Chapter IV: Part 4

Not less peculiar to Siena is the pavement of the Cathedral. It is inlaid with a kind of _tarsia_ work in stone, not unlike that which Baron Triqueti used in his “Marmor Homericum”--less elaborately decorative, but even more artistic and subordinate to architectural effect than the baron’s mosaic. Some of these compositions are as old as the cathedral; others are the work of Beccafumi and his scholars. They represent, in the liberal spirit of mediæval Christianity, the history of the Church before the Incarnation. Hermes Trismegistus and the Sibyls meet us at the doorway: in the body of the church we find the mighty deeds of the old Jewish heroes--of Moses and Samson and Joshua and Judith. Independently of the artistic beauty of the designs, of the skill with which men and horses are drawn in the most difficult attitudes, of the dignity of some single figures, and of the vigour and simplicity of the larger compositions, a special interest attaches to this pavement in connection with the twelfth canto of the “Purgatorio.” Did Dante ever tread these stones and meditate upon their sculptured histories? That is what we cannot say; but we read how he journeyed through the plain of Purgatory with eyes intent upon its storied floor, how “morti i morti, e i vivi parean vivi,” how he saw “Nimrod at the foot of his great work, confounded, gazing at the people who were proud with him.” The strong and simple outlines of the pavement correspond to the few words of the poet. Bending over these pictures and trying to learn their lesson, with the thought of Dante in our mind, the tones of an organ, singularly sweet and mellow, fall upon our ears, and we remember how he heard the _Te Deum_ sung within the gateway of repentance.

_Sketches in Italy and Greece_ (London, 1874).

THE TOWN HALL OF LOUVAIN.

GRANT ALLEN.

Louvain is in a certain sense the mother city of Brussels. Standing on its own little navigable river, the Dyle, it was, till the end of the Fourteenth Century, the capital of the Counts and of the Duchy of Brabant. It had a large population of weavers, engaged in the cloth trade. Here, as elsewhere, the weavers formed the chief bulwark of freedom in the population. In 1378, however, after a popular rising, Duke Wenseslaus besieged and conquered the city; and the tyrannical sway of the nobles, whom he re-introduced, aided by the rise of Ghent, or later, of Antwerp, drove away trade from the city. Many of the weavers emigrated to Holland and England, where they helped to establish the woollen industry....

As you emerge from the station, you come upon a small Place, adorned with a statue (by Geefs) of Sylvain van de Weyer, a revolutionary of 1830, and long Belgian minister to England. Take the long straight street up which the statue looks. This leads direct to the Grand’ Place, the centre of the town, whence the chief streets radiate in every direction, the ground-plan recalling that of a Roman city.

The principal building in the Grand’ Place is the Hôtel de Ville, standing out with three sides visible from the Place, and probably the finest civic building in Belgium. It is of very florid late-Gothic architecture, between 1448 and 1463. Begin first with the left façade, exhibiting three main storeys, with handsome Gothic windows. Above come a gallery, and then a gable-end, flanked by octagonal turrets, and bearing a similar turret on its summit. In this centre of the gable is a little projecting balcony of the kind so common on Belgic civic buildings. The architecture of the niches and turrets is of very fine florid Gothic, in better taste than that at Ghent of nearly the same period. The statues which fill the niches are modern. Those of the first storey represent personages of importance in the local history of the city; those of the second, the various mediæval guilds or trades; those of the third, the Counts of Louvain and Dukes of Brabant of all ages. The bosses or corbels which support the statues, are carved with scriptural scenes in high relief. I give the subjects of a few (beginning Left): the reader must decipher the remainder for himself. The Court of Heaven: The Fall of the Angels into the visible Jaws of Hell: Adam and Eve in the Garden: The Expulsion from Paradise: The Death of Abel, with quaint rabbits escaping: The Drunkenness of Noah: Abraham and Lot: etc.

The main façade has an entrance staircase, and two portals in the centre, above which are figures of St. Peter (Left) and Our Lady and Child (Right), the former in compliment to the patron of the church opposite. This façade has three storeys, decorated with Gothic windows, and capped by a gallery parapet, above which rises the high-pitched roof, broken by several quaint small windows. At either end are the turrets of the gable, with steps to ascend them. The rows of statues represent as before (in four tiers), persons of local distinction, mediæval guilds and the Princes who have ruled Brabant and Louvain. Here again the sculptures beneath the bosses should be closely inspected. Among the most conspicuous are the Golden Calf, the Institution of Sacrifices in the Tabernacle, Balaam’s Ass, Susannah and the Elders, etc.

The gable-end to the Right, ill seen from the narrow street, resembles in its features the one opposite it, but this façade is even finer than the others.

The best general view is obtained from the door of St. Pierre, or near either corner of the Place directly opposite.

_Cities of Belgium_ (London, 1897).

THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE.

EDMONDO DE AMICIS.

The Cathedral of Seville is isolated in the centre of a large square, yet its grandeur may be measured by a single glance. I immediately thought of the famous phrase in the decree uttered by the Chapter of the primitive church on July 8, 1401, regarding the building of the new Cathedral: “Let us build a monument which shall cause posterity to think we must have been mad.” These reverend canons did not fail in their intention. But to fully appreciate this we must enter. The exterior of the Cathedral is imposing and magnificent; but less so than the interior. There is no façade: a high wall encloses the building like a fortress. It is useless to turn and gaze upon it, for you will never succeed in impressing a single outline upon your mind, which, like the introduction to a book, will give you a clear idea of the work; you admire and you exclaim more than once: “It is immense!” but you are not satisfied; and you hasten to enter the church, hoping that you may receive there a more complete sentiment of admiration.

