THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY c From the collection of Julius Doerner, Chicago Purchased j 1918. m( an tic th< eO-'h CS&lc 1890 the ,ves, ndi- i to !the tin_„ Rny Illa- tions hereinafter stated. 3. No volumes shall be taken from the rooms with- out the permission of the librarian, and without being properly registered. Violation of this section shall be punished by suspen- sion from the use of the Library. 4. Not more than one volume may be taken at one time ; and no volume may be retained for a longer per- iod than the time specified upon the cover, or two weeks if no time be so specified. A book may be renewed for one week. 5. A fine of two cents shall be demanded for every day a book is retained beyond the specified time, and no member shall be allowed to take out a book so long as any fine remains unpaid. 6. 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Members may take books to their homes at any time when the Library is open, subject to the regula- tions hereinafter stated. 3. No volumes shall be taken from the rooms with- out the permission of the librarian, and without being properly registered. Violation of this section shall be punished by suspen- sion from the use of the Library. 4. Not more than one volume may be taken at one time ; and no volume may be retained for a longer per- iod than the time specified upon the cover, or two weeks if no time be so specified. A book may be renewed for one week. 5. A fine of two cents shall be demanded for every day a book is retained beyond the specified time, and no member shall be allowed to take out a book so long as any fine remains unpaid. 6. If any volume be lost or injured, the volume, or the set to which it belongs, shall be replaced, or its value in money given to the Librarian by the person to whom it is charged in his record. Members will confer a favor by informing us of any mutilation or defacement of books noticed by them- selves. Rooms open from 9 a. m., to 9.45 p. m. Added to the Library, - The Gift of ^8 V m Digitized by the Internet Archive - « in 2016 r. https://archive.org/details/chroniclesofscho00char_0 OF THE Schonberg-Cotta Family BY Elizabeth Charles. New York; JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER. .y-'O CONTENTS. PART I. — Else’s Introduction of Herself and Chronicle, Her Brother Friedrich [Fritz.] Her Ancestry. Other Members of the Family. Delicate Irony. PART II. — Friedrich’s Chronicle, Sage Reflections. Leaves Home for Erfurt. Gets Lost in a Forest. A Gloomy Night. Arrives at Erfurt. The University. Visits Luther’s Home with Him. PART III.— Else’s Chronicle, Eva, a Distant Relative, Introduced into the Family. Discussions among Them Con- nected With the Event. Eva’s Religion. PART IV. — Else’s Chronicle continued. Fritz at Home Again. The Change Which His University Life is Producing in Him. Interesting Family Developments. Eva Begins Latin. Friedrich's Chronicle. More of Martin Luther. He discovers a Latin Bible. The Plague Breaks Out. PART V— Else’s Chronicle. A Terrible Time. The Plague in Eisenach. I Fritz’s Attack and Recovery. 1 Eva’s Attack. In the Family. PART VI. — Friedrich’s Story, He Becomes an Augustinian Monk I What He Writes from There, in Luther’s Cloister. I The Bible Put in His Hands. PART VII.— Else’s Story, Her Mental Conflicts on Account 1 More of Eva. of Fritz. I Dr Tetzel. Her Brothers Repudiate Monks. I His 3ale of Indulgences. PART VIII.— Fritz’s Story, Martin Luther. Else’s Treasures. Accident to Luther. Obtains a Scholarship. Luther Dangerously 111 Its Peculiarity. Makes a Deep Impression. Legend of St. Christopher. 17 25 30 The Vicar-General Staupitz. Evangelical Instruction Received. Fritz is Ordered to Rome. Tauler’s Sermons. Augustine’s Confessions. Finds His Companion to Rome to be Martin Luther. Luther Tells him about his Begin- ning to Preach. Their Journey to Rome. Luther Determines to Become a Monk. The Excitement and Distress among His Friends. His Monkish Life. 40 Fritz’s Interview with Her When Supposed to be Dying. 43 I April 9th, He Finds the Missing I Part of Eva’s Bible Sentence. - - 50 I What Was Thought of the Matter. Eva’s Legend of St. Catherine. I Else’s Visit to the Elector. 59 Luther and Staupitz. T'he Light Breaking on Fritz’s Mind. A Benedictine Monastery. Rome Reached. PART IX. — Else’s Story, The Family Leave for Wittenberg. i Their Journey from Eisenach. Their New Place of Residence and More of Eva. Relations. I The Mystery. PART X. — Fritz’s Story, The Monks at Rome. Festivals and Sacred Ceremonies. Luther’s Strange Conduct at the Holy Staircase. Wickedness of the Holy City. Inquiries concerning grimage. Eva/s Story. Their Pil- Plays Acted in the Chimches. Eva Decides on Being a Nun. Her Life at the Convent. Sister Beatrice. Aunt Agnes. 69 78 CONTENTS. PAET XL— Else’s Story, Home Life. I More of Luther, The Father’s Latest Invention. His Insti uctions to Else and Her Ulrich Von Gersdorf and Chriem- New Religious Experiences. hild. Her Betrothal to Herr Reichen- Herr Reichenbach. 1 bach. PAET XII. — Eva’s Story, • - Convent Life . Luther Appointed Deputy Vicar- General . His Evangelical Sentiments. Else's Sto'i'y. Chriemhild and Ulrich Married. The Plague at Wittenberg. Letter from Dr. Luther. PAET XIII. — Else’s Story continued, November 1, 1517. Luther’s Theses against Indul- gences. Their Effect on the Community. The Students Burn Tetzel’s Answer to Luther. Fritz's Story. A Review. His Mission Through Germany. A Priest and Woman. Gets Unlooked-for News in the Thuringian Forest. PART XIV.