In the year 1571 a very wealthy burgomaster of Cologne had the misfortune, after two years of perfect domestic happiness, to lose his wife, Reichmuth. As all the world knows, the principal church in Cologne is St. Peters', the cathedral; and it is indeed the finest and most magnificent structure in Germany, whatever some architects may say of its want of finish. In a little chapel, built in one of the vaults under the choir, was placed the coffin of Reichmuth. Those were days when the taste for splendour and pomp was extended beyond the grave, so that the poor deceased was clothed as a bride in richly embroidered silk, and adorned with fresh wreaths of flowers; even her cold and stiff fingers were loaded with costly and sparkling rings. There then lay the beauteous Reichmuth, the gorgeousness of whose apparel could be seen through the glazed panels of her coffin, and there she was surrounded by the tombs of her ancestry.

The noble Adocht, her husband, had, with heavy heart, accompanied the sad procession to the church, and with sorrow were the deep tones of the bells ringing a mournful peal heard through the ancient city. The pious fathers had now performed with their greatest ceremony the solemn service for the dead; the chaunt was over, the vellum books on the massy desks were closed, the harmonious voices and deep-toned instruments silent, the mourning assistants, who had with sad feelings sprinkled the coffin with holy water, gone; and cold in death, yet resplendent in attire, lay Reichmuth alone in her chapel. Nought now moved within the mighty pile save the monstrous clock; and awful was it, to hear its regular tic-tac resound amidst the still graves and the antique effigies of the saints!

It was a wretched evening in November, on which poor Peter Bolt, the grave-digger of the cathedral, returned from the magnificent funeral of Reichmuth. At home he found that he had another child, and such was his poverty that he had hitherto but miserably supported his wife and daughter. His wife was very ill, and his daughter too young to be of much use. Often in his time of need had he applied to the Jew, Isaac, who, on receiving pledges, helped him with a small sum. Now Peter had nothing more to pledge, but he trusted much to Isaac's compassion; but that was a daring trust indeed. Timidly he knocked at the usurer's door. Isaac

heard his tale of suffering, broken as it was by tears and sighs, and told him jocosely in answer that he could not lend money on a new-born child, and that tears and sighs were not any security on which a reasonable man could depend. So the unlucky Bolt had to go back towards his miserable home again. The wealthy prelates of the cathedral he had already appealed to, but they had dismissed him with trifling alms; so to them he could go no more.

It was a dark night; the half-thawed snow fell moistly on the pavement before the cathedral, and poor Peter could not find his way across the market-place, often as he had traversed it, so hazy was the weather, and so absorbed was he in reflecting on his misery. He stood on the steps leading to the portal of the cathedral, waiting for a clearing of the weather, and musing on his misfortunes. The clock had just struck a quarter to twelve, when a sudden thought flashed like lightning through Bolt's head. The poor man beheld, as in a dream, his wretched home, his unconscious little Mary playing with her doll, his sick wife and their new-born infant without the commonest necessaries of life; then passed before him the chapel in the vault, and the gorgeous trappings of the coffin he had seen placed there in the day, and the garlands, silks, and jewels of Reichmuth. "What," mentally exclaimed he, "what can she want with them? What a splendid pledge for old Isaac would one of her rings be! Is it a sin to take from the dead to give to the living?"

With these thoughts he hastened towards his home, doubtingly revolving them over and over again in his mind; but the forced smile of misery with which his wife received him soon made him come to a resolution. He at once took his bunch of keys, his dark lantern, and turned back to the church.

It seemed as if the ground shook beneath his feet, and he quivered with fear; but a thought of what was passing at his home drove him on. He trusted much to the dark and wretched weather, and the emptiness of the streets, and conceived himself safe from detection. He stood still for a moment on the steps undecided; but soon again taking heart, he put the keys in the old locks, turned them one after another as he was wont, and in a minute stood in the church, when he locked and barred the doors through which he had entered. His heart beat violently as he traversed the spacious aisles, and his

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hands shook so much that he was afraid every moment his light would fall or go out. He fancied that the polished oak Cherubim on the screen would hold him back by his coat with their wings. "You need not be so frightened," said he to himself, in order to rouse up his courage. "It is altogether fancy that troubles and alarms you. Hundreds of times have you been here by night, and nothing ever hurt you.' Alas! for Peter, his courage still was dormant.

