COLOGNE.
If the narrow streets of Cologne be famous, or rather infamous, for bad smells, it is to be recollected that the waters of that ancient city are more valuable than the wines of the neighbouring Rhine:—that they are carried to every corner of the earth—and prized for their delicious flavour, beyond the richest productions of Rudesheim or Johannisberg. Thus good cometh out of evil—and the most grateful perfume is exhaled from the most malodorous city of Europe. “Give a dog a bad name,” and the sooner you shoot him the better. Yet if a stranger arrived at Cologne, by day or by night, not knowing the name of the place, he might traverse its numberless and crooked streets, without remarking more disagreeable scents than his nose would encounter on the banks of the Tiber, the Arno, or the Seine—in the wynds of Auld Reekie, the Gorbals of Glasgow, the purlieus of the Liffey—or even of father Thames, between Puddle-dock and Deptford. I will not maintain that all the little rivulets which meander the streets of this town, after a shower of rain, are the veritable “Eau de Cologne” of Messieurs Farina; but I must say that the olfactories of my fair countrywoman of the “Souvenirs,” were more delicate than impartial, when she penned the following sentence. “But the dreadful effluvia of the black, filthy streams that defile every street, penetrated even through the folds of pocket-handkerchiefs soaked in perfume.”—Souvenir, p. 93.
Fiction being the “soul of poetry,” we need not wonder that the Bard should seize the opportunity of having his fling at poor Cologne. Accordingly Coleridge exercised his wit and his acrimony in the following lines, in which he apostrophises Cloacina, and the nymphs, “who reign o’er sewers and sinks.”
“The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash the city of Cologne,
But tell me nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?”
Probably it was this real or supposed pollution which caused the noble river to dive into the sands, soon after passing Cologne, and hide its head for ever. It cannot be denied that Cologne is a city of the dirty and malodorous order—and we cannot much wonder at the fact, seeing that it was Roman in the beginning, and has never changed its nature or name from the days of Germanicus to the present moment. After passing from the Romans to the Franks, and from the Franks to the Germans, it became a “Holy City”—and that was enough to ruin Rome itself. It became, of course, the rendezvous of priests, monks, and nuns, and the seat of abbeys, monasteries, nunneries, and churches. Notwithstanding these misfortunes, it rose into a rich and flourishing entrepôt of commerce, when its bigotted ecclesiastical government took the wise resolution of banishing the merchants, because most of them were Jews and Protestants. The exiles settled in other cities on the Rhine, and left the swarms of monks and priests among their rotten relics, to starve and “stink in state.” Here we have a key to the malodorous effluvia that penetrated the perfumed handkerchief of the lady of the “Souvenirs”—for I will be bold enough to aver that she did not leave a nook or corner unexplored in Cologne, where anything curious was to be seen. It is a great pity that Napoleon, when he suppressed the convents and monasteries, did not order the scavengers and police to sweep out all the mouldering bones, putrefying flesh, and decomposing integuments of saints and martyrs that have been congregated in churches, chapels, and other monastic institutions for two thousand years. If this had been done at Cologne, there would have been no occasion for perfumed handkerchiefs to the noses of travellers.
By the way, where were the brains of the three magi, or wise men of the east, (whose skulls are crowned and impearled here,) when they allowed the suicidal decree to go forth against the merchants of Cologne? These relics of the church perform miraculous cures of physical ills; but they never, by any accident, prevent, much less punish, the perpetration of moral mischief. The schoolmaster is much more wanted than the scavenger in Cologne!
—— “Alchymists may doubt
The shining gold their crucibles give out;
But faith—fanatic faith—once wedded fast
To some dear falsehood—hugs it to the last.”
The first rush is made to the hotel—and the next to the Dom Kirche—an unfinished cathedral, of course—like all great abbeys—for, if finished, no more contributions could be levied. A tower of the cathedral, intended—abbeys, like some other places, are “paved with good intentions”—to be 500 feet high, but which only attained the altitude of 20 feet, throws all sentimental tourists into ecstasies. From its brother, which grew up much taller, a good panoramic view of Cologne and vicinity is obtained. Then comes the tomb of skulls—the crania of the three magi—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar—stolen by the mother of Constantine from the Holy Land—conveyed by some mysterious agency from Constantinople to Milan—and thence pillaged by Barbarossa, and presented to the Bishop of Cologne! For 700 years these empty skulls have been gazed at by the millions of numbskulls still emptier, that have come to visit them! They are decorated with gilt crowns, set with pearls—and their names are written in ruby characters!
Near these holy, but harmless relics, are deposited, among many masses of bones and filth—“les entrailles” of Queen Marie de Medicis, together with the head of St. Peter, &c. &c. &c. But in the church of St. Ursula, things are done on a grander scale. The bones of 11,000 English ladies, who were wrecked in the Rhine, on their voyage to Rouen!! are here deposited—the owners having taken the veil rather than join in wedlock with the Huns, who then possessed the Holy City. Other records say that, in imitation of Lucretia, they sacrificed their lives to preserve their honour—and their bones were carefully preserved from that time to this! Did the fair lady of the “Souvenirs” hold her “perfumed handkerchief” to her nose, while contemplating these blanched remains of her heroic sisterhood?
The city of Cologne measures seven miles in circumference—her streets are narrow—and her houses are high. Yet the population scarcely exceeds 50,000 souls—with bodies attached to them!! Thus then, it is evident that this Holy City is one vast cemetery, partly above, and partly under ground—a huge museum of mouldering anatomy, useless alike to the living and the dead, and only commemorative of the weakness, darkness, ignorance, and superstition of the human mind!
I confess that I was silly enough, nearly twenty years ago, to spend some days and dollars in exploring these mummeries at Cologne; and those who prefer such pursuits to the pure air of the mountains, and the smiling landscapes of Nature on the banks of the Rhine, may follow the example.
At nine o’clock in the morning, we left the Hotel du Rhin, and repaired to the busy banks of the river, where steam was hissing, and tourists were bustling into the vessels. Five or six arches of the bridge suddenly slipped their cables, and swinging round by the impulse of the stream, opened a free passage for the ascending and descending boats. Away they went upwards and downwards, full of passengers—some on the tiptoe of expectation to see the wonders of the Rhine—others, having satisfied their curiosity, were winging their way home, to the chalky cliffs of Old England.