
 
 I feel very sorry for many of the nuns, especially 
 for the old nuns. They seem to me like children, and 
 yet not child-like. The merest trifles appear to excite 
 or trouble them. They speak of the convent as if it 
 were the world, and of the world as if it were hell. 
 It is a childhood with no hope, no youth and woman- 
 hood before it. It reminds me of the stunted oaks we 
 passed on Diiben Heath , between Wittenberg and 
 lyeipsic, which will never be full-grown, and yet are 
 not saplings. 
 
 Then there is one. Sister Beatrice, whom the nuns 
 eeem to think very inferior to themselves, because they
 
 eva's story. 235 
 
 say she was forced into the convent by her relatives, 
 to prevent her marrying some one they did not like, 
 and could never be induced to take the vows until her 
 lover died, , — which, they say, is hardly worthy of the 
 name of a vocation at all. 
 
 She does not seem to think so either, but moves 
 about in a subdued, broken-spirited way, as if she felt 
 herself a creature belonging neither to the Church nor 
 to the world. 
 
 The other evening she had been on an errand for 
 the prioress through the snow, and returned blue with 
 cold. She had made some mistake in the message, and 
 was ordered at once, with contemptuous words, to her 
 cell, to finish a penance by reciting certain prayers. 
 
 I could not help following her. When I found her, 
 she was sitting on her pallet shivering, with the prayer- 
 book before her. I crept into the cell, and, sitting 
 down beside her, began to chafe her poor icy hands. 
 
 At first she tried to withdraw them, murmuring that 
 she had a penance to perform; and then her eyes wan- 
 dered from the book to mine. She gazed wouderingly 
 at me for some moments, and then she burst into tears, 
 and said, — 
 
 "Oh, do not do that! It makes me think of the old 
 nursery at home. And my mother is dead; all are dead, 
 and I cannot die." 
 
 She let me put my arms round her, however; and, 
 in faint, broken words, the whole history came out. 
 
 "I am not here from choice," she said. "I should 
 never have been here if my mother had not died ; and I 
 should never have taken the vows if he had not died, 
 whatever they had done to me; for we were betrothed, 
 and we had vowed before God we would be true to
 
 236 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 each other till deatli. And wliy is not one vow as good 
 as another? When they told me he was dead, I took 
 the vows — or, at least, I let them put the veil on me, 
 and said the words as I was told, after the priest; for 
 I did not care what I did. And so I am a nun. I 
 have no wish now to be anything else. But it will do 
 me no good to be a nun, for I loved Eberhard first, 
 and I loved him best; and now that he is dead, I love 
 no one, and have no hope in heaven or earth. I try, 
 indeed , not to think of him , because they say that is 
 sin; but I cannot think of happiness without him, if I 
 try for ever." 
 
 I said, "I do not think it is wrong for you to think 
 of him." 
 
 Her face brightened for an instant, and then she 
 shook her head, and said, — 
 
 "Ah, you are a child; you are an angel. You do 
 not know." And then she began to weep again, but 
 more quietly. "I wish you had seen him; then you 
 would understand better. It was not wrong for me to 
 love him once; and he was so different from every one 
 else — so true and gentle, and so brave." 
 
 I listened while she continued to speak of him; and 
 at last, looking wistfully at me, she said, in a low, 
 timid voice, "I cannot help trusting you." And she 
 drew from inside a fold of her robe a little piece of 
 yellow paper, with a few words written on it, in pale 
 faded ink, and a lock of brown hair. 
 
 "Do you think it is very wrong?" she asked. "I 
 have never told the confessor, because I am not quite 
 sure if it is a sin to keep it; and I am quite sure the 
 sisters would take it from me if they knew. Do you 
 think it is wrong?"
 
 EVA S STORY. 237 
 
 The words were very simple — expressions of uu- 
 cliaugeable affection , and a prayer that God would 
 bless her and keep them for each other till better 
 times. 
 
 I could not speak, I felt so sorry; and she mur- 
 mured, nervously taking her poor treasures from my 
 hands, "You do not think it right. But you will not 
 tell? Perhaps one day I shall be better, and be able 
 to give them up; but not yet. I have nothing else." 
 
 Then I tried to tell her that she had something else; 
 — that God loved her and had pity on her, and 
 that perhaps He was only answering the prayer of her 
 betrothed, and guarding them in His blessed keeping 
 until they should meet in better times. At length she 
 seemed to take comfort; and I knelt down with her, 
 and we said together the prayers she had been com- 
 manded to recite. 
 
 When I rose, she said thoughtfully, "You seem 
 to pray as if some one in heaven really listened and 
 cared." 
 
 "Yes," I said; "God does listen and care." 
 
 "Even to me?" she asked; "even for me? Will 
 he not despise me, like the holy sisterhood?" 
 
 "He scorns no one; and they say the lowest are 
 nearest Him, the Highest." 
 
 " I can certainly never be anything but the lowest," 
 she said. "It is fit no one here should think much of 
 me, for I have only given the refuse of my life to God. 
 And besides, I had never much power to think; and 
 the little I had seems gone since Eberhard died. I had 
 only a little power to love; and I thought that was dead. 
 But since you came, I begin to think I might yet love 
 a little."
 
 238 CHRONICLES OF THE SGHONBERG-COTTA FAAHLY. 
 
 As I left the cell she called me back. 
 
 "Wliat shall I do when my thoughts wander, as 
 they always do in the long prayers?" she asked. 
 
 "Make shorter prayers, I think, oftener," I said, 
 "I think that would please God as much." 
 
 August iSH. 
 
 The months pass on very much the same here ; but 
 I do not find them monotonous. I am permitted by the 
 prioress to wait on the sick, and also often to teach the 
 younger novices. This little world grows larger to me 
 every week. It is a world of human hearts, — and 
 what a world there is in every heart! 
 
 For instance, Aunt Agnes! I begin now to know 
 her. All the sisterhood look up to her as almost a saint 
 already. But I do not believe she thinks so herself. 
 For many months after I entered the cloister she scarce- 
 ly seemed to notice me; but last week she brought her- 
 self into a low fever by the additional fasts and sever- 
 ities she has been imposing on herself lately. 
 
 It was my night to watch in the infirmary when she 
 became ill. 
 
 At first she seemed to shrink from receiving any- 
 thing at my hands. 
 
 "Can they not send any one else?" she asked 
 sternly. 
 
 "It is appointed to me," I said, "in the order of 
 the sisterhood." 
 
 She bowed her head, and made no further opposi- 
 tion to my nursing her. And it was very sweet to me, 
 because in spite of all the settled, grave impassiveness 
 of her countenance, I could not help seeing something 
 there which recalled dear Aunt Cotta.
 
 eva's story. 239 
 
 She spoke to me very little; but I felt her large 
 deep eyes following ine as I stirred little concoctions 
 of herbs on the fire, or crept softly about the room. 
 Towards morning she said, "Child, you are tired — 
 come and lie down;" and she pointed to a little bed 
 beside her own. 
 
 Peremptory as were the words, there was a tone in 
 them different from the usual metallic firmness in her 
 voice — which froze Else's heart — a tremulousness 
 which was almost tender. I could not resist the com- 
 mand, especially as she said she felt much better; and 
 in a few minutes, bad nurse that I was, I fell asleep. 
 
 How long I slept I know not, but I was awakened 
 by a slight movement in the room, and looking up, 
 I saw Aunt Agnes's bed empty. In my first moments 
 of bewildered terror I thought of arousing the sisterhood, 
 when I noticed that the door of the infirmary which 
 opened on the gallery of the chapel was slightly ajar. 
 Softly I stole towards it, and there, in the front of the 
 gallery, wrapped in a sheet, knelt Aunt Agnes, looking 
 more than ever like the picture of death which she 
 always recalled to Els6. Her lips , which were as 
 bloodless as her face, moved with passionate rapidity; 
 her thin hands feebly counted the black beads of her 
 rosary; and her eyes were fixed on a picture of the 
 Mater Dolorosa with the seven swords in her heart, over 
 one of the altars. There was no impassiveness in the 
 poor sharp features and trembling lips then. Her whole 
 soul seemed going forth in an agonized appeal to that 
 pierced heart; and I heard her murmur, "In vain! 
 Holy Virgin, plead for me! it has been all in vain. 
 The flesh is no more dead in me than the first day. 
 That child's face and voice stir my heart more than all
 
 240 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERU-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 thy sorrows. This feeble tie of nature lias more power 
 in me than all the relationships of the heavenly city. 
 It has been in vain, — all, all in vain. I cannot 
 quench the fires of earth in my heart." 
 
 I scarcely ventured to interrupt her, but as she 
 bowed her head on her hands, and fell almost prostrate 
 on the floor of the chapel, while her whole frame 
 heaved with repressed sobs, I went forward and gently 
 lifted her, saying, "Sister Agnes, I am responsible for 
 the sick to-night. You must come back." 
 
 She did not resist. A shudder passed through her; 
 then the old stony look came back to her face, more 
 rigid than ever, and she suffered me to wrap her up in 
 the bed, and give her a warm drink. 
 
 I do not know whether she suspects that I heard 
 her. She is more reserved with me than ever; but to 
 me those resolute, fixed features, and that hard, firm 
 voice, will never more be what they were before. 
 
 No wonder that the admiration of the sisterhood 
 has no power to elate Aunt Agnes, and that their wish 
 to elect her sub-prioress had no seduction for her. She 
 is striving in her inmost soul after an ideal, which, 
 could she reach it, what would she be? 
 
 As regards all human feeling and earthly life, 
 dead! 
 
 And just as she hoped this was attained, a voice — 
 a poor, friendly child's voice — falls on her ear, and 
 she finds that what she deemed death was only a dream 
 in an undisturbed slumber, and that the whole work 
 has to begin again. 
 
 It is a fearful combat, this concentrating all the 
 powers of life on producing death in life. 
 
 Can this be what God means?
 
 eva's story. 241 
 
 Thank God, at least, that my vocation is lower. 
 The humbling work in the infirmary, and the trials of 
 temper in the school of the novices, seem to teach me 
 more, and to make me feel that I am nothing and have 
 nothing in myself, more than all my efforts to feel 
 nothing. 
 
 My "Theologia" says, indeed, that true self-abnega- 
 tion is freedom; and freedom cannot be attained until 
 we are above the fear of punishment or the hope of 
 reward. Elsfe cannot bear this-, and when I spoke of 
 it the other day to poor Sister Beatrice, she said it be- 
 wildered her poor brain altogether to think of it. But 
 I do not take it in that sense. I think it must mean 
 that love is its own reward; and grieving Him we love, 
 who has so loved us, our worst punishment. And that 
 seems to me q[uite true. 
 
 Schuiiherrj-Cotlu Familij. 1. 16
 
 242 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 XII. 
 
 else's STORY. 
 
 Wittenberg, June iSli. 
 
 Our Eva seems liappy at the convent. Slie has 
 taken the vows, and is now finally Sister Ave. She 
 has also sent ns some eye-water for the father. But in 
 spite of all we can do his sight seems failing. 
 
 In some way or other I think my father's loss of 
 sight has brought blessing to the family. 
 
 Our grandmother, who is very feeble now, and 
 seldom leaves her chair by the stove, has become much 
 more tolerant of his schemes since there is no chance 
 of their being carried out, and listens with remarkable 
 patience to his statements of the wonders he would 
 have achieved had his sight only been continued a few 
 years. 
 
 Nor does the father himself seem as much dejected 
 as one would have expected. 
 
 When I was comforting him to-day by saying how 
 much less anxious our mother looks, he replied, — 
 
 "Yes, my child, the prseter pluperfect subjunctive 
 is a more comfortable tense to live in than the future 
 subjunctive, for any length of time." 
 
 I looked perplexed, and he explained, — 
 
 "It is easier, when once one has made up one's 
 mind to it, to say, 'Had I had this I might have done 
 that,' than, 'If I can have this I shall do that,' — at 
 least it is easier to the anxious and excitable feminine 
 mind."
 
 else's story. 243 
 
 "But to you, father?" 
 
 "To me it is a consolation at last to be appreciated, 
 fiven your grandmother understands at length how 
 great the results would have been if I could only have 
 had eye-sight to perfect that last invention for using 
 steam to draw water." 
 
 Our grandmother must certainly have put great 
 restraint on her usually frank expression of opinion, if 
 she has led our father to believe she had any con- 
 fidence in that last scheme; for, I must confess, that 
 of all our father's inventions and discoveries, the whole 
 family consider this idea about the steam the wildest 
 and most impracticable of all. The secret of perpetual 
 motion might, no doubt, be discovered, and a clock be 
 constructed which would never need winding up, — I 
 see no great difficulty in that. It might be quite pos- 
 sible to transmute lead into gold, or iron into silver, if 
 one could find exactly the right proportions. My father 
 has explained all that to me quite clearly. The elixir 
 which would prolong life indefinitely seems to me a 
 little more difficult; but this notion of pumping up 
 water by means of the steam which issues from boiling 
 water and disperses in an instant, we all agree in 
 thinking quite visionary, and out of the question; so 
 that it is, perhaps, as well our poor father should not 
 have thrown away any more expense or time on it. 
 Besides, we had abeady had two or three explosions 
 from his experiments ; and some of the neighbours were 
 beginning to say very unpleasant things about the 
 black art, and witchcraft; so that on the whole, no 
 doubt, it is all for the best. 
 
 I would not, however, for the world, have hinted 
 this to him; therefore I only replied, evasively, — 
 
 16*
 
 244 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "Our gi-andmotlier has indeed been mucli gentler 
 and more placid lately." 
 
 "It is not only that," he rejoined; "she has an in- 
 telligence far superior to that of most women, — she 
 comprehends. And then," he continued, "I am not 
 without hopes that that young nobleman, Ulrich von 
 Gersdorf, who comes here so frequently and asks about 
 Eva, may one day cany out my schemes. He and 
 Chriemhild begin to enter into the idea quite intelli- 
 gently. Besides, there is Master Reichenbach, the rich 
 merchant to whom your Aunt Cotta introduced us; he 
 has money enough to carry things out in the best style. 
 He certainly does not promise much, but he is an in- 
 telligent listener, and that is a great step. Gottfried 
 Reichenbach is an enlightened man for a merchant, 
 although he is, perhaps, rather slow in comprehension, 
 and a little over-cautious." 
 
 "He is not over-cautious in his alms, father," I 
 said; "at least Dr. Martin Luther says so." 
 
 "Perhaps not," he said. "On the whole, certainly, 
 the citizens of Wittenberg are very superior to those 
 of Eisenach, who were incredulous and dull to the last 
 degree. It will be a great thing if Reichenbach and 
 von Gersdorf take up this invention. Reichenbach can 
 introduce it at once among the patrician families of the 
 great cities with whom he is connected, and von Gers- 
 dorf would promote it among his kindred knights. It 
 would not, indeed, be such an advantage to our family 
 as if Pollux and Christopher, or our poor Fritz, had 
 carried it out. But never mind, Els^, my child, we 
 were children of Adam before we were Cottas. We 
 must think not only of the family, but of the world." 
 
 Master Reichenbach, indeed, may take a genuine
 
 else's story. 245 
 
 interest in my father's plans, but I have suspicions of 
 Ulrich von Gersdorf. He seenas to me far more in- 
 terested in Chriemhild's embroidery than in our father's 
 steam-pump; and although he continues to talk of Eva 
 as if he thought her an angel, he certainly sometimes 
 looks at Chriemhild as if he thought her a creature as 
 interesting. 
 
 I do not like such transitions; and, besides, his 
 conversation is so very different, in my opinion, from 
 Master Reichenbach's. Ulrich von Gersdorf has no ex- 
 perience of life beyond a boar-hiant, a combat with 
 some rival knights, or a foray on some defenceless 
 merchants. His life has been passed in the castle of 
 an uncle of his in the Thuringian forest; yet I cannot 
 wonder that Chriemhild listens, with a glow of interest 
 on her face, as she sits with her eyes bent on her 
 embroidery, to his stories of ambushes and daring sur- 
 prises. But to me this life seems rude and lawless. 
 UMch's uncle was unmarried; and they had no ladies 
 in the castle except a widowed aunt of Ulrich's, who 
 seems to be as proud as Lucifer, and especially to pride 
 herself on being able to wear pearls and velvet, which 
 no biirgher's wife may appear in. 
 
