And they counted God’s images in the doomed city even less than they did God’s temple. And so they sent shells crashing through the homes of Strasburg, and men were killed in its streets, women in the houses, and children in their cradles. It made no difference to the white-bearded William, the iron-handed Bismarck, or the sensual Napoleon. It was their fight, but they bore none of the suffering. The Kaiser actually had the impudence to order a thanksgiving for the slaughter of ten thousand Frenchmen, and Louis Napoleon would have done the same had he been in condition.
I have expressed my opinion of kings before. The more one sees of them and their work the less love he has for them. Soldiers and thin soup for the people in Germany, soldiers and starvation in Ireland. That’s what royalty and nobility mean everywhere—brute force and suffering.
The façade of the great cathedral is by Erwin, of Steinbach, the most famous architect of the middle ages, and is a marvel of beauty, its massive proportions being toned down and improved by the innumerable figures, statues, and a fine rose window, forty-two feet in diameter, that adorn it.
Entering the cathedral, one is greatly impressed with the harmonious effect produced by the massive yet graceful columns from which spring the light arches that form the ceiling. The proportions are admirable, the height being ninety-nine feet, the width forty-five yards, and the length one hundred and twenty-one yards.
The pulpit, a fine specimen of stone carving, dates back to 1485, and affords a good idea of the style of art that flourished in Germany at that time.
