This town is well supplied with churches, there being twenty noted ones here. I did not feel much inclined to see anything less impressive than the cathedral, but submissively followed F. to St. Ursula, for, she said, nowhere else could I see the bones of eleven thousand virgins. And sure enough, there they were! many of them placed in position, like rails in a Virginia fence. Three thousand skulls are also ranged along on shelves together, grinning silently at each other. If Hamlet runs out of skulls, there are plenty in Cologne. The decorations, however, would probably not be thrown in, as they are worth a good deal more than the skulls. Some wear embroidered and jewelled hoods, others wear caps of silver and gold. There is a painting of St. Ursula here,’ and the shrine of St. Ursula, set with precious stones. ‘And this is the arm-bone of St. Ursula,’ said our solemn guide. ‘Is it really?’ said I. ‘And this is her foot,’ ‘My! just think of it, F.! St. Ursula’s foot!’ And with renewed solemnity our guide continued, ‘And this is her hair net,’ ‘Her hair net! do let me see it closer. Are her false crimps here also?’ ‘And here are the teeth of the virgins,’ ‘Blessed virgins! they will never have the toothache any more from these teeth!’ ‘And here is the vase in which the water was turned to wine at the marriage-feast at Cana, in Galilee!’ ‘Is it possible? do you really believe it?’ said I. The man—a handsome priest—bowed low and crossed himself. Much of the story of St. Ursula and her pilgrimage is illustrated in paintings on the walls of the church. We surely had our money’s worth, and our fill of churches for one day.
Our German friend does not forget us, although now miles away! Flowers, and a letter to F., which we find upon returning to our hotel, prove this. The letter is so ‘cute,’ and so original, also, in its attempts to express its writer’s feelings in English, that I will copy it for you, word for word, for you will appreciate it, and I am sure he would not object, for you do not even know his name:—
My dear Miss ——: I fear this first letter will be very sentimental, but I cannot help it. I must once more tell it to you how sorry I am that I fear our acquaintance will now be finished already, and how much I felicite myself to have had the bonheur of this acquaintance. Also I feel obliged to thank you much for the confidence you kindly have had in granting unto me this acquaintance. It I never will forget. Yes, it is a bad, sorry word, the word Abschied. I don’t know it meant in English. Before all, if we pronounce it, with the very doubtful hope to see the person everywhere again, to whom we have to pronounce that word. You must have seen how much it gave me pain and trouble to say it to you that evening. By writing, that goes better, than I not do see your eyes, hear your voice, feel your presence but in mind. I now bow down for trying to say to you that forever I will cherish you, as I was an old friend of yours, and that I desire, of all my heart, you may be as happy in all your life as anybody can be, and as you want to be. Wherever you exist, all my wishes and love will be for you, and all the regards for Madame —— accompanying you. And now, enough of my deep feelings, for I fear you may become angry to so hear them, and regulate of your promise to hear my correspondence. If you will have a next letter, I will do my very better to be less melancolie in that following letter, for to-day I cannot else. Allow me pleasure to send you some sweet roses—similie, similie, say the homeopaths; that means—O I know here that means true here, and you must know it. Farewell, my sweet American lady, and good-bye. My hope and longing for the seeing you again is inexplicable. Please now make my most respectful compliments to Madame ——, and do hold me, while life lasts, in your good friendship. I hope you will excuse my bad English, for it all comes from this heart, and not from this head of your faithful friend forever, who is in pain to say adieu to you, and more than ever before must I go to America and your city Boston. I pray you do write to me, your friend, who shall wait and watch for your words.
—— ——.’
I doubt if we could answer in German, on paper, and make ourselves as clearly understood. We hope sometime to see our devoted and much-valued friend again.
Hotel Disch, August 2d, 1888.—We have had a long drive about the city to-day. We saw the bridge of boats and went into the cathedral for the third time, and each time its beauty impresses us more and more. If the tradition connected with the architecture of the cathedral is true, that his Satanic majesty designed it, he certainly did that better than any of the rest of his works. The exterior is also most pleasing to the eye, look at it in any way you will, and the spires, the towers, and the buttresses, with their elaborately carved pinnacles, are ‘things of beauty,’ never to be forgotten.
In our ramble later in the day through the streets, which seem to be laid out something like half circles, a little ragamuffin pulled my dress and asked in German, ‘Can I show you the horses.’ The child’s dirty face was wan and haggard, so we could not begrudge a few pennies given him, and I took his hand, which seemed to please him immensely and on we walked together. ‘There they are,’ said he. And sure enough, looking from a second story window of an old house are two gray horses, stuffed, I presume, but their appearance is very life-like. The story explaining their being there runs like this. The beautiful wife of a rich man apparently died. The grief of the husband was so intense that he would allow no one to come near her, and placed her in the tomb himself, with her rich garments and jewelry on. Thieves went at night to steal these articles, when at their touch she arose and asked, ‘Where am I?’ The men, alarmed, ran away at full speed, leaving the doors open, and the woman, who had only been in a trance, walked out into the street, and to her husband’s house. She knocked at the door until her husband was aroused and asked who knocked. She replied, ‘It is I, thy own Richmodis, thy wife,’ ‘No,’ said he, ‘my wife is dead, and the dead rise no more; sooner would my two grays trot up the staircase into my room and look out of the window.’ He immediately heard a noise, and his two horses came into his room, placed their fore feet on the window sill and looked out, and there they have been looking ever since. And the poor wife, let us hope, was received as flesh and blood. Old traditions and history repeat themselves constantly in these ancient foreign cities.
A party of young girls, with their teacher, arrived at our hotel to-day from Massachusetts, and it was a delight to see their faces and to hear our own tongue. E. reached us this evening from Bayreuth, filled to the brim with Wagner, and greatly regretting that we were not there to see and to hear. Of the latter pleasure we know something from the exquisitely rendered Parsifal selections given at our own Symphony Concerts, but to see Parsifal in the home of its composer is a delight yet to come.
August 3d, 1888.—Leaving Cologne, and carrying much cologne with us, we started at nine o’clock A.M. for Utrecht, turning our faces toward the cathedral’s spire as long as we could catch a glimpse of it, and soon we are out of Germany and in Holland. For all the Germans drink so much beer, we have never seen in the country one intoxicated person, and who could go far in our own land and say that? ’Tis true, and pity ’tis ’tis true,’ that the poor whiskey deluded Americans drink is many times more deadly and destructive than beer. Although we have had few opportunities of seeing the better class of Germans in their homes, we know that home-life is sweet and sacred to them, and the Germans are everywhere proverbially honest and their word to be depended upon. Their country is not only a military one, but it is the nation of music, of the sciences, and people of all other nations flock here for instruction.