CHAPTER XLV.COLOGNE, ITS CATHEDRAL AND OTHER THINGS.

“A soldier of the legion lay dying in Algiers,There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears.”

That’s the way it commences, and the burden to each stanza is:—

“For I was born in Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine.”

It is a most absurd poem. There must necessarily be a lack of woman’s tears around a shot soldier in a foreign land,for no government on earth could afford its soldiers any such luxury. How, possibly, could a government send out a complement of wives, sisters, cousins and aunts to nurse and weep over each wounded individual? And then this soldier, mortally wounded, instead of dying properly, goes on through nearly two hundred lines to send messages to everybody he ever knew in Bingen, ending each message with:

“Fair Bingen on the Rhine.”

And so, as the boat approached Bingen, all the excursionists, especially the sweet girls from the seminaries, who were on their Summer vacation, murmured softly:

“For I was born at Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine.”

And one young divinity student, with long hair, and a high forehead, and long, narrow white hands, deliberately recited the whole poem with what he firmly believed to be “expression,” which consisted in ending each sentence with the upward inflection. The ineffable nuisance had spent the night in committing the drivel to memory, and he spared us never a line.

The school-girls all said, “How nice!” Tibbitts went below and amused himself with a bottle of wine, and the majority of the other passengers walked forward where they could smoke.

And then the real worry of life began. The dozen or more young men with high foreheads, who did hear the “reader” through, sought you out, and collared you, and said: “Did you hear Mr. —— read Bingen? He thinks he can read, but he can’t. Now this is the proper way to read that poem.”

And he went right on, and read it to you as he thought it should be done. There were thirteen of them.

THE MOUSE TOWER.

Scarcely has this view faded from sight before we pass the ruined towers of a castle erected in 1210, and destroyed by the French in 1689. Just opposite this ruin is the famous Mouse Tower, a small, circular tower, built of massive stone. It takes its name from the legend of Hatto, Archbishop of Mayence. The legend runs that during a great famine in the land thereabouts, the poor people were sorely distressed for corn, and vainly besought Archbishop Hatto, who had graneries full of the previous year’s crop, to aid them in their time of want. At length he promised that to all who should be at his barn on acertain morning he would give corn. Of course the poor people flocked thither, and when the barn was full he locked the doors, and, despite their piteous cries for mercy, set the barn on fire, and laughed at their cries, comparing them to mice that had come to carry away his corn.

DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP HATTO.

That night he had troubled dreams, as was proper, and in the morning his servants told him to fly, for his grounds were being filled with rats who had eaten all the corn he had saved. He hastily quitted his castle and sought refuge in the castle on the island, thinking that the steep rocks and swift water wouldprevent the rats from finding him there. But they swarmed over the island by millions and the cruel Archbishop died a terrible lingering death.

This is a good solid legend, with meat in it. There is a great moral lesson inculcated, and every legend should inculcate a moral. It contains, I thought, a solemn warning to American grain operators.

But Tibbitts found a great many flaws in it, and said he did not consider it a good legend at all. It was full of improbabilities. Hatto made a corner on corn. Very good. He had some purpose in it. Very good. That purpose could have been nothing but a speculative desire to run up the price of his corn and sell out at an advance. Very good. To whom could he sell the corn at a profit? Only to the starving people. Now what an ass he must have been to corner the corn and then go and burn up his customers, the people to whom he could have sold the corn at any price! Mr. Tibbitts insisted, that that wouldn’t wash.

He doubted the rat story also. He knew all about grain operators. He knew many of them in Chicago who frequently saw rats, and snakes, and all that sort of thing. Probably Archbishop Hatto had been drinking, and fancied these things. But it was well enough. One must have legends and it wouldn’t do to go any more closely into particulars about legends, than it does to be too critical as to the character of candidates for Congress. He should accept Hatto, corn, rats and all. It was a very pretty story—for children. It would teach them not to burn people.

At this point the Rhine makes a sudden bend and the channel becomes very narrow. Formerly the passage was very dangerous, and in the olden times it was a favorite spot for the robber knights who had their strongholds on the banks thereabouts, to stop trading vessels on their way up and down the river to request the payment of tolls.