Every time he passed an altar, with its lights and its holy images, it seemed to him that the effigies of the saints looked with threatening mien upon him; and especially was he alarmed at one painting, which represented the martyrdom of Saint Peter. When Peter beheld the saint on the cross, with his head downwards and | his silvery locks sweeping the earth, he fancied the mighty clock ticked more than usually loud, and he started back in affright from the altar. But he bethought himself of the great sin of Peter, and his mind reverted to the misery in his home, and he became bolder again. He passed the high altar, opened the choir, descended the stairs, passed though the long and narrow subterranean-gallery, between rows of coffins, at length reached Reichmuth's chapel, and beheld her reposing in her gorgeous apparel and decked with her dazzling ornaments; for the brilliants in her hair and the rings on her fingers sparkled even in the glimmering light of his lamp. He felt the cold damp of the vault, and his heart again misgave him; he tried to open the cover, but in awe desisted, for he fancied that Reichmuth frowned at him. "Had I time," thought he, "I would break open some other than this, and choose one where no trace of humanity was left." But anxiety not to remain long on the spot gave him a little courage. Reichmuth's coffin was the easiest, he supposed, to open; so he tried it with a crowbar, but without success, so strongly were the glass panes protected by iron wire: at length he managed but not without fear and a cold, clammy feelingto break in the wooden panels. The crashing sound of the wood as it yielded made him feel more poignantly than all the rest he had done that he was in truth a sacrilegious robber. If before he had been alarmed by what was around him, he now in earnest feared what might happen to himself; indeed he would have given up his labours in the middle, had not the spring lock, which he was pressing with a quill, suddenly opened. Quickly he looked around, to discover if any one watched him; and seeing no one about, he fell on his knees, clasped his hands, and thus addressed the lifeless Reichmuth :Holy deceased, forgive me! Thou needest not this splendour, or one single jewel which now decks thee, and even one would make a wretched living family happy." Reichmuth he fancied looked again more placid at these words, and he took her cold stiff hand, to slip one ring from off her finger. Who can portray his horror when he felt the clammy finger of the dead close upon his, and her hand grasp his own! Uttering a piercing cry, he dragged his

hand away from that of Reichmuth, and, forgetting tools and lantern in his fright, he darted from the vault; terror gave him strength to fly, but not sense to find his way in the dark. Like a hare pursued by hounds, he dashed along the gallery, up the stairs, into the choir, and perhaps would have got out; but he ran against that great stone the people call the Teufelstein, and believe the Evil One himself cast through the arches, into the middle of the church. Against this then did the unlucky Peter run, just as the solemn hour of midnight pealed from the cathedral tower, and fell, like a dead man, on the ground. When he recovered he was still alone; but fear gave him wings, he rushed to the portal, opened it, passed out, crossed the market, and went straight to the burgomaster Adocht's house. The thought of his sin harassed him, and he felt that nothing but an open confession of it could save him, so he knocked loudly at Adocht's door.

All but one slept in Adocht's house; the wretched burgomaster himself was wakeful, reclining on the sofa where by his side had his beloved Reichmuth so often sat, resting his weary head on his hand, and gazing, with a sad expression of despair, on the portrait of his adored wife.

The violent knocks at the door aroused him, and he threw open the window to demand the meaning of the noise.

"Ah, noble master," cried Bolt, in answer to Adocht's inquiry, "it is I."

"What I?" asked the burgo master.

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I, Peter Bolt, grave-digger of Saint Peter's. I have something of the utmost importance to reveal to you, noble Burgomaster."

The varied thoughts of the funeral, Reichmuth, the vault where she now lay cold and lifeless, the grave-digger- all flashed across Adocht's mind, and he determined to hear what Peter had to reveal. So, taking his light, he descended and admitted him; and Now," said he, "what have you to tell me?"

Peter threw himself at the burgomaster's feet, and confessed all that he had done; to which Adocht listened with surprise and consternation. His rage was mingled with pity; he ordered Bolt never to mention the matter to any, under the pain of being most severely punished; and in his own mind he determined at once to visit, himself, with the grave-digger, the vault where Reichmuth was buried; but Peter positively refused to enter it a second time.

You will sooner," said Bolt, "get me to the gallows than induce me again to disturb the peace of the dead.”

