Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands, Hezekiah Butterworth [best short novels .txt] 📗
- Author: Hezekiah Butterworth
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The next day he wandered into a forest of the Seven Mountains, still thinking of his plan. He chanced to look up the mountain side, when he beheld the queer old man again; he was now leaning on a staff on a rocky wall.
He lifted his staff and began to draw a picture on a rock behind him. The lines were of fire.
Oh, how beautiful, how grand, how glorious, it all was!
THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.
Fretwork, spandrels, and steeples. It was—it was the very design that had haunted the poor architect, that flitted across his mind in dreams but left no memory.
“Will you have my plan?” asked the old man.
“I will do all you ask.”
“Meet me at the city gate to-morrow at midnight.”
The architect returned to Cologne, the image of the marvellous temple glowing in his mind.
“I shall be immortal,” he said; “my name will never die. But,” he added, “it is the price of my soul. No masses can help me, doomed, doomed forever!”
He told his strange story to his old nurse on his return home.
She went to consult the priest.
“Tell him,” said the priest to the old woman, “to secure the design before he signs the contract. As soon as he gets the plan into his hand let him present to the old man, who is a demon, the relics of the martyrs and the sign of the cross.”
At midnight he appeared at the gate. There stood the little old man.
“Here is your design,” said the latter, handing him a roll of parchment. “Now you shall sign the bond that gives me yourself in payment.”
The architect grasped the plan.
“Satan, begone!” he thundered; “in the name of this cross, and of St. Ursula, begone!”
“Thou hast foiled me,” said the old man, his eyes glowing in the darkness like fire. “But I will have my revenge. Your church shall never be completed, and your name shall never be known in the future to mankind.”
“The Cathedral of Cologne is unfinished, and its architect’s name is unknown. It may harm the story, but it is but just to say that many of the old cathedrals of Europe are in these respects like that of Cologne.
“We were impatient to visit the cathedral on our arrival at Cologne. The structure stood as it were over the city, like its presiding genius; and so it was. Wherever we went the great roofs loomed above us in the air.
“The interior did not disappoint us, even after all we had seen in other cathedral towns. It was like a forest: the columns were like tree stems of a vast open woodland, the groined arches appearing like interweaving boughs. The gorgeous windows were like a sunset through the trees. The air was dusky in the arches, but near the lofty windows vivid with color.
“It was Sunday. The service had begun. It was like a pageant, an opera. The organ was pouring a solemn chant through the far arches, like fall winds among the trees. There was a flute-like gush of music, far off and mysterious, like birds. It came from the boy-choristers. Priests in glittering garments were kneeling before the cupola-crowned altar; there rose a cloud of incense from silver censers, and the organ thundered again, like the storm gathering over the woods. At the side of the altar stood the archiepiscopal throne, half in shadow amid the tall lights, red and gold; amid the piles of barbaric splendor, canopies, carvings, emblems.
“We visited the chapels on the following day. In one of them a Latin inscription tells the visitor,—
“‘Here repose the three bodies of the holy magi.’
“The guide said,—
“‘This is the tomb of the Three Kings of Cologne.’
“‘The Wise Men of the East who came to worship at the cradle at Bethlehem.’
“‘Ask him how he got them,’ said Willie.
“‘The Empress Helena, mother of Constantine, recovered them and sent them to Milan. When Frederick Barbarossa took the city of Milan, he received them among the spoils and sent them to Cologne. The names of the Magi were Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar.’
“‘Do you believe the legend?’ asked Willie.
“‘I do not know; we shall find things harder than this to believe, I fancy, as we go on.’
“And we did.
ST. MARTIN’S CHURCH, COLOGNE.
“Leaving the tomb,—a pile of jewels,—we went out, and near the outskirts of the city found the famous Church of Skulls,—a gilded ossuary, associated with a mediæval legend. It was full of cabinets of bones, said to be those of eleven thousand virgins slain for their faith by the Huns.
“Here we were shown—
“A part of the rod with which the Saviour was scourged.
“A thorn from the crown of thorns,—the Spicula.
“The pitcher in which Jesus turned water into wine.
“‘The Mediæval Church,’ said our English-speaking guide, who had little faith in the genuineness of the relics, ‘has exhibited some relics from time to time that would repay a long and arduous pilgrimage if they were what they purported to be; as, for instance, a feather of the angel Gabriel, the snout of a seraph, a ray from the star of Bethlehem, two skulls of the same saint,—one taken when the departed saint was somewhat younger, as flippantly explained to an astonished tourist, who found in two cities the same consecrated cranium.
“‘But of all the relics of which we ever read, some Germans who visited Italy in search of these precious mementos received the most remarkable.
