← catalogue

Hero Tales and Legends of the Rhine

by Lewis Spence · English · Gutenberg #16539 · 618,632 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hero Tales and Legends of the Rhine
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Hero Tales and Legends of the Rhine

Author: Lewis Spence


        
Release date: August 17, 2005 [eBook #16539]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16539

Credits: Produced by Steve Pond


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERO TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE RHINE ***




Produced by Steve Pond





HERO TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE RHINE

By Lewis Spence (1874-1955) Originally published: Hero tales & legends
of the Rhine.

London; New York:

George C. Harrap, 1915.



CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I—TOPOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL

CHAPTER II—THE RHINE IN FOLKLORE AND LITERATURE

CHAPTER III—CLEVES TO THE LÖWENBURG

LEGENDS OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE

CHAPTER IV—DRACHENFELS TO RHEINSTEIN

CHAPTER V—FALKENBURG TO AUERBACH

CHAPTER VI—WORMS AND THE NIBELUNGENLIED

CHAPTER VII—HEIDELBERG TO SÄCKINGEN

Conclusion









INTRODUCTION

An abundance of literature exists on the subject of the Rhine and its
legends, but with few exceptions the works on it which are accessible
to English-speaking peoples are antiquated in spirit and verbiage, and
their authors have been content to accept the first version of such
legends and traditions as came their way without submitting them to
any critical examination. It is claimed for this book that much of its
matter was collected on the spot, or that at least most of the
tales here presented were perused in other works at the scene of the
occurrences related. This volume is thus something more than a
mere compilation, and when it is further stated that only the most
characteristic and original versions and variants of the many tales here
given have gained admittance to the collection, its value will become
apparent.

It is, of course, no easy task to infuse a spirit of originality into
matter which has already achieved such a measure of celebrity as have
these wild and wondrous tales of Rhineland. But it is hoped that the
treatment to which these stories have been subjected is not without a
novelty of its own. One circumstance may be alluded to as characteristic
of the manner of their treatment in this work. In most English books
on Rhine legend the tales themselves are presented in a form so brief,
succinct, and uninspiring as to rob them entirely of that mysterious
glamour lacking which they become mere material by which to add to and
illustrate the guide-book. The absence of the romantic spirit in most
English and American compilations dealing with the Rhine legends is
noteworthy, and in writing this book the author’s intention has been to
supply this striking defect by retaining as much of the atmosphere
of mystery so dear to the German heart as will convey to the
English-speaking reader a true conception of the spirit of German
legend.

But it is not contended that because greater space and freedom of
narrative scope than is usual has been taken by the author the volume
would not prove itself an acceptable companion upon a voyage on Rhine
waters undertaken in holiday times of peace. Indeed, every attempt has
been made so to arrange the legends that they will illustrate a Rhine
journey from sea to source—the manner in which the majority of visitors
to Germany will make the voyage—and to this end the tales have been
marshalled in such form that a reader sitting on the deck of a Rhine
steamer may be able to peruse the legends relating to the various
localities in their proper order as he passes them. There are included,
however, several tales relating to places which cannot be viewed from
the deck of a steamer, but which may be visited at the cost of a short
inland excursion. These are such as from their celebrity could not be
omitted from any work on the legends of Rhineland, but they are few in
number.

The historical development, folklore, poetry, and art of the
Rhine-country have been dealt with in a special introductory chapter.
The history of the Rhine basin is a complicated and uneven one, chiefly
consisting in the rapid and perplexing rise and fall of dynasties and
the alternate confiscation of one or both banks of the devoted stream
to the empires of France or Germany. But the evolution of a reasoned
narrative has been attempted from this chaotic material, and, so far
as the author is aware, it is the only one existing in English. The
folklore and romance elements in Rhine legend have been carefully
examined, and the best poetic material upon the storied river has been
critically collected and reviewed. To those who may one day visit the
Rhine it is hoped that the volume may afford a suitable introduction to
a fascinating field of travel, while to such as have already viewed
its glories it may serve to renew old associations and awaken cherished
memories of a river without peer or parallel in its wealth of story, its
boundless mystery, and the hold which it has exercised upon all who
have lingered by the hero-trodden paths that wind among its mysterious
promontories and song-haunted strands.

—L.S.



CHAPTER I—TOPOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL

There are many rivers whose celebrity is of much greater antiquity than
that of the Rhine. The Nile and the Ganges are intimately associated
with the early history of civilization and the mysterious beginnings
of wisdom; the Tiber is eloquent of that vanished Empire which was
the first to carry the torch of advancement into the dark places of
barbarian Europe; the name of the Jordan is sacred to thousands as that
first heard in infancy and linked with lives and memories divine. But,
universal as is the fame of these rivers, none of them has awakened in
the breasts of the dwellers on their banks such a fervent devotion,
such intense enthusiasm, or such a powerful patriotic appeal as has the
Rhine, at once the river, the frontier, and the palladium of the German
folk.

The Magic of the Rhine

But the appeal is wider, for the Rhine is peculiarly the home of a
legendary mysticism almost unique. Those whose lives are spent in their
creation and interpretation know that song and legend have a particular
affinity for water. Hogg, the friend of Shelley, was wont to tell how
the bright eyes of his comrade would dilate at the sight of even a
puddle by the roadside. Has water a hypnotic attraction for certain
minds? Be that as it may, there has crystallized round the great
waterways of the world a traditionary lore which preserves the thought
and feeling of the past, and retains many a circumstance of wonder and
marvel from olden epochs which the modern world could ill have spared.

Varied and valuable as are the traditional tales of other streams, none
possess that colour of intensity and mystery, that spell of ancient
profundity which belong to the legends of the Rhine. In perusing these
we feel our very souls plunged in darkness as that of the carven gloom
of some Gothic cathedral or the Cimmerian depths of some ancient forest
unpierced by sun-shafts. It is the Teutonic mystery which has us in
its grip, a thing as readily recognizable as the Celtic glamour or
the Egyptian gloom—a thing of the shadows of eld, stern, ancient, of a
ponderous fantasy, instinct with the spirit of nature, of dwarfs,
elves, kobolds, erlkings, the wraiths and shades of forest and flood, of
mountain and mere, of castled height and swift whirlpool, the denizens
of the deep valleys and mines, the bergs and heaths of this great
province of romance, this rich satrapy of Faëry.

A Land of Legend

Nowhere is legend so thickly strewn as on the banks of the Rhine. Each
step is eloquent of tradition, each town, village, and valley. No hill,
no castle but has its story, true or legendary. The Teuton is easily the
world’s master in the art of conserving local lore. As one speeds down
the broad breast of this wondrous river, gay with summer and flushed
with the laughter of early vineyards, so close is the network of legend
that the swiftly read or spoken tale of one locality is scarce over ere
the traveller is confronted by another. It is a surfeit of romance, an
inexhaustible hoard of the matter of marvel.

This noble stream with its wealth of tradition has made such a powerful
impression upon the national imagination that it has become intimate in
the soul of the people and commands a reverence and affection which
is not given by any other modern nation to its greatest and most
characteristic river. The Englishman has only a mitigated pride in the
Thames, as a great commercial asset or, its metropolitan borders once
passed, a river of peculiarly restful character; the Frenchman evinces
no very great enthusiasm toward the Seine; and if there are many Spanish
songs about the “chainless Guadalquivir,” the dons have been content
to retain its Arabic name. But what German heart does not thrill at the
name of the Rhine? What German cheek does not flush at the sound of that
mighty thunder-hymn which tells of his determination to preserve the
river of his fathers at the cost of his best blood? Nay, what man of
patriotic temperament but feels a responsive chord awake within him
at the thought of that majestic song, so stern, so strong, “clad in
armour,” vibrant with the clang of swords, instinct with the universal
accord of a united people? To those who have heard it sung by
multitudinous voices to the accompaniment of golden harps and silver
trumpets it is a thing which can never be forgotten, this world-song
that is at once a hymn of union, a song of the deepest love of country,
a defiance and an intimation of resistance to the death.

The Song of the ‘Iron Chancellor’

How potent Die Wacht am Rhein is to stir the hearts of the children of
the Fatherland is proven abundantly by an apposite story regarding the
great Bismarck, the ‘man of blood and iron.’ The scene is the German
Reichstag, and the time is that curious juncture in history when the
Germans, having realized that union is strength, were beginning to weld
together the petty kingdoms and duchies of which their mighty empire
was once composed. Gradually this task was becoming accomplished, and
meanwhile Germany grew eager to assert her power in Europe, wherefore
her rulers commenced to create a vast army. But Bismarck was not
satisfied, and in his eyes Germany’s safety was still unassured; so
he appealed to the Reichstag to augment largely their armaments. The
deputies looked at him askance, for a vast army meant ruinous taxation;
even von Moltke and von Roon shook their heads, well aware though they
were that a great European conflict might break out at any time; and,
in short, Bismarck’s proposal was met by a determined negative from
the whole House. “Ach, mein Gott!” he cried, holding out his hands in a
superb gesture of despair. “Ach, mein Gott! but these soldiers we must
have.” His hearers still demurred, reminding him that the people far and
near were groaning under the weight of taxation, and assuring him that
this could not possibly be increased, when he suddenly changed his
despairing gesture for a martial attitude, and with sublime eloquence
recited the lines:


     “Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall,
     Wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall;
     Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein,
     Wer will die Strömes Hüter sein?
     Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein,
     Fest steht und treu die Wacht am Rhein.”

The effect was magical; the entire House resounded with cheers, and the
most unbounded enthusiasm prevailed. And ere the members dispersed
they had told Bismarck he might have, not ten thousand, but a hundred
thousand soldiers, such was the power of association awakened by this
famous hymn, such the spell it is capable of exercising on German
hearers.

Topography of the Rhine

Ere we set sail upon the dark sea of legend before us it is necessary
that, like prudent mariners, we should know whence and whither we are
faring. To this end it will be well that we should glance briefly at
the topography of the great river we are about to explore, and that we
should sketch rapidly the most salient occurrences in the strange
and varied pageant of its history, in order that we may the better
appreciate the wondrous tales of worldwide renown which have found birth
on its banks.

Although the most German of rivers, the Rhine does not run its entire
course through German territory, but takes its rise in Switzerland and
finds the sea in Holland. For no less than 233 miles it flows through
Swiss country, rising in the mountains of the canton of Grisons, and
irrigates every canton of the Alpine republic save that of Geneva.
Indeed, it waters over 14,000 square miles of Swiss territory in the
flow of its two main branches, the Nearer Rhine and the Farther Rhine,
which unite at Reichenau, near Coire. The Nearer Rhine issues at the
height of over 7000 feet from the glaciers of the Rheinwaldhorn
group, and flows for some thirty-five miles, first in a north-easterly
direction through the Rheinwald Valley, then northward through the
Schams Valley, by way of the Via Mala gorge, and Tomleschg Valley, and
so to Reichenau, where it is joined by its sister stream, the Farther
Rhine. The latter, rising in the little Alpine lake of Toma near the
Pass of St. Gotthard, flows in a north-easterly direction to Reichenau.
The Nearer Rhine is generally considered to be the more important
branch, though the Farther Rhine is the longer by some seven miles. From
Reichenau the Rhine flows north-eastward to Coire, and thence northward
to the Lake of Constance, receiving on its way two tributaries, the
Landquart and the Ill, both on the right bank. Indeed, from source to
sea the Rhine receives a vast number of tributaries, amounting, with
their branches, to over 12,000. Leaving the Lake of Constance at the
town of that name, the river flows westward to Basel, having as
the principal towns on its banks Constance, Schaffhausen, Waldshut,
Laufenburg, Säckingen, Rheinfelden, and Basel.

Not far from the town of Schaffhausen the river precipitates itself from
a height of 60 feet, in three leaps, forming the famous Falls of the
Rhine. At Coblentz a strange thing happens, for at this place the river
receives the waters of the Aar, swollen by the Reuss and the Limmat, and
of greater volume than the stream in which it loses itself.

It is at Basel that the Rhine, taking a northward trend, enters
Germany. By this time it has made a descent of nearly 7000 feet, and has
traversed about a third of its course. Between Basel and Mainz it flows
between the mountains of the Black Forest and the Vosges, the distance
between which forms a shallow valley of some width. Here and there it is
islanded, and its expanse averages about 1200 feet. The Taunus Mountains
divert it at Mainz, where it widens, and it flows westward for about
twenty miles, but at Bingen it once more takes its course northward, and
enters a narrow valley where the enclosing hills look down sheer upon
the water.

It is in this valley, probably one of the most romantic in the world,
that we find the legendary lore of the river packed in such richness
that every foot of its banks has its place in tradition. But that is not
to say that this portion of the Rhine is wanting in natural beauty. Here
are situated some of its sunniest vineyards, its most wildly romantic
heights, and its most picturesque ruins. This part of its course may be
said to end at the Siebengebirge, or ‘Seven Mountains,’ where the river
again widens and the banks become more bare and uninteresting. Passing
Bonn and Cologne, the bareness of the landscape is remarkable after the
variety of that from which we have just emerged, and henceforward the
river takes on what may be called a ‘Dutch’ appearance. After entering
Holland it divides into two branches, the Waal flowing to the west and
uniting with the Maas. The smaller branch to the right is still called
the Rhine, and throws off another branch, the Yssel, which flows into
the Zuider Zee. Once more the river bifurcates into insignificant
streams, one of which is called the Kromme Rijn, and beyond Utrecht, and
under the name of the Oude Rijn, or Old Rhine, it becomes so stagnant
that it requires the aid of a canal to drain it into the sea. Anciently
the Rhine at this part of its course was an abounding stream, but by the
ninth century the sands at Katwijk had silted it up, and it was only in
the beginning of last century that its way to the sea was made clear.

The Sunken City

More than six centuries ago Stavoren was one of the chief commercial
towns of Holland. Its merchants traded with all parts of the world, and
brought back their ships laden with rich cargoes, and the city became
ever more prosperous.

The majority of the people of Stavoren were well-to-do, and as their
wealth increased they became luxurious and dissipated, each striving to
outdo the others in the magnificence of their homes and the extravagance
of their hospitality.

Many of their houses, we are told, were like the palaces of princes,
built of white marble, furnished with the greatest sumptuousness, and
decorated with the costliest hangings and the rarest statuary.

But, says the legend, of all the Stavoren folk there was none
wealthier than young Richberta. This maiden owned a fleet of the finest
merchant-vessels of the city, and loved to ornament her palace with the
rich merchandise which these brought from foreign ports. With all her
jewels and gold and silver treasures, however, Richberta was not happy.
She gave gorgeous banquets to the other merchant-princes of the place,
each more magnificent than the last, not because she received any
pleasure from thus dispensing hospitality, but because she desired to
create envy and astonishment in the breasts of her guests.

On one occasion while such a feast was in progress Richberta was
informed that a stranger was waiting without who was desirous of
speaking with her. When she was told that the man had come all the way
from a distant land simply to admire her wonderful treasures, of which
he had heard so much, the maiden was highly flattered and gave orders
that he should be admitted without delay. An aged and decrepit man, clad
in a picturesque Eastern costume, was led into the room, and Richberta
bade him be seated at her side. He expected to receive from the young
lady the symbol of welcome—bread and salt. But no such common fare was
to be found on her table—all was rich and luxurious food.

The stranger seated himself in silence. At length he began to talk. He
had travelled in many lands, and now he told of his changing fortunes in
these far-off countries, always drawing a moral from his adventures—that
all things earthly were evanescent as the dews of morning. The company
listened attentively to the discourse of the sage; all, that is, but
their hostess, who was angry and disappointed that he had said no word
of the wealth and magnificence displayed in her palace, the rich fare on
her table, and all the signs of luxury with which he was surrounded. At
length she could conceal her chagrin no longer, and asked the stranger
directly whether he had ever seen such splendour in his wanderings as
that he now beheld.

“Tell me,” she said, “is there to be found in the courts of your Eastern
kings such rare treasures as these of mine?”

“Nay,” replied the sage, “they have no pearls and rich embroideries to
match thine. Nevertheless, there is one thing missing from your board,
and that the best and most valuable of all earthly gifts.”

In vain Richberta begged that he would tell her what that most precious
of treasures might be. He answered all her inquiries in an evasive
manner, and at last, when her question could no longer be evaded, he
rose abruptly and left the room. And, seek as she might, Richberta could
find no trace of her mysterious visitor.

Richberta strove to discover the meaning of the old man’s words. She
was rich—she possessed greater treasures than any in Stavoren, at a time
when that city was among the wealthiest in Europe—and yet she lacked the
most precious of earth’s treasures. The memory of the words galled her
pride and excited her curiosity to an extraordinary pitch. In vain she
asked the wise men of her time—the priests and philosophers—to read her
the riddle of the mysterious traveller. None could name a treasure that
was not already hers.

In her anxiety to obtain the precious thing, whatever it might be,
Richberta sent all her ships to sea, telling the captain of each not
to return until he had found some treasure that she did not already
possess. The vessels were victualled for seven years, so that the
mariners might have ample time in which to pursue their quest. So their
commander sent one division of the fleet to the east, another to the
west, while he left his own vessel to the hazard of the winds, letting
it drift wheresoever the fates decreed. His ship as well as the others
was laden heavily with provisions, and during the first storm they
encountered it was necessary to cast a considerable portion of the food
overboard, so that the ship might right itself. As it was, the remaining
provisions were so damaged by the sea-water that they rotted in a few
days and became unfit for food. A pestilence would surely follow the use
of such unwholesome stuff, and consequently the entire cargo of bread
had to be cast into the sea.

The commander saw his crew ravaged by the dreaded scurvy, suffering from
the lack of bread. Then only did he begin to perceive the real meaning
of the sage’s words. The most valuable of all earthly treasures was not
the pearls from the depths of the sea, gold or silver from the heart of
the mountains, nor the rich spices of the Indies. The most common of all
earth’s, products, that which was to be found in every country, which
flourished in every clime, on which the lives of millions depended—this
was the greatest treasure, and its name was—bread.

Having reached this conclusion, the commander of Richberta’s fleet set
sail for a Baltic port, where he took on board a cargo of corn, and
returned immediately to Stavoren.

Richberta was astonished and delighted to see that he had achieved his
purpose so soon, and bade him tell her of what the treasure consisted
which he had brought with him. The commander thereupon recounted his
adventures—the storm, the throwing overboard of their store of bread,
and the consequent sufferings of the crew—and told how he at length
discovered what was the greatest treasure on earth, the priceless
possession which the stranger had looked for in vain at her rich board.
It was bread, he said simply, and the cargo he had brought home was
corn.

Richberta was beside herself with passion. When she had recovered
herself sufficiently to speak she asked him:

“At which side of the ship did you take in the cargo?”

“At the right side,” he replied.

“Then,” she exclaimed angrily, “I order you to cast it into the sea from
the left side.”

It was a cruel decision. Stavoren, like every other city, had its quota
of poor families, and these were in much distress at the time, many of
them dying from sheer starvation. The cargo of corn would have provided
bread for them throughout the whole winter, and the commander urged
Richberta to reconsider her decision. As a last resort he sent the
barefooted children of the city to her, thinking that their mute misery
would move her to alleviate their distress and give them the shipload
of corn. But all was in vain. Richberta remained adamantine, and in full
view of the starving multitude she had the precious cargo cast into the
sea.

But the curses of the despairing people had their effect. Far down in
the bed of the sea the grains of corn germinated, and a harvest of bare
stalks grew until it reached the surface of the water. The shifting
quicksands at the bottom of the sea were bound together by the
overspreading stalks into a mighty sand-bank which rose above the
surface in front of the town of Stavoren.

No longer were the merchant-vessels able to enter the harbour, for
it was blocked by the impassable bank. Nay, instead of finding refuge
there, many a ship was dashed to pieces by the fury of the breakers, and
Stavoren became a place of ill-fame to the mariner.

All the wealth and commerce of this proud city were at an end. Richberta
herself, whose wanton act had raised the sand-bank, had her ships
wrecked there one by one, and was reduced to begging for bread in the
city whose wealthiest inhabitant she had once been. Then, perhaps, she
could appreciate the words of the old traveller, that bread was the
greatest of earthly treasures.

At last the ocean, dashing against the huge mound with ever-increasing
fury, burst through the dyke which Richberta had raised, overwhelmed the
town, and buried it for ever under the waves.

And now the mariner, sailing on the Zuider Zee, passes above the
engulfed city and sees with wonderment the towers and spires of the
‘Sunken Land.’

