THERE may 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.

“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 to add 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 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 work gradually 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 had mortgaged his own, and that he would get him finally. He has gone on that principle ever since and has always won.

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 advised to 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 also the 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.

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 of the 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 seemed tame. 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.

THE END.