suffer, they never knew.
Another time a pair went by on the way to the railway station: a young
man carrying an umbrella under his arm, and a very decent-looking old
woman lugging a heavy carpet bag, who left them to the lasting question
whether she was the young man's servant in her best clothes, or merely
his mother.

Women do not do everything in Ansbach, however, the sacristans being men,
as the Marches found when they went to complete their impression of the
courtly past of the city by visiting the funeral chapel of the margraves
in the crypt of St. Johannis Church. In the little ex-margravely capital
there was something of the neighborly interest in the curiosity of
strangers which endears Italian witness. The white-haired street-sweeper
of Ansbach, who willingly left his broom to guide them to the house of
the sacristan, might have been a street-sweeper in Vicenza; and the old
sacristan, when he put his velvet skull-cap out of an upper window and
professed his willingness to show them the chapel, disappointed them by
saying "Gleich!" instead of "Subito!" The architecture of the houses was
a party to the illusion. St. Johannis, like the older church of St.
Gumpertus, is Gothic, with the two unequal towers which seem distinctive
of Ansbach; at the St. Gumpertus end of the place where they both stand
the dwellings are Gothic too, and might be in Hamburg; but at the St.
Johannis end they seem to have felt the exotic spirit of the court, and
are of a sort of Teutonized renaissance.

The rococo margraves and margravines used of course to worship in St.
Johannis Church. Now they all, such as did not marry abroad, lie in the
crypt of the church, in caskets of bronze and copper and marble, with
draperies of black samite, more and more funereally vainglorious to the
last. Their courtly coffins are ranged in a kind of hemicycle, with the
little coffins of the children that died before they came to the
knowledge of their greatness. On one of these a kneeling figurine in
bronze holds up the effigy of the child within; on another the epitaph
plays tenderly with the fate of a little princess, who died in her first
year.

In the Rose-month was this sweet Rose taken.
For the Rose-kind hath she earth forsaken.
The Princess is the Rose, that here no longer blows.
From the stem by death's hand rudely shaken.
Then rest in the Rose-house.
Little Princess-Rosebud dear!
There life's Rose shall bl