THE DEVIL’S LADDER.

The merchants always paid the tolls. Sir Hugo, or Sir Bruno, or Sir whoever he might be, did not need a Custom House to collect his imposts. He merely had a score or more of cut-throats, fellows who would kill a man for sixpence, or its equivalent in the money of the day, and in default of thesixpence would do it for the sheer love of the thing, and the trader found it much better to give what was asked than to go to the bottom of the Rhine with a slit in his windpipe. But I have no idea that he lost anything. He counted this in his expense account, the same as the merchant of to-day does his insurance and bad debts, and he took it out of his customers, and they in turn took it out of the people. All of these things come out of the ground at the end. It is the tiller of the soil who finally pays for the soldier, the robber, the judge and jury, the gin-mill and the faro bank. And Tibbitts referred at once to a remark he had previously made, that it was vice, not virtue, that cost the world, that to wipe out the gin-mills was to do away with the police, the courts, and with the hangman, and everything else connected with what is called justice, that is so expensive. Armies are supported to sustain kings and courts, liquor makes police and justices’ courts necessary, and while everybody seems to pay a tax, none of them do it but the tiller of the soil, for they all charge up these expenses on what they do till it gets down to him. What he would do would be to do away with vice. Virtue is very cheap—so cheap that he wondered more people did not encourage it.

The banks now assume a more rugged appearance, and on each eminence is a castle or a ruin. We pass by in rapid succession a number of very picturesque views, in each one of which these ancient fortresses play an important part. Those old robbers knew well where to build, and they built exceeding well.

After passing Lorch we came to the pretty stream of the Wisper, which empties into the Rhine at this point. On the left bank of the stream is a rugged cliff, towering high in the air, called the “Devil’s Ladder,” which, of course, has its legend.

Near Lorch there lived a knight who, after losing his wife, became sullen and morose, and would have nothing to do with any one but his daughter, a lovely girl, just budding into womanhood. He refused to grant hospitality to any one who asked it. One stormy night a knight in distress applied for shelter and rest and was gruffly refused. The next morning when old Sibo, the knight, inquired for his daughter, he wastold that she had been seen early in the morning with two sprites going up the impassable crag across the river. The distracted father hastened after and could see his daughter on the very summit of the crag. Almost crazed with grief he in vain besought the sprites to return her to him. But they only laughed and jeered at him. Finally, after a long time had passed, a young knight who had long loved the maid returned from the wars, and hearing the rather awkward situation his early love was in, hastily repaired to the foot of the crag determined to rescue her. But it was in vain. There was no way of making the ascent. He was about giving up in despair when a little figure suddenly appeared before him, and asked him why he was so despondent. On learning his love for the girl she told him to come again at the same time the following evening. The young knight returned promptly, as young men in love always do, and was surprised to find a ladder reaching from the foot to the top of the crag. He hastily mounted to the summit, and there in an enchanted garden he found the object of his search, and soon restored her to her father, who henceforth was most lavish with his hospitality. The maiden and the brave young knight were united in marriage and lived a long and happy life. The ladder remained on the rock for many years, and was called the Devil’s Ladder. It fell away in the course of time, but the name has ever since been applied to the great rugged cliff.

It is a thousand pities that some of these ladders and things don’t remain, simply to give us faith in the legends. If there was just one round of the ladder left, if one could only be shown the holes in the rock in which he was fastened, it would be something, but there is nothing of the kind. You have to take it all on faith, and that is sometimes wrenching.

THE LURLIEBERG.

All the way along the river, from here to beyond Coblenz, the Rhine is a succession of constantly changing views as the boat winds its way around the tortuous channel, every one more beautiful and picturesque than its predecessor. There are castles on high hills on the right bank, some close to the river, others further inland, just discernable through the trees. On the left bank are pretty villas and more castles, and occasionally an island is passed that has on it a ruined watch towerbuilt hundreds of years ago, when might was right in this romantic country.

