They all, with a few exceptions, are strikingly alike; though varying in size, number of towers, and many other particulars, they have mostly a strict resemblance in general conception and detail. To cite an instance: The cathedral at Coblentz might stand as the type of twenty others; instead of being individual and standing out alone—an effort of genius like Cologne, Strasbourg, Notre Dame, Ely, or Winchester—they have all the same resemblance to one another that a little oak has to a big one.
The church at A——k was no exception. Cathedral it might almost be called from its great size; but there was no bishop there, and it was only a parish church! With its three great towers, vast nave, long aisles, and noble choir, it seemed as if it might well hold all the population for many miles around, and the extremely small congregation that were present at the celebration of the High Mass that morning appeared ridiculously out of proportion. It was a high festival—the Annunciation—it is therefore to be assumed that the bulk of the population were there, and the High Mass was at the somewhat early hour of half-past five!
After the Mass was over, and the last peal of the organ had died away, and the patter of the last footstep been lost in the distance, as it still wanted a considerable time to my breakfast hour, I strolled round the great empty church. There seemed to be nothing of value in it. If it had ever possessed any of the treasures of art, they had probably perished or been carried away during the long wars that devastated the country after the period of the Reformation, for I found nothing worthy of notice. I had just concluded to leave the church when my eye was arrested by what I took to be an accident which had happened to the crucifix on one of the side altars. At first I supposed that it had received a blow which had nearly broken off the right arm of the figure. On looking more closely I perceived that it was evidently of great age, and the arm I supposed to be broken stood out from the cross at a considerable angle, and hung about half way down the side, the nail by which it had once been attached still remaining in the hand.
Whilst I was still wondering as to the nature of the accident which had befallen the quaintly-carved crucifix a quiet and pleasant voice roused me from my revery.
“I see, sir, that you are examining our curious old crucifix!”
Turning round I recognized the old priest who had sung Mass, and encouraged by his amiable manner and address, I stated the matter I had been pondering over, and asked for an explanation.
“There has been no accident,” said he; “the distortion which you notice in the right arm has existed far beyond the memory of man.
“The figure is carved out of some very hard wood, and all out of a single block—there being no joining in any part of it.”
Still more astonished, I asked what could have been the motive of representing the Saviour in so strange an attitude; the more, as the hole for the nail still remaining in the hand was still to be seen plainly in the wood, whilst the hand was in the position in which it would have been had it just struck a blow.
“That is a curious story, and is, in fact, the only legend I know of connected with this church.