On entering you are stunned, you feel as if you are lost in an abyss; and for several moments you can only let your glance wander over these immense curves in this immense space to assure yourself that your eyes and your imagination are not deceiving you. Then you approach a column, measure it, and contemplate the others from a distance: they are as large as towers and yet they seem so slender that you tremble to think they support the edifice. With a rapid glance you look at them from pavement to ceiling and it seems as if you could almost count the moments that it takes the eye to rise with them. There are five naves, each one of which might constitute a church. In the central one another cathedral could easily lift its high head surmounted by a cupola and bell-tower. Altogether there are sixty-eight vaults, so bold that it seems to you they expand and rise very slowly while you are looking at them. Everything in this Cathedral is enormous. The principal altar, placed in the centre of the great nave, is so high that it almost touches the vaulted ceiling, and seems to be an altar constructed for giant priests to whose knees only would ordinary altars reach; the paschal candle seems like the mast of a ship; and the bronze candlestick which holds it, is a museum of sculpture and carving which would in itself repay a day’s visit. The chapels are worthy of the church, for in them are lavished the _chefs d’œuvre_ of sixty-seven sculptors and thirty-eight painters. Montanes, Zurbaran, Murillo, Valdes, Herrera, Boldan, Roelas, and Campaña have left there a thousand immortal traces of their hands. St. Ferdinand’s Chapel, containing the sepulchres of this king and of his wife Beatrice, of Alphonso the Wise, the celebrated minister Florida Blanca, and other illustrious personages, is one of the richest and most beautiful. The body of King Ferdinand, who delivered Seville from the dominion of the Arabs, clothed in his military dress, with the crown and the royal mantle, reposes in a crystal casket covered with a veil. On one side is the sword which he carried on the day of his entrance into Seville; and on the other his staff, the symbol of command. In this same chapel a little ivory wand which the king carried to the wars, and other relics of great value are preserved. In the other chapels there are large marble altars, Gothic tombs and statues in stone, in wood and silver, enclosed in large caskets of silver with their bodies and hands covered with diamonds and rubies; and some marvellous pictures, which, unfortunately, the feeble light, falling from the high windows, does not illuminate sufficiently to let the admirer see their entire beauty.

But after a detailed examination of these chapels, paintings, and sculptures, you always return to admire the Cathedral’s grand, and, if I may be allowed to say it, formidable aspect. After having glanced towards those giddy heights, the eye and mind are fatigued by the effort. And the abundant images correspond to the grandeur of the basilica; immense angels and monstrous heads of cherubim with wings as large as the sails of a ship and enormous floating mantles of blue. The impression that this Cathedral produces is entirely religious, but it is not sad; it creates a feeling which carries the mind into the infinite space and silence where Leopardi’s thoughts were plunged; it creates a sentiment full of desire and boldness; it produces that shiver which is experienced at the brink of a precipice,--that distress and confusion of great thoughts, that divine terror of the infinite....

It is needless to speak of the Feasts of Holy Week: they are famous throughout the world, and people from all parts of Europe still flock to them.

But the most curious privilege of the Cathedral of Seville is the dance _de los seises_, which is performed every evening at twilight for eight consecutive days after the Feast of Corpus Domini.

As I found myself in Seville at this time I went to see it. From what I had heard I expected a scandalous pasquinade, and I entered the church quite ready to be indignant at the profanation of a holy place. The church was dark; only the large altar was illuminated, and a crowd of women kneeled before it. Several priests were sitting to the right and left of the altar. At a signal given by one of the priests, sweet music from violins broke the profound silence of the church, and two rows of children moved forward in the steps of a _contre-danse_, and began to separate, interlace, break away, and again unite with a thousand graceful turnings; then everybody joined in a melodious and charming hymn which resounded in the vast Cathedral like a choir of angels’ voices; and in the next moment they began to accompany their dance and song with castanets. No religious ceremony ever touched me like this. It is out of the question to describe the effect produced by these little voices under the immense vaults, these little creatures at the foot of this enormous altar, this modest and almost humble dance, this antique costume, this kneeling multitude, and the surrounding darkness. I went out of the church with as serene a soul as if I had been praying....

The famous Giralda of the Cathedral of Seville is an ancient Arabian tower, constructed, according to tradition, in the year one thousand, on the plan of the architect Huevar, the inventor of algebra; it was modified in its upper part after the expulsion of the Moors and converted into a Christian bell-tower, yet it has always preserved its Arabian air and has always been prouder of the vanished standard of the conquered race than the Cross which the victors have placed upon it. This monument produces a novel sensation: it makes you smile: it is as enormous and imposing as an Egyptian pyramid and at the same time as gay and graceful as a garden kiosk. It is a square brick tower of a beautiful rose-colour, bare up to a certain height, and then ornamented all the way up by little Moorish twin-windows displayed here and there at haphazard and provided with little balconies which produce a very pretty effect. Upon the story, where formerly a roof of various colours rested, surmounted by an iron shaft which supported four enormous golden balls, the Christian bell-tower rises in three stories; the first containing the bells, the second enclosed by a balustrade, and the third forming a kind of cupola on which turns, like a weather-vane, a statue of gilt bronze representing Faith, holding a palm in one hand and in the other a standard visible at a long distance from Seville, and which, when touched by the sun, glitters like an enormous ruby imbedded in the crown of a Titan king who rules the entire valley of Andalusia with his glance.

_La Spagna_ (Florence, 1873).

