CHAPTER I—TOPOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL

CHAPTER II—THE RHINE IN FOLKLORE AND LITERATURE

CHAPTER III—CLEVES TO THE LÖWENBURG

LEGENDS OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE

CHAPTER IV—DRACHENFELS TO RHEINSTEIN

CHAPTER V—FALKENBURG TO AUERBACH

CHAPTER VI—WORMS AND THE NIBELUNGENLIED

CHAPTER VII—HEIDELBERG TO SÄCKINGEN

Conclusion

INTRODUCTION

An abundance of literature exists on the subject of the Rhine and its

legends, but with few exceptions the works on it which are accessible

to English-speaking peoples are antiquated in spirit and verbiage, and

their authors have been content to accept the first version of such

legends and traditions as came their way without submitting them to

any critical examination. It is claimed for this book that much of its

matter was collected on the spot, or that at least most of the

tales here presented were perused in other works at the scene of the

occurrences related. This volume is thus something more than a

mere compilation, and when it is further stated that only the most

characteristic and original versions and variants of the many tales here

given have gained admittance to the collection, its value will become

apparent.

It is, of course, no easy task to infuse a spirit of originality into

matter which has already achieved such a measure of celebrity as have

these wild and wondrous tales of Rhineland. But it is hoped that the

treatment to which these stories have been subjected is not without a

novelty of its own. One circumstance may be alluded to as characteristic

of the manner of their treatment in this work. In most English books

on Rhine legend the tales themselves are presented in a form so brief,

succinct, and uninspiring as to rob them entirely of that mysterious

glamour lacking which they become mere material by which to add to and

illustrate the guide-book. The absence of the romantic spirit in most

English and American compilations dealing with the Rhine legends is

noteworthy, and in writing this book the author’s intention has been to

supply this striking defect by retaining as much of the atmosphere

of mystery so dear to the German heart as will convey to the

English-speaking reader a true conception of the spirit of German

legend.

But it is not contended that because greater space and freedom of

narrative scope than is usual has been taken by the author the volume

would not prove itself an acceptable companion upon a voyage on Rhine

waters undertaken in holiday times of peace. Indeed, every attempt has

been made so to arrange the legends that they will illustrate a Rhine

journey from sea to source—the manner in which the majority of visitors

to Germany will make the voyage—and to this end the tales have been

marshalled in such form that a reader sitting on the deck of a Rhine

steamer may be able to peruse the legends relating to the various

localities in their proper order as he passes them. There are included,

however, several tales relating to places which cannot be viewed from

the deck of a steamer, but which may be visited at the cost of a short

inland excursion. These are such as from their celebrity could not be

omitted from any work on the legends of Rhineland, but they are few in

number.

The historical development, folklore, poetry, and art of the

Rhine-country have been dealt with in a special introductory chapter.

The history of the Rhine basin is a complicated and uneven one, chiefly

consisting in the rapid and perplexing rise and fall of dynasties and

the alternate confiscation of one or both banks of the devoted stream

to the empires of France or Germany. But the evolution of a reasoned

narrative has been attempted from this chaotic material, and, so far

as the author is aware, it is the only one existing in English. The

folklore and romance elements in Rhine legend have been carefully

examined, and the best poetic material upon the storied river has been

critically collected and reviewed. To those who may one day visit the

Rhine it is hoped that the volume may afford a suitable introduction to

a fascinating field of travel, while to such as have already viewed

its glories it may serve to renew old associations and awaken cherished

memories of a river without peer or parallel in its wealth of story, its

boundless mystery, and the hold which it has exercised upon all who

have lingered by the hero-trodden paths that wind among its mysterious

promontories and song-haunted strands.

—L.S.

