nd dying; a monk's life was no great matter. The sun
he did not doubt would continue to shine, whatever became of him. 'I am
no St. Paul,' he said; 'I am afraid of death; but there are things worse
than death, and if I die, I die.'

Even a Staupitz could not but feel that he had an extraordinary youth in
his charge. To divert his mind from feeding upon itself, he devised a
mission for him abroad, and brother Martin was despatched on business of
the convent to Rome.

Luther too, like Erasmus, was to see Rome; but how different the figures
of the two men there! Erasmus goes with servants and horses, the
polished, successful man of the world. Martin Luther trudges penniless
and barefoot across the Alps, helped to a meal and a night's rest at the
monasteries along the road, or begging, if the convents fail him, at the
farm-houses.

He was still young, and too much occupied with his own sins to know much
of the world outside him. Erasmus had no dreams. He knew the hard truth
on most things. But Rome, to Luther's eager hopes, was the city of the
saints, and the court and palace of the Pope fragrant with the odours of
Paradise. 'Blessed Rome,' he cried, as he entered the gate--'Blessed
Rome, sanctified with the blood of martyrs!'

Alas! the Rome of reality was very far from blessed. He remained long
enough to complete his disenchantment. The cardinals, with their gilded
chariots and their parasols of peacocks' plumes, were poor
representatives of the apostles. The gorgeous churches and more gorgeous
rituals, the pagan splendour of the paintings, the heathen gods still
almost worshipped in the adoration of the art which had formed them, to
Luther, whose heart was heavy with thoughts of man's depravity, were
utterly horrible. The name of religion was there: the thinnest veil was
scarcely spread over the utter disbelief with which God and Christ were
at heart regarded. Culture enough there was. It was the Rome of Raphael
and Michael Angelo, of Perugino, and Benvenuto; but to the poor German
monk, who had come there to find help for his suffering soul, what was
culture?

He fled at the first moment that he could. 'Adieu! Rome,' he said; 'let
all who would lead a holy life depart from Rome. Everything is permitted
in Rome except to be an honest man.' He had no thought of leaving the
Roman Church. To a poor monk like him, to talk of leaving the Church was
like talking of leaping off the planet. But perplexed and troubled he
re