 Ulrich's mother died early. I faiicy she was gentler 
 and of a truer nobleness. He says the only book they 
 have in the castle is an old illuminated Missal which 
 belonged to her. He has another aunt, Beatrice, who 
 is in the convent at Nimptschen with our Eva. They 
 sent her there to prevent her marrying the son of a 
 family with whom they had a hereditary feud. I begin 
 to feel, as Fritz used to say, that the life of these petty 
 nobles is not nearly so noble as that of the burgliers. 
 They seem to know nothing of the world beyond the
 
 246 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 little district they rule by terror. They have no honest 
 way of maintaining themselves, but live by the hard 
 toil of their poor oppressed peasants, and by the plunder 
 of their enemies. 
 
 HeiT Keichenbach, on the other hand, is connected 
 with the patrician families in the great city of Niirn- 
 berg; and although he does not talk much, he has 
 histories to tell of painters and poets, and great events 
 in the broad field of the world. Ah, I wish he had 
 known Fritz! He likes to hear me talk of him. 
 
 And then, moreover, Herr Reichenbach has much 
 to tell me about Brother Martin Luther, who is at the 
 head of the Eremite or Augustine Convent here, and 
 seems to me to be the great man of Wittenberg; at 
 least people appear to like him or dislike him more 
 than any one else here. 
 
 Octoher19, 151%. 
 
 This has been a great day at Wittenberg. Friar 
 Martin Luther has been created Doctor of Divinity. 
 Master Reichenbach procured us excellent places, and 
 we saw the degree conferred on him by Dr. Andrew 
 Bodenstein of Carlstadt. 
 
 The great bell of the city churches, which only 
 sounds on great occasions, pealed as if for a Church 
 festival; all the university authorities marched in pro- 
 cession through the streets; and after taking the vow. 
 Friar Martin was solemnly invested with the doctor's 
 robes, hat, and ring — a massive gold ring presented 
 to him by the Elector. 
 
 But the part which impressed me most was the oath, 
 which Dr. Luther pronounced most solemnly, so that 
 the words, in his fine clear voice, rang through the
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 247 
 
 silence. He repeated it after Dr. Bodenstein, who i.s 
 commonly called Carlstadt. The words in Latin, Herr 
 Reichenbach says, were these (he wrote them for me to 
 send to Eva), — 
 
 "Juro me veritatem evangelicam viriliter defen- 
 surum*," which Herr Reichenbach translated, '"'' I swear 
 vigorously to defend evangelical truths 
 
 This oath is only required at one other university 
 besides Wittenberg — that of Tubingen. Dr. Luther 
 swore it as if he were a knight of olden times, vowing 
 to risk life and limb in some sacred cause. To me, 
 who could not understand the words, his manner was 
 more that of a warrior swearing on his sword, than of 
 a doctor of divinity. 
 
 And Master Reichenbach says, "What he has pro- 
 mised he will do!" 
 
 Chriemhild laughs at Master Reichenbach, because 
 he has entered his name on the list of university students, 
 in order to attend Dr. Luther's lectures. 
 
 "With his grave old face, and his grey hair," she 
 says, "to sit among those noisy student boys!" 
 
 But I can see nothing laughable in it. I think it 
 is a sign of something noble, for a man in the prime 
 of life to be content to learn as a little child. And 
 besides, whatever Chriemhild may say, if Herr Reichen- 
 bach is a little bald, and has a few grey hairs, it is not on 
 account of age. Grown men, who think and feel, in 
 these stormy times, cannot be expected to have smooth 
 faces and full curly locks, like Ulrich von Gersdcrf. 
 
 I am sure if I were a man twice as old as he is, 
 there is nothing I should like better than to attend Dr. 
 Luther's lectures. I have heard him preach once in 
 the City Church, and it was quite different from any
 
 248 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 otlier sermon I ever heard. He spoke of God and 
 Christ, and heaven and hell, with as much conviction 
 and simplicity as if he had heen pleading some cause 
 of human wrong, or relating some great events which 
 happened on earth yesterday, instead of reciting it like 
 a piece of Latin grammar, as so many of the monks do. 
 
 I began almost to feel as if I might at last find a 
 religion that would do for me. Even Christopher was 
 attentive. He said Dr. Luther called everything by 
 such plain names, one could not help understanding. 
 
 We have seen him once at our house. He was so 
 respectful to our grandmother, and so patient with my 
 father, and he spoke so kindly of Fritz. 
 
 Fritz has written to us, and has recommended us to 
 take Dr. Martin Luther for our family confessor. He 
 says he can never repay the good Dr. Luther has done 
 to him. And certainly he writes more brightly and 
 hopefully than he ever has since he left us, although 
 he has, alas! finally taken those dreadful, irrevocable 
 vows. 
 
 March ISIS. 
 
 Dr. Luther has consented to be our confessor-, and 
 thank God I do believe at last I have found the religion 
 which may make me, even me, love God. Dr. Luther 
 says I have entirely misunderstood God and the Lord 
 Jesus Christ. He seemed to understand all I have 
 been longing for and perplexing myself about all my 
 life, with a glance. When I began to falter out my 
 confessions and difficulties to him, he seemed to see 
 them all spread before him, and explained them all to 
 me. He says I have been thinking of God as a severe 
 judge, an exactor, a harsh creditor, when he is a rich
 
 else's story. 249 
 
 Giver, a forgiving Saviour, yea, the very fountain of 
 inexpressible love. 
 
 "God's love," he said, "gives in sucli a way that 
 it flows from a Father's heart, the well-spring of all 
 good. The heart of the giver makes the gift dear and 
 precious; as among ourselves we say of even a trifling- 
 gift, 'It comes from a hand we love,' and look not so 
 much at the gift as at the heart. 
 
 "If we will only consider him in his works, we 
 shall learn that God is nothing else but pure, unutter- 
 able .love, greater and more than any one can think. 
 The shameful thing is, that the world does not regard 
 this, nor thank him for it, although every day it sees 
 before it such countless benefits from him-, and it 
 deserves for its ingratitude that the sun should not 
 shine another moment longer, nor the grass grow; yet 
 He ceases not, without a moment's interval, to love us, 
 and to do us good. Language must fail me to speak 
 of his spiritual gifts. Here he pours forth for us, not 
 sun and moon, nor heaven and earth, but his own 
 heart, his beloved Son, so that He sufi'ered His blood 
 to be shed, and the most shameful death to be inflicted 
 on Him, for us wretched, wicked, thankless creatures. 
 How, then, can we say anything but that God is an 
 abyss of endless, unfathomable love? 
 
 "The whole Bible," he says, "is full of this,— that 
 we should not doubt, but be absolutely certain, that 
 God is merciful, gracious, patient, faithful, and true; 
 who not only will keep his promises, but already has 
 kept and done abundantly beyond what he promised, 
 since he has given his own Son for our sins on the 
 cross, that all who believe on Him should not perish, 
 but have everlasting life.
 
 250 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERQ-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 "Whoever believes and embraces this," be added, 
 "that God has given bis otly Son to die for us poor 
 sinners, to bim it is no longer any doubt, but tbe most 
 certain truth, that God reconciles us to himself, and is 
 favourable and heartily gracious to us. 
 
 "Since the gospel shows us Christ the Son of God, 
 who, according to the will of the Father, has offered 
 himself up for us , and lias satisfied for sin , the heart 
 can no more doubt God's goodness and grace, — is no 
 more aflFrighted, nor flies from God, but sets all its hope 
 in his goodness and mercy." 
 
 "The apostles are always exhorting us," he says, 
 "to continue in the love of God, — that is, that each 
 one should entirely conclude in his heart that he is 
 loved by God; and they set before our eyes a certain 
 proof of it, in that God has not spared his Son, but 
 given bim for the world, that through His death the 
 world might again have life. 
 
 "It is God's honour and glory to give liberally. 
 His nature is all pure love-, so that if any one would 
 describe or picture God, he must describe One who is 
 pure love, the divine nature being nothing else than a 
 furnace and glow of such love that it fills heaven and 
 earth. 
 
 "Love is an image of God, and not a dead image, 
 nor one painted on paper, but the living essence of the 
 divine nature, which bums full of all goodness. 
 
 "He is not harsh, as we are to those who have in- 
 jured us. We withdraw our hand and close our purse, 
 but he is kind to the unthankful and the evil. 
 
 "He sees thee in thy poverty and wretchedness, 
 and knows thou hast nothing to pay. Therefore he 
 freely forgives, and gives thee all.
 
 ELSi:'s STORY. 251 
 
 "It is not to be borne," he said, "tbat Christian 
 people should say. We cannot know whether God is 
 favourable to us or not. On the contrary, we should 
 learn to say, I know that I believe in Christ, and there- 
 fore that God is my gracious Father." 
 
 "What is the reason that God gives?" he said, one 
 day. "What moves him to it? Nothing but unutter- 
 able love, because he delights to give and to bless. 
 What does he give? Not empires merely, not a world 
 full of silver and gold, not heaven and earth only, but 
 his Son, who is as great as himself, — that is, eternal 
 and incomprehensible; a gift as infinite as the Giver, 
 the very spring and fountain of all grace; yea, the pos- 
 session and property of all the riches and treasures of 
 God." 
 
 Dr. Luther said also, that the best name by which 
 we can think of God is Father. "It is a loving, sweet, 
 deep, heart-touching name; for the name of father is in 
 its nature full of inborn sweetness and comfort. There- 
 fore, also, we must confess ourselves children of God; 
 for by this name we deeply touch our God, since there 
 is not a sweeter sound to the father than the voice of 
 the child." 
 
 All this is wonderful to me. I scarcely dare to 
 open my hand, and take this belief home to my heart. 
 
 Is it then, indeed, thus we must think of God? Is 
 he, indeed, as Dr. Luther says, ready to listen to our 
 feeblest cry, ready to forgive us, nd to help us? 
 
 And if he is indeed like this, and cares what we 
 think of him, how I must have grieved him all these 
 years ! 
 
 Not a moment longer! I will not distrust Thee a 
 moment longer. See, heavenly Father, I have come back !
 
 252 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA. FAMILY. 
 
 Can it, indeed, be possible that God is pleased 
 wben we trust him, — pleased when we pray, simply 
 because be loves us? 
 
 Can it indeed be true, as Dr. Lutber says, that love 
 is our greatest virtue; and tbat we please God best by 
 being kind to eacb other, just because that is what is 
 most like him? 
 
 I am sure it is true. It is so good, it must be true. 
 
 Then it is possible for me, even for me, to love 
 God. How is it possible for me not to love him? And 
 it is possible for me, even for me, to be religious, if to 
 be religious is to love God, and to do whatever we can 
 to make those around us happy. 
 
 But if this is indeed religion , it is happiness , it is 
 freedom, — it is life! 
 
 Why, then, are so many of the religious people I 
 know of a sad countenance, as if they were bond- 
 servants toiling for a hard master? 
 
 I must ask Dr. Luther. 
 
 April, iSi3. 
 
 I have asked Dr. Luther, and he says it is because 
 the devil makes a great deal of the religion we see; 
 that he pretends to be Christ, and comes and terrifies 
 people, and scourges them with the remembrance of 
 their sins, and tells them they must not dare to lift up 
 their eyes to heaven, because God is so holy, and they 
 are so sinful. But it is all because he knows that if 
 they icmild lift their eyes to heaven, their terrors would 
 vanish, and they would see Christ there, not as the 
 Judge, and the hard, exacting Creditor, but as the 
 pitiful, loving Saviour. 
 
 I find it a great comfort to believe in this way in 
 the devil. Has he not been trying to teach me his
 
 else's story. 253 
 
 religion all my life? And now I have found bim out! 
 He lias been telling me lies, not about myself (Dr. 
 Luther says he cannot paint us more sinful than we 
 are), but lies about God. It helps me almost as much 
 to hear Dr. Luther speak about the devil as about God 
 — "the malignant, sad spirit," he says, "who loves to 
 make every one sad." 
 
 With God's help, I will never believe him again. 
 But Dr. Luther said I shall, often; that he will come 
 again and malign God, and assail my peace in so 
 many ways, that it will be long before I learn to 
 know him. 
 
 I shuddered when he told me this; but then he re- 
 assured me, by telling me a beautiful story, which, he 
 said, was from the Bible. It was about a Good Shep- 
 herd and silly, wandering sheep, and a wolf who sought 
 to devour them. "All the care of the Shepherd," he 
 said, "is in the tenderest way to attract the sheep to 
 keep close to him; and when they wander, he goes and 
 seeks them, takes them on his shoulder, and carries 
 them safe home. All our wisdom," he says, "is to keep 
 always near this Good Shepherd, who is Christ, and to 
 listen to His voice." 
 
 I know the Lord Jesus Christ is called the Good 
 Shepherd. I have seen the picture of him carrying the 
 lamb on his shoulder. But until Dr. Luther explained 
 it to me, I thought it meant that he was the Lord and 
 Owner of all the world, who are his flock. But I never 
 thought that he cared for me as his sheep, sought me, 
 called me, watched me, even me, day by day. 
 
 Other people, no doubt, have understood all this 
 before. And yet, if so, why do not the monks preach 
 of it? Why should Aunt Agnes serve Him in the
 
 254 CHROKICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 convent by penances and self-tormentings, instead of 
 serving Him in the world by being kind and helping 
 all around? Why should our dear, gentle mother, have 
 such sad, self-reproachful thoughts, and feel as if she 
 and our family were under a curse? 
 
 Dr. Luther said that Christ was "made a curse for 
 us;" that he, the unspotted and undefiled Lamb of 
 God, bore the curse for us on the cross; and that we, 
 believing in him, are not under the curse, but under 
 the blessing — that we are blessed. 
 
 This, then, is what the crucifix and the Agnus Dei 
 mean. 
 
 Doubtless many around me have understood all 
 this long ago. I am sure, at least, that our Eva under- 
 stood it. 
 
 "But what inexpressible joy for me, as I sit at my 
 embroidery in the garden, to look up through the 
 apple-blossoms and the fluttering leaves, and to see 
 God's love there; — to listen to the thrush that has 
 built his nest among them, and feel God's love, who 
 cares for the birds, in every note that swells his little 
 throat; — to look beyond to the bright blue depths of 
 the sky, and feel they are a canopy of blessing — the 
 roof of the house of my Father; that if clouds pass 
 over, it is the unchangeable light they veil; that, even 
 when the day itself passes, I shall see that the night 
 itself only unveils new worlds of light; and to know 
 that if I could unwrap fold after fold of God's universe, 
 I should only unfold more and more blessing, and see 
 deeper and deeper into the love which is at the heart 
 of all! 
 
 And then what joy again to turn to my embroidery, 
 and, as my fingers busily ply the needle, to think —
 
 else's story. 255 
 
 "This is to lielp my fatlier and mother; this, even 
 this, is a little work of love. And as I sit and stitch, 
 God is pleased with me, and with what I am doing. 
 He gives me this to do, as much as he gives the priests 
 to pray, and Dr. Luther to preach. I am serving Him, 
 and he is near me in my little corner of the world, and 
 is pleased with me — even with me!" 
 
 Oh, Fritz and Eva! if you had both known this, 
 need you have left us to go and serve God so far 
 away? 
 
 Have I indeed, like St. Christopher, found my bank 
 of the river, where I can serve my Saviour by helping 
 all the pilgrims I can? 
 
 Better, better than St. Christopher-, for do I not 
 hnow the voice that calls to me — 
 
 "Elsfe! Else! do this for me?" 
 
 And now I do ijot feel at all afraid to grow old, 
 which is a great relief, as I am already six-and-twenty, 
 and the children think me nearly as old as our mother. 
 For what is growing old, if Dr. Martin Luther is in- 
 deed right (and I am sure he is), but growing daily 
 nearer God, and His holy, happy home! Dr. Luther 
 says our Saviour called heaven his Father's house. 
 
 Not that I wish to leave this world. While God 
 wills we should stay here, and is with us, is it not 
 home-like enough for us? 
 