Historical Sketch

Like other world-rivers, the Rhine has attracted to its banks a
succession of races of widely divergent origin. Celt, Teuton, Slav, and
Roman have contested for the territories which it waters, and if the
most enduring of these races has finally achieved dominion over the
fairest river-province in Europe, who shall say that it has emerged from
the struggle as a homogeneous people, having absorbed none of the blood
of those with whom it strove for the lordship of this vine-clad valley?
He would indeed be a courageous ethnologist who would suggest a purely
Germanic origin for the Rhine race. As the historical period dawns upon
Middle Europe we find the Rhine basin in the possession of a people of
Celtic blood. As in Britain and France, this folk has left its indelible
mark upon the countryside in a wealth of place-names embodying its
characteristic titles for flood, village, and hill. In such prefixes and
terminations as magh, brig, dun, and etc we espy the influence of Celtic
occupants, and Maguntiacum, or Mainz, and Borbetomagus, or Worms, are
examples of that ‘Gallic’ idiom which has indelibly starred the map of
Western Europe.

Prehistoric Miners

The remains of this people which are unearthed from beneath the
superincumbent strata of their Teutonic successors in the country show
them to have been typical of their race. Like their kindred in Britain,
they had successfully exploited the mineral treasures of the country,
and their skill as miners is eloquently upheld by the mute witness of
age-old cinder-heaps by which are found the once busy bronze hammer and
the apparatus of the smelting-furnace, speaking of the slow but steady
smith-toil upon which the foundation of civilization arose. There was
scarcely a mineral beneath the loamy soil which masked the metalliferous
rock which they did not work. From Schönebeck to Dürkheim lies an
immense bed of salt, and this the Celtic population of the district dug
and condensed by aid of fires fed by huge logs cut from the giant trees
of the vast and mysterious forests which have from time immemorial
shadowed the whole existence of the German race. The salt, moulded or
cut into blocks, was transported to Gaul as an article of commerce. But
the Celts of the Rhine achieved distinction in other arts of life, for
their pottery, weapons, and jewellery will bear comparison with those of
prehistoric peoples in any part of Europe.

As has been remarked, at the dawn of history we find the Rhine Celts
everywhere in full retreat before the rude and more virile Teutons.
They lingered latterly about the Moselle and in the district of Eifel,
offering a desperate resistance to the onrushing hordes of Germanic
warriors. In all likelihood they were outnumbered, if not outmatched
in skill and valour, and they melted away before the savage ferocity of
their foes, probably seeking asylum with their kindred in Gaul.

Probably the Teutonic tribes had already commenced to apply pressure to
the Celtic inhabitants of Rhine-land in the fourth century before the
Christian era. As was their wont, they displaced the original possessors
of the soil as much by a process of infiltration as by direct conquest.
The waves of emigration seem to have come from Rhaetia and Pannonia,
broad-headed folk, who were in a somewhat lower condition of barbarism
than the race whose territory they usurped, restless, assertive, and
irritable. Says Beddoe:1

[Note 1: The Anthropological History of Europe, p. 100.]

“The mass of tall, blond, vigorous barbarians multiplied, seethed,
and fretted behind the barrier thus imposed. Tacitus and several other
classic authors speak of the remarkable uniformity in their appearance;
how they were all tall and handsome, with fierce blue eyes and yellow
hair. Humboldt remarks the tendency we all have to see only the
single type in a strange foreign people, and to shut our eyes to the
differences among them. Thus some of us think sheep all alike, but the
shepherd knows better; and many think all Chinamen are alike, whereas
they differ, in reality, quite as much as we do, or rather more. But
with respect to the ancient Germans, there certainly was among them one
very prevalent form of head, and even the varieties of feature which
occur among the Marcomans—for example, on Marcus Aurelius’ column—all
seem to oscillate round one central type.

The ‘Graverow’ Type

“This is the Graverow type of Ecker, the Hohberg type of His and
Rutimeyer, the Swiss anatomists. In it the head is long, narrow (say
from 70 to 76 in. breadth-index), as high or higher than it is broad,
with the upper part of the occiput very prominent, the forehead rather
high than broad, often dome-shaped, often receding, with prominent
brows, the nose long, narrow, and prominent, the cheek-bones narrow and
not prominent, the chin well marked, the mouth apt to be prominent in
women. In Germany persons with these characters have almost always light
eyes and hair.... This Graverow type is almost exclusively what is
found in the burying-places of the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries,
whether of the Alemanni, the Bavarians, the Franks, the Saxons, or the
Burgundians. Schetelig dug out a graveyard in Southern Spain which is
attributed to the Visigoths. Still the same harmonious elliptic form,
the same indices, breadth 73, height 74.”

Early German Society

Tacitus in his Germania gives a vivid if condensed picture of Teutonic
life in the latter part of the first century:

“The face of the country, though in some parts varied, presents a
cheerless scene, covered with the gloom of forests, or deformed with
wide-extended marshes; toward the boundaries of Gaul, moist and swampy;
on the side of Noricum and Pannonia, more exposed to the fury of the
winds. Vegetation thrives with sufficient vigour. The soil produces
grain, but is unkind to fruit-trees; well stocked with cattle, but of an
under-size, and deprived by nature of the usual growth and ornament of
the head. The pride of a German consists in the number of his flocks
and herds; they are his only riches, and in these he places his chief
delight. Gold and silver are withheld from them: is it by the favour or
the wrath of Heaven? I do not, however, mean to assert that in Germany
there are no veins of precious ore; for who has been a miner in these
regions? Certain it is they do not enjoy the possession and use of those
metals with our sensibility. There are, indeed, silver vessels to be
seen among them, but they were presents to their chiefs or ambassadors;
the Germans regard them in no better light than common earthenware.
It is, however, observable that near the borders of the empire the
inhabitants set a value upon gold and silver, finding them subservient
to the purposes of commerce. The Roman coin is known in those parts, and
some of our specie is not only current, but in request. In places more
remote the simplicity of ancient manners still prevails: commutation of
property is their only traffic. Where money passes in the way of barter
our old coin is the most acceptable, particularly that which is indented
at the edge, or stamped with the impression of a chariot and two horses,
called the Serrati and Bigati. Silver is preferred to gold, not from
caprice or fancy, but because the inferior metal is of more expeditious
use in the purchase of low-priced commodities.

Ancient German Weapons

“Iron does not abound in Germany, if we may judge from the weapons in
general use. Swords and large lances are seldom seen. The soldier
grasps his javelin, or, as it is called in their language, his fram—an
instrument tipped with a short and narrow piece of iron, sharply
pointed, and so commodious that, as occasion requires, he can manage
it in close engagement or in distant combat. With this and a shield the
cavalry are completely armed. The infantry have an addition of missive
weapons. Each man carries a considerable number, and being naked, or,
at least, not encumbered by his light mantle, he throws his weapon to a
distance almost incredible. A German pays no attention to the ornament
of his person; his shield is the object of his care, and this he
decorates with the liveliest colours. Breastplates are uncommon. In a
whole army you will not see more than one or two helmets. Their horses
have neither swiftness nor elegance, nor are they trained to the various
evolutions of the Roman cavalry. To advance in a direct line, or wheel
suddenly to the right, is the whole of their skill, and this they
perform in so compact a body that not one is thrown out of his rank.
According to the best estimate, the infantry comprise the national
strength, and, for that reason, always fight intermixed with the
cavalry. The flower of their youth, able by their vigour and activity
to keep pace with the movements of the horse, are selected for this
purpose, and placed in the front of the lines. The number of these is
fixed and certain: each canton sends a hundred, from that circumstance
called Hundreders by the army. The name was at first numerical only: it
is now a title of honour. Their order of battle presents the form of a
wedge. To give ground in the heat of action, provided you return to the
charge, is military skill, not fear or cowardice. In the most fierce and
obstinate engagement, even when the fortune of the day is doubtful, they
make it a point to carry off their slain. To abandon their shield is a
flagitious crime. The person guilty of it is interdicted from religious
rites and excluded from the assembly of the state. Many who survived
their honour on the day of battle have closed a life of ignominy by a
halter.”

Teutonic Customs

The kings of this rude but warlike folk were elected by the suffrages of
the nobility, and their leaders in battle, as was inevitable with such
a people, were chosen by reason of their personal prowess. The legal
functions were exercised by the priesthood, and punishments were thus
held to be sanctioned by the gods. Among this barbaric people the female
sex was held as absolutely sacred, the functions of wife and mother
being accounted among the highest possible to humanity, and we observe
in ancient accounts of the race that typically Teutonic conception of
the woman as seer or prophetess which so strongly colours early Germanic
literature. Women, indeed, in later times, when Christianity had
nominally conquered Paganism, remained as the sole conservators of the
ancient Teutonic magico-religious lore, and in the curtained recesses of
dark-timbered halls whiled away the white hours of winter by the painful
spelling out of runic characters and the practice of arts which they
were destined to convey from the priests of Odin and Thor to the witches
of medieval days.

Costume of the Early Teuton

The personal appearance of these barbarians was as rude and simple as
were their manners. Says Tacitus:

“The clothing in use is a loose mantle, made fast with a clasp, or, when
that cannot be had, with a thorn. Naked in other respects, they loiter
away whole days by the fireside. The rich wear a garment, not, indeed,
displayed and flowing, like the Parthians or the people of Sarmatia,
but drawn so tight that the form of the limbs is palpably expressed. The
skins of wild animals are also much in use. Near the frontier, on the
borders of the Rhine, the inhabitants wear them, but with an air of
neglect that shows them altogether indifferent about the choice, The
people who live more remote, near the northern seas, and have not
acquired by commerce a taste for new-fashioned apparel, are more curious
in the selection. They choose particular beasts and, having stripped
off the furs, clothe themselves with the spoil, decorated with
parti-coloured spots, or fragments taken from the skins of fish that
swim the ocean as yet unexplored by the Romans. In point of dress there
is no distinction between the sexes, except that the garment of the
women is frequently made of linen, adorned with purple stains, but
without sleeves, leaving the arms and part of the bosom uncovered.”

The Germanic Tribes

It is also from Tacitus that we glean what were the names and
descriptions of those tribes who occupied the territory adjacent to the
Rhine. The basin of the river between Strassburg and Mainz was inhabited
by the Tribacci, Nemetes, and Vangiones, further south by the Matiacci
near Wiesbaden, and the Ubii in the district of Cologne. Further north
lay the Sugambri, and the delta of the river in the Low Countries was
the seat of the brave Batavii, from whom came the bulk of the legions by
means of which Agricola obtained a footing in far Caledonia. Before the
Roman invasion of their territories these tribes were constantly engaged
in internecine warfare, a condition of affairs not to be marvelled at
when we learn that at their tribal councils the warrior regarded as
an inspired speaker was he who was most powerfully affected by the
potations in which all habitually indulged to an extent which seemed to
the cultured Roman as bestial in the last degree. The constant bearing
of arms, added to their frequent addiction to powerful liquors, also
seemed to render the Germanic warriors quarrelsome to excess, and to
provoke intertribal strife.

The Romans in the Rhine Country

Caesar is the first Roman writer to give us any historical data
concerning the peoples who inhabited the basin of the Rhine. He
conquered the tribes on the left bank, and was followed a generation or
so later by Augustus, who established numerous fortified posts on the
river. But the Romans never succeeded in obtaining a firm occupancy of
the right bank. Their chief object in colonizing the Rhine territory
was to form an effective barrier between themselves and the restless
barbarian tribes of the Teutonic North, the constant menace of whose
invasion lay as a canker at the heart of rich and fruitful Italy. With
the terror of a barbarian inroad ever before their eyes, the cohorts of
the Imperial City constructed a formidable vallum, or earthen wall, from
the vicinity of Linz to Regensburg, on the Danube, a distance of three
hundred and fifty miles, for the purpose of raising a barrier against
the advance of the warlike men of the North. They further planted a
colony of veterans in the Black Forest neighbourhood in order that
invasion might be resisted from that side. But as the Empire began to
exhibit signs of decadence the barbarians were quick to recognize the
symptoms of weakness in those who barred their advance to the wealthy
South, the objective of their dreams, hurled themselves against the
boundary, now rendered feeble by reason of the withdrawal of its most
experienced defenders, and, despite a stern resistance, flooded the rich
valleys of the Rhine, swamped the colonies on the left bank which had
imbibed Roman civilization, and made all wholly Teutonic.

The Rebellion of the Barbarians

This was, however, a process of years, and by no means a speedy
conquest. The closing years of Augustus’ reign were clouded by a general
rising of the Rhine peoples. Quintilius Varus, an officer who had been
entrusted with the government of the provinces beyond the Rhine, proved
totally unequal to curbing the bolder spirits among the Germans, who
under their chief, Arminius, boldly challenged the forces of this
short-sighted officer. Arminius belonged to the Cherusci. He had served
with the German horsemen in the Rhenish armies, and was conversant with
the Latin language. Observing that half, at least, of the Roman forces
were on leave, he incited the tribes of Lower Saxony to revolt. The weak
Varus, who had underestimated the influence of Arminius, attempted to
quell the rising, but without success, and the bank of the river was
the scene of a wholesale slaughter. Varus, completely losing his nerve,
attempted to separate the cavalry from the infantry and endeavoured to
escape with three squadrons of the former; but the Germans surrounded
them, and after a hand-to-hand struggle of three days the Roman army
was annihilated. The news of this disaster prompted the aged Emperor
to dispatch his son Tiberius to suppress what appeared to be a general
rising of the North. The Rhenish tribes, however, were too wary to meet
the powerful force now sent against them in the open field, and during
the remainder of the year Tiberius, left in peace, occupied himself in
strengthening the Rhine fortifications.

He was soon after recalled to Rome to assume the purple on the death of
Augustus. Germanicus, who had taken command of the legions on the Rhine,
became conscious of discontent among the soldiers, who threatened to
carry him into Rome and thrust him into the seat of empire. But he
soothed the passions of his soldiers by gifts and promises. A road was
opened from the Rhine into the German hinterland, and Germanicus led his
army into the heart of a country of which he knew but little to avenge
the disasters of the Varian legions. The forest folk eluded the invading
host, which now sought to return to headquarters; but ere they had
completed the journey they were assailed and suffered a severe reverse.

Numerous revolts occurred among the Gaulish legions in the service of
the Roman Empire in Germany. But the stubborn and trained resistance of
the Romans no less than the inexperience of the Gauls led to a cessation
of hostilities. The secret of Roman power in Rhenish territory lay in
the circumstance that the two great elements of German nationality, the
nobility and the priesthood, were becoming Romanized. But a rude culture
was beginning to blossom, and a desire arose among the barbarians for
unity. They wished to band themselves into a nation.

The Franks and Goths

The most dangerous enemies of Rome during the reigns of Valerian and
Gallienus were the Franks, the Alemanni, and the Goths, whose action
finally decided the conquest of the Rhenish provinces of Rome. The name
Frank, or Freedman, was given to a confederacy formed in A.D. 240 by the
old inhabitants of the Lower Rhine and the Weser. It consisted of the
Chauci, the Cherusci, and the Chatti, and of several other tribes of
greater or less renown. The Romans foresaw the power of this formidable
union and, by the presence of the Emperor himself and his son,
endeavoured to stem the invasion, which threatened their suzerainty. The
Franks, fond of liberty and imbued with a passion for conquest, crossed
the Rhine, in spite of its strong fortifications, and carried their
devastations to the foot of the Pyrenees. For twelve years Gallienus
attempted to stem the torrent thus freed.

The Alemanni, who belonged to the Upper Rhine, between the Main and the
Danube, were composed of many tribes, the most important of which
was the celebrated Suevi. This people, who had now become a permanent
nation, threatened the Empire with an invasion which was checked with
difficulty after they had fought their way to the gates of Rome itself.
In A.D. 271 Aurelian completely subdued the Rhenish peoples, numbers of
whom were dragged in his triumph through the streets of Rome; but after
his brief reign the old condition of things reasserted itself, until
Probus, who assumed the purple in 276, restored peace and order by the
construction of a massive wall between the Rhine and the Danube over two
hundred miles in length. The barbarians were driven beyond the river,
which had hitherto served as a boundary-line, even past the Elbe and the
Neckar. Finally, however, the internecine strife in the Imperial City
forced the Romans to return thence, and Rhineland was abandoned to the
will of its semi-barbarian inhabitants.

The early Christian centuries are full of the sound of conflict. In the
fourth century the principal tribes in Western Germany were the Franks
and the Alemanni, the former of whom maintained a constant strife with
the Saxons, who pressed heavily upon their rear. The Franks occupied the
lower portion of the river, near to its mouth, whilst the Alemanni dwelt
on the portion to the bounds of Helvetia and Switzerland. At this period
great racial upheavals appear to have been taking place further east.
By the beginning of the sixth century the Saxons seem to have penetrated
almost to the north-western Rhine, where the Franks were now supreme.

The Merovingians

In the middle of the fifth century arose the powerful dynasty of the
Merovingians, one of the most picturesque royal houses in the roll
of history. In their records we see the clash of barbarism with
advancement, the bizarre tints of a semi-civilization unequalled in rude
magnificence. Giant shadows of forgotten kings stalk across the canvas,
their royal purple intermingling with the shaggy fell of the bear
and wolf. One, Chilperic, a subtle grammarian and the inventor of new
alphabetic symbols, is yet the most implacable of his race, the murderer
of his wife, the heartless slayer of hundreds, to whom human life is as
that of cattle skilled in the administration of poison, a picturesque
cut-throat. Others are weaklings, fainéants; but one, the most dread
woman in Frankish history, Fredegonda, the queen of Chilperic, towers
above all in this masque of slaughter and treachery.

Tradition makes claim that Andernach was the cradle of the Merovingian
dynasty. In proof of this are shown the extensive ruins of the palace
of these ancient Frankish kings. Merovig, from whom the race derived
its name, was said to be the son of Clodio, but legend relates far
otherwise. In name and origin he was literally a child of the Rhine, his
father being a water-monster who seized the wife of Clodio while bathing
in that river. In time she gave birth to a child, more monster than man,
the spine being covered with bristles, fingers and toes webbed, eyes
covered with a film, and thighs and legs horny with large shining
scales. Clodio, though aware of the real paternity of this creature,
adopted it as his own son, as did King Minos in the case of the
Minotaur, giving him the name Merovig from his piscatory origin. On
Clodio’s death the demi-monster succeeded to the throne, and from him
sprang a long line of sovereigns, worthless and imbecile for the most
part.

Childeric, the son and successor of Merovig, enraged his people to such
a degree by his excesses that they drove him from throne and country.
One friend alone remained to him, Winomadus, who, having no female
relations to suffer by the king’s attentions, did not find the
friendship so irksome as others; indeed, had been a partner in his
licentious pleasures. He undertook to watch over the interests of
Childeric during his enforced absence in Thuringia at the court of
Basium, king of that country. The Franks had elected Aegidius, a Roman
general, to the sovereignty over them, but as he proved himself no
better than Childeric, whom they had deposed, they once more essayed
to choose another ruler. This was made known to Childeric through his
friend Winomadus. He rapidly returned to the shores of the Rhine and,
reinforcing his following as he proceeded on his march, appeared before
Andernach at the head of a formidable force, composed of many of his
former subjects, together with Thuringian auxiliaries. The people of
Andernach, unable to resist this overwhelming argument, again accepted
Childeric as their king.

Basina the Sorceress

While in Thuringia Childeric had seduced the affections of Basina, the
queen of his protector. When he regained his throne he induced her to
leave her husband, and made her his queen. Basina was a sorceress,
one who could divine the future and also bestow the gift upon others.
Through this she gained great influence over Childeric, who desired to
see and know what fate had in store for himself and his race. Basina
agreed to satisfy his curiosity, and one night, at the midnight hour,
they climbed together to the summit of the hill behind Andernach. There
she bade him stand and look out over the plain while she performed her
magical operations. After some lengthy incantations she bade him look
well and tell her what he saw.

In a trance-like voice the king replied:

“I see a great light upon the plain, although all around is blackest
night.”

He paused; then, at her bidding, proceeded again:

“I see an immense concourse of wild animals—the lion, the tiger,
the spotted pard, the elephant, the unicorn—ah! they are coming this
way—they will devour us!” and he turned to flee in great terror.

Basina bade him stay in peremptory tones and again to look out over the
plain. In a voice of alarm he cried out:

“I see bears and wolves, jackals and hyenas. Heaven help us, the others
are all gone!”

Heedless of his terror, the queen bade him look again and, for the last
time, tell her what he saw.

“I see now dogs and cats and little creatures of all kinds. But there is
one small animal—smaller than a mouse—who commands them all. Ah! he is
eating them up—swallowing them all—one after another.”

As he looked the light, the plain, the animals all vanished, and
darkness fell. Basina then read to him the meaning of his vision.

“The first vision you saw indicated the character of our immediate
successors. They will be as bold as lions, terrible as tigers, strong
as elephants, uncommon as unicorns, beautiful as the pard. These are the
men of an age; for a century shall they rule over the land.”

At this Childeric was delighted and ejaculated a fervent “Praise be to
the gods!”

