procuring, he might crown his stately tower with a great, deep-toned bell, worthy of the building. But in those days bell-founding was anything but a flourishing craft, and messengers had vainly scoured the Emperor’s vast dominions in search of a skilful master-founder. Judge then what must have been his joy when at length tidings were brought to him that among the austere brotherhood of St. Gall, in Switzerland, there dwelt a monk, named Danko, a master of the craft, and of whose skill the messenger had seen good proofs. Forthwith word was sent to Brother Danko to hasten to the Emperor. Highly honoured by the royal mandate, the monk lost no time on the road, and soon reached the royal palace at Aix, where Charlemagne was then staying.
He greeted the monk most cordially, for he was overjoyed at the prospect of so speedily carrying out his pious desires; and he promised Danko a rich reward when his task should be completed, and the bell hung in its place. He told him no expense should be spared, and bade him at once set up his foundry; adding that he destined this great bell to be the crowning gem of his Minster, which for thousands of years should summon with mighty voice the faithful to prayer, and peal or toll for all the joys and sorrows of the city. My author gives no further details of this interview; but one can imagine it well enough: the Emperor’s frank liberality, the monk’s secret pride. We can fancy them as they stand speaking earnestly together. Charlemagne’s open, noble face beaming with pleasure; his gigantic form—its mighty proportions displayed by his short tight kirtle—towering above the monk; the latter, a slender figure, shrouded in flowing dusky robes, standing before him with bent head and folded hands, partly feeling, partly feigning, awe. Nor is Charlemagne, with all his kingly bearing, quite free from some touch of the same; for the rude wielders of sword and sceptre, despite their barbaric pride, could not always shake off a certain involuntary deference for those skilled in lore and arts which were mysterious to themselves.
Danko set to work immediately, the open-handed Emperor supplying him with workmen, tools, and metal in abundance. That the tone of the bell might be clear and sonorous, Charlemagne sent the master one hundred pounds’ weight of silver from his treasury. He little knew that the cunning monk was a base and sordid man, who preferred iniquitous gain to his honour and to his sworn vow of poverty. Danko hid the silver for himself, and replaced it in the casting by a hundred pounds of lead. Still so great was his skill, that when the mould was broken before the Emperor and his followers, to their wonder and delight the new bell shone as if it were made of the purest silver. It was raised to its lofty tower with all possible speed. Great crowds of people waited in the square below to hear its first peals, and Charlemagne had determined that he should be the first to ring it. He issued forth from his palace, decked with all the magnificence he could assume so well on great occasions, despite his usual homely habits, and went in state to the belfry, attended by the thief, Danko. The first thing the Emperor did was to ask God and Our Lady graciously to accept his gift; and then amid breathless silence he seized the bell-rope, and pulled it with all his might; but lo! it gave but one faint, dead sound.
“Holloa, Danko!” cried; he “try thy masterpiece thyself, for I have sweated in vain to knock out some sound.”
Trembling, and ghastly pale, Danko tugged at the rope with the strength of despair; but not a sound was heard, save the creaking of the rafters, as they groaned beneath the weight of the swaying mass of metal. Suddenly the rope fell from Danko’s hand, and he sank at the Emperor’s feet stone dead. Horror and awe palsied high and low, except Charlemagne. He stood unmoved, and calmly spoke thus: “God hath righted himself.”
Danko’s dwelling was searched, and there, sure enough, were the hundred pounds of silver for which he had damned his soul. The Emperor would not have it back in his treasury, but gave it all to the poor.
“MY SOUL AND I.”
Long time ago, my Soul and I
Had many curious disquisitions,
Upon the present and the past,
And on our relative positions.
And yet we failed, my Soul and I,
In proving our identity;
For said I, to my Soul, it seems
I should not be myself without you:
Yet what you are, or whence you came,
Who can tell anything about you?
Hadst waited long for me, my Soul,
Floating about in space infinite?
Or did we two, created one,
Spring into life the self-same minute?
How comes it that we suit so well—
Each so dissimilar in essence;
One deathless, immaterial,
The other of corporeal presence;
One born to die, one born to live,
The two yet needful for perfection;
And birth the link, and death the sword,
That bind and loose the strange connection,
Through which it haps my Soul and I,
Are fashioned to Humanity?
Dost thou not cling to me, my Soul,
With somewhat of a home-like feeling,
Whilst still I listen unto thee
For ever unknown worlds revealing?
’Tis death to part from thee, my Soul,—
’Tis life to thee from me to sever;
Must I decay—must thou live on,
And shall we parted be for ever?
We’ve hoped and loved, and smiled and wept,
And tossed about the world together;
May we not rest in Paradise,
After our spell of rough earth weather?
I cannot let thee go, my Soul,
We both must linger at the portal;
The gates will not be opened wide,
Until my dust be made immortal.
Then shall we be, my Soul and I,
Still one throughout eternity.