WINDSOR CASTLE.

WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON.

A steep chalk bluff, starting from a river margin with the heave and dominance of a tidal wave is Castle Hill, now crowned and mantled by the Norman keep, the royal house, the chapel of St. George, and the depending gardens, terraces, and slopes.

Trees beard the slope and tuft the ridge. Live waters curl and murmur at the base. In front, low-lying meadows curtsey to the royal hill. Outward, on the flanks, to east and west, run screens of elm and oak, of beech and poplar; here, sinking into clough and dell: there mounting up to smiling sward and wooded knoll. Far in the rear lie forest glades, with walks and chases, losing themselves in distant heath and holt. By the edges of dripping wells, which bear the names of queen and saint, stand aged oaks, hoary with time and rich in legend: patriarchs of the forest, wedded to the readers of all nations by immortal verse.

A gentle eminence, the Castle Hill springs from the bosom of a typical English scene.

Crowning a verdant ridge, the Norman keep looks northward on a wide and wooded level, stretching over many shires, tawny with corn and rye, bright with abundant pasture, and the red and white of kine and sheep, while here again the landscape is embrowned with groves and parks. The stream curves softly past your feet, unconscious of the capital, unruffled by the tide. Beyond the river bank lie open meadows, out of which start up the pinnacles of Eton College, the Plantagenet school and cloister, whence for twenty-one reigns the youth of England have been trained for court and camp, the staff, the mitre, and the marble chair. Free from these pinnacles, the eye is caught by darksome clump, and antique tower, and distant height; each darksome clump a haunted wood, each antique tower an elegy in stone, each distant height a storied and romantic hill. That darksome clump is Burnham wood; this antique tower is Stoke; yon distant heights are Hampstead Heath and Richmond Park. Nearer to the eye stand Farnham Royal, Upton park, and Langley Marsh; the homes of famous men, the sceneries of great events.

Swing round to east or south, and still the eye falls lovingly on household spots. There, beyond Datchet ferry, stood the lodge of Edward the Confessor, and around his dwelling spread the hunting-grounds of Alfred and other Saxon kings. Yon islet in the Thames is Magna Charta Island; while the open field, below the reach, is Runnymede.

The heights all round the Norman keep are capped with fame--one hallowed by a saint, another crowned with song. Here is St. Leonard’s hill; and yonder, rising over Runnymede, is Cooper’s hill. Saints, poets, kings and queens, divide the royalties in almost equal shares. St. George is hardly more a presence in the place than Chaucer and Shakespeare. Sanctity and poetry are everywhere about us; in the royal chapel, by the river-side, among the forest oaks, and even in the tavern yards. Chaucer and Shakespeare have a part in Windsor hardly less pronounced than that of Edward and Victoria, that of St. Leonard and St. George.

Windsor was river born and river named. The stream is winding, serpentine; the bank by which it rolls was called the “winding shore.” The fact, common to all countries, gives a name which is common to all languages. Snakes, dragons, serpentines, are names of winding rivers in every latitude. There is a Snake river in Utah, another Snake river in Oregon; there is a Drach river in France, another Drach river in Switzerland. The straits between Paria and Trinidad is the Dragon’s Mouth; the outfall of Lake Chiriqui is also the Dragon’s Mouth. In the Morea, in Majorca, in Ionia, there are Dragons. There is a Serpent islet off the Danube, and a Serpentaria in Sardinia. We have a modern Serpentine in Hyde Park!

Windsor, born of that winding shore-line, found in after days her natural patron in St. George.

With one exception, all the Castle builders were men and women of English birth and English taste; Henry Beauclerc, Henry of Winchester, Edward of Windsor, Edward of York, Henry the Seventh, Queen Elizabeth, George the Fourth, and Queen Victoria; and these English builders stamped an English spirit on every portion of the pile--excepting on the Norman keep.

Ages before the Normans came to Windsor, a Saxon hunting-lodge had been erected in the forest; not on the bleak and isolated crest of hill, but by the river margin, on “the winding shore.” This Saxon lodge lay hidden in the depths of ancient woods, away from any public road and bridge. The King’s highway ran north, the Devil’s Causeway to the south. The nearest ford was three miles up the stream, the nearest bridge was five miles down the stream. A bridle-path, such as may still be found in Spain or Sicily, led to that Saxon lodge; but here this path was lost among the ferns and underwoods. No track led on to other places. Free to the chase, yet severed from the world, that hunting-lodge was like a nest. Old oaks and elms grew round about as screens. Deep glades, with here and there a bubbling spring, extended league on league, as far as Chertsey bridge and Guildford down. This forest knew no tenants save the hart and boar, the chough and crow. An air of privacy, and poetry, and romance, hung about this ancient forest lodge.

Seeds of much legendary lore had been already sown. A builder of that Saxon lodge had been imagined in a mythical king--Arthur of the Round Table, Arthur of the blameless life--a legend which endures at Windsor to the present day. There, Godwin, sitting at the king’s board, had met his death, choked with the lie in his wicked throat. There, Edward the Confessor had lisped his prayers, and cured the halt and blind. There, too, the Saxon princes, Tosti and Harold, were supposed to have fought in the king’s presence, lugging out each other’s locks, and hurling each other to the ground. Of later growth were other legends; ranging from the romance of the Fitz-Warines, through the Romaunt of the Rose, down to the rhyme of King Edward and the Shepherd, the mystery of Herne the Hunter, and the humours of the Merry Wives.