— Else’s Story, Family Events Since She Last Wrote. Luther and Melancthon. Their Relations to and Opinions of Each Other. Luther’s Appeal to the Emperor. Melancthon ’s Wife. Luther Publishes Another Work, “ The Babylonish Captivity.” His “ Appeal to the Nobility.” December 10th, 1520. The Plot Thickens. Luther Burns the Decretals and the Pope’s Bull against Him- self. Public Excitement and Condition of Wittenberg. Eva's Story. She Reads the Bible to Others in the Convent. PART XV.-Thekla’s Story, Luther Takes His Departure for Worms. Her Attachment to Him for His Religious Instructions. How the Others Felt. Luther’s Triumphal Journey. He Preaches at Erfurt, Fritz's Stoiy. Cause of His Imprisonment. His Escape from Prison and Re- ception at the Castle of Ebern- burg. An Attempt to Discourage Luther from going to Worms. It Fails. Affecting Incidents of His Journey. His Entry into Worms. His Appearance before the Diet. PART XVI.— Fritz’s Story, His Success in Selling Luther’s Publications. Sentiment Concerning Luther among the Different Classes he Fell in with. Fritz at Paris. At Basil. Ulrich Von Hutten. Interview with Erasmus at Zurich. Zwingle. What the Swiss Thought of Luther. Fritz in Prison at Franconia. Priest Ruprecht and His Woman Again. Thekla's Story. Fritz Escapes. Chriemhild and Ulrich. Condition of the Peasants. PART XVII.— Eva’s Story, 87 Luther’s Debate in Favor of the Bible. His Opinions Deeply Impressing Other Minds. 96 Tetzel and a Specimen of His In- dulgences. Repudiated by Luther. Luther before the Elector. 105 Luther’s Theses at Tubingen. Philip Melancthon at Wittenberg. Fritz Visits His Home. Placed at the Monastery at Mainz. John Wessel. 114 Its Effect. Discovers that Her Father was a Hussite. Luther's Last Book in the Convent. His Commentary on the Psalms Appears. Fritz Imprisoned at Mainz. His Letter to His Friends. Its Effect upon Eva. 123 His Mental Conflict that Night. Second Appearance before the Diet. Result. He Suddenly Disappears. His Friends Fear the Worst. Fritz Becomes a Hawker of Lu- ther’s Writings. 133 Luther is Discovered. His Refuge at the Castle of Wart- burg. There Engaged in Translating the Bible into German. Thekla Reads Portions of It to the People. A Letter from Her Lover Bertrand 147 She Receives Some Sheets of Lu- ther’s German Bible. Its Effect in the Convent. Luther’s Theses Against Monastic Life Reach Her. Monks Returning to Ordinary Life. Several of the Younger Nuns Ab- juring Convent Life. Eva Hesitates. She Hears of Fritz’s Imprisonment. Death of Beatrice, Eva Prepares to Escape from the Convent. Else's Story. Indulgences Again for Sale at Halle. Luther’s Safety and Place of Ref- uge Becomes Privately Known. His New Protest against Indul- gence-Mongers. Its Effect, Augustine Monks Abandoning Monkish Life. Effect of the Proceeding. Domestic Matters. The Sacramental Supper Observed in German. The Mother Leads the Way. The Zwickhau Prophets. Another Cause of Excitement. Eva Finally Reaches Home. CONTENTS. PAET XVIIL— Else’s Story, Eva's Story. Wittenberg and Her Friends. September 21, 1522. The German New Testament Pub- lished. Thekla's Story. Hears Again from Bertrand. More of the German New Testa- ment. A Scene. Fritz Appears among Them, Hav- ing Escaped from Prison. Fritz's Story. December 1st, 1522. He and Eva Betrothed, and in a few Weeks to be Married. The Peasants in Open Revolt. How Fritz and Luther Act. The Revolt Suppressed. Luther and Catherine Von Bora, the Escaped Nun. The Elector’s Death. Its Effect. Luther and Catherine Married, June 23, 1525. Thekla’s Lover, Bertrand, Dies in Prison . His Love for a Daughter. Germany and Luther. Thekla's Story. Effect of Her Affliction. Her School. Luther Reappears in Wittenberg. He Meets the People Again in the Pulpit. The Scene. His Sermon. Its Effect. Other Sermons and Their Effect. A Family Discussion. Luther and Zwickian Prophets. They Leave Wittenberg. Atlantis's Story. C'oncerning Herself. Her Copy of Kessler’s Narrative : The Black Bear Inn ; Luther in Disguise ; His Place of Refuge Discovered. Letters to Her. He Succeeds in His Mission, the Adjustment of Differ e n c e among His Friends. Fritz's Story. Of Luther’s Visit to Them at Eisle- ben. Interesting Interview. Concern about Luther’s Health. 156 The Relation of Monkish and Con- vent Life to this Event. Their Future Home. What Eva Has to Say. Else's Story. The Interest Taken in the Marriage of Fritz and Eva. Atlantis and Conrad. A Visit of Hussites. The Pairs Married. Their Departure from Home. Nine of Eva’s Friends Escape from the Convent. Catherine Von Bora the Guest of the Cottas. 175 Divisons among Reformed Chris- tians. Luther and His Home. Else Visits Eva; Parsonage Scenes. The Gersdorfs. Fritz at Home. Thekla's Story. Her Sore Trial in the Loss of Ber- trand. 190 .Christmas . ILuther’s Favorite Child Sickens I and Dies. ’The Mother's Story. What She Says of Her Children. 204 February 18, 1543, Luther Taken Suddenly 111 and Dies. His Last Hours. Else's Story. Luther’s Funei’al and Honors Paid to His Memory. Conclusion of the Family History. PART XIX.— Eva’s Story, Their Life among the People. Chriemhild and Ulrich. Priest Ruprecht Reappears. The Woman Bertha Brought to Fritz’s House. The Priest and Woman Married. Else's Story. Death of the Grandmother. Troublous Times. Uneasiness among the Peasantry. The Zwickhau Prophets Again. PART XX.