Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family

by Elizabeth Rundle Charles

  Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  CHRONICLES OF THE SCHOeNBERG-COTTA FAMILY

  BY TWO OF THEMSELVES.

  NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE.

  To those unfamiliar with the history of Luther and his times, the titleof this unique work may not sufficiently indicate its character.

  The design of the author is to so reproduce the times of the Reformationas to place them more vividly and impressively before the mind of thereader than has been done by ordinary historical narratives.

  She does this with such remarkable success, that it is difficult torealize we are not actually hearing Luther and those around him speak.We seem to be personal actors in the stirring scenes of that eventfulperiod.

  One branch of the Cotta family were Luther's earliest, and ever after,his most intimate friends. Under the title of "Chronicles" our authormakes the members of this family, (which she brings in almost livingreality before us), to record their daily experiences as connected withthe Reformation age.

  This Diary is fictitious, but it is employed with wonderful skill inbringing the reader face to face with the great ideas and factsassociated with Luther and men of his times, as they are given to us byaccredited history, and is written with a beauty, tenderness and powerrarely equalled.

  I.

  Else's Story.

  Friedrich wishes me to write a chronicle of my life. Friedrich is myeldest brother. I am sixteen, and he is seventeen, and I have alwaysbeen in the habit of doing what he wishes; and therefore, although itseems to me a very strange idea, I do so now. It is easy for Friedrichto write a chronicle, or anything else, because he has thoughts. But Ihave so few thoughts, I can only write what I see and hear about peopleand things. And that is certainly very little to write about, becauseeverything goes on so much the same always with us. The people around meare the same I have known since I was a baby, and the things havechanged very little; except that the people are more, because there areso many little children in our home now, and the things seem to me tobecome less, because my father does not grow richer: and there are moreto clothe and feed. However, since Fritz wishes it, I will try;especially as ink and paper are the two things which are plentiful amongus, because my father is a printer.

  Fritz and I have never been separated all our lives until now. Yesterdayhe went to the University at Erfurt. It was when I was crying at thethought of parting with him that he told me his plan about thechronicle. He is to write one, and I another. He said it would be a helpto him, as our twilight talk has been--when always, ever since I canremember, we two have crept away in summer into the garden, under thegreat pear-tree, and in winter into the deep window of the lumber-roominside my father's printing-room, where the bales of paper are kept, andold books are piled up, among which we used to make ourselves a seat.

  It may be a help and comfort to Fritz, but I do not see how it ever canbe any to me. He had all the thoughts, and he will have them still. ButI--what shall I have for his voice and his dear face, but cold, blankpaper, and no thoughts at all! Besides, I am so very busy, being theeldest; and the mother is far from strong, and the father so often wantsme to help him at his types, or to read to him while he sets them.However, Fritz wishes it, and I shall do it. I wonder what his chroniclewill be like!

  But where am I to begin? What is a chronicle? Two of the books in theBible are called "Chronicles" in Latin--at least Fritz says that is whatthe other long word[1] means--and the first book begins with "Adam," Iknow, because I read it one day to my father for his printing. But Fritzcertainly cannot mean me to begin so far back as that. Of course I couldnot remember. I think I had better begin with the oldest person I know,because she is the furthest on the way back to Adam; and that is ourgrandmother Von Schoenberg. She is very old--more than sixty--but herform is so erect, and her dark eyes so piercing, that sometimes shelooks almost younger than her daughter, our precious mother, who isoften bowed down with ill-health and cares.

  [Footnote 1: Paralipomenon.]

  Our grandmother's father was of a noble Bohemian family, and that iswhat links us with the nobles, although my father's family belongs tothe burgher class. Fritz and I like to look at the old seal of ourgrandfather Von Schoenberg, with all its quarterings, and to hear thetales of our knightly and soldier ancestors--of crusader and baron. Mymother, indeed, tells us this is a mean pride, and that my father'sprinting-press is a symbol of a truer nobility than any crest ofbattle-axe or sword; but our grandmother, I know, thinks it a greatcondescension for a Schoenberg to have married into a burgher family.Fritz feels with my mother, and says the true crusade will be waged byour father's black types far better than by our great-grandfather'slances. But the old warfare was so beautiful, with the prancing horsesand the streaming banners! And I cannot help thinking it would have beenpleasanter to sit at the window of some grand old castle like theWartburg, which towers above our town, and wave my hand to Fritz, as herode, in flashing armour, on his war-horse, down the steep hill side,instead of climbing up on piles of dusty books at our lumber-roomwindow, and watching him, in his humble burgher dress, with his wallet(not too well filled), walk down the street, while no one turned tolook. Ah, well! the parting would have been as dreary, and Fritz himselfcould not be nobler. Only I cannot help seeing that people do honour thebindings and the gilded titles, in spite of all my mother and Fritz cansay; and I should like my precious book to have such a binding, that thepeople who could not read the inside, might yet stop to look at the goldclasps and the jewelled back. To those who can read the inside, perhapsit would not matter. For of all the old barons and crusaders mygrandmother tells us of, I know well none ever were or looked noblerthan our Fritz. His eyes are not blue, like mine--which are only GermanCotta eyes, but dark and flashing. Mine are very good for seeing,sewing, and helping about the printing; but his, I think, wouldpenetrate men's hearts and command them, or survey a battle-field at aglance.

  Last week, however, when I said something of the kind to him, helaughed, and said there were better battle-fields than those on whichmen's bones lay bleaching; and then there came that deep look into hiseyes, when he seems to see into a world beyond my reach.

  But I began with our grandmother, and here I am thinking about Friedrichagain. I am afraid that he will be the beginning and end of mychronicle. Fritz has been nearly all the world to me. I wonder if thatis why he is to leave me. The monks say we must not love any one toomuch; and one day, when we went to see Aunt Agnes, my mother's onlysister, who is a nun in the convent of Nimptschen, I remember her sayingto me when I had been admiring the flowers in the convent garden,"Little Else, will you come and live with us, and be a happy, blessedsister here?"