“‘One of these gentlemen, having applied to an ecclesiastic for some memento of Scripture history which he could take back to Germany, was both astonished and delighted by receiving a carefully prepared package, which he was assured contained a veritable leg of the ass on which was made the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, when the people strewed palm branches in the way and shouted hosannas.
“‘He was enjoined to keep the treasure a secret until he reached home, which injunction he scrupulously obeyed.
“‘Arriving in Germany, he disclosed to his four companions the wonderful relic. They were much surprised, for each had been secretly intrusted with the same remarkable treasure. So it appeared that the ass had five legs, which, of itself, would have been something of a miracle.
“‘Whether these wiseacres ever visited the Latin kingdom in search of relics again I am not apprised.’
“Cologne is full of relics. The people regard them with reverence; they serve the purpose of scriptural object-teaching to them. But they only shock the tourist who has been educated to believe that religion is a spiritual life, and that Christ’s kingdom is a spiritual kingdom, and not of this world.”
Several of the stories related by the boys this evening were historical.
THE STORY AND LEGEND OF CHARLEMAGNE.Charles the Great, or Charlemagne, King of the Franks and Roman Emperor, was born, probably at Aix-la-Chapelle, in 742. His empire at first embraced the larger part of what is now France and Germany, but it extended under his wars until at last it nearly filled Europe, and he wore the crown of Rome and the West. Napoleon, at the height of his power, governed nearly the whole territory that was once ruled by the mighty Charlemagne.
He was one of the greatest and wisest men in the history of the world. He encouraged learning, and opened a school in his palace; he maintained morality and aimed to spread Christianity throughout the world.
The Saxons were heathens. They honored a great idol called the Irmansaul. They were opposed to Charlemagne, and constantly threatened his frontiers.
Charlemagne invaded their country, overthrew the great image, and after many struggles reduced the people to submission. In accordance with the rude customs of the time, he compelled them to accept Christianity and receive baptism. He is said to have baptized the prisoners of war with his own hand. He divided Saxony into eight bishoprics, and supported the bishops with guards of soldiers. We should look upon such missionary work as this as very questionable to-day, although enlightened nations of this age have sometimes adopted a policy in dealing with other countries that is as open to criticism and censure.
The Pope of Rome became involved in troubles with the Lombards. He appealed for help to the victorious King of the Franks, the recognized champion of the Church. Charlemagne crossed the Alps, conquered Lombardy, and crowned himself with the iron crown of the ancient Lombard kings.
CHARLEMAGNE IN THE SCHOOL OF THE PALACE.
He then repaired to Rome and entered the city in triumph. As he came to St. Peter’s he stooped to kiss the steps in memory of the illustrious men that had trodden it before him. The Pope there received him in great ceremony, and the choir chanted, “Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.”
He now became the most powerful monarch in the world. He gained great victories over the Moors in Spain, and it was in one of the mountain passes there that the chivalrous young Roland, of heroic song, perished. His lands stretched from the Baltic Sea to the Mediterranean.
In the year 800 he went to Rome. It was Christmas Day. He entered the basilica of St. Peter’s to attend Mass. He approached the altar, and bowed to pray. The Pope secretly uplifted the crown of the world and placed it upon his head.
The people shouted, “Long live Charles Augustus, crowned of God, Emperor of the Romans!”
From this time Charlemagne was the Kaiser, or Cæsar, of the Holy Roman Empire on the Tiber and the Rhine.
The Rhine was loved by Charlemagne. He lived much on its borders, and he was buried near it, in a church that he had founded, at Aix-la-Chapelle.
And, turning to his peers,
Exclaimed: ‘Behold, for this fair land
I’ve prayed and fought for years.’
Then all the Rhine towers shook to hear
The earthquake of their cheers.
(But not with Rhenish wine);
Not with those vintage streams that through
The green leaves gush and shine:
’Twas blood that from the Lombard ranks
Rushed down into the Rhine.
Burning with love and pride,
And threw their muskets down to kiss
The soil with French blood dyed.
‘The Rhine, dear Rhine!’ ten thousand men,
Kneeling together, cried.”
Thornbury.
There is a beautiful legend that Charlemagne visits the Rhine yearly and blesses the vintage. He comes in a golden robe, and crosses the river on a golden bridge, and the bells of heaven chime above him as he fulfils his peaceful mission. The fine superstition is celebrated in music and verse.
How softly glows the night!
The vine-clad hills are lying
In the moonbeams’ golden light.
A kingly shadow down,
With sword and purple mantle,
And heavy golden crown.
Who, with a powerful hand,
For many a hundred years
Hath ruled in German land.
He hath arisen there,
To bless once more his vineyards,
And breathe their fragrant air.
The moon doth brightly shine,
And buildeth a bridge of gold
Across the emerald Rhine.
And all along the tide
Bestows his benediction
On the vineyards far and wide.
In his grave-sleep to remain,
Till the New Year’s fragrant clusters
Shall call him forth
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