“The second,” pursued Basina, “are the men of the following century—our
more remote descendants—rude as the bear, fell as the wolf, fawning as
the jackal, cruel as the hyena—the curse of their people and—themselves.
The last one—the following century—they will be weak, timid,
irresolute—the prey of every base and low thing, the victims of
violence, deceit, and cunning; vanquished and destroyed at last by the
smallest of their own subjects.”

Such was Childeric’s vision and his queen’s interpretation.

As she had predicted, the Merovingian dynasty lasted three hundred
years, when it was overturned by one Pepin of Heristal, the smallest man
of his day—at least, so tradition tells.

At the death of Clovis his sons split up the kingdom, and from that
epoch a deadly war was waged between the rival kingdoms of Neustria and
Austrasia, the west and the east.

The wars of Neustria and Austrasia (Ost Reich, the Eastern Kingdom,
which has, of course, no connexion with the modern Austria) are related
by Gregory of Tours in his Ecclesiastical History of the Franks, one of
the most brilliant pieces of historical and biographical writing to be
discovered among the literature of Europe in the Dark Ages. Metz was the
capital of this kingdom-province. Fredegonda, the queen of Chilperic of
Neustria, had a deadly blood-feud with her sister-in-law of Austrasia,
and in the event put her rival to death by having her torn asunder
by wild horses (A.D. 613). Later Austrasia became incorporated with
Franconia, which in 843 was included in the kingdom of Louis the German.

The Great Race of Charlemagne

The race of the Carolingians, whose greatest monarch was the famous
Charlemagne, or Karl der Grosse, sprang from a family of usurpers known
as the ‘Mayors of the Palace,’ who had snatched the crown from the rois
fainéants, the last weakly shoots of the mighty line of Merovig. He was
the elder son of Pepin the Short, and succeeded, on the death of his
father in A.D. 768, to a kingdom which extended from the Low Countries
to the borders of Spain. His whole life was one prolonged war undertaken
against the forces of paganism, the Moors of Spain who harassed his
borders to the south, and the restless Saxon tribes dwelling between
the Rhine, Weser, and Elbe. Innumerable are the legends and romances
concerning this great, wise, and politic monarch and statesman,
who, surrounding himself with warriors of prowess whom he called his
paladins, unquestionably kept the light of Christianity and civilization
burning in Western Europe. He was, however, quite as great a legislator
as a warrior, and founded schools and hospitals in every part of his
kingdom. He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 814, and was buried there.1

[Note 1: For numerous critical articles upon Charlemagne and the epics
or chansons des gestes connected with him see the author’s Dictionary of
Medieval Romance.]

The ‘Song of the Saxons’

One of the most stirring of the romances which tell of the wars of
Charlemagne in the Rhine country is the Song of the Saxons, fifth in
number of the Romans des Douze Pairs de France, and composed by Jean
Bodel, a poet of Artois, who flourished toward the middle of the
thirteenth century. Charles, sitting at table in Laon one Whitsuntide
with fourteen kings, receives news of an invasion of the Saxons, who
have taken Cologne, killed many Frankish nobles, and laid waste the
country. A racy epitome of the events which follow has been given
by Ludlow in his Popular Epics of the Middle Ages (1865) as follows:
“Charles invades Saxony, and reaches the banks of ‘Rune the Deep,’
beyond which lies Guiteclin’s palace of ‘Tremoigne’ (supposed to be
Dortmund, in Westphalia). The river is too deep to be crossed by the
army, although the two young knights, Baldwin and Berard, succeed in
doing so in quest of adventure. The Saxons will not attack, trusting
that the French will be destroyed by delay and the seasons. And, indeed,
after two years and four months, the barons represent to the Emperor
the sad plight of the host, and urge him to call upon the men of Herupe
(North-west France) for performance of their warlike service. This
is done accordingly, and the Herupe barons make all haste to their
sovereign’s aid, and come up just after the Saxons have made an
unsuccessful attack. They send to ask where they are to lodge their
troops. The Emperor points them laughingly to the other side of the
Rune, where float the silken banners of the Saxons, but says that any
of his men shall give up their camping-place to them. The Herupe men,
however, determine to take him at his word and, whilst the Archbishop
of Sens blesses the water, boldly fling themselves in and cross it, and
end, after a tremendous struggle, in taking up the quarters assigned to
them; but when he sees their prowess the Emperor recalls them to his own
side of the river.

“A bridge is built, the army passes over it, the Saxons are discomfited
in a great battle, and Guiteclin is killed in single combat by
Charlemagne himself.

“By this time the slender vein of historic truth which runs through the
poem may be considered as quite exhausted. Yet the real epic interest
of the work centres in its wholly apocryphal conclusion, connected
essentially with its purely romantic side.

“Sebile, the wife of Guiteclin, is a peerless beauty, wise withal and
courteous; ‘hair had she long and fair, more than the shining gold, a
brow polished and clear, eyes blue and laughing, a very well-made nose,
teeth small and white, a savourous mouth, more crimson than blood;
and in body and limbs so winning was she that God never made the man,
howsoever old and tottering, if he durst look at her, but was moved with
desire.’”

Fair Helissend, the daughter of the murdered Milo of Cologne, is her
captive at once and her favourite, and when the French host takes up its
position before the Rune, names and points out young Baldwin to her.

With her husband’s sanction, Sebile has her tent pitched on the bank,
and establishes herself there with her ladies to act as decoys to the
Franks; for “fair lady’s look makes men undertake folly.” She is taken,
however, in her own toils; falls in love with Baldwin one summer’s day
on seeing him ride forth with hawk on wrist, and makes Helissend invite
him over the river, under a very frank pledge that “she will be his,
for loss or gain.” Their first meeting apparently takes place in the
presence of Sebile’s ladies, and so little mystery is attached to their
love that, on Baldwin’s return to the Frank host after killing and
despoiling of his armour a Saxon chief, he not only tells his adventure
publicly to the Emperor, but the latter promises in a twelvemonth to
have him crowned king of the country and to give him Sebile for wife,
forbidding him, however, to cross the river any more—a command which
Baldwin hears without meaning to obey. Nay, when Baldwin has once broken
this injunction and escaped with great difficulty from the Saxons, the
Emperor imposes on him the brutal penance of entering Sebile’s tent to
kiss her in the sight of the Saxons, and bringing back her ring—which
Baldwin contrives to fulfil by putting on the armour of a Saxon knight
whom he kills. As in The Taking of Orange, it never seems to occur
to the poet that there can be any moral wrong in making love to a
“Saracen’s” wife, or in promising her hand in her husband’s lifetime;
and, strange to say, so benignant are these much-wronged paynim that
Guiteclin is not represented as offering or threatening the slightest
ill-treatment to his faithless queen, however wroth he may be against
her lover; nor, indeed, as having even the sense to make her pitch her
tent further from the bank. The drollest bit of sentimentality occurs,
however, after the victory of the Franks and Guiteclin’s death, when
Sebile is taken prisoner. After having been bestowed in marriage
on Baldwin by the Emperor, she asks one boon of both, which is that
Guiteclin’s body be sought for, lest the beasts should eat it—a request
the exceeding nobleness of which strikes the Emperor and the Frank
knights with astonishment. When the body is found and brought to Sebile,
“the water of her eyes falls down her chin. ‘Ha, Guiteclin,’ said she,
‘so gentle a man were you, liberal and free-spending, and of noble
witness! If in heaven and on earth Mahomet has no power, even to pray
Him who made Lazarus, I pray and request Him to have mercy on
thee.’” The dead man is then placed in a great marble tomb; Sebile
is christened, marries her lover, and is crowned with him as Queen of
Saxony, Helissend being in like manner given to Berard.

“It is now that the truly tragical part of the poem commences. Charles
and his host depart, the Emperor warning his nephew to be courteous,
loyal, and generous, to keep true faith to his wife, yet not to spend
too much time in her arms, but to beware of the Saxons. The caution is
needed, for already the two sons of Guiteclin, with one hundred thousand
Russians and Bulgarians, and the giant Ferabras of Russia, a personage
twelve feet high, with light hair plaited together, reddish beard, and
flattened face, are within a day and a half’s journey of ‘Tremoigne,’
burning to avenge Guiteclin. One Thursday morning their invasion is
announced to the young king, who has but fifteen thousand men to oppose
to them. Sebile embraces her husband’s knees, and entreats him to send
at once for help to his uncle; the barons whom he has called to counsel
favour her advice. ‘Barons,’ said Baldwin, ‘I should fear the dishonour
of it. It is too soon to seek and pray for succour. We have not yet
unhorsed knights, cut arms from bodies, made bowels trail; we are
fifteen thousand young men untried, who should buy our praise and our
honour, and seize and acquire strange lands, and kill and shame and
grieve our enemies, cleave the bright helmets, pierce the shields, break
and tear the hauberks of mail, shed blood and make brains to fly. To
me a pleasure it seems to put on hauberk, watch long nights, fast long
days. Let us go strike upon them without more delay, that we may be
able to govern this kingdom.’ The barons listen with an ill-will to this
speech; Baldwin himself, on viewing the paynim host, is staggered at
their numbers, and lets Sebile persuade him to send a messenger to his
uncle. However, with five thousand men he makes a vigorous attack on
the vanguard of the Saxons, consisting of twenty thousand, and ends
by putting them to flight. On the news of this repulse the two sons of
Guiteclin come out, apparently with the bulk of the army. The French
urge the young king to re-enter the city, but he refuses—Sebile would
hold him for a sleepy coward. He kills Ferabras, unhorses one of
Guiteclin’s sons. But the disparity of numbers is too great; the French
are obliged to retreat, and shut themselves up in the city.

“Meanwhile the messenger had reached Charlemagne at Cologne with the
news of the renewal of the war. Whilst all his barons are summoned,
the Emperor starts in haste himself for Saxony with ten thousand men.
Baldwin was seated in his tower, looking out upon a league of hostile
tents, complaining to Sebile, who ‘comforts him as a worthy lady,’
bidding him trust in his uncle’s succour. She is the first to descry
the French host and to point it out to her husband. ‘Ah, God!’ said
Charles’s nephew, ‘fair Father Creator, yet will I avenge me of the
pagan people.’ He goes down from his palace, and cries to his men, ‘Arm
ye, knights! Charles is returned.’

“The besieged prepare at once for a sally. Sebile places the helmet
on her husband’s head and kisses him, never to see him more alive.
The enemy are disarmed; three thousand of them are killed by the time
Baldwin cuts his way to his uncle, to whom, as his liege lord, he makes
complaint against the Saxons. The Emperor’s answer contains little but
philosophic comfort: ‘Fair nephew, so goes war; when your day comes,
know that you will die; your father died, you will not escape. Yonder
are your enemies, of whom you complain; I give you leave, go and strike
them.’ Uncle and nephew both perform wonders. But Berard is killed
by Feramor, one of Guiteclin’s sons, and the standard which he bore
disappears under him. Baldwin engages Feramor; each severely wounds the
other; the fight is so well contested that Baldwin offers to divide the
land with him if he will make peace. The Saxon spurns the offer, and is
killed.

“But ‘Baldwin is wounded in the breast grievously; from thence to the
spur his body is bloody.’ Saxons, Lusatians, Hungarians perceive that
his blows lessen and fall slow. ‘Montjoie!’ he cries many a time,
but the French hear him not. ‘When Baldwin sees that he will have no
succour, as a boar he defends himself with his sword.... Who should have
seen the proud countenance of the king, how he bears and defends himself
against the paynim, great pity should surely take his heart.’ Struck
with fifteen wounds, his horse killed under him, he offers battle on
foot. They dare not approach, but they fling their swords at him, and
then go and hide beneath a rock. Baldwin, feeling death approaching,
‘from the fair eyes of his head begins to weep’ for sorrow and rage. He
now addresses an elaborate last prayer to God; but whilst he is on
his knees, looking toward the East, a Saxon comes to cut off his head.
Baldwin, furious, seizes his sword, which had fallen from his hand
on the green grass, and with a last blow cleaves the Saxon to the
shoulders, then dies.

“The news is carried to the Emperor, who laments his ill fate. Rest
he has never had; the paynim folk have killed him the flower of his
friends, Roland at Roncevaux and now Baldwin. ‘Ha, God! send me death,
without making long delay!’ He draws his sword, and is about to kill
himself when Naymes of Bavaria restrains him and bids him avenge
his nephew’s death. The old man, however, exposes his life with such
recklessness, the struggle is so unequal, that Naymes himself has to
persuade him to leave the battle and enter the city until the Herupe
nobles come to his aid. ‘Dead is Count Roland and Count Oliver, and all
the twelve peers, who used to help in daunting that pride which makes us
bend so; no longer at your right hand is Baldwin the warrior; the paynim
have killed him and Berard the light; God has their souls.... If you are
killed ... in your death alone a hundred thousand will die.’

“They lead him away, unwilling, from the field. Baldwin’s corpse is
carried by him on his shield. Sebile comes to meet the Emperor and asks
of her husband. Charles bids her look at him. She faints to the ground.
There is true pathos (though somewhat wire-drawn) in her lament, when
she comes to herself:

“’Sir King Baldwin, for God’s sake, speak! I am your love, mistake me
not. If I have offended you in aught, it shall be made amends for wholly
to your pleasure; but speak to me. For you was my body baptized and
lifted; my heart leans on you, and all my affections, and if you fail
me, it will be ill done. Too soon it seems to me, if already you repent.
Baldwin, is it a trick? Are you deceiving me? Speak to me, friend, if
you can.... I see your garments dyed and bloody, but I do not believe
that you are killed; there is no man so bold or so outrageous who ever
could kill you; he durst not do so. But I think by such a will you wish
to try me, how I should behave if you were departed. Speak to me, for
God’s sake who was born of virgin, and for that lady who kept chastity,
and for the holy cross whereon Jesus suffered! Try me no more, friend,
it is enough; I shall die now if you tarry longer,’ ‘Naymes,’ says the
king, ‘take this lady away; if I see her grief any more, I shall go
mad.’

“That night he ate no bread nor drank wine, but had the city watched,
and rode the rounds himself, with helmet closed, his great buckler
hanging to his neck, his sword in his fist. All the night it rained and
blew; the water ran through the joints of his hauberk, and wetted his
ermine pelisse beneath. His beard swayed, whiter than flax, his long
moustache quivered; until dawn he lamented his nephew, and the twelve
peers, and all his next-of-kin who were dead. From the gate at morn a
Saxon, King Dyalas, defies the old man, swearing that he will wear his
crown in Paris. The Emperor has the gate opened, and sallies forth
to meet him. They engage in single combat; the old Emperor kills the
Saxon’s horse, disarms him, and only spares his life on condition of his
embracing Christianity and yielding himself prisoner.

“The rest of the poem has comparatively little interest. Old Naymes in
turn kills his man—a brother of Guiteclin—in single combat, Dyalas, the
Emperor’s new vassal, ‘armed in French fashion,’ performs wonders in
honour of his new allegiance. Finally the Herupese come up, and of
course overthrow the Saxons. An abbey is founded on the field of battle,
which Sebile enters; Dyalas, baptized as ‘Guiteclin the convert,’
receives charge of the kingdom, and the Emperor returns, bearing with
him the bodies of Baldwin and Berard; after which ‘well was France in
peace many a year and many a day; the Emperor found not any who should
make him wroth.’”

Fastrada: a Legend of Aix-la-Chapelle

Fastrada, we are told, was the fourth wife of the Emperor Charlemagne
and the best beloved. Historians have judged that the lady was by no
means worthy of the extraordinary affection bestowed upon her by her
husband, some maintaining that she practised the arts of sorcery,
others crediting her with political intrigues, and still others roundly
asserting that she was not so virtuous as she should have been.

History failing to account for Charlemagne’s devotion to his fourth
wife, the task has devolved upon tradition. Once upon a time (so runs
the tale), when Charlemagne dwelt at Zurich, he had a pillar erected
before his house, and on the top of the pillar a bell was placed, so
that any one desiring justice had but to ring it to be immediately
conducted before the Emperor, there to have his case considered.

One day, just as Charlemagne was about to dine, the bell was rung
loudly. He at once dispatched his attendants to bring the importunate
claimant into his presence. A moment later they re-entered with the
assurance that no one waited outside. Even as they spoke the bell rang
again, and again the attendants withdrew at the bidding of their royal
master. Once more they returned with the information that none was to
be seen. When the bell rang for the third time the Emperor himself rose
from the table and went outside to satisfy himself as to the ringer’s
identity. This time the mystery was solved; for twining round the pillar
was a great snake, which, before the astonished eyes of the Emperor and
his suite, was lustily pulling the bell-rope.

“Bring the snake before me,” said Charlemagne. “Whether to man or beast,
I may not refuse justice.”

Accordingly the snake was conducted with much ceremony into the
Emperor’s presence, where it was distinctly observed to make a low
obeisance. The Kaiser addressed the animal courteously, as though it
were a human being, and inquired what it wanted. Whereupon the snake
made a sign which the company took to indicate that it desired the
Emperor to follow it. Charlemagne did not hesitate, but followed the
creature to the shores of the lake, attended by all his courtiers.
Straight to its nest went the snake, and there, among the eggs, was an
enormous toad, puffing out its bloated body and staring with glassy eyes
at the company. The reason for the snake’s appeal was at once apparent.

“Take away that toad,” said the Emperor, as gravely as though he were
pronouncing judgment in an important human case; “take away that toad
and burn it. It has taken unlawful possession of the snake’s nest.”

The court listened to the Emperor’s decree in respectful silence, and
immediately carried out the sentence. The company thereupon re-entered
the royal abode, and thought no more of the incident.

On the following day, however, at about the same hour, the serpent
entered the chamber in which Charlemagne sat, and glided swiftly toward
the table. The attendants were somewhat astonished at the unexpected
appearance, but the Kaiser motioned to them to stand aside, for he was
very curious to see what the reptile would do. Raising itself till
its head was on a level with the table, it dropped into his plate a
magnificent diamond of the first water, gleaming with the purest light.
This done, the serpent bowed low, as on the previous occasion, and
quitted the room as silently as it had entered.

The diamond, set in a gold ring of exquisite workmanship, Charlemagne
presented to his wife, the beautiful Fastrada. But besides being a thing
of beauty and of great value, the diamond was also a charm, for
whoever received it from another received with it a wealth of personal
affection. So was it with Charlemagne and Fastrada. On presenting the
ring to his wife the Emperor straightway conceived for her a passion far
more intense than he had hitherto experienced. From that time to the day
of her death he was her devoted slave, blind and deaf to all her faults.
Nay, even when she died, he refused to quit the room in which she lay,
or permit the interment of her body; refused to see the approach of
corruption, which spares not youth or loveliness; seemed, in short, to
have lost all count of the passage of time in his grief for the beloved
Fastrada. At length he was approached by Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims,
who had learnt, by occult means, the reason for the Emperor’s strange
infatuation. Going up to the dead Empress, he withdrew from her mouth a
large diamond. At the same moment Charlemagne regained his senses, made
arrangements for the burial of his wife, and left for the Castle of
Frankenstein.

The possessor of the ring was now the worthy archbishop, and to him the
magically inspired affections of Charlemagne were transferred, much to
the good man’s annoyance. To rid himself of the unwelcome attentions
and fulsome flatteries of his sovereign, he cast the ring into the lake
which surrounded the castle. Once more the Emperor’s affections changed
their object, and this time it was the town of Aix-la-Chapelle with
which he fell in love, and for which he retained a firm attachment all
through his life, finally directing that he should be buried there. And
so he was laid to rest in that wondrous old town in the church of St.
Mary. In the year 1000 his tomb was opened by the Emperor Otto III, but
the account that Otto found the body seated upon a throne with crown
on head and sceptre in hand is generally regarded as legendary. The
sarcophagus was once more opened by Frederick I in 1165, when the
remains were transferred from the princely marble where they had
hitherto rested and placed in a wooden coffin. Fifty years later,
however, Frederick II had them placed in a splendid shrine. The original
sarcophagus may still be seen at Aix, and the royal relics are exhibited
every six years.

Louis, Charlemagne’s son, lived to see the division of his Empire,
brought about through his own weakness. His fair provinces were ravaged
by the Danes and the Normans. Teuton and Frank were now for ever
separated. Twice during Louis’ reign his own sons dethroned him, but on
his death in 840 the Empire became more firmly established.

Lothair I (840-855) succeeded to the imperial title, while Germany fell
to the lot of his brother Louis. Charles the Bald ruled over France.
Lothair’s portion was limited to Lorraine, Burgundy, Switzerland, and
Italy. Civil strife broke out, but Louis retained the whole of Germany
with the provinces on the left bank of the Rhine. Louis II (856-875)
ascended the throne as Roman Emperor, but died without any male issue,
while Charles the Fat, who succeeded him, was removed from the throne by
order of the Church on account of his insanity.