  I said, "_Whose_ sister, Aunt Agnes? I am Fritz's sister! May Fritz cometoo?"

  "Fritz could go into the monastry at Eisenach," she said.

  "Then I would go with him," I said. "I am Fritz's sister, and I would gonowhere in the world without him."

  She looked on me with a cold, grave pity, and murmured, "Poor littleone, she is like her mother, the heart learns to idolize early. She hasmuch to unlearn. God's hand is against all idols."

  That is many years ago; but I remember as if it were yesterday, how thefair convent garden seemed to me all at once to grow dull and cheerlessat her words and her grave looks, and I felt it damp and cold like achurch-yard; and the flowers looked like made flowers; and the wallsseemed to rise like the walls of a cave, and I scarcely breathed until Iwas outside again, and had hold of Fritz's hand.

  For I am not at all re
ligious. I am afraid I do not even wish to be. Allthe religious men and women I have ever seen do not seem to me half sosweet as my poor dear mother; nor as kind, clever, and cheerful as myfather; nor half as noble and good as Fritz. And the Lives of the Saintspuzzle me exceedingly, because it seems to me that if every one were tofollow the example of St. Catherine, and even our own St. Elizabeth ofHungary, and disobey their parents, and leave their little children, itwould make everything so very wrong and confused. I wonder if any oneelse ever felt the same, because these are thoughts I have never eventold to Fritz; for he _is_ religious, and I am afraid it would pain him.

  Our grandmother's husband fled from Bohemia on account of religion; butI am afraid it was not the right kind of religion, because no one seemsto like to speak about it; and what Fritz and I know about him is onlywhat we have picked up from time to time, and put together forourselves.

  Nearly a hundred years ago, two priests preached in Bohemia, called JohnHuss and Jerome of Prague. They seem to have been dearly beloved, and tohave been thought good men during their life-time; but people must havebeen mistaken about them, for they were both burnt alive as heretics atConstance in two following years--in 1415 and 1416; which of courseproves that they could not have been good men, but exceedingly bad.

  However, their friends in Bohemia would not give up believing what theyhad learned of these men, although they had seen what end it led to. Ido not think this was strange, because it is so very difficult to makeoneself believe what one ought, as it is, and I do not see that the fearof being burned even would help one to do it; although, certainly, itmight keep one silent. But these friends of John Huss were many of themnobles and great men, who were not accustomed to conceal their thoughts,and they would not be silent about what Huss had taught them. What thiswas, Fritz and I never could find out, because my grandmother, whoanswers all our other questions, never would tell us a word about this.We are, therefore, afraid it must be something very wicked indeed. Andyet, when I asked one day if our grandfather (who, we think, hadfollowed Huss), was a wicked man, her eyes flashed like lightning, andshe said vehemently,--

  "Better never lived or died!"

  This perplexes us, but perhaps we shall understand it, like so manyother things, when we are older.

  Great troubles followed on the death of Huss. Bohemia was divided intothree parties, who fought against each other. Castles were sacked, andnoble women and little children were driven into caves and forests. Ourforefathers were among the sufferers. In 1458 the conflict reached itsheight; many were beheaded, hung, burned alive, or tortured. Mygrandfather was killed as he was escaping, and my grandmotherencountered great dangers, and lost all the little property which wasleft her, in reaching Eisenach, a young widow with two little children,my mother and Aunt Agnes.

  Whatever it was that my great grandfather believed wrong, his wife didnot seem to share it. She took refuge in the Augustinian Convent, whereshe lived until my Aunt Agnes took the veil, and my mother was married,when she came to live with us. She is as fond of Fritz as I am, in herway; although she scolds us all in turn, which is perhaps a good thing,because as she says, no one else does. And she has taught me nearly allI know, except the Apostles' Creed and Ten Commandments, which ourfather taught us, and the Paternoster and Ave Mary which we learned atour mother's knee. Fritz, of course, knows infinitely more than I do. Hecan say the Cisio Janus (the Church Calendar) through without onemistake, and also the Latin Grammar, I believe; and he has read LatinBooks of which I cannot remember the names; and he understands all thatthe priests read and sing, and can sing himself as well as any of them.

  But the legends of the saints, and the multiplication table, and thenames of herbs and flowers, and the account of the Holy Sepulchre, andof the pilgrimage to Rome,--all these our grandmother has taught us. Shelooks so beautiful, our dear old grandmother, as she sits by the stovewith her knitting, and talks to Fritz and me, with her lovely white hairand her dark bright eyes, so full of life and youth, they make us thinkof the fire on the hearth when the snow is on the roof, all warm within,or, as Fritz says,--

  "It seems as if her heart lived always in the summer, and the winter ofold age could only touch her body."

  But I think the summer in which our grandmother's soul lives must berather a fiery kind of summer, in which there are lightnings as well assunshine. Fritz thinks we shall know her again at the Resurrection Dayby that look in her eyes, only perhaps a little softened. But that seemsto me terrible, and very far off; and I do not like to think of it. Weoften debate which of the saints she is like. I think St. Anna, themother of Mary, mother of God, but Fritz thinks St. Catherine of Egypt,because she is so like a queen.

  Besides all this, I had nearly forgotten to say I know the names ofseveral of the stars, which Fritz taught me. And I can knit and spin,and do point stitch, and embroider a little. I intend to teach it to allthe children. There are a great many children in our home and more everyyear. If there had not been so many, I might have had time to learnmore, and also to be more religious; but I cannot see what they would doat home if I were to have a vocation. Perhaps some of the younger onesmay be spared to become saints. I wonder if this should turn out to beso, and if I help them, if any one ever found some little humble placein heaven for helping some one else to be religious. Because then theremight perhaps be hope for me after all.

