Another Chat about Witches and Witchcraft—Late Period of the Existence
of Belief in Witches—QUEEN SEMIRAMIS—Elfin Armorers—The Sword of
the Scandinavian King—Mystical Meaning of Tales of
Magic—Anglo-Saxon Enigmas—CELESTINUS AND THE MILLER’S HORSE—THE
EMPEROR CONRAD AND THE COUNT’S SON—Legend of “The Giant with the
Golden Hairs.”
“Your stories about sorcerers and sorcery, Lathom,” said Herbert,
“have made me consider a little as to the amount of truth on which
such fictions may have been founded.”
“Perhaps you believe in witches, magicians, and all that tribe, that
gather deadly herbs by moonlight, and ride through the air on
broomsticks,” said Thompson, with a smile.
“May not Herbert fairly ask you,” said Lathom, “whether there is any
antecedent improbability in mortal beings obtaining, from the spirit
of evil, a temporary superhuman power; or in the idea of Satan
awarding the riches and honors of this world to those who will fall
down and worship him?”
“Selden’s apology for the law against witches in his time shows a
lurking belief,” remarked Herbert. “‘If,’ says that sour old lawyer,
‘one man believes that by turning his hat thrice and crying “buz,”
he could take away a fellow-creature’s life, this were a just law
made by the state, that whosoever should do so, should forfeit his
life.’”
“He must have believed, or his logical mind would have seen, that a
law waging war with intentions which are incapable of fulfilment, is
both wrong and mischievous.”
“Well,” said Herbert, “as good a lawyer as Selden and a better man,
did not fear to profess his belief in witchcraft, and to give his
judicial countenance to trials for sorcery:—Sir Matthew Hale was
ever ready to admit his belief in witches and witchcraft.”
“To the lawyers you may add the learned antiquary and physician, Sir
Thomas Brown, the author of the ‘Religio Medici.’”
“But surely, Lathom, all this belief, as well as the practice of
witch-tormenting, ceased about 1682,” said Thompson.
“The belief in witchcraft has never yet been extinct, and the
practice of witch-burning lasted forty years after that, at least in
Scotland. The act of James, so minutely describing witches and their
acts, and so strenuously inciting the people to burn them, remained
on the statute-book until the ninth year of George the Second; and
as late as 1722 the hereditary sheriff of Sutherlandshire condemned
a poor woman to death as a witch.”
“I believe I can carry down the belief at least a few years later
than the date even of the last witch execution,” remarked Herbert.
“Among the poor and uneducated, undoubtedly?”
“Nay, Thompson, with them it remains even now; I speak not only of
the educated, but of that class of men which is most conversant with
evidence, and most addicted to discredit fictitious stories.”
“What, the lawyers?”
“Even so,” replied Lathom; “in 1730, William Forbes, in his
‘Institutes of the Law of Scotland,’ published in that year, makes
this remark: ‘Nothing seems plainer to me, than that there have been
witches, and that, perhaps, such are now actually existing; which I
intend, God willing, to clear in a larger work concerning the
criminal law.’”
“Did this large work appear?” said Thompson.
“I should think not; at least, it is not known.”
“The old Jesuit from whom you got your version of The Ungrateful
Man, has a story illustrative of a kind of witchcraft that all will
admit to have been very prevalent in every age,” said Thompson.
“What, will you believe in witchcraft in any form?”
“At all events, in one form—the witchcraft of love; my instance is
the story of Semiramis and Ninus. I will read it you from the same
version that Lathom used for his tale of Vitalis and Massaccio.”
THE QUEEN SEMIRAMIS.
“Of all my wives,” said King Ninus to Semiramis, “it is you I love the
best. None have charms and graces like you, and for you I would
willingly resign them all.”
“Let the king consider well what he says,” replied Semiramis. “What if I
were to take him at his word?”
“Do so,” returned the monarch; “whilst beloved by you, I am indifferent
to all others.”
“So, then, if I asked it,” said Semiramis, “you would banish all your
other wives, and love me alone? I should be alone your consort, the
partaker of your power, and queen of Assyria?”
“Queen of Assyria! Are you not so already,” said Ninus, “since you
reign, by your beauty, over its king?”
“No—no,” answered his lovely mistress; “I am at present only a slave
whom you love. I reign not; I merely charm. When I give an order, you
are consulted before I am obeyed.”
“And to reign, then, you think so great a pleasure?”
“Yes, to one who has never experienced it.”
“And do you wish, then, to experience it? Would you like to reign a few
days in my place?”
“Take care, O king! do not offer too much.”
“No, I repeat it,” said the captivated monarch. “Would you like, for one
whole day, to be sovereign mistress of Assyria? If you would, I consent
to it.”
“And all which I command, then, shall be executed?”
“Yes, I will resign to you, for one entire day, my power and my golden
sceptre.”
“And when shall this be?”
“To-morrow if you like.”
“I do,” said Semiramis; and let her head fall upon the shoulder of the
king, like a beautiful woman asking pardon for some caprice which has
been yielded to.
The next morning, Semiramis called her women, and commanded them to
dress her magnificently. On her head she wore a crown of precious
stones, and appeared thus before Ninus. Ninus, enchanted with her
beauty, ordered the officers of the palace to assemble in the state
chamber, and his golden sceptre to be brought from the treasury. He then
entered the chamber, leading Semiramis by the hand. All prostrated
themselves before the aspect of the king, who conducted Semiramis to the
throne, and seated her upon it. Then ordering the whole assembly to
rise, he announced to the court that they were to obey, during the whole
day, Semiramis as himself. So saying, he took up the golden sceptre, and
placing it in the hands of Semiramis—“Queen,” said he, “I commit to you
the emblem of sovereign power; take it, and command with sovereign
authority. All here are your slaves, and I myself am nothing more than
your servant for the whole of this day. Whoever shall be remiss in
executing your orders, let him be punished as if he had disobeyed the
commands of the king.”
Having thus spoken, the king knelt down before Semiramis, who gave him,
with a smile, her hand to kiss. The courtiers then passed in succession,
each making oath to execute blindly the orders of Semiramis. When the
ceremony was finished, the king made her his compliments, and asked her
how she had managed to go through it with so grave and majestical an
air.
“Whilst they were promising to obey me,” said Semiramis, “I was thinking
what I should command each of them to do. I have but one day of power,
and I will employ it well.”
The king laughed at this reply. Semiramis appeared more _piquante_ and
amiable than ever. “Let us see,” said he, “how you will continue your
part. By what orders will you begin?”
“Let the secretary of the king approach my throne,” said Semiramis, in a
loud voice.
The secretary approached; two slaves placed a little table before him.
“Write,” said Semiramis: “‘Under penalty of death, the governor of the
citadel of Babylon is ordered to yield up the command of the citadel to
him who shall bear to him this order.’ Fold this order, seal it with the
king’s seal, and give it to me. Write now: ‘Under penalty of death, the
governor of the slaves of the palace is ordered to resign the command of
the slaves into the hands of the person who shall present to him this
order.’ Fold, seal it with the king’s seal, and deliver to me this
decree. Write again: ‘Under penalty of death, the general of the army
encamped under the walls of Babylon is ordered to resign the command of
the army to him who shall be the bearer of this order.’ Fold, seal, and
deliver to me this decree.”
She took the three orders, thus dictated, and put them in her bosom. The
whole court was struck with consternation; the king himself was
surprised.
“Listen,” said Semiramis. “In two hours hence let all the officers of
the state come and offer me presents, as is the custom on the accession
of new princes, and let a festival be prepared for this evening. Now,
let all depart. Let my faithful servant Ninus alone remain. I have to
consult him upon affairs of state.”
When all the rest had gone out—“You see,” said Semiramis, “that I know
how to play the queen.”
Ninus laughed.
“My beautiful queen,” said he, “you play your part with astonishment.
But, if your servant may dare question you, what would you do with the
orders you have dictated?”
“I should be no longer queen were I obliged to give an account of my
actions. Nevertheless, this was my motive. I have a vengeance to execute
against the three officers whom these orders menace.”
“Vengeance—and wherefore?”
“The first, the governor of the citadel, is one-eyed, and frightens me
every time I meet him; the second, the chief of the slaves, I hate,
because he threatens me with rivals; the third, the general of the army,
deprives me too often of your company,—you are constantly in the camp.”
This reply, in which caprice and flattery were mingled, enchanted Ninus.
“Good,” said he, laughing. “Here are the three first officers of the
empire dismissed for very sufficient reasons.”
The gentlemen of the court now came to present their gifts to the queen.
Some gave precious stones; others, of a lower rank, flowers and fruits;
and the slaves, having nothing to give, gave nothing but homage. Among
these last, there were three young brothers, who had come from the
Caucasus with Semiramis, and had rescued the caravan in which the women
were, from an enormous tiger. When they passed before the throne—
“And you,” said she to the three brothers, “have you no present to make
to your queen?”
“No other,” replied the first, Zopire, “than my life to defend her.”
“None other,” replied the second, Artaban, “than my sabre against her
enemies.”
“None other,” replied the third, Assar, “than the respect and admiration
which her presence inspires.”
“Slaves,” said Semiramis, “it is you who have made me the most valuable
present of the whole court, and I will not be ungrateful. You who have
offered me your sword against my enemies, take this order, carry it to
the general of the army encamped under the walls of Babylon, give it to
him, and see what he will do for you. You who have offered me your life
for my defence, take this order to the governor of the citadel, and see
what he will do for you; and you who offer me the respect and admiration
which my presence inspires, take this order, give it to the commandant
of the slaves of the palace, and see what will be the result.”
Never had Semiramis displayed so much gayety, so much folly, and so much
grace, and never was Ninus so captivated. Nor were her charms lessened
in his eyes, when a slave not having executed promptly an insignificant
order, she commanded his head to be struck off, which was immediately
done.
Without bestowing a thought on this trivial matter, Ninus continued to
converse with Semiramis till the evening and the _fête_ arrived. When
she entered the saloon which had been prepared for the occasion, a slave
brought her a plate, in which was the head of the decapitated
eunuch.—“’Tis well,” said she, after having examined it. “Place it on a
stake in the court of the palace, that all may see it, and be you there
on the spot to proclaim to every one, that the man to whom this head
belonged lived three hours ago, but that having disobeyed my will, his
head was separated from his body.”
The _fête_ was magnificent; a sumptuous banquet was prepared in the
gardens, and Semiramis received the homage of all with a grace and
majesty perfectly regal; she continually turned to and conversed with
Ninus, rendering him the most distinguished honor. “You are,” said she,
“a foreign king, come to visit me in my palace. I must make your visit
agreeable to you.”
Shortly after the banquet was served, Semiramis confounded and reversed
all ranks. Ninus was placed at the bottom of the table. He was the first
to laugh at this caprice; and the court, following his example, allowed
themselves to be placed, without murmuring, according to the will of the
queen. She seated near herself the three brothers from the Caucasus.
“Are my orders executed?” she demanded of them.
“Yes,” replied they.
The _fête_ was very gay. A slave having, by the force of habit, served
the king first, Semiramis had him beaten with rods. His cries mingled
with the laughter of the guests. Every one was inclined to merriment. It
was a comedy, in which each played his part. Towards the end of the
repast, when wine had added to the general gayety, Semiramis rose from
her elevated seat, and said: “My lords, the treasurer of the empire has
read me a list of those who this morning have brought me their gifts of
congratulation on my joyful accession to the throne. One grandee alone
of the court has failed to bring his gift.”
“Who is it?” cried Ninus. “He must be punished severely.”
“It is yourself, my lord—you who speak; what have you given to the queen
this morning?”
Ninus rose, and came with a smiling countenance to whisper something
into the ear of the queen. “The queen is insulted by her servant!”
exclaimed Semiramis.
“I embrace your knees to obtain my pardon, beautiful queen,” said he;
“pardon me, pardon me”; and he added in a lower tone, “I wish this
_fête_ were finished.”
“You wish, then, that I should abdicate?” said Semiramis. “But no—I have
still two hours to reign”; and at the same time she withdrew her hand,
which the king was covering with kisses. “I pardon not,” said she, with
a loud voice, “such an insult on the part of a slave. Slave, prepare
thyself to die.”
“Silly child that thou art,” said Ninus, still on his knees, “yet will I
give way to thy folly; but patience, thy reign will soon be over.”
“You will not then be angry,” said she, in a whisper, “at some thing I
am going to order at this moment.”
“No,” said he.
“Slaves!” said she aloud, “seize this man—seize this Ninus!”
Ninus, smiling, put himself into the hands of the slaves.
“Take him out of the saloon, lead him into the court of the seraglio,
prepare every thing for his death, and wait my orders.”
The slaves obeyed, and Ninus followed them, laughing, into the court of
the seraglio. They passed by the head of the disobeying eunuch. Then
Semiramis placed herself on a balcony. Ninus had suffered his hands to
be tied.
“Hasten,” said the queen, “hasten, Zopire, to the fortress; you to the
camp, Artaban; Assar, do you secure all the gates of the palace.”
The orders were given in a whisper, and executed immediately.
“Beautiful queen,” said Ninus, laughing, “this comedy wants but its
conclusion; pray, let it be a prompt one.”
“I will,” said Semiramis. “Slaves, recollect the eunuch. Strike!”
They struck; Ninus had hardly time to utter a cry; when his head fell
upon the pavement, the smile was still upon his lips.
“Now, I am queen of Assyria,” exclaimed Semiramis; “and perish every
one, like the eunuch and Ninus, who dare disobey my orders.”
“The discovery of the sword by Sir Guido, in your tale of the
Crusader,” said Herbert, “reminds me of the elfin swords so common
among the Scandinavian heroes.”
“Such as the enchanted sword taken by a pirate from the tomb of a
Norwegian monarch,” suggested Lathom.
“Rather, perhaps, of those manufactured by the elves under
compulsion, or from gratitude to some earthly warrior; the famous
sword _Tyrfing_, the weapon of the Scandinavian monarch Suafurlami,
was one of these. This is the story as given by Scott, in the second
volume of his Scottish Minstrelsy: ‘The Scandinavian king, returning
from hunting, bewildered himself among the mountains; about sunset
he beheld a large rock, and two dwarfs sitting before the mouth of a
cavern. The king drew his sword, and intercepted their retreat by
springing between them and their recess, and imposed upon them the
following condition of safety:—That they should make him a falchion,
with a baldric and scabbard of pure gold, and a blade which would
divide stones and iron as a garment, and which would render the
wielder of it ever victorious in battle. The elves complied with his
demand, and Suafurlami pursued his way home. Returning at the time
appointed, the dwarfs delivered to him the famous sword _Tyrfing_;
then standing in the entrance to the cavern, spoke thus: “This
sword, O king, shall destroy a man every time it is brandished; but
it shall perform three atrocious deeds, and shall be thy bane.” The
king rushed forward with the charmed sword, and buried both its
edges in the rock, but the dwarfs escaped into their recesses. This
enchanted sword emitted rays like the sun, dazzling all against whom
it was brandished; it divided steel like water, and was never
unsheathed without slaying a man.’”
“The supernatural skill in the fabrication of arms attributed to the
Northern elves,” remarked Lathom, “seems to indicate some traces of
historical truth. The Fins, who inhabited Scandinavia when Odin and
his Asiatics invaded the country, retired to the mountains to avoid
the tyranny of the new people. Far better acquainted than the
invaders could have been with the mines of their country, a superior
knowledge in the manufacture of arms may be fairly awarded to them.
And thus, in time, the oppressed Fins would come to be the dwarfish
armorers of Scandinavian mythology.”
“As theory is the fashion,” said Thompson, “what say you to a
geological foundation to many of your mythological wonders? Were not
the great dragons of stone suddenly released from their rocky
beds—the long serpents guarding treasures in deep pits—the closely
coiled snake of the cavern—were not many of these the gigantic
antediluvian relics of our caves? Has not many an ichthyosaurus, in
his earthly bed, been transformed into a deputy fiend, or even into
the father of evil himself, keeping watch over some hoard of
ill-gotten wealth; whilst the strange form of the huge pterodactyl,
with its wings and claws, has been metamorphosed into the dragon of
Wantley and his compeers?”
“Your theory, Thompson,” rejoined Herbert, “may not be so baseless
as you regard it. The entire series of the heathen mythology has
been of old, and still is, in Germany, regarded as a mere mystical
delineation of the phenomena of nature. The elements are said to
have suggested the nature of the gods and their origin; the specific
phenomena of nature may have suggested the various forms under which
the divine race appears and acts. It was a very common practice
among the astronomers of the days of Galileo, and even to a later
period, to conceal their discoveries in enigmas. May we not, with
some little appearance of reason, regard the fables of our
ancestors, the knights, the dragons, the giants, the magicians and
their followers, as in some respect an esoteric teaching of the
philosophy of physics, a mystical setting forth of natural
phenomena?”
“The love of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors for philosophical enigmas, as
they may be called, was undoubtedly very great,” rejoined Lathom. “I
remember one given by Mr. Wright, in his introduction to Anglo-Saxon
literature. It was in these words:
“‘I saw tread over the turf
Ten in all,
Six brothers
And their sister with them,
They had a living soul:
They hanged their skins,
Openly and manifestly,
On the wall of the hall:
To any one of them all
It was none the worse,
Nor his side the sorer:
Although they should thus,
Bereaved of covering,
And awakened by the might
Of the guardian of the skies,
Bite, with their mouths,
The rough leaves;
Clothing is renewed
To those, who, before coming forth,
Left their ornaments,
Lying in their track,
To depart over the earth.’”
“I shall not attempt to guess such an enigma,” said Thompson.
“Its solution is the butterfly; the various transformations through
which it passes from the grub until it rises with its beautiful
wings, are intended to be described. But come, as we are on enigmas,
what say you to this: ‘We are a family of seventeen, all sisters;
six others claim to belong to our race, but we account them
illegitimate. We are born of iron, or of the feather that bears the
bird heavenward; by iron we die. Our fathers were three brothers,
our mother’s nature is uncertain. We teach him who desires to learn,
and quickly and silently give words to him who requires them of
us.’”
“I see the solution,” said Herbert, “but yet cannot work it out; it
is, doubtless, the alphabet, in that day confined to seventeen true
and six false letters; what puzzles me is the iron, and the natures
of the mother and the father.”
“The iron,” said Lathom, “is the style used in writing; the sharp
point for marking, and the broad end to rub out with; the
uncertainty of the mother’s race arises from the pen being either of
reed, or quill, or even of iron; the three brothers are the thumb
and two fingers employed in writing.”
“The ‘uncertain mother’ is peculiarly applicable to these times,”
said Thompson, with a smile, “when you may vary your pen from goose
to swan, and from swan to crow; or choose between steel pens of
every size and shape, and delicate nibs of gold tipped with rubies.”
“Come, we must leave our theories and enigmas, and return to our old
story-tellers,” said Herbert. “What tale is in preparation for us?”
“A little more demonology, as we have it in the story of
“CELESTINUS AND THE MILLER’S HORSE.”
Alexander had an only son, named Celestinus, who was very dear to him;
desirous of having him well instructed, he sent for a certain sage, and
proffered his son to him for a pupil, promising a bountiful remuneration
for his labor. The sage agreed, and took the boy home with him.
Celestinus was a diligent scholar, and made great and satisfactory
progress under the tuition of the philosopher.
One day, as the tutor and pupil were walking together through a meadow,
their attention was directed to a horse grievously afflicted with the
mange. He lay on the ground in the middle of the field, and on either
side of him two sheep were feeding, tied together by a rope which
chanced to hang over the horse’s back; irritated by the rubbing of the
cord, the poor horse rose, and naturally drew with him the two sheep.
The weight of the sheep made the rope press more and more upon his poor
back, and galled him dreadfully. Unable to endure the pain, the horse
ran towards his master’s home; the faster he ran, the more the sheep
knocked against his flanks, and by their weight ground the cord into the
sores on his back; with every struggle of the horse and his living
burdens, the cord sank deeper into the wound.
On went the horse maddened with pain; at last he reached the hut of his
master, the miller, and dashed in with his burdens through the open
door. No one was within, but a fire of logs burned brightly on the
hearth; plunging and striking with his hoofs, the horse scattered the
burning logs about the house; the flames caught the building, and soon
surrounded the poor animal. Unable to move from the terror of the
flames, there died the poor horse and the unlucky sheep, amid the ruins
of the miller’s hut.
“My son,” said the tutor, when from afar he saw the end of the accident,
“you have seen the beginning, the middle, and the end of this incident;
when you return to your study, make me some verses upon it, and show me
wherefore the house was burned. If you fail, beware of the punishment.”
It was all in vain that Celestinus tried to coin a verse or two on such
a curious subject. He felt more than usually unpoetical; and as for
assigning a cause for the fire, he so puzzled himself with his own
arguments, as at last to begin to doubt whether there was any cause at
all. At length he left his room, and tried what a walk would do towards
making him able to poetize.
“My son,” said a venerable-looking man that met him on his solitary
ramble, “what makes you so sorrowful?”
“Pray do not trouble yourself,” replied the youth; “it is quite useless
to tell you of my trouble; you cannot help me.”
“Nay, but my son—how can we decide until we hear the cause?”
“Well, then, good father, I have got to make some verses on a mangy
horse and two sheep, and I do not know how.”
“And to decide wherefore the hut, the horse, and the sheep were burnt.”
“Why, father, how do you know that?” exclaimed Celestinus.
“Though human to look at, I am not of this world,” replied the old man;
“come, make a contract with me, henceforth to serve me, and care not for
your master; and I will make you such a copy of verses as never were yet
seen. Come, choose; you know the alternative—the philosopher flogs
sharply.”
Celestinus hesitated a long time, but at last, through fear, he agreed
to the Devil’s proposal.
“Now, then, my son,” said the Devil, “write what I tell you. Are you
ready to begin?”
A mangy horse lay in a field,
A sheep on either side;
Across his back a rope was hung,
To which the sheep were tied.
Teas’d by the rope, up rose the horse,
With him the sheep up swung,
On either flank, thus weighted well,
The rope his withers wrung.
Clogg’d by his living load, he seeks
Yon miller’s hut to gain;
The rope wears deeper, and his pace
Is quicken’d with the pain.
He minds not bolts, nor bars, nor logs
That on the hearthstone burn;
Nor fears with ready, scattering hoof,
The flaming pile to spurn.
Wide flies the fire, above, around,
The rafters catch the flame;
Poor Dobbin, and his fleecy load,
Are roasted in the same.
Had but that miller deigned at home,
His careful watch to keep,
He had not burnt his house, or horse,
Nor roasted both his sheep.
Delighted with the verses, Celestinus hastened to his master on his
return home. The philosopher read them with astonishment.
“Boy,” said he, “whence did you steal these verses?”
“I did not steal them, sir.”
“Come, come, boy—they are clearly not your own; tell me who made them
for you.”
“I dare not, master,” replied the boy.
“Dare not, why dare not? Come boy, tell me the truth, or abide a worse
punishment than would have awaited you had you not brought me any
verses.”
Terrified at his master’s threats, Celestinus revealed his interview
with the Devil in a human form, and his contract of service with him.
Deeply grieved at the occurrence, the preceptor ceased not to talk with
his pupil, until he had persuaded him, humbly and heartily, on his
knees, to confess to God his grievous sin in his compact with the Devil.
His confederacy with the Evil One thus renounced, Celestinus became a
good and holy man, and, after a well-spent life, resigned his soul to
God.
“Pray, Lathom, what moral did your old monk intend to draw from this
diabolical poetry?” asked Thompson.
“His application is very recondite; the preceptor is a prelate of
the Church; the mangy horse, a sinner covered with sins; the two
sheep represent two preachers bound by the cord of charity; the
miller’s house is the world, and the fire, detraction. I must admit
that the application, in this case, is far less valuable or
intelligible than the story itself.”
“In an old book of moral advice,” said Herbert, “I found a
description of three madmen, that reminded me much of the five kinds
described by St. Peter, as related by your old writer. The first
carried a fagot of wood, and because it was already too heavy for
him, he added more wood to it, in the hopes of thereby making it
lighter.”
“And he,” rejoined Lathom, “was a sinner, daily adding new sins to
old, because unable to bear the weight of his original errors.”
“The very same. The second madman drew water from a deep well with a
sieve; his labor was incessant, and his progress just as slow. Can
you explain the nature of his sin?”
“I can read the explanation,” rejoined Lathom, “for I have this
moment found out the source of your extract in my old monk’s book.
This madman was the man who does good, but does it sinfully, and
therefore it is of no benefit. The third madman was far worse: he
carried a beam in his chariot; and wishing to enter his court-yard,
and finding the gate so narrow that it would not admit the beam, he
whipped his horse until it tumbled both itself and its master into a
deep well. The beam was worldly vanities, with which their possessor
sought to enter into heaven, but by which he was cast down into
hell.”
“The belief in witchcraft,” began Herbert, “is very well illustrated
by a late publication of the Camden Society of London.”
“Nay, nay, Reginald, no more of witches now,” rejoined Lathom; “the
subject deserves far more time, attention, and illustration than we
can now afford it, and must be adjourned for the present. Let me
conclude this evening with the tale of
“THE EMPEROR CONRAD AND THE COUNT’S SON.”
During the reign of the Emperor Conrad, there lived a certain count of
the name of Leopold, who had risen to high commands by his bravery and
his knowledge. Every one regarded the count with favor, and loved him
for his kindness to suitors, and his prowess against the enemies of the
emperor. Conrad alone looked on his servant with an evil eye; for he
envied his reputation, and would have taken to himself the glories he
had acquired, and ascribed to himself those victories which Leopold had
won.
The count, unable to endure the evil looks and hard words of the
emperor, and fearful that in time his present anger would be turned into
bitter hatred, suddenly left the court of Rome, and fled with his wife
into the forest of the Apennines. There he toiled all day, and labored
diligently to support himself and his spouse. There he knew not what the
fear of impending evil was; he had no one to envy him, no one to covet
his position or his property.
It was a bright sunny day, and the meridian sun glared with unwonted
fierceness, even through the thick trees of the forest, and rendered the
air close and heavy from lack of a breeze to move even the highest
leaves of the loftiest pines. The emperor pursued the chase with ardor;
urged on by the exhilarating cry of the hounds, he thought not of the
denseness of the forest, or the tangled nature of its winding ways,
until at last, tired and thirsty, he checked his horse in a dark, close
glade, and looked around for some hut where he might obtain rest and
refreshment.
Many were the paths which the emperor and his attendants followed before
they reached the cottage where Leopold lived in solitude; the count
recognized the sovereign, but Conrad knew not his old servant, nor was
he recognized by any of the hunting train; refreshments, such as the
homely store could furnish, were soon placed before the emperor. It was
now nigh to evening; already the glades of the forest were growing dark,
and the devious paths more and more difficult to track out, even to the
experienced eye of a woodman. It was useless to attempt to escape from
the forest before the next morning. The attendants soon formed for
themselves sylvan beds on the soft grass, and beneath the
broad-spreading trees, their cloaks for coverlids, and the green mossy
grass for their beds. The emperor fared better. One low tressel bed
Leopold had in the lower room of his hut; this he resigned to the
emperor.
Fatigued with his hard day’s riding, Conrad soon fell asleep; how long
he slept he knew not; but when all was dark and still, both within and
without the hut, a voice broke upon his ear.
“Take—take—take,” said the voice.
Conrad rose and listened. “What,” said he to himself, as he thought on
the words, “what am I to take? Take—take—take: what can the voice mean?”
As he reflected on the singularity of the words, the emperor again fell
asleep; again a voice awoke him from his slumbers.
“Restore—restore—restore,” said the mysterious voice.
“What means all this mystery?” exclaimed the emperor. “First I was to
take, take, take, and there is nothing for me to take; and now I am to
restore. What can I restore, when I have taken nothing?”
Again the emperor slept, and again the voice seemed to speak to him.
“Fly—fly—fly,” said the voice this time, “for a child is now born, who
shall become thy son-in-law.”
It was early dawn when Conrad heard the voice the third time. He
immediately arose, and inquired of his squires if they had heard a
noise, and what had happened in the night.
“Naught,” replied they, “my lord, but that a son was born to the poor
woodman whilst you slept.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Conrad, “a son—to mount—to horse—we will away.”
The emperor and his train had hardly found their way out of the wood,
when Conrad called two of his knights to him.
“Go,” said he, “to the woodman’s hut, take away the new-born child, kill
it; and bring its heart to me, that I may know that you have performed
my commands.”
With sorrowful hearts the two knights returned towards the woodman’s
cottage. The babe was nestled in its mother’s breast, and smiled on them
as they seized it. Vain was the resistance of its mother, for she was
alone; Leopold had gone into the wood, to his daily labor.
“I cannot strike the poor babe,” said one knight to the other, as they
left the hut in the forest, “do you play the butcher.”
“Not I,” replied the other; “I can strike down my adversary in fair
fight, but not this poor babe.”
At this moment a hare sprang across the path so close to the foremost of
the knights, that he raised his hunting pole and struck it down.
“Comrade,” said the other knight, “I perceive how we may make the
emperor believe that we have obeyed his commands, and yet not take this
poor babe’s life—open the hare, take out its heart. As for the babe, we
will place it on yonder high branch, where the wild beasts cannot get at
it, until we have done our message to the emperor, then will I return
and take this poor babe to my home, for I am childless.”
Leaving the babe, the two knights went on their message to the emperor;
but before they could return, a good duke rode by the tree where the
babe was, and took compassion on it, and carried the child to his own
house, where it was nurtured as his own son. As for the child, he grew
up a man of fine form, the joy of his adopted parents, eloquent in
speech, and a general favorite at the emperor’s court. For a time,
Conrad was as pleased with the attainments of the young Henry, as he had
been with those of his poor father; but time brought with it envy, and
he soon hated the youth, as he had before the unfortunate count. A
dreadful suspicion haunted Conrad’s mind that he had been deceived by
his knights, and that the youthful favorite of the people was the
woodman’s child, against whom he had been warned by the secret voice.
The most cruel thoughts entered his mind, and he determined, this time,
not to be deceived by his agents.
“Henry,” said he to the young count, “I have a letter of the utmost
importance that I wish to be delivered to my wife; to you I commit it,
for you I can trust; haste, then, prepare for your journey, whilst I
write the letter.”
Henry retired to his apartments to prepare for his ride he chose his
best riding suit, and his strongest horse, desirous in every way to do
honor to the emperor’s mission. Conrad went to his private room to
prepare the letter.
“As soon as this letter reaches you,” he wrote, “I command you to cause
the bearer thereof to be put to death. See that this be done, as you
value my love.”
Henry received the letter, and prepared to commence his journey. As it
happened, his horse cast one of its shoes, and he was compelled to wait
until another could be forged. Unwilling that the emperor should know of
the delay, the young man wandered into the royal chapel, and seating
himself in one of the royal stalls, fell asleep.
There was a prying, crafty priest in the chapel, who had heard the
message given to the young count, and wished very much to discover the
secret of the message. Seeing the young man asleep, he silently
approached the youth, and extracting the letter from the little silken
bag in which it was enclosed, opened its folds, and read, with
astonishment, the proposed wickedness.
“Poor youth,” murmured the priest, “thou little thinkest on what errand
you are riding. But, come, I will deceive this cruel emperor,” continued
he, as he erased the passage in which Henry’s death was commanded, and
inserted these words: “Give him our daughter in marriage.”
The letter altered and replaced, his horse reshod, Henry set out on his
journey, and soon arrived at the city where the queen dwelt. Presenting
his letter to the queen, he was greatly surprised when she hailed him as
her son-in-law, by virtue of the royal commands, and bade the priests
and nobles of her court to assist in rendering the celebration of the
nuptials as gorgeous as befitted the occasion.
It was in vain that Conrad raged against the deceit thus practised on
him; one by one the wonderful facts of the young man’s deliverance were
revealed to him, and he could not but recognize in them all the hand of
a protecting Providence. Deeply penitent for his many offences against
God and man, he confirmed the marriage of his daughter, recalled the old
count from his forest hut, and proclaimed the young Henry heir to his
empire.
“There is a great family likeness between this tale of yours, and
the German story of The Giant with the Golden Hair.”
“In what respect?”
“In the manner in which the fortunate youth obtains the princess as
his wife. In that legend, a king discovers the babe after a manner
very similar to that in which Henry is found by Conrad, and—warned
that the child is to be his son-in-law—he sends him on a message to
his queen, with a letter of the same import as in your tale.
Fatigued with his journey, the youth arrived at a robber’s cottage,
falls asleep, and during his rest the thieves alter the letter, as
the priest does that borne by Henry. The effect is, of course,
similar.”
“But what of the golden-haired giant?” asked Herbert.
“He does not appear until the second part of the legend, and this is
doubtless added on from some other tradition. You will find the
whole story in Grimm’s most amusing collection of German popular
stories.”
“With this tale, then, we conclude our evening’s amusement.”
“I am afraid it must be so, Herbert,” rejoined Lathom; “I should not
like to be left without material for to-morrow, our last meeting;
and between this and then I am unable to prepare any more tales.”
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