the great men who have walked in them.  In the burying-ground in the outskirts I found the mausoleum of the ruling house, a decorated hall of marble with a crypt underneath in which are the coffins.  The members of the Saxe-Weimar family for many generations are here; the warlike ancestor with his armour rusting on the dusty lid, grand-duke and duchess, and the child that died before it attained the coronet.  But far more interesting than any of these are two large plain caskets of oak, lying side by side at the foot of the staircase by which you descend.  In these are the bones of Goethe and Schiller.  The heap of wreaths, some of them still fresh, which lay on the tops, the number on the coffin of Schiller being noticeably the larger, showed how green their memory had been kept in the heart of the nation.  I was only one of a great multitude of pilgrims who are coming always, their chief errand being to see the graves of these famous dead within the quiet town.  In the side of the Schloss Kirche, in the city of Wittenberg, is an old archway, with pillars carved as if twisted and with figures of saints overhead, the sharpness of the cutting being somewhat broken and worn away through time.  It is the doorway which rang loud three hundred years ago to the sound of Luther’s hammer as he nailed up his ninety-five theses.  Within the church, about midway toward the altar and near the wall, the guide lifts an oaken trap-door and shows you, beneath, the slab which covers Luther’s ashes.  Just opposite, in a sepulchre precisely similar, lies Melancthon, and in the chancel near by, in tombs rather more stately, the electors of Saxony that befriended the reformers.  A spot worthy indeed to be a place of pilgrimage! attracting not only those who bless the men, but those who curse them.  Charles V. and Alva stood once on the pavement where the visitor now stands, and the Emperor commanded the stone to be removed from the grave of Luther.  Did the body turn in its coffin at the violation?  It might well have been so, for never was there fiercer hate.  For three centuries the generations have trooped hitherward, more often drawn in reverence, but sometimes through very hatred, a multitude too mighty to be numbered.  But there is a grave in Prussia, where, if I mistake not, the pilgrims are more numerous and the interest, for the average Prussian, deeper than scholar or poet or reformer call out.  The garrison church at Potsdam has a plain name and is a plain edifice, when one thinks of the sepulchre it holds.  Hung upon the walls are dusty trophies; there are few embellishments besides.  You make your way through the aisles among the pews where the regiments sit at service, marching from their barracks close by, then through a door beneath the pulpit enter a vault lighted by tapers along the wall.  Two heavy coffins stand on the stone floor,—­the older one that of Frederick William I., that despot, partially insane, perhaps, who yet accomplished great things for Prussia; the other that of his famous son,