  * * * * *

  Our father is the wisest man in Eisenach. The mother thinks, perhaps, inthe world. Of this, however, our grandmother has doubts. She has seenother places besides Eisenach, which is perhaps the reason. He certainlyis the wisest man I ever saw. He talks about more things that I cannotunderstand than any one else I know. He is also a great inventor. Hethought of the plan of printing books before any one else, and hadalmost completed the invention before any press was set up. And healways believed there was another world on the other side of the greatsea, long before the Admiral Christopher Columbus discovered America.The only misfortune has been that some one else has always stepped injust before he had completed his inventions, when nothing but somelittle insignificant detail was wanting to make everything perfect, andcarried off all the credit and profit. It is this which has kept us frombecoming rich,--this and the children. But the father's temper is soplacid and even, nothing ever sours it. And this is what makes us alladmire and love him so much, even more than his great abilities. Heseems to rejoice in these successes of other people just as much as ifhe had quite succeeded in making them himself. If the mother laments alittle over the fame that might have been his, he smiles and says,--

  "Never mind, little mother. It will be all the same a hundred yearshence. Let us not grudge any one his reward. The world has the benefitif we have not."

  Then if the mother sighs a little over the scanty larder and wardrobe,he replies,--

  "Cheer up, little mother, there are more Americas yet to be discovered,and more inventions to be made. In fact," he adds, with that deep farseeing look of his, "something else has just occurred to me, which, whenI have brought it to perfection, will throw all the discoveries of thisand every other age into the shade."

  And he kisses the mother and departs into his printing-room. And themother looks wonderingly after him, and says,--

  "We must not disturb the father, children, with our little cares. He hasgreat things in his mind, which we shall all reap the harvest of someday."

  So, she goes to patch some little garment once more, and to try to makeone day's dinner expand into enough for two.

  What the father's great discovery is at present, Fritz and I do notquite know. But we think it has something to do, either with the planetsand the stars, or with that wonderful stone the philosophers have beenso long occupied about. In either case, it is sure to make us enormouslyrich all at once; and, meantime, we may well be content to eke out ourliving as best we can.

  * * * * *

  Of the mother I cannot think of anything to say. She is just t
hemother--our own dear, patient, loving, little mother--unlike every oneelse in the world; and yet it seems as if there was nothing to say abouther by which one could make any one else understand what she is. Itseems as if she were to other people (with reverence I say it) just whatthe blessed Mother of God is to the other saints. St. Catherine has herwheel and her crown, and St. Agnes her lamb and her palm, and St. Ursulaher eleven thousand virgins; but Mary, the ever-blessed, has only theHoly Child. She is the blessed woman, the Holy mother, and nothing else.That is just what the mother is. She is the precious little mother, andthe best woman in the world, and that is all. I could describe herbetter by saying what she is not. She never says a harsh word to any onenor of any one. She is never impatient with the father, like ourgrandmother. She is never impatient with the children, like me. Shenever complains or scolds. She is never idle. She never looks severe andcross at us, like Aunt Agnes. But I must not compare her with AuntAgnes, because she herself once reproved me for doing so; she said AuntAgnes was a religious, a pure, and holy woman, far, far above her sphereor ours; and we might be thankful, if we ever reached heaven, if she letus kiss the hem of her garment.

  * * * * *

  Yes, Aunt Agnes is a holy woman--a nun; I must be careful what I say ofher. She makes long, long prayers, they say,--so long that she has beenfound in the morning fainting on the cold floor of the convent church.She eats so little that Father Christopher, who is the convent confessorand ours, says he sometimes thinks she must be sustained by angels. ButFritz and I think that, if that is true, the angel's food cannot be verynourishing; for, when we saw her last, through the convent grating, shelooked like a shadow in her black robe, or like that dreadful picture ofdeath we saw in the convent chapel. She wears the coarsest sackcloth,and often, they say, sleeps on ashes. One of the nuns told my mother,that one day when she fainted, and they had to unloose her dress, theyfound scars and stripes, scarcely healed, on her fair neck and arms,which she must have inflicted on herself. They all say she will have avery high place in heaven; but it seems to me, unless there is a verygreat difference between the highest and lowest places in heaven, it isa great deal of trouble to take. But, then, I am not religious; and itis altogether so exceedingly difficult to me to understand about heaven.Will every one in heaven be always struggling for the high places?Because when every one does that at church on the great festival days,it is not at all pleasant; those who succeed look proud, and those whofail look cross. But, of course, no one will be cross in heaven, norproud. Then how will the saints feel who do _not_ get the highestplaces? Will they be pleased or disappointed? If they are pleased, whatis the use of struggling so much to climb a little higher? And if theyare not pleased, would that be saint-like? Because the mother alwaysteaches us to choose the lowest places, and the eldest to give up to thelittle ones. Will the greatest, then, _not_ give up to the little onesin heaven? Of one thing I feel sure: if the mother had a high place inheaven, she would always be stooping down to help some one else up, ormaking room for others. And then, what _are_ the highest places inheaven? At the emperor's court, I know, they are the places nearest him;the seven Electors stand close around the throne. But can it be possiblethat any would ever feel at ease, and happy, so very near the Almighty?It seems so exceedingly difficult to please Him here, and so very easyto offend Him, that it does seem to me it would be happier to be alittle further off, in some little quiet corner near the gate, with agood many of the saints between. The other day, Father Christopherordered me such a severe penance for dropping a crumb of the sacredHost; although I could not help thinking it was as much the priest'sfault as mine. But he said God would be exceedingly displeased; andFritz told me the priests fast and torment themselves severelysometimes, for only omitting a word in the Mass.