With Charles ended the Carolingian dynasty. From the death of the
illustrious Charlemagne the race had gradually but surely declined.
After the removal of Charles the Fat there came a lapse of seventy-four
years. Conrad I (911-919) founded the Gascon dynasty of Germany, and
was succeeded by Henry the Fowler (919-936). His son, Otto I, called the
Great (936-973), was crowned Roman Emperor in 962. In 936 his elevation
to the Germanic kingdom was a popular one. A portion of Gaul to the west
of the Rhine along the banks of the Meuse and the Moselle was ceded to
the Germans. Otto’s supremacy between the Rhine, the Rhone, and the Alps
was acquired and held for his successors. With the sword he propagated
Christianity, subdued Italy, and delivered the Pope from his enemies,
who, to show his appreciation, invested him with the imperial title,
which ever after belonged to the Germanic nation. The German Emperors,
however, still continued to exercise the right of electing the Pope,
thereby reducing the Roman Church to a level of servitude.

Toward the close of the Carolingian dynasty France and Germany had
become irrevocably detached; both nations suffered from internecine
wars. The Slavonians penetrated into the Empire, even to the banks of
the Rhine. Feudal princes began to make war upon each other, and, within
their respective districts, were virtual sovereigns.

At the partition of the domains of Charlemagne in A.D. 843 the
Rhine formed the boundary between Germany and the middle kingdom of
Lotharingia, but by 870 the latter had been absorbed by the larger
country. For a period verging upon eight hundred years it remained the
frontier of the German Empire. In the early Middle Ages the heritage of
the ancient Roman civilization rendered it the most cultured portion of
Germany. By the time of Otto I (died 973) both banks of the Rhine had
become German, and the Rhenish territory was divided between the duchies
of Upper and Lower Lorraine, the one on the Moselle and the other on the
Meuse. But, like other German states, on the weakening of the central
power they split up into numerous petty independent principalities, each
with its special history.

The Palatinate

Chief among these was the state known as the Palatinate, from the German
word Pfalz, a name given generally to any district ruled by a count
palatine. It was bounded by Prussia on the north, on the east by Baden,
and on the south by Alsace-Lorraine. We first hear of a royal official
known as the Count Palatine of the Rhine in the tenth century. Although
the office was not originally an hereditary one, it seems to have been
held by the descendants of the first count, until the continuity of the
race of Hermann was broken by the election of Conrad, stepbrother of
the German king Frederick I, as Count Palatine. From that time till much
later in German history the Palatinate of the Rhine appears to have
been gifted during their lifetime to the nephews or sons-in-law of
the reigning Emperor, and by virtue of his occupancy of the office the
holder became an Elector, or voter in the election of an Emperor. The
office was held by a large number of able and statesmanlike princes, as
Frederick I, Frederick III, the champion of Protestantism, and Frederick
V. In the seventeenth century the Palatinate was first devastated and
then claimed by France, and later was disturbed by still more harassing
religious strife. In 1777 it was united with Bavaria upon the reigning
Elector falling heir to the Electorate of that state.

A Tale of the Palatine House

Throughout the Middle Ages the nobles of Rhineland were mostly notorious
for their wild savagery and predatory habits, and thus the modern
traveller on the famous river, admiring the many picturesque castles
built on summits overlooking its banks, is prone to think of these
places as having been the homes of men who were little better than
freebooters. And in general this idea is just; yet Walter Pater’s
story, Duke Karl of Rosenwald—which tells how a medieval German baron
discovered in himself a keen love of art, and sought to gather artists
round him from France and Italy—may well have been culled from a
veracious historical source. For at least a few of the German petty
princes of the Middle Ages shared the aestheticism characterizing so
many of their contemporaries among the noblemen of the Latin races, and
it is interesting to find that among the old German courts where art
was loved in this isolated fashion was that of the Palatine house, which
ultimately became related by marriage to the Royal Stuarts, a dynasty as
eminently artistic as the Medicis themselves.

This Palatine house was regnant for many generations at Heidelberg
Castle, and there, at a remote medieval date, reigned a prince named
Louis III, who esteemed literature and painting. A fond parent he was
besides, devoted to his two sons, the elder called Louis and the younger
Frederick; and from the outset he attended carefully to the education of
the pair, choosing as their tutor a noted scholar, one Kenmat, while
he allowed this tutor’s daughter Eugenia to be taught along with the
princely pupils, and he also admitted to the group an Italian boy,
Rafaello. These four children grew up together, and the Palatine prince
was pleased to mark that Frederick, though full of martial ardour,
showed intellectual tastes as well; yet the father did not live long to
watch the growth of the boy’s predilection therein, and there came a day
when the crown of Louis III was acquired by his heir, Louis IV. Still
quite young, the latter was already affianced to Margaret of Savoy; and
this engagement had incensed various nobles of the Rhine, especially
the Count of Luzenstein. He was eager that his own house should become
affiliated with the Palatinate, and while he knew that there was little
hope of frustrating Louis’ prospective wedding, this did not nullify his
ambitions. For was it not possible that the marriage might prove without
issue? And, as that would ultimately set Frederick on the Palatine
throne, Luzenstein determined that his daughter Leonora should wed the
younger of the two princes. She herself was equally eager for the union,
and though the affair was not definitely arranged in the meantime, it
was widely understood that at no very distant date Leonora’s betrothal
would be announced.

At length there came a day when the noblesse of the Rhine assembled at
Heidelberg to celebrate the nuptials of Louis and Margaret. For a space
the rejoicings went forward merrily, but, as Louis scanned the faces of
his guests, he was surprised to find that Frederick was absent. Why was
this? he mused; and going in search he soon found his brother in one of
the smaller rooms of the castle, attended by Rafaello. Now the latter,
who was developing a rare gift for sculpture, had lately made a statue
to decorate this room; and on Louis entering Frederick was gazing with
passionate fondness at this new work of art. Louis was straightway
called upon to observe its loveliness, and even as Frederick was
descanting thus, a number of the guests who had remarked their host’s
temporary absence trooped into the room, among them being Leonora of
Luzenstein. She was in ill-temper, for Frederick had not so much as
troubled to salute her on her arrival; and now, finding him deep in
admiration of a statue, its subject a beautiful girl, her rancour
deepened apace. But who was the girl? she wondered; and as divers other
guests were also inquisitive on this head, it soon transpired that
Rafaello’s model had been Eugenia. Leonora knew that this girl had been
Frederick’s playmate in youth, so her wrath turned to fierce malice, for
she suspected that in Eugenia she had a rival who might wreck all hopes
of the Luzensteins becoming united to the Palatine house.

But Frederick regarded Eugenia only as a sister. He knew that she and
the sculptor who had hewn her likeness loved one another, and he longed
to see their union brought about, his genuine affection for the young
Italian being the greater on account of Rafaello’s blossoming talents
as an artist. Leonora, however, knew nothing of the real situation;
she fancied she had been insulted, and demanding of her father that he
should cease all negotiations regarding Frederick’s suggested engagement
to her, she proceeded to take stronger measures. Readers of Sir Walter
Scott’s Anne of Geierstein will recall the Vehmgericht, that ‘Secret
Tribunal’ whose deeds were notorious in medieval Germany, and it chanced
that the Luzensteins were in touch with this body. Its minions were
called upon to wreak vengeance on the younger Palatine prince. On
several occasions his life was attempted, and once he would certainly
have been killed had not Rafaello succoured him in the hour of need.

Meanwhile a son was born to Louis, and in celebration of the event a
tourney was held at Heidelberg, competitors coming from far and near,
all of them eager to win the golden sword which was promised to the man
who should prove champion. One after another they rode into the lists,
Frederick being among the number; and as each presented himself his name
was called aloud by the herald. At length there came one of whom this
functionary cried, “This is a nameless knight who bears a plain shield”;
and at these words a murmur of disapproval rose from the crowd, while
everyone looked up to where Louis sat, awaiting his verdict on the
matter. But he signified that the mysterious aspirant should be allowed
to show his prowess, and a minute later, all who were to take part
being now assembled, Frederick and another competitor were stationed at
opposite ends of the lists, and the signal given them to charge. Forward
thundered their steeds, a fierce combat ensued; but Frederick proved
victor, and so another warrior came forward to meet him. He, too, was
worsted, and soon it appeared as though the young Palatine prince
would surely win the coveted golden sword; for foeman after foeman
he vanquished, and eventually only two remained to confront him—the
nameless knight and another who had entered the lists under a strange,
though less suspicious, pseudonym. The latter expressed his desire to
fight last of all, and so the nameless one galloped toward Frederick,
and their lances clashed together. The Palatine prince bore his
adversary to the ground, apparently conquering him with complete ease;
and fearing he had wounded him mortally, Frederick dismounted with
intent to succour him. But the speedy fall had been a feint, and as
the victor bent down the mysterious knight suddenly drew a dagger, with
intent to plunge it into the prince’s heart. So stealthy a deed was
unknown in the history of the tourney. The crowd gazed as though
petrified, and Frederick’s life would doubtless have been lost—for he
was weak after his many joustings—had not he who had asked to fight last
of all galloped forward instantly on marking the drawn weapon and driven
his lance into the body of the would-be murderer!

It was Rafaello who had rescued the Palatine prince once again, and it
was a member of the Luzenstein house who had sought to kill him thus.
A crafty device in truth, and thenceforth the name of Luzenstein became
abhorred throughout all Rhineland, while the brave Italian was honoured
by knighthood, and arrangements were made for his speedy union with
Eugenia. But, alas! the fates were untoward; for the ‘Secret Tribunal,’
having been baulked again and again, began to direct their schemes
against the sculptor instead of his patron; and one evening, as Rafaello
was walking with his beloved one, a band of villains attacked and
murdered the pair. They were buried together at a place known for many
centuries after as ‘The Lovers’ Grave,’ and here Frederick used to
loiter often, musing fondly on the dear sister who had been snatched
from him in this ruthless fashion, and dreaming of the lofty artistic
career which he had planned in vain for his beloved Rafaello.

Bishops, Barons, and Bourgeois

To trace the fortunes, divisions, and junctions of the lesser Rhine
principalities would be a work requiring a world of patience on the part
of the reader as well as an amount of space which would speedily surpass
the limits even of such an ample volume as the present. The constant
changes of boundary of these tiny lordships, the hazy character of the
powers possessed by their rulers, the multiplicity of free townships
yielding obedience to none but their own civic rulers, the brief but
none the less tyrannous rule of scores of robber barons who exercised
a régime of blood and iron within a radius of five miles of their
castellated eyries, render the tracing of the history of the Rhine
during the Middle Ages a task of almost unequalled complexity, robbed
of all the romance of history by reason of the necessity for constant
attention to the details of dynastic and territorial changes and the
petty squabblings and dreary scufflings of savage barons with their
neighbours or with the scarcely less brutal ecclesiastical dignitaries,
who, joining with gusto in the general mêlée of land-snatching, served
to swell the tumult with their loud-voiced claims for land and lordship.
Three of the Electors of Franconia, within the boundaries of which the
Palatinate was included, were archbishops, and these were foremost in
all dynastic and territorial bickerings.

The growth of German municipalities since the days of their founder,
Henry the Fowler, was not without effect upon the Empire. Distinctions
of class were modified. The freeman became empowered to reserve to
himself the right of going to war along with his lord. Imperial cities
began to spring up; these were governed by a lieutenant of the Emperor,
or by their own chief magistrate. They achieved confederation, thus
guarding themselves against imperial and feudal encroachments. The
‘League of the Rhine’ and that of the Hanse Towns emerged as the fruit
of this policy. The latter federation consisted of about four-score
cities of Germany which under their charter enjoyed a commercial
monopoly. This example succeeded so well that its promoter, Lübeck, had
the satisfaction of seeing all cities between the Rhine and the Vistula
thus connected. The clergy, jealous of this municipal power, besought
the Emperor to repress the magistrates who had been called into being
by the people, and who were closely allied to this commercial
confederation. But the monarch advised the prelates to return to their
churches lest their opulent friends became their enemies.

The Rhine Hanse Towns

The influence of the Hanseatic League of the Rhine district in the
fourteenth century extended over the whole commercial radius of Germany,
Prussia, Russia, the Netherlands, and Britain. It opened up new fields
of commerce, manufacture, and industry. It paved the way for culture,
it subdued the piracy which had existed in the Baltic, and it promoted
a universal peace. On the other hand, it created jealousy; it boycotted
the honest manufacturer and merchant who did not belong to the League,
and fostered luxury in the Rhenish cities, which did much to sap the
sturdy character of the people. The celebrity which many of these
municipalities attained through their magnificence can be gathered from
the historic buildings of Worms, Spires, Frankfort, Cologne, Augsburg,
and Nuremberg. The splendour of these edifices and the munificence of
their wealthy inhabitants could only be equalled in the maritime regions
of Italy. But in the fifteenth century the power of the League began to
decline. The Russian towns, under the leadership of Novgorod the Great,
commenced a crusade against the Hanse Towns’ monopoly in that country.
The general rising in England, which was one of the great warehouses,
under Henry VI and Edward IV reflected upon them. The Netherlands
followed England’s example. In the seventeenth century their existence
was confined to three German towns—Lübeck, Hamburg, and Bremen. These
no longer had the power to exercise their influence over the nation, and
soon the League dropped out of existence.

The Thirty Years’ War

The protracted struggle known as the Thirty Years’ War was most
prejudicial to the interests of the Rhine valley, which was overrun by
the troops of the several nationalities engaged. One phase of this most
disastrous struggle—the War of the Palatinate—carried the rapine and
slaughter to the banks of the Rhine, where, as has been said, they
were long remembered. During the reign of Ferdinand III (1637-1659) a
vigorous and protracted war broke out between France and Germany, the
former assisted by her ally Sweden. Germany, seeing that unless peace
were restored her ruin as a great power would be inevitable, entered
into negotiations with France, and in 1648 the claims of France
and Sweden were settled by the Peace of Westphalia. This treaty is
particularly notable in the present instance because it gave to the
former country the footing on the Rhine already mentioned as the
beginning of French encroachments. Germany was forced to give up Alsace,
on the left bank of the river. France, by the seizure of Strassburg,
confirmed by the Treaty of Ryswick in 1695, extended her boundaries
to the Rhine. At the beginning of the French Revolution Leopold II of
Germany and other German monarchs agreed to support the cause of French
royalty, a resolution which was disastrous to the Empire. In 1795
Prussia, for political reasons, withdrew from the struggle, ceding to
France, in the terms of the Treaty of Basel, all her possessions on the
left bank of the Rhine. In 1799 war again broke out; but in 1801 the
Treaty of Lunéville gave to France the whole of the left bank of the
river. Thus the historic stream became the boundary between France and
Germany. In 1806 the humiliation of the latter country was complete, for
in that year a number of German princes joined the Confederation of
the Rhine, thus allying themselves with France and repudiating their
allegiance to the Empire. In 1815, at the Congress of Vienna, the whole
of the Lower Rhenish district was restored to Prussia, while Bavaria,
a separate state, was put in possession of the greater part of the
Palatinate on the left bank of the Rhine.

From that time onward the German national spirit flourished, but the
future of the Empire was uncertain till its fate was decided by the
Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71. In the great hall of the Palace of
Versailles in 1871 William I, King of Prussia, proclaimed, in the hour
of victory, the restoration of the confederated German Empire. The
French forfeited their Rhenish provinces, and once more the Rhine was
restored to Germany.

That the Thirty Years’ War did not fail to linger in the folk-memory is
evidenced by the following gruesome legend of Oppenheim:

The Battle of Skeletons

The smoke and terror of the great struggle had surged over Oppenheim.
A battle had been fought there, and the Swedes and Spaniards who had
contested the field and had been slain lay buried in the old churchyard
hard by the confines of the town. At least many had been granted the
right of sepulture there, but in a number of cases the hasty manner in
which their corpses had received burial was all too noticeable, and a
stranger visiting the churchyard confines years after the combat could
not fail to be struck by the many uncoffined human relics which met his
gaze.

But an artist who had journeyed from far to see the summer’s sun upon
the Rhine water, and who came to Oppenheim in the golden dusk, was too
intent on the search for beauty to remember the grisly reputation of the
town. Moreover, on entering the place the first person by whom he had
been greeted was a beautiful young maiden, daughter of the innkeeper,
who modestly shrank back on hearing his confident tones and, curtsying
prettily, replied to his questions in something like a whisper.

“Can you recommend me to a comfortable hostelry, my pretty maid, where
the wine is good and the company jovial?”

“If the Herr can put up with a village inn, that of my father is as good
as any in the place,” replied the maid.

“Good, my pretty,” cried the bold painter, sending the ready blood to
her face with a glance from his bright black eyes. “Lead the way, and I
will follow. Or, better still, walk with me.”

By the time they had reached the inn they felt like old friends. The
girl had skilfully but simply discovered the reason for the young
artist’s sojourn in Oppenheim, and with glowing face and eyes that
had grown brighter with excitement, she clasped her hands together and
cried: “Oh, the Herr must paint my beloved Oppenheim. There is no such
place by moonlight, believe me, and you will be amply repaid by a visit
to the ruins of the old church to-night. See, a pale and splendid moon
has already risen, and will light your work as the sun never could.”

“As you ask me so prettily, Fräulein, I shall paint your beloved abbey,”
he replied. “But why not in sunlight, with your own sweet face in the
foreground?”

“No, no,” cried the girl hastily. “That would rob the scene of all its
romance.”

“As you will,” said the artist. “But this, I take it, is your father’s
inn, and I am ready for supper. Afterward—well, we shall see!”

Supper over, the painter sat for some time over his pipe and his wine,
and then, gathering together his sketching impedimenta, quitted the inn
and took his way toward the ruins of Oppenheim’s ancient abbey. It was
a calm, windless night, and the silver moon sailed high in the heavens.
Not a sound broke the silence as the young man entered the churchyard.
Seating himself upon a flat tombstone, he proceeded to arrange his
canvas and sketching materials; but as he was busied thus his foot
struck something hard. Bending down to remove the obstacle, which he
took for a large stone, he found, to his horror, that it was a human
skull. With an ejaculation he cast the horrid relic away from him,
and to divert his mind from the grisly incident commenced to work
feverishly. Speedily his buoyant mind cast off the gloomy train of
thought awakened by the dreadful find, and for nearly a couple of hours
he sat sketching steadily, until he was suddenly startled to hear the
clock in the tower above him strike the hour of midnight.

He was gathering his things preparatory to departure, when a strange
rustling sound attracted his attention. Raising his eyes from his
task, he beheld a sight which made his flesh creep. The exposed and
half-buried bones of the dead warriors which littered the surface of the
churchyard drew together and formed skeletons. These reared themselves
from the graves and stood upright, and as they did so formed grisly
and dreadful battalions—Swedes formed with Swedes and Spaniards with
Spaniards. On a sudden hoarse words of command rang out on the midnight
air, and the two companies attacked one another.

The luckless beholder of the dreadful scene felt the warm blood grow
chill within his veins. Hotter and hotter became the fray, and many
skeletons sank to the ground as though slain in battle. One of them, he
whose skull the artist had kicked, sank down at the young man’s feet. In
a hollow voice he commanded the youth to tell to the world how they were
forced to combat each other because they had been enemies in life, and
that they could obtain no rest until they had been buried.

Directly the clock struck one the battle ceased, and the bones once more
lay about in disorder. The artist (who, it need hardly be said, gave no
more thought to his picture) hastened back to the inn and in faltering
accents related his experiences. When the Seven Years’ War broke out,
not long afterward, the people of Oppenheim declared that the apparition
of the skeletons had foretold the event.

The Robbers of the Rhine

For many hundreds of years the valley of the Rhine itself, and the
various valleys adjacent, were the haunt of numerous bodies of rapacious
and desperate banditti. The rugged, mountainous nature of the country
naturally made lawlessness the more easy there, and till so late as
the beginning of the nineteenth century these gangs of robbers were a
constant menace to the traveller in Rhineland. At the time of the French
Revolution, indeed, and for some decades thereafter, the district was
literally infested with thieves; for the unsettled state of Europe at
this date perforce tended to bring desperadoes from far and near, and
for a while the inhabitants of the different villages on the banks of
the Rhine endured a veritable reign of terror.

But almost from the outset the brigands realized that they would soon be
undone if they grew too numerous. They knew that, in that event, strong
military measures would probably be taken against them; so they made
every effort to practise that union which is proverbially strength,
and to prevent the enlisting in their ranks of anyone likely to prove
cowardly or perfidious. In some cases, too, they actually had a well
and capably organized system whereby one of their number could escape
quickly, if need be, from the scene of his crime; for, like the
French prisoners described in Stevenson’s St. Ives, they had a line of
sanctuaries extending perhaps into Austria or Italy, the retreat in most
instances being an inn whose keeper was sworn to hide and protect
his robber guest at all costs. In short, there was honour among these
thieves, and even a certain spirit of freemasonry; while, more important
still, the captain of a band was very often in league with the few
police officials of the neighbourhood.

