Aix-la-Chapelle is still a venerable old city, especially when seen from a distance, and its very name is connected with imperial ideas; Charlemagne and his chivalry, Kings, Emperors and Popes, wars, congresses and treaties, all of which have, at one time or another, been associated with its name. But it has now few objects of great interest within itself—its interest is with the past. Its Dom Kirke, the chapel whence the ancient city of Achen derived its appellation, to distinguish it from others of the same name in Savoy and Provence, like some relic from the sea encrusted with shells and parasites, is scarcely discernible in the midst of the coatings of modern buildings with which it is shut up and enveloped,—a confused agglomeration of styles, Gothic, Saxon, Byzantine and Moresco. But the central dome, the nucleus of the entire building, and that portion said to have been originally selected to cover in the Emperor’s tomb, stand still erect and firm, no doubt in consequence of perpetual repairs and restorations, “a thousand years roll over it in vain,” and it exhibits, unquestionably, the oldest specimen of Saxon architecture in the world. It had been originally a simple domed octagon, with arched windows in each of its sides, and surrounded within by a gallery, sustained by pillars of porphery, from the Palace of the Exarch of Ravenna, which were carried hither by Charlemagne. These are at least identical—they have survived the ravage of the Normans, and all the subsequent ravages of Germany till the French greedy
To rive what Goth and Turk, and Time had spared,
carried them off to Paris, and as only a portion of them were ever returned, they have not yet relieved the white-washed columns by which they were replaced.
Other chapels have, at various times, been run out from the sides of the ancient centre, so that the whole is now an informal and confused mass, but without anything striking or magnificent, unless it be the large windows of the choir built about five hundred years ago, which as they rise from the foundation quite to the vaulted roof give it the appearance of a gigantic conservatory. Suspended in the midst of the choir is a crown for the Virgin, the gift of Queen Mary of Scotland, and in various parts of the church are hung a greater profusion of those votive models of broken limbs and infant’s marks than I have seen elsewhere.
These offerings often accompany the prayers for the recovery of the object represented, or are hung up in grateful commemoration of the event—may not the singular custom be referable to the incident of the Philistines recorded by Samuel, when in order to get rid of the emerods and the plague of mice with which they were afflicted, they were directed by “the priests and diviners” to make five golden emerods and six golden mice according to the number of their cities and their lords, and to offer them for a trespass-offering for having taken the ark captive, “for one plague was upon them and upon their lords.”
But the most solemn object in “that ancient oratory” is the huge black flag that closes down the tomb of Charlemagne—it lies under the centre of the gigantic dome, beneath a huge gilded candelabrum, a gift of the Emperor Barbarossa, designed to burn above the grave of the conqueror which, bears the brief but sublime inscription in brazen letters sunk in the solid stone “CAROLO MAGNO.” An extraordinary incident is connected with this impressive sepulchre. The Emperor, Otto III, two hundred years after the death of Charlemagne, caused the stone to be lifted and descended into the sepulchre of the buried monarch—he found him not prostrate in decay, but seated upon a throne of marble, covered with bosses of gold—the crown upon his bony brow—the royal dalmatic robe around his fleshless shoulders—his right hand resting on the sword, which the song of the troubadours has immortalized as the “irrésistible Joyeuse,” and in his left the sceptre and the orb, the emblems of a dominion which was co-extensive with the globe itself. The pilgrims pouch which he had borne in life as an emblem of humility was still hanging from his girdle, and on his knees an illuminated transcript of the gospels. The Emperor removed the regalia to Nuremberg, whence they were afterwards transferred to Vienna, and there in the imperial jewel chamber in the Schweitzer-Hof, are still to be seen the royal paraphernalia of Charlemagne, the crown set with rude uncut gems, such as may rarely be referred to a period a thousand years ago. The body was replaced in a sarcophagus of alabaster in the tomb, but, has long since disappeared, and the marble chair on which it was seated, is still shown in one of the alcoves of the gallery above.
This striking incident suggested the following lines, which were given to me by a Lady, with whose exquisite productions the public are already familiar—Mrs. Alaric A. Watts. They have not before appeared in type.
THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE.
Whose is this fair sarcophogus?
A hero’s shrine, a Christian’s tomb;