  Then the awful picture of the Lord Christ, with the lightnings in hishand! It is very different from the carving of him on the cross. Why didhe suffer so? Was it, like Aunt Agnes, to get a higher place in heaven?or, perhaps, to have the right to be severe, as she is with us? Suchvery strange things seem to offend and to please God, I cannotunderstand it at all; but that is because I have no vocation forreligion. In the convent, the mother says, they grow like God, and sounderstand him better.

  Is Aunt Agnes, then, more like God than our mother? That face, still andpale as death; those cold, severe eyes; that voice, so hollow andmonotonous, as if it came from a metal tube or a sepulchre, instead offrom a heart! Is it with that look God will meet us, with that kind ofvoice he will speak to us? Indeed, the Judgment-day is very dreadful tothink of; and one must indeed need to live many years in the convent notto be afraid of going to heaven.

  Oh, if only our mother were the saint--the kind of good woman thatpleased God--instead of Aunt Agnes, how sweet it would be to try and bea saint then; and how sure one would feel that one might hope to reachheaven, and that, if one reached it, one would be happy there!

  * * * * *

  Aunt Ursula Cotta is another of the women I wish were the right kind ofsaint. She is my father's first cousin's wife; but we have always calledher aunt, because almost all little children who know her do,--she is sofond of children, and so kind to every one. She is not poor like us,although Cousin Conrad Cotta never made any discoveries, or even nearlymade any. There is a picture of St. Elizabeth of Thuringia, our saintedLandgravine, in our parish church, which always makes me think of AuntUrsula. St. Elizabeth is standing at the gate of a beautiful castle,something like our castle of the Wartburg, and around her are kneeling acrowd of very poor people--cripples, and blind, and poor thin mothers,with little hungry-looking children--all stretching out their hands tothe lady, who is looking on with such kindly compassionate looks, justlike Aunt Ursula; except that St. Elizabeth is very thin and pale, andlooks almost as nearly starved as the beggars around her, and AuntUrsula is rosy and fat, with the pleasantest dimples in her round face.But the look in the eyes is the same--so loving, and true, and earnest,and compassionate. The thinness and pallor are, of course, only just thedifference there must be between a saint who fasts, and does so muchpenance, and keeps herself awake whole nights saying prayers, as St.Elizabeth did, and a prosperous burgher's wife, who eats and sleeps likeother people, and is only like the good Landgravine in being so kind toevery one.

  The other half of the story of the picture, however, would not do forAunt Ursula. In the apron of the saint, instead of loaves of bread arebeautiful clusters of red roses. Our grandmother told us the meaning ofthis. The good Landgravine's husband did not quite like her giving somuch to the poor; because she was so generous she would have left thetreasury bare. So she used to give her alms unknown to him. But on thisday when she was giving away those loaves to the beggars at the castlegate, he happened suddenly to return, and finding her occupied in thisway, he asked her rather severely what she had in her apron. She said"roses!"

  "Let me see," said the Landgrave.

  And God loved her so much, that to save her from being blamed, hewrought a miracle. When she opened her apron, instead of the loaves shehad been distributing, there were beautiful flowers. And this is whatthe picture represents. I always wanted to know the end of the story. Ihope God worked another miracle when the Landgrave went away, andchanged the roses back into loaves. I suppose He did, because thestarving people look so contented. But our grandmother does not know.Only in this, I do not think Aunt Ursula would have done the same as theLandgravine. I think she would have said boldly if Cousin Cotta hadasked her, "I have loaves in my apron, and I am giving them to thesepoor starving subjects of yours and mine," and never been afraid of whathe would say. And then, perhaps, Cousin Cotta--I mean theLandgrave's--heart would have been so touched, that he would haveforgiven her, and even praised her, and brought her some more loaves.And then instead of the bread being changed to flowers, the Landgrave'sheart would have been changed from stone to flesh, which does seem abetter thing. But when I once said this to grandmother, she said it wasvery wrong
to fancy other ends to the legends of the saints, just as ifthey were fairy tales; that St. Elizabeth really lived in that oldcastle of the Wartburg, not more than three hundred years ago, andwalked through those very streets of Eisenach, and gave alms to the poorhere, and went into the hospitals, and dressed the most loathsome woundsthat no one else would touch, and spoke tender loving words to wretchedoutcasts no one else would look at. That seems to me so good and dear ofher; but that is not what made her a saint, because Aunt Ursula and ourmother do things like that, and our mother has told me again and againthat it is Aunt Agnes who is like the saint, and not she.

  It is what she suffered, I suppose, that has made them put her in theCalendar; and yet it is not suffering in itself that makes peoplesaints, because I do not believe St. Elizabeth herself suffered morethan our mother. It is true she used to leave her husband's side andkneel all night on the cold floor, while he was asleep. But the motherhas done the same as that often and often. When any of the little oneshas been ill, how often she has walked up and down hour after hour, withthe sick child in her arms, soothing and fondling it, and quieting allits fretful cries with unwearying tender patience. Then St. Elizabethfasted until she was almost a shadow; but how often have I seen ourmother quietly distribute all that was nice and good in our frugal mealsto my father and the children, scarcely leaving herself a bit, andhiding her plate behind a dish that the father might not see. And Fritzand I often say how wasted and worn she looks; not like the Mother ofMercy as we remember her, but too much like the wan pale Mother ofSorrows with the pierced heart. Then as to pain, have not I seen ourmother suffer pain compared with which Aunt Agnes or St. Elizabeth'sdiscipline must be like the prick of a pin.

  But yet all that is not the right kind of suffering to make a saint. Ourprecious mother walks up and down all night not to make herself a saint,but to soothe her sick child. She eats no dinner, not because shechooses to fast, but because we are poor, and bread is dear. Shesuffers, because God lays suffering upon her, not because she takes iton herself. And all this cannot make her a saint. When I say anything tocompassionate or to honour her, she smiles and says,--

  "My Else, I chose this lower life instead of the high vocation of yourAunt Agnes, and I must take the consequences. We cannot have our portionboth in this world and the next."

  If the size of our mother's portion in the next world were to be inproportion to its smallness in this, I think she might have plenty tospare; but this I do not venture to say to her.

  There is one thing St. Elizabeth did which certainly our mother wouldnever do. She left her little father less children to go into a convent.Perhaps it was this that pleased God and the Lord Jesus Christ so verymuch, that they took her up to be so high in heaven. If this is thecase, it is a great mercy for our father and for us that our mother hasnot set her heart on being a saint. We sometimes think, however, thatperhaps although He cannot make her a saint on account of the rules theyhave in heaven about it, God may give our mother some little good thing,or some kind word, because of her being so very good to us. _She_ saysthis is no merit, however, because of her loving us so much. If sheloved us less, and so found it more a trouble to work for us; or if wewere little stranger beggar children she _chose_ to be kind to, insteadof her own, I suppose God would like it better.

  There is one thing, moreover, in St. Elizabeth's history which oncebrought Fritz and me into great trouble and perplexity. When we werelittle children and did not understand things as we do now, but thoughtwe ought to try and imitate the saints, and that what was right for themmust be right for us, and when our grandmother had been telling us aboutthe holy Landgravine privately selling her jewels, and emptying herhusband's treasury to feed the poor, we resolved one day to go and dolikewise. We knew a very poor old woman in the next street, with a greatmany orphan grandchildren, and we planned a long time together before wethought of the way to help her like St. Elizabeth. At length theopportunity came. It was Christmas eve, and for a rarity there were somemeat, and apples, and pies in our storeroom. We crept into the room inthe twilight, filled my apron with pies, and meat, and cakes, and stoleout to our old woman's to give her our booty.

  The next morning the larder was found, despoiled of half of what was tohave been our Christmas dinner. The children cried, and the motherlooked almost as distressed as they did. The father's placid temper foronce was roused, and he cursed the cat and the rats, and wished he hadcompleted his new infallible rat trap. Our grandmother said veryquietly,--

  "Thieves more discriminating than rats or mice have been here. There areno crumbs, and not a thing is out of place. Besides, I never heard ofrats or mice eating pie-dishes."

  Fritz and I looked at each other, and began to fear that we had donewrong, when little Christopher said--

  "I saw Fritz and Else carry out the pies last night."

  "Else! Fritz!" said our father, "what does this mean?"

  I would have confessed, but I remembered St. Elizabeth and the roses,and said, with a trembling voice--

  "They were not pies you saw, Christopher, but roses."

  "Roses," said the mother very gravely, "at Christmas!"

  I almost hoped the pies would have reappeared on the shelves. It was thevery juncture at which they did in the legend; but they did not. On thecontrary, everything seemed to turn against us.

  "Fritz," said our father very sternly, "tell the truth, or I shall giveyou a flogging."

  This was a part of the story where St. Elizabeth's example quite failedus. I did not know what she would have done if some one else had beenpunished for her generosity; but I felt no doubt what I must do.

  "O father!" I said, "it is my fault--it was my thought! We took thethings to the poor old woman in the next street for her grandchildren."

  "Then she is no better than a thief," said our father, "to have takenthem. Fritz and Else, foolish children, shall have no Christmas dinnerfor their pains and Else shall, moreover, be locked into her own roomfor telling a story."

  I was sitting shivering in my room, wondering how it was that thingssucceeded so differently with St. Elizabeth and with us, when AuntUrsula's round pleasant voice sounded up the stairs, and in anotherminute she was holding me laughing in her arms.

  "My poor little Else! We must wait a little before we imitate our patronsaint; or we must begin at the other end. It would never do, forinstance, for me to travel to Rome with eleven thousand young ladieslike St. Ursula."

  My grandmother had guessed the meaning of our foray, and Aunt Ursulacoming in at the time, had heard the narrative, and insisted on sendingus another Christmas dinner. Fritz and I secretly believed that St.Elizabeth had a good deal to do with the replacing of our Christmasdinner; but after that, we understood that caution was needed intransferring the holy example of the saints to our own lives, and thatat present we must not venture beyond the ten commandments.

  Yet to think that St. Elizabeth, a real canonized saint--whose pictureis over altars in the churches--whose good deeds are painted on thechurch windows, and illumined by the sun shining through them--whosebones are laid up in reliquaries, one of which I wear always next myheart--actually lived and prayed in that dark old castle above us, andwalked along these very streets--perhaps even had been seen from thiswindow of Fritz's and my beloved lumber-room.

  Only three hundred years ago! If only I had lived three hundred yearsearlier, or she three hundred years later, I might have seen her andtalked to her, and asked her what it was that made her a saint. Thereare so many questions I should like to have asked her. I would havesaid, "Dear St. Elizabeth, tell me what it is that makes you a saint? Itcannot be your charity, because no one can be more charitable than AuntUrsula, and she is not a saint; and it cannot be your sufferings, oryour patience, or your love, or your denying yourself for the sake ofothers, because our mother is like you in all that, and she is not asaint. Was it because you left your little children, that God loves youso much? or because you not only did and bore the things God laid onyou, as our mother
does, but chose out other things for yourself, whichyou thought harder?" And if she were gentle (as I think she was), andwould have listened, I would have asked her, "Holy Landgravine, why arethings which were so right and holy in you, wrong for Fritz and me?" AndI would also have asked her, "Dear St. Elizabeth, my patroness, what isit in heaven that makes you so happy there?"

  But I forgot--she would not have been in heaven at all. She would noteven have been made a saint, because it was only after her death, whenthe sick and crippled were healed by touching her body, that they foundout what a saint she had been. Perhaps, even, she would not herself haveknown she was a saint. And if so, I wonder if it can be possible thatour mother is a saint after all, only she does not know it.

