be of the form of a crucifix; two mighty turrets should rear themselves at the portal. Upon this the master was clear, but he could not find the just harmony of the proportions; he drew, and the lines did not meet, crossing or evading each other; he reckoned, but his reckoning did not prove correct, and he could not find the error. If inordinate ambition had formerly darkened the master's clear senses, now anxiety, fear, shame, despair were added, and his work made less and less progress. As oftentimes a word hovers upon our tongue, and still we cannot find and utter it, so the giant image of the cathedral danced before the master's senses, and he could not grasp it, could not hold it fast.

Thus he ascended the mountain, weary and murmuring at himself, battling against the last doubts of a resolve to cool his glowing brain in the deep waters of the Rhine. He reached the quarry, which at that time was little worked, and where many steep, smooth precipices rose before the eye of the spectator. The master stood sunk in thought; he turned over several loose stones with his staff, took one in his hand, and still was evidently busied with other thoughts than that of examining the mass. A slight sound startled him; he raised his eyes, and stood almost petrified with terror and astonishment. Upon the face of a perpendicular rock before him, drawn in large, firm lines, appeared the cathedral, as he had thought it in his mind. There were the two heaven-aspiring turrets, there was the vast circuit of the halls, there the gigantic whole, which he had tried in vain to grasp. He seized himself by the arm, to convince himself whether he were awake or dreaming. "No! it is no dream," he then cried suddenly; "thus it is, thus I bore it around in spirit, while yet it would not grow clear to me."

He stepped nearer the drawing had disappeared; he rushed toward the rocky wall to discover the lines the cold, bare stone alone was visible! He closed his eyes to view the well-considered image once more in his mind, to stamp those lines, those bold proportions upon his memory; in vain, his fancy was dull and shapeless. The more he strove and toiled, so much the more desolate and waste was it within him. There stood a turret before his inward vision, but the foundation was wanting; there, two pillars reared themselves aloft, but he could not find the arch that surmounted them; then the whole picture rose before him again, and grew smaller and smaller, as if an irresistible power were dragging him away from it. He felt as if he must hold firm, as if he must brace himself desperately against this power; in vain, the picture grew smaller and smaller; at last it disappeared.

Despair now seized him. He had seen it with his own eyes, his masterpiece, bold and glorious, the like of which had never yet been conceived, completed; the goal of his striving, of his painful toil, was reached; his spirit had viewed the enormous space which these bold

arches enclosed, and it was lost, gone irrevocably! His brain glowed feverishly, his pulse beat convulsively; he felt that madness was stealing upon him, and he laughed aloud in furious self-mockery.

A hoarse echo returned his laugh, and he looked around in terror; a travelling pedlar stood before him, greeting him humbly. The master turned his back upon him angrily, but the other spoke to him, and said:

Wilt thou not buy some curiosities, good friend? I am returning from Italy, and have brought several with me. Look, for example, at this roll of parchment."

The pedlar held before the master's eyes an unrolled drawing; it was the same that he had seen upon the rock, smaller, but accurately and delicately executed.

"What is that ?" cried the master in affright.

"The plan for the new cathedral in Cologne," said the other.

The master shuddered, and said, "The plan is not yet made.”

"I know it," said the pedlar with a laugh. “I have drawn it after the master's thoughts."

The master struck his hand against his forehead; he looked about him, no longer knowing where he was. The sun now sank blood-red in the west, and the first dark shadow fell upon the earth. "After his thoughts!" he stammered, scarce audibly. "Dost deal in sorcery ?”

Somewhat," cried the other. “ I learned it in Egypt.”

"It is my plan, drawn after my thoughts," muttered the master. “I will buy it; name the price."

"Not much," said the pedlar, humbly; "write thy name here."

The master took the offered parchment, and read its contents: it was a compact with the Evil One! He started three steps backward, and cried, "Get thee behind me, Satan!"

