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. 10, 1863.] children’s knees to pray by the monument erected to his wife—now, a lover hanging a garland above the lost beloved—now, an aged mother, prostrate and weeping for her son. On one side may be heard the prayer—in some lone corner the stifled sob; and, above all these sounds breaks, now and then, a burst of laughter. For is not this the Festival of Death? The “Cemetery of Munich” is the fashionable promenade of the day. The vanity, that comes to see and be seen, jostles the shrinking sorrow. The tear of regret meets the stare of intrusive curiosity; and the heavy heart is wrung by the smile of thoughtless daily congratulation. It is not on its high festival that the cemetery city wears its most favourable, although its most striking and stirring, aspect. There is one scene, however, connected with the day, which has a festive, and, at the same time, imposing colouring. Around one monument, reared high in sculptured marble above all others, the greatest crowd is collected. The monument is decorated from summit to foot with innumerable banners, garlands, and laurel boughs. Bearded sentinels guard it on every side. It is the monument of the Bavarian patriotic host that fell at Sendling. Most of the surrounding crowd press near to fling a chaplet, or a flower. But those who would see the great “Cemetery at Munich,” should visit it under its ordinary aspect, to feel the true impression it cannot but convey to the observing traveller.

none of the many buildings which the Emperor Charlemagne erected, did he bestow greater care than on the minster of Aix-la-Chapelle, and none did he carry on with more zeal and love. He brought thither marbles and pillars from Rome and Ravenna, and huge blocks of cut stone from Verdun; while from the quarries of the surrounding country, from the site of the present Cornelimünster, and from Breinig, from Mastricht, and from Valkenburg, day and night, materials were conveyed for this edifice.

To Eginhard, his true friend and secretary, Charlemagne entrusted the direction of the building, for which Ausigis, abbot of Fontanelle, in Normandy, drew out a plan.

The Emperor frequently appeared amonstamongst [sic] the masons, and roused them to greater diligence and activity. The best workmen of every country were invited to Aix-la-Chapelle, while many artists from Italy and England were associated in their labours. Thus the building advanced rapidly.

But ere half the Minster was completed, the war with the Saxons called Charlemagne to a great distance.

Before his departure he spoke to all the workmen, urging them to lose no time. And, speaking particularly to the town council, he ordered them to have the building completed by his return. He foresaw that the Saxon war would not soon be ended. And, in fact, it lasted so long that the Emperor’s treasury was drained, and the wealth of the municipality well-nigh exhausted. The coffers being empty, the building was at a standstill, and there was no likelihood of finding means to finish it. The town-councillors were in woeful plight; all the skilful workmen were quitting the city, and their worships had promised the Emperor that the Minster should be finished against his return. They knew, too well, this redoubtable liege lord of theirs was not a man to be trifled with, and on their offending heads would fall his dread displeasure, when he should see the half-raised walls of his church abandoned to decay and overgrown with grass. In their perplexity they held meeting after meeting, listened to the wisdom of this and that oracle, but all to no purpose; no one had wit enough to find a way to complete the building without money. Dire necessity stared them in the face, until at last one, bolder than the rest, spoke out, saying, “Money they must, should, and would have, though they had to borrow it from the Devil himself.”

It is still a disputed point whether Satan had slipped into the meeting and prompted the speaker, or whether he merely overheard the speech. Be that as it may, it certainly came to his ears, as will be sthown by the sequel.

One evening the councillors were discussing the never-ending theme of the building of the Minster, the spent money, and the terrible anger of their Sovereign, when a stately lord, in gorgeous attire, entered the council chamber. He greeted their worships with easy dignity, saying, “Masters mine, the whole city is in trouble, and, even did I not know it before, I could read in your rueful countenances that ye lack gold. Each day, owing to the duration of the war, it grows scarcer and rarer, and were you to resort to the usurer, you would have great difficulty in raising a good round sum. I alone can help you, and get you stores of gold to finish the building.”

All the long faces brightened as his hearers drank in these words of comfort. The head of the council then inquired the terms, and the interest on the loan.

“The interest,” replied the Unknown, “is not worth mentioning, and on one condition I shall give you the sum for good, namely, that the first soul which enters the Minster be mine.”

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when their worships sprang from their seats and ran to seek shelter under the table; for, to their horror, in their courtly visitor they recognised the Devil.

“Worshipful councillors,” quoth he, composedly, “truly I deemed ye not so faint of heart; you desired some money from me, and now that I good-naturedly offer it ye, you hide like a pack of boys. Fie, fie! Are ye councillors? are ye bearded men that ye are scared by the Devil’s courtesy? He will not go back of my bargain, and for a like sum, which He counts as naught, I could buy half-a-dozen souls. For gold hath ever been, is still, and will be to the end of time, the bait with which we angle for souls. Besides, He is no stingy reckoner. How many souls will be freed from His clutches by means of this very church which he will give ye the means of building, in return for one poor soul. You