Just before approaching the pretty village of St. Goar, on the left hand of the Rhine, the imposing rocks of the Lurlie rise over four hundred feet above the river. Here the current is very swift, and many are the tales told of bold adventurous knights who have lost their lives under the shadow of this famous rock.

Of course the Lurlieberg, as the rock is called, has its legend, as has every well regulated rock on the river. A rock without an appropriate legend would be no rock at all. The knights and ladies, and witches and devils, of the olden time, existed, apparently, solely in the interest of the booksellers of Mayence, and the other cities of to-day. The legend of the Lurlie runs something like this:

The rock known as the Lurlie was the resort of a water-nymph, who was about as capricious as other nymphs. She was a young lady who could live under water as well as above it; in fact, her permanent residence was under the Rhine. Her regular recreation was to come out of the wet, and sit on a rock, and comb her long, yellow hair (she was a natural blonde, as all entrancers are), and sing, accompanying herself on a golden lute.

Of course all the young men in the vicinity fell desperately in love with her, and they went for her. But while the nymph would sing and pose for them so as to set them crazy, their boats were all dashed to pieces upon the rock, whereat the nymph would laugh, and comb her hair, and sing, and entice other young fellows to their doom. She was kindly only to fishermen, and the one item to her credit is that she never did them harm, but always good. That was probably because they were old men, and unimpressible.

The son of a count in the vicinity, fell in love with her, and despite the warnings he had received, determined to conquer her. He ordered his boat, and commanded the men to steer for the fatal rock. There was no nymph on it at first, but after a minute or two she appeared more radiantly beautiful than ever. The foolish young man attempted to climb the rock, but he fell into the seething waves and was never more seen.

Then his father swore vengeance and sent valiant men to seize her and burn her as a witch. The result might have been anticipated. The nymph sang a song to the waves and plunged into them, laughing, the same waves upsetting the boat which held the soldiers, and she descended to her cave under the water, while her pursuers thought themselves lucky to escape with their lives.

At another time a maiden loved a young man who was to go to Palestine to fight the Saracens. During his absence she was so persecuted by the other young men that she retired to a convent near the Lurlie, and waited for her lover. At last she saw a boat approaching filled with men, and among them, gorgeously attired, was her young man. Unfortunately to get to where she was the boat had to come very near the rock, the water-demons raised the whirlpool, the beautiful nymph presiding with a mocking smile, and they seized the doomed craft and hurled it against the rock, and down it went, and all on board were lost. The hapless maid plunged into the seething waves after her lover, and as she went under the flood, the nymph of the Lurlie appeared on the surface, beautiful as ever, but with the laugh that was frightfully harsh and discordant. She could not bear to see earthly young maids happy.

That same night she was on the rock as usual, combing her hair, and other young men got into her toils, till there was a scarcity of eligible suitors in the neighborhood.

She was a dangerous person, this young nymph of Lurlie.

Passing Coblenz, a beautiful city, picturesquely situated at the confluence of the Mosel and the Rhine, we soon came to the Siebengebergen, “Seven Mountains,” the rugged banks gradually tone down, and between Bonn and Cologne the scenery is not so interesting, because of the grandeur of that which has preceded it. Still it is not altogether devoid of interest, though it is of a quieter and less imposing kind. After a five hours’ ride through such magnificence, one is quite willing to take it in a little milder form, and we were thoroughly content when we landed in Cologne, the great cathedral city.

THE SMART YOUNG MAN.

Was there ever a steamboat, or stage, or rail car, or any other place where people are thrown together in such a waythat they can not escape, that that unmitigated nuisance, that nuisance without any compensating features, the knowing young man, the young man who knows everything that a young man should be ashamed to have it known that he does know, is not present? There is a tremendous crop of these weeds every year: Lightning strikes innocent cows and beautiful houses, but it never hits one of these fellows, which argues a great waste of electricity. Good men and beautiful women die of fevers and such complaints, but these insects never have anything of the kind. A row of shanties never burns, but stately buildings go down or up in smoke daily.