 May, i5i3. 
 
 This morning I was busy making a favourite pud- 
 ding of the father's, when I heard Herr Reichenbach's 
 voice at the door. He went into the dwelling-room, 
 and soon afterwards Chriemhild, Atlantis, and Thekla, 
 invaded the kitchen.
 
 256 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBEKG-COTXA FAMILY. 
 
 "HoiT Eoiclieubaoli \\-islies to have a consultation," 
 said Cbriomliikl, "and we are sent away." 
 
 I felt anxious for a moment. It seemed like the 
 old Eisenach days; but since we have been at Witteu- 
 berii^ we have never gone into debt; so that, after think- 
 ing a little, I was re-assurod. The children were full 
 of speculations what it would be about. Chriemhild 
 thouiiht it was some affair of state, because she had 
 seen him in close confabulation with Ulrich von Gers- 
 dorf as he came up the street, and they had probably 
 been discussing some question about the privileges of 
 the nobles and burchors. 
 
 Atlantis believed it had something to do with Dr. 
 !>[;min Luther, because HeiT Koichenbach had presented 
 the mother with a new pamphlet of the Doctor's on 
 entering the room. 
 
 Thekla was siu-e it was at last the opportunity to 
 make use of one of the father's discoveries, — whether 
 the perpetual clock, or the transmut<\tion of metals, or 
 the steam-pump, she could not tell; but she was per- 
 suaded that it was somethins: which was to make our 
 fortunes at hist, because Herr Reichenbach looked so 
 very much in earnest, and was so very respectful to 
 our father. 
 
 They had not much time to discuss their various 
 theories when we heard Herr Eeichenbach's step pass 
 hurriedly through the passage, and the door closed 
 hastily after him. 
 
 "Do yoti call that a consultation?" said Chriem- 
 hild, scornfully; "he has not been here ten minutes." 
 
 The next instant our mother appeai-ed, looking very 
 pale, and with her voice trembling as she said, — 
 
 '"Els^, my child, we want you."
 
 else's story. 257 
 
 "You are to know first, Els^," said the cliilrlren. 
 "Well, it is only fair; you are a dear good eldest 
 sister, and will be sure to tell us." 
 
 I scarcely knew why, hut my fingers did not seem 
 as much under control as usual, and it was some mo- 
 ments before I could put the finishing stroke to my 
 pudding, wash ray hands, pull down the white sleeves 
 to my wrists, and join them in the dwelling-room, ho 
 that my mother re-appeared with an impatience very 
 unusual for her, and led me in herself. 
 
 "Els^, darling, come here," said my father. And 
 when he felt ray hand in his, he added, "Herr Iteichen- 
 bach left a message for thee. Other parents often 
 decide these matters for their cliildren, but thy mother 
 and I wish to leave the matter to thee. — Couldst thou 
 be his wife?" 
 
 The question took me by surprise, and I could only 
 say, — 
 
 "Can it be possible he thinks of me?" 
 
 "I see nothing impossible in that, my Els^," said 
 my father-, "but at all events Herr Eeichenbach has 
 placed that beyond a doubt. The question now is 
 whether our Els^ can think of him." 
 
 I could not say anything. 
 
 "Think well before you reject him," said my father; 
 "he is a good and generous man, he desires no portion 
 with thee; he says thou wouldst be a portion for a 
 king; and I must say he is very intelligent and well- 
 informed, and can appreciate scientific inventions as 
 few men in these days can." 
 
 "I do not wish him to be dismissed," I faltered. 
 
 But my tender-hearted mother said, laying my head 
 on her shoulder, — 
 
 Schonierg-Cotta FamUy. J. 1<
 
 258 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBBRG-COITA FAMILY. 
 
 "Yet think well, darling, before you accept him. 
 We are not poor now, and we need no stranger's wealth 
 to make us happy. Heaven forbid that our child should 
 sacrifice herself for us. Herr Reichenbach is, no doubt, 
 a good and wise man, but I know well a young maiden's 
 fancy. He is little, I know — not tall and stalwart, 
 like our Fritz and Christopher; and he is a little bald, 
 and he is not very young, and rather grave and silent, 
 and young girls — " 
 
 "But, mother," I said, "I am not a young girl, I 
 am six-and-twenty •, and I do not think Herr Reichen- 
 bach old, and I never noticed that he was bald, and I 
 am sure to me he is not silent." 
 
 "That will do, Els^," said the grandmother, laugh- 
 ing from her corner by the stove. "Son and daughter, 
 let these two settle it together. They will arrange 
 matters better than we shall for them." 
 
 And in the evening Herr Reichenbach came again, 
 and everything was arranged. 
 
 "And that is what the consultation was about!" 
 said the children, not without some disappointment. 
 "It seems such an ordinary thing," said Atlantis, "we 
 are so used to seeing Herr Reichenbach. He comes 
 almost every day." 
 
 "I do not see that that is any objection," said 
 Chriemhild; "but it seems hardly like being married, 
 only just to cross the street. His house is just op- 
 posite." 
 
 "But It is a great deal prettier than ours," said 
 Thekla. "I like Herr Reichenbach; no one ever took 
 such an interest in my drawings as he does. He tells 
 me where they are wrong, and shows me how to make 
 them right, as if he really felt it of some consecj^uence;
 
 ELSE S STORY. 259 
 
 which it is, you know, Els6, because one day I mean 
 to embroider and help the family, like you. And no 
 one was ever so kind to Nix as he is. He took the 
 dog on his knee the other day, and drew out a splinter 
 which had lamed him, which Nix would not let any 
 one else do but me. Nix is very fond of Herr 
 Reichenbach, and so am I. He is much wiser, I think, 
 than Ulrich, who teases Nix, and pretends never to 
 know my cats from my cows-, and I do not see that 
 he is much older; besides, I could not bear our Else 
 to live a step further off." 
 
 And Thekla climbed up on my lap and kissed me, 
 while Nix stood on his hind legs and barked, evidently 
 thinking it was a great occasion. So that two of the 
 family at least have given their consent. 
 
 But none of the family know yet what Herr Reichen- 
 bach said to me when we stood for a few minutes by 
 the window, before he left this evening. He said — 
 
 "Elsfe, it is God who gives me this joy. Ever since 
 the evening when you all arrived at Wittenberg, and 
 I saw you tenderly helping the aged and directing the 
 young ones, and never flurried in all the bustle, but 
 always at leisure to thank any one for any little kind- 
 ness, or to help any one out of any little difficulty, I 
 thought you were the light of this home, and I prayed 
 God one day to make you the light of mine." 
 
 Ah! that shows how love veils people's faults; but 
 he did not know Fritz , and not much of Eva. They 
 were the true sunshine of our home. However, at all 
 events, with God's help, I will do my very best to 
 make Herr Reichenbach's home bright. 
 
 But the best of all is, I am not afraid to accept 
 this blessing. I believe it is God, out of his inexpres- 
 
 17*
 
 260 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBEUG-COTTA FASITLY. 
 
 sible love, as Dr. Luther says, who has given it me, 
 and I am not afraid He will think me too happy. 
 
 Before I had Dr. Luther for my confessor, I should 
 never have known if it was to be blessing or a curse ; but 
 now I am not afraid. A chain seems to have dropped 
 from my heart, and a veil from my eyes, and I can 
 call God Father, and take everything fearlessly from 
 him. 
 
 And I know Gottfried feels the same. Since I 
 never had a vocation for the higher religious life, it is 
 an especial mercy for me to have found a religion 
 which enables a very poor every-day maiden in the 
 world to love God and to seek his blessing. 
 
 June. 
 
 Our mother has been full of little tender apologies 
 to me this week, for having called Gottfried (Herr 
 Reichenbach says I am to call him so) old, and bald, 
 and little, and grave. 
 
 "You know, darling, I only meant I did not want 
 you to accept him for our sakes. And after all, as 
 you say, he is scarcely bald; and they say all men 
 who think much lose their hair early; and I am sure 
 it is no advantage to be always talking; and every 
 one cannot be as tall as our Fritz and Christopher." 
 
 "And after all, dear mother," said the grandmother, 
 "Elsfe did not choose Herr Reichenbach for your sakes; 
 but are you quite sure he did not choose Elsfe for her 
 father's sake? He was always so interested in the 
 steam-pump!" 
 
 My mother and I are much cheered by seeing the 
 quiet influence Herr Reichenbach seems to have over 
 Christopher, whose companions and late hours have
 
 JELLSES STORY. 261 
 
 often caused us anxiety lately. Christopher is not 
 distrustful of him, because he is no priest, and no 
 great favourer of monks and convents 5 and he is not 
 so much afraid about Christopher as we timid, anxious 
 women were beginning to be. He thinks there is good 
 metal in him; and he says the best ore cannot look 
 like gold until it is fused. It is so difficult for us 
 women, who have to watch from our quiet homes afar, 
 to distinguish the glow of the smelting furnace from 
 the glare of a conflagration. 
 
 Wittenberg, September ISiS. 
 
 This morning, Herr Reichenbach, Christopher, and 
 Ulrich von Gersdorf (who is studying here for a time) 
 came in full of excitement, from a discussion they had 
 been hearing between Dr. Luther and some of the 
 doctors and professors of Erfurt. 
 
 I do not know that I quite clearly understand what 
 it was about; but they seemed to think it of great im- 
 portance. 
 
 Our house has become rather a gathering-place of 
 late; partly, I think, on account of ray father's blind- 
 ness, which always insures that there will be some one 
 at home. 
 
 It seems that Dr. Luther attacks the old methods 
 of teaching in the universities, which makes the older 
 professors look on him as a dangerous innovator, while 
 the young delight in him as a hero fighting their 
 battles. And yet the authorities Dr. Luther wishes to 
 re-instate are older than those he attacks. He demands 
 that nothing shall be received as the standard of theo- 
 logical truth except the Holy Scriptures. I cannot 
 understand why there should be so much conflict about
 
 262 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 tMs, because I tliouglit all we believed was founded on 
 the Holy Scriptures. I suppose it is not; but if not, on 
 wbose autlioritj-? I must ask Gottfried this one day 
 when we are alone. 
 
 The discussion to-day was between Dr. Andrew 
 Bodenstein, Archdeacon of Wittenberg, Dr. Luther, 
 and Dr. Jodocus of Eisenach, called Trutvetter, his old 
 teacher. Dr. Carlstadt himself, they said, seemed quite 
 convinced; and Dr. Jodocus is silenced and is going 
 back to Erfurt. 
 
 The enthusiasm of the students is great. The great 
 point of Dr. Luther's attack seems to be Aristotle, who 
 was a heathen Greek. I cannot think why these 
 Church doctors should be so eager to defend him; but 
 HeiT Eeichenbach says all the teaching of the schools 
 and all the doctrine of indulgences are in some way 
 founded on this Aristotle, and that Dr. Luther wants 
 to clear away everything which stands as a screen be- 
 tween the students and the Bible. 
 
 Ulrich von Gersdorf said that our doctor debates 
 like his uncle, Franz von Sickingen, fights. He stands 
 like a rock on some point he feels firm on; and then, 
 when his opponents are weary of trying to move him, 
 he rushes suddenly down on them, and sweeps them 
 away like a torrent. 
 
 "But his great secret seems to be," remarked 
 Christopher, "that he believes every word he says. He 
 sjjeaks like other men work, as if every stroke were 
 to tell." 
 
 And Gottfried said, quietly, "He is fighting the 
 battle of God with the scribes and Pharisees of our 
 days; and whether he triumph or perish, the battle
 
 else's story. 263 
 
 will be won. It is a battle, not merely against false- 
 bood, but for trutb, to keep a position be lias won." 
 
 "Wben I bear bim," said Ulricb, "I wisb my 
 student days over, and long to be in tbe old castle in 
 tbe Tburingiau Forest, to give everything good tbere 
 a new impulse. He makes me feel tbe way to fight 
 tbe world's great battles is for each to conquer the 
 enemies of God in bis own heart and home. He speaks 
 of Aristotle and Augustine; but be makes me think of 
 tbe sloth and tyranny in the castle, and the misery 
 and oppression in tbe peasant's but, which are to me 
 what Aristotle and tbe schoolmen are to bim." 
 
 "And I," said Christopher, "when be speaks, think 
 of our printing press, until my daily toil there seems 
 tbe highest work I could do; and to be a printer; and 
 wing such words as bis through tbe world, tbe noblest 
 thing on earth." 
 
 "But his lectures fight tbe good fight even more 
 than bis disputations," remarked Gottfried. "In these 
 debates be clears the world of tbe foe; but in bis ex- 
 planations of the Psalms and tbe Romans, be carries 
 the battle within, a::d clears the heart of the lies which 
 kept it back from God. In bis attacks on Aristotle, 
 be leads you to tbe Bible as the one source of truth; 
 in bis discourses on justification by faith be leads you 
 to God as tbe one source of holiness and joy." 
 
 "They say poor Dr. Jodocus is quite ill with 
 vexation at bis defeat," said Christopher; "and that 
 there are many bitter things said against Dr. Luther 
 at Erfurt." 
 
 "What does that matter," rejoined Ulricb, "since 
 Wittenberg is becoming every month more thronged 
 with students from all parts of Germany, and tbe
 
 264 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBEKG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 Augustinian cloister is already full of young monks, 
 sent bitlier from various convents, to study under Dr. 
 Luther? The youtli and vigour of the nation are 
 with us. Let the dead bury their dead." 
 
 "Ah, children," murmured the grandmother, look- 
 ing up from her knitting, "that is a funeral procession 
 that lasts long. The young always speak of the old 
 as if they had been born old. Do you think our hearts 
 never throbbed high with hope, and that we never 
 fought with dragons? Yet the old serpent is not 
 killed yet. Nor will he be dead when we are dead, 
 and you are old, and your grandchildren take theii* 
 place in the old fight, and think they are fighting the 
 first battle the world has seen, and vanquishing the 
 last enemy." 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Gottfried-, "but the last enemy 
 will be overcome at last, and who knows how soon?" 
 
 WlTTBNBEEG, OctobeT 1Si3. 
 
 It is a strong bond of union between Herr Reichen- 
 bach and me, our reverence and love for Dr. Luther. 
 
 He is lecturing now on the Romans and the Psalms, 
 and as I sit at my spinning-wheel, or sew, Gottfried 
 often reads to me notes from these lectures, or tells 
 me what they have been about. This is a comfort to 
 me also, because he has many thoughts and doubts 
 which, were it not for his friendship with Dr. Luther, 
 would make me tremble for him. They are so new 
 and strange to me; and as it is I never venture to 
 speak of them to my mother. 
 
 He thinks there is great need of reformations and 
 changes in the Church. He even thinks Christopher 
 not far from right in his dislike of many of the priests
 
 ELSii's STORY. 265 
 
 and monks, who, lie says, lead lives which are a dis- 
 grace to Christeudom. 
 
 But his chief detestation is the sale of indulgences, 
 now preached in many of the towns of Saxony by Dr. 
 Tetzel. He says it is a shameless traffic in lies, and 
 that most men of intelligence and standing in the 
 great cities think so. And he tells me that a very 
 good man, a professor of theology — Dr. John Wesel 
 — preached openly against them about fifty years ago 
 at the University of Erfurt, and afterwards at Worms 
 and Mainz ; and that John of Goch and other holy men 
 were most earnest in denouncing them. 
 
 And Avhen I asked if the Pope did not sanction 
 them, he said that to understand what the Pope is 
 one needs to go to Rome. He went there in his youth, 
 not on pilgrimage, but on mercantile business, and he 
 told me that the wickedness he saw there, especially 
 in the family of the reigning Pope, the Borgia, for 
 many years made him hate the very name of religion. 
 Indeed, he said it was principally through Dr. Luther 
 that he had begun again to feel there could be a reli- 
 gion, which, instead of being a cloak for sin, should 
 be an incentive to holiness. 
 
 He says also that I have been quite mistaken about 
 "Reineke Fuchs;" that it is no vulgar jest-book, mock- 
 ing at really sacred things, but a bitter, earnest satire 
 against the hypocrisy which practises all kinds of sin 
 in the name of sacred things. 
 