William the Conqueror preserved his Saxon hunting-lodge by the river-side, but built his Norman keep on the Castle Hill--perhaps on the ruins of a Celtic camp, certainly round the edges of a deep and copious well.

Henry Beauclerc removed his dwelling from the river margin to the crest of hill, building the First King’s House. This pile extended from the Devil’s tower to the Watch tower, now renamed Victoria tower. A part of Beauclerc’s edifice remains in massive walls of the Devil’s tower, and a cutting through the chalk, sustained by Norman masonry, leading from a shaft under the Queen’s apartment to the southern ditch.

Henry of Winchester, a man of higher genius as an architect, built the Second King’s House, sweeping into his lines the lower ground, which he covered by walls and towers, including Winchester tower, and the whole curtain by Curfew tower and Salisbury tower, round to the Lieutenant’s lodgings, now called Henry the Third’s tower. The Second King’s House, long since ruined and removed, stood on the site of the present cloisters. Much of Henry of Winchester’s work remains; in fact, the circuit of the lower ward is mainly his, both walls and towers, from the Devil’s tower, touching the upper ward, round to Curfew tower in the north-west angle of the lower ward.

Edward of Windsor built the Third King’s House, fronting towards the north, and gave the upper ward its final shape. On introducing a new patron saint to Windsor, Edward removed his own lodging, and renounced the lower ward entirely to the service of St. George. First came the chapel of St. George; next came the College of St. George; then came the Canons of St. George; lastly, came the Poor Knights of St. George. The central ground was given up to the chapel, and the adjoining quarter to the college. From Curfew tower to the Lieutenant’s lodgings, all the ground was consecrated to the saint. The first tower, reckoning from the south, became Garter House, the second Chancellor’s tower, the third Garter tower, while the land within the walls was covered by residences for the military knights. An area equal to the upper baily was surrendered to his patron saint.

Edward of York rebuilt St. George’s Chapel on a larger scale; for Edward of York had heavy sins to weigh him down, and pressing need for saintly help.

Henry of Richmond roofed that chapel, built a “new tower” in the King’s House, and made a fair causeway from Windsor to London--the first road ever made between the castle and the capital.

Queen Elizabeth built the gallery which bears her name, and raised the great terraces above the Thames. Before her time the scarp was rough and steep: she built this solid wall, and laid this level road.

George the Fourth raised the Norman keep in height, flanked the park entrance with another tower, opened St. George’s gate, buttressed the North-east tower, and called his new edifice Brunswick tower.

Like Queen Elizabeth, Queen Victoria has devoted her attention rather to the slopes and gardens than the structure; but the few additions of her reign have been effected with a proper reverence for the ancient pile. Her Majesty has cleared off slum and tenement from the slopes, and opened the southern terrace, just as Elizabeth opened the northern terrace. Work has been done in cloister and chapel. As Henry of Richmond made a road from Windsor to London, Queen Victoria has brought two railways to her castle gates.

Since the days of Edward of Windsor the Castle hill has kept the triple character--upper ward, middle ward, and lower ward--baily of the King, baily of the keep, and baily of St. George--the residence of our sovereign, the symbol of our power, the altar of our saint.

_Royal Windsor_ (London, 1879).

THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.

ERNEST BRETON.

We are now in the middle of the Tenth Century and in the city of Cologne; for several hours a man has been sitting upon the banks of a river, flowing majestically at the base of those ramparts which sixty years ago were erected by Philip von Heinsberg, and for several hours his thoughtful brow has not been lifted. This man was the first master-workman of his time; three centuries later he was called the prince of architects. The Archbishop of Cologne had said to him: “Master, we must build a cathedral here which will surpass all the buildings of the world in grandeur and magnificence.” The artist replied: “I will do it;” and now he was pondering over ways of accomplishing his promise about which he was frightened. At this moment he was trying to think out a marvellous plan which would give lustre to his country and immortalize his name; but nothing came into his mind worthy of the prodigy he was trying to conceive and could not create.

An unknown old man now approached and sat beside him, regarding him with a mocking air, as if he rejoiced in his perplexity and despair; every now and then he gave a little, dry cough, and when he had attracted the attention of the artist, he rapidly traced on the sand with a ring some lines which he immediately effaced. These lines formed exactly that plan which always escaped the artist and whose fugitive image he could not seize.

“You would like to have this plan?” asked the old man.

“I would give all I possess for it.”

“I exact nothing. The building that you construct will be the envy and the eternal despair of all your successors, the admiration of centuries to come, and your brilliant and celebrated name will be known to the most remote generations. Your life will be long; you will pass it in glory, wealth, and pleasure. For all that I only ask for your soul when your life draws to its close.”

“_Vade retro Satanas!_” cried the agitated artist. “Better the nothingness of oblivion than eternal damnation.”

“Patience,” said Satan, “reflect: we shall see,” and he vanished. The master-workman returned to his humble dwelling, sadder and more dreamful than when he left it; he could not close his eyes all night. Glory, wealth, and pleasure for many long years, and all that for one word! In vain he tried to shake himself free from the fatal temptation; at every moment, at every step he again saw the tempter showing him his transitory plan; he succumbed.

“To-morrow, at midnight,” said Satan, “go to that spot and I will bring you the plan and the pact that you must sign.”

The artist returned to the city, divided between remorse and dreams of pride and ambition. Remorse conquered, and before the appointed hour he had told everything to his confessor. “It will be a master-stroke,” said the latter, “to deceive Satan himself and snatch the famous plan from him without paying the price of your soul,” and he sketched out the line of conduct that he should follow.

At the appointed hour the two parties stood face to face. “Here,” said Satan, “are the plan and pact; take it and sign it.” Quick as lightning the master-workman snatched the plan with one hand and with the other he brandished a piece of the True Cross, which the wily confessor had given to him. “I am vanquished,” cried Satan, “but you will reap little benefit through your treachery. Your name will be unknown and your work will never be completed.”

Such is the legend of the Cathedral of Cologne. I have told it here so that the admiration of the Middle Ages for this plan, which could not be considered the work of any human genius, may be measured, and for six centuries the sinister prediction of Satan has held good.[4]

At the north-east end of the elevation occupied by the ancient _Colonia Agrippina_, in the spot where the choir of the Cathedral raises its magnificent pinnacles, there existed in very remote ages a Roman _Castellum_. At a later period this was replaced by a palace of the French kings, which Charlemagne gave to his chancellor and confessor Hildebold....

The Cathedral of Cologne was one of the most ancient seats of Christianity in Germany; it contained in its jurisdiction the capital of Charlemagne’s Empire, the city where the Emperors were crowned. In the Twelfth Century, Frederick Barbarossa enriched it with one of those sacred treasures which in a time of faith attracted entire populations and gave birth to the gigantic enterprises which seem so incredible in our positive and sceptical age. All eyes were turned to the Holy Land, and the pilgrims of Germany, as well as of other countries, before undertaking this perilous voyage came by the thousands to the tomb of the Magi, to pray to God that the same star which guided the Three Wise Men to Christ’s cradle might lead them to his tomb. The celebrity and wealth of the Cologne Cathedral was greatly due to the custom of the Emperors visiting it after their coronation. Thus, from the moment it was in possession of the sacred relics, everything combined to augment its splendour; princes, emperors, and people of all classes were eager to add to its treasures. Therefore, it was only a natural consequence to erect on the site of the old Cathedral of St. Peter a building more vast and magnificent, and which would accord better with its important destiny. The Archbishop Angebert, Count of Altena and Berg, upon whom Frederick II. conferred the dignity of vicar of the empire, conceived the first idea; but at about the age of forty he was assassinated by his cousin, the Count of Ysembourg, in 1225, and the enterprise was abandoned. Finally, a great fire devoured the Cathedral in 1248 and its immediate reconstruction was indispensable....

Everyone knows that almost all churches of the pointed arch which occupied several centuries in building show the special mark of the periods in which their various additions were constructed; this is not the case with the Cathedral of Cologne, which is peculiar in the fact that its foundations and its additions were all constructed on one and the same plan, which preserves the original design, and therefore it presents a rare and admirable unity.

On the side of the Rhine, or rather on the Margreten, between the Trankgass and the Domhof, the choir of the basilica offers the most imposing effect. It is only from this side that the edifice seems to have an end. The end of the roof, edged in all its length by an open-worked ridge, is surmounted by an enormous cross, nine metres high, finished with a fleur-de-lis at each extremity. This cross, weighing 694 kil., was only placed there on August 3, 1825, but it was long in existence, having been, it is said, presented to the church by Marie de’ Medici. In the centre of the transept there rose a bell-tower, 65 metres high, which was demolished in 1812. The plan carries a superb _flèche_ of stone, open-worked like the spires of the façade, and about 100 metres high.

Fifteen flying-buttresses on each side proceed from the central window and sustain the choir, leaning against the buttresses and surmounted by elegant pyramids. Each of these pyramids carries twelve niches destined to hold angels two metres high, many of which have been restored lately by Wilhelm Imhoff. The upper part of the flying-buttresses, at the point where they meet the balustrade of the roof, is crowned by another and more simple pyramid. Finally, between these flying-buttresses in the upper part of the wall of the choir, magnificent mullioned windows are disclosed. The entire edifice is covered with gargoyles, each more bizarre than the other....

Entering the cathedral by the door at the foot of the northern tower, you find yourself in the double-lower northern nave. The first bays do not contain altars, but their windows reveal magnificent panes, of the beginning of the Sixteenth Century. The Archbishop Herman von Hesse, the Chapter, the City, and many noble families united to have them painted by the most distinguished artists of the period, which was the apogee of Art in Germany; and therefore here are many of the most admirable _chefs d’œuvre_ of glass-painting....

The Chapel of the Kings is almost entirely occupied by the building erected in 1688 and ornamented by Ionic pilasters of marble, and which, shut in by grilles and many locks, contains the marvellous reliquary in which are preserved the relics of the Three Magi. According to Buttler, these relics were found by Saint Helena, mother of Constantine, during her pilgrimage to the Holy Land; she carried them carefully to Constantinople. Soon afterwards the Archbishop Eustorge, to whom the Emperor had presented them, brought them to Milan, where they were deposited in the church subsequently consecrated to the same Eustorge, who was canonized. When Frederick Barbarossa invaded the town in 1163, Reinald von Dassile, Archbishop of Cologne, received them as a reward for the services which he had rendered to the Emperor during the siege. At the same time Reinald obtained several relics of the Maccabees, of the Saints Apollinaris, Felix, Nabor, Gregory di Spoletto, etc. He, himself, accompanied this treasure, which crossed Switzerland in triumph, descended the Rhine to Remagen, where he gave it to Philip of Heinsberg, then provost of the Chapter.

