The musical instruments used by our forefathers, two or three centuries ago, were softer and more soothing in quality of sound than our present ones; at any rate, this was the case with the stringed instruments, and the wind instruments of the flute kind. Certain wind instruments of the trumpet kind had a very harsh sound; but these were intended especially to be played in the open air. Of the stringed instruments principally favoured in family circles—such as the lute, cither, clavichord, virginal, harpsichord, etc.,—almost all possessed a less exciting quality of sound than our present substitutes for them. The same was the case with the music composed for the instruments; it did not possess the passionate modulations which characterize much of our music of the present day. It was, therefore, evidently more conducive to social comfort, and consequently to health, than is our modern music, notwithstanding the progress which has been made in the cultivation of the art. Martin Luther said to an old hypochondriac schoolmaster who complained to him of his miserable feelings: "Take to the Clavichord!" Everyone acquainted with the character of the clavichord will probably admit that Luther's advice was judicious. The soft and unpretending sound of the clavichord is so expressive that the instrument may be said to respond to the sufferer as a sympathizing friend; while its successor, the loud and brilliant pianoforte, is apt to convey the impression of being cold and heartless, unless it is touched by a master-hand. Thus also the "trembling lute," and some other antiquated instruments appear to be remarkably suitable for consoling and calming the anxious heart.

The glass-harmonica is evidently hurtful to the health of the performer. We have seen that Sundelin attributes its injurious effect to the friction of the fingers upon the bowls, which revolve on a spindle. But it is a well-ascertained fact that the fascinating sound of this instrument exercises a distressing influence also upon persons who do not play it, but who often listen to it. Likewise, certain wind instruments of a so-called reedy quality of sound, as, for instance, the harmonium, are probably injurious rather than beneficial to the health of the players. Sounds of this nature are generally very pleasant when heard for a short time, but soon become harassing. They might be compared with confectionery, a little of which may be very palatable and innocuous, but which if made a meal of would probably produce sickness.

The effect of music upon animals is a subject for investigation so closely connected with an inquiry into the influence of music upon the human body, that some notice of it must not be omitted here. The investigation requires far more discernment than would appear at a first glance. Many of the anecdotes recorded respecting the effect of music upon animals are not properly authenticated; or rather, they are misrepresentations of facts not clearly understood by the observers. Nor is it surprising that this should be the case, considering how difficult it is to appreciate rightly the mental capacities even of our domestic animals, which we have constant opportunity of watching. Nothing is more common, even with intelligent observers, than to attribute to a dog certain motives for certain actions, which may possibly be the real motives, but which may also only appear to be the real ones. Acute and thoroughly unbiassed investigators, such as was for instance Gilbert White of Selborne, about a hundred years ago, are rare. At all events, many of the anecdotes given in works on Natural History, as illustrating the power of music upon animals, have evidently been copied by one author from another without any one of them having taken the trouble to ascertain by careful observation whether they are well founded. With quadrupeds it is probably generally more the rhythmical effect of the music than the tones which pleases them; while birds appear to be pleased by the tones rather than by the rhythm. All this requires more exact investigation than it has hitherto received; and surely it deserves the consideration of a Darwin.

In conclusion, attention may be drawn to a curious fact which is perhaps more interesting to musical antiquarians than to medical men. It is well known that the barbers in England, about three centuries ago, generally had some musical instruments in their shops for the amusement of their customers. In Germany it is still not unusual to meet with a musical barber. In former times the barbers were also surgeons and physicians to some extent. It would be interesting to trace the origin of their habit of cultivating the art of music. It is probably of high antiquity. May it not date from a remote period in which the physicians of European nations resorted to music and incantations like the medicine-men of uncivilized tribes of whom an account has been given in the beginning of this essay?

Decorative Rule
POPULAR STORIES WITH MUSICAL TRADITIONS.

The following popular stories, like those which have previously been given in this work, are told exactly as they are heard from the mouth of the people. It is necessary that this should be mentioned by way of introduction to the stories, because the degree of interest which they may possess depends almost entirely upon the faithfulness with which they are recorded. For the same reason it must be stated that, although additions have been carefully avoided, it is otherwise with omissions, since it appeared desirable to abridge several of the stories by excluding passages which do not touch upon the subject of music. Should the reader find among the stories an old acquaintance with a somewhat different face than is familiar to him, he will, it is hoped, bear in mind that, just as there are varieties of a popular tune to be found in different districts of a country, so there are also different readings of a popular tale. Even the degree of education attained by the narrator, his personal character, and his peculiar views, will tend in some measure to modify the features of a story, although nothing extraneous may have been admitted into the incidents recorded.

THE ROYAL MUSIC-MASTER.

The modern Greeks have a long story, said to have been derived from Asia Minor, the substance of which is as follows:—

A mighty king in a distant land had a son who was an excellent flute player, but a bashful youth, and a woman-hater. The king, considering it all-important that his dynasty should be preserved, sends the young prince in a ship to a foreign court, to find, if possible, among the princesses a wife to his liking. The ship is wrecked, and all on board are drowned except the prince, who is thrown by the waves upon the shore of a beautiful island. Having dried himself, he meets a poor fisherman, with whom he changes clothes. Hiding his luxuriant hair under a bladder-cap, he sets out to the residence of the king of the island, into whose service he is taken by the master of the horse as a stable-boy. His chief occupation now is to fetch water for the horses from a spring in the garden of the palace. In the evening, when he is alone in the garden, he plays upon his flute so enchantingly that even the nightingales become silent in admiration. The King's daughter hears him, comes down into the garden, and, with the consent of her father, makes him her music-master. When he perceives that she really loves him, he loves her too, discloses to her that he is a King's son, and soon makes her his queen in his own dominions.[67]

THE HANDSOME MINSTREL.

The following story is told in Germany:—

A handsome minstrel plays under a window of the King's palace upon a golden instrument. His music is so alluring that the King, yielding to the entreaties of his daughter, invites the handsome minstrel to come up to him in his palace. The King's daughter soon learns to play on the instrument, and longs to possess a similar one. All the goldsmiths of the kingdom are applied to; but not one of them is able to construct such an artistic work. Thereupon the King's daughter becomes greatly dejected; and when the handsome minstrel learns the cause of her sadness he tells her that if she will marry him she shall have the golden instrument. But she rejects the offer with scorn.