CHAPTER I—TOPOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL

There are many rivers whose celebrity is of much greater antiquity than

that of the Rhine. The Nile and the Ganges are intimately associated

with the early history of civilization and the mysterious beginnings

of wisdom; the Tiber is eloquent of that vanished Empire which was

the first to carry the torch of advancement into the dark places of

barbarian Europe; the name of the Jordan is sacred to thousands as that

first heard in infancy and linked with lives and memories divine. But,

universal as is the fame of these rivers, none of them has awakened in

the breasts of the dwellers on their banks such a fervent devotion,

such intense enthusiasm, or such a powerful patriotic appeal as has the

Rhine, at once the river, the frontier, and the palladium of the German

folk.

The Magic of the Rhine

But the appeal is wider, for the Rhine is peculiarly the home of a

legendary mysticism almost unique. Those whose lives are spent in their

creation and interpretation know that song and legend have a particular

affinity for water. Hogg, the friend of Shelley, was wont to tell how

the bright eyes of his comrade would dilate at the sight of even a

puddle by the roadside. Has water a hypnotic attraction for certain

minds? Be that as it may, there has crystallized round the great

waterways of the world a traditionary lore which preserves the thought

and feeling of the past, and retains many a circumstance of wonder and

marvel from olden epochs which the modern world could ill have spared.

Varied and valuable as are the traditional tales of other streams, none

possess that colour of intensity and mystery, that spell of ancient

profundity which belong to the legends of the Rhine. In perusing these

we feel our very souls plunged in darkness as that of the carven gloom

of some Gothic cathedral or the Cimmerian depths of some ancient forest

unpierced by sun-shafts. It is the Teutonic mystery which has us in

its grip, a thing as readily recognizable as the Celtic glamour or

the Egyptian gloom—a thing of the shadows of eld, stern, ancient, of a

ponderous fantasy, instinct with the spirit of nature, of dwarfs,

elves, kobolds, erlkings, the wraiths and shades of forest and flood, of

mountain and mere, of castled height and swift whirlpool, the denizens

of the deep valleys and mines, the bergs and heaths of this great

province of romance, this rich satrapy of Faëry.

A Land of Legend

Nowhere is legend so thickly strewn as on the banks of the Rhine. Each

step is eloquent of tradition, each town, village, and valley. No hill,

no castle but has its story, true or legendary. The Teuton is easily the

world’s master in the art of conserving local lore. As one speeds down

the broad breast of this wondrous river, gay with summer and flushed

with the laughter of early vineyards, so close is the network of legend

that the swiftly read or spoken tale of one locality is scarce over ere

the traveller is confronted by another. It is a surfeit of romance, an

inexhaustible hoard of the matter of marvel.

This noble stream with its wealth of tradition has made such a powerful

impression upon the national imagination that it has become intimate in

the soul of the people and commands a reverence and affection which

is not given by any other modern nation to its greatest and most

characteristic river. The Englishman has only a mitigated pride in the

Thames, as a great commercial asset or, its metropolitan borders once

passed, a river of peculiarly restful character; the Frenchman evinces

no very great enthusiasm toward the Seine; and if there are many Spanish

songs about the “chainless Guadalquivir,” the dons have been content

to retain its Arabic name. But what German heart does not thrill at the

name of the Rhine? What German cheek does not flush at the sound of that

mighty thunder-hymn which tells of his determination to preserve the

river of his fathers at the cost of his best blood? Nay, what man of

patriotic temperament but feels a responsive chord awake within him

at the thought of that majestic song, so stern, so strong, “clad in

armour,” vibrant with the clang of swords, instinct with the universal

accord of a united people? To those who have heard it sung by

multitudinous voices to the accompaniment of golden harps and silver

trumpets it is a thing which can never be forgotten, this world-song

that is at once a hymn of union, a song of the deepest love of country,

a defiance and an intimation of resistance to the death.