The great highwaymen of Stuart and Georgian England—for example, that
gallant Beau Brocade of whom Mr. Austin Dobson writes—were mostly
content with waylaying a chance passer-by; while their contemporaries
in France usually worked on this principle also, as witness the deeds of
the band who figure in Théophile Gautier’s story Le Capitaine Fracasse.
But the robbers of the Rhine were of different mettle from these, and
often it was almost a predatory warfare rather than mere brigandage
which they carried on. Frequently they had an agent in each of the
villages on the river, this agent being usually a member of the
scattered remnant of Israel; and the business of this person was to
discover a house containing especial wealth, and then to inform the
robbers accordingly. Having gleaned the requisite information in this
wise, the gang would sally down from the mountains at dead of night; and
it was customary, as they drew near to their prey, for the captain
to call his henchmen to attention and see that each was ready for the
imminent fray. Then, having gagged the village watchman and muffled his
bell, they would proceed to surround the house they intended to rifle,
and, should resistance be offered, to batter in the door with a log or
other instrument. Sometimes it would transpire that the Jewish agent had
misinformed them, telling them of booty where booty there was little,
and woe betide him should this prove the state of affairs. Moreover,
unlike the brigands in Gil Blas, these scoundrels of the Rhine would not
be encumbered by prisoners, and they were wont to slay outright all who
were minded to show fight.

Yet to their own brotherhood the robbers were invariably loyal, seldom
failing to carry away with them such of their confrères as were wounded
in the assault; for each was sworn to support his fellows under all
circumstances, and awful was the fate of the marauder who violated this
compact. It is told of a band commanded by one Picard, a cruel but brave
leader, that one of its members chanced to be captured, and with a view
to purchasing his freedom he gave information about the whereabouts of
his chief. The next night, as the captive lay in his dungeon, a masked
face suddenly appeared at the barred window, and in awestruck tones the
prisoner asked the new-comer to declare his identity. “I am Picard, your
captain,” came the answer. “As in duty bound, I have risked my life to
set you free,” and having spoken thus, he proceeded to file through one
of the bars, which being accomplished, the reprobate was drawn out of
his cell by the aid of a rope. He breathed freely now, finding himself
once more among some of his old comrades, but a moment later Picard
addressed him again. “Traitor,” he snarled, “do not think that your
perfidy has failed to reach our ears; you must pay the full penalty.”

“Mercy,” cried the unfortunate one; “at least let me die in action. Lead
on against some foe, and let me fall at their hands.”

“Cowards,” retorted Picard, “deserve no such gallant fate,” and with
these words he drove his sword deep into the heart of the traitor.

In general it was a point of honour among these bandits that none should
reveal to a woman anything about the doings of his band, and one story
relates how a young brigand, on the eve of setting out on his first
predatory expedition, was rash enough to inform his sweetheart whither
he and his mates were bound. Their commander was a Captain Jikjak,
reputed something of a wit; and betimes, after the brigands had marched
forward silently for a while, this worthy called upon them to halt. They
imagined it was but the usual inspection of arms which was about to
take place, but Jikjak, speaking in stentorian tones, told them that
a traitor was in their midst, and pointing to the culprit, he bade him
step forth. The young man pled his youth as an excuse for his fault, and
he told the captain that, could he but get a chance to show his prowess
once, they would soon see that he was as gallant a robber as any of
them. But Jikjak laughed scornfully, saying he was anxious to find out
which was stronger, the young man’s legs or a pair of trees. The culprit
quailed on hearing the verdict, and implored a less ghastly fate; but
Jikjak was obdurate, and smiling blandly, he bade his followers bend a
couple of stout branches to the ground and tie their tops to the ankles
of the offender....

Such, then, were the robbers of the Rhine, and such the code of honour
which existed among them. A romantic institution they no doubt were,
yet it was a form of picturesqueness whose disappearance can scarcely be
regretted.





CHAPTER II—THE RHINE IN FOLKLORE AND LITERATURE

Affinities of the Rhine Legends

A close perusal of the body of tradition known as the legends of the
Rhine displays one circumstance which is calculated to surprise
the collector of these narratives not a little. It is generally
represented—probably through ignorance of the real circumstances—that
these tales abound in the matter of folklore. This is, however, by no
means the case, and even a superficial examination of them will prove
most of them to be allied to the matter of romance in a much more
intimate way than they approach that of folklore. But this is not so
as regards all of them, and it will be interesting to look into the
character of those which present folklore affinities, whilst leaving
the consideration of their romantic aspect for a later portion of this
chapter.

By right of precedence, among the legends of the Rhine which possess
folklore characteristics is the wonderful legend of the Lorelei, a word
derived from the old High German lur, to lurk, and lai, a rock. The
height from which the bewitching water-spirit sent her song floating
over the waves of the Rhine is situated near St. Goar, and possesses a
remarkable echo which may partly account for the legend.

The Lorelei

Many are the legends which cluster round the name of the Lorelei. In
some of the earlier traditions she is represented as an undine, combing
her hair on the Lorelei-berg and singing bewitching strains wherewith
to lure mariners to their death, and one such legend relates how an old
soldier named Diether undertook to capture her.

Graf Ludwig, son of the Prince Palatine, had been caught in her toils,
his frail barque wrecked, and he himself caught in the whirlpool and
drowned. The prince, grievously stricken at the melancholy occurrence,
longed to avenge his son’s death on the evil enchantress who had wrought
such havoc. Among his retainers there was but one who would undertake
the venture—a captain of the guard named Diether—and the sole reward he
craved was permission to cast the Lorelei into the depths she haunted
should he succeed in capturing her.

Diether and his little band of warriors ascended the Lorelei’s rock in
such a way as to cut off all retreat on the landward side. Just as they
reached the summit the moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and behold,
the spirit of the whirlpool was seen sitting on the very verge of the
precipice, binding her wet hair with a band of gleaming jewels.

“What wouldst thou with me?” she cried, starting to her feet.

“To cast thee into the Rhine, sorceress,” said Diether roughly, “where
thou hast drowned our prince.”

“Nay,” returned the maid, “I drowned him not. ’Twas his own folly which
cost him his life.”

As she stood on the brink of the precipice, her lips smiling, her eyes
gleaming softly, her wet dark hair streaming over her shoulders, some
strange, unearthly quality in her beauty, a potent spell fell upon the
little company, so that even Diether himself could neither move nor
speak.

“And wouldst thou cast me in the Rhine, Diether?” she pursued, smiling
at the helpless warrior. “’Tis not I who go to the Rhine, but the Rhine
that will come to me.”

Then loosening the jewelled band from her hair, she flung it on the
water and cried aloud: “Father, send me thy white steeds, that I may
cross the river in safety.”

Instantly, as at her bidding, a wild storm arose, and the river,
overflowing its banks, foamed right up to the summit of the Lorelei
Rock. Three white-crested waves, resembling three white horses, mounted
the steep, and into the hollowed trough behind them the Lorelei stepped
as into a chariot, to be whirled out into the stream. Meanwhile Diether
and his companions were almost overwhelmed by the floods, yet they were
unable to stir hand or foot. In mid-stream the undine sank beneath the
waves: the spell was broken, the waters subsided, and the captain and
his men were free to return home.

Nevermore, they vowed, would they seek to capture the Lorelei.

The Forsaken Bride

There is a later and more popular legend of the Lorelei than the
foregoing.

According to this tale Lorelei was a maiden of surpassing beauty who
dwelt in the town of Bacharach in medieval times. So potent were her
attractions that every gallant on whom her eye rested fell hopelessly in
love with her, while her ever-widening fame drew suitors in plenty from
all parts of the country. The dismissed lovers wandered disconsolately
in the neighbouring forests, vowing to take their lives rather than
suffer the pangs of unrequited passion; while occasionally the threat
was fulfilled, and a brave knight would cast himself into the Rhine and
perish for love of the cold and cruel maid. Thus her fatal beauty played
havoc among the flower of German chivalry. But she, dowered with virtue
and goodness, as well as with more transient charms, trembled when
she saw the effect of her attractions on her many lovers, and secluded
herself as closely as possible.

The truth was, she had given her heart into the keeping of a young
knight who, after plighting his troth with her, had ridden away to the
wars, his military ardour and desire for glory triumphing over his love.
Years had gone by, yet he did not return, and Lorelei thought that he
had perished on the field of battle, or had taken another bride and
forgotten her. But she remained true to him in spite of his long
silence, and spent her days in tears and prayers for his safety.

Meanwhile she was besieged by an ever-increasing band of suitors, to
whom her retiring disposition and sorrowful mien but made her the more
desirable. Then it began to be rumoured abroad that she was a sorceress,
who won the hearts of men by magic art and with the aid of the Evil One.
The rumour was spread broadcast by jealous and disappointed women who
saw their menfolk succumb to the fatal charms of the Maid of Bacharach.
Mothers noticed their sons grow pale and woe-begone because of her;
maids their erstwhile lovers sighing out a hopeless passion for the
beautiful Lorelei; so they brought against her accusations of sorcery,
which in those days generally led to the death of the victim by burning.
So grievously did these malign whispers add to the already heavy burden
of the maid that she surrendered herself to be tried, hardly caring
whether or not she were found guilty. She was summoned before the
criminal court held at Rhens by the Archbishop of Cologne, and charged
with practising the black art in order to ensnare men’s affections.

However, when she appeared before the court her beauty so impressed the
assembly, and even the old Archbishop himself, that none could believe
her guilty. Her lovely face bore the imprint of innocence, her grief
touched every heart, and on all sides she was treated with the greatest
respect and kindness. The old prelate assured her that she would not
be judged harshly, but begged to hear from her own lips that she was
innocent of the foul charge brought against her. This assurance she
gave with artless simplicity, and a murmur of approval went up from
the crowd. The sympathy of those present—for even her accusers were
melted—and the kindness of the aged Churchman who was her judge moved
her to confess her unhappy love-story.

“I pray thee,” she concluded wearily, “I pray thee, my lord, let me die.
I know, alas! that many true knights have died for love of me, and now I
fain would die for the sake of one who hath forsaken me.”

The prelate, moved almost to tears by the pathetic story, laid his hand
on the head of the weeping maid.

“Thou shalt not die, fair maiden,” he said. “I will send thee to a
convent, where thou mayst live in peace.” And calling to his side three
trusty old knights, he bade them conduct Lorelei to the convent
across the river, and charge the abbess to treat her with the greatest
kindness. Having blessed the maid once more, he bade them go. On their
way to the convent they must needs pass the rock since known as the
Lorelei-berg, and the girl, who had maintained a pensive silence all the
way, now observed that she would fain ascend the rock and look for the
last time at the castle of her betrothed knight.

Her escort would have courteously assisted her, but she, with the
agility of youth, easily outstripped them, and stood alone on the
summit, surveying the fair scene before her. A light barque was sailing
up the river, and as she gazed on it Lorelei uttered a loud cry, for
there in the bow stood her truant lover! The knight and his train heard
the shriek and beheld with horror the maiden standing with outstretched
arms on the very edge of the precipice. The steering of the boat was
forgotten for the moment, and the frail craft ran on the rocks. Lorelei
saw her lover’s peril and, calling his name, leapt into the tide.

Nothing more was seen of the lovers; together they sleep the sleep of
death beneath the waters of the Rhine.

A Blending of Legends

In these legends we observe how the tradition of a mere water-nymph has
developed into a story concerning a hapless damsel. The first applies to
the Lorelei as a water-spirit pure and simple, but legends which refer
to beings originally water-spirits have a knack of becoming associated
in later times with stories of distressed ladies. Indeed, one such came
to the writer’s knowledge only a few months ago. The mansion of Caroline
Park, near Edinburgh, dating from the end of the seventeenth century,
has in its vicinity a well which is reputed to be inhabited by a ‘Green
Lady,’ who emerges from her watery dwelling at twilight and rings the
great bell of the old manor-house. On visiting the vicinity for the
purpose of verifying the legend information was gleaned respecting
another story of a captured lady who had been incarcerated in a room in
the mansion and had written some verses to her lover with her diamond
ring on a window-pane. The strange thing is that these stories, though
obviously of different origin, appear now to have become fused in the
popular imagination: the ‘Green Lady’ and the verse-writing damsel
become one and the same, thus affording a case in point of the fusion of
a mythological tale with a later and probably verifiable incident. The
Lorelei is of course a water-spirit of the siren type, one who lures
heedless mariners to their destruction. In Scotland and the north of
England we find her congener in the water-kelpie, who lurks in pools
lying in wait for victims. But the kelpie is usually represented in the
form of a horse and not in that of a beauteous maiden.

The Nixie

Another water-spirit not unlike the Lorelei is the nixie, which is both
male and female, the male appearing like any human being, but, as in the
case of the water-spirits of the Slavonic peoples and England, Scotland,
and Central America, being possessed of green teeth. The male is called
nix, the female nixie, the generic term for both being nicker, from a
root which perhaps means ‘to wash.’ There is perhaps some truth in the
statement which would derive the Satanic patronymic of ‘Old Nick’ from
these beings, as spirits extremely familiar to the Teutonic mind. On
fine sunny days the nixies may be seen sitting on the banks of rivers,
or on the branches of trees, combing their long golden locks. Previous
to a drowning accident the nixies can be seen dancing on the surface of
the water. Like all sea and river spirits, their subaqueous abode is of
a magnificence unparalleled upon earth, and to this they often convey
mortals, who, however, complain that the splendours of the nixies’
palaces are altogether spoiled for them by the circumstance that their
banquets are served without salt.


     Where on the marshes boometh the bittern,
     Nicker the Soulless sits with his ghittern;
     Sits inconsolable, friendless and foeless,
     Bewailing his destiny, Nicker the Soulless.

The Nixie of the Mummel-lake

The legend of the nixie of Seebach is one of gloom and tragedy, albeit
as charming as most of the Rhine tales.

It was the custom among the young people of Seebach to assemble of an
evening in the spinning-room, which on the occasion about to be dealt
with was in the house of the richest and most distinguished family in
the country. The girls spun and laughed and chatted, while the youths
hung about their chairs and cracked jokes with them. One evening while
they were thus employed there came among them a stranger, a young lady
beautifully clad and carrying an ivory spinning-wheel. With becoming
modesty she asked to be allowed to join the company, which permission
the simple youths and maidens readily accorded. None was more eager to
do honour to the new-comer than the son of their host. While the others
were still gaping in awestruck fashion, he quietly fetched her a
chair and performed various little services for her. She received his
attentions so graciously that a warmer feeling than courtesy sprang up
in his heart for the fair spinner.

He was in truth a handsome lad, whose attentions any maid might have
been proud to receive. Well-built and slender, he bore himself with a
proud carriage, and the expression on his delicate features was grave
and thoughtful beyond his years. When at length the fair visitor
departed, he loitered disconsolate and restless, listening to the idle
surmises of the peasant youths concerning the identity of the lady, but
offering no opinion himself. On the following day at the same hour she
again appeared and, seeing her cavalier of the previous day, smiled
and bowed to him. The young man glowed with pleasure, and diffidently
renewed his attentions. Day after day the lady of the spinning-wheel
joined the company, and it was noted that the girls were brighter and
more diligent, and the young men more gentle and courteous, for her
coming. It was whispered among them that she was a nixie from the
Mummel-lake far under the mountains, for never mortal was so richly
endowed with beauty and grace. As time went on the son of the house grew
more and more melancholy as his love for the fair unknown became deeper.
Only during the brief hour of her visit would he show any cheerfulness.
All the rest of the day he would mope in silent wretchedness. His
friends saw with distress the change which had come over him, but they
were powerless to alter matters. The lady could not be persuaded to
remain beyond her usual hour, nor to give any hint of her identity.

One day, thinking to prolong her visit, the young man put back the hands
of the clock. When the hour drew near for her to depart, he slipped out
of the house so that he might follow her and find out where she lived.
When the hour struck, the lady, who seemed to have feared that she was
late, walked hastily from the house in the direction of the lake. So
quickly did she walk that the youth following in her path could scarcely
keep pace with her. She did not pause when she reached the shore, but
plunged directly into the water. A low, moaning sound rose from the
waves, which boiled and bubbled furiously, and the young man, fearing
that some evil had befallen the maid, sprang in after her, but the cruel
currents dragged him down, and he sank out of sight.

Next day his body was found floating on the lake by some woodcutters,
and the nixie of the Mummel-lake was seen no more.

The Wild Huntsman

One of the most interesting Rhine myths is that concerning the Wild
Huntsman, which is known all over Rhineland, and which is connected
with many of its localities. The tale goes that on windy nights the Wild
Huntsman, with his yelling pack of hounds, sweeps through the air, his
prey departing souls. The huntsman is, of course, Odin, who in some of
his aspects was a hunter-god. The English legend of Herne the Hunter,
who haunts Windsor Park, is allied to this, and there can be little
doubt that Herne is Odin. Indeed, it is here suggested that the name
Herne may in some way be connected with one of Odin’s titles, Hâri,
the High One. It was the legend of the Wild Huntsman that inspired Sir
Walter Scott to write one of his finest ballads of the mysterious. An
Edinburgh friend had perused a ballad by Burger, entitled Lenore, but
all he could remember of it were the following four lines: Tramp, tramp,
across the land they ride; Splash, splash, across the sea. Hurrah! the
dead can ride apace, Dost fear to ride with me?

This verse fired Scott’s imagination. He liked this sort of thing, and
could do it very well himself. So on reaching home he sat down to
the composition of the following ballad, of which we give the most
outstanding verses:


     THE WILD HUNTSMAN

     The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn:
     To horse, to horse, haloo, haloo!
     His fiery courser sniffs the morn,
     And thronging serfs their lord pursue.

     The eager pack, from couples freed,
     Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake
     While answering hound, and horn, and steed,
     The mountain echoes startling wake.

     The beams of God’s own hallowed day
     Had painted yonder spire with gold,
     And, calling sinful men to pray,
     Loud, long, and deep the bell hath tolled.

     But still the Wildgrave onward rides;
     Haloo, haloo, and hark again!
     When, spurring from opposing sides,
     Two stranger horsemen join the train.

     Who was each stranger, left and right?
     Well may I guess, but dare not tell.
     The right-hand steed was silver-white;
     The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

     The right-hand horseman, young and fair,
     His smile was like the morn of May;
     The left, from eye of tawny glare,
     Shot midnight lightning’s lurid ray.

     He waved his huntsman’s cap on high,
     Cried, “Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
     What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,
     To match the princely chase, afford?”

     “Cease thy loud bugle’s clanging knell,”
     Cried the fair youth with silver voice;
     “And for devotion’s choral swell,
     Exchange the rude, unhallowed noise.

     “To-day th’ ill-omened chase forbear;
     Yon bell yet summons to the fane:
     To-day the warning spirit hear,
     To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.”

     The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed
     And, launching forward with a bound,
     “Who for thy drowsy priestlike rede
     Would leave the jovial horn and hound?

     “Hence, if our manly sport offend:
     With pious fools go chant and pray.
     Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brown friend,
     Haloo, haloo, and hark away!”

     The Wildgrave spurred his courser light,
     O’er moss and moor, o’er holt and hill,
     And on the left and on the right
     Each stranger horseman followed still.

     Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,
     A stag more white than mountain snow;
     And louder rung the Wildgrave’s horn—
     “Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!”

     A heedless wretch has crossed the way—
     He grasps the thundering hoofs below;
     But, live who can, or die who may,
     Still forward, forward! on they go.

     See where yon simple fences meet,
     A field with autumn’s blessings crowned;
     See, prostrate at the Wildgrave’s feet,
     A husbandman with toil embrowned.

     “Oh, mercy! mercy! noble lord;
     Spare the poor’s pittance,” was his cry;
     “Earned by the sweat these brows have poured
     In scorching hours of fierce July.”

     “Away, thou hound, so basely born,
     Or dread the scourge’s echoing blow!”
     Then loudly rung his bugle horn,
     “Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!”

     So said, so done—a single bound
     Clears the poor labourer’s humble pale:
     Wild follows man, and horse, and hound,
     Like dark December’s stormy gale.

     And man, and horse, and hound, and horn
     Destructive sweep the field along,
     While joying o’er the wasted corn
     Fell famine marks the madd’ning throng.

     Full lowly did the herdsman fall:
     “Oh, spare, thou noble baron, spare;
     These herds, a widow’s little all;
     These flocks, an orphan’s fleecy care.”