Some days afterwards the handsome minstrel appears again under the window, playing on an instrument still more precious, and producing sounds most ravishing. The King's daughter is enchanted beyond measure; but the goldsmiths of the kingdom are still less capable of constructing such a wonderful work of art.

Then the handsome minstrel offers to give her both instruments if she will marry him. She cannot resist, and says, "Yes!" After the celebration of the wedding the handsome minstrel conducts his bride to his house, deep in the forest. The house is so small and poor, that the King's daughter, when she sees it, is overwhelmed with pride and remorse, and faints away. When she recovers she finds herself lying on a magnificent bed, and the handsome minstrel is a King.

THE DAISY LADY.

Among the Fairy Tales of the Hindus we meet with a story entitled 'Brave Seventee Bai,' which seems to contain the original key-note of the German 'Trusty Ferdinand.'[68] Seventee Bai (i.e. "The Daisy Lady") is the daughter of a Rajah. Bent upon roving about in the world, she assumes the dress and manners of a youth. Her rambles lead her into the garden of a beautiful enchantress whose name is Hera Bai (i.e. "The Diamond's Daughter.") This beautiful enchantress is described as being a child of the Great Cobra, a serpent which plays an important part in many of the Hindu traditions. Here are to be found some striking coincidences between the superstitions respecting serpents popular among the country people in Germany and in Hindustan.

Well, Hera Bai, the beautiful enchantress, falls in love with Seventee Bai, who successfully maintains her disguise as a youth, but who cannot be prevailed upon to remain in the garden, averring that an important mission must be accomplished before the marriage takes place. The enchantress, finding persuasion unavailing, gives Seventee Bai a small golden flute. "Take this flute," she says; "whenever you wish to see me, or are in need of my aid, go into the jungle and play upon it, and before the sound ceases I will be there; but do not play it in the towns, nor yet amid a crowd." Seventee Bai puts the golden flute into the folds of her dress and proceeds on her wanderings. Sometime afterwards, when she is in need of assistance, she goes into the jungle, draws out of her dress the golden flute and plays. The beautiful enchantress appears, swinging in a silver tree, just as she appeared in the garden.

Again, on another occasion the beautiful lady immediately comes at the sound of the flute, inquiring, "Husband, what can I do for you?"[69]

In the Scandinavian Fairy Tales, collected by Asbjörnsen and Moe, we have a story entitled 'East o' the Sun and West o' the Moon,' in which a young country lass is taken into the cave of a shaggy White Bear, who afterwards turns out to be a lovely prince. When the White Bear has carried the lass to his home, which gleams with silver and gold, he gives her a silver bell and politely tells her that whenever she wants anything she has only to ring the bell, and her wishes shall be at once fulfilled.[70]

How effectively the magic flute and magic bells have been introduced into Mozart's opera 'Il Flauto Magico' is well known to lovers of good music,—or, which is the same, to admirers of Mozart.

THE INVISIBLE FLUTE-PLAYER.

A strange story is told by the peasants in Holstein of an invisible flute-player, who is said to have haunted, about fifty years ago, a farm-house situated near the river Elbe. Some of the children of the farmer who owned the house are still alive.

The mysterious affair commenced in a cabbage garden behind the house. There the people often heard flute-playing, but no one could make out whence it came. Gradually the invisible flutist intruded into the house. More and more frequently he came, until at last he took up his abode in the house altogether. Sometimes he played his flute in the sitting-room; sometimes in one of the bedrooms; at other times in the cellar, or in the garret. Occasionally also he paid a visit to a neighbouring house. The people on the farm became quite used to him; and when the children, or the servant lads and lasses, were disposed to enjoy a little dancing, they would just name a certain tune, or sing a bar or two of it, and ask him to play it; and directly they heard the desired tune. When the milkmaid was occupied in the dairy, she sometimes took an apple in her hand, for fun, and said: "Now, my boy, play me a nice air, and thou shalt have an apple!" In a moment the apple vanished out of her hand, and the music commenced.

In the course of time, however, the invisible flutist became very intrusive, and at last he proved quite a nuisance. One night he would amuse himself by breaking all the windows in the house; another night he had his gambols in the kitchen, turning everything topsy-turvy; and at mid-day, when the family had sat down to dinner, it sometimes happened that the large dish of stew before them, from which all were eating, was emptied in an instant by invisible hands. They would then jump up and run about the room, beating the air with their spoons. When they thought they had at last driven the fellow into a corner of the room, suddenly they heard him spitefully playing his flute in another corner.

In short, the annoyance became quite unbearable. There was no peace in the house. The farmer everywhere expressed the wish that he could find somebody who had the power to expel the invisible flute-player; he did not mind the expense. At last there came a clever man from the neighbouring town, who offered to settle the matter; he only wanted to know beforehand whether he should show and banish the flutist in his real figure, or in the figure of a poodle.

The farmer said: "I would rather not see him at all! Here are ten Thalers; all I want is to get rid of him, and to have peace in my own house."

By means of queer rhymes, and smoke, the clever man from town actually succeeded in driving out the troublesome guest, and no mysterious flute-playing has been heard since on the farm.[71]

THE BANISHED MUSICIAN.

At the bottom of the lake called "Das Langholter Meer," in the vicinity of the river Weser, south of Bremen, lives, according to popular tradition, a skilful musician who was banished there by a Pastor; but, the reason why he was banished to this place,—and indeed, why he was banished at all,—is not exactly known.

One day, in the winter, when the lake was all frozen over, two young lads happened to be keeping sheep in the neighbourhood; and when they saw the smooth ice, the tallest said to the other: "Come, let us not stand shivering here; let us go on the lake, and the musician shall play to us."

Having said this, he went to the ice; his companion followed him, and they amused themselves for a while with sliding. It then occurred to them again that there was a musician at the bottom of the lake, and they called out in high glee: "If thou art still there below, old fellow, just strike up a tune, and we will dance to it."

But, how terrified they were when suddenly there arose from the bottom of the lake music such as they never had heard in all their life. It was the most ravishing music in the world!—Of course, they thought no longer of dancing, but left the lake as quickly as they could slide.[72]

THE WALRIDERSKE.