 He doubts even if the Calixtines and Hussites are 
 as bad as they have been represented to be. It alarms 
 me sometimes to hear him say these things. His world 
 is so much larger than mine, it is difficult for my 
 thoughts to follow him into it. If the world is so
 
 266 CITRONICLES OF THR SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 bad, and there is so mitch hypocrisy in the holiest 
 places, perhaps I have been hard on poor Christopher 
 after all. 
 
 But if Fritz has found it so , how unhappy it must 
 make him! 
 
 Can really religious people like Fritz and Eva do 
 nothing better for the world, but leave it to grow more 
 and more corrupt and unbelieving, while they sit apart 
 to weave their robes of sanctity in convents. It does 
 seem time for something to be done. I wonder who 
 will do it? 
 
 I tliought it might be the Pope; but Gottfried 
 shakes his head, and says, "No good thing can begin 
 at Rome." 
 
 "Or the prelates?" I asked one day. 
 
 "They are too intent," he said, "on making their 
 courts as magnificent as those of the princes, to be 
 able to interfere with the abuses by which their re- 
 venues are maintained." 
 
 "Or the princes?" 
 
 "The friendship of the prelates is too important to 
 them, for them to interfere in spiritual matters." 
 
 "Or the emperor?" 
 
 "The emperor," he said, "has enough to do to 
 hold his own against the princes, the prelates, and the 
 pope." 
 
 "Or the knights?" 
 
 "The knights are at war with all the world," he 
 replied-, "to say nothing of their ceaseless private feuds 
 with each other. With the peasants rising on one side 
 in wild insurrection, the great nobles contending against 
 their privileges on the other, and the great burgher 
 families throwing their barbarous splendour into the
 
 else's story. 267 
 
 sliade as much as tlie city palaces do their bare robber 
 castles, the knights and petty nobles have little but 
 bitter words to spare for the abuses of the clergy. 
 Besides, most of them have relations whom they hope 
 to provide for with some good abbey." 
 
 "Then the peasants!" I suggested. "Did not the 
 gospel first take root among peasants?" 
 
 '^Inspired peasants and fishermen!" he replied, 
 thoughtfully. "Peasants who had walked up and down 
 the land three years in the presence of the Master. 
 But who is to teach our peasants now? They cannot 
 read!" 
 
 "Then it must be the burghers," I said. 
 
 "Each may be prejudiced in favour of his order," 
 he replied, with a smile-, "but I do tliink if better days 
 dawn, it will be through the cities. There the new 
 learning takes root; there the rich have society and 
 cultivation, and the poor have teacliers; and men's 
 minds are brightened by contact and debate, and there 
 is leisui-e to think and freedom to speak. If a reforma- 
 tion of abuses were to begin, I think the burghers 
 would promote it most of all." 
 
 "But who is to begin it?" I asked. "Has no one 
 ever tried?" 
 
 "Many have tried," he replied sadly; "and many 
 have perished in trying. While they were assailing 
 one abuse, others were increasing. Or while they 
 endeavoured to heal some open wound, some one 
 arose and declared that it was impossible to separate 
 the disease from the whole frame, and that they were 
 attempting the life of our Holy Mother the Church." 
 
 "Who, then, will venture to begin?" I said. "Can 
 it be Dr. Luther? He is bold enough to venture
 
 268 CHKONICIiES OP THE SCHOKBEKtr-COTXA FAMILY. 
 
 anything; and since lie has done so much good to 
 Fritz, and to vou, and to me, why not to the whole 
 Church?" 
 
 "Dr. Luther is faithful enough, and bold enough 
 for anything his conscience calls him to," said Gott- 
 fried; "but he is occupied with saving men's souls, not 
 with reforming ecclesiastical abuses." 
 
 "But if the ecclesiastical abuses came to interfere 
 with the salvation of men's souls," I suggested, "what 
 would Dr. Luther do then?" 
 
 "We should see, Elsfe," said Gottfried. "If the 
 wolves attacked one of Dr. Luther's sheep, I do not 
 think he would care with what weapon he rescued it, 
 or at what risk."
 
 eva's story. 269 
 
 xni. 
 
 eva's story. 
 
 NiMPTSCHEN, 1516. 
 
 Great changes have taken place during these last 
 three years in Aunt Cotta's home. Els^ has been 
 married more than two years, and sends me wonderful 
 narratives of the beauty and wisdom of her little Mar- 
 garethe, who begins now to lisp the names of mother, 
 and father, and aunts. Elsfe has also taught the little 
 creature to kiss her hand to a picture they have of me, 
 and call it Cousin Eva. They will not adopt my con- 
 vent name. 
 
 Chriemhild also is betrothed to the young knight, 
 Ulrich von Gersdorf, who has a castle in the Thuringian 
 Forest; and she writes that they often speak of Sister 
 Ave, and that he keeps the dried violets still, with a 
 lock of his mother's hair and a relic of his patron 
 saint. Chriemhild says I should scarcely know him 
 again, he is become so earnest and so wise, and so full 
 of good purposes. 
 
 And little Thekla writes that she also understands 
 something of Latin. Else's husband has taught her; 
 and there is nothing EIs6 and Gottfried Reichenbach 
 like so much as to hear her sing the hymns Cousin 
 Eva used to sing. 
 
 They seem to think of me as a kind of angel sister, 
 who was early taken to God, and will never grow old. 
 It is very sweet to be remembered thus; but sometimes
 
 270 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 it seems as if it were hardly me they were remember- 
 ing or loving, but what I was or might have been. 
 
 Would they recognise Cousin Eva in the grave, 
 quiet woman of twenty-two I have become? For whilst 
 in the old home Time seems to mark his course like a 
 stream by growth and life, here in the convent he 
 seems to mark it only by the slow falling of the 
 shadow on the silent dial — the shadow of death. In 
 the convent there is no growth but growing old. 
 
 In Aunt Cotta's home the year expanded from 
 winter into spring, and summer, and autumn — seed- 
 time and harvest — the season of flowers and the 
 season of fruits. The seasons grew into each other, we 
 knew not how or when. In the convent the year is 
 sharply divided into December, January, February, 
 March, and April, with nothing to distinguish one 
 month from another but their names and dates. 
 
 In our old home the day brightened from dawn to 
 noon, and then mellowed into sunset, and softly faded 
 into night. Here in the convent the day is separated 
 into hours by the clock. 
 
 Sister Beatrice's poor faded face is slowly becom- 
 ing a little more faded; Aunt Agnes's a little more 
 worn and sharp; and I, like the rest, am five years 
 older than I was five years ago, when I came here; 
 and that is all. 
 
 It is true, fresh novices have arrived, and have 
 taken the irrevocable vows, and fair young faces are 
 around me; but my heart aches sometimes when I look 
 at them, and think that they, like the rest of us, have 
 closed the door on life, with all its changes, and have 
 entered on that monotonous pathway to the grave 
 whose stages are simply growing old.
 
 kva's stoky. 271 
 
 Some of these novices come full of high aspirations 
 for a religious life. They have been told about the 
 heavenly Spouse, who will fill their consecrated hearts 
 with pure, unutterable joys, the world can never 
 know. 
 
 Many come as sacrifices to family poverty or family 
 pride, because their noble parents are too poor to main- 
 tain them suitably, or in order that their fortunes may 
 swell the dower of some married sister. 
 
 I know what disappointment is before them when 
 they learn that the convent is but a poor, childish 
 mimicry of the world, with its petty ambitions and 
 rivalries, but withoiit the life and the love. I know 
 the noblest will sufi'er most, and may, perhaps, fall the 
 lowest. 
 
 To narrow, apathetic natures, the icy routine of 
 habit will more easily replace the varied flow of life. 
 They will fit into their harness sooner, and become as 
 much interested in the gossip of the house or the order, 
 the election of superiors, or the scandal of some neigh- 
 bouring nunnery, as they would have become in the 
 gossip of the town or village they would have lived in 
 in the world. 
 
 But warm hearts and high spirits — these will chafe 
 and struggle, or (worse still!) dream they have reached 
 depths of self-abasement or soared to heights of mystical 
 devotion, and then awake, with bitter self-reproaches, 
 to find themselves too weak to cope with some small 
 temptation, like Aunt Agnes. 
 
 These I will help all I can. But I have learned, 
 since I came to Nimptschen, that it is a terrible and 
 perilous thing to take the work of the training of our 
 souls out of God's hands into our own. The pruning
 
 272 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 knife in his hands must sometimes ■wound and seem to 
 impoverish; but in ours it cuts, and wounds, and im- 
 poverishes, and does not prune. We can, indeed, inflict 
 pain on ourselves; but God alone can make pain healing, 
 or suffering discipline. 
 
 I can only pray that, however mistaken many may 
 be in immuring themselves here, Thou who art the 
 Good Physician wilt take us, with all our useless self- 
 inflicted wounds, and all our wasted, self-stunted faculties, 
 and as we are and as thou art, still train us for thy- 
 self. 
 
 The infirmaiy is what interests me most. Ha\T[ng 
 secluded ourselves from all the joys and sorrows and 
 vicissitudes of common life, we seem scarcely to have 
 left anything in God's hands, wherewith to try our 
 faith and subdue our wills to his, except sickness. 
 Bereavements we cannot know who have bereaved our- 
 selves of all companionship with our beloved for ever- 
 more on earth. Nor can we know the trials either of 
 poverty or of prosperity, since we can never experience 
 either; but, having taken the vow of voluntary poverty 
 on ourselves, whilst we can never call anything in- 
 dividually our own, we are freed from all anxieties by 
 becoming members of a richly- endowed order. 
 
 Sickness only remains beyond our control; and, 
 therefore, when I see any of the sisterhood laid on the 
 bed of suffering, I think — 
 
 "G^ot? has laid thee there!'''' and I feel more sure that 
 it is the right thing. 
 
 I still instruct the novices; but sometimes the dreary 
 question comes to me — 
 
 "For what am I instructing them?"
 
 eva's story. 273 
 
 Life Las no future for them — only a monotonous 
 prolonging of tbe monotonous present. 
 
 1 try to feel, "I am training tliem for eternity." 
 But who can do that but God, who inhabiteth eternity, 
 and sees the links which connect every moment of the 
 little circles of time with the vast circumference of the 
 everlasting future? 
 
 But I do my best. Catharine von Bora, a young 
 girl of sixteen, who has lately entered the convent, 
 interests me deeply. There is such strength in her 
 character and such warmth in her heart. But, alas! 
 what scope is there for these here? 
 
 Aunt Agnes has not opened her heart in any way 
 to me. True, when I was ill, she watched over me as 
 tenderly as Aunt Cotta could; but when I recovered, 
 she seemed to repel all demonstrations of gratitude and 
 affection, and went on with that round of penances and 
 disciplines, which make the nuns reverence her as so 
 especially saintly. 
 
 Sometimes I look with longing to the smoke and 
 lights in the village we can see among the trees from 
 the upper windows of the convent. I know that each 
 little wreath of smoke comes from the hearth of a home 
 where there are father and mother and little children; 
 and the smoke A\Teaths seems to me to rise like holy 
 clouds of incense to God our Father in heaven. 
 
 But the alms given so liberally by the sisterhood 
 are given at the convent-gate, so that we never form 
 any closer connection with the poor around us than 
 that of beggars and almoners; and I long to be their 
 friend. 
 
 Sometimes I am afraid I acted in impatient self- 
 will in leaving Aunt Cotta's home, and that I should 
 
 Schonlerg-Cotta Family. I. 18
 
 274 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 have served God better by remaining there, and that, 
 after all, my departure may have left some little blank 
 it would not have been useless to fill. As the girls 
 marry, Aunt Cotta might have found me a comfort; 
 and, as "Cousin Eva," I might perhaps have been 
 more of a help to Elsfe's children than I can be to the 
 nuns here as Sister Ave. But whatever might have 
 been, it is impatience and rebellion to think of that 
 now; and nothing can separate me from God and his 
 love. 
 
 Somehow or other, however, even the "Theologia 
 Germanica," and the high, disinterested communion 
 with God it teaches, seemed sweeter to me, in the 
 intervals of an interrupted and busy life, than as the 
 business of this uninterrupted leisure. The hours of 
 contemplation were more blessed for the very trials and 
 occupations which seemed to hinder them. 
 
 Sometimes I feel as if my heart also were freezing, 
 and becoming set and hard. I am afraid, indeed, it 
 would, were it not for poor Sister Beatrice, who has 
 had a paralytic stroke, and is now a constant inmate 
 of the infirmary. She speaks at times very incoherently, 
 and cannot think at any time connectedly. But I have 
 found a book which interests her; it is the Latin Gospel 
 of St. Luke, which I am allowed to take from the con- 
 vent library and translate to her. The narratives are 
 so brief and simple, she can comprehend them, and she 
 never wearies of hearing them. The very familiarity 
 endears them, and to me they are always new. 
 
 But it is very strange that there is nothing about 
 penance or vows in it, or the adoration of the blessed 
 Virgin. I suppose I shall find that in the other Gospels,
 
 EVAS STORY. 
 
 275 
 
 or in the Epistles, which were written after our Lady's 
 assumption into heaven. 
 
 Sister Beatrice likes much to hear me sing the 
 hymn by Bernard of Clugni, on the perpetuity of joy 
 in heaven:* 
 
 Here brief is the sighing, 
 And brief is the crying, 
 
 For brief is the life 1 
 The life there is endless, 
 The joy there is endless, 
 
 And ended the strife. 
 
 What joys are in heaven? 
 To whom are they given? 
 
 Ah! what? and to whom? 
 The stars to the earth-born, 
 "Best robes" to the sin-worn. 
 
 The crown for the dooml 
 
 O country the fairest ! 
 Our country, the dearest I 
 
 We press towards thee I 
 O Sion the golden ! 
 Our eyes now are holden. 
 
 Thy light till wo see: 
 
 Thy crystalline ocean, 
 Unvexed by commotion, 
 
 Thy fountain of life ; 
 Thy deep peace unspoken, 
 Pure, sinless, unbroken, — 
 
 Thy peace beyond strife: 
 
 Thy meek saints all glorious, 
 Thy martyrs victorious. 
 
 Who suffer no more; 
 Thy halls full of singing, 
 Thy hymns ever ringing 
 
 Along thy safe shore. 
 
 Like the lily for whiteness, 
 Like the jewel for brightness. 
 
 Thy vestments, O Bride! 
 The Lamb ever with thee, 
 The Bridegroom is with thee,   
 
 With thee to abide! 
 
 We know not, we know not. 
 All human words show not; 
 
 The joys we may reach; 
 The mansions preparing. 
 The joys for our sharing. 
 
 The welcome for each. 
 
 O Sion the golden! 
 
 My eyes still are holden. 
 
 Thy light till I see; 
 And deep in thy glory. 
 Unveiled then before me. 
 
 My King, look on thee! 
 
 June ibis. 
 
 The whole of the Augustinian Order in Saxony 
 has been greatly moved by the visitation of Dr. Martin 
 Luther. He has been appointed Deputy Vicar-General 
 
 * Hie breve vivitur, hie breve plangitur, hie breve fletur, 
 Non breve vivere, non breve plangere, retribuetur. 
 
 O retributio! stat brevis actio, vita perennis, 
 O retributio ! coelica mansio stat lue plenis., 
 &c &c. &c. 
 
 18*
 
 276 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 in the place of Dr. Staupitz, who has gone on a mission 
 to the Netherlands, to collect relics for the Elector 
 Frederick's new church at Wittenberg. 
 
 Last April Dr. Luther visited the Monastery of 
 Grimma, not far from us; and through our Prioress, 
 who is connected with the Prior of Grimma, we hear 
 much abovit it. 
 
