The possessor of the ring was now the worthy archbishop, and to him the magically inspired affections of Charlemagne were transferred, much to the good man’s annoyance. To rid himself of the unwelcome attentions and fulsome flatteries of his sovereign, he cast the ring into the lake which surrounded the castle. Once more the Emperor’s affections changed their object, and this time it was the town of Aix-la-Chapelle with which he fell in love, and for which he retained a firm attachment all through his life, finally directing that he should be buried there. And so he was laid to rest in that wondrous old town in the church of St. Mary. In the year 1000 his tomb was opened by the Emperor Otto III, but the account that Otto found the body seated upon a throne with crown on head and sceptre in hand is generally regarded as legendary. The sarcophagus was once more opened by Frederick I in 1165, when the remains were transferred from the princely marble where they had hitherto rested and placed in a wooden coffin. Fifty years later, however, Frederick II had them placed in a splendid shrine. The original sarcophagus may still be seen at Aix, and the royal relics are exhibited every six years.
Louis, Charlemagne’s son, lived to see the division of his Empire, brought about through his own weakness. His fair provinces were ravaged by the Danes and the Normans. Teuton and Frank were now for ever separated. Twice during Louis’ reign his own sons dethroned him, but on his death in 840 the Empire became more firmly established.
Lothair I (840-855) succeeded to the imperial title, while Germany fell to the lot of his brother Louis. Charles the Bald ruled over France. Lothair’s portion was limited to Lorraine, Burgundy, Switzerland, and Italy. Civil strife broke out, but Louis retained the whole of Germany with the provinces on the left bank of the Rhine. Louis II (856-875) ascended the throne as Roman Emperor, but died without any male issue, while Charles the Fat, who succeeded him, was removed from the throne by order of the Church on account of his insanity.
With Charles ended the Carolingian dynasty. From the death of the illustrious Charlemagne the race had gradually but surely declined. After the removal of Charles the Fat there came a lapse of seventy-four years. Conrad I (911-919) founded the Gascon dynasty of Germany, and was succeeded by Henry the Fowler (919-936). His son, Otto I, called the Great (936-973), was crowned Roman Emperor in 962. In 936 his elevation to the Germanic kingdom was a popular one. A portion of Gaul to the west of the Rhine along the banks of the Meuse and the Moselle was ceded to the Germans. Otto’s supremacy between the Rhine, the Rhone, and the Alps was acquired and held for his successors. With the sword he propagated Christianity, subdued Italy, and delivered the Pope from his enemies, who, to show his appreciation, invested him with the imperial title, which ever after belonged to the Germanic nation. The German Emperors, however, still continued to exercise the right of electing the Pope, thereby reducing the Roman Church to a level of servitude.
Toward the close of the Carolingian dynasty France and Germany had become irrevocably detached; both nations suffered from internecine wars. The Slavonians penetrated into the Empire, even to the banks of the Rhine. Feudal princes began to make war upon each other, and, within their respective districts, were virtual sovereigns.
At the partition of the domains of Charlemagne in A.D. 843 the Rhine formed the boundary between Germany and the middle kingdom of Lotharingia, but by 870 the latter had been absorbed by the larger country. For a period verging upon eight hundred years it remained the frontier of the German Empire. In the early Middle Ages the heritage of the ancient Roman civilization rendered it the most cultured portion of Germany. By the time of Otto I (died 973) both banks of the Rhine had become German, and the Rhenish territory was divided between the duchies of Upper and Lower Lorraine, the one on the Moselle and the other on the Meuse. But, like other German states, on the weakening of the central power they split up into numerous petty independent principalities, each with its special history.
The Palatinate
Chief among these was the state known as the Palatinate, from the German word Pfalz, a name given generally to any district ruled by a count palatine. It was bounded by Prussia on the north, on the east by Baden, and on the south by Alsace-Lorraine. We first hear of a royal official known as the Count Palatine of the Rhine in the tenth century. Although the office was not originally an hereditary one, it seems to have been held by the descendants of the first count, until the continuity of the race of Hermann was broken by the election of Conrad, stepbrother of the German king Frederick I, as Count Palatine. From that time till much later in German history the Palatinate of the Rhine appears to have been gifted during their lifetime to the nephews or sons-in-law of the reigning Emperor, and by virtue of his occupancy of the office the holder became an Elector, or voter in the election of an Emperor. The office was held by a large number of able and statesmanlike princes, as Frederick I, Frederick III, the champion of Protestantism, and Frederick V. In the seventeenth century the Palatinate was first devastated and then claimed by France, and later was disturbed by still more harassing religious strife. In 1777 it was united with Bavaria upon the reigning Elector falling heir to the Electorate of that state.
