Hyperion | Page 5

cold, and no
soul in Andernach would take her in. And when she came to the church,
where the great crucifix stands, she saw no light in the little chapel at
the corner; but she sat down on a stone at the foot of the cross and
began to pray, and prayed, till she fell asleep, with her poor little babe
on her bosom. But she did not sleep long; for a bright light shone full in
her face; and, when she opened her eyes, she saw a pale man, with a
lantern, standing right before her. He was almost naked; and there was
blood upon his hands and body, and great tears in his beautiful eyes,
and his face was like the face of the Saviour on the cross. Not a single
word did he say to the poor woman; but looked at her compassionately,
and gave her a loaf of bread, and took the little babe in his arms, and
kissed it. Then the mother looked up to the great crucifix, but there was
no image there; and she shrieked and fell down as if she were dead.
And there she was found with her child; and a few days after they both
died, and were buried together in one grave. And nobody would have
believed her story, if a woman, who lived at the corner, had not gone to
the window, when she heard the scream, and seen the figure hang the
lantern up in its place, and then set the ladder against the wall, and go
up and nailitself to the cross. Since that night it has never moved again.
Ach! Herr Je!"
Such was the legend of the Christ of Andernach, as the old woman in
spectacles told it to Flemming. It made a painful impression on his sick
and morbid soul; and he felt now for the first time in full force, how

great is the power of popular superstition.
The post-chaise was now at the door, and Flemming was soon on the
road to Coblentz, a city which stands upon the Rhine, at the mouth of
the Mosel, opposite Ehrenbreitstein. It is by no means a long drive from
Andernach to Coblentz; and the only incident which occurred to
enliven the way was the appearance of a fat, red-faced man on
horseback, trotting slowly towards Andernach. As they met, the mad
little postilion gave him a friendly cut with his whip, and broke out into
an exclamation, which showed he was from Münster;
"Jesmariosp! my friend! How is the Man in the Custom-House?"
Now to any candid mind this would seem a fair question enough; but
not so thought the red-faced man on horseback; for he waxed
exceedingly angry, and replied, as the chaise whirled by;
"The devil take you, and your Westphalian ham, and pumpernickel!"
Flemming called to his servant, and the servant to the postilion, for an
explanation of this short dialogue; and the explanation was, that on the
belfry of the Kaufhaus in Coblentz, is a huge head, with a brazen
helmet and a beard; and whenever the clock strikes, at each stroke of
the hammer, this giant's head opens its great jaws and smites its teeth
together, as if, like the brazen head of Friar Bacon, it would say; "Time
was; Time is; Time is past." This figure is known through all the
country round about, as "The Man in the Custom-House"; and, when a
friend in the country meets a friend from Coblentz, instead of saying,
"How are all the good people in Coblentz?"--he says, "How is the Man
in the Custom-House?" Thus the giant has a great partto play in the
town; and thus ended the first day of Flemming's Rhine-journey; and
the only good deed he had done was to give an alms to a poor beggar
woman, who lifted up her trembling hands and exclaimed;
"Thou blessed babe!"



CHAPTER III.
HOMUNCULUS.

After all, a journey up the Rhine, in the mists and solitude of December,
is not so unpleasant as the reader may perhaps imagine. You have the
whole road and river to yourself. Nobody is on the wing; hardly a
single traveller. The ruins are the same; and the river, and the outlines
of the hills; and there are few living figures in the landscape to wake
you from your musings, distract your thoughts, and cover you with
dust.
Thus, likewise, thought our traveller, as he continued his journey on the
morrow. The day is overcast, and the clouds threaten rain or snow.
Why does he stop at the little village of Capellen? Because, right above
him on the high cliff, the glorious ruin of Stolzenfels is looking at him
with itshollow eyes, and beckoning to him with its gigantic finger, as if