They are an exasperating set. They do not seem to know that it is rather discreditable than otherwise for a man not in the trade to actuallyknowall about wines and liquors, and things of that nature. But when a young fellow is weak enough to profess this disreputable knowledge when he has it not, he ought to be immediately taken out and killed. To see the old wine tasters and the ancient beer drinkers, who do actually know all about these things, smile and wink at the vaporings of these young simpletons, is a piteous sight. But, heaven help them, they go on just the same. Panoplied in egotism, they do not know they are asses, and therefore enjoy themselves. It is a delightful thing to be an egotist. An egotist pities the people who do not enjoy him.

We had him on our steamer down the Rhine. He was six feet high, with a moustache, and a billy-cock hat, and pointed shoes, and short coat, and all that, and he talked to everybody.

“Know Ned Stokes? Should say so! Knew him before he killed Jim Fisk. Used to meet him at Harry Felter’s, and many a hot old time I’ve had with him. Last time I met Ned was in Chicago, and we were both so blind drunk we didn’t know whether we were in Illinois or Louisiana.”

He rattled on about wines, and salads, and so on, and then a bottle of wine that he had ordered came up. He took a little of it in his mouth, and rinsed it, and passed the bottle under his nose, backward and forward, and sniffed critically, and then remarked sagely that it would do, but that it was not quite up to the mark, and that it was difficult to get good wine even in the Rhine country.

From this he glided off to beer, criticising the various varieties, with the air of a man who had lived a long life in sampling beverages and doing everything else of that kind, and he branched out in cheerful conversation about celebrities in the various walks of life.

“D’ye ever meet Ned Sothern? Poor Ned! There was Ned and Billy Florence, and we used to have high old times before poor Ned went under. I remember—”

Tibbitts moved uneasily in his chair, which portended something.

“Then there was Uncle John Brougham, and Lester Wallack”—and he went glibly through all the noted actors and actresses as though he had been a boon companion and bosom friend of all of them for years.

Then he took a short excursion into the realm of sport. He knew every pugilist who had ever fought, every rower, every pedestrian, and all the crack shots and base ball players, and he had the dates of their various performances down to a dot. He reeled off this interesting matter, toying the while with corks from champagne bottles, pausing a moment in his narrations, to give the history of each one.

He not only knew all these people, but he never by any means used family names. He did not say, “Mr. Fechter,” it was “Charley,” “Old Charley,” and when he spoke of women it was not “Miss Rose Eytinge,” it was “Rosy.” And he kept on talking of clubs, and horses, and yachts, and fishing, and gunning, and cards, and women, and racing, and “events” of that sort, till Tibbitts pounced down upon him as a cat does upon a mouse.

“May I ask what part of the Great Republic you are from?” asked Tibbitts.

“I hail from Kokomo, Indiana, but I spend most of my time East.”

“Your business?”

“Business, ah, I am in hardware.”

MR. TIBBITTS’ ROMANCE.

“I see—you have a branch house in New York. Do you know Billy Vanderbilt? No? You ought to know him. Take Billy Vanderbilt and Russ Sage, and Cy Field, and little Gouldy, and you just more than have an everlasting team.And there’s Chet Arthur; who’d ever spose that Chet would ever have got to be President? Some men have all the luck. And there’s Jack Sherman, of Ohio, why Jack and I—but never mind. I don’t let on all I know. But I tell you, when Jack and his brother Cump—he’s the general of the armies now, and his other brother Charley, is a judge. Poor Scotty, of Philadelphia, the president of the Pennsylvania Road, he’s gone. He couldn’t stand the racket, and he went under. But Hughy Jewett, of the Erie, he’s another kind of a rooster, he is. He is in with Gus Belmont, and they two, with Jim Keene and Dave Mills, of San Francisco—well you ought to just see them punish wine after they have taken the boys in and done for ’em. They are up to everything, they are. I remember one night—”

“Where are you from?” asked the knowing young man, gasping in astonishment at this array of names and the familiarity with which they were used.