A Tale of the Palatine House
Throughout the Middle Ages the nobles of Rhineland were mostly notorious for their wild savagery and predatory habits, and thus the modern traveller on the famous river, admiring the many picturesque castles built on summits overlooking its banks, is prone to think of these places as having been the homes of men who were little better than freebooters. And in general this idea is just; yet Walter Pater’s story, Duke Karl of Rosenwald—which tells how a medieval German baron discovered in himself a keen love of art, and sought to gather artists round him from France and Italy—may well have been culled from a veracious historical source. For at least a few of the German petty princes of the Middle Ages shared the aestheticism characterizing so many of their contemporaries among the noblemen of the Latin races, and it is interesting to find that among the old German courts where art was loved in this isolated fashion was that of the Palatine house, which ultimately became related by marriage to the Royal Stuarts, a dynasty as eminently artistic as the Medicis themselves.
This Palatine house was regnant for many generations at Heidelberg Castle, and there, at a remote medieval date, reigned a prince named Louis III, who esteemed literature and painting. A fond parent he was besides, devoted to his two sons, the elder called Louis and the younger Frederick; and from the outset he attended carefully to the education of the pair, choosing as their tutor a noted scholar, one Kenmat, while he allowed this tutor’s daughter Eugenia to be taught along with the princely pupils, and he also admitted to the group an Italian boy, Rafaello. These four children grew up together, and the Palatine prince was pleased to mark that Frederick, though full of martial ardour, showed intellectual tastes as well; yet the father did not live long to watch the growth of the boy’s predilection therein, and there came a day when the crown of Louis III was acquired by his heir, Louis IV. Still quite young, the latter was already affianced to Margaret of Savoy; and this engagement had incensed various nobles of the Rhine, especially the Count of Luzenstein. He was eager that his own house should become affiliated with the Palatinate, and while he knew that there was little hope of frustrating Louis’ prospective wedding, this did not nullify his ambitions. For was it not possible that the marriage might prove without issue? And, as that would ultimately set Frederick on the Palatine throne, Luzenstein determined that his daughter Leonora should wed the younger of the two princes. She herself was equally eager for the union, and though the affair was not definitely arranged in the meantime, it was widely understood that at no very distant date Leonora’s betrothal would be announced.
At length there came a day when the noblesse of the Rhine assembled at Heidelberg to celebrate the nuptials of Louis and Margaret. For a space the rejoicings went forward merrily, but, as Louis scanned the faces of his guests, he was surprised to find that Frederick was absent. Why was this? he mused; and going in search he soon found his brother in one of the smaller rooms of the castle, attended by Rafaello. Now the latter, who was developing a rare gift for sculpture, had lately made a statue to decorate this room; and on Louis entering Frederick was gazing with passionate fondness at this new work of art. Louis was straightway called upon to observe its loveliness, and even as Frederick was descanting thus, a number of the guests who had remarked their host’s temporary absence trooped into the room, among them being Leonora of Luzenstein. She was in ill-temper, for Frederick had not so much as troubled to salute her on her arrival; and now, finding him deep in admiration of a statue, its subject a beautiful girl, her rancour deepened apace. But who was the girl? she wondered; and as divers other guests were also inquisitive on this head, it soon transpired that Rafaello’s model had been Eugenia. Leonora knew that this girl had been Frederick’s playmate in youth, so her wrath turned to fierce malice, for she suspected that in Eugenia she had a rival who might wreck all hopes of the Luzensteins becoming united to the Palatine house.
But Frederick regarded Eugenia only as a sister. He knew that she and the sculptor who had hewn her likeness loved one another, and he longed to see their union brought about, his genuine affection for the young Italian being the greater on account of Rafaello’s blossoming talents as an artist. Leonora, however, knew nothing of the real situation; she fancied she had been insulted, and demanding of her father that he should cease all negotiations regarding Frederick’s suggested engagement to her, she proceeded to take stronger measures. Readers of Sir Walter Scott’s Anne of Geierstein will recall the Vehmgericht, that ‘Secret Tribunal’ whose deeds were notorious in medieval Germany, and it chanced that the Luzensteins were in touch with this body. Its minions were called upon to wreak vengeance on the younger Palatine prince. On several occasions his life was attempted, and once he would certainly have been killed had not Rafaello succoured him in the hour of need.
Meanwhile a son was born to Louis, and in celebration of the event a tourney was held at Heidelberg, competitors coming from far and near, all of them eager to win the golden sword which was promised to the man who should prove champion. One after another they rode into the lists, Frederick being among the number; and as each presented himself his name was called aloud by the herald. At length there came one of whom this functionary cried, “This is a nameless knight who bears a plain shield”; and at these words a murmur of disapproval rose from the crowd, while everyone looked up to where Louis sat, awaiting his verdict on the matter. But he signified that the mysterious aspirant should be allowed to show his prowess, and a minute later, all who were to take part being now assembled, Frederick and another competitor were stationed at opposite ends of the lists, and the signal given them to charge. Forward thundered their steeds, a fierce combat ensued; but Frederick proved victor, and so another warrior came forward to meet him. He, too, was worsted, and soon it appeared as though the young Palatine prince would surely win the coveted golden sword; for foeman after foeman he vanquished, and eventually only two remained to confront him—the nameless knight and another who had entered the lists under a strange, though less suspicious, pseudonym. The latter expressed his desire to fight last of all, and so the nameless one galloped toward Frederick, and their lances clashed together. The Palatine prince bore his adversary to the ground, apparently conquering him with complete ease; and fearing he had wounded him mortally, Frederick dismounted with intent to succour him. But the speedy fall had been a feint, and as the victor bent down the mysterious knight suddenly drew a dagger, with intent to plunge it into the prince’s heart. So stealthy a deed was unknown in the history of the tourney. The crowd gazed as though petrified, and Frederick’s life would doubtless have been lost—for he was weak after his many joustings—had not he who had asked to fight last of all galloped forward instantly on marking the drawn weapon and driven his lance into the body of the would-be murderer!
