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DATE. DAYS.

Diary and Chronology.

DIARY

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-sets 7m af. 7

even

23 Wed. St. George.
High Water,
27m af. 8 morn
55m af. 8 even

24 Thurs St. Mellitus, arch-
bishop of Can-
terbury died, A.
D. 624.

East. Tm. begins

25 Frid. St. Mark, the

Evangelist.

Sun ris 47m af. 4
-sets 13m af. 7

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April 19 St. Leo was bishop of Toul, and in the year A. D. 1048, was chosen Pope. In 1053 he led a German army against the Normans, who had invaded Italy, but was defeated, and conducted back to Rome by the victors, where he died the year following. He was the first pope that kept an army. Died at Missolonghi, T. 36, Lord Byron, one of the first poets of the age, after an illness of ten days. The Greeks in consequence ceased from celebrating their Easter festivities.

20 1641. Expired, Dr. John Davenant, bishop of Salisbury, T. 71. He was elected previous to his being made a bishop, master of Queen's College, Cambridge, where he was educated. In 1621, he was made bishop of the above See. He was a man of great learning, and a strong Calvinist. 1657. This day is the anniversary of the destruction of the Spanish fleet, effected by the gallant admiral Blake, after being resisted four hours by the Spaniards.

1814. The late king of France, Louis XVIIJ. made his public entry into London from Hartwell on this day.

21 St. Anastasius was termed the Sinaite, from being a monk of mount Sinai. He died A. D. 678. Some of his writings on Practical Divinity were published at Ingoldstadt, in 1606.

1142. Died, Peter Abelard, AT. 63, a learned doctor of the church. He was the celebrated lover of the no less celebrated Heloise, the niece of a canon named Fulbert, who engaged him to teach her philosophy. Instead of teaching abstruse learning, he taught her love. Their passion for each other was fatal to the peace of both. Pope has immortalized these lovers by the epistles which were published by him,

-22 St. Caius was a Sclavonian, and kinsman to the He succeeded Eutychian emperor Dioclesian.

in the papacy, A. D. 283. He suffered martyrdom in 296.

1509. Died of a consumption, at Richmond, the avaricious monarch, Henry VIII. ET. 51. During his reign gunpowder and artillery were added to the art of war.

23 St. George, the Greek martyr. This saint is the patron of England; and on this day takes place the annual celebration of the birth-day of his present Majesty (George IV.)

1616. Died on the anniversary of his birth day whereon he had completed his 52 year, the celebrated William Shakspeare, of immortal memory, the father of the English Drama. For an account of him see last number of the Olio.

On the same day with Shakspeare in Eng. land, died the eminent Spanish writer Cervantes, ET. 68; the author of the delightful and ever entertaining Don Quixote, which work was written by him whilst languishing in prison for debt.

24 1599. Born on this day, the protector, Oliver
Cromwell. The discontent that crept into his
army at last, is said to have occasioned the ill-
ness which terminated in his death. He was a
man of great courage and indefatigable industry,
but a most intolerable bigot and hypocrite.
25 This Evangelist wrote his gospel about the year
A. D. 43. He died in the eighth year of Nero,
and was buried at Alexandria.

1776. The birth-day of her Royal Highness, Mary,
Duchess of Gloucester.

1800. Expired, at East Dereham, in Norfolk, on this day, the amiable and excellent poet, William Cowper, T. 69. The popularity of his poetry speaks volumes in its praise.

211

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ILLUSTRATED ARTICLE.

THE SEXTON OF COLOGNE.

IN the year 1571, there lived at Cologne a rich burgomaster, whose wife Adelaide, then in the prime of her youth and beauty fell sick and died. They had lived very happily together, and, throughout her fatal illness, the doating husband scarcely quitted her bedside for an instant. During the latter period of her sickness, she did not suffer greatly; but the fainting fits grew more and more frequent, and of increasing duration, till at length they became incessant, and she finally sank

under them.

It is well known that Cologne is a city which, as far as respects religion, may compare itself with Rome; on which account it was called, even in the middle ages, Roma Germanica, and sometimes the Sacred City. It seemed as if, in after times, it wished to compensate by piety, the misfortune of having been the birth-place of the abominable Agrippina. For many years nothing else was seen but priests, students, and mendicant monks; while the bells were ringing and tolling VOL. I. R

from morning till night. Even now you may count in it as many churches and cloisters as the year has days.

