The Olio, Or, Museum of Entertainment

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 fear she 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 required 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 nis hopes on the Jew's compassion—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 favorable 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.

With bitter execrations on the usurer's nardheartedness, poor Bolt rushed from his door; when, to aggravate his situation, the first snow of the season began to fall, and that so thick and fast, that, in a very short time, the house-tops presented a single field of white. Immersed in his grief, he missed his way across the market 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 herhis 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

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.

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. The 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 church at midnight to shew his courage. For a sign that he had really been there, he was to stick his knife into a coffin ; but, in his hurry and trepidation, he struck it through the skirt of his coat without being aware of it, and supposing himself held back by some supernatural agency, dropt down dead from terror.

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

affair more thoroughly. But to this proposition the sexton gave a prompt and positive denial." I would rather," he exclaimed, I would rather be dragged to the scaffold than again disturb the repose of the dead.” This declaration, so ill-timed, confounded Adolph. On the one hand, he felt an undefined curiosity to look more narrowly into this mysterious business; on the other, he could not help feeling compassion for the sexton who, it was evident, was labouring under the influence of a delusion which he was utterly unable to subdue. The poor fellow trembled all over, as if shaken by an ague fit, and painted the situation of his wife and his pressing poverty with such a pale face and such despair in his eyes, that he might himself have passed for a church-yard spectre. The Burgomaster again admonished him to be silent for fear of the consequences, and, giving him a couple of dollars to relieve his immediate wants, sent him home to his wife and family.

Being thus deprived of his most natural ally on this occasion, Adolph summoned an old and confidential servant, of whose secresy he could have no doubt. To his question of "Do you fear the dead?" -Hans stoutly replied. They are not half so dangerous as the living. "Indeed!" said the Burgomaster. you then think that you have courage enough to go into the church at night?" -"In the way of my duty, yes," replied Hans; not otherwise. It is not right to trifle with holy matters."

"Du

"Do you believe in ghosts, Hans?" continued Adoph." Yes, Mr. Burgo

master."

"Do you fear them ;"—" No, Mr. Burgomaster. I hold by God, and he holds up me; and God is the strongest." "Will you go with me to the cathedral, Hans. I have had a strange dream to-night; it seemed to me as if my deceased wife called to me from the steeplewindow." -" I see how it is," answered Hans "the sexton has been with you, and put this whim into your head, Mr. Burgomaster. These grave-diggers are always seeing ghosts.'

Put a light into your lantern," said Adolph, avoiding a direct reply to this observation of the old man. "Be silent, and follow me.' "" "If you bid me,' said Hans, "I must of course obey; for you are my magistrate as well as my master."

Herewith he lit the candle in the lantern, and followed his master without farther opposition.

Adolph hurried into the church with hasty steps; but the old man, who went

before him to shew the way, delayed him with his reflections-so that their progress was but slow. Even at the threshold he stopt, and flung the light of his lantern upon the gilded rods over the door, which it is the custom to add a fresh one every year, that people may know how long the reigning elector has lived.

That is an excellent custom," said Hans; "one has only to count those staves, and one learns immediately how long the gracious elector has governed us simple men.'

Excellent," replied Adolph: " but

go on."

Hans, however, had too long been indulged in his odd, wayward habits, to quicken his pace at this admonition. Not a monument would he pass without first stopping to examine it by the lanternlight, and requesting the Burgomaster to explain its inscription. In short, he behaved like a traveller, who was taking the opportunity of seing the curiosities of the cathedral, although he had spent his three-and-sixty years in Cologne, and, during that period, had been in the habit of frequenting it almost daily.

Adolph, who well knew that no representations, would avail him, submitted patiently to the humours of his old servant contenting himself with answering his questions as briefly as possible; and in this way they at last got to the high altar. Here Hans made a sudden stop, and was not to be brought any farther.

"Quick!" exclaimed the Burgomaster who was beginning to lose his patience; for his heart throbbed with expectation.

"Heaven and all good angels defend us!" murmured Hans through his chattering teeth, while he in vain felt for his rosary, which yet hung as usual at his girdle.

"What is the matter now?" cried Adolph.

"Do you see who sits there?" replied

Hans.

"Where?" exclaimed his master:-"I see nothing; hold up the lantern."