 He strongly recommends the study of the Scriptures 
 and of St. Augustine, in preference to every other 
 book, by the brethren and sisters of his Order. We 
 have begun to follow his advice in our convent, and a 
 new impulse seems given to everything. I have also 
 seen two beautiful letters of Dr. Martin Luther's, written 
 to two brethren of the Augustinian Order. Both were 
 written in April last, and they have been read by many 
 amongst us. The first was to Brother George Spenlein, 
 a monk at Memmingen. It begins, "In the name of 
 Jesus Christ." After speaking of some private pecuniary 
 matters, he writes: — 
 
 "As to the rest, I desire to know how it goes with 
 thy soul-, whether, weary of its own righteousness, it 
 learns to breathe and to trust in the righteousness of 
 Christ. For in our age the temptation to presumption 
 burns in many, and chiefly in those who are trying 
 with all their might to be just and good. Ignorant of 
 the righteousness of God, which in Christ is given to 
 us richly and without price, they seek in themselves to 
 do good works, so that at last they may have confidence 
 to stand before God, adorned with merits and virtues, 
 — which is impossible. Thou, when with us, wert of 
 this opinion, and so was I; but now I contend against 
 this error, although I have not yet conquered it. 
 
 "Therefore, my dear brother, learn Christ and liim
 
 eva's story. 277 
 
 crucified-, learn to slug to him, and, despairing of thy- 
 self, to say to him, 'Lord Jesus, thou art my righteousness, 
 but I am thy sin. Thou hast taken me upon thyself, 
 and given to me what is thine; thou hast taken on thee 
 what thou wast not, and hast given to me what I was 
 not.' Take care not to aspire to such a purity that 
 thou shalt no longer seem to thyself a sinner; for 
 Christ does not dwell except in sinners. For this he 
 descended from heaven, where he abode with the just, 
 that he might abide wdth sinners. Meditate on this 
 love of his, and thou shalt drink in his sweet con- 
 solations. For if, by our labours and afflictions, we 
 could attain quiet of conscience, why did he die? 
 Therefore, only in Him, by a believing self-despair, 
 both of thyself and of thy works, wilt thou find peace. 
 For he has made thy sins his, and his righteousness he 
 has made thine." 
 
 Aunt Agnes seemed to drink in these words like a 
 patient in a raging fever. She made me read them 
 over to her again and again, and then translate and 
 copy them; and now she carries them about with her 
 everywhere. 
 
 To me the words that follow are as precious. Dr. 
 Luther says, that as Christ hath borne patiently with 
 us wanderers, we should also bear with others. "Prostrate 
 thyself before the Lord Jesus," he wi-ites, "seek all 
 that thou lackest. He himself will teach thee all, even 
 to do for others as he has done for thee." 
 
 The second letter was to Brother George Leiffer of 
 Erfurt. It speaks of affliction thus: — 
 
 "The cross of Christ is divided throughout the 
 whole world. To each his portion comes in time, and 
 does not fail. Thou, therefore, do not seek to cast thy
 
 278 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 portion from tliee, but rather receive it as a holy relic, 
 to be enshrined, not in a gold or silver reliquary, but 
 in the sanct^^ary of a golden, that is a loving and 
 submissive heart. For if the wood of the cross was so 
 consecrated by contact with the flesh and blood of 
 Christ that it is considered as the noblest of relics, how 
 much more are injuries, persecutions, suflPerings, and the 
 hatred of men, sacred relics, consecrated not by the 
 touch of his body, but by contact with his most loving 
 heart and Godlike will! These we should embrace, 
 and bless, and cherish, since through him the curse is 
 transmuted into blessing, sujffering into glory, the cross 
 into joy." 
 
 Sister Beatrice delights in these words, and murmurs 
 them over to herself as I have explained them to her. 
 "Yes, I understand; this sickness, helplessness, — all I 
 have lost and suffered, are sacred relics from my Saviour; 
 not because he forgets, but because he remembers me; 
 He remembers me! Sister Ave, I am content." 
 
 And then she likes me to sing her favourite hymn, 
 olsu dulcis memoria: — 
 
 O Jesus ! thy sweet memory Wherever I may chance to be, 
 
 Can fill the heart with ecstasy ; Thee first my heart desires to see ; — 
 
 But passing all things sweet that be, How glad when I discover thee! 
 Thy presence, Lord, to me. How blest when I retain ! 
 
 What hope, O Jesus, thou canst render Beyond all treasures is thy grace ; — 
 
 To those who other hopes surrender! O when wilt thou thy steps retrace, 
 
 To those who seek thee, O how tender! And satisfy me with thy face, 
 
 But what to those who find I And make me wholly glad? 
 
 With Mary, ere the morning break, Then come, O come, thouperfectKing, 
 
 Him at the sepulchre I seek, — Of boundless glory boundless spring; 
 
 Would hear him to my spirit speak, Arise, and fullest daylight bring. 
 And see him with my heart. Jesus, expected long !
 
 eva's story. 279 
 
 JuUi 1S16. 
 
 Aunt Agnes has spoken to me at last. Abruptly 
 and sternly, as if more angry with herself than re- 
 penting or rejoicing, she said to me this morning, 
 "Child, those words of Dr. Luther's have searched my 
 heart. I have been trying all my life to be a saint, 
 and so to reach God. And I have failed utterly. And 
 now I learn that I am a sinner, and yet that God's 
 love reaches me. The cross, the cross of Christ, is my 
 pathway from hell to heaven. I am not a saint. I 
 shall never be a saint. Christ is the only Saint, the 
 Holy One of God; and he has borne my sins, and he 
 is my righteousness. He has done it all; and I have 
 nothing left but to give him all the glory, and to love, 
 to love, to love him to all eternity! And I will do it," 
 she added fervently, "poor, proud, destitute, and sinful 
 creature that I am. I cannot help it; I must." 
 
 But strong and stern as the words were, how 
 changed Aunt Agnes's manner! — humble and simple 
 as a child's. And as she left me for some duty in the 
 house, she kissed my forehead, and said, "Ah, child, 
 love me a little, if you can, — not as a saint, but as 
 a poor, sinful old woman, who among her worst sins 
 has counted loving thee too much, which was certainly, 
 after all, among the least; love me a little, Eva, for 
 my sister's sake, whom you love so much."
 
 280 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 else's STORY. 
 
 August 75/7. 
 
 Yes, our little Gretclien is certainly rather a re- 
 markable child. Although she is not yet two years 
 old, she knows all of us by name. She tyrannizes 
 over us all, except me. I deny her many things which 
 she cries for; except when Gottfried is present, who, 
 unfortunately, cannot bear to see her unhappy for a 
 moment, and having (he says) had his temper spoilt in 
 infancy by a cross nurse, has no notion of infant edu- 
 cation, except to avoid contradiction. Christopher, who 
 always professed a supreme contempt for babies, gives 
 her rides on his shoulder in the most submissive man- 
 ner. But best of all, I love to see her sitting on my 
 blind father's knee, and stroking his face with a kind 
 of tender, pitiful reverence, as if she felt there was 
 something missing there. 
 
 I have taught her, too, to say Fritz's name, when 
 I show her the little lock I wear of his hair; and to 
 kiss Eva's picture. I cannot bear that they should be 
 as lost or dead to her. But I am afraid she is per- 
 plexed between Eva's portrait and the picture of the 
 Holy Virgin, which I teach her to bow and cross her 
 forehead before; because sometimes she tries to kiss the 
 picture of Oiir Lady, and to twist her little fingers into 
 the sacred sign before Eva's likeness. However, by- 
 and-by she will distinguish better. And are not Eva 
 and Fritz indeed our family saints and patrons? I do 
 believe their prayers bring down blessings on us all.
 
 klse's story. 281 
 
 For our family has been so much blessed lately! 
 The dear mother's face looks so bright, and has re- 
 gained something of its old sweet likeness to the Mother 
 of Mercy. And I am so happy, so brimful of happi- 
 ness. And it certainly does make me feel more reli- 
 gious than I did. 
 
 Not the home-happiness only I mean, but that best 
 blessing of all, that came first, before I knew that 
 Gottfried cared for me, — the knowledge of the love 
 of God to me, — that best riches of all, without which 
 all our riches would be mere cares — the riches of the 
 treasury of God freely opened to us in Christ Jesus 
 our Lord, 
 
 Gottfried is better than I ever thought he was. 
 Perhaps he really grows better every year; certainly 
 he seems better and dearer to me. 
 
 Chriemhild and Ulrich are to be married very soon. 
 He is gone now to see Franz von Sickingen, and his 
 other relations in the Rhineland, and to make arrange- 
 ments connected with his marriage. Last year Chriem- 
 hild and Atlantis stayed some weeks at the old castle 
 in the Thuringian Forest, near Eisenach. A wild life 
 it seemed to be, from their description, deep in the 
 heart of the forest, in a lonely fortress on a rock, with 
 only a few peasants' huts in sight; and with all kinds 
 of strange legends of demon huntsmen, and elves, and 
 sprites haunting the neighbourhood. To me it seems 
 almost as desolate as the wilderness where John the 
 Baptist lived on locusts and wild honey; but Chriem- 
 hild thought it delightful. She made acquaintance with 
 some of the poor peasants, and they seemed to think 
 her an angel, — an opinion (Atlantis says) shared by 
 Ulrich's old uncle and aunt, to say nothing of Ulrich
 
 282 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERQ-COTTA FAMn.Y. 
 
 liimself. At first tlie aged Aunt Hermentrude was 
 rather distant*, but on the Schbnberg pedigree having 
 been duly tested and approved, the old lady at length 
 considered herself free to give vent to her feelings, 
 whilst the old knight courteously protested that he had 
 always seen Chriemhild's pedigree in her face. 
 
 And Ulrich says there is one great advantage in 
 tlie solitude and strength of his castle, — he could 
 ofl'er an asylum at any time to Dr. Luther, who has of 
 late become an object of bitter hatred to some of the 
 priests. 
 
 Dr. Luther is most kind to our little Gretchen, 
 whom he baptized. He says little children often under- 
 stand God better than the wisest doctors of divinity. 
 
 Thekla has experienced her first soitow. Her poor 
 little foundling, Nix, is dead. For some days the poor 
 creature had been ailing, and at last he lay for some 
 hours quivering, as if with inward convulsions-, yet at 
 Thekla's voice the dull, glassy eyes would brighten, 
 and he would wag his tail feebly as he lay on his side. 
 At last he died; and Thekla was not to be comforted, 
 but sat apart and shed bitter tears. The only thing 
 which cheered her was Christopher's making a grave 
 in the garden for Nix, under the pear tree Avhere I 
 used to sit at embroidery in summer, as now she does. 
 It was of no use to try to laugh her out of her distress. 
 Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears if any 
 one attempted it. Atlantis spoke seriously to her on 
 the duty of a little girl of twelve beginning to put 
 away childish things; and even the gentle mother 
 tenderly remonstrated and said one day, when Dr. 
 Luther had asked her for her favourite, and had been 
 answered by a burst of tears, "My child, if you mourn
 
 ELSE S STORY. 283 
 
 BO for a dog, what will you do when real sorrows 
 come?" 
 
 But Dr. Luther seemed to understand Tkekla better 
 than any of us, and to take her part. He said she 
 was a child, and her childish sorrows were no more 
 trifles to her than our sorrows are to us; that from 
 heaven we might probably look on the fall of an em- 
 pire as of less moment than we now thought the death 
 of Thekla's dog; yet that the angels who look down 
 on us from heaven do not despise our little joys and 
 sorrows, nor should we those of the little ones; or 
 words to this effect. He has a strange sympathy with 
 the hearts of children. Thekla was so encouraged by 
 his compassion, that she crept close to him and laid 
 her hand in his, and said, with a look of wistful 
 earnestness, "Will Nix rise again at the last day? 
 Will there be dogs in the other world?" 
 
 Many of us were appalled at such an irreverent 
 idea; but Dr. Luther did not seem to think it irrever- 
 ent. He said, "We know less of what that other 
 world will be than this little one, or than that babe," 
 he added, pointing to my little Gretchen, "knows of 
 the empires or powers of this world. But of this we 
 are sure, the world to come will be no empty, lifeless 
 waste. See how full and beautiful the Lord God has 
 made all things in this passing, perishing world of 
 heaven and earth! How much more beautiful, then, 
 will he make that eternal incorruptible world! God 
 will make new heavens and a new earth. All poison- 
 ous, and malicious, and hurtful creatures will be 
 banished thence, — all that our sin has ruined. All 
 creatures will not only be harmless, but lovely, and 
 pleasant and joyful, so that we might play with them.
 
 284 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHOKBEKG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 'The sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, 
 and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cocka- 
 trice' den.' Why, then, should there not he little dogs 
 in the new earth, whose skin might be fair as gold, 
 and their hair as bright as precious stones?"* 
 
 Certainly, in Thekla's eyes, from that moment there 
 has been no doctor of divinity like Dr. Luther. 
 
 TORGAU, November 10, 1516. 
 
 The plague is at Wittenberg. We have all taken 
 refuge here. The university is scattered, and many, 
 also, of the Augustinian monks. 
 
 Dr. Luther remains in the convent at Wittenberg. 
 We have seen a copy of a letter of his, dated the 2"6th 
 October, and addressed to the Venerable Father John 
 Lange, Prior of Erfurt Monastery. 
 
 "Health. I have need of two secretaries or chan- 
 cellors, since all day long I do nothing but write 
 letters-, and I know not whether, always writing, I 
 may not sometimes repeat the same things. Thou wilt 
 see. 
 
 "I am convent lecturer; reader at meals 5 I am 
 desired to be daily parish preacher; I am director of 
 studies, vicar of the prior, (i.e., prior eleven times over,) 
 inspector of the fish-ponds at Litzkau, advocate of the 
 cause of the people of Herzberg at Torgau, lecturer on 
 Paul and on the Psalms; besides what I have said 
 already of my constant correspondence. I have rarely 
 time to recite my Canonical Hours, to say nothing 
 of my own particular temptations from the world, 
 the flesh, and the devil. See what a man of leisure 
 I am! 
 
 * Luther's Tischredea.
 
 ELSJ:'S STORY. 285 
 
 "Concerning- Brother Jolin Metzel I believe you 
 have already received my opinion. I will see, however, 
 what I can do. How can you think I can find room 
 for your Sardanapaluses and Sybarites? If you have 
 educated them ill, you must bear with those you have 
 educated ill. I have enough useless brethren-, — if, 
 indeed, any are useless to a patient heart. I am per- 
 suaded that the useless may become more useful than 
 those who are the most useful now. Therefore bear 
 with them for the time. 
 
 "I think I have already written to you about the 
 brethren you sent me. Some I have sent to Magister 
 Spangenburg, as they requested, to save their breathing 
 this pestilential air. With two from Cologne I felt 
 such sympathy, and thought so much of their abilities, 
 that I have retained them, although at much expense. 
 Twenty-two priests, forty-two youths, and in the uni- 
 versity altogether forty-two persons are supported out 
 of our poverty. But the Lord will provide. 
 
 "You say that yesterday you began to lecture on 
 the Sentences. To-morrow I begin the Epistle to the 
 Galatians; although I fear that, with the plague among 
 us as it is, I shall not be able to continue. The plague 
 has taken away already two or three among us, but 
 not all in one day; and the son of our neighbour 
 Faber, yesterday in health, to-day is dead; and another 
 is infected. What shall I say? It is indeed here, and. 
 begins to rage with great cruelty and suddenness, 
 especially among the young. You would persuade me 
 and Master Bartholomew to take refuge with you. Why- 
 should I flee? I hope the world would not collapse 
 if Brother Martin fell. If the pestilence spreads, I will 
 indeed disperse the monks throughout the land. As
 
 286 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHOJSBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 for me, I have been placid here. My obedience as a 
 monk does not suffer me to fly; since what obedience 
 required once it demands still. Not that I do not fear 
 death — (I am not the Apostle Paul but only the reader 
 of the Apostle Paul) — but I hope the Lord will deliver 
 me from my fear. 
 
 "Farewell; and be mindful of us in this day of the 
 visitation of the Lord, to whom be glory." 
 
 This letter has strengthened me and many. Yes, 
 if it had been our duty, I trust, like Dr. Luther, we 
 should have had courage to remain. The courage of 
 his act strengthens us; and also the confession of fear 
 in his words. It does not seem a fear which hath tor- 
 ment, or which fetters his spirit. It does not even 
 crush his cheerfulness. It is a natural fear of dying, 
 which I also cannot overcome. From me, then, as 
 surely from him, when God sees it time to die, He will 
 doubtless remove the dread of death. 
 
 This season of the pestilence recalls so much to me 
 of what happened when the plague last visited us at 
 Eisenach ! 
 