The Song of the ‘Iron Chancellor’

How potent Die Wacht am Rhein is to stir the hearts of the children of

the Fatherland is proven abundantly by an apposite story regarding the

great Bismarck, the ‘man of blood and iron.’ The scene is the German

Reichstag, and the time is that curious juncture in history when the

Germans, having realized that union is strength, were beginning to weld

together the petty kingdoms and duchies of which their mighty empire

was once composed. Gradually this task was becoming accomplished, and

meanwhile Germany grew eager to assert her power in Europe, wherefore

her rulers commenced to create a vast army. But Bismarck was not

satisfied, and in his eyes Germany’s safety was still unassured; so

he appealed to the Reichstag to augment largely their armaments. The

deputies looked at him askance, for a vast army meant ruinous taxation;

even von Moltke and von Roon shook their heads, well aware though they

were that a great European conflict might break out at any time; and,

in short, Bismarck’s proposal was met by a determined negative from

the whole House. “Ach, mein Gott!” he cried, holding out his hands in a

superb gesture of despair. “Ach, mein Gott! but these soldiers we must

have.” His hearers still demurred, reminding him that the people far and

near were groaning under the weight of taxation, and assuring him that

this could not possibly be increased, when he suddenly changed his

despairing gesture for a martial attitude, and with sublime eloquence

recited the lines:

“Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall,

Wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall;

Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein,

Wer will die Strömes Hüter sein?

Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein,

Fest steht und treu die Wacht am Rhein.”

The effect was magical; the entire House resounded with cheers, and the

most unbounded enthusiasm prevailed. And ere the members dispersed

they had told Bismarck he might have, not ten thousand, but a hundred

thousand soldiers, such was the power of association awakened by this

famous hymn, such the spell it is capable of exercising on German

hearers.

Topography of the Rhine

Ere we set sail upon the dark sea of legend before us it is necessary

that, like prudent mariners, we should know whence and whither we are

faring. To this end it will be well that we should glance briefly at

the topography of the great river we are about to explore, and that we

should sketch rapidly the most salient occurrences in the strange

and varied pageant of its history, in order that we may the better

appreciate the wondrous tales of worldwide renown which have found birth

on its banks.

Although the most German of rivers, the Rhine does not run its entire

course through German territory, but takes its rise in Switzerland and

finds the sea in Holland. For no less than 233 miles it flows through

Swiss country, rising in the mountains of the canton of Grisons, and

irrigates every canton of the Alpine republic save that of Geneva.

Indeed, it waters over 14,000 square miles of Swiss territory in the

flow of its two main branches, the Nearer Rhine and the Farther Rhine,

which unite at Reichenau, near Coire. The Nearer Rhine issues at the

height of over 7000 feet from the glaciers of the Rheinwaldhorn

group, and flows for some thirty-five miles, first in a north-easterly

direction through the Rheinwald Valley, then northward through the

Schams Valley, by way of the Via Mala gorge, and Tomleschg Valley, and

so to Reichenau, where it is joined by its sister stream, the Farther

Rhine. The latter, rising in the little Alpine lake of Toma near the

Pass of St. Gotthard, flows in a north-easterly direction to Reichenau.

The Nearer Rhine is generally considered to be the more important

branch, though the Farther Rhine is the longer by some seven miles. From

Reichenau the Rhine flows north-eastward to Coire, and thence northward

to the Lake of Constance, receiving on its way two tributaries, the

Landquart and the Ill, both on the right bank. Indeed, from source to

sea the Rhine receives a vast number of tributaries, amounting, with

their branches, to over 12,000. Leaving the Lake of Constance at the

town of that name, the river flows westward to Basel, having as

the principal towns on its banks Constance, Schaffhausen, Waldshut,

Laufenburg, Säckingen, Rheinfelden, and Basel.

Not far from the town of Schaffhausen the river precipitates itself from

a height of 60 feet, in three leaps, forming the famous Falls of the

Rhine. At Coblentz a strange thing happens, for at this place the river

receives the waters of the Aar, swollen by the Reuss and the Limmat, and

of greater volume than the stream in which it loses itself.

It is at Basel that the Rhine, taking a northward trend, enters

Germany. By this time it has made a descent of nearly 7000 feet, and has

traversed about a third of its course. Between Basel and Mainz it flows

between the mountains of the Black Forest and the Vosges, the distance

between which forms a shallow valley of some width. Here and there it is

islanded, and its expanse averages about 1200 feet. The Taunus Mountains

divert it at Mainz, where it widens, and it flows westward for about

twenty miles, but at Bingen it once more takes its course northward, and

enters a narrow valley where the enclosing hills look down sheer upon

the water.