“Me! Oh, I’m from Oshkosh; but I have a branch house in New York too. I go down just once a year to sell live stock, and I pick up more names in the week I stay there than an ordinary man can remember, and I remember all their given names, and I can reel them off just as fast as any Indiana young man I ever met, and I know them just as well. Only I prefer financiers and statesmen to horse men, actors and prize fighters. I am very select. Next year I shall not know anybody under a senator. You may just as well know big men, really great men, as merely notorious ones. Now there’s ‘Lyss Grant and Bob Schenck, and Rufe Ingalls, and Black Jack Logan, you ought to just sit down with them at a game of poker! That’s where you have sport, and as for fishing, Bill Wheeler, till he got spoiled by being Vice-President, he could everlastingly handle a rod, and the way he’d yank ’em out was a caution. He was no slouch. Many a time I’ve—”

The wise young man from Kokomo, Indiana, Who Knew Everybody, could not endure the reminiscences of the Oshkosh young man, and he beat a precipitate retreat and we saw him no more. Tibbitts drew a sigh of relief and remarked that he had never strained his imagination so frightfully in all his life.

THEREmay be altogether too much of even cathedrals. After going through those in London, then tackling those in Northern France and wandering through those in Paris, going out of your way to see a dozen more or less in Southern France, then taking by the way the big and little ones in Switzerland, one gets, as it were, somewhat tired of cathedrals, and wishes the necessities of travel did not compel him to see more of them.

To a certain extent they are all alike. It is true they are all built in different styles, but there is a striking family resemblance, and they are so alike that after you have seen a dozen or two you will not be very much interested in those to follow.

The interiors are all alike, and the “objects of interest” are the same. They have the same style of pictures, there is always a “Descent from the Cross” by an old master, and there is a well-selected assortment of saints, also by old masters, and the interiors are always dim and sombre, and have the precise kind of light that aggravates the always too faithful picture of a saint undergoing martyrdom, or dead just after martyrdom.

Mr. Tibbitts discoursed at length upon the general gloominess of religious institutions. Inasmuch as the builders of churches put in their time and money for the good of mankind, he wondered why they didn’t have the knowledge of human nature, and the good sense of those engaged in wicked pursuits.

AN ORTHODOX CHURCH.

“Cathedrals in Europe,” said he, “and even the churches in our own beloved country, are always the darkest, gloomiest places that human ingenuity can possibly devise. I remember the one my grandmother used to compel me to attend when I was a boy of six. The interior, even to the pews, and their furnishings were of a dark and dismal color, the hen-coop pulpit was dark, the trimmings about it were dark, the windows were narrow and very high up. The ceiling was dark, and toadd to the prevailing gloominess, there were outside green blinds over the windows that admitted just enough light to make the gloom of the interior felt. And then the domine was a sallow man with gray hair, brushed back from his forehead; and he dressed in a black frock coat buttoned up to his chin. He was the least cheerful picture in the church.

“The seats in the pews were very high, and slanted slightly forward, as did the backs; and as the feet of a six-year-old child wouldn’t touch the floor, it was the most distressing thing in life to sit there. And then the music! The worthy old gentleman in the pulpit, in a voice as harsh as a saw mill, would grind out a most doleful hymn, which was always sung to most doleful music. And that was followed by a sermon three hours long, on the doctrine of foreordination! Cheerful, for a boy of six, who, when dragged into that gloom on a bright June morning, looked longingly out upon the bright, green fields, on which the soft sunlight was falling like a benison from a good Creator; and who, to get to the church, had to cross a beautiful brook with trout, which knew no Sunday, swimming in the clear waters, every ripple of which was an invitation to him.

“Now the wicked people are a great deal more wise than this. A wicked place is always made attractive. There never was such a lie written as “Vice is a monster of such hideous mien.” Vice is not hideous; it is that which follows vice that is hideous. Champagne is as beautiful as can be; its effects are hideous. It isn’t the getting drunk that is hideous; it is the resultant headache the next morning. A bar-room is always made light and pleasant; there is silverware, and curious glass, and chandeliers, and warm fires, and everything pleasant and cheerful. Your merchant, who is worldly if not wicked, makes his place as pleasant as possible, and even the butcher dresses his meats in sprigs of evergreen. If I ever go into the ministry, I shall do away with gloom, and have my place as pleasant as light and flowers can make it. As religion is the best thing in the world, I don’t see why it should be made the gloomiest. As for these pictures—bah!”