It was Rafaello who had rescued the Palatine prince once again, and it was a member of the Luzenstein house who had sought to kill him thus. A crafty device in truth, and thenceforth the name of Luzenstein became abhorred throughout all Rhineland, while the brave Italian was honoured by knighthood, and arrangements were made for his speedy union with Eugenia. But, alas! the fates were untoward; for the ‘Secret Tribunal,’ having been baulked again and again, began to direct their schemes against the sculptor instead of his patron; and one evening, as Rafaello was walking with his beloved one, a band of villains attacked and murdered the pair. They were buried together at a place known for many centuries after as ‘The Lovers’ Grave,’ and here Frederick used to loiter often, musing fondly on the dear sister who had been snatched from him in this ruthless fashion, and dreaming of the lofty artistic career which he had planned in vain for his beloved Rafaello.
Bishops, Barons, and Bourgeois
To trace the fortunes, divisions, and junctions of the lesser Rhine principalities would be a work requiring a world of patience on the part of the reader as well as an amount of space which would speedily surpass the limits even of such an ample volume as the present. The constant changes of boundary of these tiny lordships, the hazy character of the powers possessed by their rulers, the multiplicity of free townships yielding obedience to none but their own civic rulers, the brief but none the less tyrannous rule of scores of robber barons who exercised a régime of blood and iron within a radius of five miles of their castellated eyries, render the tracing of the history of the Rhine during the Middle Ages a task of almost unequalled complexity, robbed of all the romance of history by reason of the necessity for constant attention to the details of dynastic and territorial changes and the petty squabblings and dreary scufflings of savage barons with their neighbours or with the scarcely less brutal ecclesiastical dignitaries, who, joining with gusto in the general mêlée of land-snatching, served to swell the tumult with their loud-voiced claims for land and lordship. Three of the Electors of Franconia, within the boundaries of which the Palatinate was included, were archbishops, and these were foremost in all dynastic and territorial bickerings.
The growth of German municipalities since the days of their founder, Henry the Fowler, was not without effect upon the Empire. Distinctions of class were modified. The freeman became empowered to reserve to himself the right of going to war along with his lord. Imperial cities began to spring up; these were governed by a lieutenant of the Emperor, or by their own chief magistrate. They achieved confederation, thus guarding themselves against imperial and feudal encroachments. The ‘League of the Rhine’ and that of the Hanse Towns emerged as the fruit of this policy. The latter federation consisted of about four-score cities of Germany which under their charter enjoyed a commercial monopoly. This example succeeded so well that its promoter, Lübeck, had the satisfaction of seeing all cities between the Rhine and the Vistula thus connected. The clergy, jealous of this municipal power, besought the Emperor to repress the magistrates who had been called into being by the people, and who were closely allied to this commercial confederation. But the monarch advised the prelates to return to their churches lest their opulent friends became their enemies.
The Rhine Hanse Towns
The influence of the Hanseatic League of the Rhine district in the fourteenth century extended over the whole commercial radius of Germany, Prussia, Russia, the Netherlands, and Britain. It opened up new fields of commerce, manufacture, and industry. It paved the way for culture, it subdued the piracy which had existed in the Baltic, and it promoted a universal peace. On the other hand, it created jealousy; it boycotted the honest manufacturer and merchant who did not belong to the League, and fostered luxury in the Rhenish cities, which did much to sap the sturdy character of the people. The celebrity which many of these municipalities attained through their magnificence can be gathered from the historic buildings of Worms, Spires, Frankfort, Cologne, Augsburg, and Nuremberg. The splendour of these edifices and the munificence of their wealthy inhabitants could only be equalled in the maritime regions of Italy. But in the fifteenth century the power of the League began to decline. The Russian towns, under the leadership of Novgorod the Great, commenced a crusade against the Hanse Towns’ monopoly in that country. The general rising in England, which was one of the great warehouses, under Henry VI and Edward IV reflected upon them. The Netherlands followed England’s example. In the seventeenth century their existence was confined to three German towns—Lübeck, Hamburg, and Bremen. These no longer had the power to exercise their influence over the nation, and soon the League dropped out of existence.