According to a tradition current in Northern Germany, especially near Holland, the Walriderske is a kind of a witch. Assuming the figure of some rough-haired animal, she visits the sleeper in the night, and presses herself upon his chest so as to prevent his moving any part of his body, scarcely permitting him to breathe. She creeps up to the sleeper from below, gradually crawling over his whole body. First he feels a pressure on his feet; then on his stomach; and at last on his chest. Meanwhile the tortured victim is unable to move even a finger. All he can do is to sigh and groan in almost intolerable anguish.

The apparition sometimes resembles a poodle, sometimes a cat, and at other times a strange-looking unknown beast particularly repulsive. Its colour is most commonly black; there are, however, also brown, and even white ones. Not unfrequently the sleeper feels the pressure without seeing the figure. In short, this unwelcome visitor is as bad as the worst nightmare, if not worse.

But, occasionally the Walriderske appears in the shape of a beautiful girl, and sings more charmingly than can be described. Indeed, from the oldest traditions still extant may be gathered that the Walriderskes ought to be regarded as superhuman beings; for, although they occasionally appear in human shape, and are in many ways like human beings, they live subject to other laws, and are endued with powers other than ours. It admits of no doubt that in the traditions respecting them much is to be found which has been derived from the pagan mythology of our ancestors relating to the Walküren, who rode or sailed in the clouds. The Walriderskes are frequently described as floating through the air and singing most sweetly. In Ostfriesland, England is the home assigned to these charming singers. They come from far over the sea to seek their sacrifice. Their boat is a sieve, such as the peasants in Ostfriesland use for straining milk, and which is called Tähmse. Their oars are human shoulder-blades.

A peasant of Barssel once, while on a moonlight night he was mowing his corn, towards midnight, became tired and threw himself down under a sheaf to sleep. He had not lain long when he heard at a distance a melodious song, which gradually came nearer and nearer until it was above the field where he lay. He looked up and saw sailing in the air a Walriderske who had come over from England. She descended, hid her Tähmse and oars under a sheaf, and went away in the direction towards Barssel. The peasant lost no time in appropriating to himself the things which the Walriderske had hidden. Towards morning she returned; and when she missed her Tähmse and oars, she began to sing so dolefully that the peasant felt sorry for her, and gave her back the things.

In the following night, when curiosity led him to go again to the place where this had happened, he found there, to his surprise, a large piece of the finest linen, evidently a present of the Walriderske. He took it home, and had it made into shirts. He wore the shirts without experiencing any harm; although his neighbours had warned him that he exposed himself to great danger by keeping the linen.[73]

THE JEW IN THE THICKET.

Many popular tales could be noticed of instrumental performers who possess the power of making everyone dance. Not only men, but animals, and sometimes even inanimate objects are compelled to wheel around. Take for instance the following German tale, known as 'The Jew in the Thicket.'

Once upon a time there lived in a small village a poor peasant lad whose name was Heinrich, but whom his neighbours used to call Honest Heinrich, because he was as honest as he was poor. Whether he was so poor because he was so honest, or whatever else was the cause of his poverty, would now be useless to speculate upon. Enough that he found it expedient to improve his circumstances; and for this purpose he set out on a journey into the world, with only a few copper coins in his pocket.

After a while, his way led him to a lonely place near some hills. He thought he was quite alone, when unexpectedly a little grey man, very old-looking, accosted him and solicited alms. "Give me whatever thou hast in coppers," said the grey man, "and thou shalt have no cause to repent thy generosity; thou seest, I am old and infirm; but thou art young and robust, and wilt easily make thy way in the world."

When Honest Heinrich heard the grey man speak thus, it went to his heart, and he put his hand into his pocket, took out the copper coins,—which, in fact, constituted all the property he possessed in the world,—and gave them to the old beggar. Then cheerfully whistling he resumed his journey.

"Hallo! just wait a bit, my lad!" cried the grey man: "I know thou art an honest fellow, and deservest a helping hand to push thee on in the world; so thou mayst have three wishes, and they shall be granted to thee."

Then Honest Heinrich saw at once that he had to do with an Onnerersk, as the little folks are called who dwell under ground in golden halls deep in the mountains; so, having bethought himself for a moment, he touched his cap and said:

"Well sir, let me have a fiddle which when I play upon it makes everyone dance. And let me have a blow-pipe with which I am sure to hit everything I want to shoot. And my third wish shall be, if you please, that whenever I ask a favour of anybody, it will not be refused me."

All these wishes were readily conceded to Honest Heinrich, and it may easily be imagined what great advantages he now possessed in his endeavours to make his fortune in the world. The third wish especially proved invaluable to him. Neither was the fiddle to be despised; nay, it actually saved him from the gallows! and how this happened to come to pass, shall now be related.

After Honest Heinrich had proceeded on his way a mile or two, he came beside a thicket of thorns, in the middle of which sat a lovely little bird that sang even more beautifully than it was beautiful to look at. And near the thicket stood a Jew counting a bag of money, which was not exactly his own, for he had taken it from somewhere, so to say, without asking permission. Now, the Jew was in an awkward fix, for he could not move from the spot where he stood, because the lovely little bird had enchanted him with his melodious music. He had, however, a particular reason for moving on as quickly as possible, since it was not at all unlikely that somebody might follow him, overtake him, and say, "you are wanted; just come back with me to town!" Therefore, when he saw Honest Heinrich carrying a blow-pipe, he called out to him:

"A good piece of money I would gladly part with if thou couldst procure for me that charming bird."

Then Honest Heinrich took his blow-pipe, aimed, and hit the little bird: he only said "There!" and the charming little songster fell down into the thicket. Directly the Jew worked himself among the thorn bushes to take the bird out; meanwhile he made all kinds of excuses for not giving the piece of money which he had promised.

"O ho!" said Honest Heinrich, "that matter we shall easily settle!" Presently he took up his fiddle to try its effect upon the Jew. One stroke of the bow, and the Jew began to wabble;—another stroke, and he lifted up his right leg;—a third stroke, and the dancing began in earnest.

"O dear me!" cried the Jew, "leave off that confounded fiddling! The thorns hurt me dreadfully! Upon my honour, I shall be a dead man before I am safely out of the thicket!" But, Honest Heinrich was becoming warm with trying his newly-acquired instrument; so he only replied: "Never mind the thorns; all right!" and struck up a quicker tune. "O torture!" cried the perspiring dancer, "I am a ruined man! Here,—here is my whole bag of money,—all genuine coins,—take it,—only cease that fiddling!"