It is in this valley, probably one of the most romantic in the world,

that we find the legendary lore of the river packed in such richness

that every foot of its banks has its place in tradition. But that is not

to say that this portion of the Rhine is wanting in natural beauty. Here

are situated some of its sunniest vineyards, its most wildly romantic

heights, and its most picturesque ruins. This part of its course may be

said to end at the Siebengebirge, or ‘Seven Mountains,’ where the river

again widens and the banks become more bare and uninteresting. Passing

Bonn and Cologne, the bareness of the landscape is remarkable after the

variety of that from which we have just emerged, and henceforward the

river takes on what may be called a ‘Dutch’ appearance. After entering

Holland it divides into two branches, the Waal flowing to the west and

uniting with the Maas. The smaller branch to the right is still called

the Rhine, and throws off another branch, the Yssel, which flows into

the Zuider Zee. Once more the river bifurcates into insignificant

streams, one of which is called the Kromme Rijn, and beyond Utrecht, and

under the name of the Oude Rijn, or Old Rhine, it becomes so stagnant

that it requires the aid of a canal to drain it into the sea. Anciently

the Rhine at this part of its course was an abounding stream, but by the

ninth century the sands at Katwijk had silted it up, and it was only in

the beginning of last century that its way to the sea was made clear.

The Sunken City

More than six centuries ago Stavoren was one of the chief commercial

towns of Holland. Its merchants traded with all parts of the world, and

brought back their ships laden with rich cargoes, and the city became

ever more prosperous.

The majority of the people of Stavoren were well-to-do, and as their

wealth increased they became luxurious and dissipated, each striving to

outdo the others in the magnificence of their homes and the extravagance

of their hospitality.

Many of their houses, we are told, were like the palaces of princes,

built of white marble, furnished with the greatest sumptuousness, and

decorated with the costliest hangings and the rarest statuary.

But, says the legend, of all the Stavoren folk there was none

wealthier than young Richberta. This maiden owned a fleet of the finest

merchant-vessels of the city, and loved to ornament her palace with the

rich merchandise which these brought from foreign ports. With all her

jewels and gold and silver treasures, however, Richberta was not happy.

She gave gorgeous banquets to the other merchant-princes of the place,

each more magnificent than the last, not because she received any

pleasure from thus dispensing hospitality, but because she desired to

create envy and astonishment in the breasts of her guests.

On one occasion while such a feast was in progress Richberta was

informed that a stranger was waiting without who was desirous of

speaking with her. When she was told that the man had come all the way

from a distant land simply to admire her wonderful treasures, of which

he had heard so much, the maiden was highly flattered and gave orders

that he should be admitted without delay. An aged and decrepit man, clad

in a picturesque Eastern costume, was led into the room, and Richberta

bade him be seated at her side. He expected to receive from the young

lady the symbol of welcome—bread and salt. But no such common fare was

to be found on her table—all was rich and luxurious food.

The stranger seated himself in silence. At length he began to talk. He

had travelled in many lands, and now he told of his changing fortunes in

these far-off countries, always drawing a moral from his adventures—that

all things earthly were evanescent as the dews of morning. The company

listened attentively to the discourse of the sage; all, that is, but

their hostess, who was angry and disappointed that he had said no word

of the wealth and magnificence displayed in her palace, the rich fare on

her table, and all the signs of luxury with which he was surrounded. At

length she could conceal her chagrin no longer, and asked the stranger

directly whether he had ever seen such splendour in his wanderings as

that he now beheld.

“Tell me,” she said, “is there to be found in the courts of your Eastern

kings such rare treasures as these of mine?”

“Nay,” replied the sage, “they have no pearls and rich embroideries to

match thine. Nevertheless, there is one thing missing from your board,

and that the best and most valuable of all earthly gifts.”

