"In the cells and apartments sit fifty brothers writing many
books, spiritual, secular, in many languages,--sermons,
histories, songs, all painted in rich colors.
"In the last cell towards the north sits a white-haired old man,
leans his brow upon his hand, and writes, 'The enemy's hordes
will break in, in seven years, and the cloister walls will be in
flames.'"
Whether the old gray monk was ever there or not, at least we know that
the French, in 1692, destroyed the beautiful cloister, and its paintings
and carvings and works of art were all lost, except some of the stained
glass, a few of its painted windows being at Monrepos, near Ludwigsburg.
The famous Hirsau elm, about which half the German poets have sung, is
the most significant, touching, poetical thing imaginable. You feel its
whole life-story in an instant, as if you had watched its growth through
the long years; how the young thing found itself, it knew not why,
springing up in the damp cloister earth, surrounded by four tall, cold,
gray walls, above which indeed was a glimpse of heaven; how it shot up
and up, ever higher and higher, with the craving of all living things
for sunlight and free air, never putting forth leaf or twig until it had
attained its hope and could rest. Within the high walls is only the
strong, tall, bare trunk, and far above, free and triumphant, the noble
crown of foliage.
Brave, beautiful elm, that dared to grow, imprisoned in cruel stone;
that did not faint and die before it reached the longed-for warmth and
light and sweetness!