The Thirty Years’ War
The protracted struggle known as the Thirty Years’ War was most prejudicial to the interests of the Rhine valley, which was overrun by the troops of the several nationalities engaged. One phase of this most disastrous struggle—the War of the Palatinate—carried the rapine and slaughter to the banks of the Rhine, where, as has been said, they were long remembered. During the reign of Ferdinand III (1637-1659) a vigorous and protracted war broke out between France and Germany, the former assisted by her ally Sweden. Germany, seeing that unless peace were restored her ruin as a great power would be inevitable, entered into negotiations with France, and in 1648 the claims of France and Sweden were settled by the Peace of Westphalia. This treaty is particularly notable in the present instance because it gave to the former country the footing on the Rhine already mentioned as the beginning of French encroachments. Germany was forced to give up Alsace, on the left bank of the river. France, by the seizure of Strassburg, confirmed by the Treaty of Ryswick in 1695, extended her boundaries to the Rhine. At the beginning of the French Revolution Leopold II of Germany and other German monarchs agreed to support the cause of French royalty, a resolution which was disastrous to the Empire. In 1795 Prussia, for political reasons, withdrew from the struggle, ceding to France, in the terms of the Treaty of Basel, all her possessions on the left bank of the Rhine. In 1799 war again broke out; but in 1801 the Treaty of Lunéville gave to France the whole of the left bank of the river. Thus the historic stream became the boundary between France and Germany. In 1806 the humiliation of the latter country was complete, for in that year a number of German princes joined the Confederation of the Rhine, thus allying themselves with France and repudiating their allegiance to the Empire. In 1815, at the Congress of Vienna, the whole of the Lower Rhenish district was restored to Prussia, while Bavaria, a separate state, was put in possession of the greater part of the Palatinate on the left bank of the Rhine.
From that time onward the German national spirit flourished, but the future of the Empire was uncertain till its fate was decided by the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71. In the great hall of the Palace of Versailles in 1871 William I, King of Prussia, proclaimed, in the hour of victory, the restoration of the confederated German Empire. The French forfeited their Rhenish provinces, and once more the Rhine was restored to Germany.
That the Thirty Years’ War did not fail to linger in the folk-memory is evidenced by the following gruesome legend of Oppenheim:
The Battle of Skeletons
The smoke and terror of the great struggle had surged over Oppenheim. A battle had been fought there, and the Swedes and Spaniards who had contested the field and had been slain lay buried in the old churchyard hard by the confines of the town. At least many had been granted the right of sepulture there, but in a number of cases the hasty manner in which their corpses had received burial was all too noticeable, and a stranger visiting the churchyard confines years after the combat could not fail to be struck by the many uncoffined human relics which met his gaze.
But an artist who had journeyed from far to see the summer’s sun upon the Rhine water, and who came to Oppenheim in the golden dusk, was too intent on the search for beauty to remember the grisly reputation of the town. Moreover, on entering the place the first person by whom he had been greeted was a beautiful young maiden, daughter of the innkeeper, who modestly shrank back on hearing his confident tones and, curtsying prettily, replied to his questions in something like a whisper.
“Can you recommend me to a comfortable hostelry, my pretty maid, where the wine is good and the company jovial?”
“If the Herr can put up with a village inn, that of my father is as good as any in the place,” replied the maid.
“Good, my pretty,” cried the bold painter, sending the ready blood to her face with a glance from his bright black eyes. “Lead the way, and I will follow. Or, better still, walk with me.”
By the time they had reached the inn they felt like old friends. The girl had skilfully but simply discovered the reason for the young artist’s sojourn in Oppenheim, and with glowing face and eyes that had grown brighter with excitement, she clasped her hands together and cried: “Oh, the Herr must paint my beloved Oppenheim. There is no such place by moonlight, believe me, and you will be amply repaid by a visit to the ruins of the old church to-night. See, a pale and splendid moon has already risen, and will light your work as the sun never could.”
“As you ask me so prettily, Fräulein, I shall paint your beloved abbey,” he replied. “But why not in sunlight, with your own sweet face in the foreground?”
“No, no,” cried the girl hastily. “That would rob the scene of all its romance.”
“As you will,” said the artist. “But this, I take it, is your father’s inn, and I am ready for supper. Afterward—well, we shall see!”
Supper over, the painter sat for some time over his pipe and his wine, and then, gathering together his sketching impedimenta, quitted the inn and took his way toward the ruins of Oppenheim’s ancient abbey. It was a calm, windless night, and the silver moon sailed high in the heavens. Not a sound broke the silence as the young man entered the churchyard. Seating himself upon a flat tombstone, he proceeded to arrange his canvas and sketching materials; but as he was busied thus his foot struck something hard. Bending down to remove the obstacle, which he took for a large stone, he found, to his horror, that it was a human skull. With an ejaculation he cast the horrid relic away from him, and to divert his mind from the grisly incident commenced to work feverishly. Speedily his buoyant mind cast off the gloomy train of thought awakened by the dreadful find, and for nearly a couple of hours he sat sketching steadily, until he was suddenly startled to hear the clock in the tower above him strike the hour of midnight.
