"Yes," says the priest, "it was found in her tomb."
"It was found in her tomb - only think!" says C., turning gravely to
me. I had to look another way, while the priest proceeded to
introduce, by name, four remarkably yellow skulls, with tastefully
trimmed red caps on, as those of St. Ursula and sundry of her most
intimate friends. S. looked gloriously indignant, and C. increasingly
solemn.
"Dere," said the priest, opening an ivory box, in which was about a
quart of _teeth_ of different sizes, "dere is de teeth of the
eleven thousand."
"Indeed," echoes C., "their teeth!"
S., at this, waxed magnificent, and, as a novel writer would say,
swept from the apartment. I turned round, shaking with laughter, while
the priest went on.
"Dere is a rib of St. - - ."
"Ah, his rib; indeed!"
"And dere is de arrow as pierced the heart of St. Ursula."
"H.," says C., "here is the arrow that killed St. Ursula." (The wicked
scamp knew I was laughing!)
"Dere is the net that was on her hair."
"This is what she wore on her hair, then," says C., eyeing the rag
with severe and melancholy gravity.
"And here is some of the blood of the martyr Stephen," says the
priest, holding a glass case with some mud in it.
In the same way he showed two thorns from the crown of Christ, and a
piece of the Virgin's petticoat.
"And here is the waterpot of stone, in which our Lord made the wine at
the marriage in Cana."
"Indeed," said C., examining it with great interest; "where are the
rest of them?"
"The rest?" says the priest.
"Yes; I think there were six of them; where are they?"
The priest only went over the old story. "This came from Rome, and the
piece broken out of the side is at Rome yet."
It is to be confessed that I felt in my heart, through this disgusting
recital, some of S.'s indignation; and I could not help agreeing with
her that the odor of sanctity, as generally developed in the vicinity,
was any thing but agreeable. I did long to look that man once steadily
in the eyes, to see if he was such a fool as he pretended; but the
ridiculousness of the whole scene overcame me so that I could not look
up, and I marched out in silence. The whole church is equally full of
virgins. The altar piece is a vast picture of the slaughter, not badly
painted. Through various glass openings you perceive that the walls
are full of the bones and skulls. Did the worship of Egypt ever sink
lower in horrible and loathsome idolatry? I had heard of such things;
but it is one thing to hear of them, and another to see them by the
light of this nineteenth century, in a city whose streets look much
like the streets of any other, and where men and women appear much as
they do any where else. Here we saw, in one morning, the splendor and
the rottenness of the Romish system. From those majestic arches, that
triumphant chant, there is but a step down to the worship of dead
men's bones and all uncleanness.
We went also into the Jesuits' church. The effect, to my eye, was that
of a profusion of tawdry, dirty ornament; only the railing of the
choir, which was a splendid piece of carving, out from a single block
of Carrara marble.
The guide book prescribes, I think, no less than half a dozen churches
in Cologne as a dose for the faithful; but we were satisfied with
these three, and went back to our hotel. As a general thing I would
not recommend more than three churches on an empty stomach.
The outer wall of Cologne is a very fine specimen of fortification, (I
am quoting my guide book,) and we got a perfect view of it in crossing
the bridge of boats to return to our hotel. Why they have a bridge of
boats here I cannot say; perhaps on account of the width and swiftness
of the river.
Having heard so much of the dirt and vile smells of Cologne, I was
surprised that our drive took us through streets no way differing from
those of most other cities, and, except in the vicinity of the eleven
thousand virgins, smelling no worse. Still, there may be vile,
ill-smelling streets; but so there are in Edinburgh, London, and New
York.
From Cologne we went, at four o'clock, to Dusseldorf, a little town,
celebrated for the head quarters of the Dusseldorf school of painting.
I cannot imagine why they chose this town for a school of the fine
arts, as it is altogether an indifferent, uninteresting place. It is
about an hour's ride from Cologne. We arrived there in time to go into
the exhibition of the works of the artists, which is open all summer.
I don't know how good a specimen it is, but I thought it rather
indifferent. There were some few paintings that interested me, but
nothing equal to those. I have seen in the Dusseldorf gallery at home.
Whittridge lives there, but, unfortunately, was gone for eight days.
Our hotel was pleasant - opening on a walk shaded by double rows of
trees. We ordered a nice little tea in our room, arid waxed quite
merry over it.
This morning we started at seven, and here we are to-night in
Leipsic - as uninteresting a country as I have seen yet. Moreover, we
had passed beyond the limits of our Rhine guide book, and as yet had
no other, and so did not know any thing about the few objects of
interest which presented themselves. The railroads, of course, persist
in their invariable habit of running you up against a dead wall, so
that you see nothing where you stop.
