to reconcile them. His pieces are often tediously prolix, and of weak wit, but all the honorable char acteristics of the German middle class-the sturdy mechanic virtues, public spirit, honesty, common sense, doughty moral worth of every kind-speak out of every tone and thought.1 In the pieces now to be quoted there is a touch of irreverence, judging by our standards. To omit it, however, would be dispensing with something most characteristic of the man and the time. It is what we see in the miracle-plays, and is to be considered as the naiveté of child-like souls, rather than as intentional disrespect toward what should be held sacred.

THE TAILOR AND THE FLAG.2

There was once a tailor in Strassburg who was a famous workman. He saw, one night, the devil, holding in his hand a flag thirty yards long, made out of the patches, of all materials and colors, which the tailor had stolen from the cloth of his customers. The frightened man cried out, tore his hair, and turned to the wall; the devil vanished, and the tailor was restored to himself by being sprinkled with holy water. Soon the sick man could sit up in bed; he told the attendants the story, and begged them, whenever he cut a garment thereafter, to remind him of the devil and the flag. The tailor recovered; his attendants reminded him faithfully of the vision, which he bore thankfully for about a

1 Gervinus.

Bibliothek der deutschen Klassiker.

month; but one day he was cutting a garment for lady from a rich fabric. The admonition was given, but the tailor replied that he did not remember to have seen that particular color in the devil's flag, and appropriated a piece. At length the tailor died, and came before the door of Heaven. Saint Peter asks who and what he is, and, upon his reply, remarks that for many years no tailor has come to Heaven, and hesitates about admitting him. The tailor pleads that he is very cold. "Let me come in and warm myself. I'll only sit behind the stove an hour or two, and then go. The pitying saint at length admits him, and the tailor curls down behind the stove. Word comes, meanwhile, that a pious old priest is going to die. At once the Lord, with all the heavenly host, hastily sweeps down to the earth to conduct worthily to Heaven the soul of the good pastor of Vilzhoven. The tailor takes the opportunity to creep out and view the place. When he comes to the throne of the Lord, he audaciously seats himself upon it, and enjoys the fine view, observing what is happening among all nations. At length he sees a poor woman hanging out on a hedge the clothes of herself and children, which she has just washed. As she goes away a rich woman steals a handkerchief from the hedge and goes off with it, at which dishonesty the tailor is so incensed that he takes in both hands the Lord's footstool, throws it at the woman, and cripples her so that she is hump-backed all her life after. Now the host of Heaven is heard returning, whereupon the tailor creeps again behind the stove. As the

Lord resumes His seat He misses His footstool, and enquires of Saint Peter what can have become of it. Peter charges the tailor with the theft, who is forthwith hunted out and placed on trial. The trembling culprit tries to excuse himself by telling the story of the theft of the handkerchief. "O tailor, tailor!" cries the Lord," if, while you lived, I had thrown my footstool at you every time you stole anything, do you think there would have been a tile left in your house?"

Hans Sachs, in several pieces, touches upon the vices of the soldiery. The devil, he says, once heard about the landsknechts and sent out Beelzebub to bring him in a pair, promising to make a prince of him if he succeeded. Beelzebub goes to a tavern, at which a party of landsknechts are revelling, and hides behind a stove, watching his chance. He is so terrified at their conduct and language that he escapes, much frightened, out of the chimney, and goes home in great haste. To the devil's query if he has brought any soldiers back with him, he answers that, so far from doing so, he has barely been able to return himself; that they are wilder than the demons themselves, and if they were among us, Hell would soon be too narrow. "If that is true," says the devil, "we will never meddle with them any more."

Another characteristic piece of Hans Sachs is the story of Saint Peter and the goat. Saint Peter was perplexed with the prevalence of injustice in the world, and thought he could make affairs better if he were permitted to manage them. He frankly

confesses his idea to the Lord. Meanwhile a peasant girl appears, complaining that she must do a hard day's work, and at the same time keep in order a frolicsome young goat. "Now," said the Lord to Peter, “you must have pity on this girl, and take care of her goat. That will serve as an introduction for you to the management of the universe." Peter undertakes the goat, and finds quite enough to do.

The young goat had a playful mind,
And never liked to be confined;
The apostle, at a killing pace,
Followed the goat in desperate chase;
Over the hills and among the briars
The goat runs on, and never tires,
While Peter, behind, on the grassy plain,
Runs on, panting and sighing in vain.
All day, beneath the scorching sun,
The good apostle had to run,

Till evening came; the goat was caught,
And safely to the Master brought.

Then, with a smile, to Peter said

The Lord: 66

'Well, friend, how have you sped? If such a task your powers has tried,

How could you keep the world so wide?"

Then Peter, with his toil distressed,

His folly with a sigh confessed.

"No, Master, 'tis for me no play

To rule one goat for one short day;
It must be infinitely worse

To regulate the universe."

In a piece written in 1522, called "The Wittenberg Nightingale, which is now heard everywhere," Hans Sachs signifies his adhesion to the cause of the Reformation. A herd, blinded by false light, has

1 Translation of Gostwick and Harrison.

wandered from its shepherd into a desert, where it falls among wild beasts. Many sheep are torn by them, especially by the lion, a type of Leo X.; the flock despairs of life, when suddenly a charming nightingale (Luther) raises her voice, guiding those who follow her to a beautiful flowery meadow, where the sun shines clear and the springs flow. The lion seeks in vain to kill the nightingale; other beasts raise loud cries to drown her song, but in vain. None of the beasts that tread the pasture suffer themselves to be misled into the desert. A long explanation follows of the doctrines and observances of the Church which were especially opposed by Luther. The whole ends with a summons to forsake the pope and return to Christ, the good shepherd.

Close upon midnight, on a night at the end of May, the train left me before the Frauenthor of Nuremberg; and going forward in the light of the full moon, the noise of the locomotive gradually growing fainter, I seemed to leave the nineteenth century, and go back in time four hundred years. Glorified in the radiance, there rose the picturesque outline of the walls which have come down untouched from the Middle Ages, from the hand of Albrecht Dürer; now a battlemented projection, from which one might expect the challenge of a cross-bowman; now a massive round tower; now a sharp, gilded pinnacle. Crossing the deep moat, I passed through the heavy archway, and was on the pavement of the quaint street, channelled by tides of human life for so many, many