Then we went through the cathedral. We did it as a duty.

There’s another trouble about cathedrals, and that is the “restoration” that is going on perpetually and constantly.They were all commenced some hundreds of years ago, they were very slow in building, and by the time the last part was done the first part had decayed, and had to be restored. Go wherever you may in a cathedral, you shall see a large part of it disfigured with scaffolds, with workmen on them, and building material around, giving one the idea they are yet unfinished.

It is said by scoffers and sneerers that the reason why it took several centuries to finish a cathedral was to prolong the time for pulling money out of the faithful, and that the perpetual restorations that are going on are for the same purpose, but of course that is a slander. Boss Tweed might do such a thing, but not those filled with zeal for cathedrals.

Cologne has many points of interest, but the principal one is its grand cathedral, the fourth largest in Christendom; St. Peter’s at Rome standing first, the cathedral at Milan second, St. Paul’s in London third, Cologne fourth.

Though it may not be so huge in its dimensions as the other three, it certainly cannot be excelled in beauty of design or artistic excellence in construction. It is cruciform in shape, with a total length of one hundred and forty-eight yards, and sixty-seven yards breadth. Its walls are one hundred and fifty feet high, the roof two hundred and one feet, and the tower over the transept three hundred and fifty-seven feet, and the two towers over the west façade two hundred and fifty feet high.

Tibbitts didn’t think much of the architect. The tower over the transept, he insisted, should have been an inch, or an inch and a half, wider at the top.

These figures, however, give but a faint idea of the immensity of the structure, whose imposing appearance is greatly heightened by the elaborate galleries, turrets, flying buttresses and cornices that adorn every portion of the walls and towers.

THE GREAT CATHEDRAL.

The history of this cathedral, which has been building since 1248, is somewhat interesting to those who take any interest in cathedrals. The foundation stone was laid on the twenty-fourth of August, 1248, by Archbishop Conrad, of Hechstaden, but it was a number of years before anything more was done. In 1322 the choir was finished and consecrated. In 1388 the nave was fitted up for use, and in 1447 the bells were placed in the south tower. From that time the interest in the workgradually died out, and it seemed as though the original design would never be carried out. In 1796 the French took off the lead roof that had been placed over the decaying building, and converted it into a hay magazine.

It was not till 1823 that anything was done to restore the church. In that year the work of renovation commenced, and a few years later a talented architect named Zwirner, suggested the completion of the building according to the original designs. The idea was enthusiastically taken up, and in 1842 the work was begun, and has been steadily continued, until now only a few finishing touches remain to be given.

The architect who first designed this structure, undoubtedly the finest Gothic edifice in the world, is not definitely known, though it is commonly supposed to be Meister Gerard, of Riehl, a small village near Cologne. The imaginative people there had to have a legend about the cathedral, which is as follows:

Archbishop St. Engelbert conceived the idea of building, on the site of an old Roman church, the most magnificent cathedral the world ever saw. He called to him a young architect and told him to prepare plans in accordance with this idea. The young man, delighted with this opportunity of distinguishing himself and making his name famous forever, worked night and day to design a building that would meet the requirements of the Archbishop. But there was one part he could not master. He became almost insane over his disappointment, and was about to give up, when one night he dreamed he saw the missing portion sketched on the wall of his chamber. Thoroughly awakened, he sprang from his bed to make a copy of it. But it had disappeared, and in the room stood Satan with an illuminated parchment in his hand. This contained the long sought plan. Satan, doing the regular thing, offered it to the despairing architect on condition that he should have his soul and that of the first person who entered the cathedral. The young man was distracted. He wanted the plan, and told Satan he might have his soul; but he could not barter away the salvation of another. Satan smiled, returned the parchment to his bosom, and was about to go away, when the young man acceded to his terms.

The devil knew his business. He knew that the architect’s ambition would not let him stop for a soul or two, as he hadmortgaged his own, and that he would get him finally. He has gone on that principle ever since and has always won.

