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ditions of those grey old times rose in the traveller's memory; for the ruined tower of Rolandseck was still looking down upon the Kloster Nonnenwerth, as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed the faithful Paladin to stone, and he were watching still to see the form of his beloved one come forth, not from her cloister, but from her grave. Thus the brazen clasps of the book of legends were opened, and, on the page illuminated by the misty rays of the rising sun, he read again the tales of Liba, and the mournful bride of Argenfels, and Siegfried, the mighty slayer of the dragon. Meanwhile the mists had risen from the Rhine, and the whole air was filled with golden vapour, through which he beheld the sun, hanging in heaven like a drop of blood. Even thus shone the sun within him, amid the wintry vapours, uprising from the valley of the shadow of death, through which flowed the stream of his life,— sighing, sighing!

CHAPTER II.

THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH

Paul Flemming resumed his solitary journey. The morning was still misty, but not cold. Across the Rhine the sun came wading through the reddish vapours, and soft and silver-white outspread the broad river, without a ripple upon its surface, or visible motion of the ever-moving current. A little vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at anchor, keel to keel with another that lay right under it-its own apparitionand all was silent, and calm, and beautiful.

The road was for the most part solitary, for there are few travellers upon the Rhine in winter. Peasant women were at work in the vineyards; climbing up the slippery hill-sides like beasts of burden, with large baskets of manure upon their backs. And once during the morning, a band of apprentices with knapsacks passed by, singing, "The Rhine! The Rhine! a blessing on the Rhine!"

O, the pride of the German heart in this noble river? And right it is, for of all the rivers of this beautiful earth, there is none so beautiful as this. There is hardly a league of its whole course, from its cradle in the snowy Alps to its grave in the sands of Holland, which boasts not its peculiar charms. By heavens! if 1 were a German I would be proud of it too; and of the clustering grapes that hang about its temples, as it reels onwards through vineyards, in a triumphal march, like Bacchus, crowned and drunken.

But I will not attempt to describe the Rhine; it would make this chapter much too long. And to do it well one should write like a god; and his style flow onward royally with breaks and dashes, like the waters of that royal river, and antique, quaint, and Gothic times, be reflected in it. Alas! this evening my style flows not at all. Flow, then, into this smoke-coloured goblet, thou blood of the Rhine! out of thy prisonhouse-out of thy long-necked, tapering flask, in shape not unlike a church-spire among thy native hills; and from the crystal belfry loud ring the merry tinkling bells, while I drink a health to my hero, in whose heart is sadness, and in whose ears the bells of Andernach are ringing on.

He is threading his way alone through a narrow alley, and now up a flight of stone steps, and along the city wall, towards that old round tower built by the Archbishop Frederick of Cologne in the twelfth century. It has a romantic interest in his eyes, for he has still in his mind and heart that beautiful sketch of Carove, in which is described a day on the tower of Andernach. He finds the old keeper and his wife still there; and the old keeper closes the door behind him slowly, as of old, lest he should jam too hard the poor souls in purgatory, whose fate it is to suffer in the cracks of doors and hinges. But-alas! alas! the daughter, the maiden with long, dark eyelashes, she is asleep in her little grave under the linden trees of Feldkirche, with rosemary in her folded hands!

Flemming returned to the hotel disappointed. As he passed along the narrow streets he was dreaming of many things, but mostly of the keeper's daughter asleep in the churchyard of Feldkirche. Suddenly, on turning the corner of an ancient, gloomy church, his attention was arrested by a little chapel in an angle of the wall. It was only a small thatched roof like a bird's nest, under which stood a rude wooden image of the Saviour on the Cross. A real crown of thorns was upon his head, which was bowed downward, as if in the death agony, and drops of blood were falling down his cheeks, and from his hands, and feet, and side. The face was haggard and ghastly beyond all expression, and wore a look of unutterable bodily anguish. The rude sculptor had given it this, but his art could go no farther. The sublimity of death in a dying Saviour, the expiring God-likeness of Jesus of Nazareth was not

there. The artist had caught no heavenly inspiration from his theme. All was coarse, harsh, and revolting to a sensitive mind; and Flemming turned away with a shudder as he saw this fearful image gazing at him, with its fixed and half shut eyes.

He soon reached the hotel, but that face of agony still haunted him. He could not refrain from speaking of it to a very old woman, who sat knitting by the window of the dining-room, in a high-backed, old fashioned arm-chair. I believe she was the innkeeper's grandmother. At all events she was old enough to be $0. She took off her owl-eyed spectacles, and as she wiped the glasses with her handkerchief, said:

"Thou dear Heaven! Is it possible? Did you never hear of Christ of Andernach ?"

Flemming answered in the negative.

"Thou dear Heaven," continued the old woman. "It is a very wonderful story, and a true one, as every good Christian in Andernach will tell you. And it all happened before the death of my blessed man, four years ago; let me see-yes, four years ago come Christ

mas."

Here the old woman stopped speaking, but went on with her knitting. Other thoughts seemed to occupy her mind. She was thinking, no doubt, of her blessed man, as German widows call their dead husbands. But Flemming having expressed an ardent wish to hear the wonderful story, she told it in nearly the following words:

"There was once a poor old woman in Andernach whose name was Frau Martha, and she lived all alone by herself, and loved all the Saints and the blessed

Virgin, and was as good as an angel, and sold pies down the Rheinkrahn. But the house was very old, and the roof-tiles were broken, and she was too poor to get new ones, and the rain kept coming in, and no Christian soul in Andernach would help her. But the Frau Martha was a good woman, and never did anybody any harm, but went to mass every morning, and sold pies by the Rheinkrahn. Now one dark, windy night, when all the good Christians in Andernach were in bed and asleep in the feathers, Frau Martha, who slept under the roof, heard a great noise over her head, and in her chamber, drip-drip-drip-as if the rain were dropping down through the broken tiles. Dear soul ! and sure enough it was. And there was a pounding and hammering overhead, as if somebody were at work on the roof; and she thought it was Pelz Nickel tearing the tiles off, because she had not been to confession often enough. So she began to pray; and the faster she said her Paternoster and her Ave-Maria, the faster Pelz Nickel pounded and pulled: and drip-drip-drip -it went all round her in the dark chamber, till the poor woman was frightened out of her wits, and ran to the window to call for help. Then in a moment all was still -death still. But she saw a light streaming through the mist and rain, and a great shadow on the house opposite. And then somebody came down from the top of her house by a ladder, and had a lantern in his hand, and he took the ladder on his shoulder and went down the street. But she could not see clearly, because the window was streaked with rain. And in the morning the old broken tiles were found scattered about the street, and there were new ones on the roof, and the

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