He was gathering his things preparatory to departure, when a strange rustling sound attracted his attention. Raising his eyes from his task, he beheld a sight which made his flesh creep. The exposed and half-buried bones of the dead warriors which littered the surface of the churchyard drew together and formed skeletons. These reared themselves from the graves and stood upright, and as they did so formed grisly and dreadful battalions—Swedes formed with Swedes and Spaniards with Spaniards. On a sudden hoarse words of command rang out on the midnight air, and the two companies attacked one another.
The luckless beholder of the dreadful scene felt the warm blood grow chill within his veins. Hotter and hotter became the fray, and many skeletons sank to the ground as though slain in battle. One of them, he whose skull the artist had kicked, sank down at the young man’s feet. In a hollow voice he commanded the youth to tell to the world how they were forced to combat each other because they had been enemies in life, and that they could obtain no rest until they had been buried.
Directly the clock struck one the battle ceased, and the bones once more lay about in disorder. The artist (who, it need hardly be said, gave no more thought to his picture) hastened back to the inn and in faltering accents related his experiences. When the Seven Years’ War broke out, not long afterward, the people of Oppenheim declared that the apparition of the skeletons had foretold the event.
The Robbers of the Rhine
For many hundreds of years the valley of the Rhine itself, and the various valleys adjacent, were the haunt of numerous bodies of rapacious and desperate banditti. The rugged, mountainous nature of the country naturally made lawlessness the more easy there, and till so late as the beginning of the nineteenth century these gangs of robbers were a constant menace to the traveller in Rhineland. At the time of the French Revolution, indeed, and for some decades thereafter, the district was literally infested with thieves; for the unsettled state of Europe at this date perforce tended to bring desperadoes from far and near, and for a while the inhabitants of the different villages on the banks of the Rhine endured a veritable reign of terror.
But almost from the outset the brigands realized that they would soon be undone if they grew too numerous. They knew that, in that event, strong military measures would probably be taken against them; so they made every effort to practise that union which is proverbially strength, and to prevent the enlisting in their ranks of anyone likely to prove cowardly or perfidious. In some cases, too, they actually had a well and capably organized system whereby one of their number could escape quickly, if need be, from the scene of his crime; for, like the French prisoners described in Stevenson’s St. Ives, they had a line of sanctuaries extending perhaps into Austria or Italy, the retreat in most instances being an inn whose keeper was sworn to hide and protect his robber guest at all costs. In short, there was honour among these thieves, and even a certain spirit of freemasonry; while, more important still, the captain of a band was very often in league with the few police officials of the neighbourhood.
The great highwaymen of Stuart and Georgian England—for example, that gallant Beau Brocade of whom Mr. Austin Dobson writes—were mostly content with waylaying a chance passer-by; while their contemporaries in France usually worked on this principle also, as witness the deeds of the band who figure in Théophile Gautier’s story Le Capitaine Fracasse. But the robbers of the Rhine were of different mettle from these, and often it was almost a predatory warfare rather than mere brigandage which they carried on. Frequently they had an agent in each of the villages on the river, this agent being usually a member of the scattered remnant of Israel; and the business of this person was to discover a house containing especial wealth, and then to inform the robbers accordingly. Having gleaned the requisite information in this wise, the gang would sally down from the mountains at dead of night; and it was customary, as they drew near to their prey, for the captain to call his henchmen to attention and see that each was ready for the imminent fray. Then, having gagged the village watchman and muffled his bell, they would proceed to surround the house they intended to rifle, and, should resistance be offered, to batter in the door with a log or other instrument. Sometimes it would transpire that the Jewish agent had misinformed them, telling them of booty where booty there was little, and woe betide him should this prove the state of affairs. Moreover, unlike the brigands in Gil Blas, these scoundrels of the Rhine would not be encumbered by prisoners, and they were wont to slay outright all who were minded to show fight.
Yet to their own brotherhood the robbers were invariably loyal, seldom failing to carry away with them such of their confrères as were wounded in the assault; for each was sworn to support his fellows under all circumstances, and awful was the fate of the marauder who violated this compact. It is told of a band commanded by one Picard, a cruel but brave leader, that one of its members chanced to be captured, and with a view to purchasing his freedom he gave information about the whereabouts of his chief. The next night, as the captive lay in his dungeon, a masked face suddenly appeared at the barred window, and in awestruck tones the prisoner asked the new-comer to declare his identity. “I am Picard, your captain,” came the answer. “As in duty bound, I have risked my life to set you free,” and having spoken thus, he proceeded to file through one of the bars, which being accomplished, the reprobate was drawn out of his cell by the aid of a rope. He breathed freely now, finding himself once more among some of his old comrades, but a moment later Picard addressed him again. “Traitor,” he snarled, “do not think that your perfidy has failed to reach our ears; you must pay the full penalty.”