     “Unmannered dog! To stop my sport
     Vain were thy cant and beggar whine,
     Though human spirits of thy sort
     Were tenants of these carrion kine!”

     Again he winds his bugle horn,
     “Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!”
     And through the herd in ruthless scorn
     He cheers his furious hounds to go.

     In heaps the throttled victims fall;
     Down sinks their mangled herdsman near;
     The murd’rous cries the stag appal,
     Again he starts, new-nerved by fear.

     With blood besmeared, and white with foam,
     While big the tears of anguish pour,
     He seeks, amid the forest’s gloom,
     The humble hermit’s hallowed bow’r.

     All mild, amid the route profane,
     The holy hermit poured his prayer:
     “Forbear with blood God’s house to stain:
     Revere His altar, and forbear!

     “The meanest brute has rights to plead,
     Which, wronged by cruelty or pride,
     Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;
     Be warned at length, and turn aside.”

     Still the fair horseman anxious pleads;
     The black, wild whooping, points the prey.
     Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,
     But frantic keeps the forward way.

     “Holy or not, or right or wrong,
     Thy altar and its rights I spurn;
     Not sainted martyrs’ sacred song,
     Not God Himself shall make me turn.”

     He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,
     “Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!”
     But off, on whirlwind’s pinions borne,
     The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.

     And horse and man, and horn and hound,
     The clamour of the chase was gone;
     For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
     A deadly silence reigned alone.

     Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around;
     He strove in vain to wake his horn,
     In vain to call; for not a sound
     Could from his anxious lips be borne.

     High o’er the sinner’s humbled head
     At length the solemn silence broke;
     And from a cloud of swarthy red
     The awful voice of thunder spoke:

     “Oppressor of creation fair!
     Apostate spirits’ hardened tool!
     Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!
     The measure of thy cup is full.

     “Be chased for ever through the wood,
     For ever roam the affrighted wild;
     And let thy fate instruct the proud,
     God’s meanest creature is His child.”

     ’Twas hushed: one flash of sombre glare
     With yellow tinged the forest’s brown;
     Up rose the Wildgrave’s bristling hair,
     And horror chilled each nerve and bone.

     Earth heard the call—her entrails rend;
     From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
     Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend
     The misbegotten dogs of hell.

     What ghastly huntsman next arose,
     Well may I guess, but dare not tell:
     His eye like midnight lightning glows,
     His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

     The Wildgrave flies o’er bush and thorn,
     With many a shriek of hapless woe;
     Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
     And hark away, and holla, ho!

     With wild despair’s reverted eye,
     Close, close behind, he marks the throng;
     With bloody fangs, and eager cry,
     In frantic fear he scours along.

     Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
     Till time itself shall have an end;
     By day, they scour earth’s caverned space;
     At midnight’s witching hour, ascend.

     This is the horn, and hound, and horse,
     That oft the ’lated peasant hears;
     Appalled, he signs the frequent cross,
     When the wild din invades his ears.

Dwarfs and Gnomes

Beings of the dwarf race swarmed on the banks of Rhine. First and
foremost among these are the gnomes, who guard the subterranean
treasures, but who on occasion reveal them to mortals. We meet with
these very frequently under different guises, as, for instance, in the
case of the ‘Cooper of Auerbach,’ and the Yellow Dwarf who appears in
the legend of Elfeld. The Heldenbuch, the ancient book in which are
collected the deeds of the German heroes of old, says that “God gave the
dwarfs being because the land on the mountains was altogether waste and
uncultivated, and there was much store of silver and gold and precious
stones and pearls still in the mountains. Wherefore God made the dwarfs
very artful and wise, that they might know good and evil right well, and
for what everything was good. Some stones give great strength, some make
those who carry them about them invisible. That is called a mist-cap,
and therefore did God give the dwarfs skill and wisdom. Therefore they
built handsome hollow-hills, and God gave them riches.”

Keightley, in his celebrated Fairy Mythology, tells of a class of dwarfs
called Heinzelmännchen, who used to live and perform their exploits
in Cologne. These were obviously of the same class as the brownies of
Scotland, Teutonic house-spirits who attached themselves to the owners
of certain dwellings, and Keightley culled the following anecdote
regarding them from a Cologne publication issued in 1826:

“In the time that the Heinzelmännchen were still there, there was in
Cologne many a baker who kept no man, for the little people used always
to make, overnight, as much black and white bread as the baker wanted
for his shop. In many houses they used to wash and do all their work for
the maids.

“Now, about this time, there was an expert tailor to whom they appeared
to have taken a great fancy, for when he married he found in his house,
on the wedding-day, the finest victuals and the most beautiful utensils,
which the little folk had stolen elsewhere and brought to their
favourite. When, with time, his family increased, the little ones used
to give the tailor’s wife considerable aid in her household affairs;
they washed for her, and on holidays and festival times they scoured the
copper and tin, and the house from the garret to the cellar. If at any
time the tailor had a press of work, he was sure to find it all ready
done for him in the morning by the Heinzelmännchen.

“But curiosity began now to torment the tailor’s wife, and she was dying
to get one sight of the Heinzelmännchen, but do what she would she could
never compass it. She one time strewed peas all down the stairs that
they might fall and hurt themselves, and that so she might see them
next morning. But this project missed, and since that time the
Heinzelmännchen have totally disappeared, as has been everywhere the
case, owing to the curiosity of people, which has at all times been the
destruction of so much of what was beautiful in the world.

“The Heinzelmännchen, in consequence of this, went off all in a body out
of the town, with music playing, but people could only hear the music,
for no one could see the mannikins themselves, who forthwith got into a
ship and went away, whither no one knows. The good times, however, are
said to have disappeared from Cologne along with the Heinzelmännchen.”

St. Ursula

One of the most interesting figures in connexion with Rhenish mythology
is that of St. Ursula, whose legend is as follows:

Just two centuries after the birth of Christ, Vionest was king of
Britain. Happy in his realm, his subjects were prosperous and contented,
but care was in the heart of the monarch, for he was childless. At
length his consort, Daria, bore him a daughter, who as she grew up in
years increased in holiness, until all men regarded her as a saint,
and she, devoting herself to a religious life, refused all offers of
marriage, to the great grief of her parents, who were again troubled by
the thought that their dynasty would fail for want of an heir. Charmed
with the rumour of her virtues, a German prince, Agrippus, asked her
as a wife for his son, but the suit was declined by the maiden until
an angel appeared to her in a dream and said that the nuptials ought to
take place. In obedience to this heavenly mentor, St. Ursula no longer
urged her former scruples, and her father hastened to make preparations
of suitable magnificence for her departure to the Rhine, on whose banks
her future home was to be. Eleven thousand virgins were selected from
the noblest families of Britain to accompany their princess, who,
marshalling them on the seashore, bade them sing a hymn to the Most
High and dismiss all fears of the ocean, for she had been gifted with a
divine knowledge of navigation and would guide them safely on their way.

Accordingly St. Ursula dismissed all the seamen, and standing on the
deck of the principal vessel, she gave orders to her eleven thousand
maiden followers, who, under the influence of inspiration, flitted over
the ships dressed in virgin white, now tending the sails, now fixing the
ropes, now guiding the helm, until they reached the mouth of the Rhine,
up which they sailed in saintly procession to Cologne. Here they were
received with great honours by the Roman governor of the place; but soon
they left the city to ascend the stream to Basel on their way to Rome,
to which holy city St. Ursula had determined upon making a pilgrimage.
Wherever upon their journey they met the officers of state they were
received as befitted their heavenly mission, and from Basel were
accompanied by Pantulus, who was afterward canonized, and whose portrait
is to be seen in the church of St. Ursula. Once at Rome Pope Cyriacus
himself was so affected by their devoted piety that, after praying
with them at the tombs of the apostles, he determined on abdicating the
pontifical office to accompany them on their return down the Rhine to
Cologne.

At Mayence they were joined by Prince Coman, the son of Agrippus, who
for love of his betrothed at once forsook the errors of his pagan
faith and was baptized. The eleven thousand virgins, with their sainted
leader, her husband, and Pope Cyriacus, passed rapidly to Cologne,
where, however, they were not long destined to live in peace. A horde
of barbarians from the North invaded the place, and having gained
possession of the city, they slew the virgin retinue of St. Ursula,
the venerable Pope, the saint herself, and her spouse Coman, after
inflicting the most horrible tortures upon them. Some were nailed living
to the cross; some were burned; others stoned; but the most refined
cruelties were reserved for the most distinguished victims. Look on
the walls of the church of St. Ursula and you will see depicted the
sufferings of the young martyr and of her youthful husband. Her chapel
yet contains her effigy with a dove at her feet—fit emblem of her purity
and faith and loving-kindness; while the devout may, in the same church,
behold the religiously preserved bones of the eleven thousand virgins.

Saint or Goddess?

The sainthood of St. Ursula is distinctly doubtful, and the number of
her retinue, eleven thousand, has been proved to be an error in monkish
calligraphy. St. Ursula is, indeed, the Teutonic goddess Ursa, or
Hörsel. In many parts of Germany a custom existed during the Middle Ages
of rolling about a ship on wheels, much to the scandal of the clergy,
and this undoubtedly points to moon-worship, the worship of Holda, or
Ursula, whom German poets of old regarded as sailing over the deep
blue of the heavens in her silver boat. A great company of maidens,
the stars, follow in her train. She is supposed, her nightly pilgrimage
over, to enter certain hills.

Thus in the later guise of Venus she entered the Hörselberg in
Thuringia, in which she imprisoned the enchanted Tannhäuser, and there
is good reason to believe that she also presided over the Ercildoune,
or Hill of Ursula, in the south of Scotland, the modern Earlston, after
which Thomas the Rhymer took his territorial designation, and whose
story later became fused with her myth in the old Scottish ballad of
Thomas the Rhymer. Thus we observe how it is possible for a pagan myth
to become an incident in Christian hagiology.

Satan in Rhine Story

In the legends of the Rhine the picturesque figure of his Satanic
majesty is frequently presented, as in the legends of ‘The Sword-slipper
of Solingen,’ ‘The Architect of Cologne Cathedral,’ and several other
tales. The circumstances of his appearance are distinctly Teutonic
in character, and are such as to make one doubt that the Devil of the
German peoples has evolved from the classical satyr. May it not be that
the Teutonic folk possessed some nature-spirit from which they evolved
a Satanic figure of their own? Against this, of course, could be quoted
the fact that the medieval conception of the Devil was sophisticated by
the Church, which in turn was strongly influenced by classical types.

Affinity of the Rhine Legends with Romance

But on the whole the legends of the Rhine exhibit much more affinity
with medieval romance than with myth or folklore.1 A large number of
them are based upon plots which can be shown to be almost universal,
and which occur again and again in French and British story. One of the
commonest of these concerns the crusader who, rejected by his lady-love,
spends hopeless years in the East, or, having married before setting
out for the Orient, returns to find his bride the wife of another. The
crusader exercised a strong influence upon the literature of medieval
Europe, and that influence we find in a very marked degree in the
legends of the Rhine. Again, a number of these tales undoubtedly consist
of older materials not necessarily mythical in origin, over which a
later medieval colour has been cast. Unhappily many of these beautiful
old legends have been greatly marred by the absurd sentimentality of
the German writers of the early nineteenth century, and their dramatis
personae, instead of exhibiting the characteristics of sturdy medieval
German folk, possess the mincing and lackadaisical manners which
mark the Franco-German novel of a century ago. This contrasts most
ludicrously in many cases with the simple, almost childlike, honesty
which is typical of all early Teutonic literature. Had a Charles Lamb,
a Leigh Hunt, or an Edgar Allan Poe recast these tales, how different
would have been their treatment! Before the time of Schiller and Goethe
French models prevailed in German literature. These wizards of the pen
recovered the German spirit of mystery, and brought back to their haunts
gnomes, kobolds, and water-sprites. But the mischief had been done ere
they dawned upon the horizon, and there were other parts of Germany
which appeared to them more suitable for literary presentment than the
Rhine, save perhaps in drama. Moreover, the inherent sentimentality
of the German character, however fitted to bring out the mysterious
atmosphere which clings to these legends, has weakened them
considerably.

[Note 1: See author’s Dictionary of Medieval Romance (London, 1913),
preface, and article ‘Romance, Rise and Origin of.’]

The Poetry of the Rhine

Robert Louis Stevenson, exiled in the South Pacific islands, used to
speak with passionate fondness of the rivers of his native Scotland, the
country he loved so dearly, but which the jealous fates forbade him to
visit during fully half his life. Garry and Tummel, Tweed and Tay—he
used to think of these as of something almost sacred; while even the
name of that insignificant stream, the Water of Leith, sounded on his
ear like sweet music, evoking a strangely tender and pathetic emotion.
And this emotion, crystallized so beautifully by Stevenson in one of
his essays in Memories and Portraits, must have been felt, too, by many
other exiles wandering in foreign parts; for surely an analogous feeling
has been experienced sometimes by every traveller of sensitive and
imaginative temperament, particularly the traveller exiled irrevocably
from his home and longing passionately to see it. Horatius, about to
plunge into the Tiber, addressed it as his father and god, charging it
to care well for his life and fortunes—fortunes in which those of all
Rome were involved for the time being. Ecce Tiber! was the glad cry of
the Romans on beholding the Tay—a cry which shows once again with what
ardent devotion they thought of the river which passed by their native
city; while Naaman the Syrian, told that his sickness would be cured
would he but lave his leprous limbs in the Jordan, exclaimed aghast
against a prescription which appeared to him nothing short of
sacrilegious and insulting, and declared that there were better and
nobler streams in his own land. Even the deadly complaint with which he
was smitten could not shake his fidelity to these, could not alter his
conviction that they were superior to alien streams; and the truth is
that nearly every great river—perhaps because its perpetual motion makes
it seem verily a living thing—has a way of establishing itself in the
hearts of those who dwell by its banks.

The Rhine is no exception to this rule; on the contrary, it is a notable
illustration thereof. From time immemorial the name of the mighty stream
has been sacred to the Germans, while gradually a halo of romantic
glamour has wound itself about the river, a halo which appeals potently
even to many who have never seen the Vaterland. Am Rhein!—is there not
magic in the words? And how they call up dreams of robber barons, each
with his strange castle built on the edge of a precipice overlooking
the rushing stream; fiends of glade and dell, sprites of the river and
whirlpool, weird huntsmen, and all the dramatis personae of legend and
tradition.

The Rhine has ever held a wide fame in the domain of literature. For
there is scarcely a place on the river’s banks but has its legend which
has been enshrined in song, and some of these songs are so old that the
names of their makers have long since been forgotten. Yes, we have to go
very far back indeed would we study the poetry of the Rhine adequately;
we have to penetrate deeply into the Middle Ages, dim and mysterious.
And looking back thus, and pondering on these legendary and anonymous
writings, a poem which soon drifts into recollection is one whose scene
is laid near the little town of Lorch, or Lordch. Hard by this town is a
mountain, known to geographers as Kedrich, but hailed popularly as ‘the
Devil’s Ladder.’ Nor is the name altogether misplaced or undeserved,
the mountain being exceeding precipitous, and its beetling, rocky sides
seeming well-nigh inaccessible. This steepness, however, did not daunt
the hero of the poem in question, a certain Sir Hilchen von Lorch. A
saddle, said to have belonged to him, is still preserved in the town;
but on what manner of steed he was wont to ride is not told explicitly,
and truly it must have been a veritable Bucephalus. For the nameless
poet relates that Sir Hilchen, being enamoured of a lady whom angry
gnomes had carried to the top of Kedrich and imprisoned there, rode at
full gallop right up the side of the mountain, and rescued the fair one!


     “Though my lady-love to a tower be ta’en,
     Whose top the eagle might fail to gain,
     Nor portal of iron nor battlement’s height
     Shall bar me out from her presence bright:
     Why has Love wings but that he may fly
     Over the walls, be they never so high?”

So the tale begins, while at the end the knight is represented exulting
in his doughty action:


     “Hurrah, hurrah! ’Tis gallantly done!
     The spell is broken, the bride is won!
     From the magic hold of the mountain-sprite
     Down she comes with her dauntless knight!
     Holy St. Bernard, shield us all
     From the wrath of the elves of the Whisper-Thal.”

Andernach

There are several different versions of this legend, each of them just
as extraordinary as the foregoing. It is evident, moreover, that matter
of this sort appealed very keenly to the medieval dwellers by the Rhine,
much of the further legendary lore encircling the river being concerned
with deeds no less amazing than this of Sir Hilchen’s; and among things
which recount such events a notable instance is a poem consecrated to
the castle of Andernach. Here, once upon a time, dwelt a count bearing
the now famous name of Siegfried, and being of a religious disposition,
he threw in his lot with a band of crusaders. For a long while, in
consequence, he was absent from his ancestral domain; and at length,
returning thither, he was told by various lying tongues that his
beautiful wife, Genofeva, had been unfaithful to him in his absence,
the chief bearer of the fell news being one Golo. This slanderer induced
Siegfried to banish Genofeva straightway, and so the lady fled from the
castle to the neighbouring forest of Laach, where a little later she
gave birth to a boy. Thenceforth mother and son lived together in the
wilds, and though these were infested by wild robbers, and full of
wolves and other ravening beasts, the pair of exiles contrived to go
unscathed year after year, while, more wonderful still, they managed
to find daily sustenance. And now romance reached a happy moment; for
behold, Count Siegfried went hunting one day in the remoter parts of
the forest, and fortuitously he passed by the very place where the two
wanderers were living—his wife and the child whom he had never seen.


     ’Tis in the woody vales of Laach the hunter’s horn is wound,
     And fairly flies the falcon, and deeply bays the hound;
     But little recks Count Siegfried for hawk or quarry now:
     A weight is on his noble heart, a gloom is on his brow.
     Oh! he hath driven from his home—he cannot from his mind—
     A lady, ah! the loveliest of all her lovely kind;
     His wife, his Genofeva!—and at the word of one,
     The blackest traitor ever looked upon the blessed sun.
     He hath let the hunters hurry by, and turned his steed aside,
     And ridden where the blue lake spreads its waters calm and wide,
     And lo! beneath a linden-tree, there sits a lady fair,
     But like some savage maiden clad in sylvan pageant rare.
     Her kirtle’s of the dappled skin of the rapid mountain roe;
     A quiver at her back she bears, beside her lies a bow;
     Her feet are bare, her golden hair adown her shoulders streams,
     And in her lap a rosy child is smiling in its dreams.

The count had never thought to see his wife again. He imagined that she
had long since starved to death or been devoured; and now, finding her
alive, his pulses quicken. He knows well that only a miracle could have
preserved her during all this period of estrangement, and reflects that
on behalf of the virtuous alone are miracles worked. Seeing herein ample
proof of Genofeva’s innocence, he welcomes her back to his arms and with
beating heart bears her to the castle:


     Oh! there was joy in Andernach upon that happy night:
     The palace rang with revelry, the city blazed with light:
     And when the moon her paler beams upon the turrets shed,
     Above the Roman gate was seen the traitor Golo’s head.

The Brothers

Doubtless it was the thaumaturgic element in this pretty romance
which chiefly made it popular among its pristine audiences, yet it was
probably the pathos with which it is coloured that granted it longevity,
causing it to be handed down from generation to generation long before
the advent of the printing-press.

Pathos, of course, figures largely in all folk-literature, and the story
of Count Siegfried is by no means the only tale of a touching nature
embodied in the early poetry of the Rhine, another similar work which
belongs to this category being a poem associated with Liebenstein and
Sterrenberg, two castles not far from each other. These places, so goes
the tale, once belonged to a nobleman who chanced to have as his ward
a young lady of singular loveliness. He had also two sons, of whom the
elder was heir to Liebenstein, while the younger was destined to inherit
Sterrenberg. These brothers were fast friends, and this partitioning of
the paternal estates never begot so much as an angry word between
them; but, alas! in an evil day they both fell in love with the same
woman—their father’s ward. Such events have happened often, and usually
they have ended in bitter strife; but the elder of the young men was
of magnanimous temperament, and, convinced that the lady favoured the
other’s advances more than his, he left him to woo and win her, and so
in due course it was announced that the younger brother and she were
affianced. Anon the date fixed for their nuptials drew near, but it
happened that, in the interim, the young knight of Sterrenberg had
become infected with a desire to join a crusade; and now, despite
the entreaties of his fiancée and his father, he mustered a troop of
men-at-arms, led them to join the Emperor Conrad at Frankfort, and set
off for the Holy Land. Year after year went by; still the warrior was
absent, and betimes his friends and relations began to lose all hope of
ever seeing him again, imagining that he must have fallen at the hands
of the infidel. Yet this suspicion was never actually confirmed, and the
elder brother, far from taking the advantage which the strange situation
offered, continued to eschew paying any addresses to his brother’s
intended bride, and invariably treated her simply as a beloved sister.
Sometimes, no doubt, it occurred to him that he might win her yet;
but of a sudden his horizon was changed totally, and changed in a most
unexpected fashion. The rover came back! And lo! it was not merely
a tale of war that he brought with him, for it transpired that while
abroad he had proved false to his vows and taken to himself a wife, a
damsel of Grecian birth who was even now in his train. The knight of
Liebenstein was bitterly incensed on hearing the news, and sent his
brother a fierce challenge to meet him in single combat; but scarcely
had they met and drawn swords ere the injured lady intervened. She
reminded the young men of their sacred bond of fraternity; she implored
them to desist from the crime of bloodshed. Then, having averted this,
she experienced a great longing to renounce all earthly things, and
took the veil in a neighbouring convent, thus shattering for ever the
rekindled hopes of her elder suitor. But he, the hero of the drama, was
not the only sufferer, for his brother was not to go unpunished for his
perfidy. A strange tale went forth, a scandalous tale to the effect that
the Grecian damsel was unfaithful to her spouse. Sterrenberg began to
rue his ill-timed marriage, and ultimately was forced to banish his wife
altogether. And so, each in his wind-swept castle—for their father was
now dead—the two knights lived on, brooding often on the curious events
of which their lives had been composed. The elder never married, and the
younger had no inclination to take that step a second time.


     They never entered court or town,
     Nor looked on woman’s face;
     But childless to the grave went down,
     The last of all their race.
     And still upon the mountain fair
     Are seen two castles grey,
     That, like their lords, together there
     Sink slowly to decay.

     The gust that shakes the tottering stone
     On one burg’s battlement,
     Upon the other’s rampart lone
     Hath equal fury spent.
     And when through Sternberg’s shattered wall
     The misty moonbeams shine,
     Upon the crumbling walls they fall
     Of dreary Liebenstein.

This legend is recounted here to illustrate the poetry of the Rhine. A
variant of it is given on p. 171.

Argenfels

But the warriors who flit across the lore of Rhineland were not all so
unfortunate, and one who fared better was Sir Dietrich of Schwarzenbeck.
Marching by the Rhine on his way to join a band of crusaders, this
Dietrich chanced to pass a few days at the castle of Argenfels, whose
owner was the father of two daughters. The younger of the pair, Bertha
by name, soon fell in love with the guest, while he, too, was deeply
impressed by her charm; but silken dalliance was not for him
at present—for was he not under a vow to try to redeem the Holy
Sepulchre?—and so he resumed his journey to Palestine. Here an arduous
campaign awaited him. In the course of a fierce battle he was wounded
sorely, and while trying to escape from the field he was taken prisoner.
This was a terrible fate, a far worse fate than death, for the Saracens
usually sold their captives as slaves; and Sir Dietrich as he languished
in captivity, wondering whether he was destined to spend the rest of
his days serving the infidel in some menial capacity, vowed that if he
should ever regain his native Germany he would build there a chapel to
St. Peter. Nor did his piety go unrewarded, for shortly afterward a body
of his compatriots came to his aid, worsted his foes, and set him free.
A joyful day was this for the crusader, but it was not his pious vow
that he thought of first; he made for Argenfels, eager to see again the
bright eyes of the lady who had enchanted him. Day and night he rode,
and as he drew nearer to the castle his passion grew stronger within
him; but, alas! on reaching his destination his hopes were suddenly
dashed to the ground. War had meantime been waged in the neighbourhood
of Bertha’s home; her father had been involved, his castle burnt to the
ground, and the two daughters had disappeared. Peradventure they had
perished, surmised the knight; but he swore he would leave nothing
undone which might lead to the restoration of his beloved. Making
inquiries far and near throughout the country, he heard at last from
an old shepherd that two ladies of gentle birth were sequestering
themselves in a disused hermitage near the summit of a mountain called
Stromberg. “Is it indeed they?” thought Sir Dietrich. He clambered up
the rocky steep leading to the hermitage and a wistful sound greeted
his ears, the sound of maidens’ voices offering up vespers. “Ave Maria,
stella maris,” they sang, and in the coolness of the evening the notes
vibrated with a new, strange loveliness, for the lover knew that he had
not climbed the Stromberg in vain. He returned, bringing Bertha with
him, and in due course she became his bride. Yet the fairest rose has
its thorns, and the happiness of the pair was not to be wholly undimmed
by clouds. For Bertha’s sister, showing a curious perversity, expressed
a desire to remain in the abode which had sheltered her of late, and
nothing could induce her to alter this decision. Sir Dietrich pleaded
with her again and again, and of a sudden, while thus engaged, he
thought of the vow he had made while a captive—the vow he had not kept.
Here, possibly—here in this shadow darkening the joy of his bridal—was
a message from on high! So straightway he built his chapel, choosing as
situation therefor a spot hard by the windswept hermitage, and in this
shrine to St. Peter dwelt Bertha’s sister to the end of her days. Was
it, mayhap, jealousy and a dart from Cupid’s bow which kept her there;
and was she, too, enamoured of Sir Dietrich? Well, the poet who tells
the story certainly thought so!

Drinking Songs of the Rhine

It were a lengthy matter to recount the many other poems of Rhineland
akin to those mustered above, and enough has been said to indicate
their general characteristics; while an ancient Rhine classic of yet a
different kind, The Mouse Tower, given elsewhere, is so familiar owing
to Southey’s English version that it were superfluous to offer any
synopsis or criticism of it here. Then a class of poems of which the
great river’s early literature is naturally replete are those concerned
with the growing of the vine and the making of Rhenish, prominent among
these being one consecrated to Bacharach, a town which was a famous
centre of the wine industry in the Middle Ages. Near Bacharach there
is a huge stone in the Rhine which, known as ‘the Altar of Bacchus,’
is visible only on rare occasions, when the river chances to be
particularly low; and in olden times, whenever this stone was seen,
the event was hailed by the townsfolk as an omen that their next grape
harvest would be an exceptionally successful one. It is with this ‘Altar
of Bacchus’ that the poem in question deals. But coming to modern times,
many of the Rhine drinking songs are also concerned to some extent with
patriotism—an element which seems to go hand in hand with the bacchanal
the world over!—and a typical item in this category is the Rheinweinlied
of Georg Hervegh, a poet of the first half of the nineteenth century.
A better patriotic song of Rhine-land, however, is one by a slightly
earlier poet, Wolfgang Müller, a native of Königswinter, near Bonn, who
sings with passionate devotion of the great river, dwelling lovingly on
its natural beauties, and exalting it above all other streams. His song
appears to have been composed when the writer was undergoing a temporary
period of exile from the Vaterland, for a somewhat pathetic and
plaintive air pervades each verse, and the poet refers to the Rhine as
a memory rather than as something actually before his eyes. But very
different is another fine patriotic song of which it behoves to speak,
the work of August Kopisch, a contemporary of Müller. This latter song
treats of an incident in the Napoleonic wars, and Blücher and his forces
are represented as encamped on the Rhine and as debating whether to
march forward against their French foes. Nor is it necessary to add,
perhaps, that they decide to do so, for otherwise no German singer would
have handled the theme!

But what, asks someone, is really the brightest gem of Rhineland poetry?
while someone else adds that the majority of the writers cited above are
but little known, and inquires whether none of the great German authors
were ever inspired to song by their beloved river. The name of Heinrich
Heine naturally comes to mind in this relation—comes to mind instantly
on account of what is surely his masterpiece, Die Lorelei—a poem already
dealt with.

But Heine’s version far transcends all others, and pondering on its
beauty, we think first of its gentle, andante music, a music which
steals through the senses like a subtle perfume:


     Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten,
     Dass ich so traurig bin;
     Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,
     Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.

There, surely, is a sound as lovely as the fateful maiden herself ever
sang; and here, again, is a verse which is a tour de force in the craft
of landscape-painting; for not only are the externals of the scene
summoned vividly before the reader’s eyes, but some of the mystery and
strangely wistful appeal of nature are likewise found in the lines:


     Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt
     Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein;
     Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt
     Im Abendsonneaschein.




CHAPTER III—CLEVES TO THE LÖWENBURG

Lohengrin

The tale or myth of the Knight of the Swan who came to the succour
of the youthful Duchess of Brabant is based upon motives more or less
common in folklore—the enchantment of human beings into swans, and the
taboo whereby, as in the case of Cupid and Psyche, the husband forbids
the wife to question him as to his identity or to look upon him. The
myth has been treated by both French and German romancers, but the
latter attached it loosely to the Grail legend, thus turning it to
mystical use.

As a purely German story it is found at the conclusion of Wolfram von
Eschenbach’s Parzival,1 from which the following version is drawn. The
name of the hero as written by Wolfram (Loherangrîn) may possibly be
traced to Garin le Loherin or Garin of Lorraine. Wagner’s version is
taken from the same source, but the mighty master of melody altered many
of the details for dramatic and other reasons.

[Note 1: See my Dictionary of Medieval Romance, articles ‘Grail,’
‘Parzival,’ ‘Perceval,’ and ‘Garin.’]

The principal French versions of the romance are Le Chevalier au Cygne
and Helyas, and there are medieval English forms of these.2

[Note 2: Op. cit.]

The Knight of the Swan

In a dungeon in the castle of Cleves lay Elsa of Brabant, languishing
in captivity. Her father, the Duke of Brabant, had ere he died appointed
his most powerful vassal, one Frederick of Telramund, to be her
guardian; but he, seeking only the advancement of his own ends,
shamefully abused the confidence of his lord. Using his authority as
Elsa’s guardian, he sought to compel her to become his wife, and threw
her into prison to await the wedding-day, knowing well that none would
dare to dispute his action.

An appeal was made on Elsa’s behalf to the Emperor, Henry I, who decreed
that she should choose a champion, so that the matter might be settled
by combat. But, alas! there was not a knight who would venture to match
his skill against that of Frederick, who was a giant in stature and an
expert in sword-play. In accordance with the Emperor’s decree Telramund
sent out a herald at stated times to proclaim his readiness to do battle
with any who would champion the cause of Elsa.

Time passed, yet the challenge was not accepted, and at length the
day was fixed for the bridal. Behind her prison bars the lady wept
ceaselessly, and called upon the Virgin to save her from the threatened
fate. In her despair she beat her breast with her chaplet, whereon was
hung a tiny silver bell. Now this little bell was possessed of magic
properties, for when it was rung the sound, small at first as the
tinkling of a fairy lure, grew in volume the further it travelled till
it resembled the swelling of a mighty chorus. Rarely was its tone heard,
and never save when its owner was in dire straits, as on the present
occasion. When Elsa beat her breast with it, therefore, its magical
qualities responded to her distress, and its faint, sweet tinkle fell on
her ear.

Far away over hill and dale went the sound of the bell, growing ever
richer and louder, till at length it reached the temple where Parsifal
and his knights guarded the Holy Grail. To them it seemed that the
swelling notes contained an appeal for help directed to the Holy Vessel
over which they kept vigil. While they debated thereon a loud and
mysterious voice was heard bidding Parsifal send his son Lohengrin
to the rescue of Elsa of Brabant, whom he must take for his wife, yet
without revealing to her his identity.

The awed knights recognized the voice as that of the Holy Grail, and
Lohengrin at once set out, bound he knew not whither. When he reached
the shores of the Rhine he found awaiting him a boat drawn by a stately
swan. Taking it as a sign from Heaven, he stepped into the little boat
and was carried up the Rhine, to the sound of the most exquisite music.

It was the day on which Elsa was to be wedded to her tyrant. She had
spent the night in tears and bitter lamentations, and now, weary and
distraught, too hopeless even for tears, she looked out from the bars of
her prison with dull, despairing eyes. Suddenly she heard the melodious
strains and a moment later saw the approach of a swan-drawn boat,
wherein lay a sleeping knight. Hope leapt within her, for she remembered
the prophecy of an old nun, long since dead, that a sleeping knight
would rescue her from grave peril. Directly he stepped ashore the youth
made his way to the place of her confinement and, espying her face at
the heavily barred window, knelt before her and begged that she would
take him for her champion.

At that moment the blast of a trumpet was heard, followed by the voice
of the herald as, for the last time, he challenged any knight to take
up arms on behalf of Elsa of Brabant. Lohengrin boldly accepted the
challenge, and Telramund, when the news reached him of the unexpected
opposition, on the very day he had appointed for his wedding, was
surprised and enraged beyond measure, yet he dared not refuse to do
battle with the stranger knight, because of the Emperor’s decree. So it
was arranged that the combat should take place immediately. News of it
reached the people of Cleves, and a great concourse gathered to witness
the spectacle, all of them secretly in sympathy with the persecuted
maiden, though these feelings were carefully concealed from the ruthless
Telramund.

Fierce indeed was the combat, for Lohengrin, though less powerfully
built than his gigantic opponent, was nevertheless tall and strong, and
well versed in the arts of war. At length he laid his enemy in the dust
with a well-aimed sword-stroke, and the crowd broke into cheers. The
combat was over, and Elsa was free!

Heeding not the acclamations of the people, Lohengrin strode toward
Elsa and again knelt at her feet. The blushing maiden bade him name his
reward, whereupon the knight begged her hand in marriage, confessing,
however, that he might only remain with her so long as she did not
question him with regard to his identity. It seemed a small condition
to Elsa, who willingly promised to restrain any curiosity she might feel
concerning his name and place of abode. The cheers of the populace were
redoubled when they learned that Elsa was to bestow her hand on the Swan
Knight.

In a few weeks the couple were married, and henceforth for a good many
years they lived together very happily. Three sons were born to them,
who grew in time to be handsome and chivalrous lads, of noble bearing
and knightly disposition. Then it was that Elsa, who had hitherto
faithfully kept her promise to her husband, began to fancy that she and
her sons had a grievance in that the latter were not permitted to bear
their father’s name.

For a time she brooded in silence over her grievance, but at length it
was fanned into open rebellion by a breath of outside suspicion. Some of
the people looked askance at the knight whose name no one knew. So Elsa
openly reproached her husband with his secrecy, and begged that for the
benefit of their sons he would reveal his name and station. Even the
children of humble parents, the children of the peasants, of their own
retainers, had a right to their father’s name, and why not her sons
also?

Lohengrin paled at her foolish words, for to him they were the sign that
he must leave his wife and family and betake himself once more to the
temple of the Holy Grail.

“Oh, Elsa,” he said sorrowfully, “thou knowest not what thou hast done.
Thy promise is broken, and to-day I must leave thee for ever.” And with
that he blew a blast on his silver horn.

Elsa had already repented her rash words, and right earnestly she
besought him to remain by her side. But, alas! her tears and pleadings
were in vain, for, even as her entreaties were uttered, she heard
the exquisite strains of music which had first heralded her lover’s
approach, while from the window of the castle she espied the swan-boat
rapidly drawing toward the shore.

With grave tenderness Lohengrin bade farewell to his wife and family,
first, however, revealing to them his identity, and commending them to
the care of some of his trusty followers.

Tradition tells that Elsa did not long survive the loss of her beloved
husband, but her sons became brave knights, well worthy of the proud
name they bore.

A Legend of Liége

A legend of Liége! and is not Liége itself now almost legendary? Its
venerable church, its world-famous library replete with the priceless
treasures of the past, “with records stored of deeds long since forgot,”
where are they?—but crumbling clusters of ruins fired by the barbarian
torch whose glow, we were told, was to enlighten an ignorant and
uncultured Europe! But one gem remains: the wonderful Hôtel de Ville,
type of the Renaissance spirit in Flanders. Liége may be laid in ruins,
but the memory of what it was can never die:


     Athens in death is nobler far
     Than breathing cities of the West;

and the same may be said of those splendours in stone, those wonders
of medieval architecture, even the blackened walls of which possess a
dignity and beauty which will ever assist the imagination to re-create
the picture of what has been.

Liége is a city of the Middle Ages. Time was when the place boasted but
a single forge; and though bucklers were heaped beside the anvil, and
swords and spears lay waiting for repair, the blacksmith leant against
his door-post, gazing idly up the hill-side. Gradually he was aware of
a figure, which seemed to have grown into shape from a furze-bush, or
to have risen from behind a stone; and as it descended the slope he eyed
curiously the grimy face, long beard, and squat form of what he was
half unwilling to recognize as a human being. Hobbling awkwardly, and
shrugging his shoulders as though cold, the man came in time to the
smithy door.

“What! Jacques Perron—idle when work is to be done? Idle smith! idle
smith! The horse lacks the bit, and the rider the spur.


     ‘Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending;
     Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending.’

Idle smith! idle smith!”

“Idle enough,” quoth Jacques. “I’m as idle as you are ugly; but I can’t
get charcoal any more than you can get beauty, so I must stand still,
and you be content with your face, though I’d fain earn a loaf and a cup
full enough for both of us this winter morning.”

Though the strange man must have known he was horribly ugly—that is, if
he ever bent to drink of the clear bright waters of the lovely Meuse,
which reflected in those days every lily-bell and every grass-blade
which grew upon its banks, and gave a faithful portraiture in its cool
waters of every creature that leant over them—though he was certainly
the most frightful creature that had ever met the blacksmith’s sight, it
was evident enough that he did not like being called Ugly-face. But when
the honest, good-natured smith spoke of earning a draught for his new
acquaintance as well as himself, he smacked his ugly lips and twisted
out a sort of smile which made him still more hideous.

“Ah, ah!” said he, “wine’s good in winter weather, wine’s good in winter
weather. Listen, listen! Jacques Perron! listen, listen! Go you up the
hill-side—yonder, yonder!” and he pointed with a yellow finger, which
seemed to stretch out longer and longer as the smith strained his
eyes up the slope, until the digit looked quite as long as the tallest
chimney that smoked over Liége. “Listen, listen!” and he sang in a voice
like the breath of a huge bellows:


     “‘Wine’s good in winter weather;
     Up the hill-side near the heather
     Go and gather the black earth,
     It shall give your fire birth.
     Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending;
     Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending:
     Go! Go!’

“Mind my cup of wine—mind my cup of wine!” As he ended this rude chant
Jacques saw the long finger run back into the shrivelled hand, as a
telescope slips back into its case, and then the hand was wrapped up in
the dingy garment, and with a dreadful shiver, and a chattering of teeth
as loud as the noise of the anvils now heard on the same spot, the ugly
man was wafted away round the corner of the building like a thick gust
of smoke from a newly fed furnace.

“Mind my cup of wine—mind my cup of wine!” rang again in the ears of
the startled Jacques, and after running several times round his house in
vain pursuit of the voice, he sat down on the cold anvil to scratch his
head and think. It was quite certain he had work to do, and it was as
certain as half a score searches could make it that he had not a single
coin in his pouch to buy charcoal to do it with. He was reflecting that
the old man was a very strange creature—he was more than half afraid to
think who he might be—when in the midst of his cogitation he heard
his three children calling out for their morning meal. Not a loaf
had Jacques in store, and twisting his hide apron round his loins, he
muttered, “Demon or no demon, I’ll go,” and strode out of the smithy and
up the hill-side as fast as though he feared that if he went slowly his
courage would not carry him as far up as the heather-bush which the long
yellow finger had pointed out.

When the young wife of Jacques came to look for her husband, she saw
him returning with his apron full of black morsels of shining stone. She
smiled at him; but when he threw them on the furnace and went to get a
brand to set them alight, she looked solemn enough, for she thought he
had left his wits on the hill-top. Great was her surprise when she saw
the stones burn! But her joy was greater than her surprise when she
heard her husband’s hammer ring merrily, and found the wage of the
smith all spared for home use, instead of being set aside for the
charcoal-burner. That night Jacques had two full wine-cups and, setting
them on the anvil, had scarcely said to himself, “I wonder whether
He’ll come!” when in walked the Old Man and, nodding familiarly, seated
himself on the head of the big hammer. Jacques was a bold and grateful
as well as a good-natured fellow, and in a few minutes he and his
visitor were on excellent terms. No more shivering or chattering of
teeth was seen or heard in the smithy that night. The black stones
burned away merrily on the hearth, and the bright flames shone on the
honest face of the smith as he hobnobbed with his companion, and looked
as though he really thought the stranger as handsome as he certainly had
been useful. He sang his best songs and told his best stories, and when
the wine had melted his soul he told his new friend how dearly he loved
his wife and what charming, dear creatures his children were. “Demon
or no demon,” he swore the stranger was a good fellow, and though the
visitor spoke but little, he seemed to enjoy his company very much.
He laughed at the jokes, smiled at the songs, and once rather startled
Jacques by letting out again his long telescope arm to pat him on his
shoulder when, with a mouth full of praises of his wife, a tear sparkled
in his eye as he told over again how dearly he loved his little ones.