On July 23, 1164, the relics were deposited in the ancient cathedral, from which they were transferred to the new one; they were guarded there simply by an iron grille until the Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich constructed the building which encloses them to-day, upon whose pediment you see sculptured in marble, by Michael Van der Voorst of Antwerp, the Adoration of the Magi, Saint Felix, Saint Nabor, and two female figures guarding the arms of the Metropolitan Chapter, in the midst of which figure those of the Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich. On the frieze you read the inscription: “_Tribus ab oriente regibus devicto in agnitione veri numinis capitulum metropol erexit_.” Above the grilled window, which is opened during grand ceremonies to permit the people to see the reliquary, is written:

“_Corpora sanctorum recubant hic terna magorum;
Ex his sublatum nihil est alibive locatum._”

Finally, above the reliquary placed to the right and left between the columns one reads: “_Et apertis thesauris suis obtulerunt munera_.”

In 1794 the relics were carried to the treasury of Arnsberg, then to Prague, where the three crowns of diamonds were sold, and finally to Frankfort-on-the-Main. When they were brought back in 1804, the reliquary was repaired and put in its old place. This reliquary, a _chef d’œuvre_ of Twelfth Century _orfèvrerie_, is of gilded copper with the exception of the front, which is of pure gold; its form is that of a tomb; its length 1 m. 85, its breadth 1 m. at the base, its height 1 m. 50; on the side turned to the west you see represented the Adoration of the Magi and the baptism of Jesus Christ. Above the sculpture is a kind of lid which may be raised, permitting you to see the skulls of the Three Kings ornamented with golden crowns garnished with Bohemian stones,--a kind of garnet; in the pediment is the image of the Divine Judge sitting between two angels who hold the attributes of the Passion; the two busts above represent Gabriel and Raphael; and, finally, an enormous topaz occupies the summit of the pediment. The right side of the reliquary is ornamented with images of the prophets, Moses, Jonah, David, Daniel, Amos, and Obadiah. The apostles Paul, Philip, Simon, Thomas, and Judas Thaddeus are placed in six niches above. In the left side you see the prophets Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Nahum, Solomon, Joel, and Aaron, and the apostles Bartholomew, Matthew, John the Lesser, Andrew, Peter, and John the Great. The back of the monument presents the flagellation of Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, Saint John, the Saviour on the Cross, Saint Felix, Saint Nabor, the Archbishop Reinald and eight busts of angels. The monument is surmounted by an open-work ridge of copper lace. This magnificent reliquary is covered with more than 1,500 precious stones and antique cameos representing subjects which are not exactly Christian such as the apotheosis of an Emperor, two heads of Medusa, a head of Hercules, one of Alexander, etc. Behind the reliquary is a bas-relief in marble 1 m. 33 in height and 1 m. 40 in length, representing the solemn removal of the relics. The bas-reliefs of richly-gilt bronze, placed below the windows which occupy the back of the chapel, represent the Adoration of the Magi: these were the gift of Jacques de Croy, Duke of Cambrai in 1516. This window is ornamented with beautiful panes of the Thirteenth Century, representing various subjects of sacred history.

Jules Gaillhabaud, _Monuments anciens et modernes_ (Paris, 1865).

THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES.

AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE.

The first palace of Versailles was a hunting-lodge built by Louis XIII. at the angle of the present Rue de la Pompe and Avenue de Saint-Cloud. This he afterwards found too small, and built, in 1627, a moated castle, on the site of a windmill in which he had once taken shelter for the night. The buildings of this _château_ still exist, respected, as the home of his father, in all the alterations of Louis XIV., and they form the centre of the present place. In 1632 Louis XIII. became seigneur of Versailles by purchase from François de Gondi, Archbishop of Paris.

The immense works which Louis XIV. undertook here, and which were carried out by the architect Mansart, were begun in 1661, and in 1682 the residence of the Court was definitely fixed at Versailles, connected by new roads with the capital. Colbert made a last effort to keep the king at Paris, and to divert the immense sums which were being swallowed up in Versailles to the completion of the Louvre. The very dulness of the site of Versailles, leaving everything to be created, was an extra attraction in the eyes of Louis XIV. The great difficulty to be contended with in the creation of Versailles was the want of water, and this, after various other attempts had failed, it was hoped to overcome by a canal which was to bring the waters of the Eure to the royal residence. In 1681 22,000 soldiers and 6,000 horses were employed in this work, with such results of sickness that the troops encamped at Maintenon, where the chief part of the work was, became unfit for any service. On October 12, 1678, Mme. de Sévigné writes to Bussy-Rabutin:--

“The king wishes to go to Versailles; but it seems that God does
not, to judge from the difficulty of getting the buildings ready
for occupation and the dreadful mortality of the workmen who are
carried away every night in waggons filled with the dead. This
terrible occurrence is kept secret so as not to create alarm and
not to decry the air of this _favori sans mérite_. You know this
_bon mot_ of Versailles.”

Nine millions were expended in the Aqueduct of Maintenon, of which the ruins are still to be seen, then it was interrupted by the war of 1688, and the works were never continued. Instead, all the water of the pools and the snow falling on the plain between Rambouillet and Versailles was brought to the latter by a series of subterranean watercourses.

No difficulties, however--not even pestilence, or the ruin of the country by the enormous cost--were allowed to interfere with “_les plaisirs du roi_.” The palace rose, and its gigantic gardens were peopled with statues, its woods with villages.

Under Louis XV. Versailles was chiefly remarkable as being the scene of the extravagance of Mme. de Pompadour and the turpitude of Mme. du Barry. Mme. Campan has described for us the life, the very dull life, there of “Mesdames,” daughters of the king. Yet, till the great Revolution, since which it has been only a shadow of its former self, the town of Versailles drew all its life from the _château_.

Approaching from the town on entering the grille of the palace from the _Place d’Armes_ we find ourselves in the vast _Cour des Statues_--“_solennelle et morne_.” In the centre is an equestrian statue of Louis XIV. by Petitot and Cartellier. Many of the surrounding statues were brought from the _Pont de la Concorde_ at Paris. Two projecting wings shut in the _Cour Royale_, and separate it from the _Cour des Princes_ on the left, and the _Cour de la Chapelle_ on the right. Beyond the _Cour Royale_, deeply recessed amongst later buildings is the court called, from its pavement, the _Cour de Marbre_, surrounded by the little old red _château_ of Louis XIII.

The _Cour de Marbre_ was sometimes used as a theatre under Louis XIV., and the opera of _Alcestis_ was given there. It has a peculiar interest, for no stranger can look up at the balcony of the first floor without recalling Marie Antoinette presenting herself there, alone, to the fury of the people, October 6, 1789.

The palace of Versailles has never been inhabited by royalty since the chain of carriages drove into this court on October 6, to convey Louis XVI. and his family to Paris.

From the _Grande Cour_ the gardens may be reached by passages either from the _Cour des Princes_ on the left, or from the _Cour de la Chapelle_ on the right. This palace has had three chapels in turn. The first, built by Louis XIII., was close to the marble staircase. The second, built by Louis XIV., occupied the site of the existing _Salon d’Hercule_. The present chapel, built 1699–1710, is the last work of Mansart.

Here we may think of Bossuet, thundering before Louis XIV., “_les royaumes meurent, sire, comme les rois_,” and of the words of Massillon, “_Si Jésus-Christ paraissait dans ce temple, au milieu de cette assemblée, la plus auguste de l’univers, pour vous juger, pour faire le terrible discernement_,” etc. Here we may imagine Louis XIV. daily assisting at the Mass, and his courtiers, especially the ladies, attending also to flatter him, but gladly escaping, if they thought he would not be there....

All the furniture of Versailles was sold during the Revolution (in 1793), and, though a few pieces have been recovered, the palace is for the most part unfurnished, and little more than a vast picture-gallery. From the antechamber of the chapel open two galleries on the ground floor of the north wing. One is the _Galerie des Sculptures_; the other, divided by different rooms looking on the garden, is the _Galerie de l’Histoire de France_. The first six rooms of the latter formed the apartments of the Duc de Maine, the much indulged son of Louis XIV. and Mme. de Maintenon.

At the end of the gallery (but only to be entered now from the Rue des Réservoirs) is the _Salle de l’Opéra_. In spite of the passion of Louis XIV. for dramatic representations, no theatre was built in the palace during his reign. Some of the plays of Molière and Racine were acted in improvised theatres in the park; others, in the halls of the palace, without scenery or costumes; the _Athalie_ of Racine, before the King and Mme. de Maintenon, by the young ladies of Saint-Cyr. The present Opera House was begun by Jacques Ange-Gabriel under Louis XV. for Mme. de Pompadour and finished for Mme. du Barry.

The Opera House was inaugurated on the marriage of the Dauphin with Marie Antoinette, and nineteen years after was the scene of that banquet, the incidents of which were represented in a manner so fatal to the monarchy, given by the body-guard of the king to the officers of a regiment which had arrived from Flanders....

The garden front of the palace has not yet experienced the soothing power of age: it looks almost new; two hundred years hence it will be magnificent. The long lines of the building, with its two vast wings, are only broken by the top of the chapel rising above the wing on the left.

The rich masses of green formed by the clipped yews at the sides of the gardens have the happiest effect, and contrast vividly with the dark background of chestnuts, of which the lower part is trimmed, but the upper falls in masses of heavy shade, above the brilliant gardens with their population of statues. These grounds are the masterpiece of Lenôtre, and of geometrical gardening, decorated with vases, fountains, and orange-trees. Lovers of the natural may find great fault with these artificial gardens, but there is much that is grandiose and noble in them; and, as Voltaire says: “_Il est plus facile de critiquer Versailles que de le refaire._”

The gardens need the enlivenment of the figures, for which they were intended as a background, in the gay Courts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. as represented in the pictures of Watteau; but the Memoirs of the time enable us to repeople them with a thousand forms which have long been dust, centring around the great king, “_Se promenant dans ses jardins de Versailles, dans son fauteuil à roues._”

The sight of the magnificent terraces in front of the palace will recall the nocturnal promenades of the Court, so much misrepresented by the enemies of Marie Antoinette.

Very stately is the view down the main avenue--great fountains of many figures in the foreground; then the brilliant _Tapis Vert_, between masses of rich wood; then the _Bassin d’Apollon_, and the great canal extending to distant meadows and lines of natural poplars.

_Days near Paris_ (London, 1887)

THE CATHEDRAL OF LINCOLN.

THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN.

Welcome to Lincoln! Upwards of twenty summer suns have rolled their bright and genial courses since my first visit to this ancient city,--or rather, to this venerable Cathedral: for the former seems to be merged in the latter. There is no proportion between them. A population of only twelve thousand inhabitants and scarcely more than an ordinary sprinkling of low commonplace brick-houses, are but inharmonious accessories to an ecclesiastical edifice, built upon the summit of a steep and lofty hill--pointing upwards with its three beautiful and massive towers towards heaven, and stretching longways with its lofty nave, choir, ladye-chapel, side chapels, and double transepts. For _site_, there is no Cathedral to my knowledge which approaches it....