“Mercy,” cried the unfortunate one; “at least let me die in action. Lead on against some foe, and let me fall at their hands.”
“Cowards,” retorted Picard, “deserve no such gallant fate,” and with these words he drove his sword deep into the heart of the traitor.
In general it was a point of honour among these bandits that none should reveal to a woman anything about the doings of his band, and one story relates how a young brigand, on the eve of setting out on his first predatory expedition, was rash enough to inform his sweetheart whither he and his mates were bound. Their commander was a Captain Jikjak, reputed something of a wit; and betimes, after the brigands had marched forward silently for a while, this worthy called upon them to halt. They imagined it was but the usual inspection of arms which was about to take place, but Jikjak, speaking in stentorian tones, told them that a traitor was in their midst, and pointing to the culprit, he bade him step forth. The young man pled his youth as an excuse for his fault, and he told the captain that, could he but get a chance to show his prowess once, they would soon see that he was as gallant a robber as any of them. But Jikjak laughed scornfully, saying he was anxious to find out which was stronger, the young man’s legs or a pair of trees. The culprit quailed on hearing the verdict, and implored a less ghastly fate; but Jikjak was obdurate, and smiling blandly, he bade his followers bend a couple of stout branches to the ground and tie their tops to the ankles of the offender....
Such, then, were the robbers of the Rhine, and such the code of honour which existed among them. A romantic institution they no doubt were, yet it was a form of picturesqueness whose disappearance can scarcely be regretted.
A close perusal of the body of tradition known as the legends of the Rhine displays one circumstance which is calculated to surprise the collector of these narratives not a little. It is generally represented—probably through ignorance of the real circumstances—that these tales abound in the matter of folklore. This is, however, by no means the case, and even a superficial examination of them will prove most of them to be allied to the matter of romance in a much more intimate way than they approach that of folklore. But this is not so as regards all of them, and it will be interesting to look into the character of those which present folklore affinities, whilst leaving the consideration of their romantic aspect for a later portion of this chapter.
By right of precedence, among the legends of the Rhine which possess folklore characteristics is the wonderful legend of the Lorelei, a word derived from the old High German lur, to lurk, and lai, a rock. The height from which the bewitching water-spirit sent her song floating over the waves of the Rhine is situated near St. Goar, and possesses a remarkable echo which may partly account for the legend.
The Lorelei
Many are the legends which cluster round the name of the Lorelei. In some of the earlier traditions she is represented as an undine, combing her hair on the Lorelei-berg and singing bewitching strains wherewith to lure mariners to their death, and one such legend relates how an old soldier named Diether undertook to capture her.
Graf Ludwig, son of the Prince Palatine, had been caught in her toils, his frail barque wrecked, and he himself caught in the whirlpool and drowned. The prince, grievously stricken at the melancholy occurrence, longed to avenge his son’s death on the evil enchantress who had wrought such havoc. Among his retainers there was but one who would undertake the venture—a captain of the guard named Diether—and the sole reward he craved was permission to cast the Lorelei into the depths she haunted should he succeed in capturing her.
Diether and his little band of warriors ascended the Lorelei’s rock in such a way as to cut off all retreat on the landward side. Just as they reached the summit the moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and behold, the spirit of the whirlpool was seen sitting on the very verge of the precipice, binding her wet hair with a band of gleaming jewels.
“What wouldst thou with me?” she cried, starting to her feet.
“To cast thee into the Rhine, sorceress,” said Diether roughly, “where thou hast drowned our prince.”
“Nay,” returned the maid, “I drowned him not. ’Twas his own folly which cost him his life.”
As she stood on the brink of the precipice, her lips smiling, her eyes gleaming softly, her wet dark hair streaming over her shoulders, some strange, unearthly quality in her beauty, a potent spell fell upon the little company, so that even Diether himself could neither move nor speak.
“And wouldst thou cast me in the Rhine, Diether?” she pursued, smiling at the helpless warrior. “’Tis not I who go to the Rhine, but the Rhine that will come to me.”
Then loosening the jewelled band from her hair, she flung it on the water and cried aloud: “Father, send me thy white steeds, that I may cross the river in safety.”
Instantly, as at her bidding, a wild storm arose, and the river, overflowing its banks, foamed right up to the summit of the Lorelei Rock. Three white-crested waves, resembling three white horses, mounted the steep, and into the hollowed trough behind them the Lorelei stepped as into a chariot, to be whirled out into the stream. Meanwhile Diether and his companions were almost overwhelmed by the floods, yet they were unable to stir hand or foot. In mid-stream the undine sank beneath the waves: the spell was broken, the waters subsided, and the captain and his men were free to return home.
Nevermore, they vowed, would they seek to capture the Lorelei.
The Forsaken Bride
There is a later and more popular legend of the Lorelei than the foregoing.