  * * * * *

  Fritz and I are four or five years older than any of the children. Twolittle sisters died of the plague before any more were born. One wasbaptized, and died when she was a year old, before she could soil herbaptismal robes. Therefore we feel sure she is in paradise. I think ofher whenever I look at the cloud of glory around the Blessed Virgin inSt. George's Church. Out of the cloud peep a number of happychild-faces--some leaning their round soft cheeks on their prettydimpled hands, and all looking up with such confidence at the dearmother of God. I suppose the little children in heaven especially belongto her. It must be very happy, then, to have died young.

  But of that other little nameless babe who died at the same time none ofus ever dare to speak. It was not baptized, and they say the souls oflittle unbaptized babes hover about for ever in the darkness betweenheaven and hell. Think of the horror of falling from the loving arms ofour mother into the cold and the darkness, to shiver and wail there forever, and belong to no one. At Eisenach we have a Foundling Hospital,attached to one of the nunneries founded by St. Elizabeth, for suchforsaken little ones. If St. Elizabeth could only establish a Foundlingsomewhere near the gates of paradise, for such little nameless outcastchild-souls! But I suppose she is too high in heaven, and too far fromthe gates to hear the plaintive cries of such abandoned little ones. Orperhaps God, who was so much pleased with her for deserting her ownlittle children, would not allow it. I suppose the saints in heaven whohave been mothers, or even elder sisters like me, leave their mother'shearts on earth, and that in paradise they are all monks and nuns likeAunt Agnes and Father Christopher.

  Next to that little nameless one came the twin girls Chriemhild (namedafter our grandmother), and Atlantis, so christened by our father onaccount of the discovery of the great world beyond the sea which he hadso often thought of, and which the great admiral Christopher Columbusaccomplished about that time. Then the twin boys Boniface Pollux andChristopher Castor; their names being a compromise between our father,who was struck with some remarkable conjunction of their stars at theirbirth, and my mother, who thought it only right to counterbalance suchPagan appellations with names written in heaven. Then another boy, whoonly lived a few weeks; and then the present baby, Thekla, who is theplaything and darling of us all.

  * * * * *

  These are nearly all the people I know well; except, indeed, MartinLuther, the miner's son, to whom Aunt Ursula Cotta has been so kind. Heis dear to us all as one of our own family. He is about the same age asFritz, who thinks there is no one like him. And he has such a voice, andis so religious, and yet so merry withal; at least at times. It was hisvoice and his devout ways which first drew Aunt Ursula's attention tohim. She had seen him often at the daily prayers at church. He used tosing as a chorister with the boys of the Latin school of the parish ofSt. George, where Fritz and he studied. The ringing tones of his voice,so clear and true, often attracted Aunt Ursula's attention; and healways seemed so devout. But we knew little about him. He was very poor,and had a pinched, half-starved look when first we noticed him. Often Ihave seen him on the cold winter evenings singing about the streets foralms, and thankfully receiving a few pieces of broken bread and meat atthe doors of the citizens; for he was never a bold and impudent beggaras some of the scholars are. Our acquaintance with him, however, beganone day which I remember well. I was at Aunt Ursula's house, which is inGeorge Street, near the church and school. I had watched the choir ofboys singing from door to door through the street. No one had given themanything: they looked disappointed and hungry. At last they stoppedbefore the window where Aunt Ursula and I were sitting with her littleboy. That clear, high, ringing voice was there again. Aunt Ursula wentto the door and called Martin in, and then she went herself to thekitchen, and after giving him a good meal himself, sent him away withhis wallet full, and told him to come again very soon. After that, Isuppose she consulted with Cousin Conrad Cotta, and the result was thatMartin Luther became an inmate of their house, and has lived among usfamiliarly since then like one of our own cousins.

  He is wonderfully changed since that day. Scarcely any one would havethought then what a joyous nature his is. The only thing in which itseemed then to flow out was in his clear true voice. He was subdued andtimid like a creature that had been brought up without love. Especiallyhe used to be shy with young maidens, and seemed afraid to look in awoman's face. I think they must have been very severe with him at home.Indeed, he confessed to Fritz, that he had often as a child been beatentill the blood came for trifling offences, such as taking a nut, andthat he was afraid to play in his parents' presence. And yet he wouldnot hear a word reflecting on his parents. He says his mother is themost pious woman in Mansfeld, where his family live, and his fatherdenies himself in every way to maintain and educate his children,especially Martin, who is to be the learned man of the family. Hisparents are inured to hardships themselves, and believe it to be thebest early discipline for boys. Certainly poor Martin had enough ofhardship here. But that may be the fault of his mother's relations atEisenach, who, they hoped, would have been kind to him, but who do notseem to have cared for him at all. At one time he told Fritz he was sopinched and discouraged by the extreme poverty he suffered, that hethought of giving up study in despair, and returning to Mansfeld to workwith his father at the smelting furnaces, or in the mines under themountains. Yet indignant tears start to his eyes if any one ventures tohint that his father might have done more for him. He was a poor diggerin the mines, he told Fritz, and often he had seen his mother carryingfirewood on her shoulders from the pine-woods near Mansfeld.

  But it was in the monastic schools, no doubt, that he learned to be soshy and grave. He had been taught to look on married life as a low andevil thing; and, of course, we all know it cannot be so high and pure asthe life in the convent. I remember now his look of wonder when AuntUrsula, who is not fond of monks, said to him one day, "There is nothingon earth more lovely than the love of husband and wife, when it is inthe fear of God."

  In the warmth of her bright and sunny heart, his whole nature seemed toopen like the flowers in summer. And now there is none in all our circleso popular and sociable as he is. He plays on the lute, and sings as wethink no one else can. And our children all love him, he tells them suchstrange, beautiful stories about enchanted gardens and crusaders, andabout his own childhood, among the pine-forests and the mines.