In vain Richberta begged that he would tell her what that most precious

of treasures might be. He answered all her inquiries in an evasive

manner, and at last, when her question could no longer be evaded, he

rose abruptly and left the room. And, seek as she might, Richberta could

find no trace of her mysterious visitor.

Richberta strove to discover the meaning of the old man’s words. She

was rich—she possessed greater treasures than any in Stavoren, at a time

when that city was among the wealthiest in Europe—and yet she lacked the

most precious of earth’s treasures. The memory of the words galled her

pride and excited her curiosity to an extraordinary pitch. In vain she

asked the wise men of her time—the priests and philosophers—to read her

the riddle of the mysterious traveller. None could name a treasure that

was not already hers.

In her anxiety to obtain the precious thing, whatever it might be,

Richberta sent all her ships to sea, telling the captain of each not

to return until he had found some treasure that she did not already

possess. The vessels were victualled for seven years, so that the

mariners might have ample time in which to pursue their quest. So their

commander sent one division of the fleet to the east, another to the

west, while he left his own vessel to the hazard of the winds, letting

it drift wheresoever the fates decreed. His ship as well as the others

was laden heavily with provisions, and during the first storm they

encountered it was necessary to cast a considerable portion of the food

overboard, so that the ship might right itself. As it was, the remaining

provisions were so damaged by the sea-water that they rotted in a few

days and became unfit for food. A pestilence would surely follow the use

of such unwholesome stuff, and consequently the entire cargo of bread

had to be cast into the sea.

The commander saw his crew ravaged by the dreaded scurvy, suffering from

the lack of bread. Then only did he begin to perceive the real meaning

of the sage’s words. The most valuable of all earthly treasures was not

the pearls from the depths of the sea, gold or silver from the heart of

the mountains, nor the rich spices of the Indies. The most common of all

earth’s, products, that which was to be found in every country, which

flourished in every clime, on which the lives of millions depended—this

was the greatest treasure, and its name was—bread.

Having reached this conclusion, the commander of Richberta’s fleet set

sail for a Baltic port, where he took on board a cargo of corn, and

returned immediately to Stavoren.

Richberta was astonished and delighted to see that he had achieved his

purpose so soon, and bade him tell her of what the treasure consisted

which he had brought with him. The commander thereupon recounted his

adventures—the storm, the throwing overboard of their store of bread,

and the consequent sufferings of the crew—and told how he at length

discovered what was the greatest treasure on earth, the priceless

possession which the stranger had looked for in vain at her rich board.

It was bread, he said simply, and the cargo he had brought home was

corn.

Richberta was beside herself with passion. When she had recovered

herself sufficiently to speak she asked him:

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

“At the right side,” he replied.

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

the left side.”

It was a cruel decision. Stavoren, like every other city, had its quota

of poor families, and these were in much distress at the time, many of

them dying from sheer starvation. The cargo of corn would have provided

bread for them throughout the whole winter, and the commander urged

Richberta to reconsider her decision. As a last resort he sent the

barefooted children of the city to her, thinking that their mute misery

would move her to alleviate their distress and give them the shipload

of corn. But all was in vain. Richberta remained adamantine, and in full

view of the starving multitude she had the precious cargo cast into the

sea.

But the curses of the despairing people had their effect. Far down in

the bed of the sea the grains of corn germinated, and a harvest of bare

stalks grew until it reached the surface of the water. The shifting

quicksands at the bottom of the sea were bound together by the

overspreading stalks into a mighty sand-bank which rose above the

surface in front of the town of Stavoren.

No longer were the merchant-vessels able to enter the harbour, for

it was blocked by the impassable bank. Nay, instead of finding refuge

there, many a ship was dashed to pieces by the fury of the breakers, and

Stavoren became a place of ill-fame to the mariner.

All the wealth and commerce of this proud city were at an end. Richberta

herself, whose wanton act had raised the sand-bank, had her ships

wrecked there one by one, and was reduced to begging for bread in the

city whose wealthiest inhabitant she had once been. Then, perhaps, she

could appreciate the words of the old traveller, that bread was the

greatest of earthly treasures.