According to this tale Lorelei was a maiden of surpassing beauty who dwelt in the town of Bacharach in medieval times. So potent were her attractions that every gallant on whom her eye rested fell hopelessly in love with her, while her ever-widening fame drew suitors in plenty from all parts of the country. The dismissed lovers wandered disconsolately in the neighbouring forests, vowing to take their lives rather than suffer the pangs of unrequited passion; while occasionally the threat was fulfilled, and a brave knight would cast himself into the Rhine and perish for love of the cold and cruel maid. Thus her fatal beauty played havoc among the flower of German chivalry. But she, dowered with virtue and goodness, as well as with more transient charms, trembled when she saw the effect of her attractions on her many lovers, and secluded herself as closely as possible.
The truth was, she had given her heart into the keeping of a young knight who, after plighting his troth with her, had ridden away to the wars, his military ardour and desire for glory triumphing over his love. Years had gone by, yet he did not return, and Lorelei thought that he had perished on the field of battle, or had taken another bride and forgotten her. But she remained true to him in spite of his long silence, and spent her days in tears and prayers for his safety.
Meanwhile she was besieged by an ever-increasing band of suitors, to whom her retiring disposition and sorrowful mien but made her the more desirable. Then it began to be rumoured abroad that she was a sorceress, who won the hearts of men by magic art and with the aid of the Evil One. The rumour was spread broadcast by jealous and disappointed women who saw their menfolk succumb to the fatal charms of the Maid of Bacharach. Mothers noticed their sons grow pale and woe-begone because of her; maids their erstwhile lovers sighing out a hopeless passion for the beautiful Lorelei; so they brought against her accusations of sorcery, which in those days generally led to the death of the victim by burning. So grievously did these malign whispers add to the already heavy burden of the maid that she surrendered herself to be tried, hardly caring whether or not she were found guilty. She was summoned before the criminal court held at Rhens by the Archbishop of Cologne, and charged with practising the black art in order to ensnare men’s affections.
However, when she appeared before the court her beauty so impressed the assembly, and even the old Archbishop himself, that none could believe her guilty. Her lovely face bore the imprint of innocence, her grief touched every heart, and on all sides she was treated with the greatest respect and kindness. The old prelate assured her that she would not be judged harshly, but begged to hear from her own lips that she was innocent of the foul charge brought against her. This assurance she gave with artless simplicity, and a murmur of approval went up from the crowd. The sympathy of those present—for even her accusers were melted—and the kindness of the aged Churchman who was her judge moved her to confess her unhappy love-story.
“I pray thee,” she concluded wearily, “I pray thee, my lord, let me die. I know, alas! that many true knights have died for love of me, and now I fain would die for the sake of one who hath forsaken me.”
The prelate, moved almost to tears by the pathetic story, laid his hand on the head of the weeping maid.
“Thou shalt not die, fair maiden,” he said. “I will send thee to a convent, where thou mayst live in peace.” And calling to his side three trusty old knights, he bade them conduct Lorelei to the convent across the river, and charge the abbess to treat her with the greatest kindness. Having blessed the maid once more, he bade them go. On their way to the convent they must needs pass the rock since known as the Lorelei-berg, and the girl, who had maintained a pensive silence all the way, now observed that she would fain ascend the rock and look for the last time at the castle of her betrothed knight.
Her escort would have courteously assisted her, but she, with the agility of youth, easily outstripped them, and stood alone on the summit, surveying the fair scene before her. A light barque was sailing up the river, and as she gazed on it Lorelei uttered a loud cry, for there in the bow stood her truant lover! The knight and his train heard the shriek and beheld with horror the maiden standing with outstretched arms on the very edge of the precipice. The steering of the boat was forgotten for the moment, and the frail craft ran on the rocks. Lorelei saw her lover’s peril and, calling his name, leapt into the tide.
Nothing more was seen of the lovers; together they sleep the sleep of death beneath the waters of the Rhine.
A Blending of Legends
In these legends we observe how the tradition of a mere water-nymph has developed into a story concerning a hapless damsel. The first applies to the Lorelei as a water-spirit pure and simple, but legends which refer to beings originally water-spirits have a knack of becoming associated in later times with stories of distressed ladies. Indeed, one such came to the writer’s knowledge only a few months ago. The mansion of Caroline Park, near Edinburgh, dating from the end of the seventeenth century, has in its vicinity a well which is reputed to be inhabited by a ‘Green Lady,’ who emerges from her watery dwelling at twilight and rings the great bell of the old manor-house. On visiting the vicinity for the purpose of verifying the legend information was gleaned respecting another story of a captured lady who had been incarcerated in a room in the mansion and had written some verses to her lover with her diamond ring on a window-pane. The strange thing is that these stories, though obviously of different origin, appear now to have become fused in the popular imagination: the ‘Green Lady’ and the verse-writing damsel become one and the same, thus affording a case in point of the fusion of a mythological tale with a later and probably verifiable incident. The Lorelei is of course a water-spirit of the siren type, one who lures heedless mariners to their destruction. In Scotland and the north of England we find her congener in the water-kelpie, who lurks in pools lying in wait for victims. But the kelpie is usually represented in the form of a horse and not in that of a beauteous maiden.