Adocht was most anxious to go-there was a glimmering ray of hope in his heart; yet he deeply felt for Bolt's condition, for the gravedigger trembled and sobbed, and told of his wife's state, and his new-born infant, and his wretched poverty, and he looked as pale as if he himself were an inhabitant of a church-yard. The burgomaster relieved his pressing need, told him to go home, and cautioned him again to keep silence on the events of that night.

release me from this tomb!" After this prayer she directed her feeble steps to the door, and used all her strength in endeavouring to throw back the massy and rusty bolt. How great was her joy when she found that the door yielded to her efforts, and opened! She rushed, in a hurried pace, along, and soon got to the High Altar; but her weakness was so great, that she feared lest she should faint again, when, luckily, she bethought herself that there was generally wine left at the back of the altar for the use of the priests at mass, and with a great effort she reached the spot, found a flask, and drank a little, which gave her more strength. None could with more faith and devotion than she approach the holy sacrament in her hour of dire necessity, and life, indeed, did the wine restore to her. At that moment she beheld and heard her husband, and in an instant was clasped and warmed in his arms!

Adocht had his beloved wife taken home with so much precaution, that he effectually concealed the mode of her recovery. No words can tell how great was his joy when, on the next day, he found his Reichmuth restored to him in almost perfect health. The poor and wretched Bolt was not forgotten, but forgiven; for it was impossible not to feel moved by the misery which had driven him to the commission of that fault whereby Reichmuth was restored to her fond Adocht. Bolt judged himself with more severity than did the burgomaster, and he gave up his employment; for never again, deeming himself unworthy, would he be a servant of the holy church, and no power could induce him to remain in the cathedral after dusk.

Reichmuth took compassion on his wife, as Adocht did on him; they stood sponsors to the new-born infant, and holy indeed were their feelings when, of a clear sunlight morning, four days after her restoration to life, Reichmuth held in her arms over the font the little babe. The organ pealed, the chairs adorned with green bows, were resplendent with gold and silver, and the pews were filled with rejoicing citizens. The noble and now happy pair thanked God in heartfelt and resolved never to abandon the prayers, child whose miserable birth had been the cause of their present happiness. Thus did a mournful funeral end in a joyful baptism. The wealthy burgomaster spared not his old Rhenish on that day; casks and casks were rolled on to the market-place, started, and the wine quaffed by all comers to the long life, health, and happiness of Adocht and Reichmuth.

NEW-YEAR'S DAY.

First Faith there spoke, saying, “Lay hold
On me at this eventful hour:
For what are all of mortal mould,

Without that I abide, with power
To bid them, seeing, look on things unseen—
Believe great Future is, and Past hath been?
"But not for things of Immortality

Alone shouldst thou take me as shield

Against the wicked's fiery darts, which fly
To shaken trust in beauteous, earthly things,
Around; but also, ne'er despairing, yield
And bless the New Year, unseen what it brings."

aid

And then spoke Hope:-"Though by my sister's
The trusting soul may truly grasp
'The evidence of things hoped for,' portrayed
By her, the outline ye but clasp ;
Without me it were poor; with gilded hue
I paint the substance of the Heaven's view.

"And like her, too, as ye see how

And of it seems a part, even so

The Heavens embrace the Earth,

Each of these kingdoms owns our birth.
What in this vale would ye do else than grieve,
Unless in me ye put your trust, and live?"

Then she, the last-named, yet the greatest there,
Enduring, everlasting Charity-

She whom her fountain's attributes may share,

Thron'd in high heaven, constraining us to be Her temples in this world," without which found, Are but as brass, or as a cymbal's sound."

Her words were words of love: she cried,

"Now ye but darkly see as with a glass; But ere this year is past, events may glide With its quick stream, which bring to pass That seeing face to face that future day, When that which is in part is done away.

wave

chime,

Death-words of the departed year; And the night-breeze a funeral hymn Chanted low, mournfully, and clear;

When lo! before me stood the sisters three

The church's handmaids-Faith, Hope, Charity.

Man knoweth not. In doubt, and hope, and fear,
He travels with that bark adown the tide ;
And safely though he may this voyage glide
In harbour with her, there will come a year

A warning voice within him plainly saith,
When wreck'd he must be on the shores of Death.