  It is from Martin Luther, indeed, that I have heard more than from anyone else, except from our grandmother, of the great world beyondEisenach. He has lived already in three other towns, so that he is quitea traveller, and knows a great deal of the world, although he is not yettwenty. Our father has certainly told us wonderful things about thegreat islands beyond the seas which the Admiral Columbus discovered, andwhich will one day, he is sure, be found to be only the other side ofthe Indies and Tokay and Araby. Already the Spaniards have found gold inthose islands, and our father has little doubt that they are the Ophirfrom which King Solomon's ships brought the gold for the temple. Also,he has told us about the strange lands in the south, in Africa, wherethe dwarfs live, and the black giants, and the great hairy men who climbthe trees and make nests there, and the dreadful men-eaters, and thepeople who have their he
ads between their shoulders. But we have not yetmet with any one who have seen all those wonders, so that Martin Lutherand our grandmother are the greatest travellers Fritz and I areacquainted with.

  Martin was born at Eisleben. His mother's is a burgher family. Three ofher brothers live here at Eisenach, and here she was married. But hisfather came of a peasant race. His grandfather had a little farm of hisown at Mora, among the Thuringian pine-forests; but Martin's father wasthe second son; their little property went to the eldest, and he becamea miner, went to Eisleben, and then settled at Mansfeld, near the Hartzmountains where the silver and copper lie buried in the earth.

  At Mansfeld Martin lived until he was nineteen. I should like to see theplace. It must be so strange to watch the great furnaces, where theyfuse the copper and smelt the precious silver, gleaming through the pinewoods, for they burn all through the night in the clearings of theforest. When Martin was a little boy he may have watched by them withhis father, who now has furnaces and a foundry of his own. Then thereare the deep pits under the hills, out of which come from time to timetroops of grim-looking miners. Martin is fond of the miners; they aresuch a brave and hardy race, and they have fine bold songs and chorusesof their own which he can sing, and wild original pastimes. Chess is afavorite game with them. They are thoughtful too, as men may well be whodive into the secrets of the earth. Martin, when a boy, has often goneinto the dark, mysterious pits and winding caverns with them, and seenthe veins of precious ore. He has also often seen foreigners of variousnations. They come from all parts of the world to Mansfeld for thesilver,--from Bavaria and Switzerland, and even from the beautifulVenice, which is a city of palaces, where the streets are canals filledby the blue sea, and instead of waggons they use boats, from whichpeople land on the marble steps of the palaces. All these things Martinhas heard described by those who have really seen them, besides what hehas seen himself. His father also frequently used to have theschoolmasters and learned men at his house, that his sons might profitby their wise conversation. But I doubt if he can have enjoyed this somuch. It must have been difficult to forget the rod with which once hewas beaten fourteen times in one morning, so as to feel sufficiently atease to enjoy their conversation. Old Count Gunther of Mansfeld thinksmuch of Martin's father, and often used to send for him to consult himabout the mines.

  Their house at Mansfeld stood at some distance from the school-housewhich was on the hill, so that, when he was little, an older boy used tobe kind to him, and carry him in his arms to school. I daresay that wasin winter, when his little feet were swollen with chilblains, and hispoor mother used to go up to the woods to gather faggots for the hearth.

  His mother must be a very good and holy woman, but not, I fancy, quitelike our mother; rather more like Aunt Agnes. I think I should have beenrather afraid of her. Martin says she is very religious. He honours andloves her very much, although she was very strict with him, and once, hetold Fritz, beat him, for taking a nut from their stores, until theblood came. She must be a brave, truthful woman, who would not spareherself or others; but I think I should have felt more at home with hisfather, who used so often to kneel beside Martin's bed at night, andpray God to make him a good and useful man. Martin's father, however,does not seem so fond of the monks and nuns, and is therefore, Isuppose, not so religious as his mother is. He does not at all wishMartin to become a priest or a monk, but to be a great lawyer, ordoctor, or professor at some university.

  Mansfeld, however, is a very holy place. There are many monasteries andnunneries there, and in one of them two of the countesses were nuns.There is also a castle there, and our St. Elizabeth worked miraclesthere as well as here. The devil also is not idle at Mansfeld. A wickedold witch lived close to Martin's house, and used to frighten anddistress his mother much, bewitching the children so that they nearlycried themselves to death. Once even, it is said, the devil himself gotup into the pulpit, and preached, of course in disguise. But in all thelegends it is the same. The devil never seems so busy as where thesaints are, which is another reason why I feel how difficult it would beto be religious.

  Martin had a sweet voice, and loved music as a child, and he used oftento sing at people's doors as he did here. Once, at Christmas time, hewas singing carols from village to village among the woods with otherboys, when a peasant came to the door of his hut, where they weresinging, and said in a loud gruff voice, "Where are you, boys?" Thechildren were so frightened that they scampered away as fast as theycould, and only found out afterwards that the man with a rough voice hada kind heart, and had brought them out some sausages. Poor Martin wasused to blows in those days, and had good reason to dread them. It musthave been pleasant, however, to hear the boys' voices carolling throughthe woods about Jesus born at Bethlehem. Voices echo so strangely amongthe silent pine-forests.

  When Martin was thirteen he left Mansfeld and went to Magdeburg, wherethe Archbishop Ernest lives, the brother of our Elector, who has abeautiful palace, and twelve trumpeters to play to him always when he isat dinner. Magdeburg must be a magnificent city, very nearly, we think,as grand as Rome itself. There is a great cathedral there, and knightsand princes and many soldiers, who prance about the streets; andtournaments and splendid festivals. But our Martin heard more than hesaw of all this. He and John Reineck of Mansfeld (a boy older thanhimself, who is one of his greatest friends), went to the school of theFranciscan Cloister, and had to spend their time with the monks, or singabout the streets for bread, or in the church-yard when the Franciscansin their grey robes went there to fulfill their office of burying thedead. But it was not for him, the miner's son, to complain, when, as hesays, he used to see a Prince of Anhalt going about the streets in acowl begging bread, with a sack on his shoulders like a beast of burden,insomuch that he was bowed to the ground. The poor prince, Martin said,had fasted and watched and mortified his flesh until he looked like animage of death, with only skin and bones. Indeed, shortly after he died.