The Nixie
Another water-spirit not unlike the Lorelei is the nixie, which is both male and female, the male appearing like any human being, but, as in the case of the water-spirits of the Slavonic peoples and England, Scotland, and Central America, being possessed of green teeth. The male is called nix, the female nixie, the generic term for both being nicker, from a root which perhaps means ‘to wash.’ There is perhaps some truth in the statement which would derive the Satanic patronymic of ‘Old Nick’ from these beings, as spirits extremely familiar to the Teutonic mind. On fine sunny days the nixies may be seen sitting on the banks of rivers, or on the branches of trees, combing their long golden locks. Previous to a drowning accident the nixies can be seen dancing on the surface of the water. Like all sea and river spirits, their subaqueous abode is of a magnificence unparalleled upon earth, and to this they often convey mortals, who, however, complain that the splendours of the nixies’ palaces are altogether spoiled for them by the circumstance that their banquets are served without salt.
The Nixie of the Mummel-lake
The legend of the nixie of Seebach is one of gloom and tragedy, albeit as charming as most of the Rhine tales.
It was the custom among the young people of Seebach to assemble of an evening in the spinning-room, which on the occasion about to be dealt with was in the house of the richest and most distinguished family in the country. The girls spun and laughed and chatted, while the youths hung about their chairs and cracked jokes with them. One evening while they were thus employed there came among them a stranger, a young lady beautifully clad and carrying an ivory spinning-wheel. With becoming modesty she asked to be allowed to join the company, which permission the simple youths and maidens readily accorded. None was more eager to do honour to the new-comer than the son of their host. While the others were still gaping in awestruck fashion, he quietly fetched her a chair and performed various little services for her. She received his attentions so graciously that a warmer feeling than courtesy sprang up in his heart for the fair spinner.
He was in truth a handsome lad, whose attentions any maid might have been proud to receive. Well-built and slender, he bore himself with a proud carriage, and the expression on his delicate features was grave and thoughtful beyond his years. When at length the fair visitor departed, he loitered disconsolate and restless, listening to the idle surmises of the peasant youths concerning the identity of the lady, but offering no opinion himself. On the following day at the same hour she again appeared and, seeing her cavalier of the previous day, smiled and bowed to him. The young man glowed with pleasure, and diffidently renewed his attentions. Day after day the lady of the spinning-wheel joined the company, and it was noted that the girls were brighter and more diligent, and the young men more gentle and courteous, for her coming. It was whispered among them that she was a nixie from the Mummel-lake far under the mountains, for never mortal was so richly endowed with beauty and grace. As time went on the son of the house grew more and more melancholy as his love for the fair unknown became deeper. Only during the brief hour of her visit would he show any cheerfulness. All the rest of the day he would mope in silent wretchedness. His friends saw with distress the change which had come over him, but they were powerless to alter matters. The lady could not be persuaded to remain beyond her usual hour, nor to give any hint of her identity.
One day, thinking to prolong her visit, the young man put back the hands of the clock. When the hour drew near for her to depart, he slipped out of the house so that he might follow her and find out where she lived. When the hour struck, the lady, who seemed to have feared that she was late, walked hastily from the house in the direction of the lake. So quickly did she walk that the youth following in her path could scarcely keep pace with her. She did not pause when she reached the shore, but plunged directly into the water. A low, moaning sound rose from the waves, which boiled and bubbled furiously, and the young man, fearing that some evil had befallen the maid, sprang in after her, but the cruel currents dragged him down, and he sank out of sight.
Next day his body was found floating on the lake by some woodcutters, and the nixie of the Mummel-lake was seen no more.
The Wild Huntsman
One of the most interesting Rhine myths is that concerning the Wild Huntsman, which is known all over Rhineland, and which is connected with many of its localities. The tale goes that on windy nights the Wild Huntsman, with his yelling pack of hounds, sweeps through the air, his prey departing souls. The huntsman is, of course, Odin, who in some of his aspects was a hunter-god. The English legend of Herne the Hunter, who haunts Windsor Park, is allied to this, and there can be little doubt that Herne is Odin. Indeed, it is here suggested that the name Herne may in some way be connected with one of Odin’s titles, Hâri, the High One. It was the legend of the Wild Huntsman that inspired Sir Walter Scott to write one of his finest ballads of the mysterious. An Edinburgh friend had perused a ballad by Burger, entitled Lenore, but all he could remember of it were the following four lines: Tramp, tramp, across the land they ride; Splash, splash, across the sea. Hurrah! the dead can ride apace, Dost fear to ride with me?
This verse fired Scott’s imagination. He liked this sort of thing, and could do it very well himself. So on reaching home he sat down to the composition of the following ballad, of which we give the most outstanding verses: