Years after the young clockmaker married his old blind friend’s daughter, and after many years of hard, steady work, succeeded in repairing and improving the clock, which was the predecessor of the one now in the cathedral.
This is the legend of the clock.
In the Protestant church of St. Thomas is one of the finest monuments in Europe. It was erected by Louis XV. in honor of Marshal Saxe.
In front of a high tablet, upon which there is a long inscription, is a figure of the Marshal, heroic size, dressed in military uniform. He is descending a short flight of steps leading to a coffin, the lid of which Death holds open for his reception. A female figure, representing France, attempts to detain the Marshal and ward off Death. On the left, Hercules in a mournful attitude leans upon his club. Commemorating the Marshal’s victories in the Flemish war are the Austrian eagle, the Dutch lion and the English lion.
The whole work is exquisitely done, the figures of France and Death being wonderful specimens of carving in marble. The artist, Pigalle, was occupied twenty years in the execution of this masterpiece.
There are several other things of interest in the old church of St. Thomas, besides the memorial of the great marshal, though they are of the ghastly order, and more curious than pleasing.
A great many years ago there lived in Strasburg a lunatic whose very soul was bound up in this old church. His soul being devoted to it, he determined to throw in his body, and so he starved himself to death that he might leave the corporation more money. He left all his fortune to the church, and the least it could do was to give him a tomb, which it did, and then carved upon it his emaciated form, taking him after death, that nothing should be lacking in ghastliness. When religion or vanity, or a compound of both, is freakish, it is very freakish.
The most repulsive sight in all Europe is within these venerable walls. The Duke of Nassau wanted immortality, and so his remains—he was killed in battle—are carefully preserved in a glass case, hermetically sealed, clad in the very garments he wore when death struck him. And after he was killed his little daughter, aged thirteen, died, and the family had her poor remains, clad in the silks and tinsel of the period, disposed of in the same way.
And there they are to this day, as beautiful a commentary on human hopes and human ambitions as one would wish to see.
The Duke of Nassau was a mighty man in his day, and he hoped to be remembered of men for all time. What is he now? The flesh has melted from his bones, the very bones are crumbling into dust, the garments in which he was clad are disappearing, and all there is of him is a grinning, ghastly skeleton, and the daughter is the same in the same way; the flesh has disappeared from her bones, the little finger, once so plump and taper, is now a bone which time has eaten away to almost nothing; the ring of gold which she wore in life is still there, but it hangs on a time-wasted bone, the flesh having melted from under it.