Now, had the fellow been honestly engaged, it is not likely that the blunder would have happened; and even had it occurred, he doubtless would have discovered at once the cause.
But very worthy people are sometimes affected by superstitious fear, and run counter to the dictates of good sense and sound judgment.
A magnificent banquet was once given by a lord, in a very ancient castle, on the confines of Germany. Among the guests was an officer of hussars, distinguished for great self-possession and bravery.
Many of the guests were to remain in the castle during the night; and the gallant hussar was informed that one of them must occupy a room reputed to be haunted, and was asked if he had any objections to accepting the room for himself.
He declared that he had none whatever, and thanked his host for the honor conferred upon him by the offer. He, however, expressed a wish that no trick might be played upon him, saying that such an act might be followed by very serious consequences, as he should use his pistols against whatever disturbed the peace of the room.
He retired after midnight, leaving his lamp burning; and, wearied by the festivities, soon fell asleep. He was presently awakened by the sound of music, and, looking about the apartment, saw at the opposite end, three phantom ladies, grotesquely attired, singing a mournful dirge.
The music was artistic, rich, and soothing, and the hussar listened for a time, highly entertained. The piece was one of unvarying sadness, and, however seductive at first, after a time lost its charm.
[Illustration: THE UNNERVED HUSSAR.]
The officer, addressing the musical damsels, remarked that the music had become rather monotonous, and asked them to change the tune. The singing continued in the same mournful cadences. He became impatient, and exclaimed,--
"Ladies, this is an impertinent trick, for the purpose of frightening me. I shall take rough means to stop it, if it gives me any further trouble."
He seized his pistols in a manner that indicated his purpose. But the mysterious ladies remained, and the requiem went on.
"Ladies," said the officer, "I will wait five minutes, and then shall fire, unless you leave the room."
The figures remained, and the music continued. At the expiration of the time, the officer counted twenty in a loud, measured voice, and then, taking deliberate aim, discharged both of his pistols.
The ladies were unharmed, and the music was uninterrupted. The unexpected result of his violence threw him into a state of high nervous excitement, and, although his courage had withstood the shock of battle, it now yielded to his superstitious fears. His strength was prostrated, and a severe illness of some weeks'
continuance followed.
Had the hussar held stoutly to his own sensible philosophy, that he had no occasion to fear the spirits of the invisible world, nothing serious would have ensued. The damsels sung in another apartment, and their figures were made to appear in the room occupied by the hussar, by the effect of a mirror. The whole was a trick, carefully planned, to test the effect of superstitious fear on one of the bravest of men.
In no case should a person be alarmed at what he suspects to be supernatural. A cool investigation will show, in most cases, that the supposed phenomenon may be easily explained. It might prove a serious thing for one to be frightened by a nightcap on a bedpost, for a fright affects unfavorably the nervous system, but a nightcap on a bedpost is in itself a very harmless thing.
The sixth evening closed with an original poem by Mr. Beal.
CHAPTER XI.
COLOGNE.
BONN.--HOLY COLOGNE.--THE STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.--"UNFINISHED AND UNKNOWN."--VISIT TO COLOGNE CATHEDRAL.--THE TOMB OF THE MAGI.--THE CHURCH OF SKULLS.--QUEER RELICS.--THE STORY AND LEGEND OF CHARLEMAGNE.--THE STORY AND LEGEND OF BARBAROSSA.
"We emerged from the majestic circle of the Seven Mountains, the most beautiful part of the Rhine scenery, and broad plains again met our view. The river ran smoothly, the Middle Rhine was passed, Bonn was in view, and there we dismissed our boatman.
"We stopped in Bonn only a short time. We went to the Market-place and walked past the University, which was once a palace.
"We took the train at Bonn for Cologne, in order to pass rapidly over a part of the Rhine scenery said to be comparatively uninteresting.
"Holy Cologne!
"The Rome of the Northern Empire! The ecclesiastical capital of the ancient German church!
"The unfinished cathedral towers over the city like a mountain.
'Unfinished?' Everything has a legend here, and a marvellous one, and the unfinished cathedral stands like a witness to such a tale.
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.]
"Above Cologne the river runs broad, a blue-green mirror amid dumpy willows and lanky poplars, and the windmills on its banks throw their arms about like giants at play. The steamers swarm in the bright waters; at evening their lights are like will-o'-the-wisps. The long bridge of boats opens; a steamer passes, followed by a crowd of boats; it closes, and the waiting crowd upon it hurry over. The Rhine at night here presents a most animated scene.
"The river seems alive, but the city looks dead. There is a faded glory on everything. There are steeples and steeples, towers and towers. Cologne is said to have had at one time as many churches as there are days in the year. But life has gone out of them; they are like deserted houses. They belonged to the religious period of evolution, and are like geologic formations now,--history that has had its day, and left its tombstone.
"Cologne is as old as Rome in her glory,--older than the Christian era. She was the second great city of the Church in the Middle Ages.
"Cologne is full of wonders in stone and marble, wonders in legend and story as well; and among these the cathedral holds the first place, in both art and fable.
THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.
In the thirteenth century--so the story goes--Archbishop Conrad determined to erect a cathedral that should surpass any Christian temple in the world.
Who should be the architect?
He must be a man of great genius, and his name would become immortal.
There _was_ a wonderful builder in Cologne, and the Archbishop went to him with his purpose, and asked him to attempt the design.
"It must not only surpass anything in the past, but anything that may arise in the future."
The architect was awed in view of such a stupendous undertaking.
"It will carry my name down the ages," he thought; "I will sacrifice everything to success."
He dreamed; he fasted and prayed.
He made sketch after sketch and plan after plan, but they all proved unworthy of a temple that should be one of the grandest monuments of the piety of the time, and one of the glories of future ages.
In his dreams an exquisite image of a temple rose dimly before him.
When he awoke, he could vaguely recall it, but could not reproduce it. The ideal haunted him and yet eluded him.
He became disheartened. He wandered in the fields, absorbed in thought. The beautiful apparition of the temple would suddenly fill him with delight; then it would vanish, as if it were a mockery.
One day he was wandering along the Rhine, absorbed in thought.
"Oh," he said, "that the phantom temple would appear to me, and linger but for a moment, that I could grasp the design."
He sat down on the shore, and began to draw a plan with a stick on the sand.