Upon a comparative estimation with the Cathedral of York, Lincoln may be called a volume of more extensive instruction; and the antiquary clings to its pages with a more varied delight. The surface or exterior of Lincoln Cathedral presents at least four perfect specimens of the succeeding styles of the first four orders of Gothic architecture. The greater part of the front may be as old as the time of its founder, Bishop Remigius,[5] at the end of the Eleventh Century: but even here may be traced invasions and intermixtures, up to the Fifteenth Century. The large indented windows are of this latter period, and exhibit a frightful heresy. The western towers carry you to the end of the Twelfth Century: then succeeds a wonderful extent of Early English, or the pointed arch. The transepts begin with the Thirteenth, and come down to the middle of the Fourteenth Century; and the interior, especially the choir and the side aisles, abounds with the most exquisitely varied specimens of that period. Fruits, flowers, vegetables, insects, _capriccios_ of every description, encircle the arches or shafts, and sparkle upon the capitals of pillars. Even down to the reign of Henry VIII. there are two private chapels, to the left of the smaller south porch, on entrance, which are perfect gems of art.

Where a building is so diversified, as well as vast, it is difficult to be methodical; but the reader ought to know, as soon as possible, that there are here not only two sets of transepts, as at York, but that the larger transept is the longest in England, being not less than two hundred and fifty feet in length. The window of the south transept is circular, and so large as to be twenty-two feet in diameter; bestudded with ancient stained glass, now become somewhat darkened by time, and standing in immediate need of cleaning and repairing. I remember, on my first visit to this Cathedral, threading the whole of the _clerestory_ on the south side, and coming immediately under this magnificent window, which astonished me from its size and decorations. Still, for simplicity as well as beauty of effect, the delicately ornamented lancet windows of the north transept of York Cathedral have clearly a decided preference. One wonders how these windows, both at York and at this place, escaped destruction from Cromwell’s soldiers.... The Galilee, to the left of the larger south transept, is a most genuine and delicious specimen of Early English architecture. In _this_ feature, York, upon comparison, is both petty and repulsive.

Wherever the eye strays or the imagination catches a point upon which it may revel in building up an ingenious hypothesis, the exterior of Lincoln Cathedral (some five hundred feet in length) is a never failing source of gratification....

Let us turn to the grand western front; and whatever be the adulterations of the component parts, let us admire its width and simplicity;--the rude carvings, or rather sculpture, commemorative of the life of the founder, St. Remigius: and although horrified by the indented windows, of the perpendicular style, let us pause again and again before we enter at the side-aisle door. All the three doors are too low; but see what a height and what a space this front occupies! It was standing on this spot, that Corio, my dear departed friend--some twenty years ago--assured me he remained almost from sunset to dawn of day, as the whole of the front was steeped in the soft silvery light of an autumnal full moon. He had seen nothing before so grand. He had felt nothing before so stirring. The planets and stars, as they rolled in their silent and glittering orbits, and in a subdued lustre, over the roof of the nave, gave peculiar zest to the grandeur of the whole scene: add to which, the awfully deepening sounds of Great Tom[6] made his very soul to vibrate! Here, as that bell struck the hour of two, seemed to sit the shrouded figures of Remigius, Bloet, and Geoffrey Plantagenet,[7] who, saluting each other in formal prostrations, quickly vanished at the sound “into thin air.” The cock crew; the sun rose; and with it all enchantment was at an end. Life has few purer, yet more delirious enjoyments, than this....

The reader may here, perhaps, expect something like the institution of a comparison between these two great rival Cathedrals of Lincoln and York; although he will have observed many points in common between them to have been previously settled. The preference to Lincoln is given chiefly from its minute and varied _detail_; while its _position_ impresses you at first sight, with such mingled awe and admiration, that you cannot divest yourself of this impression, on a more dispassionately critical survey of its component parts. The versed antiquary adheres to Lincoln, and would build his nest within one of the crocketted pinnacles of the western towers--that he might hence command a view of the great central tower; and, abroad of the straight Roman road running to Barton, and the glittering waters of the broad and distant Humber. But for one human being of this stamp, you would have one hundred collecting within and without the great rival at York. Its vastness, its space, its effulgence of light and breadth of effect: its imposing simplicity, by the comparative paucity of minute ornament--its lofty lantern, shining, as it were, at heaven’s gate, on the summit of the central tower: and, above all, the soul-awakening devotion kindled by a survey of its vast and matchless choir leave not a shadow of doubt behind, respecting the decided superiority of this latter edifice.

_A Bibliographical, Antiquarian, and Picturesque Tour in the
Northern Counties of England and in Scotland_ (London, 1838).

THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK.

AMELIA B. EDWARDS.

We now left the village behind, and rode out across a wide plain, barren and hillocky in some parts; overgrown in others with coarse halfeh grass; and dotted here and there with clumps of palms. The Nile lay low and out of sight, so that the valley seemed to stretch away uninterruptedly to the mountains on both sides. Now leaving to the left a Sheykh’s tomb, topped by a little cupola and shaded by a group of tamarisks; now following the bed of a dry watercourse; now skirting shapeless mounds that indicated the site of ruins unexplored, the road, uneven but direct, led straight to Karnak. At every rise in the ground we saw the huge propylons towering higher above the palms. Once, but for only a few moments, there came into sight a confused and wide-spread mass of ruins, as extensive, apparently, as the ruins of a large town. Then our way dipped into a sandy groove bordered by mud-walls and plantations of dwarf-palms. All at once this groove widened, became a stately avenue guarded by a double file of shattered sphinxes, and led towards a lofty pylon standing up alone against the sky.