Honest Heinrich made what musicians call a brilliant cadence, which caused the Jew to throw a few somersaults, and then gave the finishing stroke, or in other words, the concluding chord. The Jew crept out of the thicket, handed over the bag to the fiddler, and made off as rapidly as he could into the wide world.

Honest Heinrich, on the other hand, took the direction towards the town with the intention of restoring the bag of money to its rightful owner. He was soon met by a man dressed in an unpretending kind of uniform, who, seeing the bag, in a friendly and almost playful way, gave Honest Heinrich a little tap on his shoulder, and said: "You are wanted; you must come with me to town." Then Honest Heinrich was taken to prison; and when the judge asked him about the bag of money, and he replied, "A Jew gave it me," the judge smiled and said, "A Jew? you will never make me believe that!" In short, Honest Heinrich was found guilty of robbery, and the judge sentenced him to be hanged.

There prevailed a strange taste in the town where this occurred. Whenever an execution took place, the people had a kind of festival. Days, nay, even weeks, before the interesting event, the wretched culprit was considered almost as a martyr. Whatever he said was carefully recorded, and made publicly known. Men of rank felt honoured when he shook hands with them; and when the awful hour for his execution had arrived, and he stood under the gallows, he would address the throng of people assembled as spectators. The women, of course, relished the exciting scene even more than the men, and cried with all their heart. Now, as Honest Heinrich was innocent, he did not like to have any fuss made about him; so, when he stood under the gallows, he only asked that he might be permitted to play a "Last Farewell" upon his dear fiddle. The judge said he would not deny the last request of a dying sinner. "Pray, your worship!" cried the Jew, who had mingled with the spectators, and who rejoiced in his heart at the turn which the money affair had taken, "Pray, your worship, do not allow him his fiddle; his music will do us mischief!" But the judge took no notice of the Jew, and said, "Play, my lad, but make it short; we have not much time to lose."

Then Honest Heinrich took his fiddle and played. One stroke with the bow, and all the people began to wabble. Another stroke, and every one lifted up his right leg. A third stroke, and the dancing began in earnest. The judge, the clergyman, the doctor, the hangman, the Jew, women with their babies in their arms, ladies with their smelling-bottles in their hands; in short, every one present, old and young, danced with the utmost exertion. Even the very dogs which had followed their masters, raised themselves upon their hind-legs and danced, profusely perspiring like all the people.

"Hold! stop! hold!" cried the exhausted judge, "Thy life is spared; only put aside that dreadful fiddle!"

As soon as Honest Heinrich heard the judge's promise of acquittal he ceased playing and came down the steps from the gallows. At the foot of the steps he found the Jew lying prostrate on his back. "Confess directly," said Honest Heinrich, "how you came by the bag of money, or I shall give you a little private performance, with a brilliant cadence at the end, you know!" In a moment the alarmed Jew stood upon his legs again, and exclaimed, "Upon my honour, I stole it!"

Then they hanged the Jew upon the gallows. As for Honest Heinrich, he continued his wanderings in the world, and soon made his fortune. When he had become rich, he went home again to his village, and courted his neighbour's daughter, who had formerly jilted him when he was poor, but who loved him now dearly, not because he was rich (she said) but on account of his former poverty. Soon they married, and were happy ever after.

THE POPE'S WIFE.

There are several modifications current of the story of the Jew in the Thicket just told. A similar story which in olden time was popular in England, is given under the heading 'A Mery Geste of the Frere and the Boye,' in Ritson's Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry, London, 1791. Again, a somewhat similar story is current in Greece. A lad has a flute given to him by some superhuman being. He goes to the market-place of the town, where piles of crockery are exhibited for sale. As soon as he begins to play, all the pots, jugs and basins fly about in the air and clash against each other until they are broken to pieces. The personage whom he compels to dance in the thorns is a priest.[74]

Perhaps the most tragic incident of this kind is the sad fate of the Pope's wife, related by the Wallachians. It need scarcely be said that it does not concern the Pope of Rome, who, as everyone knows, has no wife. But in Wallachia the common village priest of the Greek Church is called Pope, and may marry. He generally avails himself of the permission.

As regards Bakâla, whose music, as we shall presently see, killed the Pope's wife, various tricks of his are on record, which clearly show that he was a great fool, somewhat resembling the German Till Eulenspiegel, who had perhaps more happy ideas than many persons who have passed for wise.

Well, Bakâla, one fine day, took it into his head to ascend a high mountain, merely for pleasure, and for the sake of boasting. Arrived at the top of the mountain he was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of a well-disposed spirit, who offered him a present from the clouds. The articles from which Bakâla was invited to select a keepsake looked mean and shabby, like those which people generally consign to the lumber-room. Bakâla, however, examined them carefully, and chose an old and dusty bagpipe; for he imagined, as some people are apt to do, that he was madly fond of music. Moreover, the sound of the bagpipe—this Bakâla soon discovered—had the power of making everyone dance.

When Bakâla had come down from the mountain he engaged himself as shepherd to a village Pope in the valley. Every day he led the sheep into the fields, and blowing his bagpipe he made them caper and jump into the air like grasshoppers. And when, one morning, his master had sneaked out before him into the fields, and had hid himself in some bushes of sloes and dog-roses to watch his servant's strange proceedings, Bakâla made the Pope dance as well as his flock.

The Pope was a soft-hearted sort of man. Quietness he loved above all things in the world; for its sake no sacrifice appeared to him too great. As to his wife, she was of a different disposition. To say the truth, she was just the reverse of her husband. She had more courage in her little finger than he had in all his limbs. His Yes was her No, and when he called a thing white she was sure to declare that she had long since found it to be very black indeed. Neither would she believe in the power of Bakâla's bagpipe. When the poor Pope, after his return from the sloes and dog-roses, showed her his tattered clothes and scratched limbs, all the sympathy he got from her was, "Tush! tush! nonsense! If I were as soft-hearted as some people are said to be, I might perhaps pity you."

"Well, my dear," replied the cowed husband, "you shall hear him to-night. I want to convince you"——

"Convince me?" cried the Pope's wife: "Fudge! I to be frightened by a bagpipe? Let him come on!"

Then the Pope thought that it was time to withdraw for the sake of quietness. But in the evening he took Bakâla aside, and desired him just to serenade their mistress for a little while under the window.