 We have lost some since then, — if I ought to call 
 Eva and Fritz lost. But how my life has been en- 
 riched! My husband, our little Gretchen; and then so 
 much outward prosperity! All that pressure of poverty 
 and daily care entirely gone, and so much wherewith 
 to help others! And yet, am I so entirely free from 
 care as I ought to be? Am I not 'even at times more 
 burdened with it? 
 
 When first I married, and had Gottfried on whom 
 to unburden every perplexity, and riches which seemed 
 to me inexhaustible, instead of poverty, I thovight I 
 should never know care again.
 
 else's story. 287 
 
 But is it so? Have not the very things themselves, 
 in their possession, become cares? When I hear of 
 these dreadful wars with the Turks, and of the insur- 
 rections and disquiets in various parts, and look round 
 on our pleasant home, and gardens, and fields, I think 
 how terrible it would be again to be plunged into 
 poverty, or that Gretchen ever should be; so that 
 riches themselves become cares. It makes me think 
 of what a good man once told me: that the word in 
 the Bible which is translated "rich," in speaking of 
 Abraham, in other places is translated "heavy," so that 
 instead of reading, "Abraham left Egypt ricTi in cattle 
 and silver and gold," we might read '"'' heavy in cattle, 
 silver, and gold." 
 
 Yes, we are on a pilgrimage to the Holy City, we 
 are in flight from an evil world; and too often riches 
 are weights which hinder our progress. 
 
 I find it good, therefore, to be here in the small, 
 humble house we have taken refuge in — Gottfried, 
 Gretchen, and I. The servants are dispersed elsewhere; 
 and it lightens my heart to feel how well we can do 
 without luxuries which were beginning to seem like 
 necessaries. Doctor Luther's words come to my mind: 
 "The covetous enjoy what they have as little as what 
 they have not. They cannot even rejoice in the sun- 
 shine. They think not what a noble gift the light 
 is — what an inexpressibly great treasure the sun is, 
 which shines freely on all the world." 
 
 Yes, God's common gifts are His most precious; 
 and His most precious gifts — even life itself — have 
 no root in themselves. Not that they are without root; 
 they are better rooted in the depths of His unchangeable 
 love.
 
 288 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 It is well to be tauglit, by sucli a visitation even 
 as tliis pestilence, the utter insecurity of everything 
 here. "If the ship itself," as Gottfried says, "is ex- 
 posed to shipwi-eck, who, then, can secure the cargo?" 
 Henceforth let me be content with the only security 
 Doctor Luther says God will give us — the security 
 of His presence and care: "/ will never leave thee.^'' 
 
 "Wittenberg, June iSll. 
 
 We are at home once more; and, thank God! our 
 two households are undiminished, save by one death — 
 that of our youngest sister, the baby when we left 
 Eisenach. The professors and students also have 
 returned. Dr. Luther, who remained here all the 
 time, is preaching with more force and clearness than 
 ever. 
 
 The town is greatly divided in opinion about him. 
 Doctor Tetzel, the great Papal Commissioner for the 
 sale of indulgences, has established his red cross, an- 
 nouncing the sale of pardons, for some months, at 
 Juterbogk and Zerbst, not far from Wittenberg. 
 
 Numbers of the townspeople, alarmed, I suppose, 
 by the pestilence into anxiety about their souls, have 
 repaired to Dr. Tetzel, and returned with the purchased 
 tickets of indulgence. 
 
 I have always been perplexed as to what the in- 
 dulgences really give. Christopher has terrible stories 
 about the money paid for them being spent by Dr. 
 Tetzel and others on taverns and feasts; and Gottfried 
 says, "It is a bargain between the priests, who love 
 money, and the people, who love sin." 
 
 Yesterday morning I saw one of the letters of in- 
 dulgence for the iirst time. A neighbour of ours, the
 
 EJj&h's STORT. 289 
 
 wife of a miller, whose weights have been a little 
 suspected in the town, was in a state of great indigna- 
 tion when I went to purchase some flour of her. 
 
 "See!" she said; "this Dr. Luther will be wiser 
 than the Pope himself. He has refused to admit my 
 husband to the Holy Sacrament unless he repents and 
 confesses to him, although he took his certificate in 
 his hand." 
 
 She gave it to me, and I read it. Certainly, if the 
 doctors of divinity disagree about the value of these 
 indulgences, Dr. Tetzel has no ambiguity nor uncer- 
 tainty in his language. 
 
 "I," says the letter, "absolve thee from all the ex- 
 cesses, sins, and crimes which thou hast committed, 
 however great and enormous they may be. I remit 
 for thee the pains thou mightest have had to endure in 
 purgatory. I restore thee to participation in the sacra- 
 ments. I incorporate thee afresh into the communion 
 of the Church. I re-establish thee in the innocence 
 and purity in which thou wast at the time of thy 
 baptism. So that, at the moment of thy death, the 
 gate by which souls pass into the place of torments 
 will be shut upon thee; while, on the contrary, that 
 which leads to the paradise of joy will be open to 
 thee. And if thou art not called on to die soon, this 
 grace will remain unaltered for the time of thy latter 
 end. 
 
 "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and 
 of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 "Friar John Tetzel, Commissary, has 
 signed it with his own hand." 
 
 "To think," said my neighbour, "of the Pope pro- 
 mising my Franz admittance into paradise; and Dr. 
 
 Schonierg-Cotta Family, I, 19
 
 290 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 Luther will not even admit him to the altar of the 
 parish church! And after spending such a sum on it! 
 for the friar must surely have thought my husband 
 better off than he is, or he would not have demanded 
 gold of poor struggling people like us." 
 
 "But if the angels at the gate of paradise should 
 be of the same mind as Dr. Luther?" I suggested. 
 "Would it not be better to find that out here than 
 there?" 
 
 "It is impossible," she replied; "have we not the 
 Holy Father's own word? and did we not pay a 
 whole golden florin? It is impossible it can be in vain." 
 
 "Put the next florin in your scales instead of in 
 Dr. Tetzel's chest, neighbour," said a student, laughing, 
 as he heard her loud and angry words; "it may weigh 
 heavier with your flour than against your sins." 
 
 I left them to finish the discussion. 
 
 Gottfried says it is quite true that Dr. Luther in 
 the confessional in the city church has earnestly pro- 
 tested to many of his penitents against their trusting 
 to these certificates, and has positively refused to suffer 
 any to communicate, except on their confessing their 
 sins, and promising to forsake them, whether provided 
 with indulgences or not. 
 
 In his sermon to the people last year on the Ten 
 Commandments, he told them forgiveness was freely 
 given to the penitent by God, and was not to be pur- 
 chased at any price, least of all with money. 
 
 WlTTEKBEEG, Julf) 18. 
 
 The whole town is in a ferment to-day, on account 
 of Dr. Luther's sermon yesterday, preached before the 
 Elector in the Castle church.
 
 ELSil's STORY. 291 
 
 The congregation was very large, composed of the 
 court, students, and townspeople. 
 
 Not a child or ignorant peasant there but could 
 understand the preacher's words. The Elector had 
 procured especial indulgences from the pope in aid of 
 his church, but Dr. Luther made no exception, in order 
 to conciliate him. He said the Holy Scriptures nowhere 
 demand of us any penalty or satisfaction for our sins. 
 God gives and forgives freely and without price, out 
 of his unutterable grace; and lays on the forgiven no 
 other duty than true repentance and sincere conversion 
 of the heart, resolution to bear the cross of Christ, and 
 to do all the good we can. He declared also that it 
 would be better to give money freely towards the 
 building of St. Peter's Church at Eome, than to bargain 
 with alms for indulgences; that it was more pleasing 
 to God to give to the poor, than to buy these letters, 
 which, he said, would at the utmost do nothing more 
 for any man than remit mere ecclesiastical penances. 
 
 As we returned from the church together, Gottfried 
 said, — 
 
 "The battle-cry is sounded then at last! The wolf 
 has assailed Dr. Luther's own flock, and the shepherd 
 is roused. The battle-cry is sounded, Els^, but the battle 
 is scarcely begun." 
 
 And when we described the sermon to our grand- 
 mother, she murmured, — 
 
 "It sounds to me, children, like an old story of my 
 childhood. Have I not heard such words half a century 
 since in Bohemia? and have I not seen the lips which 
 spoke them silenced in flames and blood? Neither Dr. 
 Luther nor any of you know whither you are going. 
 Thank God, I am soon going to him who died for 
 
 10*
 
 292 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERGCOTTA FAJULY. 
 
 speaking just such words? Tliank God I hear them 
 again before I die! I have doubted long about them 
 and about everything; how could I dare to think a 
 few proscribed men right against the whole Church? 
 But since these old words cannot be hushed, but rise 
 from the dead again, I think there must be life in 
 them; eternal life. Children," she concluded, "tell me 
 when Dr. Luther preaches again; I will hear him be- 
 fore I die, that I may tell your grandfather, when I 
 meet him, the old truth is not dead. I think it would 
 give him another joy, even before the throne of God." 
 
 Wittenberg, August. 
 
 Christopher has returned from Jiiterbogk. He saw 
 there a great pile of burning faggots, which Dr. Tetzel 
 had caused to be kindled in the market-place, "to bum 
 the heretics," he said. 
 
 We laughed as he related this, and also at the 
 furious threats and curses that had been launched at 
 Dr. Luther from the pulpit in front of the iron money- 
 chest. But our grandmother said, "It is no jest, 
 children; they have done it, and they will do it again 
 yet!" 
 
 Wittenberg, November 1, 1S17. 
 All Saints' Day, 
 
 Yesterday evening, as I sat at the window with 
 Gottfried in the late twilight, hushing Gretchen to sleep, 
 we noticed Dr. Luther walking rapidly along the street 
 towards the Castle church. His step was firm and 
 quick, and he seemed too full of thought to obsei-ve 
 anything as he passed. There was something unusual 
 in his bearing, which made my husband call my atten- 
 tion to him. His head was erect and slightly thrown
 
 ELSi's STORY. 293 
 
 back, as when he preaches. He had a large packet of 
 papers in his hand, and although he was evidently 
 absorbed with some purpose, he had more the air of a 
 general moving to a battle-field than of a theologian 
 buried in meditation. 
 
 This morning, as we went to the early mass of the 
 festival, we saw a great crowd gathered around the 
 doors of the Castle church; not a mob, however, but 
 an eager throng of well-dressed men, professors, citizens, 
 and students; those within the circle reading some 
 writing which was posted on the door, whilst around, 
 the crowd was broken into little knots, in eager but 
 not loud debate. 
 
 Gottfried asked what liad happened. 
 
 "It is only some Latin theses against the indul- 
 gences, by Dr. Luther," replied one of the students, 
 "inviting a disputation on the subject." 
 
 I was relieved to hear that nothing was the matter, 
 and Gottfried and I quietly proceeded to the service. 
 
 "It is only an affair of the university," I said. "I 
 was afraid it was some national disaster, an invasion 
 of the Turks, or some event in the Elector's family." 
 
 As we returned, however, the crowd had increased, 
 and the debate seemed to be becoming warm among 
 some of them. One of the students was translating the 
 Latin into German for the benefit of the unlearned, and 
 we paused to listen. 
 
 What he read seemed to me very true, but not at 
 all remarkable. We had often heard Dr. Luther say 
 and even preach similar things. At the moment we 
 came up the M^ords the student was reading were, — 
 
 "It is a great error for one to think to make satis- 
 faction for his sins, in that God always forgives gra-
 
 294 CHRONICLES OF THE SCIIONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 tiiitously and from Lis boundless grace, requiiing no- 
 thing in return but holy living." 
 
 This sentence I remember distinctly, because it was 
 so much like what we had heard him preach. Other 
 propositions followed, such as that it was very doubtful 
 if the indulgences could deliver souls from purgatory, 
 and that it was better to give alms than to buy in- 
 dulgences. But why these statements should collect 
 such a crowd, and excite such intense interest, I could 
 not quite understand, imless it was because they were 
 in Latin. 
 
 One sentence, I observed, aroused very mingled 
 feelings in the crowd. It was the declaration that the 
 Holy Scriptures alone could settle any controversy, 
 and that all the scholastic teachers together could not 
 give authority to one doctrine. 
 
 The students and many of the citizens received this 
 announcement with enthusiastic applause, and some of 
 the professors testified a quiet approval of it; but others 
 of the doctors shook their heads, and a few retired at 
 once, murmuring angrily as they went. 
 
 At the close came a declaration by Dr. Luther, 
 that "whatever some unenlightened and morbid people 
 might say, he was no heretic." 
 
 "Why should Dr. Luther think it necessary to con- 
 clude with a declaration that he is no heretic?" I said 
 to Gottfried as we walked home. "Can anything be 
 more full of -respect for the Pope and the Church than 
 many of these theses are? And why should they ex- 
 cite so much attention? Dr. Luther s ys no more than 
 so many of us think!" 
 
 "True, Els^," replied Gottfried, gravely; "but to 
 know how to say what other people only think, ia
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 295 
 
 wTiat makes men poets and sages; and to dare to say 
 what others only dare to think, makes men martyrs or 
 reformers, or both." 
 
 November 20. 
 
 It is wonderful the stir these theses make. Chris- 
 topher cannot get them printed fast enough. Both the 
 Latin and German printing-presses are engaged, for 
 they have been translated, and demands come for them 
 from every part of Germany. 
 
 Dr. Tetzel, they say, is furious, and many of the 
 prelates are uneasy as to the result; the new bishop 
 has dissuaded Dr. Luther from publishing an explanation 
 of them. It is reported that the Elector Frederick is 
 not quite pleased, fearing the effect on the new uni- 
 versity, still in its infancy. 
 
 Students, however, are crowding to the town, and 
 to Dr. Luther's lectures, more than ever. He is the 
 hero of the youth of Germany. 
 
 But none are more enthusiastic about him than our 
 grandmother. She insisted on being taken to church 
 on All Saints' Day, and tottering up the aisle, took 
 her place immediately under Dr. Luther's pulpit, facing 
 the congrega'ion. 
 
 She had eyes or ears for none but him. When he 
 came down the pulpit stairs she grasped his hand, and 
 faltered out a broken blessing. And after she came 
 home she sat a long time in silence, occasionally brush- 
 ing away tears. 
 
 When Gottfried and I took leave for the night, 
 she held one of our hands in each of hers, and 
 said, — 
 
 "Children! be braver than I have been; that man 
 preaches the truth for which my husband died. God
 
 296 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAIIILY. 
 
 sends him to you. Be faithful to him. Take heed 
 that you forsake him not. It is not given to every 
 one as to me to have the light they forsook in youth 
 restored to them in old age. To me his words are 
 like voices from the dead. They are worth dying for." 
 
 My mother is not so satisfied. She likes what Dr. 
 Luther says, but she is afraid what Aunt Agnes might 
 think of it. She thinks he speaks too violently some- 
 times. She does not like any one to be pained. She 
 cannot herself much like the way they sell the indul- 
 gences, but she hopes Dr. Tetzel means well, and she 
 has no doubt that the Pope knows best; and she is 
 convinced that in their hearts all good people mean 
 the same, only she is afraid, in the heat of discussion, 
 every one will go further than any one intends, and 
 so there will be a great deal of bad feeling. She 
 thought it was quite right of Dr. Luther quietly to ad- 
 monish any of his penitents who were imagining they 
 could be saved without repentance; but why he should 
 excite all the town in this way by these theses she 
 could not understand; especially on All Saints' Day, 
 when so many strangers came from the country, and 
 the holy relics Avere exhibited, and every one ought to 
 be absorbed with their devotions. 
 
 "Ah, little mother," said my father, "women are 
 too tender-hearted for ploughmen's work. You could 
 never bear to break up the clods, and tear up all the 
 pretty wild flowers. But when the harvest comes we 
 will set you to bind up the sheaves, or to glean beside 
 the reapers. No rough hands of men will do that so 
 well as yours." 
 