— Else’s Story, A Convent Becomes a Nursery. Luther as a Father and Husband. His Differences with Others of the Reformers. His Interest, in Children. PART XXI. — Eva’s and Agnes’s Story, A Lutheran Home. Thekla's Story. Luther. He Completes His Commentary on Genesis. Affecting Incident Connected with It. He Goes to Eisleben. His Wife’s Foreboding. THE SOHONBEKG-GOTTA PAMILY, ELBE’S STOET. I. Friedrich wishes me to write a chron- icle of my life. Friedrich is my eldest brother. I am sixteen, and he is seven- teen, and I have always been in the habit of doin^ what he wishes; and therefore, although it seems to me a very strange idea, I do so now. It is easy for Friedrich to write a chronicle, or any thing else, be- cause lie has thoughts. But I have so few thoughts, I can only write what 1 see and hear about people and things. And that is certainly very little to wj’ite about, be- cause everything goes mi so much the same always with us. The people around me are the same 1 have known since I was a baby, and tlie things have changed very dittle; except that the people are more, be- cause there are so many little children in our home now, and the things seem to me to become less, because my father does not grow richer; and there are more to clothe and feed. However, since Fritz wishes it, ' I will try; especially as ink and paper are the two things which are plentiful among us, because my father is a printer. * Fritz and I have never been separated all our lives until now. Yesterday he went to the University at Erfurt. It was when I was crying at the thought of parting with him that he told me his plan about the chronicle. He is to write one, and I an- other. He said it would be a help to him, as our twilight talk has been — when alwaj^s, ever since I can remember, we two have crept away, in summer into the garden, under the great pear-tree, and in winter into the deep window of the lumber-room inside my father’s printing- room, where the bales of paper are kept, and old books are ])iled up, among which we used to make ’ ourselves a seat. It may be a help and comfort to Fritz, but I don’t see how it ever can be any to Note.— The first portions of the Chronicle, before the Reformation openly commenced, are neces- sarily written from a Roman Catholic point of view. me. He had all the thoughts, and he will have them still; but I, what shall I have for his voice and his dear face, but cold, blank paper, and no thoughts at all ! Be- sides, I am so very busy, being the eldest; and the mother is far from strong, and the father so often wants me 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 chronicle will be like ! But where am I to begin. What is a chronicle ? Four of the books in the Bible are called Chronicles in Latin, and the first book begins with Adam, I know, because I read it one day to my father for his print- ing. But Fiitz certainly cannot mean me to begin as far back as that. Of course, I could not remember. I think I had bet- ter begin with the oldest person 1 know, because she is the farthest on the way back to Adam; and that is our grandmother Von Schdnberg. She is very old — more than sixty — but her form is so erect, and her dark eyes so piercing, that sometimes she looks almost younger than her daughter, our precious mother, who is often bowed down with ill-health and cares. Our grandmother’s father was of a noble Bohemian family, and that is what links us with the nobles, although my father’s fam- ily belongs to the burgher class. Fritz and I like to look at the old seal of my grand- father Von Schonberg, with all its quarter- ings, and to hear the tales of our knightly and soldier ancestors — of crusader and baron. My mother, indeed, tells us this is a mean pride, and that my father’s printing- press is a symbol of a truer nobility than any crest of battle-axe or sword; but our grandmother, I know, thinks it a great condescension for a Schdnberg to have married into a burgher family. Fritz feels with my mother, and says the true crusade will be waged by our father’s black types far better than by our gi-eat-grandfather’s lances. But the old warfare was so beau- tiful, with the prancing horses and the streaming banners I And I cannot help 6 THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY, thinking it would have been pleasanter to sit at the window of some grand old castle like the Wartburg, whicli towers above our town, and wave my hand to Fritz, as he rode, in tlashing armor, on his war-horse, down the steep hill side, instead of climb- ing up on piles of dusty books at our lumber-room window, and watching him, in his humble burglier dress, with his wallet (not too well tilled), walk down the street, while no one turned to look. Ah, well ! the parting would have been as dreaiy, and Fritz himself could not be nobler. Onl}" I cannot help seeing that people do honor the bindings and the gilded titles, in spite of all my mother and Fritz can say; and I should like my precious book to have sucli a binding, that the people who could not read the inside, might yet stop to look at the gold clasps and the Jewelled back. To those who can read the inside, perhaps it would not matter. For of all the old barons and crusades my grandmother tells us of, I know well none ever were or looked nobler than our Fritz. His eyes are not blue, like mine — which are only German Cotta eyes, but dark and flashing. Mine are very good for seeing, sewing, and help- ing about the printing; but his, I think, would penetrate men’s hearts and com- mand them, or survey a battle-field at a glance. Last week, however, when I said some- thing of the kind to him, he laughed and said there were better battle-fields than those on which men’s bones lay bleaching; and then there came that deep look into his eyes, when he seems to see into a world beyond my reach. But I began with our grand mothei-, and here I am tliinking about Fi-iedrich again, I am afraid that will be the beginning and the end of my chronicle. Fritz has been nearly all the world to me. I wonder if that is why he is to leave me. The monks say we must not love any one too much; and one day, when we went to see Aunt Agnes, my mother’s only sister, who is a nun in the convent of Nimptschen, I re- member her saying to 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, blessed sister liei-e ?’’ I said, “ Whose sister. Aunt Agnes? I am Fritz’s sister ! May Fritz come too ?” “ Fritz could go into the monastery at Eisenach,” she said. “Then I would go with him,” I said. “ 1 am Fritz’s sister, and I would go nowhere in the world without him,” She looked on me with a cold, grave pity, and murmured, “Poor little one, she is like her mother; the heart learns to idolize early. She has much to unlearn. God’s hand is against all idols.” That is many years ago; but I remember, as if it were yesterday, how the fair convent garden seemed to me all at once to grow dull and cheerless at her words and her grave looks, and I felt it damp and cold, like a church-yai d; and the flowers looked like made flowers; and the walls seemed to rise like the walls of a cave, and I scarcely breathed until I was outside again, and had hold of Fritz’s liand. For I am not at all religious. I am afraid I do not even wish to be. All the religious men and women I have ever seen do not seem to me lialf so sweet as my poor dear mothei-; nor as kind, clever, and cheerful as my father; nor half as noble and good as Fritz. And the Lives of the Saints puzzle me exceedingly, because it seems to me that if every one were to fol- low the example of St. Catherine, and even our own St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and disobey their parents, and leave their little children, it would make everything so very wrong and confused. I wonder if any one else ever felt the same, because tliese are thoughts 1 have never even told to Fritz; for he is religious, and I am afraid it would pain him. Our grandmother’s husband fled from Bo- hemia on account of religion; but I am afraid it was not the right kind of religion, because no one seems to like to speak about it; and what Fritz and I know about him is only what we have picked up from time to time, and put together for ourselves. Nearly a hundred years ago, two priests preached in Bohemia, called John Huss and Jerome of Prague. They seem to have been dearly beloved, and to have been thought good men during their life-time; but people must have been mistaken about them, for they were both burnt alive as heretics at Constance in two following- years— in 1415 and 1416; which of course proves that they could not have been good men, but exceedingly bad. However, their friends in Bohemia would not give up believing what they had learned of these men, although they had seen what ELSE^8 STOUT, 1 end it led to. I do not think this was strange, because it is so very difficult to make oneself believe what one ought, as it is, and I do not see that the fear "of being burned even would help one to do itj although, certainh^, it might keep one silent. But ?hese friends of John Huss were many of them nobles and great men, who were not accustomed to conceal their thoughts, and tliey would not be silent about what Huss had taught tliem. What this was Fritz and I never could find out, because my grandmother, who answers all our other questions, never would tell us a word about this. We are, therefore, afraid it must be sometliing very wicked indeed. And yet, when I asked one day if our grandfather, who, we think, had followed Huss, was a wicked man, her eyes fiashed like lightning and she said vehemently, — “ Better never lived or died !” Tills perplexes us, but perhaps we shall understand it, like so many other things, when we are older. Grreat troubles followed on the death of Huss. Bohemia was divided into three ])arties, who fought against each other. Castles were sacked, and noble women and little children were driven into caves and forests. Our forefathers were among the sufferers. In 1458 the conflict reached its height; many were beheaded, hung, burned alive, or tortured. My grandfather was killed as he was escaping, and my grand- mother encountered great dangers, and lost all the little property which was left her, in reaching Eisenach, a 3 mung widow with tvvo little children, my mother and Aunt Agnes. Whatever it was that my great-gi’and- farher believed wrong, his wife did not seem to share it. She took refuge in the Augustinian Convent, where she 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 her wa^'; although she scolds us all in turn, which is perhaps a good thing, be- cause, as she says, no one else does. And she has taught me nearly all I know, except the Apostles’ Creed and Ten Command- ments, which our father taught us, and the Paternoster and Ave Maiy which we learned at our mother’s knee. Fritz, of course, knows infinitely moi-e than I do. He can say the Cisio Janus (the Church Calendar) through without one mistake, and also the Latin Grammar, 1 believe; and he has read Latin books of which I cannot remember the names; and he understand* all that the 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 the names of herbs and flowers, and the account of the Holy Sepulchre, and of the pilgrimage to Koine, — all these our grandmother has taught us. She looks so beautiful, our dear old grandmother, as she sits by the stove with her knitting, and talks to Fritz and me, with her lovely white hair and her dark bright eyes, so full of life and youth, they make us think of the fire on the hearth when the snow is on the roof, all warm within, or, as Fritz says, — “ It seems as if her heai't lived always in the summer, and the winter of old age could only touch her body.” But I think the summer in which our grandmother’s soul lives must be rather a fiery kind of summer, in which there ai-e lightnings as well as sunshine. Fritz thinks we shall know her again at the Kesurrec- tion Day by that look in her eyes, only per- haps a little softened. But that seems to me terrible, and very far off; and I do not like to think of