LEGEND OF THE CATHEDRAL—COLOGNE.

HOW SATAN WAS FOOLED.

The plans were then made out, and work on the beautiful edifice was pushed rapidly forward, and at length was so far completed that a date was set for the consecration. Then the architect realized the position he was in. Not only was his own soul everlastingly lost, but that of an innocent person. This so preyed upon his mind that the people noticed his agitation and besought the Archbishop to ascertain the cause. The unhappy man finally told the good father the whole circumstance, much to the latter’s horror. He was advisedto make his peace with God, while the Archbishop determined to sacrifice a woman of ill-repute who was in prison awaiting sentence, by making her the first to enter the church.

When the day for consecration came, a long box containing, as was supposed, the poor woman, was carried to the cathedral, the door was opened, the lid of the box was taken off, and the unfortunate victim crawled on her knees into the church, the attendants sprinkling holy water all the time.

As she entered there was a terrific noise. Satan appeared, broke the neck of the unfortunate in the box, flying off, presumably, with her soul. He then flew to the architect’s house and broke his neck. As Satan disappeared from the church, the woman arose from the box, went into the building to pray, while the servants carried from the dome the carcass of a pig, which had been enveloped in a woman’s gown, and sacrificed.

This legend will not do, any more than the other legends you hear about these places. Satan could not have been fooled with a pig. It is no compliment to him. To suppose that he did not see the woman enter the church is to give him credit for very little intelligence and a most singular neglect of his own business; and the attempt to try to swindle him with so clumsy a contrivance is too absurd. And then why should Satan be perpetually swindled? The contract was a fair one, and should have been carried out in good faith.

It may be remarked, in passing, that Satan does not, now-a-days, appear to those having charge of government buildings in the United States, making offers of plans and other assistance, that he may get them in the end. He is too acute for that. Why should he go to the trouble of helping them, when he knows perfectly well that he will get them, anyhow? He doesn’t waste his time that way any longer.

The interior of the cathedral is large and very impressive, the fifty-six pillars which support the roof being of huge but graceful dimensions, giving a pleasing aspect to the whole. The stained glass windows are particularly fine, being among the best in Europe.

The various chapels that surround the nave are all handsomely decorated with statues, frescoes, and fine altars, done in the highest style of art. The wood carving representing The Passion in the altar of St. Clara is especially good, as is alsothe tapestry on the walls back of the choir stalls, illustrative of the Nicene creed and the seven sacraments. This tapestry was worked by the ladies of Cologne, and is a fine specimen of that style of art.

From the cathedral the visitor naturally turns to the other churches, but a hasty inspection of them is all that is required, for, after the cathedral, everything else loses its interest. There are some very imposing edifices, which, if they did not suffer so by comparison with the cathedral, would be considered fine specimens of early architecture. For instance, the Gross St. Martin, consecrated in 1172, which is a massive building, with an imposing tower surrounded by four corner turrets.

The still older church, St. Maria im Capital, consecrated in 1049, is in the shape of a cross, built in the Romanesque style. The interior is decorated with modern frescoes that are very badly done, being of light and gaudy colors, that do away entirely with the idea that they adorn a place of worship. Other churches of interest are, St. Peter’s and St. Cecilia, the former of the sixteenth and the latter of the tenth and twelfth century; St. Gereon, dedicated to the three hundred and eighteen martyrs of the Theban legion, with their Captain Gereon, who perished on the site of the church during the persecutions of the Christians under Diocletian.

On the substructure of an ancient Roman stronghold stands the Rath-house, a picturesque building erected in different centuries, beginning with the fourteenth. Here the meetings of Hanseatic League were held in the fourteenth century.

From the Rath-house the visitor turns to the markets, passing through narrow, dirty streets, with high overlapping houses, to the monument of Frederick William III., a huge equestrian statue of the King. Here is the Heumarkt, and a busy sight it is. As far as the eye can reach is a vast concourse of people, buying and selling all manner of things. The women, with their white caps and peculiar dresses, flit hither and yon, talking, laughing and jesting with men, who are arrayed in costumes that suggest the old Rheinish peasants, made familiar by the painters of the old Rheinish school.