The principal church is the cathedral of St. Peter-one of the handsomest buildings in all Germany, though still not so complete as it was probably intended by the architect. The choir alone is arched. The chief altar is a single block of black marble, brought along the Rhine to Cologne, from Namur upon the Maas. In the sacristy an ivory rod is shewn, said to have belonged to the apostle Peter; and in a chapel stands a gilded coffin, with the names of the holy Three Kings inscribed. Their skulls are visible through an opening-two being white, as belonging to Caspar and Baltesar-the third black, for Melchior. be understood that these remarkable relics rendered sacred by time, make a deep impression on the imagination of the Catholics; and that the three skulls, with their jewels and silver setting, are convincing proofs of genuineness, to religious feelings-though a glance at history is sufficient to shew their spuriousness. It was in this church that Adelaide was

It is easy to

16-SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1828.

buried with great splendour. In the spirit of that age, which had more feeling for the solid than real taste-more devotion and confidence than unbelieving fearshe was dressed as a bride in flowered silk, a motley garland upon her head, and her pale fingers covered with costly rings; in which state she was conveyed to the vault of a little chapel, directly under the choir, in a coffin with glass windows. Many of her forefathers were already resting here, all embalmed, and, with their mummy forms, offering a strange contrast to the silver and gold with which they were decorated, and teaching, in a peculiar fashion, the difference between the perishable and the imperishable. The custom of embalming was, in the present instance given up; the place was full; and, when Adelaide was buried, it was settled that no one else should be laid there for the future.

With heavy heart had Adolph followed his wife to her final resting-place. The turret-bells, of two hundred and twenty hundred weight, lifted up their deep voices, and spread the sounds of mourning through the wide city; while the

monks, carrying tapers and scattering incense, sang requiems from their huge vellum folios, which were spread upon the music-desks in the choir. But the service was now over; the dead lay alone with the dead; the immense clock, which is only wound up once a-year, and shews the course of the planets, as well as the hours of the day, was the only thing that had sound or motion in the whole cathedral. Its monotonous ticking seemed to mock the silent grave.

It was a stormy November evening, when Petier Bolt, the sexton of St. Peter's was returning home after this splendid funeral. The poor man who had been married four years, had one child, a daughter, which his wife brought him in the second year of their marriage, and was again expecting her confinement. It was therefore, with a heavy heart that he had left the church for his cottage, which lay damp and cold on the banks of a river, and which, at this dull season, looked more gloomy than ever. At the door he was met by the little Maria, who called out with great delight, You must not go up stairs, father; the stork

has been here, and brought Maria a little
brother!". a
piece of information more
expected than agreeable, and which was
soon after confirmed by the appearance
of his sister-in-law, with a healthy infant
in her arms. His wife, however, had
suffered much, and was in a state that re-
quired assistance far beyond his means to
supply. In this distress he bethought
himself of the Jew, Isaac, who had lately
advanced him a trifle on his old silver
watch; but now, unfortunately, he had
nothing more to pledge, and was forced
to ground all his hopes on the Jew's com-
passion—a very unsafe anchorage. With
doubtful steps he sought the house of the
miser, and told his tale amidst tears and
sighs; to all of which Isaac listened with
great patience—so much so, indeed, that
Bolt began to flatter himself with a fa-
vorable answer to his petition. But he
was disappointed: the Jew, having heard
him out, coolly replied, "that he could
lend no monies on a child-it was no
good pledge."

cathedral. On the way, all manner of strange fancies crossed him the earth seemed to shake beneath him-it was the tottering of his own limbs: a figure seemed to sign him back-it was the shade thrown from some column, that waved to and fro as the lamp-light flickered in the night wind. But still the thought of home drove him on; and even the badness of the weather carried this consolation with it-he was the more likely to find the streets clear, and escape detection.

The

He had now reached the cathedral. For a moment he paused on the steps, and then, taking heart, put the huge key into the lock. To his fancy, it had never opened with such readiness before. bolt shot back at the light touch of the key, and he stood alone in the church, trembling from head to foot. Still it was requisite to close the door behind him lest its being open should be seen by any one passing by, and give rise to suspicion, and, as he did so, the story came across is mind of the man who had visited a With bitter execrations on the usurer's church at midnight to shew his courage. hardheartedness, poor Bolt rushed from his For a sign that he had really been there, door; when, to aggravate his situation, he was to stick his knife into a coffin; the first snow of the season began to fall, but, in his hurry and trepidation, he and that so thick and fast, that, in a very struck it through the skirt of his coat short time, the house-tops presented a without being aware of it, and supposing single field of white. Immersed in his himself held back by some supernatural grief, he missed his way across the mar- agency, dropt down dead from terror. ket place, and, when he least expected such a thing, found himself in the front of the cathedral. The great clock chimed three quarters—it wanted then a quarter to twelve. Where was he to look for assistance at such an hour-or, indeed, at any hour? He had already applied to the rich prelates, and got from them all that their charity was likely to give. Suddenly, a thought struck him like lightning-he saw his little Maria crying for the food he could not give her his sick wife, lying in bed, with the infant on her exhausted bosom-and then Adelaide, in her splendid coffin, and her hand glittering with jewels that it could not grasp. Of what use are diamonds to her now?" said he to himself. "Is there any sin in robbing the dead to give to the living? I would not do such a thing for myself if I were starving-no, Heaven forbid ! But for my wife and child-ah! that's quite another matter."