A strange smile distorted the pedlar's features as he said, "As it pleases thee," and turned to depart.

But the master cried in fury, "Hold! give me the plan; it is mine; thou hast stolen it from my thoughts."

"That is true," replied the other, quietly; "but thou wilt never complete it. Thinkest thou it is I who have confused thy head with crafty malice? Not so, my learned master; it is thy ambition which has plunged thee into this wretchedness. Man must with holy thoughts approach a holy work; thou hast done otherwise; therefore, it will never prosper with thee without my help. Well, dost thou consent ?"

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With these words, he unrolled the picture before the master, and walked slowly backward, still holding the parchment before his eyes. And more and more glorious did it appear to the unhappy master. wild storm raged in his soul. To-morrow, the Archbishop's anger, the mockery of the city; here, the unhoped-for noblest fulfilment of his wishes; death or life, scorn or immortal fame; nothing or everything.

The tempter was still a step from the angle of a projecting rock; now, it half covered him; now, he had disappeared.

Then the master called, "Hold! hold! give me the plan; I will sign!"

THE busy stir upon the building-spot was silent, for the vesper-bell had sounded. Two burghers were walking around upon the place, viewing the preparations for the building.

"What, in Heaven's name!" cried Herr Roisdorf, the baker, "do they mean to build a city here? They have dug a foundation as large as a quarter of the city."

"Not a city," said the other, Herr Mumprecht, the smith, "but a temple of God which the whole city can enter and worship Him."

"Are they digging wells here?" asked the former. "These pits look as deep as if water were to be found only at the centre of the earth.”

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They are the foundations for the turrets," replied the smith. They must be thus deep to support the burden which will rest upon them. Surely it is to be an enormous work. But thou shouldst walk around here in the day-time, and see them at their labours. Many ships arrive daily with stones from beyond Bonn. Scores of wagons come and go the whole day, bringing the stones to the building-spot. Hundreds of stonecutters stand ready to hew them. Then there are the diggers, the masons, the carpenters, the throng of carts that bring sand and lime, and the men who prepare the mortar. They have been at work here for a year, and still only here and there is a part of the foundation wall to be seen. And amid all this walks around the noble master, everywhere regulating, everywhere aiding. See, yonder he comes with the venerable Archbishop." The two just-named personages now walked by, engaged in conversation.

"I no longer know thee, master," said the Archbishop; "thou wast formerly a cheerful, happy man, and now a deep gloom shadows thy face; not a smile can be drawn from thee. And still, methinks, thou hast reason to be joyful, for our work plainly advances."

The master was silent, and the Archbishop continued: "Each morning in my chamber do I take delight in the plan which thou hast prepared for me. Truly it will be a wondrous work, and will hand down thy name to all time." A singular smile passed across the master's countenance, yet it seemed like one of deep pain.

The Archbishop continued: "The bones of the three sainted kings will find a worthy resting-place in the new building. But as soon as thou art able, come to Bonn; I have many things to show thee there. My sculptors are unceasingly busied, and the goldsmiths never suffer their smeltingfurnaces to be extinguished; and all labour solely upon the decorations for the cathedral. Come to Bonn; it will cheer thee, and dissipate thy melancholy."

The master was still silent, and the Prince at last gave up the attempt to gain speech from him. He found his train awaiting him, and left the building-spot.