 And Gottfried said his vow as doctor of divinity 
 makes it as much Dr. Luther's plain duty to teach true
 
 else's story. 297 
 
 divinity, as his priestly vows oblige him to guard his 
 flock from error and sin. Gottfried says we have 
 fallen on stormy times. For him that may be best, 
 and by his side all is well for me. Besides, I am 
 accustomed to rough paths. But when I look on our 
 little tender Gretchen, as her dimpled cheek rests 
 flushed with sleep on her pillow, I cannot help wishing 
 the battle might not begin in her time. 
 
 Dr. Luther counted the cost before he affixed these 
 theses to the church door. It was this which made 
 him do it so secretly, without consulting any of his 
 friends. He knew there was risk in it, and he nobly 
 resolved not to involve any one else — Elector, pro- 
 fessor, or pastor — in the danger he incurred without 
 hesitation for himself. 
 
 December 1Si7. 
 
 In one thing we are all agreed, and that is in our 
 delight in Dr. Luther's lectures on St. Paul's Epistle 
 to the Galatians. Gottfried heard them and took notes, 
 and reported them to us in my father's house. We 
 gather around him, all of us, in the winter evenings, 
 while he reads those inspiring words to us. Never, I 
 think, were words like them. Yesterday he was read- 
 ing to us, for the twentieth time, what Dr. Luther 
 said on the words, "Who loved me, and gave himself 
 for me." 
 
 "Eead with vehemency," he says, "those words 
 *me,' and 'for me.' Print this 'me' in thy heart, not 
 doubting that thou art of the number to whom this 
 *me' belongeth; also, that Christ hath not only loved 
 Peter and Paul, and given himself for them, but that 
 the same grace also which is comprehended in this 
 'me,' as well pertaineth and cometh unto us as unto
 
 29S cunoxicLES of the sciionberg-cotta familv. 
 
 them. For as we cannot deny that -we are all sinners, 
 all lost; so we cannot deny that Christ died for our 
 sins. Therefore, when I feel and confess myself to be 
 a sinner, why should I not say that I am made righte- 
 ous through the righteousness of Christ, especially 
 when I hear He loved me and gave himself for 
 me?" 
 
 And then my mother asked for the passages she 
 most delights in: "0 Christ, I am thy sin, thy curse, 
 thy wrath of God, thy hell; and contrariwise, thou art 
 my righteousness, my blessing, my life, my grace of 
 God, my heaven." 
 
 And again, when he speaks of Christ being "made 
 a curse for us, the unspotted and undefiled Lamb of 
 God wrapped in our sins, God not laying our sins 
 upon us, but upon his Son, that he, bearing the punish- 
 ment thereof, might be our peace, that by his stripes 
 we might be healed." 
 
 And again: — 
 
 "Sin is a mighty conqueror, which devoureth all 
 mankind, learned and unlearned, holy, wise, and mighty 
 men. This tyrant flieth upon Christ, and will needs 
 swallow him up as he doth all other. But he seeth 
 not that Christ is a person of invincible and everlasting 
 righteousness. Therefore in this combat sin must needs 
 be vanquished and killed; and righteousness must over- 
 come, live, and reign. So in Christ all sin is vanquished, 
 killed, and buried; and righteousness remaineth a con- 
 queror, and reigneth for ever. 
 
 "In like manner Death, which is an omnipotent 
 queen and empress of the whole world, killing kings, 
 princes, and all men, doth mightily encounter with 
 Life, thinking utterly to overcome it and to swallow
 
 ELSfc's STORY. 299 
 
 it up. But because tLe Life was immortal, therefore 
 when it was overcome, it nevertheless overcame, van- 
 quishing and killing Death. Death, therefore, through 
 Christ, is vanquished and abolished, so that now it is 
 but a painted death, which, robbed of its sting, can no 
 more hurt those that believe in Christ, who is become 
 the death of death. 
 
 "So the curse hath the like conflict with the blessing, 
 and would condemn and bring it to nought-, but it can- 
 not. For the blessing is divine and everlasting, there- 
 fore the curse must needs give place. For if the blessing 
 in Christ could be overcome, then would God himself 
 be overcome. But this is impossible; therefore Christ, 
 the power of God, righteousness, blessing, grace, and 
 life, overcometh and destroy eth those monsters, sin, 
 death, and the curse, without war and weapons, in 
 this our body, so that they can no more hurt those that 
 believe." 
 
 Such truths are indeed worth battling for; but who, 
 save the devil, would war against them? I wonder 
 what Fritz would think of it all. 
 
 WiTTENBKBG, February 4518. 
 
 Christopher returned yesterday evening from the 
 market-place, where the students have been burning 
 Tetzel's theses, which he wrote in answer to Dr. 
 Luther's. Tetzel hides behind the papal authority, 
 and accuses Dr. Luther of assailing the Holy Father 
 himself. 
 
 But Dr. Luther says nothing shall ever make him 
 a heretic; that he will recognise the voice of the Pope 
 as the voice of Christ himself. The students kindled 
 this conflagration in the market-place entirely on their 
 own responsibility. They are full of enthusiasm for
 
 300 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHOKBBRG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 Dr. Martin , and of indignation against Tetzel and tlie 
 Dominicans. 
 
 "Wlio can doubt," said Cliristoplier, "how the con- 
 flict will end, between all learning and honesty and 
 truth on the one side, and a few contemptible avaricious 
 monks on the other?" And he proceeded to describe 
 to us the conflagration and the sayings of the students 
 with as much exultation as if it had been a victory 
 over Tetzel and the indulgence-mongers themselves. 
 
 "But it seems to me," I said, "that Dr. Luther is 
 not so much at ease about it as you are. I have no- 
 ticed lately that he looks grave, and at times very sad. 
 He does not seem to think the victory won." 
 
 "Young soldiers," said Gottfried, "on the eve of 
 their first battle may be as blithe as on the eve of a 
 tournay. Veterans are grave before the battle. Their 
 courage comes with the conflict. It will be thus, I be- 
 lieve, with Dr. Luther. For sm'ely the battle is coming. 
 Already some of his old friends fall off. They say the 
 censor at Rome, Prierias, has condemned and written 
 against his theses." 
 
 "But," rejoined Christopher, "they say also that 
 Pope Leo praised Dr. Luther's genius, and said it was 
 only the envy of the monks which found fault with 
 him. Dr. Luther believes the Pope only needs to learn 
 the truth, about these indulgence - mongers to disown 
 them at once." 
 
 "Honest men believe all men honest until they are 
 proved dishonest," said Gottfried drily, "but the 
 Roman court is expensive and the indulgences are pro- 
 fitable." 
 
 This morning our grandmother asked nervously 
 what was the meaning of the shouting she had heard
 
 ELSfe's STORY. 301 
 
 yesterday In the market-place, and the glare of fire she 
 had seen, and the crackling? 
 
 "Only Tetzel's lying theses," said Christopher. She 
 seemed relieved. 
 
 "In my early days," she said, "I learned to listen 
 too eagerly to sounds like that. Bixt in those times 
 they burned other things than books or papers in the 
 market-places." 
 
 "Tetzel threatens to do so again," said Christopher. 
 
 "No doubt they will, if they can," she replied, and 
 relapsed into silence.
 
 o 
 
 02 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Fritz's story. 
 
 AcGuSTraiAN CoirvfENT, Mainz, November 1S17. 
 
 Six years have passed since I have written any- 
 thing in this old chronicle of mine, and as in the quiet 
 of this convent once more I open it, the ink on the 
 first pages is already brown with time; yet a strange 
 familiar fragrance breathes from them, as of early 
 spring flowers. My childhood comes back to me, with 
 all its devout simplicity; my youth, with all its rich 
 prospects and its buoyant, ardent hopes. My child- 
 hood seems like one of those green quiet valleys in my 
 native forests, like the valley of my native Eisenach 
 itself, when that one reach of the forest, and that one 
 quiet town with its spires and church bells, and that 
 one lowly home with its love, its cares, and its twi- 
 light talks in the lumber-room, were all the world I 
 could see. 
 
 Youth rises before me like that first journey through 
 the forest to the University of Erfurt, when the world 
 opened to me like the plains from the breezy heights, 
 a battle-field for glorious achievement, an unbounded 
 ocean for adventure and discovery, a vast field for 
 noble work. 
 
 Then came another brief interval, when once again 
 the lowly home at Eisenach became to me dearer and 
 more than all the wide world beside, and all earth and 
 all life seemed to grow sacred and to expand before
 
 Fritz's story. 303 
 
 me in the Uglit of one pure, holy, loving maiden's 
 heart. I have seen nothing so heaven-like since as she 
 was. But then came the great crash which wrenched 
 my life in twain, and made home and the world alike 
 forbidden ground to me. 
 
 At first, after that, for years I dared not think of 
 Eva. But since my pilgrimage to Rome, I venture to 
 cherish her memory again. I thank God every day 
 that nothing can erase that image of purity and love 
 from my heart. Had it not been for that, and for the 
 recollection of Dr. Luther's manly, honest piety, there 
 are times when the very existence of truth and holiness 
 on earth would have seemed inconceivable, such a 
 chaos of con'uption has the world appeared to me. 
 
 How often has the little lowly hearth-fire, glowing 
 from the windows of the old home, saved me from ship- 
 wreck, when "for many days neither sun nor stars ap- 
 peared, and no small tempest lay on me." 
 
 For I have lived during these years behind the veil 
 of outward shows, a poor insignificant monk, before 
 whom none thought it worth while to inconvenience 
 themselves with masks or disguises. I have spent hour 
 after hour, moreover, in the confessional. I have been 
 in the sacristy before the mass, and at the convent feast 
 after it. And I have spent months once and again at 
 the heart of Christendom, in Rome itself, where the in- 
 dulgences which are now stirring up all Germany are 
 manufactured, and where the money gained by the in- 
 dulgences is spent; not entirely on the building of St. 
 Peter's or in holy wars against the Turks! 
 
 Thank God that a voice is raised at last against this 
 crying, monstrous lie, the honest voice of Dr. Luther. 
 It is ringing through all the land. I have just returned
 
 304 CHKONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 from a mission tlirough Germany, and I had oppor- 
 tunities of observing the effect of the theses. 
 
 The first time I heard of them was from a sermon 
 in a church of the Dominicans in Bavaria. 
 
 The preacher spoke of Dr. Luther by name, and 
 reviled the theses as directly inspired by the devil, de- 
 claring that their wretched author would have a place 
 in hell lower than all the heretics, from Simon Magus 
 downward. 
 
 The congregation were roused and spoke of it as 
 they dispersed. Some piously wondered who this new 
 heretic could be who was worse even than Huss. Others 
 speculated what this new poisonous doctrine could be; 
 and a great many bought a copy of the theses to see. 
 
 In the Augustinian convent that evening they 
 formed the subject of warm debate. Not a few of the 
 monks triumphed in them as an effective blow against 
 Tetzel and the Dominicans. A few rejoiced and said 
 these were the words they had been longing to hear 
 for years. Many expressed wonder that people should 
 make so much stir about them, since they said nothing 
 more than all honest men in the land had always 
 thought. 
 
 A few nights afterwards I lodged at the house of 
 Ruprecht Haller, a priest in a Franconian village. A 
 woman of quiet and modest appearance, young in form 
 but worn and old in expression, with a subdued, 
 broken-spirited bearing, was preparing our supper, and 
 whilst she was serving the table I began to speak to 
 the priest about the theses of Dr. Luther. 
 
 He motioned to me to keep silence, and hastily 
 turned the conversation. 
 
 When we were left alone he explained his reasons.
 
 Fritz's story. 805 
 
 "I gave her tlie money for an indulgence letter last 
 week, and she purchased one from one of Dr. Tetzel's 
 company," he said; "and when she returned her heart 
 seemed lighter than I have seen it for years, since God 
 Bmote us for our sins, and little Dietrich died. I would 
 not have her robhed of that little bit of comfort for 
 the world, be it true or false." 
 
 Theirs was a sad story, common enough in every 
 town and village as regarded the sin, and only uncom- 
 mon as to the longing for better things which yet 
 lingered in the hearts of the guilty. 
 
 I suggested her returning to her kindred or enter- 
 ing a convent. 
 
 "She has no kindred left that would receive her," 
 he said; "and to send her to be scorned and disciplined 
 by a community of nuns — never!" 
 
 "But her soul!" I said, "and yours?" 
 
 "The blessed Lord received such," he answered 
 almost fiercely, "before the Pharisees." 
 
 "Such received Him!" I said quietly, "but receiv- 
 ing Him they went and sinned no more." 
 
 "And when did God ever say it was sin for a priest 
 to marry?" he asked; "not in the Old Testament, for 
 the son of Elkanah the priest and Hannah ministered 
 before the Lord in the temple, as perhaps our little 
 Dietrich," he added in a low tone, "ministers before 
 Him in his temple now. And where in the New Testa- 
 ment do you find it forbidden?" 
 
 "The Church forbids it," I said. 
 
 "Since when?" he asked. "The subject is too near 
 my heart for me not to have searched to see. And 
 five hundred years ago, I have read, before the days 
 of Hildebrand the pope, many a village pastor had his 
 
 Schonherg-Cotta Family. I. 20
 
 306 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 lawful wife, whom he loved as I love Bertha; for God 
 knows neither she nor I ever loved another." 
 
 "Does this satisfy her conscience?" I asked. 
 
 "Sometimes," he replied bitterly, "but only some- 
 times. Oftener she lives as one under a curse, afraid 
 to receive any good thing, and bowing to every sorrow 
 as her bitter desert, and the foretaste of the terrible 
 retribution to come." 
 
 " Whatever is not of faith is sin," I murmured. 
 
 "But what will be the portion of those who call 
 what God sanctions sin," he said, "and bring trouble 
 and pollution into hearts as pure as hers?" 
 
 The woman entered the room as he was speaking, 
 and must have caught his words, for a deep crimson 
 flushed her pale face. As she turned away, her whole 
 frame quivered with a suppressed sob. But afterwards, 
 when the priest left the room, she came up to me and 
 said, looking with her sad, dark, lustreless eyes at me, 
 "You were saying that some doubt the efficacy of these 
 indulgences? But do you? I cannot trust Am," she 
 added softly, "he would be afraid to tell me if he 
 thought so." 
 
 I hesitated what to say. 1 could not tell an un- 
 truth; and before those searching, earnest eyes, any 
 attempt at evasion would have been vain. 
 
 "You do not believe this letter can do anything for 
 me," she said; "wor do /." And moving quietly to the 
 hearth, she tore the indulgence into shreds, and threw 
 it on the flames. 
 
 "Do not tell him this," she said; "he thinks it 
 comforts me." 
 
 I tried to say some words about repentance and 
 forgiveness bein^ free to aU-
 
 Fritz's story. 307 
 
 "Eepentance for me," she said, "would be to leave 
 Lim, would it not?" 
 
 I could not deny it. 
 
 "I will 7iever leave bim," sbe replied, with a calm- 
 ness which was more like principle than passion. "He 
 has sacrificed life for me; but for me he might have 
 been a great and honoured man. And do you think I 
 would leave him to bear his blighted life alone?" 
 
 Ah I it was no dread of scorn or discipline which 
 kept her from the convent. 
 
 For some time I was silenced. I dared neither to 
 reproach nor to comfort. At length I said, "Life, 
 whether joyful or sorrowful, is very short. Holiness 
 is infinitely better than happiness here, and holiness 
 makes happiness in the life beyond. If you felt it 
 would be for his good, you would do anything, at any 
 cost to yourself, would you not?" 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. "You believe, then, 
 that there is some good left, even in me!" she said. 
 "For this may God bless you!" and silently she left 
 the room. 
 
 Five hundred years ago these two lives might have 
 been holy, honourable, and happy, and now! — 
 
 I left that house with a heavy heart, and a mind 
 more bewildered than before. 
 
 But that pale, worn face-, those deep, sad, truthful 
 eyes-, and that brow, that might have been as pure as 
 the brow of a St. Agnes, have haunted me often since. 
 And whenever I think of it, I say, — 
 
 "God be merciful to them and to me, sinners!" 
 