it. We often debate which of the saints she is like. I think St. Anna, the mother of Mary, mother of God, but Fritz thinks St. Catherine of Egypt, be- cause she is so like a queen. Besides all this, 1 had nearly forgotten to say I know the names of several of the stars, which Fritz taught me. And 1 can knit and spin, and do point stitch, and em- broider a little. I intend to teach it all to the children. There are a gi’eat many children in our home, and more every year. If there had not been so majiy, I might have had time to learn more, and also to be more religious; but I cannot see what they would do at home if I were to have a voca- tion. Perhaps some of the younger ones may be spared to become saints, t wonder if this should turn out to be so, and if I help them, if any one ever found some little humble place in heaven for helping some one else to be religious ! Because then there might perhaps be hope for me after all. Our father is the wisest man in Eisenacli. The mother thinks, perhaps, in the world. Of this, however, our grandmother has doubts. She has seen other places besides 8 THE SCBOKBEXta-COTTA FAMILY, Eisenach, which is perhaps tlie reason. He certainly is tlie wisest man I ever saw. He talks about more things that I cannot un- derstand than any one else I know. He is also a great Inventor. He thought of the plan of printing hooks before any one else, and had almost completed the inven- tion before any press was set up. And he always believed there was another world on the other side of the great sea, long be- fore the Admiral Christopher Columbus discovered America. The only misfortune has been that some one else has always stepped in just before he had completed his inventions, when nothing but some little insignificant detail was wanting to make everything perfect, and carried off all the credit and profit. It is this which has kept us from becoming rich, — this and the children. But the father’s temper is so placid and even, nothing ever sours it. And this is what makes us all admire and love him so much, even more than his great abilities. He seems to rejoice in these successes of other people just as much as if he had quite succeeded in making them himself. If the mother la- ments a little over the fame that might have been his, he smiles and says,— “Never mind, little mother. It will be all the same a hundred years hence. Let us not grudge any one his reward. The world has the benefit if 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, far-seeing look of his, “something else has just occurred tome, which, when I have brought it to perfec- tion, will throw all the discoveries of this and every other age into the shade.” And he kisses the mother and departs into his printing room. And the mother looks wonderingly after him, and says, — “ We must not disturb the father, child- ren, with our little cares. He has great things in his mind, which we shall all reap the harvest of some day.” So she goes to patch some little garment once more, and to try to make one day’s dinner expand into enough for two. What the father’s great discovery is at present, Fritz and I do not quite know. But we think it has something to do, either with the planets and the stars, or with that wonderful stone the philosophers have been so long occupied about. In either case, it is sure to make us enormously rich all at once; and, meantime, we may well be content to eke out our living as best we can. Of the mother! cannot think of anything to say. She is just the mother — our own dear, patient, loving, little mother — unlike every one else in the world; and yet it seems as if there was nothing to say about her by which one could make any one else understand what she is. It seems as if she were to other people (with reverence I say it) just what the blessed Mother of God is to the other saints. St. Catherine has her wheel and her crown, and St. Agnes her lamb and her palm, and St. Ursula her eleven thousand virgins; but Mary, the ever- blessed, has only the Holy 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, and the best woman in the world, and that is all. I could describe her better by saying what she is not. She never says a harsh word to any one or of any one. She is n^'yer impatient with the father, like our grandmother. She is never impatient wfth tlie children, like me. She never com- plains or scolds. She is never idle. She never looks severe and cross at us, like Aunt Agnes. But I must not compare her with Aunt Agnes, because she herself once reproved me for doing so; she said Aunt Agnes was a religious, a pure, and holy woman, far, far above her sphere or ours; and we miglit be thankful, if we ever reached heaven, if she let us kiss the hem of her garment. Yes, Aunt Agnes is a holy woman — a nun; I must be careful what I say of her. She makes long, long prayers, they say, — so long that she has been found in the morning fainting on the cold floor of the convent church. She eats so little that Father Christophei-, who is the convent confessor and ours, says he sometimes thinks she must be sustained by angels. But Fritz and I think that, if that is true, the angels’ food cannot be very nourishing; for when we saw her last, through the con- vent grating, she looked like a shadow in her black robe, or like that dreadful picture of death we saw in the convent chapel She wears the coarsest sackcloth, and often, they say, sleeps on ashes. One of the nuns ELSE ^8 STORY, d told my mother, that one day when she fainted, and they had to unloose her dress, they found scars and stripes, scarcely healed, on her fair neck and arms, which she must have indicted on herself. They all say she will have a very high place in heaven; but it seems to me, unless there is a very