Quieting his conscience, as well as he could, with this opiate, he hurried home to get the necessary implements; but, by the time he reached his own door, his resolution began to waver.. The sight, however, of his wife's distress, wrought him up again to the sticking-place; and having provided himself with a dark lantern, the church-keys, and a crow to break open the coffin, he set out for the

Full of these unpleasant recollections, he tottered up the nave; and, as the light successively flashed upon the sculptured marbles, it seemed to him as if the pale figures frowned ominously upon him. But desperation supplied the place of courage. He kept on his way to the choir-descended the steps-passed through the long narrow passage, with the dead heaped up on either side-opened Adelaide's chapel, and stood at once before her coffin. There she lay, stiff and pale

the wreath in her hair, and the jewels on her fingers, gleaming strangely in the dim lights of the lantern. He even fancied that he already smelt the pestilential breath of decay, though it was full early for corruption to have begun his work, A sickness seized him at the thought, and he leaned for support against one of the columns, with his eye fixed on the coffin; when-was it real, or was it illusion?—a change came over the face of the dead! He started back; and that change, so indescribable, had passed away in an instant, leaving a darker shadow on the features.

"If I had only time," he said to himself—" if I had only time, I would rather break open one of the other coffins, and leave the lady Adelaide in quiet. Age has destroyed all that is human in these mummies; they have lost that resem

blance to life, which makes the dead so terrible, and I should no more mind handling them than so many dry bones. It's all nonsense, though; one is as harmless as the other, and since the lady Adelaide's house is the easiest for my work, I must e'en set about it.

But the coffin did not offer the facilities he reckoned upon with so much certainty. The glass windows were secured inwardly with iron wire, leaving no space for the admission of the hand, so that he found himself obliged to break the lid to pieces, a task that, with his imperfect implements, cost both time and labour. As the wood splintered and cracked under the heavy blows of the iron, the cold perspiration poured in streams down his face, the sound assuring him more than all the rest that he was committing sacrilege. Before, it was only the place, with its dark associations, that had terrified him; now he began to be afraid of himself, and would, without doubt, have given up the business altogether, if the lid had not suddenly flown to pieces. Alarmed at his very success, he started round, as if expecting to see some one behind, watching his sacrilege, and ready to clutch him; and so strong had been the illusion, that, when he found this was not the case, he fell upon his knees before the coffin, exclaiming, "Forgive me, dear lady, if I take from you what is of no use to yourself, while a single diamond will make a poor family so happy. It is not for myself-Oh no! -it is for my wife and children."

He thought the dead looked more kindly at him as he spake thus, and certainly the livid shadow had passed away from her face. Without more delay, he raised the cold hand to draw the rings from its finger but what was his horror when the dead returned his grasp !*-his hand was clutched, aye, firmly clutched, though that rigid face and form lay there as fixed and motionless as ever. With a cry of

horror he burst away, not retaining so much presence of mind as to think of the light which he left burning by the coffin. This, however, was of little consequence; fear can find its way in the dark, and he rushed through the vaulted passage, up the steps, through the choir, and would have found his way out, had he not, in his reckless hurry, forgotten the stone, called the Devil's Stone, which lies in the middle of the church, and which, according to the legend, was cast there by the Devil. Thus much is certain,-it has fallen from the arch, and they still show a hole above, through which it is said to have been hurled.

See Illustration, page 241.

Against this stone the unlucky sexton stumbled, just as the turret-clock struck twelve, and immediately he fell to the earth in a death-like swoon. The cold, however, soon brought him to himself, and on recovering his senses he again fled, winged by terror, and fully convinced that he had no hope of escaping the vengeance of the dead, except by the confession of his crime, and gaining the forgiveness of her family. With this view he hurried across the market-place, to the Burgomaster's house where he had to knock long before he could attract any notice. The whole household lay in a profound sleep, with the exception of the unhappy Adolph, who was now sitting alone on the same sofa where he had so often sat with his Adelaide. Her picture hung on the wall opposite to him, though it might rather be said to feed his grief than to afford him any consolation. And yet, as most would do under such circumstances, he dwelt upon it the more intently even from the pain it gave him, and it was not 'till the sexton had knocked repeatedly that he awoke from his melancholy dreams. Roused at last, he opened the window, and enquired who it was that disturbed him at such an unseasonable hour?" It is only I, Mr. Burgomaster," was the answer."And who are you?" again asked Adolph.-" Bolt, the sexton of St. Peter's, Mr. Burgomaster; I have a thing of the utmost importance to discover to you."-Naturally associating the idea of Adelaide with the sexton of the church where she was buried, Adolph was immediately anxious to know something more of the matter, and, taking up a wax-light, he hastened down stairs, and himself opened the door to Bolt.

"What have you to say to me?” he exclaimed." Not here, Mr. Burgomaster," replied the anxious sexton;— "not here; we may be overheard."

Adolph, though wondering at this affectation of mystery, motioned him in, and closed the door; when Bolt, throwing himself at his feet, confessed all that had happened. The anger of Adolph was mixed with compassion as he listened to the strange recital; nor could he refuse to Bolt the absolution which the poor fellow deemed so essential to his future security from the vengeance of the dead. At the same time, he cautioned him to maintain a profound silence on the subject towards every one else, as otherwise the sacrilege might be attended with serious consequences-it not being likely that the ecclesiastics, to whom the judgment of such matters belonged, would view his fault with equal indulgence. He even resolved to go himself to the church with Bolt, that he might investigate the

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