Day broke before the wine was exhausted or their hearts flagged, and
when the voice of the early cock woke the swan that tended her callow
brood amongst the sedges of the Meuse the Old Man departed. Jacques
never saw him again, although he often looked in all directions when he
went to the hill for a supply of fuel; but from that day Liége grew up
in industry, riches, and power. Jacques had found coal, and thus became
the benefactor of his native country, and the hero of this favourite
Legend of the Liégeois.

The Sword-slipper of Solingen

In Solingen, where the forges rang to the making of sword-blades, many
smiths had essayed to imitate the falchions of Damascus, their trenchant
keenness and their wondrous golden inlaying. But numerous as were the
attempts made to recapture the ancient secret of the East, they all
signally failed, and brought about the ruin of many masters of the
sword-slipper’s art.

Among these was old Ruthard, a smith grown grey in the practice of his
trade. He had laid aside sufficient savings to permit himself a year’s
experiment in the manufacture of Damascus blades, but to no purpose. As
the months wore on he saw his hard-earned gold melting steadily away.
The wrinkles deepened on his brow, and his only daughter, Martha,
watched the change coming over him in sorrowful silence.

One evening—the evening of all evenings, the holy Christmas eve—Martha
entered the forge and saw the old man still hard at work. She gently
remonstrated with him, asking him why he toiled on such an occasion.

“You work, my father, as if you feared that to-morrow we might not
have bread,” she said. “Why toil on this holy evening? Have you not
sufficient for the future? You must have laid by enough for your old
age. Then why fatigue yourself when others are spending the time by
their own hearths in cheerful converse?”

The old smith’s only reply was to shake his head in a melancholy manner,
take some pieces of broken food in his hands, and leave the house. At
that moment Wilhelm, the smith’s head apprentice, entered the room.
He seemed pale and disturbed, and related to Martha, to whom he was
betrothed, that he had asked Ruthard for her hand. The old man had
firmly told him that he could not consent to their union until he
had discovered the secret of making Damascus blades. This he felt was
hopeless to expect, and he had come to say “good-bye” ere he set out on
a quest from which he might never return. At the news Martha was greatly
perturbed. She rose and clung to the young man, her wild grief venting
itself in heartrending sobs. She begged him not to depart. But his mind
was fully made up, and, notwithstanding her tears and caresses, he tore
himself away and quitted the house and the town.

For nearly a fortnight the youth tramped over hill and valley with
little in his pouch and without much hope that the slender means of
which he was possessed would bring him to the land of the Saracens,
where alone he could hope to learn the great art of tempering the blades
of Damascus. One evening he entered the solitary mountain country of
Spessart and, unacquainted with the labyrinths of the road, lost himself
in an adjoining forest. By this time night had fallen, and he cast about
for a place in which to lay his head. But the inhospitable forest showed
no sign of human habitation. After wandering on, however, stumbling and
falling in the darkness, he at length saw a light burning brightly at a
distance. Quickly he made for it and found that it came from the window
of a cottage, at the door of which he knocked loudly. He had not long to
wait for an answer, for an old woman speedily opened and inquired what
he wanted at so late an hour. He told her that he desired food and
lodging, for which he could pay, and he was at once admitted. She told
him, however, that she expected another visitor. Whilst she cooked his
supper Wilhelm detailed to her the circumstances of his journey. After
he had eaten he retired to rest, but, tired as he was, he could not
sleep. Later a dreadful storm arose, through the din of which he heard
a loud noise, as if someone had entered the house by way of the chimney.
Peering through the keyhole into the next room, he perceived a man
seated at the table opposite his hostess whose appearance filled him
with misgiving. He had not much leisure for a detailed examination of
this person, however, for the witch—for such she was—came to the door
of his room, entered, and bade him come and be introduced to a stranger
from the East who could tell him the secret of forging Damascus blades.
Wilhelm followed the old woman into the other room and beheld there a
swarthy man seated, wrapped in a flame-coloured mantle. For a long time
the stranger regarded him steadily, then demanded what he wanted from
him. Wilhelm told him the circumstances of his quest, and when he
had finished the story the man laughed and, drawing from his pocket a
document, requested the youth to sign it. Wilhelm perceived that it was
of the nature of a pact with Satan, by which he was to surrender
his soul in return for the coveted secret. Nevertheless, he set his
signature to the manuscript and returned to his couch—but not to sleep.
The consequences of his terrible act haunted him, and when morning
came he set off on his homeward journey with a fearful heart, carefully
guarding a well-sealed letter which the mysterious stranger had put into
his hand.

Without further adventure he reached Solingen, and having acquainted
Ruthard with what had transpired, he handed him the letter. But the good
old man refused to unseal it.

“You must keep this until your own son and my grandson can open it,” he
said to Wilhelm, “for over his infant soul the enemy can have no power.”

And so it happened. Wilhelm married Martha, and in the course of a few
years a little son was born to them, who in due time found the letter,
opened it, and mastered the Satanic secret, and from that time the
blades of Solingen have had a world-wide renown.

The Architect of Cologne Cathedral

Travellers on the Rhine usually make a halt at Cologne to see the
cathedral, and many inquire the name of its creator. Was the plan the
work of a single architect? they ask; or did the cathedral, like many
another in Europe, acquire its present form by slow degrees, being
augmented and duly embellished in divers successive ages? These
questions are perfectly reasonable and natural, yet, strange to relate,
are invariably answered in evasive fashion, the truth being that the
name of the artist in stone who planned Cologne Cathedral is unknown.
The legend concerning him, however, is of world-wide celebrity, for the
tale associated with the founding of the famous edifice is replete with
that grisly element which has always delighted the Germans, and figures
largely in their medieval literature, and more especially in the works
of their early painters—for example, Dürer, Lucas Cranach, and Albrecht
Altdörfer.

It was about the time of the last-named master that a Bishop of Cologne,
Conrad von Hochsteden, formed the resolve of increasing the pecuniary
value of his diocese. He was already rich, but other neighbouring
bishops were richer, each of them being blest with just what Conrad
lacked—a shrine sufficiently famous to attract large numbers of wealthy
pilgrims able to make generous offerings. The result of his jealous
musing was that the crafty bishop vowed he would build a cathedral whose
like had not been seen in all Germany. By this means, he thought,
he would surely contrive to bring rich men to his diocese. His first
thought was to summon an architect from Italy, in those days the country
where beautiful building was chiefly carried on; but he found that this
would cost a far larger sum than he was capable of raising; so, hearing
that a gifted young German architect had lately taken up his abode at
Cologne itself, Conrad sent for him and offered him a rich reward should
he accomplish the work satisfactorily. The young man was overjoyed, for
as yet he had received no commissions of great importance, and he set
to work at once. He made drawing after drawing, but, being in a state of
feverish excitement, found that his hand had lost its cunning. None
of his designs pleased him in the least; the bishop, he felt, would be
equally disappointed; and thinking that a walk in the fresh air might
clear his brain, he threw his drawing-board aside and repaired to the
banks of the Rhine. Yet even here peace did not come to him; he was
tormented by endless visions of groined arches, pediments, pilasters,
and the like, and having a stick in his hand, he made an effort to trace
some on the sand. But this new effort pleased him no better than any
of its predecessors. Fame and fortune were within his reach, yet he was
incapable of grasping them; and he groaned aloud, cursing the day he was
born.

As the young man uttered his fierce malediction he was surprised to
hear a loud “Amen” pronounced; he looked round, wondering from whom
this insolence came, and beheld an individual whose approach he had not
noticed. He, too, was engaged in drawing on the sand, and deeming that
the person, whoever he was, intended to mock his attempts at a plan for
the projected cathedral, the architect strode up to him with an angry
expression on his face. He stopped short, however, on nearing the rival
draughtsman; for he was repelled by his sinister aspect, while at the
same time he was thunderstruck by the excellence of his drawing. It was
indeed a thaumaturgic design, just such a one as the architect himself
had dreamt of, but had been unable to execute; and while he gazed at it
eagerly the stranger hailed him in an ugly, rasping voice. “A cunning
device, this of mine,” he said sharply; and the architect was bound to
agree, despite the jealousy he felt. Surely, he thought, only the Evil
One could draw in this wise. Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind
ere his suspicion was confirmed, for now he marked the stranger’s tail,
artfully concealed hitherto. Yet he was incapable of withholding his
gaze from the plan drawn so wondrously on the sand, and the foul fiend,
seeing that the moment for his triumph was come, declared his identity
without shame, and added that, would the architect but agree to renounce
all hopes of salvation in the next world, the peerless design would be
his to do with as he pleased.

The young man shuddered on receiving the momentous offer, but continued
to gaze fixedly at the cunning workmanship, and again the Evil One
addressed him, bidding him repair that very night to a certain place on
a blasted heath, where, if he would sign a document consigning his soul
to everlasting damnation, he would be presented with the plan duly
drawn on parchment. The architect still wavered, now eager to accept the
offer, and now vowing that the stipulated price was too frightful. In
the end he was given time wherein to come to a decision, and he hurried
from the place at hot speed as the tempter vanished from his sight.

On reaching his dwelling the architect flung himself upon his bed and
burst into a paroxysm of weeping. The good woman who tended him observed
this with great surprise, for he was not given to showing his emotions
thus; and wondering what terrible sorrow had come to him, she proceeded
to make kindly inquiries. At first these were met with silence, but,
feeling a need for sympathy, the architect eventually confessed the
truth; and the good dame, horrified at what she heard, hurried off to
impart the story to her father-confessor. He, too, was shocked, but he
was as anxious as Bishop Conrad that the proposed cathedral should be
duly built, and he came quickly to the architect’s presence. “Here,” he
told him, “is a piece of our Lord’s cross. This will preserve you. Go,
therefore, as the fiend directed you, take the drawing from him, and
brandish the sacred relic in his accursed face the moment you have
received it.”

When evening drew near the architect hurried to the rendezvous, where
he found the Devil waiting impatiently. But a leer soon spread over his
visage, and he was evidently overjoyed at the prospect of wrecking a
soul. He quickly produced a weird document, commanding his victim
to affix his signature at a certain place. “But the beautiful plan,”
whispered the young man; “I must see it first; I must be assured that
the drawing on the sand has been faithfully copied.” “Fear nothing.”
The Devil handed over the precious piece of vellum; and glancing at it
swiftly, and finding it in order, the architect whipped it under his
doublet. “Aha! you cannot outwit me,” shrieked the fiend; but as he was
laying hands upon the architect the young man brought forth the talisman
he carried. “A priest has told you of this, for no one else would have
thought of it,” cried the Devil, breathing flame from his nostrils. But
his wrath availed him naught; he was forced to retreat before the sacred
relic, yet as he stepped backward he uttered a deadly curse. “You have
deceived me,” he hissed; “but know that fame will never come to you;
your name will be forgotten for evermore.”

And behold, the fiend’s prophecy was fulfilled. The cathedral was
scarcely completed ere the young architect’s name became irrevocably
forgotten, and now this grisly tale is all that is known concerning his
identity.

Cologne Cathedral: Its Erection

There are several other tales to account for the belief prevalent at
one time that Cologne Cathedral would never be completed. The following
legend attributes the unfinished state of the edifice to the curse of
a jealous architect. At the time the building was commenced a rival
architect was engaged in planning an aqueduct to convey to the city a
supply of water purer than that of the Rhine. He was in this difficulty,
however: he had been unable to discover the exact position of the spring
from which the water was to be drawn. Tidings of the proposed structure
reached the ears of the builder of the cathedral, a man of strong
passions and jealous disposition, and in time the other architect asked
his opinion of the plans for the aqueduct.

Now it so happened that the architect of the cathedral alone had known
the situation of the spring, and he had communicated it to his wife, but
to no other living creature; so he replied boastfully:

“Speak not to me of your aqueduct. My cathedral, mighty as it will be,
shall be completed before your little aqueduct.” And he clinched his
vainglorious assertion with an oath.

Indeed, it seemed as though his boast would be justified, for the
building of the sacred edifice proceeded apace, while the aqueduct was
not even begun, because of the difficulty of finding the spring. The
second architect was in despair, for of a certainty his professional
reputation was destroyed, his hopes of fame for ever dashed, were he
unable to finish the task he had undertaken.

His faithful wife strove to lighten his despondency, and at last,
setting her woman’s wit to work, hit on a plan whereby the threatened
calamity might be averted. She set out to visit the wife of the
rival architect, with whom she was intimate. The hostess greeted her
effusively, and the ladies had a long chat over bygone times. More and
more confidential did they become under the influence of old memories
and cherry wine. Skilfully the guest led the conversation round to the
subject of the hidden spring, and her friend, after exacting a promise
of the strictest secrecy, told her its exact situation. It lay under the
great tower of the cathedral, covered by the massive stone known as the
‘Devil’s Stone.’

“Let me have your assurance again,” said the anxious lady, “that you
will never tell anyone, not even your husband. For I do not know what
would become of me if my husband learnt that I had told it to you.” The
other renewed her promises of secrecy and took her leave. On her return
home she promptly told her husband all that had passed, and he as
promptly set to work, sunk a well at the spot indicated, and found the
spring. The foundations of the aqueduct were laid and the structure
itself soon sprang up. The architect of the cathedral saw with dismay
that his secret was discovered. As the building of the aqueduct
progressed he lost all interest in his own work; envy and anger filled
his thoughts and at last overcame him. It is said that he died of a
broken heart, cursing with his latest breath the cathedral which he had
planned.

The Wager

An alternative story is that of the Devil’s wager with the architect of
the cathedral. The Evil One was much irritated at the good progress
made in the erection of the building and resolved, by means of a cunning
artifice, to stop that progress. To this end he paid a visit to the
architect, travelling incognito to avoid unpleasant attentions.

The architect was a man of wit and good sense, as courteous as he was
clever; but he had one outstanding failing—a love of wagering. Satan,
who ever loves to find the joints in an opponent’s armour, chose this
one weak spot as a point of attack. His host offered him meat and drink,
which the Devil declined as not being sufficiently high-seasoned for his
taste.

“I have come on a matter of business,” said he briskly. “I have heard of
you as a sporting fellow, a man who loves his wager. Is that correct?”

The architect indicated that it was, and was all eagerness and attention
in a moment.

“Well,” said the other, “I have come, in a word, to make a bet with you
concerning the cathedral.”

“And what is your wager?”

“Why, I’ll wager that I bring a stream from Treves to Cologne before you
finish the cathedral, and I’ll work single-handed, too.”

“Done!” said the delighted architect. “But what’s the wager?”

“If I win, your soul passes into my possession; if you win, you may have
anything you choose.” And with that he was gone.

Next day the architect procured the services of all the builders that
were to be had on such short notice, and set them to work in real
earnest. Very soon the whole town was in a state of excitement because
of the unusual bustle. The architect took to dreaming of the wealth, or
the fame, or the honour he should ask as his due when the stakes were
won. Employing his imagination thus, he one day climbed to the top of
the highest tower, which by this time was completed, and as he feasted
his eyes on the beautiful landscape spread before him he happened to
turn toward the town of Treves, and lo! a shining stream was threading
its way to Cologne. In a very short time it would reach the latter city.

The Devil had won!

With a laugh of defiance the architect cast himself from the high tower
and was instantly killed. Satan, in the form of a black hound, sprang
upon him, but was too late to find him alive.

But his death stopped for many years the progress of the cathedral;
it long stood at the same stage of completion as when the brook first
flowed from Treves to Cologne.

The Fire-bell of Cologne

In one of the grand towers of Cologne Cathedral hangs a massive bell,
some 25,000 lb. in weight. No mellow call to prayer issues from its
brazen throat, no joyous chimes peal forth on gala-days; only in times
of disaster, of storm and stress and fire, it flings out a warning in
tones so loud and clamorous, so full of dire threatenings, that the
stoutest hearts quail beneath the sound. Because its awful note is only
to be heard in time of terror it is known as the Fire-bell, and a weird
tradition relates the story of its founding and the reason for its
unearthly sound.

Long ago, when bell-founding was looked upon as an art of the highest
importance, and especially so among the Germans, the civic authorities
of Cologne made it known that the cathedral was in need of a new bell.
There was no lack of aspirants for the honour of casting the bell, and
more than one exponent of the art imagined his handiwork swinging in the
grand tower of the cathedral, a lasting and melodious monument to its
creator’s skill.

Among those whose ambitious souls were stirred by the statement of the
city fathers was one, a bell-founder named Wolf, a man of evil passions
and overbearing disposition, whose heart was firmly set on achieving
success. In those days, let it be said, the casting of a bell was
a solemn, and even a religious, performance, attended by elaborate
ceremonies and benedictions. On the day which Wolf had appointed for
the operation it seemed as though the entire populace had turned out to
witness the spectacle. Wolf, having prepared the mould, made ready to
pour into it the molten metal. The silence was almost oppressive, and
on it fell distinctly the solemn words of the bell-founder, as in God’s
name he released the metal. The bright stream gushed into the mould,
and a cheer broke from the waiting crowd, who, indeed, could scarce be
restrained till the bell had cooled, such was their curiosity to see the
result. At last the earthy mould was removed, they surged round eagerly,
and lo! from crown to rim of the mighty bell stretched a gaping crack!

Expressions of disappointment burst from the lips of the people, and to
Wolf himself the failure was indeed galling. But his ambitious
spirit was not yet completely crushed. “I am not beaten yet,” he said
boastfully. “I shall make another, and success shall yet be mine.”

Another mould was made, once more the people came forth to see the
casting of the bell, once more the solemn invocation of God’s name
fell on awed ears. The glowing metal filled the mould, cooled, and was
withdrawn from its earthy prison. Once more cries of disappointment were
heard from the crowd; again the massive bell was completely riven!

Wolf was beside himself. His eyes glowed with fury, and he thrust aside
the consolations of his friends. “If God will not aid me,” he said
fiercely, “then the Devil will!”

The crowd shrank back from the impious words; nevertheless on the third
occasion they attended in even greater numbers than before.

Again was all made ready for the casting of the huge bell. The mould
was fashioned as carefully as on the previous occasions, the metal was
heated in the great furnace, and Wolf, pale and sullen, stood ready to
release it. But when he spoke a murmur of astonishment, of horror, ran
through the crowd. For the familiar words “In the name of God!” he had
substituted “In the name of the Devil!” With fascinated eyes the people
watched the bright, rushing metal, and, later, the removal of the mould.

And behold! the bell was flawless, perfect in shape and form, and
beautiful to look upon!

Wolf, having achieved the summit of his ambition, cared little for the
means by which he had ascended. From among a host of competitors he was
chosen as the most successful. His bell was to hang in the belfry
of Cologne Cathedral, for the envy of other bell-founders and the
admiration of future generations.

The bell was borne in triumph through the streets and fixed high in the
tower. Wolf requested that he might be the first to try its tone, and
his request was granted. He ascended into the tower and took the rope in
his hands; the mighty bell swung forth, but ah! what a sound was that!
The people pressed their hands over their ears and shuddered; those in
the streets hurried to their homes; all were filled with deadly fear as
the diabolical bell flung its awful tones over the startled city. This,
then, was the result of Wolf’s invocation of the Devil.

Wolf himself, high in the cathedral tower, was overcome with the brazen
horror of the sound, and, driven mad with remorse and terror, flung
himself from the tower and fell, a crushed and shapeless mass, on the
ground below.

Henceforth the bell was used only to convey warning in times of danger,
to carry a message of terror far and wide across the city, and to remind
the wicked at all times of the danger of trafficking with the Evil One.

The Archbishop’s Lion

In 957 Cologne was constituted an imperial free city, having as its
nominal prince the archbishop of the see, but possessing the right to
govern its own affairs. The good bishop of that time acquiesced in the
arrangement, but his successors were not content to be princes in name
only, and strove hard to obtain a real influence over the citizens.
Being for the most part men of unscrupulous disposition, they did not
hesitate to rouse commonalty and aristocracy against each other, hoping
to step in and reap the benefits of such internecine warfare as might
ensue. And, indeed, the continual strife was not conducive to the
prosperity of the burghers, but rather tended to sap their independence,
and one by one their civil liberties were surrendered. Thus the scheming
archbishops increased their power and influence in the city of Cologne.
There came a time, however, in the civic history when the limit was
overstepped. In the thirteenth century Archbishop Engelbert, more daring
and ambitious than any of his predecessors, demanded that the municipal
treasure should be given up to him. Not content with taking away the
privileges of the burghers, he wished to lay his hands on the public
purse as well. This was indeed the last straw, and the sluggish blood of
the burghers was at length roused to revolt.

At this time the Burgomaster of Cologne, Hermann Grein by name, was an
honest, far-seeing, and diplomatic citizen, who had seen with dismay the
ancient liberties of his beloved city destroyed by the cunning of the
Archbishop. The latter’s bold attempt at further encroachments gave him
the opportunity he sought, and with the skill of a born leader Hermann
Grein united nobles and commons in the determination to resist their
mutual e

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/16539