A LEGEND OF COLOGNE

Above the bones

St. Ursula owns,

And those of the virgins she chaperons;

Above the boats,

And the bridge that floats,

And the Rhine and the steamers’ smoky throats;

Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs,

Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs;

Above Newmarket's open space,

Above that consecrated place

Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are,

And the dozen shops of the real Farina;

Higher than even old Hohestrasse,

Whose houses threaten the timid passer,—

Above them all,

Through scaffolds tall,

And spires like delicate limbs in splinters,

The great Cologne's

Cathedral stones

Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters.

Unfinished there,

In high mid-air

The towers halt like a broken prayer;

Through years belated,

Unconsummated,

The hope of its architect quite frustrated.

Its very youth

They say, forsooth,

With a quite improper purpose mated;

And every stone

With a curse of its own

Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated,

Since the day its choir,

Which all admire,

By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated.

Ah! THAT was a day,

One well might say,

To be marked with the largest, whitest stone

To be found in the towers of all Cologne!

Along the Rhine,

From old Rheinstein,

The people flowed like their own good wine.

From Rudesheim,

And Geisenheim,

And every spot that is known to rhyme;

From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen,

To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen,

And down the track,

From quaint Schwalbach

To the clustering tiles of Bacharach;

From Bingen, hence

To old Coblentz:

From every castellated crag,

Where the robber chieftains kept their “swag,”

The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel

Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal;

And pouring in from near and far,

As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr,

Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel,

So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel,

Choked up the city's gates with men

From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen.

What had they come to see? Ah me!

I fear no glitter of pageantry,

Nor sacred zeal

For Church's weal,

Nor faith in the virgins’ bones to heal;

Nor childlike trust in frank confession

Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression,

Still in each nest

On every crest

Kept stolen goods in their possession;

But only their gout

For something new,

More rare than the “roast” of a wandering Jew;

Or — to be exact —

To see — in fact —

A Christian soul, in the very act

Of being damned, secundum artem,

By the devil, before a soul could part‘ em.

For a rumor had flown

Throughout Cologne

That the church, in fact, was the devil's own;

That its architect

( Being long “suspect” )

Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked

Not only his OWN soul, but had lost

The VERY FIRST CHRISTIAN SOUL that crossed

The sacred threshold: and all, in fine,

For that very beautiful design

Of the wonderful choir

They were pleased to admire.

And really, he must be allowed to say —

To speak in a purely business way —

That, taking the ruling market prices

Of souls and churches, in such a crisis

It would be shown —

And his Grace must own —

It was really a BARGAIN for Cologne!

Such was the tale

That turned cheeks pale

With the thought that the enemy might prevail,

And the church doors snap

With a thunderclap

On a Christian soul in that devil's trap.

But a wiser few,

Who thought that they knew

Cologne's Archbishop, replied, “Pooh, pooh!

Just watch him and wait,

And as sure as fate,

You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate.”

One here might note

How the popular vote,

As shown in all legends and anecdote,

Declares that a breach

Of trust to o'erreach

The devil is something quite proper for each.

And, really, if you

Give the devil his due

In spite of the proverb — it's something you'll rue.

But to lie and deceive him,

To use and to leave him,

From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him,

Though no one has heard

It ever averred

That the “Father of Lies” ever yet broke HIS word,

But has left this position,

In every tradition,

To be taken alone by the “truth-loving” Christian!

Bom! from the tower!

It is the hour!

The host pours in, in its pomp and power

Of banners and pyx,

And high crucifix,

And crosiers and other processional sticks,

And no end of Marys

In quaint reliquaries,

To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries;

And an Osculum Pacis

( A myth to the masses

Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses ) —

All borne by the throng

Who are marching along

To the square of the Dom with processional song,

With the flaring of dips,

And bending of hips,

And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips;

And some good little boys

Who had come up from Neuss

And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice:

All march to the square

Of the great Dom, and there

File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare

A covered sedan,

Containing — so ran

The rumor — the victim to take off the ban.

They have left it alone,

They have sprinkled each stone

Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne,

Guaranteed in this case

To disguise every trace

Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place.

Two Carmelites stand

On the right and left hand

Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command

Of the prelate to throw

Up the cover and show

The form of the victim in terror below.

There's a pause and a prayer,

Then the signal, and there —

Is a WOMAN!— by all that is good and is fair!

A woman! and known

To them all — one must own

TOO WELL KNOWN to the many, to-day to be shown

As a martyr, or e'en

As a Christian! A queen

Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen;

So bad that the worst

Of Cologne spake up first,

And declared‘ twas an outrage to suffer one curst,

And already a fief

Of the Satanic chief,

To martyr herself for the Church's relief.

But in vain fell their sneer

On the mob, who I fear

On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer.

A woman! and there

She stands in the glare

Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare,—

A woman still young,

With garments that clung

To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung

With remorse and despair,

Yet still passing fair,

With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair,

And cheeks that are faint

‘ Neath her dyes and her paint.

A woman most surely — but hardly a saint!

She moves. She has gone

From their pity and scorn;

She has mounted alone

The first step of stone,

And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown,

Then pauses and turns,

As the altar blaze burns

On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns

Archbishop and Prior,

Knight, ladye, and friar,

And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir.

“O men of Cologne!

What I WAS ye have known;

What I AM, as I stand here, One knoweth alone.

If it be but His will

I shall pass from Him still,

Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill;

If still by that sign

Of His anger divine

One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine.

O men of Cologne!

Stand forth, if ye own

A faith like to this, or more fit to atone,

And take ye my place,

And God give you grace

To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face!”

She paused. Yet aloof

They all stand. No reproof

Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof.

One instant — no more —

She halts at the door,

Then enters!... A flood from the roof to the floor

Fills the church rosy red.

She is gone!

But instead,

Who is this leaning forward with glorified head

And hands stretched to save?

Sure this is no slave

Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave!

They press to the door,

But too late! All is o'er.

Naught remains but a woman's form prone on the floor;

But they still see a trace

Of that glow in her face

That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze

On the image that stands

With the babe in its hands

Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands.

A Te Deum sung,

A censer high swung,

With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung,

Proclaim that the CURSE

IS REMOVED — and no worse

Is the Dom for the trial — in fact, the REVERSE;

For instead of their losing

A soul in abusing

The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing.

Thus the legend is told:

You will find in the old

Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold

In iron and brass,

In gown and cuirass,

The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass;

And high o'er the rest,

With her babe at her breast,

The image of Mary Madonna the blest.

But you look round in vain,

On each high pictured pane,

For the woman most worthy to walk in her train.

Yet, standing to-day

O'er the dust and the clay,

‘ Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away,

With the slow-sinking sun

Looking softly upon

That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one

That it does not reveal,

For I know and I feel

That these are but shadows — the woman was real!