great difference between the highest and lowest places in heaven, it is a great deal of trouble to take. But, then, I am not religious; and it is altogether so ex- ceedingly difficult to me to undei’stand about heaven. Will every one in heaven be always struggling for the high places ? Because when eveiy one does that at church on the great festival days, it is not at all pleasant; those who succeed look proud, and those wiio fail look cross. But, of course, no one will be cross in heaven, nor proud. Then how will the saints feel who do not get the highest places ? Will they be pleased or disappointed ? If they are pleased, what is the use of struggling so much to climb a little higher? And if they are not pleased, would that be saint-like? Because the mother always teaches us to choose the lowest places, and the eldest to give up to the little ones. Will the greatest, then, not give up to the little ones in heaven? Of one thing I feel sure: if the mother had a high place in heaven, she would always be stooiDing down to help some one else up, or making room for others. And then, what are the highest places in heaven ? 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 possible that any one would ever feel at ease, and happy so very near the Almiglity ? It seems so exceed- ingly difficult to please Him here, and so very easy to offend Him, that it does seem to me it would be happier to be a little fur- ther off, in some little quiet corner near the gate, with a good many of the saints be- tween. The other day. Father Christopher ordered me such a severe penance for dropping a crumb of the sacred Host; al- though I could not help thinking it was as much the priest’s fault as mine. But he said God would be exceedingly dis- pleased; and Fritz told me the priests fast and torment themselves severely some- times, for only omitting a word" in the MaaS. Then the awful picture of the Lord Christ, with the lightnings in his hand I It is very different from the carving of him on the cross. Why did he 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 ? Such very strange things seem to offend and please God, I cannot understand it at all; but that is because I have no vocation for religion. In the convent, the mother says, they grow like God, and so understand him better. Is Aunt Agnes, then, more like God than our mother? That face, still and pale as death; those cold, severe eyes; that voice, so hollow and monotonous, as if it came from a metal tube or a se})ulchre, instead of from a heart ! Is it with that look God will meet us, with that kind of voice he will speak to us ? Indeed, the Judgment- day is very dreadful to think of; and one must indeed need to live many years in the convent not to be afraid of going to heaven. Oh, if only our mother were the saint — the kind of good woman that pleased God — instead of Aunt Agnes, how sweet it would be to try to be a saint then ; and how sure one would feel that one might hope to reach heaven, and that, if one reached it, one would be happy there I Aunt Ursula Cuba is another of the women I wish were the right kind of saint. She is my father’s lirst cousin’s wife; hut we have always called her aunt, because almost all little children who know her do, — she is so fond of children, and so ki)ul to every one. She is not poor like us, al- though Cousin Conrad Cotta never made any discoveries, or even nearly made any. There is a picture of St. Elizabeth, of Thiir- ingia, our sainted Landgravine, in our pansh church, which always makes me think of Aunt Ursula. St. Elizabeth is standing at the gate of a beautiful castle, something like our castle of the Wartburg, and around her are kneeling a crowd of very poor people— cripples, and blind, and poor thin mothers, with little hungiy- looking children — all stretching out their hands to the lady, who is looking on with such kindly, compassionate looks, just like Aunt Ui-sula; except that St. Elizabeth is very thin and pale, and looks almost as nearly starved as the beggars around her, and Aunt Ursula 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, 10 TBE SQBOmEm-COTTA FAMILY. only just the difference there must he be- tween a saint who fasts, and does so much pena&ice, and keeps herself awake whole nights saying prayers, as St. Elizabetli did, and a prosperous burgher’s wife, who eats and sleeps like other people, and is only like the good Landgravine in being so kind to every one. The other half of the story of the picture, however, would not do for Aunt Ursula. In the apron of the saint, instead of loaves of bread are beautiful clusters of red roses. Our grandtnother told us the meaning of this. The good Landgravine’s husband did not quite like her giving so much to the poor; because she was so generous she would have left the treasury bare. So she used to give her alms unknown to him. But on this day when she was giving away those loaves to the beggar at the castle gate, he happened suddenly to return, and find- ing her occupied in this way, 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, he wrought a miracle. When she opened her apron, in. stead of the loaves she had been distribut- ing, there were beautiful flowers. . And this is what the picture represents. I al- ways wanted to know the end of the story. I hope God worked another miracle when the Landgrave went away, and changed the roses back into loaves. 