Before Bakâla commenced playing the Pope sat down on the ground and bound two heavy stones to his feet by way of precaution, while his wife busied herself in the upper story of the house. No sooner had Bakâla begun his performance than she danced so furiously that she made the whole house shake. Bakâla played faster and faster; her stamping grew louder and louder. She danced until she had actually stamped a hole in the floor, through which she descended into the lower story. The Pope peeped into the room; and when he saw what had happened he felt sorry, and he beckoned Bakâla to leave off playing. But, alas! he beckoned too late! The poor lady had danced herself to death.

Now, one might have thought the Pope would have dismissed Bakâla, telling him that his services were not any further required. But this is just precisely what he did not do. On the contrary, he kept Bakâla in his service, and treated him even better than before.[75]

THE TWO HUNCHBACKS.

The story of the two Hunchbacks is widely diffused. It is told in Ireland as well as in Germany and Italy; moreover it is said to be also current in Spain. There are, of course, many varieties of it in these countries. Compare, for instance, the Irish narrative of Lusmore, in 'Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland, by T. Crofton Croker,' with the one given here, which has been obtained from the country people in Rhenish Prussia.

On St. Matthew's day, in the year 1549, a poor hump-backed musician was returning late at night to Aachen[76] from a village where he had been playing at a wedding. Being in a half drowsy state, he took but little heed of time or place, and so he passed the Minster without concerning himself about anything particularly, just as the large clock in the tower boomed midnight. The sound startled him, especially as at the same time there arose in the air a strange whirring like the unearthly sound of owls and bats on the wing. It now occurred to him that this was the night of quarter-day, and he quickened his steps to escape the terrors of the ghost's hour and of apparitions. Nervously he turned into the Schmiedstrasse (Smith-street) as the nearest way to his home, which was in the Jakobstrasse (James-street). But on reaching the Fish Market,—what did he see! All the stalls glistened with innumerable lights, and about them were seated a large party of richly-dressed ladies, feasting on dainty viands served in golden and silver dishes, and drinking sparkling wine from crystal goblets. The musician, much frightened, endeavoured to hide himself in a corner; for, he had not the least doubt that he saw an assemblage of witches. But it was too late; one of the ladies nearest him had already observed him, and she conducted him to the table.

"Don't be frightened!" said the lady to the musician, who stood before her with chattering teeth and trembling knees: "Don't be frightened; but, play us some merry tunes, and thou shalt be paid for it."

The poor hunchback had no choice but to take up his violin, and to amuse the strange company as long as they pleased. Having quickly set aside the stalls with everything upon them, the witches—among whom the poor hunchback thought he recognised several ladies of high position from the town—whirled round in pairs to the sound of his fiddle. But the strangest thing was that the longer the fellow continued to play, the finer and fuller his performance appeared to him; so that he really thought he must be either dreaming, or there must be a whole band of violins and flutes placed behind him which joined in his performance.

Now the Minster clock struck a quarter to one; all the dancers instantaneously stopped, visibly exhausted, and everything was reinstated in its former order. Hesitating, the musician looked on, uncertain whether he ought to stay any longer, or whether he might go; when the lady who had engaged his services came up to him and said: 'Brave musician! thou hast done thy work to our content, and shalt now receive thy recompense."

While saying the words she pulled off his jacket, and, before he was aware of it, she had slipped behind him, and at one grasp relieved him of his hump. Who so happy as the disburthened fiddler? In thankfulness he was just going to throw himself on his knees before his benefactress,—when the clock struck One, and in a moment, ladies, lights, and dishes were gone, and the musician found himself at dark night standing alone in the middle of the Fish Market. Bewildered, he put his hand to his back, doubting lest the adventure had been merely a confused dream. But, no; it was reality! The hump was gone, and the happy fellow rejoiced in feeling as upright as man can be. Moreover, his joy was still increased when he took up his jacket, which lay before him on the ground. Perceiving it to be unaccountably heavy, and thrusting his hands into the pockets to ascertain the cause, he found that both pockets were filled with money. Doubly happy, he hastened home, and in thankfulness he made the next morning an offering of his fiddle to his Patron Saint, under whose image in the church he hung it as a glorious relic to be venerated by his children and his children's children for ever.

Now, the marvellous affair created, as may easily be understood, an immense sensation in the town. People went to the church to look at the fiddle; and whenever the lucky musician showed himself in public, a knot of curious idlers hovered around him, anxious to get a peep at his back. Moreover, his good fortune, as may likewise be easily understood, aroused the envy of his rivals in his profession.

The most envious of these professional brothers possessed himself a tolerably respectable hump, which annoyed him all the more, since he was not less vain than envious. His estimation of his personal appearance was, however, exceeded by that of his musical accomplishments.

"How surprised they will be!" said he to himself: "If that wretched scraper could please them, I am sure I have only to treat them with a few of my inimitable flourishes, and I shall be a straight man and a man of property in no time!"

It was at midnight of St. Gerhard's day when the vain virtuoso repaired to the Fish Market. The old clock of the Minster had already boomed the last stroke announcing the twelfth hour, when he arrived at the place. He actually found there a large party of ladies, just as he expected, and they invited him to play. Confidently he stepped forward, and having bowed with a smile which he was wont to assume whenever he appeared before the public, he threw his fiddlestick across the strings and extemporized a few rapid passages up and down, to show at once his superior skill. But, how wretchedly provoking! Never in his life had he produced such miserable tones; they sounded so execrably thin and poor, as if the strings had been stretched over a piece of solid wood instead of a violin. Enraged, he renewed his exertions, but only to render the matter worse; for, now he produced a noise so horribly ear-piercing that he thought there must be standing behind him a whole chorus of whistling and screeching sneerers accompanying his performance.

Highly exasperated, he tucked his violin under his arm, and walked up to the dancing witches. Then boldly addressing one of the richly-attired ladies, in whom he believed he recognised the wife of the burgomaster of the town, he said:—

"Ah, Madam! I wonder what your husband, our respected burgomaster would say if he knew of your night-excursions on the broom-stick! But that is your own affair. All I care for is my due reward, if you please."

With these words he threw off his jacket and turned round. The lady quickly uncovered a silver dish, from which she took the hump of the former musician, and before the vain virtuoso was aware of it, she had pressed it on his back beside the other hump.

The clock had struck One, and the witches were already on their broom-sticks riding through the air homewards, when the musician recovered from his shock. He slowly put his hand to his back, hoping that perchance he might only have had a bad dream. But no! it was all right,—or rather all wrong. There remained now nothing for him to do but to take up his jacket and make the best of his way home. But the jacket felt so unusually heavy;—could there, perhaps, be gold in it to make up in some measure for the cruel infliction? Eagerly he rummaged the pockets; but what should he find? A few heavy stones and rubbish.[77]

THE PARSON'S ADVICE.

This tale of the Manx people is almost literally copied from 'The History and Description of the Isle of Man, by George Waldron, London, 1744.'

"A man, one day, was led by invisible musicians for several miles together; and not being able to resist the harmony, followed till it conducted him to a large common, where a great number of people were sitting round a table, and eating and drinking in a very jovial manner. Among them were some faces which he thought he had formerly seen; but he forbore taking any notice, or they to him; till, the little people offering him drink, one of them whose features seemed not unknown to him, plucked him by the coat, and forbade him, whatever he did, to taste anything he saw before him. 'For, if you do,' added he, 'you will be as I am, and return no more to your family.'

The poor man was much affrighted, but resolved to obey the injunction. Accordingly, a large silver cup, filled with some sort of liquor, being put into his hand, he found an opportunity to throw what it contained on the ground. Soon after, the music ceasing, all the company disappeared, leaving the cup in his hand; and he returned home, though much wearied and fatigued. He went the next day and communicated to the minister of the parish all that had happened, and asked his advice how he should dispose of the cup: To which the parson replied, he could not do better than devote it to the service of the church. And this very cup, they say, is that which is now used for the consecrated wine in Kirk Merlugh."

RELICS OF THE GOBLINS.

The old tradition embodied in the preceding story from the Isle of Man, is also current,—with various modifications,—in the north of Germany, in Denmark, and in Sweden. Afzelius, in his interesting account of Swedish popular superstitions, mentions some curious notions on this subject. The country people in Sweden still preserve an old belief that if a person drinks of the contents of a beaker, offered to him by the goblins inhabiting the mountains, he loses all recollection of the past, and must become one of them. Several cups are said to have been purloined from these mysterious beings by persons who stealthily avoided partaking of the proffered liquor. Some are still shown in churches, to which they were presented by the purloiners; and it is asserted that these oddly-shaped vessels were formerly used in the Communion Service.

The goblins in Sweden have their principal meetings at midnight before Christmas, and their amusements consist chiefly in music and dancing. They generally assemble in those isolated spots among the mountains where are found large stones resting on pillars, around which they delight to dance. It is considered decidedly dangerous to encounter them at their pastimes on Christmas Eve.

Many years ago,—some say it was so far back as in the year 1490,—a farmer's wife in Sweden, whose name was Cissela Ulftand, distinctly heard, on Christmas Eve, the wild music of the goblins who had assembled not far from her house. The farm in which the good woman lived is called Ljungby, and the group of curiously-placed stones around which the goblins had congregated is well known to many people; indeed, almost everyone in Sweden knows the Magle-Stone.

Well, when Mistress Ulftand heard the music, she spoke to one of her farm-servants, a strong and daring young fellow, and induced him to saddle a horse and to ride in the direction of the Magle-Stone, that he might learn something about the mysterious people, and tell her afterwards all he had seen. The lad rather liked the adventure; he lost no time in mounting his horse, and was soon galloping towards the scene of the music and rejoicing. In approaching the Magle-Stone, he somewhat slackened his speed; however, he drew quite near to the dancers.

After he had been gazing a little while at the strange party, a handsome damsel came up to him and handed him a drinking-horn and a pipe, with the request that he would first drink the health of the King and then blow the pipe. The lad accepted both, the drinking-horn and the pipe; but, as soon as he had them in his hands, he poured out the contents of the horn, and spurring his horse he gallopped off over hedges and ditches straight homewards. The whole company of goblins followed him in the wildest uproar, threatening and imploring him to restore to them their property; but the fellow proved too quick for them, and succeeded in safely reaching the farm, where he delivered up the trophies of his daring enterprise to his mistress. The goblins now promised all manner of good luck to the farmer's wife and her family, if she would return to them the two articles; but she kept them, and they are still preserved in Ljungby as a testimony to the truth of this wonderful narrative.

The drinking-horn is of a metallic composition, the nature of which has not been exactly ascertained; its ornaments are, however, of brass. The pipe is made of the bone of a horse. Moreover, the possession of these relics, we are told, has been the cause of a series of disasters to the owners of the farm. The lad who brought them to the house died three days after the daring enterprise, and the day following, the horse suddenly fell down and expired. The farm-house has twice burnt down, and the descendants of the farmer's wife have experienced all kinds of misfortunes, which to enumerate would be not less laborious than painful. It is only surprising that they should still keep the unlucky horn and pipe.

THE GOLDEN HARVEST.

This is a genuine Dutch story. A long time may have elapsed since the hero of the event recorded was gathered to his fathers. Howbeit, his name lives, and his deeds will perhaps be longer retained by the people in pleasant remembrance than the deeds of some heroes who have made more noise in the world.

An old village crowder, whose name was Kartof, and who lived in Niederbrakel, happened once, late in the night, to traverse a little wood on his way home from Opbrakel, where he had been playing at a dance during the wake. He had his pockets full of coppers, and felt altogether mighty comfortable and jolly; for the young folks in Opbrakel had treated him well, and the liquor was genuine Old Hollands. But, there is nothing complete in this world, as the saying is, and as old Kartof was presently to experience to his dismay, when he put his hand into his pocket for his match-box. Had he not just filled his old clay pipe in the pleasant expectation, amounting to a certainty, that he should indulge in a comfortable smoke all the way home? And did he not feel, with a certain pride, that he deserved a good smoke after all his exertions with the fiddlestick? But what use was it to rummage his pockets for the match-box! It certainly was not there, and must have been lost or left behind somewhere.

"The deuce!" muttered old Kartof, "If I had only a bit of fire now to light my pipe, I should not care for anything else in the world, I am sure!"

Scarcely had he said these words, when he espied a light gleaming through the bushes. He went towards it, but it was much further off than it at first appeared to him; indeed, he had to go more than a hundred yards into the brush-wood before he came up to it. He now saw that it was a large fagot burning, around which a party of men and women, joined hand in hand, were dancing in a circle. "How odd!" thought old Kartof; but being a man accustomed to genteel society, he was at no loss how to address them politely; so, taking off his hat, he said:—

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Excuse me. I hope I am not intruding too much if I ask the favour of your permission to help myself to a little fire to light my pipe."

He had not even quite finished his speech, when several of the dancers stepped forward and handed him glowing embers in abundance. Now, when approaching him they perceived that he carried a violin under his arm, they importuned him to play for them to dance, intimating that he should be well rewarded for his services. "Why not?" said old Kartof: "It is only about midnight, and I can sleep to-morrow in the day-time; it will not be the first time that I have gone to bed in the morning."

While talking in this way, he tuned his instrument; and soon he struck up his best tunes, one after the other. But, though he played ever so much, he could never play enough, the dancers were so insatiable! Whenever his arm sank down from sheer fatigue, they threw a golden ducat into the sound-hole of his violin, which pleased him immensely, and always animated him to renew his exertions, especially also as they did not neglect to refresh him occasionally with a remarkably fine-flavoured Schiedam, from a bottle so oddly-shaped that he had never seen anything like it, so funny it was. He could not help smiling whenever he looked at the bottle.

Gradually his violin became heavier—of course, that was from the golden ducats which the dancers continually threw into it. But also his arm became heavier, and at last old Kartof felt altogether too heavy, sank softly down, and fell asleep.

How long he lay in this state no one knows, nor is ever likely to know. But, thus much is certain, when old Kartof awoke the day was already far advanced, and the sun shone brightly upon his face. He rubbed his eyes and looked about, doubtful whether he was a man of property or whether he had only dreamt of golden ducats. There was the violin lying in the grass near his feet. He hastily took it up;—it felt as light as usual. He shook it;—no rattling of ducats. He held it before his face and peeped into the sound holes;—to be sure, there was something in it, yellow and glittering like gold. He shook it out on the grass;—what should it be?—a score or two of decayed yellow birch-leaves.

Disappointed, old Kartof rose to his feet to look around whether he could not find the place where the fire had been.

Yes, there it was! Some embers were still glimmering in the ashes. This appeared to him more odd than anything else he had experienced. But old Kartof, after all, took the matter quietly enough. He lighted his pipe, and taking up his violin set out on his way home, resolving as he went never to go to that confounded place again after twelve o'clock at midnight.[78]

GIPSIES.

There prevails in popular traditions much mystery respecting gipsies. No wonder that this should be the case, since these strange vagabonds are in most countries so very different from the inhabitants in their appearance and habits; and their occupations are often so well calculated to appeal to the imagination of superstitious people, that a gipsy is regarded by them almost as a sorcerer. His better-half not unfrequently pretends to be a soothsayer, and he is often a musician. However different the gipsy hordes which rove about in European countries may be from each other in some respects, they are all fond of music, magic, and mysterious pursuits. Among the gipsy bands in Hungary and Transylvania talented instrumental performers are by no means rare; and in Russia, the gipsy singers of Moscow enjoy a wide reputation for their musical accomplishments. It is told,—not as a myth but as a fact,—that when the celebrated Italian singer Signora Catalani heard in Moscow the most accomplished of the gipsy singing-girls of that town, she was so highly delighted with the performance that she took from her shoulders a splendid Cashmere shawl which the Pope had presented to her in admiration of her own talent, and embracing the dear gipsy girl, she insisted on her accepting the shawl, saying that it was intended for the matchless cantatrice which she now found she could not longer regard herself.

There is a wildness in the gipsy musical performances, which admirably expresses the characteristic features of these vagrants. Indeed theirs is just the sort of music which people ought to make who encamp in the open air, feed upon hedgehogs and whatever they can lay hand on, and profess to be adepts in sorcery and prophecy.

The following event is told by the peasants in the Netherlands as having occurred in Herzeele. A troop of gipsies had arrived in a valley near that place. They stretched a tight rope, on which they danced, springing sometimes into the air so high that all who saw it were greatly astonished. A little boy among the spectators cried: "Oh, if I could but do that!"—

"Nothing is easier," said an old gipsy who stood near him: "Here is a powder; when you have swallowed it, you will be able to dance as well as any of us."

The boy took the powder and swallowed it. In a moment his feet became so light that he found it impossible to keep them on the ground. The slightest movement which he made raised him into the air. He danced upon the ears of the growing corn, on the tops of the trees,—yea, even on the weather-cock of the church-tower. The people of the village thought this suspicious, and shook their heads, especially when they furthermore observed a disinclination in the boy to attend church. They, therefore, consulted with the parson about the boy. The parson sent for him, and got him all right on his legs again by means of exorcism; but it was a hard struggle to banish the potent effects of the gipsy's powder.[79]

The gipsies were formerly supposed to be descendants of the ancient Egyptians. The German peasants call them Taters,[80] a name indicating an Asiatic origin; and it has been ascertained that they migrated from Western India. The roving Nautch-people in Hindustan are similarly musical and mysterious.

THE NAUTCH-PEOPLE.

The Nautch-people in Hindustan are not only singers and dancers who exhibit their skill before those who care to admire and to reward them; but they possess also dangerous charms.

In a popular story of the Hindus, called 'Chandra's Vengeance' we are told of a youth who, on hearing the music of the Nautch-people at a great distance, is irresistibly compelled to traverse the jungle in search of them. When, after twelve days' anxious endeavour to reach them, he discovers their encampment, Moulee, the daughter of the chief Nautch-woman, approaches him singing and dancing, and throws to him the garland of flowers which she wears on her head. He feels spell-bound, and the Nautch-people offer him a drink which, as soon as he has tasted it, makes him totally forget his family and his dear home. So he remains with the Nautch-people, and wanders with them about the country as one of the company.

Again, in a Hindu story called 'Panch-Phul Ranee,' a Rajah, or King, is enchanted by the Nautch-people, so that he finds his happiness in roving with them from place to place, and in beating the drum for the dancers. His enchantment is accomplished in this way: He had set out on a journey, leaving his wife and infant son behind. One day he happened to fall in with a gang of Nautch-people, singing and dancing. He was a remarkably handsome man, and the Nautch-people, on seeing him approach, said to each other "How well he would look beating the drum for the dancers!" The Rajah was hungry and told them that he required some food; whereupon one of the women offered him a little rice, upon which her companions threw a certain powder. He ate it, and the effect was that it made him forget his wife, child, rank, journey, and whatever had happened to him in all his life. He willingly remained with the Nautch-people, and wandered about with them, beating the drum at their performances, full eighteen years. His son, the prince, being now grown up, could no longer be detained from setting out in the world in search of his beloved father. After many fruitless attempts the prince discovered his father among the Nautch people,—a wild, ragged-looking man whose business it was to beat the drum. The joyful prince summoned the wisest doctors in the kingdom to restore the Rajah to his former consciousness; but their exertions did not at first prove at all successful. In vain did they assure the old drummer that he was a Rajah, and that he ought to remember his former greatness and splendour. The old man always answered that he remembered nothing but how to beat the drum; and, to prove his assertion, he treated them on the spot with a tap and roll on his tom-tom. He really believed that he had beaten it all his life.

However, through the unabated exertions of the doctors, a slight remembrance came gradually over him; and by-and-by his former mental power returned. He now recollected that he had a wife and a son. He also recognized his old friends and servants. Having reseated himself on the throne, he governed as if nothing had ever occurred to interrupt his reign.[81]

THE MONK OF AFFLIGHEM.

The aim of the present series of popular stories demands that some notice should now be taken of such musical legends as breathe a thorough Christian spirit. Several of these are, as might be expected, very beautiful; but they are familiar to most readers. One or two which are less well known may, however, find a place here.

The legend of the Monk of Afflighem bears some resemblance to the beautiful tradition of the Seven Sleepers. If it fails to interest the reader, the cause must be assigned to the simple manner in which it is told rather than to the subject itself.

Towards the end of the eleventh century occurred in the Abbey of Afflighem, in Dendermonde, East Flanders, a most wonderful event, the pious Fulgentius being at that time the Abbot of the monastery.

One day, a monk of very venerable appearance, whom no one remembered to have seen before, knocked at the door of the monastery, announcing himself as one of the brotherhood. The pious Abbot Fulgentius asked him his name, and from what country he had come. Whereupon the monk looked at the Abbot with surprise, and said that he belonged to the house. Being further questioned, he replied that he had only been away for a few hours. He had been singing the Matins, he said, in the morning of the same day in the choir with the other brothers. When, in chanting, they came to the verse of the ninetieth psalm, which says: "For, a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday!" he pondered upon it so deeply that he did not perceive when the singers left the choir, and he remained sitting alone, absorbed by the words. After he had been a while in this state of reflection, he heard heavenly strains of music, and on looking up he saw a little bird which sang with a voice so enchantingly melodious that he arose in ecstasy. The little bird flew to the neighbouring wood, whither he followed it. He had been only a little while in the wood listening to the heavenly song of the bird; and now, in coming back he felt bewildered,—the appearance of the neighbourhood was so changed he scarcely knew it again.

When the pious Abbot Fulgentius heard the monk speak thus, he asked of him the name of the Abbot, and also the name of the King who governed the country. And after the monk had answered him and mentioned the names, it was found to the astonishment of all that these were the names of the Abbot and the King who had lived three hundred years ago. The monk startled, lifted up his eyes, and said: "Now indeed I see that a thousand years are but as one day before the Lord." Whereupon he asked the pious Abbot Fulgentius to administer to him the Holy Sacraments; and having devoutly received them, he expired.[82]

THE PLAGUE IN GOLDBERG.

The inhabitants of Goldberg, a town in Germany, observe an old custom of inaugurating Christmas, which is peculiar to themselves. Having attended divine service, which commences at midnight on Christmas Eve, they assemble at two o'clock to form a procession to the Niederring, a hill situated close to the town. When the procession has arrived at the top of the Niederring, old and young unite in singing the Chorale Uns ist ein Kindlein heut geboren ("For us this day a child is born"). As soon as this impressive act of devotion is concluded, the town band stationed in the tower of the old parish church performs on brass instruments the noble Chorale Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr ("All glory be to God on High"), which in the stillness of the night is heard over the whole town, and even in the neighbouring villages.

The origin of this annual observance dates from the time when the town of Goldberg was visited by a deadly plague called Der schwarze Tod ("The black Death"). According to some accounts the awful visitation occurred in the year 1553; at all events this date appears to have been assigned to it on an old slab embedded in the wall of the parish church of Goldberg; but the inscription has become so much obliterated in the course of time, that no one can make out the year with certainty. Thus much, however, is declared by all to be authentic: The plague spread throughout the town with frightful rapidity. The people died in their houses, in the streets, everywhere, at night, and in the day-time. Some, while at their work, suddenly were stricken and fell down dead. Some died while at their meals; others while at prayers; others in their endeavours to escape the scourge by hastening away from the doomed town. Indeed, it was as if the Angel of Death had stretched out his hand over the place, saying "Ye are all given up to me!"

The plague raged for some weeks, and then quietness reigned in Goldberg. The few survivors had shut themselves up solitarily in their houses, not knowing of each other; for, no one now ventured into the street; neither did anyone open a window, fearing the poisonous air; for the corpses were lying about, and there remained none living to bury the dead.

Such was the condition of Goldberg in the month of December, just before Christmas. On Christmas Eve one of the solitary survivors, deeply impressed with the import of the holy festival, attained the blessing of a firm trust in the wisdom of the inscrutable decrees of Providence. He thought of the happy time of his childhood when his parents lighted up for him the glorious Christmas tree; and this recalled to his mind the simple and impressive Christmas hymn which his mother had taught him to recite on the occasion. Strengthened by devout contemplation, he ventured to open the window. The night was beautiful, and the air wafted to him so pure and delicious that he resolved to leave his prison. At the second hour after midnight he went out of the house, and bent his steps through the desolated streets towards the Niederring. Arrived at the top of the hill he knelt down and sang from the depth of his heart the Christmas hymn.

His voice was heard by another solitary survivor, who perceiving that he was not, as he had supposed, the only person still living in Goldberg, gained courage and likewise from his hiding place repaired to the Niederring, and kneeling down joined the singer with sincere devotion. Soon a third person made his appearance, slowly drawing near like one risen from the grave. Then a fourth, a fifth, until the number of them amounted to twenty-five; and these were all the inhabitants of Goldberg who had escaped the ravages of the Black Death.