At last the ocean, dashing against the huge mound with ever-increasing

fury, burst through the dyke which Richberta had raised, overwhelmed the

town, and buried it for ever under the waves.

And now the mariner, sailing on the Zuider Zee, passes above the

engulfed city and sees with wonderment the towers and spires of the

‘Sunken Land.’

Historical Sketch

Like other world-rivers, the Rhine has attracted to its banks a

succession of races of widely divergent origin. Celt, Teuton, Slav, and

Roman have contested for the territories which it waters, and if the

most enduring of these races has finally achieved dominion over the

fairest river-province in Europe, who shall say that it has emerged from

the struggle as a homogeneous people, having absorbed none of the blood

of those with whom it strove for the lordship of this vine-clad valley?

He would indeed be a courageous ethnologist who would suggest a purely

Germanic origin for the Rhine race. As the historical period dawns upon

Middle Europe we find the Rhine basin in the possession of a people of

Celtic blood. As in Britain and France, this folk has left its indelible

mark upon the countryside in a wealth of place-names embodying its

characteristic titles for flood, village, and hill. In such prefixes and

terminations as magh, brig, dun, and etc we espy the influence of Celtic

occupants, and Maguntiacum, or Mainz, and Borbetomagus, or Worms, are

examples of that ‘Gallic’ idiom which has indelibly starred the map of

Western Europe.

Prehistoric Miners

The remains of this people which are unearthed from beneath the

superincumbent strata of their Teutonic successors in the country show

them to have been typical of their race. Like their kindred in Britain,

they had successfully exploited the mineral treasures of the country,

and their skill as miners is eloquently upheld by the mute witness of

age-old cinder-heaps by which are found the once busy bronze hammer and

the apparatus of the smelting-furnace, speaking of the slow but steady

smith-toil upon which the foundation of civilization arose. There was

scarcely a mineral beneath the loamy soil which masked the metalliferous

rock which they did not work. From Schönebeck to Dürkheim lies an

immense bed of salt, and this the Celtic population of the district dug

and condensed by aid of fires fed by huge logs cut from the giant trees

of the vast and mysterious forests which have from time immemorial

shadowed the whole existence of the German race. The salt, moulded or

cut into blocks, was transported to Gaul as an article of commerce. But

the Celts of the Rhine achieved distinction in other arts of life, for

their pottery, weapons, and jewellery will bear comparison with those of

prehistoric peoples in any part of Europe.

As has been remarked, at the dawn of history we find the Rhine Celts

everywhere in full retreat before the rude and more virile Teutons.

They lingered latterly about the Moselle and in the district of Eifel,

offering a desperate resistance to the onrushing hordes of Germanic

warriors. In all likelihood they were outnumbered, if not outmatched

in skill and valour, and they melted away before the savage ferocity of

their foes, probably seeking asylum with their kindred in Gaul.

Probably the Teutonic tribes had already commenced to apply pressure to

the Celtic inhabitants of Rhine-land in the fourth century before the

Christian era. As was their wont, they displaced the original possessors

of the soil as much by a process of infiltration as by direct conquest.

The waves of emigration seem to have come from Rhaetia and Pannonia,

broad-headed folk, who were in a somewhat lower condition of barbarism

than the race whose territory they usurped, restless, assertive, and

irritable. Says Beddoe:1

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

“The mass of tall, blond, vigorous barbarians multiplied, seethed,

and fretted behind the barrier thus imposed. Tacitus and several other

classic authors speak of the remarkable uniformity in their appearance;

how they were all tall and handsome, with fierce blue eyes and yellow

hair. Humboldt remarks the tendency we all have to see only the

single type in a strange foreign people, and to shut our eyes to the

differences among them. Thus some of us think sheep all alike, but the

shepherd knows better; and many think all Chinamen are alike, whereas

they differ, in reality, quite as much as we do, or rather more. But

with respect to the ancient Germans, there certainly was among them one

very prevalent form of head, and even the varieties of feature which

occur among the Marcomans—for example, on Marcus Aurelius’ column—all

seem to oscillate round one central type.