But the master turned back, descended into the deep pit which had been dug, and examined the walls, proving carefully each stone, to see if it lay firmly, closely scrutinizing whether the earthy wall of the ditch was well supported, that it might not fall in and destroy the workmen. In the meanwhile, night had come, and the moon, now in her first quarter, cast her uncertain light upon the scene. The master seated himself in deep thought upon a hewn stone, and sank in gloomy broodings. After a while, he opened his lips, and said in a whisper: “Thou art a crafty trader, Satan, and he who traffics with thee has surely lost, and is already cheated. Does it not suffice thee that thou hast bought my soul's welfare? must thou rob me also of all the joy of life? Here, by night, I wander alone, for dread of thy malice constrains me. Must I not fear that the labour of the day may be destroyed at night by thy devilish arts, that the scaffolding may break, and the pit, so laboriously dug, be filled with earth again; that the foundation walls may be displaced, and in course of time the building fall in ruins? Here I sit, night after night, armed with holy relics, and guard my work as the dog guards the house against thieves. Oh, this building! It is a horror to me! I could call down curses upon it, and still an irresistible power impels me to complete it. If the torment of men is thy joy, their loss thy gain, then, in truth, Satan, hast thou driven a good bargain with me." Thus spoke the master, and, leaning his head in his hands, he sank in gloomy contemplation.

THE Archbishop Conrad von Hochsteden was dead. The building of the cathedral prospered under his successor as under him. Already the walls towered from the earth, the places could be recognized where the windows were to admit the light within, and the carpenters were already busily engaged, carving the wooden arches which were destined to serve as a temporary support and guiding-line to the arches of stone.

It happened now one evening, that a young mason, an apprentice, had forgotten a trinket which he was accustomed to lay aside when at his work. He feared lest some one might find it, and take possession of it. He resolved, therefore, to return after vespers and look for it. He begged one of his comrades to accompany him, and, as the latter consented, the two walked toward the building. "Seest thou," began the former, "how they are already carving the stones for the arches? I think the pillared archways will soon be completed. It will be a noble building."

"Do not talk to me of your building," said the other. "I would I had never come here to seek employment. It is true, at home we build only

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plain burghers' houses, but the work goes gaily and merrily on. master-builder comes cheerfully in the morning to the spot, and takes delight in the progress of the work; and his joy gives the workmen pleasure and courage, so that cheerful songs echo around, and merry jests enliven the labour. And when the house is roofed, there is a gay feast, at which many a bucksome lass is whirled along in the dance. But no blessing can rest upon this building. The master walks gloomily around among the workmen; not a word of praise or of notice passes his lips, and all are glad when he has turned his back. The men catch the humour, and work sullenly beside each other, so that one wields the hammer without joy or spirit."

"Rail not against the master," said the former; "how can he be cheerful with the great cares that oppress his soul? It is true, no noisy stir prevails in this building; one speaks to the other seldom, and then a low word, and a kind of gloom reigns over all; but that is because it is a holy building, and to such, loud and boisterous mirth is unfitting."

"Tut, tut! holy or not holy," cried the second, "all my lifetime masons and masons' men were a merry set, and not tongue-tied hypocrites. But as to the master, he may be an able craftsman; I do not deny that; but his mood is silent and sullen, and that does not please me. The people, too, whisper so many things about him. He holds converse with no mortal, he loves no one, has neither wife nor child. And hast thou not heard what the people say? how that he steals every evening to the building-spot, and wanders around the whole night among the new walls, and that he does not go hence until after the first cockcrow? What can he be doing there by night, unless he plies secret magic arts? and that is easy to believe when you look at him. Those deep burning eyes in that pale, sunken face; that white hair on the head of a man who numbers scarcely fifty years; those pale lips, so closely locked that you might think they had grown together; all this marks him a man who carries in his bosom some strange secret."

"There is something true in what you say," said the other. "I myself to-day, for the first time, heard a word from his lips, and, for the first time, saw life in his rigid, iron features. Toward noon, he had a large tablet of brass brought in, on which several letters were engraved. I did not know what they meant, for I am no monk to read them. We were directed to place it in one of the middle pillars. The master looked on attentively, and called aloud once or twice, 'Firm! right firm!' I looked at him; his eyes flashed, as if in wild joy; a triumphant smile played about his mouth, and he stood erect and lofty as a king. And when the last stroke of the hammer fell, he cried, 'At last!' and gave us money to drink his health. But, hold! it must be hereabouts that I left my sweetheart's token. It is pitch dark; the moon no longer shines over the walls."