Old Times in the Colonies & The Story of Liberty. Charles Carleton Coffin

busy with his books. He is thirsting for knowledge, and makes such progress in his studies that before be is twenty-seven years old ho is made a doctor of philosophy; and his fellow-students, proud of their young doctor, make a grand parade, conduct him to the hall of the university.and install him as their teacher, with appropriate ceremonies, in his professor's chair.

      And now, instead of reciting creeds and catechisms, he is giving lectures, and is so earnest and eloquent that students come from far to listen to his teaching. There comes a night when he invites all the students to take supper with him. They drink his health in foaming mugs of beer. He rises to make a speech. They hurrah and clap their hands. But never have they seen the young doctor so sober. He informs them that it is the last time they will meet together. He has decided to resign his professorship and become a monk. They are astounded.

      "Become a monk!"

      "Yes."

      "Shut yourself up in a convent, shave your head, go barefoot, and wear a hair shirt!"

      "Yes."

      He bids them good-bye, leaves the room, and at midnight knocks at the gate of the convent of the Augustine monks. The door turns on its hinges, and Doctor Martin Luther passes in, and the door closes upon him. Morning comes. The professor's chair in the university is vacant, while the professor who has occupied it is kneeling on the cold stone floor of his cell, saying his prayers. He is dead to the world, and the world is dead to him: he studies; he spends his time in praying; he fasts, eating only a few morsels of bread; he grows thin and pale, till he is only skin and bones — trying in this way to get rid of his sins. He begs his living. Shouldering a bag, he goes through the villages, asking the people for bread, cheese, geese, chickens — or anything that will support life. Martin before long, however, discovers that the monks, instead of being holier than other men, have like passions, and are ready to help themselves to the best of the things given them by the people. There are frequent disputes which the prior has to settle.

      And what do the people receive in return for their gifts? Nothing.

      CHAPTER XL

       WHAT THE BOY WHO SUNG FOR HIS BREAKFAST SAW IN ROME

       Table of Contents

      THERE is a dispute between the Augustine monks of Germany and the vicar who superintends them. The monks object to some of his proceedings. It is a dispute which only the Pope — the man who can do no wrong — can settle. The monks choose Friar Martin to go to Rome and lay the matter before the Pope. Friar Martin is able and eloquent. He has read all the works of the fathers, and he, of all others, will best plead their cause. Although the journey is a long one, Friar Martin is pleased to make it, for Rome is the Eternal City, where dwells the head of the Church — the holy man who is God's representative on earth, who cannot possibly do anything that is not right. To visit Rome will be like going to the very gate of heaven.

      The monks give Brother Martin their blessing and benediction, and he starts upon his journey. Although there are thousands of monks tramping through Germany — so many that the people compare them to the grasshoppers that eat up their fields of corn — yet they do not refuse him a bit of bread-and-cheese, and at the convents he finds good cheer among the brothers. He crosses the Rhine; climbs the Alps, where the shepherds are tending their flocks; passes along deep gorges, where the water tumbles and foams to the lakes below, and where the rocks rise so high, so sharp and steep, that at noon it is only twilight. He sees the avalanches roll from the mountains with a roar like thunder. Far above him the icy peaks gleam in the sunshine. He climbs above the. clouds, crosses fields of snow, goes over the summit, descends the southern slope, and finds himself, as it were, in another world. How pure the air I How deep and tender the light! A blue haze rests upon the mountains. Fresh and green the fields; wide-spreading the chestnut-trees; fertile the slopes, where the peasants are planting their vineyards. He reaches the plains of Italy, and beholds ruins around him — marble pillars, beautifully sculptured once, but broken now. The Italian brothers of his order welcome him to their monasteries: but he is surprised to see how luxuriously they live. They make themselves merry with wine, sing songs, tell unseemly stories. Slid then rattle off Pater-nosters and masses glibly, to get through with them as soon as possible, that they may take another pull at the wine, or indulge in other pleasures.

      Italy is an old land, and Friar Martin is well acquainted with its history — how the Empire of Rome rose and fell. He gazes upon the sculptured marbles and broken columns, and recalls the time when Rome was in her glory, with an empire reaching from India to England. He comes to the Campagna — the wide plain through which winds the River Tiber. He sees the Aqueduct, which the old Romans built to bring water into the city from the Albanian hills. And there, in the distance, are the gleaming spires of the city — the one spot of all others on earth that he has longed to see. He falls on his face and gives thanks to God. "Holy Rome! I salute thee!" he cries, in ecstasy. He passes through the massive gate-way, walks with reverent feet the narrow streets, enters the churches, one after another, to say his prayers and thank God anew that he is in the holy city. He almost wishes that his father and mother were not alive; for if they were dead and in purgatory, what unspeakable pleasure there would be in obtaining their release by his prayers, which he repeats in every church!

       OVER THE MOUNTAINS.

       THE CAMPAGNA.

      How inspiring to stand in the old Forum where, a century before Christ was born, Cicero gave utterance to his immortal orations! The past rises before Friar Martin. He sees, in imagination, the audience of old Romans listening to Cicero. One of his auditors is Julius Caesar, six years younger than the orator: he has led the armies of Rome in triumph through Gaul, has crossed the sea to the land of the Angles, where men wear skins of beasts for clothing, and where Druids venerate the stately oaks, and offer human sacrifices to their deity.

      Another of Cicero's auditors is a general who has led the armies to victory in the East — Pompey — he who profaned the Temple at Jerusalem by entering into the most holy place.

      General Cato is another listener — a man with a soul so calm and serene that nothing disturbs him.

      And still another general is there — Mark Antony — a wild, reckless debauchee, who fills Rome with riot and disorder.

      Two poets are in the audience listening to Cicero's eloquence — Virgil and Horace, and a historian — Sallust; they are boys. And there is one more — Seneca. Friar Martin has read their works; and there he is upon the spot where the poets, perhaps, have recited their own poems to the people of old Rome.

      He walks along a street, past the Temple of Jupiter, and comes to the Temple of Peace, and looks up to its mighty arches, reared by Vespasian, to receive the spoils which he brought from Jerusalem; and the poor Jews whom be brought as prisoners were compelled to work in the clay-pits, making bricks for the construction of the edifice commemorative of their humiliation.

      Near by it is the Arch of Titus. What a story in its time-worn stones

      — the history of a perishing, and yet imperishable, people! The Triumphal Arch was erected to glorify the man who thought he had crushed them out forever. In the sculptured stones Friar Martin sees the procession of Roman soldiers bringing the silver trumpets, the golden candlestick, the table of showbread — the sacred furniture of the Jewish Temple, and escorting the weeping maidens, the stalwart warriors of the conquered race, prisoners of war, doomed to hopeless captivity.

       THE PLACE WHERE CICERO DELIVERED HIS ORATIONS.

      On the hill overlooking the Forum is the Capitol — the once magnificent marble palace, with its majestic columns, mosaic pavements, courts, and passage-ways, adorned with statues of nymphs, fauns, and satyrs, and before which is the statue of the emperor Marcos Aurelius. From this palace once was issued a decree that