1 suppose He did, because the starving 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 the liandgravine. I think she would have said boldly if Cousin Cotta had asked her, “I have loaves in my apron, and I am giv- ing them to these poor starving subjects of yours and mine,” and never been afraid of what he would say. And then, perhaps. Cousin Cotta— I mean the Landgrave’s — heart would have been so touched, tliat he would have forgiven her, and even praised her, and brought her some more loaves. And then instead of the bi-ead being changed to flowers, the Landgrave’s heart would have been changed from stone to flesh, which does seem a better thing. But when I once said this to grandmother, she said it was very wrong to fancy other ends to the legends of the saints, just as if the}" wei'e fairy tales; ,that St. Elizabeth really lived in that old castle of the Wartburg little more than a hundred years ago, and walked through those very streets of Eisenach, and gave alms to the poor here, and went into the hospitals, and dressed the most loath- some wounds that no one else would touch, and spoke tender loving words to wretched outcasts no. one else W'ould look at. That seems to me so good and dear of her; but that is not what made her a saint, because Aunt Ursula and our mother do things like that, and our mother has told me again and again that it is Aunt Agnes who is like the saint, and not she. It is what she suft’ered, I suppose, that has made them put her in tlie Calendar; and yet it is not suffering in itself that makes people saints, because I don’t believe St. Elizabeth herself suffered more than our mother. It is true she used to leave her husband’s side and kneel all night on the cold ffoor, while he was asleep. But the mothei’ has done the same as that often and often. When any of the little ones has been ill, how often she has walked up and down hour after hour, with the sick child in her arms, sootliing and fondling it, and quieting all its fretful cries with unwearying tender patience. Then St. Elizabeth fasted until she was almost a shadow; but how often have I seen our mother quietly distribute all that was nice and good in our frugal meals to my father and the children, scarcely leaving herself a bit, and hiding her plate behind a dish that the father might not see. And Fritz and I often say how wasted and worn she looks; not like the Mother of ^lercy as we remember her, but too much like the wan, pale Mother of Sorrows with the pierced heart. Then as to pain, have not I seen our mother suffer pain compared with which Aunt Agnes or St. Elizabeth’s discipline must be like tlie prick of a pin. But yet all that is not the right kind of suffering to make a saint. Our precious; 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 she chooses to fast, but because we are poor, and bread is dear. She suffers, because God lays suffering upon her, not because she takes it on herself. And all this can- not make her a saint. When I say any- thing to compassionate or to honor her, she smiles and says, — “ My Else, I chose this lower life instead ELSE’S STORY. 11 of the high vocation of your Aunt Agnes, and I must take the consequences. We and I must take the consequences. AVe and the next.” If the size of our mother’s portion in the next world were to be in proportion to its smadiiess in this, I think she might have plenty to spare; but this I do not venture to say to her. • There is one thing St. Elizabeth did which certainly our mother would never do. She left her little fatherless children to go into a convent. Perhaps it was this that pleased (lod and the Lord Jesus Christ so very much, that they took her up to be so high in heaven. If this is the ease, it is a great mercy for our father and for us that our mother has not set her heart on being a saint. We sometimes think, how- ever, that perhaps although He cannot make her a saint on account of the rule^ they have in heaven about it, God may give our mother some little good thing, or some kind word, because of liei* being so very good to us. She says this is nomerit, how- ever, because it is her loving us so much. If she loved us less, and so found it more a trouble to work for us; or if we were little stranger beggar children she chose to be kind to, instead of her own, I suppose God would like it better. There is one thing, moreover, in St. Elizabeth’s history which once brought Fritz and me into great trouble and per- plexity. When we were little children, and did not understand things as we do now, but thought we ought to try and imitate the saints, and that what was right for them must be right for us, and when our grandmother had been telling us about the holy Landgravine privately selling her jewels, and emptying her husband’s treas- uiy to feed the i)oor, we resolved one day to go and do likewise. We knew a very poor old woman in the next street, with a great many orphan grandchildren, and we planned a long time together before we thought of the way to iielp her like St. Elizabetli. At length the opportunity came. It was Christmas eve, and for a rarity there were some meat, and apples, and pies in our store-i’oom. We crept into the room in the twilight, filled our aprons with pies, and meat, and cakes, and stole out to our old woman’s to give her oui* booty. The next morning the larder was found despoiled of half of wluit was to have been our Christmas dinner. The children cried, and the mother looked almost as distressed as they did. The father’s placid temper for once was roused, and he cursed the cat and the rats, and wished he had completed his new infallible rat trap. Our grand- mother said very quietly, — ‘•Thieves more discjiminating than rats or mice have been here. There are no crumbs, and not a thing is out of place. Besides, I never heard of rats oi- mice eat- ing pie-dishes.” Fi-itz and I looked at each other, and be- gan to fear we had done wrong, 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 remem- bered St. Elizabeth and the roses, and said, with a trembling voice, — “They were not pies you saw, Christo- pher, but roses.” “Roses,” said