courtier, a carpet-knight, writhing on the earth to which he was fixed by the intensity of the frost, and from which he could be only separated by force; and, at a little distance, was the gouty grand chamberlain, dancing a saraband to his own whistling, and making use of his fingers as castanets, to keep his extremities from perishing with the cold. It was such a scene as the emperor had rarely witnessed, and he enjoyed it highly.

When order had been in some degree restored among the courtiers, the emperor took his departure. He could not refrain from laughter all that night. Next morning he called his grand chamberlain, and ordered him to bring the chancellor of the empire. The chancellor came.

"I bestow on the monastery of Friars Preachers, to which Albertus Magnus belongs," said the emperor, "the broad lands which lie between Cologne and Roden-Kirchen. Make out the decree. Such a day have I never spent in my life as I did yesterday in their garden. I must reward them for the pleasure they afforded me."

The grand chamberlain ground his teeth, and looked daggers. The chancellor drew up the deed without a moment's delay.

"Take this to the monastery," said the emperor, addressing the grand chamberlain," and say to Albertus, the monk, that thus I thank him for his entertainment."

The grand chamberlain could not disobey the commands of his sovereign; but it is to be supposed that he did his office on that occasion with as little grace as a bee-stung bear. He was accompanied by a train of knights, according to the emperor's order; and in due time arrived at the monastery.

"Welcome, most mighty grand chamberlain of the empire; welcome, most noble knights: pray enter our humble dwelling, and partake of our poor hospitality."

It was thus Albertus Magnus greeted the official and his train as they approached. The grand chamberlain was flattered by this distinguished reception, and his followers were equally so; it, therefore, required little persuasion to induce him to enter. Besides, it was the hour of noon, and he had not had his dinner. They entered accordingly, and found refreshments laid out for them in the refectory. After the emperor's message had

been communicated to the monk, and his acknowledgments offered in return for the grant bestowed on the monastery, the grand chamberlain prepared to depart. But his followers were not so anxious to leave the plentiful table to which they had been set; and when he summoned them to get ready, and accompany him back to court, they not only all hesitated, under pretence of fatigue, but some of them even flatly refused.

"The

"What's to be done?" asked he of the monk. emperor required that we should return incontinent; yet these sows are swilling your wine to such a pitch that they will not be able to stand, if they are not got off at once."

"Leave them to me, most mighty grand chamberlain," replied Albertus, "I'll manage them for you."

He clapped his hands, and the servitors of the refectory entered.

Bring me that case of Johannisberger, sent by the Graf von Greifenklaue last week," he said to them; "I would fain have a parting glass of the best with those friends who have honoured me with their fair presence this morning."

The servitors disappeared, but were back in a moment, bearing between them a large case of the generous beverage.

"Here's to our further acquaintance, most noble knights," spake the monk, when each man had been provided with a flask of that choisest production of the Rhenish grape: "Long live the emperor!"

"Long live the emperor!" echoed a hundred voices, raising as many brimming bumpers to the lips which uttered the words.

But, to their horror and dismay, as the beaded bubbles touched their tongues, they felt as though the liquor was molten lead; and, looking into their glasses, they saw that they were filled with living flame, which hissed, and seethed, and boiled in the frail vessel, like a draught from the fabled Phlegethon. In the meanwhile each man held his neighbour by the nose, as though to pledge him in that position. The sight sobered them at once; and the loud laugh of the monk and the grand chamberlain brought them immediately to a sense of their ridiculous situation. In a moment, as with one accord, they flung their glasses on the floor; and in the next, they had mounted their

steeds and were galloping away, as steady as men could be, from the gate of the convent.

The drollest circumstance, however, connected with this feat, was that which occurred to the emperor's court-fool, or jester. He, too, would accompany the cavalcade, to see with his own eyes the wonder-working monk, and, perhaps, pick a hole in his coat for ridicule or jest; and, like the others, he had also made more free than even folly would warrant, with the good wine which graced the board of the monastery. At the dénoûment which took place, however, he was discovered, under the table, sitting on his cap and bells, his sword of lath run up between his back and his doublet, and a long calf's tail in his mouth. The laugh was against him ever after.

THE MINORITES.

In the chapel of the Minorites, or Friars Minors, now secularized, lay the bones of Duns Scotus, of whom the well-known jest made by him on Charles the Bold, king of France, survives all his learned writings. Lord Bacon thus quaintly relates it.* "Charles the Bold allowed one whose name was Scottus to sit at the table with him for his pleasure: Scottus sat on the other side of the table. One time the king being merry with him, said to him, What is there between Scot and sot?' Scottus answered, The table only.'"

6

Duns Scotus was a native of Ireland, who obtained great celebrity in his lifetime, and long after his death, for scholastic learning. He died in the convent of the Minorites, at Cologne, A.D. 1308; and left behind him fourteen manuscript volumes of his own composition. It is said that he was buried alive; and, tradition tells us that, having awakened from his trance, and forced the lid of his coffin, he perished in the vaults of the church with cold and hunger. On occasion of an interment, which subsequently took place, his corpse was found stretched across the steps leading to the entrance of the charnel house. He had gnawed away the fingers of one hand and part of the shoulder.

* Apophthegms. Original edition, in octavo. London.

THE RATH HAUS.

Turn we now to traditions connected with the civic structures of Cologne. The first and most interesting of these is the Rath Haus; and the following half-historical, half-poetical legend, associated with it.

AMONG the many bassi-relievi which ornament the pediment of the Rath Haus of Cologne, the most prominent is one which represents a man fighting alone with a lion. It is directly over the central entrance; and, from its conspicuous situation, never fails to command the attention of the spectator. There is another to the same effect, a replica, over the inner portico, which is in a still better state of preservation. Their history runs thus:

In the year 957, Cologne was constituted an imperial free city by Otho the Great; and, in the edict of that constitution, endowed with the privilege of self-government, and all the rights appurtenant thereto : the archbishop of the see being the nominal prince of the city, but no more; the burghers having all the power and profit to themselves. At that period, Bruno, Otho's half-brother, was Bishop of Cologne, and he, of course, willingly acquiesced in these arrangements. But not so his successors. It is at all times a subject of discord to possess only a nominal power and a real responsibility, without profit or advantage; and few men have ever been found ready to undertake them with honest intentions. The history of the ecclesiastical condition tells us that no churchman ever did so: and, therefore, there can be no wonder if the Bishops of Cologne sought to seize the substance as well as the shadow. Accordingly, various attempts were made by them to extend their authority over the city, and to possess themselves of the privileges conceded by the imperial edict to the citizens. They met with various success, though they were generally worsted in the end. Nothing, however, of sufficient importance to cause an open breach between the burghers and their titular sovereign occurred until the time of Hanno II., archbishop of that name, in the middle of the eleventh century.

Hanno was a specious man, and, by the appearance of great piety and self-denial, had acquired a high reputation for sanctity among the country people: the burghers, however, either more enlightened and less superstitious, or, perhaps, looking entirely to their own interest, held him in no such veneration as a prelate, and hated him as a prince. Calculating, however, on this influence, he laid claim to the feudal sovereignty of the city, and insisted on his rights, not alone to nominate the magistracy, but to receive the taxes levied on all articles of commerce entering or leaving the port. The burghers took fire at this encroachment on their liberties; the entire city rose in arms as one man ; and the ambitious archbishop had some difficulty in escaping with his life. Many of his followers were slain, and his power completely annihilated in Cologne. He never troubled them afterwards. The lesson taught him by those brave burghers was remembered, also, by several of his successors.