On the site of the Cathedral there was
formerly an older church, built in the style of
that at Worms. This old church, an
imposing structure, was destroyed by fire, and
the first stone of the present Cathedral was
laid on the fourteenth day of August, one
thousand two hundred and forty-eight. The
ceremony was almost a subterranean scene,
the foundations having been dug to fifty feet
below the present level of the ground. After
seventy years, only the high choir was finished.
Henry of Birnenburg, then Archbishop of
Cologne, consecrated it. After that time
progress became even less rapid, the most
energetic work being expended on the south-
west tower. Gradually the workmen dropped
away from the great work, till, in the
beginning of the sixteenth century, the toil
began again. Soon, however, the little burst
of short-lived energy had lapsed into a long
age of listlessness. In the year one thousand
eight hundred and twenty-four the exertions of
Boisserée restored that active interest in the
Cathedral which has, since that date, been
continued, and is now alive. The original plan
of the second tower, which had been lost, was
found, by good fortune, in the loft of a tavern,
at Darmstadt; and so it was supposed, that
by the year 1860, at least the body of the
church might be complete.

But to come back to the story of the cash. In
the most ancient time the Building Fund
consisted partly in funded stock, partly in the
interest of unappropriated moneys belonging to a
prebend, and partly in donations from the pious.
This last item was not trifling. Scarcely credible
are the amounts of money raised within no
wider circle than the walls of Cologne itself,
from bequests of rents, houses, or personal
estate, to the great shrine. Out of Cologne,
in Bonn, Neuss, Düsseldorf, and even Dortmund,
testamentary dispositions are found to
have been made in the earliest time of its
existence, in favour of the new Cathedral at
Cologne. Money gifts soon flowed in so
freely, that a society was formed for the
collection of bequests, and the administration
of Cathedral property. This society,
commenced in one thousand four hundred and
eighty-eight, called the Fraternity of Saint
Peter, consisted of (1) collectors, who took
contributions on behalf of the building during
service; (2) inspectors of alms-boxes at
Saint Hubert's altar in the Pesch Kirche;
(3) assistants to these; (4) stationary
collectors, fixed in whatever towns outside
Cologne would yield a harvest to the German
shrine; and, lastly, (5) travelling
collectors. The travelling collectors paid their
receipts in to the collectors stationed in the
town. These last remitted their amounts to
a distinct class of officials, (6) the overseers of
the building in Cologne, who duly supplied
funds to (7) the architect, the master of the
works.

That is the story of the money. It is now
supposed that the body of the Cathedral can
be finished at a further cost of two million
thalers, and the towers for three million;—
that is to say, in all for seven hundred and fifty
thousand pounds. Already the two ends of
the transept have been almost completed, and
the foundation of the second tower—to be built
according to the plan found at Darmstadt—
has been laid. Whether any child now in our
arms, who, under improved sanitary discipline,
shall live to a hundred years, will live to see
the great ideas of Cologne Cathedral and of
German Unity completely realised, we do not
undertake to guess. But we feel half
disposed to fear that those two grandeurs will
be things of hope, even in one thousand nine
hundred and fifty-two.

THE LEGEND OF THE MIRACULOUS
ROSE-TREES.

OLD travellers say, that, in an Eastern land,
And in a field, with mountains nigh at hand,
Are found two marvellous Rose-trees; and they write
That one bears flowers red, the other white—
Red as the fire, and white as snow on wold.
These trees are preternaturally old,
Yet keep their freshness; and from day to day
Wax greener, and more odorous and gay,
As though an angel fed them with his youth:
And the near people tell, for very truth,
An ancient tale, sent down from tongue to tongue,
Of how these trees miraculously sprung;
Which I will here, as best I may, rehearse
In added rhyme, and weav'd into a verse.

  There was a maiden, in a time gone by,
Who lived secluded from all company;
For the world's battle fill'd her with more dread
Than silence—and her parents both were dead.
And so she dwelt apart, without a friend,
In a still mansion by the city's end,
That look'd upon a garden's shadowy trees.
A voice of murmuring leaves and moaning seas
Haunted for ever that removèd house,
Like an enchantment, rich and marvellous;
And, under clustering boughs, this maiden clear
Walk'd up and down without a thought of fear,
Though by her side was human creature none.
Yet certainly she was not quite alone:
For, in the hush of that deserted place,
She often met with angels face to face,
And felt the wind that blows from out their bowers
Breathe in her hair; and sometimes, when the hours
Were stillest, and the westering sun was low,
The visages of ancient Gods would grow
Out of the pale, blank air, before her eyes,
Heavily calm with pilèd mysteries.

  But who can reckon on a placid life,
Because of guilelessness? The tyrant's knife
Pierces the naked breast before the arm'd.
This gentle maiden, who had never harm'd
A living creature, and whose soul was white
And uncorrupt as elemental light,
Was, by the priests, accused of secret crimes.
And of neglecting to observe the times
Of adoration in their temples, where
They worshipp'd a fierce God with studious prayer.
They said she was a devil with bright looks,
And that she read not in their Sacred Books;