the mother very gravely, “at Christmas!” I almost hoped the pies would have re- appeared on the shelves. It was the very Juncture at which they did in the legend; but they did not. On the contrary every- thing seemed to turn against us. “Fritz,” said our father, very sternly, “tell the truth or I shall give you a floo*- ging.” This was a part of the story where St. Elizabeth’s example quite failed us. I did not know what she would have done if some one else had been punished for her generosity; but I felt no doubt what I must do. “0 father!” I said, “it is my fault— it was my thought ! We took these thino-s to the poor old woman in the next street for her grandchildren.” “Then she is no better than a tliief,” said our father, “to have taken them. Fritz and Else, foolish children, shall have no Christmas dinner for their pains; and Else shall, moreover, be locked into her own room, for telling a story.” I was sitting shivering in my room, won- dering how it was that things succeeded so differently with St. Elizabeth and with us when Aunt Ursula’s round pleasant voice sounded up the stairs, and in another 12 THE SCHONB ERG-COTTA FAMILY, minute she was holding me laughing in her arms. “ My poor little Else! We must wait a little before we imitate our patron saint; or we must begin at the other end. It would never do, for instance, for me to travel to Rome with eleven thousand young ladies like St. Ursula.” My grandmother had guessed the mean- ing of our foray, and Aunt Ursula coming in at the time, had heard the narrative, and insisted on sending us another Christmas dinnei'. Fritz and I secretly believed that St. Elizabeth had a good deal to do with the replacing of our Christmas diiinei-; but after that, we understood that caution was needed in transferring the holy example of the saints to our own lives, and that at present we must not venture beyond the ten commandments. Yet to think that St. Elizabeth, a real canonized saint — whose picture is over altars in the churches — whose good deeds are painted on the church windows, and illumined by the sun shining through them — whose bones are laid up in reliquaries, one of which I wear alwaj's next my heart — actually lived and prayed in that dark old castle above us, and walked along these very streets — perhaps even had been seen fi'om this window of Fritz’s and my be- loved lumber-room. Only a hundred years ago 1 If only I had lived a hundred years earlier, or she a hundred years later, I might have seen her and talked to her, and asked her what it was that made her a saint. Thei’e are so many questions I should like to have asked her. I would have said, “ Dear St. Eliza- beth, tell me what it is that makes you a •saint ? It cannot be your charity, because no one can be more charitable than Aunt Ursula, and she is not a saint; and it can- not be your sufferings, or your patience, or your love, or j^our denying yourself for the sake of others because our mother is like you in all that, and she is not a saint. Was it because you left your little children, that God loves you so much or because you not only did and bore the things God laid on you, as our mother does, but chose out other things for yourself, which you thought haiVlei-?” And if she were gentle (as I think she was), and would have listei'ed, I would have asked her, “ Holy .Landgravine, why are things which were 60 right and hol^y in you, wrong for Fritz and me ?” And I would also have asked her, “ Dear St. Elizabeth, my patroness, what is it in heaven that makes you so happy there ?” But I forgot — she would not have been in heaven at all. She would not even have been made a saint, because it was only af- ter her death, when the sick and crippled were healed by touching her body, that they found out what a saint she had been. Perhaps, even, slie would not herself have known she was a saint. And if so, I won- der if it can be possible that our 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. Two little sis- ters died of the plague before any more were born. One was baptized, and died when she was a year old, before she could soil her baptismal robes. Therefore we feel sure she is in paradise. I think of her whenever I look at the cloud of glory around the Blessed Virgin in St. George’s Church. Out of the cloud ])eep a number of happy child-faces — some leaning their round soft cheeks on their pretty dimpled hands, and all looking up with such confi- dence at the dear mother of God. I sup- pose the little children in heaven especially belong to 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 of us ever dare to speak. It was not baptized, and they say the souls of little unbaptized babes hover about forever in the darkness be- tween heaven and hell. Think of the horror of falling from the loving arms of our 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 such forsaken little ones. If St. Elizabeth could only establish a Foundling somewhere near the gates of paradise for such little nameless outcast child-souls! But I supj)Ose she is too high in heaven, and too far from the gates to hear the plaintive cries of such abandoned little ones. Or perhaps God, who was so much pleased with her for de- serting her own little children, would not allowlt. I suppose the saints in heaven who have been mothers, or even elder sik' ters like me, leave their mother’s hearts on earth, and that in pai’adise they are aU ELSE^S STORY. 13 monks and nuns like Aunt Agnes and Father Cluristopher. Next to that little nameless one came the twin girls Chrierahild, named after our grandmother, and Atlantis, so christened by our father on account of the discovery of the great world beyond tlie sea, which he had so often thouglit of, and which the great Admiral, Cliristophe