 For had not my own good, pure, pious mother 
 doubts and scruples almost as bitter? Did not she also 
 live too often as if under a curse? Who or what has 
 
 20*
 
 308 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 thrown this shadow on so many homes? Who that 
 knows the interior of many convents dares to say they 
 are liolier than homes? Who that has lived with, or 
 confessed many monks or nuns, can dare to say their 
 hearts are more heavenly than those of husband or 
 wife, father or mother? Alas! the questions of that 
 priest are nothing new to me. But I dare not entertain 
 them. For if monastic life is a delusion, to what have 
 1 sacrificed hopes which were so absorbing, and might 
 have been so pure? 
 
 Regrets are burdens a brave man must cast ofiF. 
 For my little life what does it matter? But to see 
 vice shamefully reigning in the most sacred places, 
 and scruples, perhaps false, staining the purest hearts, 
 who can behold these things and not mourn? Crimes 
 a pagan would have abhorred atoned for by a few 
 florins; sins which the Holy Scriptures scarcely seem 
 to condemn, weighing on tender consciences like crimes I 
 What will be the end of this chaos? 
 
 The next night I spent in the castle of an old 
 knight in the Thuringian Forest, Otto von Gersdorf. 
 He welcomed me very hospitably to his table, at which 
 a stately old lady presided, his widowed sister. 
 
 "What is all this talk about Dr. Luther and his 
 theses?" he asked; "only, I suppose, some petty quarrel 
 between the monks! And yet my nephew Ulrich 
 thinks there is no one on earth like this little Brother 
 Martin. Tou good Augustinians do not like the Black 
 Friars to have all the profit; is that it?" he asked 
 laughing. 
 
 "That is not Dr. Luther's motive, at all events," I
 
 PRITZ'S STORY. 309 
 
 said; "I do not believe money is more to him than it 
 is to the birds of the au\" 
 
 "No, brother," said the lady; "think of the beautiful 
 words our Ghriemhild read us from his book on the 
 Lord's Prayer." 
 
 "Yes; you, and Ulrich, and Ghriemhild, and At- 
 lantis," rejoined the old knight, "you are all alike; 
 the little friar has bewitched you all." 
 
 The names of my sisters made my heart beat. 
 
 "Does the lady know Ghriemhild and Atlantis 
 Gotta?" I asked. 
 
 "Come, nephew Ulrich," said the knight to a young 
 man who just then entered the hall from the chase; 
 "tell this good brother all you know of Fraulein 
 Ghriemhild Gotta." 
 
 We were soon the best friends; and long after the 
 old knight and his sister had retired, Ulrich von Gers- 
 dorf and I sat up discoursing about Dr. Luther and 
 his noble words and deeds, and of names dearer to us 
 both even than his. 
 
 "Then you are Fritz!" he said musingly after a 
 pause; "the Fritz they all delight to talk of, and think 
 no one can ever be equal to. You are the Fritz that 
 Ghriemhild says her mother always hoped would have 
 wedded that angel maiden Eva von Schonberg, who is 
 now a nun at Nimptschen; whose hymn-book and 
 'Theologia Teutsch' she carried with her to the con- 
 vent. I wonder you could have left her to become a 
 monk," he continued; "your vocation must have been 
 very strong." 
 
 At that moment I certainly felt very weak. But 
 I would not for the world have let him see this, and I
 
 310 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAOTLY. 
 
 said, witli as steady a voice as I could command, "I 
 believed it was God's will." 
 
 "Well," lie continued, "it is good for any one to 
 have seen her, and to carry that image of purity and 
 piety with him into cloister or home. It is better than 
 any painting of the saints, to have that angelic, child- 
 like countenance, and that voice sweet as church music, 
 in one's heart." 
 
 "It is," I said, and I could not have said a word 
 more. Happily for me, he turned to another subject 
 and expatiated for a long time on the beauty and 
 goodness of his little Chriemhild, who was to be his 
 wife, he said, next year; whilst through my heart only 
 two thoughts remained distinct, namely, what my mo- 
 ther had wished about Eva and me, and that Eva had 
 taken my "Theologia Teutsch" into the convent with 
 her. 
 
 It took some days before I could remove that 
 sweet, guileless, familiar face, to the saintly, unearthly 
 height in my heart, where only it is safe for me to 
 gaze on it. 
 
 But I believe Ulrich thought me a very sympathiz- 
 ing listener, for in about an hour he said, — 
 
 "Tou are a patient and good-natured monk, to 
 listen thus to my romances. However, she is your 
 sister, and I wish you would be at our wedding. But, 
 at all events, it will be delightful to have news for 
 Chriemhild and all of them about Fritz." 
 
 I had intended to go on to Wittenberg for a few 
 days, but after that conversation I did not dare to do 
 so at once. I returned to the university of Tubingen, 
 to quiet my mind a little with Greek and Hebrew, 
 under the direction of the excellent Eeuchlin, it being
 
 FKITZ'S STORr. 311 
 
 the will of our Vicar-General that I should study the 
 lauguages. 
 
 At Tubingen I found Dr. Luther's theses the great 
 topic of debate. Men of learning rejoiced in the theses 
 as an assault on barbarism and ignorance; men of 
 straightforward integrity hailed them as a protest 
 against a system of lies and imposture; men of piety 
 gave thanks for them as a defence of holiness and 
 truth. The students enthusiastically greeted Dr. Luther 
 as the prince of the new age; the aged Reuchlin and 
 many of the professors recognised him as an assailant 
 of old foes from a new point of attack. 
 
 Here I attended for some weeks the lectures of the 
 young doctor, Philip Melanchthon (then only twenty- 
 one, yet already a doctor for four years), until he was 
 summoned to Wittenberg, which he reached on the 
 25th of August 1518. 
 
 On business of the order, I was deputed about the 
 same time on a mission to the Augustinian convent at 
 Wittenberg, so that I saw him arrive. The disap- 
 pointment at his first appearance was great. Could this 
 little unpretending-looking youth be the great scholar 
 Reuchlin had recommended so warmly, and from whose 
 abilities the Elector Frederick expected such great re- 
 sults for his new university? 
 
 Dr. Luther was among the first to discover the 
 treasure hidden in this insignificant frame. But his 
 first Latin harangue, four days after his arrival, won 
 the admiration of all; and very soon his lecture-room 
 was crowded. 
 
 This was the event which absorbed Wittenberg 
 when first I saw it. 
 
 The return to my old home was very strange to
 
 312 CHRONICLES OP THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 me. Such a broad barrier of time and circumstance 
 had grown up between me and those most familiar 
 to me! 
 
 Elsfe, matronly, as she was, with her keys, her 
 stores, her large household, and her two children, the 
 baby Fritz and Gretchen, was in heart the very same 
 to me as when we parted for my first term at Erfurt. 
 Her honest, kind blue eyes, had the very same look. 
 But around her was a whole new world of strangers, 
 strange to me as her own new life, with whom I had 
 no links whatever. 
 
 With Chriemhild and the younger children, the re- 
 collection of me as the elder brother seemed struggling 
 with their reverence for the priest. Christopher • ap- 
 peared to look on me with a mixture of pity, and re- 
 spect, and perplexity, which prevented my having any 
 intimate intercourse with him at all. 
 
 Only my mother seemed unchanged with regard to 
 me, although much more aged and feeble. But in her 
 affection there was a clinging tenderness which pierced 
 my heart more than the bitterest reproaches. I felt 
 by the silent watching of her eyes how she had 
 missed me. 
 
 My father was little altered, except that his schemes 
 appeared to give him a new and placid satisfaction, in 
 the very impossibility of their fulfilment, and that the 
 relations between him and my grandmother were much 
 more friendly. 
 
 There was at first a little severity in our grand- 
 mother's manner to me, which wore off when we under- 
 stood how much Dr. Luther's teaching had done for us 
 both; and she never wearied of hearing what he had 
 said and done at Rome.
 
 Fritz's storv. 313 
 
 The one who, I felt, would have been entirely the 
 same, was gone for ever; and I could scarcely regret 
 the absence which left that one image undimmed by 
 the touch of time, and surrounded by no barriers of 
 change. 
 
 But of Eva no one spoke to me, except little 
 Thekla, who sang to me over and over the Latin 
 hymns Eva had taught her, and asked if she sang 
 them at all in the same way. 
 
 I told her yes. They were the same words , the 
 same melodies, much of the same soft, reverent, in- 
 nocent manner. But little Thekla's voice was deep 
 and powerful, and clear like a thrush's ; and Eva's used 
 to be like the soft murmuring of a dove in the depth 
 of some quiet wood — hardly a voice at all — an 
 embodied prayer, as if you stood at the threshold of 
 her heart, and heard the music of her happy, holy, 
 childlike thoughts within. 
 
 No, nothing could ever break the echo of that 
 voice to me. 
 
 But Thekla and I became great friends. She had 
 scarcely known me of old. We became friends as we 
 were. There was nothing to recall, nothing to efface. 
 And Cousin Eva had been to her as a star or angel 
 in heaven, or as if she had been another child sent 
 by God out of some beautiful old legend to be her 
 friend. 
 
 Altogether, there was some pain in this visit to my 
 old home. I had prayed so earnestly that the blank 
 my departure had made might be filled up; yet now 
 that I saw it filled, and the life of my beloved running 
 its busy course, with no place in it for me, it left a 
 dreary feeling of exile on my lieart. If the dead could
 
 314 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 tLus return, would they feel anything of this? Not the 
 holy dead, surely. They would rejoice that the sor- 
 row, having wrought its work, should cease to be so 
 bitter — that the blank should, not, indeed, be filled 
 (no true love can replace another), but veiled and 
 made fruitful, as time and nature veil all ruins. 
 
 But the holy dead would revisit earth from a home, 
 a Father's house; and that the cloister is not, nor can 
 ever be. 
 
 Yet I would gladly have remained at Wittenberg. 
 Compared with Wittenberg, all the world seemed 
 asleep. There it was morning, and an atmosphere ot 
 hope and activity was around my heart. Dr. Luther 
 was there; and, whether consciously or not, all 
 who look for better days seem to fix their eyes on 
 him. 
 
 But I was sent to Mainz. On my journey thither 
 I went out of my way to take a new book of Dr. 
 Luther's to my poor Priest Ruprecht in Franconia. 
 His village lay in the depths of a pine forest. The 
 book was the Exposition of the Lord's Prayer in Ger- 
 man, for lay and unlearned people. The priest's house 
 was empty, but I laid the book on a wooden seat in 
 the porch, with my name written in it, and a few 
 words of gratitude for his hospitality. And as I wound 
 my way through the forest, I saw from a height on 
 the opposite side of the valley a woman enter the 
 porch, and stoop to pick up the book, and then stand 
 reading it in the doorway. As I turned away, her 
 figure still stood motionless in the arch of the porch, 
 with the white leaves of the open book relieved against 
 the shadow of the interior. 
 
 I prayed that the words might be written ou her
 
 Fritz's story. 315 
 
 heart. Wonderful words of lioly love and grace I 
 knew were there, which would restore hope and purity 
 to any heart on which they were written. 
 
 And now I am placed in this Augustinian monastery 
 at Mainz in the Rhine-land. 
 
 This convent has its own peculiar traditions. Here 
 is a dungeon in which, not forty years ago (in 1481), 
 died John of Wesel — the old man who had dared to 
 protest against indulgences, and to utter such truths as 
 Dr. Luther is upholding now. 
 
 An aged monk of this monastery, who was young 
 when John of Wesel died, remembers him, and has 
 often spoken to me about him. The inquisitors insti- 
 tuted a process against him, which was carried on, like 
 so many others, in the secret of the cloister. 
 
 It was said that he made a general recantation, but 
 that two accusations which were brought against him 
 he did not attempt in his defence to deny. They were 
 these: "That it is not his monastic life which saves 
 any monk, but the grace of God;" and, "That the 
 same Holy Spirit who inspired the Holy Scriptures 
 alone can interpret them with power to the heart." 
 
 The inquisitors burned his books; at which, my 
 informant said, the old man wept. 
 
 "Why," he said, "should men be so inflamed against 
 him? There was so much in his books that was good, 
 and must they be all burned for the little evil that was 
 mixed with the good ? Surely this was man's judgment, 
 not God's — not His who would have spared Sodom, 
 at Abraham's prayer, for but ten righteous, had they 
 been found there. God," he sighed, "must the good 
 jierish with the evil?" 
 
 But the inquisitors were not to be moved. The
 
 316 CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY. 
 
 books were condemned and ignominiously burned in 
 public; the old man's name was branded with heresy, 
 and he himself was silenced, and left in the convent 
 prison to die. 
 
 I asked the monk who told me of this, what were 
 the especial heresies for which John of Wesel was con- 
 demned. 
 
 "Heresies against the Church, I believe," he re- 
 plied. "I have heard him in his sermons declare that 
 the Church was becoming like what the Jewish nation 
 was in the days of our Lord. He protested against the 
 secular splendours of the priests and prelates — against 
 the cold ceremonial into which he said the services had 
 sunk, and the empty superstitions which were sub- 
 stituted for true piety of heart and life. He said that 
 the salt had lost its savour; that many of the priests 
 were thieves and robbers, and not shepherds; that the 
 religion in fashion was little better than that of the 
 Pharisees who put our Lord to death — a cloak for 
 spiritual pride, and narrow, selfish bitterness. He de- 
 clared that divine and ecclesiastical authority were of 
 very different weight; that the outward professing 
 Church was to be distinguished from the true living 
 Church of Christ ; that the power of absolution given 
 to the priests was sacramental, and not judicial. In a 
 sermon at Worms, I once heard him say he thought 
 little of the Pope, the Church, or the Councils, as a 
 foundation to build our faith upon. 'Christ alone,' he 
 declared, *I praise. May the word of Christ dwell in 
 us richly!' " 
 
 "They were bold words," I remarked. 
 
 "More than that," replied the aged monk; "John 
 of Wesel protested that what the Bible did not hold as
 
 PRITZ'S STORY. 317 
 
 sin, neither could he; and he is even reported to have 
 said, 'Eat on fast days, if thou art hungry.'" 
 
 "That is a concession many of the monks scarcely 
 need," I observed. "His life, then, was not condemned, 
 but only his doctrine." 
 
 "I was sorry," the old monk resumed, "that it was 
 necessary to condemn him; for from that time to this, 
 I never have heard preaching that stirred the heart 
 like his. When he ascended the pulpit, the church 
 was thronged. The laity understood and listened to 
 him as eagerly as the religious. It was a pity he was 
 a heretic, for I do not ever expect to hear his like 
 again." 
 
 "You have never heard Dr. Luther preach?" I 
 said. 
 
 "Dr. Luther who wrote those theses they are talk- 
 ing so much of?" he asked. "Do the people throng 
 to hear his sermons, and hang on his words as if they 
 were words of life?" 
 
 "They do," I repHed. 
 
 "Then," rejoined the old monk softly, "let Dr. 
 Luther take care. That was the way with so many of 
 the heretical preachers. With John of Goch at Mech- 
 lin, and John Wessel whom they expelled from Paris, 
 I have heard it was just the same. But," he continued, 
 "if Dr. Luther comes to Mainz, I will certainly try to 
 hear him. I should like to have my cold, dry, old 
 heart moved like that again. Often when I read the 
 holy Gospels John of Wesel's words come back. Bro- 
 ther, it was like the breath of life." 
 
 The last man that ventured to say in the face of 
 Germany that man's word is not to be placed on an 
 epality with God's, and that the Bible is the only
 
 318 CHKONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FARIILY. 
 
 standard of truth, and the one rule of right and wrong 
 — this is how he died! 
 
 How will it be with the next — with the man that 
 is proclaiming this in the face of the world now? 
 
 The old monk turned back to me, after we had 
 separated, and said, in a low voice — 
 
 "Tell Dr. Luther to take warning hj John of 
 Wesel. Holy men and great preachers may so easily 
 become heretics without knowing it. And yet," he 
 added, "to preach such sermons as John of Wesel, I 
 am not sure it is not worth while to die in prison. I 
 think I could be content to die, if I could hear one 
 such again ! Tell Dr. Luther to take care 5 but never- 
 theless, if he comes to Mainz I will hear him." 
 
 The good, then, in John of Wesel's words, has not 
 perished, in spite of the flames. 
 
 END OF VOLi. I.
 
 STATE NORMAL SCHOOL. 
 
 IiOS AHGEbES, CAU.
 
 TV