ELEVEN THOUSAND VIRGINS.

Time was when Cologne, founded by the Ubii, when Agrippa compelled them to migrate from the right to the left bank of the Rhine, was a power in that land. At the end ofthe fifteenth century she was the wealthiest and most influential city in Germany: Not only was it great in commerce, but it was the center of German art, both in architecture and painting, as may be seen yet by the elegant buildings, designed and erected in those olden days, that are yet standing, and in the pictures of that age that are still preserved.

Cologne’s great troubles were internal dissensions, which finally led to the banishment of the Protestants in 1608. It was due more than to any other one cause, to these discords that caused the city to gradually decline in power as early as the middle of the sixteenth century. Later on she lost nearly all her importance and continued in a state of lethargy until the Prussians obtained control in 1815, since which time her trade and commerce have been steadily improving, making her to-day one of the chiefest commercial cities in Germany.

In the old church of St. Ursula are the alleged bones of eleven thousand virgins. The legend is that this sainted woman, a Scotch princess, was returning from a pilgrimage to Rome with eleven thousand virgins in her train, and they were set upon by the barbarous Huns and all slain. There can be no doubt as to the truth of the legend (if you want to believe it), for you are shown, through gratings, bones enough to stock a cemetery.

I have no opinion about it. Possibly St. Ursula was skillful enough to corner that number of virgins; but would the Huns have slain them all? That makes us pause. It was a great many years ago, and I am glad the legend has it (for I wish to believe all the legends I can) that the virgins came from a country far distant from Cologne. Could a saint, be she ever so devout, find that number in Cologne now? It is not for me to say. Possibly they are all gone on pilgrimages. Let us take the legend down at one gulp, and forget the fact that among these bones are the remains of any number of males, and likewise any number of animals.

In this same church you are shown one of the identical jars in which water was miraculously turned into wine at the marriage in Cana, and various other relics, such as the teeth of saints, and cheerful things of that nature, in which I really could take no especial interest. After the eleven thousand skeletons of virgins, anything else in the way of relics seemedtame. If they had saved the teeth of eleven thousand saints, it would have been something like; but isolated teeth, single teeth at that, make too small a show. The teeth were doubtless genuine, but there were too few of them.

Cologne is probably the best known city in Europe. Leaving out the wonderful cathedral, and the bones of the virgins and the history that clings to it, giving it a musty and ancient flavor, it is the place where cologne water was invented, and where is the American school-girl who does not know all about that? She may know nothing about the cathedral, but she knows all about that especial perfume. A man named Farina invented it several generations ago, and every male child born since in the families of perfumers has been christened Farina. There are at least fifty places where the “original” is sold. Here you get the genuine, and though you shall have it much better in any little drug store, in any Western village in America, you buy a flask of it in Cologne, at one of the originals. It is the thing to do. Our party all supplied themselves, though I noticed that the most of them threw the flasks away, from the train on the way to Brussels. It was genuine, but cologne by any other name would smell as sweet.

Home! There are other countries to see, but, first, home. Three thousand miles away lies a land fairer than any yet visited, a country more pleasing. We are glad that our time is expended, for we go home! Six months of absence is quite enough, and the thought of returning makes the blood course quicker in one’s veins. And yet never was time more profitably spent than in these rambles through strange countries, for the experience put us in condition to appreciate our own. An American has no idea how good America is, till he sees Europe. He does not know how good a government he has, till he lives for a time under others. It requires a glimpse of oppressed Ireland or king-ridden Prussia, to make one properly appreciate a Republic. We have no palaces, but we have no soldiers. We have no cathedrals, but we have no paupers. We have no ruins, and shall never have, for under our system the ephemeral structures of to-day will be replaced to-morrow with what will be eternal. Every American should go abroad once at least, that he may, with sufficient fervor, thank the fates that cast his lines in pleasant places. And so, glad that we have been abroad, but much gladder to get back, we turn our faces westward. Our exile is ended.

THE END.

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