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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 ITOPOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL

CHAPTER IITHE RHINE IN FOLKLORE AND LITERATURE

CHAPTER IIICLEVES TO THE LÖWENBURG

LEGENDS OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE

CHAPTER IVDRACHENFELS TO RHEINSTEIN

CHAPTER VFALKENBURG TO AUERBACH

CHAPTER VIWORMS AND THE NIBELUNGENLIED

CHAPTER VIIHEIDELBERG 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 authors 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 sourcethe manner in which the majority of visitors
to Germany will make the voyageand 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 ITOPOGRAPHICAL 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 glooma 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
worlds 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 Germanys 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, Bismarcks 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 welcomebread and salt. But no such common fare was
to be found on her tableall 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 adventuresthat
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 mans words. She
was richshe possessed greater treasures than any in Stavoren, at a time
when that city was among the wealthiest in Europeand yet she lacked the
most precious of earths 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 timethe priests and philosophersto 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 sages 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
earths, products, that which was to be found in every country, which
flourished in every clime, on which the lives of millions dependedthis
was the greatest treasure, and its name wasbread.

Having reached this conclusion, the commander of Richbertas 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
adventuresthe storm, the throwing overboard of their store of bread,
and the consequent sufferings of the crewand 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 Marcomansfor example, on Marcus Aurelius columnall
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 framan
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
Clodios 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 kings 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 animalsthe lion, the tiger,
the spotted pard, the elephant, the unicornah! they are coming this
waythey 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 animalsmaller than a mousewho commands them all. Ah! he is
eating them upswallowing them allone 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 centuryour
more remote descendantsrude as the bear, fell as the wolf, fawning as
the jackal, cruel as the hyenathe curse of their people andthemselves.
The last onethe following centurythey will be weak, timid,
irresolutethe 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 Childerics vision and his queens 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 dayat 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 authors 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 Guiteclins 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
sovereigns 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 husbands 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 ladys look makes men undertake folly. She is taken,
however, in her own toils; falls in love with Baldwin one summers 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 Sebiles ladies, and so little mystery is attached to their
love that, on Baldwins 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 morea 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 Sebiles tent to
kiss her in the sight of the Saxons, and bringing back her ringwhich
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
Saracens wife, or in promising her hand in her husbands 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 Guiteclins 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
Guiteclins body be sought for, lest the beasts should eat ita 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 halfs 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 husbands 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 refusesSebile would
hold him for a sleepy coward. He kills Ferabras, unhorses one of
Guiteclins 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 uncles succour. She is the first to descry
the French host and to point it out to her husband. Ah, God! said
Charless 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 husbands 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 Emperors 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 Guiteclins 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 nephews 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. Baldwins 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 Gods 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
Gods 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
Saxons 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 mana brother of Guiteclinin single combat, Dyalas, the
Emperors 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 Charlemagnes 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 ringers
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
Emperors 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 snakes 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 snakes nest.

The court listened to the Emperors 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 Emperors 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 mans 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 Emperors 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, Charlemagnes 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.
Lothairs 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. Ottos 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 Paters
story, Duke Karl of Rosenwaldwhich tells how a medieval German baron
discovered in himself a keen love of art, and sought to gather artists
round him from France and Italymay 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 tutors 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 boys 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 Leonoras 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 hosts
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
Rafaellos model had been Eugenia. Leonora knew that this girl had been
Fredericks 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 Rafaellos 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 Fredericks suggested engagement
to her, she proceeded to take stronger measures. Readers of Sir Walter
Scotts 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 himthe
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 princes heart. So stealthy a deed was
unknown in the history of the tourney. The crowd gazed as though
petrified, and Fredericks life would doubtless have been lostfor he
was weak after his many joustingshad 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 Englands example. In the seventeenth century their existence
was confined to three German townsLübeck, 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 strugglethe War of the Palatinatecarried 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 summers 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
artists 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 fathers
inn, and I am ready for supper. Afterwardwell, 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 Oppenheims 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 battalionsSwedes 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 mans 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 Stevensons 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 Englandfor example, that
gallant Beau Brocade of whom Mr. Austin Dobson writeswere 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 Gautiers 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 mans 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 IITHE 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
representedprobably through ignorance of the real circumstancesthat
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 sons death on the evil enchantress who had wrought
such havoc. Among his retainers there was but one who would undertake
the venturea captain of the guard named Dietherand 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 Loreleis 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 mens 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 presentfor even her accusers were
meltedand 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 lovers 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 writers 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 Odins 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 Scotts 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 Gods 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 lightnings lurid ray.

     He waved his huntsmans 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 bugles clanging knell,
     Cried the fair youth with silver voice;
     And for devotions 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,
     Oer moss and moor, oer 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 Wildgraves 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 autumns blessings crowned;
     See, prostrate at the Wildgraves feet,
     A husbandman with toil embrowned.

     Oh, mercy! mercy! noble lord;
     Spare the poors 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 scourges echoing blow!
     Then loudly rung his bugle horn,
     Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!

     So said, so donea single bound
     Clears the poor labourers humble pale:
     Wild follows man, and horse, and hound,
     Like dark Decembers stormy gale.

     And man, and horse, and hound, and horn
     Destructive sweep the field along,
     While joying oer the wasted corn
     Fell famine marks the maddning throng.

     Full lowly did the herdsman fall:
     Oh, spare, thou noble baron, spare;
     These herds, a widows little all;
     These flocks, an orphans 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 murdrous 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 forests gloom,
     The humble hermits hallowed bowr.

     All mild, amid the route profane,
     The holy hermit poured his prayer:
     Forbear with blood Gods 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 whirlwinds 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 oer the sinners 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,
     Gods meanest creature is His child.

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

     Earth heard the callher 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 oer 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 despairs 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 earths caverned space;
     At midnights 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