"Heaven shield us!" cried the old man: "there sits our deceased lady, on the altar, in a long white veil, and drinks out of the sacramental cup!"

With a trembling hand, he held up the lantern in the direction to which he pointed. It was, indeed, as he had said. There she sat, with the paleness of death upon her face-her white garments waving heavily in the night wind, that rushed through the aisles of the church-and holding the silver goblet to her lips with long, bony arms, wasted by protracted illness. Even Adolph's courage began to waver.-" Adelaide," he cried, "I con

jure you in the name of the blessed Trinity, answer me is it thy living self, or but thy shadow ?".

"Ah!" replied a faint voice, “ you buried me alive, and, but for this wine, I had perished from exhaustion. Come up to me, dear Adolph; I am no shadowbut I soon shall be with shadows, unless I receive your speedy succour."

"Go not near her!" said Hans; "it is the Evil One, that has assumed the blessed shape of my lady to destroy you.'

"Away, old man!" exclaimed Adolph, bursting from the feeble grasp of his servant, and rushing up the steps of the

altar.

It was, indeed, Adelaide that he held in his eager embrace the warm and living Adelaide !-who had been buried for dead in her long trance, and had only escaped from the grave by the sacrilegious daring of- -THE SEXTON OF COLOGNE.-Monthly Mag.

Becollections of Books and their Authors.-No. 2.

LA FONTAINE THE SIMPLE.
Concluded from Page 229.

He lived in an extreme indifference to religion, as well as to other matters, but having fallen ill, he was recommended to read the New Testament, and he set about it. Charmed with the book, he said to Father Poujet of the Oratoire, who was his spiritual director, "I assure you the New Testament is a very good book; yes, in truth, it is a very good book; but there is one article to which I am not altogether reconciled; it is that of the eternity of punishment: I do not compre hend how this can be consistent with the goodness of God."

Some time before this one of his friends, who had his conversion at heart, had lent him St. Paul's epistles. He read them with avidity, but shocked at the apparent harshness of the writings of the resolute Apostle, he shut the book, and sent it back to his friend, with this message: "I send you back your book. This same St. Paul is not my man.'

One of his confessors, seeing him taken dangerously ill, exhorted him very earnestly to think of religion and his soul with more attention than he had hitherto done. Fontaine said that he had never been either an infidel or a libertine. He then pressed him to make amends for the scandal of his writings, by giving alms.

"I cannot," said the poet," I have no. thing; but they are making a new edition of my works, and the bookseller is to make me a present of a hundred copies— I give them to you-you will cause them to be sold for the good of the poor." Don Jerome, who told this story, declared, that the confessor, almost as simple as the penitent, came to ask if he could receive such an alms.

Being brought to a clearer knowledge of religious truths, by a third confessor, the priest represented to him, that he had received intelligence of a certain dramatic piece of his, which was soon to be acted; but that he could not be admitted to the sacraments of the church, unless he suppressed it. This appeared too rigid, and Fontaine appealed to the Sorbonne, who confirming what the priest had said, the sincere penitent threw the piece into the fire, without keeping even a copy. The priest then laid before him the evil tendency of his Tales, which are written in a very wanton manner; he told him that, while the French language subsisted, they would be a most dangerous inducement to vice; and that he could not justify administering the sacraments to him, unless he would promise to make a public acknowledgment of his crime at the time of receiving, and a public acknowledgment before the academy of which he was a member, in case he recovered; and to exert his utmost endeavours to suppress the book. La Fontaine thought these very severe terms, but at length yielded to them all.

Still one other trait which proves the simplicity of manners of this illustrious man, and the idea which those who served him had of him, The nurse, who was by his bed-side, seeing with what zeal the clergymen exhorted him to repentance, said to M. Poujet, "Don't torment him so much; he is more foolish than wicked. God will never have the heart to damu him!"

He died on the 25th of April, (13th, O. S.) 1695. Some stories are told of his having consented to repent of his writings, during a previous illness, though he thought it rather an odd and a hard proceeding. The accounts fall in well enough with his character; but if some orthodox French writers doubt them, they may be doubted by others. Among these is the story of his being found with a hair shirt on when he died. It is true, in one of his dedications, he seems to think that people expect some apology from him, and he makes it; but he soon sets off again in his old manner, and excuses it by calling himself the "Butterfly of Parnassus. The excuse has been thought a bad one; but considering his natural

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