  At Magdeburg also, Martin saw the picture of which he has often told us."A great ship was painted, meant to signify the Church, wherein therewas no layman, not even a king or prince. There were none but the popewith his cardinals and bishops in the prow, with the Holy Ghost hoveringover them, the priests and monks with their oars at the side; and thusthey were sailing on heavenward. The laymen were swimming along in thewater around the ship. Some of them were drowning; some were drawingthemselves up to the ship by means of ropes, which the monks, moved withpity, and making over their own good works, did cast out to them to keepthem from drowning, and to enable them to cleave to the vessel and to gowith the others to heaven. There was no pope, nor cardinal, nor bishop,nor priest, nor monk in the water, but laymen only."

  It must have been a very dreadful picture, and enough to make any oneafraid of not being religious, or else to make one feel how useless itis for any one except the monks and nuns, to try to be religious at all.Because however little merit any one had acquired, some kind monk mightstill be found to throw a rope out of the ship and help him in; and,however many good works any layman might do, they would be of no availto help him out of the flood, or even to keep him from drowning, unlesshe had some friends in a cloister.

  I said Martin was merry; and so he is, with the children, or when he ischeered with music or singing. And yet, on the whole, I think he israther grave, and often he looks very thoughtful, and even melancholy.His merriment does not seem to be so much from carelessness as fromearnestness of heart, so that whether he is telling a story to thelittle ones, or singing a lively song, his whole heart is in it,--in hisplay as well as in his work.

  In his studies Fritz says there is no one at Eisenach who can come nearhim, whether in reciting, or writing prose or verse, or translating, orchurch music.

  Master Trebonius, the head of St. George's school, is a very learned manand very polite. He takes off his hat, Fritz says, and bows to hisscholars when he enters the school, for he says that "among these boysare future burgomasters, chancellors, doctors, and magistrates."
Thismust be very different from the masters at Mansfeld. Master Treboniusthinks very much of Martin. I wonder if he and Fritz will beburgomasters or doctors one day.

  Martin is certainly very religious for a boy, and so is Fritz. Theyattend mass very regularly, and confession, and keep the fasts.

  From what I have heard Martin say, however, I think he is as much afraidof God and Christ and the dreadful day of wrath and judgment as I am.Indeed I am sure he feels, as every one must, there would be no hope forus were it not for the Blessed Mother of God who may remind her Son howshe nursed and cared for him, and move him to have some pity.

  But Martin has been at the University of Erfurt nearly two years, andFritz has now left us to study there with him; and we shall have no moremusic, and the children no more stories until no one knows when.

  * * * * *

  These are the people I know. I have nothing else to say except about thethings I possess, and the place we live in.

  The things are easily described. I have a silver reliquary, with a lockof the hair of St. Elizabeth in it. That is my greatest treasure. I havea black rosary with a large iron cross which Aunt Agnes gave me. I havea missal, and part of a volume of the Nibelungen Lied; and besides myevery-day dress, a black taffetas jacket and a crimson stuff petticoat,and two gold ear-rings, and a silver chain for holidays, which AuntUrsula gave me. Fritz and I between us have also a copy of some oldLatin hymns, with woodcuts, printed at Nuernberg. And in the garden Ihave two rose bushes; and I have a wooden crucifix carved in Rome out ofwood which came from Bethlehem, and in a leather purse one gulden mygodmother gave me at my christening; and that is all.

  The place we live in is Eisenach, and I think it a beautiful place. Butnever having seen any other town, perhaps I cannot very well judge.There are nine monasteries and nunneries here, many of them founded bySt. Elizabeth. And there are I do not know how many priests. In thechurches are some beautiful pictures of the sufferings and glory of thesaints; and painted windows, and on the altars gorgeous gold and silverplate, and a great many wonderful relics which we go to adore on thegreat saint's days.

  The town is in a valley, and high above the houses rises the hill onwhich stands the Wartburg, the castle where St. Elizabeth lived. I wentinside it once with our father to take some books to the Elector. Therooms were beautifully furnished with carpets and velvet-covered chairs.A lady dressed in silk and jewels, like St. Elizabeth in the pictures,gave me sweetmeats. But the castle seemed to me dark and gloomy. Iwondered which was the room in which the proud mother of the Landgravelived, who was so discourteous to St. Elizabeth when she came a youngmaiden from her royal home far away in Hungary; and which was the coldwall against which she pressed her burning brow, when she rushed throughthe castle in despair on hearing suddenly of the death of her husband.

  I was glad to escape into the free forest again, for all around thecastle, and over all the hills, as far as we can see around Eisenach, itis forest. The tall dark pine woods clothe the hills; but in the valleysthe meadows are very green beside the streams. It is better in thevalleys among the wild flowers than in that stern old castle, and I didnot wonder so much after being there that St. Elizabeth built herself ahut in a lowly valley among the woods, and preferred to live and diethere.

  It is beautiful in summer in the meadows, at the edge of the pine woods,when the sun brings out the delicious aromatic perfume of the pines, andthe birds sing, and the rooks caw. I like it better than the incense inSt. George's Church, and almost better than the singing of the choir,and certainly better than the sermons which are so often about thedreadful fires and the judgment-day, or the confessional where they giveus such hard penances. The lambs, and the birds, and even the insects,seem so happy, each with its own little bleat, or warble, or coo, orbuzz of content.

  It almost seems then as if Mary, the dear Mother of God, were governingthe world instead of Christ, the Judge, or the Almighty with thethunders. Every creature seems so blithe and so tenderly cared for Icannot help feeling better there than at church. But that is because Ihave so little religion.