“I, Margery Schopper, was borne in the yere of our Lord M/CCCC/IV on a Twesday after ‘Palmarum’ Sonday, at foure houris after mydnyght.  Myn uncle Kristan Pfinzing was god sib to me in my chrystening.  My fader, God assoyle his soul, was Franz Schopper, iclyped the Singer.  He dyed on a Monday after ’Laetare’—­[The fourth Sunday in Lent.]—­ Sonday M/CCCC/IV.  And he hadde to wyf Kristine Peheym whyche was my moder.  Also she bare to hym my brethren Herdegen and Kunz Schopper.  My moder dyed in the vigil of Seint Kateryn M/CCCC/V.  Thus was I refte of my moder whyle yet a babe; also the Lord broughte sorwe upon me in that of hys grace He callyd my fader out of thys worlde before that ever I sawe the lyght of dai.”

These few lines, which I read in the little antiquary’s shop, betrayed me to my ruin; for, in my delight at finding the daily journal of a German housewife of the beginning of the fifteenth century my heart overflowed; forgetting all prudence I laughed aloud, exclaiming “splendid,” “wonderful,” “what a treasure!” But it would have been beyond all human power to stand speechless, for, as I read on, I found things which far exceeded my fondest expectations.  The writer of these pages had not been content, like the other chroniclers of her time and of her native town-such as Ulman Stromer, Andres Tucher and their fellows—­to register notable facts without any connection, the family affairs, items of expenditure and mercantile measures of her day; she had plainly and candidly recorded everything that had happened to her from her childhood to the close of her life.  This Margery had inherited some of her father’s artistic gifts; he is mentioned in Ulman Stromer’s famous chronicle, where he is spoken of as “the Singer.”  It was to her mother, however, that she owed her bold spirit, for she was a Behaim, cousin to the famous traveller Behaim of Schwarzbach, whose mother is known to have been one of the Schopper family, daughter to Herdegen Schopper.

In the course of a week I had not merely read the manuscript, but had copied a great deal of what seemed to me best worth preservation, including the verses.  I subsequently had good reason to be glad that I had taken so much pains, though travelling about at the time; for a cruel disaster befel the trunk in which the manuscript was packed, with other books and a few treasures, and which I had sent home by sea.  The ship conveying them was stranded at the mouth of the Elbe and my precious manuscript perished miserably in the wreck.

The nine stitched sheets, of which the last was written by the hand of Margery Schopper’s younger brother, had found their way to Venice—­as was recorded on the last page—­in the possession of Margery’s great-grandson, who represented the great mercantile house of Im Hoff on the Fondaco, and who ultimately died in the City of St. Mark.  When that famous firm was broken up the papers were separated from their cover and had finally fallen into the hands