Whether they would prove the ruin of their bold author, time alone would tell. Carlstadt was still very dubious; Dr. Schurf, professor of law, expostulated vehemently with his colleague. From Hamburg came a letter from Albert Kranz, the famous historian. “You have truth on your side, brother Martin, but you cannot succeed. Poor monk,--get you to your cell, and cry ‘O God have mercy upon me.’” From Erfurt, Dr. Luther’s old university, came words of caution and cold cheer. So from some; but there were abundant words in another vein,--words of praise, comfort, approval. As for the friar, I can still see him, sitting at the great oak table in his convent chamber, and penning to Link, his prior at Erfurt, “If the work be of God, who shall prevent it? If it be of man, who shall promote it? Not my will, nor their will, nor our will, but _Thy_ will, O Heavenly Father, be done.” So the clouds gathered, and we began to watch for the lightnings. With Dr. Luther I was often, very often; for there was a property about this man, which later I found was even in his theology; one either hated him, or loved him: one could have no half acquaintance. And what a man he was to know! Very human, very shrewd in worldly judgment, though sometimes touched by ‘another worldliness’ which was utterly disconcerting. He talked of himself, his student life at Eisenach and Erfurt, his later career as a friar, with naïve frankness. All Wittenberg called him blameless and pious, and so he surely was, observing all the fasts and enjoined abstinences of his order with an abnegation worthy of a St. Francis: yet on a feast day I can still see him, sitting behind the green stove, a mug of beer upon the table, and across his knees his mellow lute, strumming the strings with no clumsy fingers, and singing with deep, strong voice Latin student songs that were anything but Misereres. Very early I remarked his fondness for music, and his answer was characteristic. “Yes, for where good music is, and an honest song, there the devil knows there is no spoil for him, and flaps his black wings away.” If my Roman companions had seen me daily walking, talking, dining with this Augustinian friar, who was already setting the world by the ears, I do not think they would have believed their own sight. And why was I so fascinated? I could not explain even to myself. Surely, I meditated, I had not become more convinced of this friar’s theology--it was not proved valid because _he_ believed it, and my Roman friends did not. Nor was he extraordinarily learned in the pagan classics, although I found him a very adequate Latin scholar, with a fair foundation in Greek. Nor was I greatly charmed by the social life in Wittenberg. The Steinitz family were delightful hosts, but I found few congenial spirits among the gentlemen at the Electoral Schloss.