The ‘Graverow’ Type

“This is the Graverow type of Ecker, the Hohberg type of His and

Rutimeyer, the Swiss anatomists. In it the head is long, narrow (say

from 70 to 76 in. breadth-index), as high or higher than it is broad,

with the upper part of the occiput very prominent, the forehead rather

high than broad, often dome-shaped, often receding, with prominent

brows, the nose long, narrow, and prominent, the cheek-bones narrow and

not prominent, the chin well marked, the mouth apt to be prominent in

women. In Germany persons with these characters have almost always light

eyes and hair.... This Graverow type is almost exclusively what is

found in the burying-places of the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries,

whether of the Alemanni, the Bavarians, the Franks, the Saxons, or the

Burgundians. Schetelig dug out a graveyard in Southern Spain which is

attributed to the Visigoths. Still the same harmonious elliptic form,

the same indices, breadth 73, height 74.”

Early German Society

Tacitus in his Germania gives a vivid if condensed picture of Teutonic

life in the latter part of the first century:

“The face of the country, though in some parts varied, presents a

cheerless scene, covered with the gloom of forests, or deformed with

wide-extended marshes; toward the boundaries of Gaul, moist and swampy;

on the side of Noricum and Pannonia, more exposed to the fury of the

winds. Vegetation thrives with sufficient vigour. The soil produces

grain, but is unkind to fruit-trees; well stocked with cattle, but of an

under-size, and deprived by nature of the usual growth and ornament of

the head. The pride of a German consists in the number of his flocks

and herds; they are his only riches, and in these he places his chief

delight. Gold and silver are withheld from them: is it by the favour or

the wrath of Heaven? I do not, however, mean to assert that in Germany

there are no veins of precious ore; for who has been a miner in these

regions? Certain it is they do not enjoy the possession and use of those

metals with our sensibility. There are, indeed, silver vessels to be

seen among them, but they were presents to their chiefs or ambassadors;

the Germans regard them in no better light than common earthenware.

It is, however, observable that near the borders of the empire the

inhabitants set a value upon gold and silver, finding them subservient

to the purposes of commerce. The Roman coin is known in those parts, and

some of our specie is not only current, but in request. In places more

remote the simplicity of ancient manners still prevails: commutation of

property is their only traffic. Where money passes in the way of barter

our old coin is the most acceptable, particularly that which is indented

at the edge, or stamped with the impression of a chariot and two horses,

called the Serrati and Bigati. Silver is preferred to gold, not from

caprice or fancy, but because the inferior metal is of more expeditious

use in the purchase of low-priced commodities.

Ancient German Weapons

“Iron does not abound in Germany, if we may judge from the weapons in

general use. Swords and large lances are seldom seen. The soldier

grasps his javelin, or, as it is called in their language, his fram—an

instrument tipped with a short and narrow piece of iron, sharply

pointed, and so commodious that, as occasion requires, he can manage

it in close engagement or in distant combat. With this and a shield the

cavalry are completely armed. The infantry have an addition of missive

weapons. Each man carries a considerable number, and being naked, or,

at least, not encumbered by his light mantle, he throws his weapon to a

distance almost incredible. A German pays no attention to the ornament

of his person; his shield is the object of his care, and this he

decorates with the liveliest colours. Breastplates are uncommon. In a

whole army you will not see more than one or two helmets. Their horses

have neither swiftness nor elegance, nor are they trained to the various

evolutions of the Roman cavalry. To advance in a direct line, or wheel

suddenly to the right, is the whole of their skill, and this they

perform in so compact a body that not one is thrown out of his rank.

According to the best estimate, the infantry comprise the national

strength, and, for that reason, always fight intermixed with the

cavalry. The flower of their youth, able by their vigour and activity

to keep pace with the movements of the horse, are selected for this

purpose, and placed in the front of the lines. The number of these is

fixed and certain: each canton sends a hundred, from that circumstance

called Hundreders by the army. The name was at first numerical only: it

is now a title of honour. Their order of battle presents the form of a

wedge. To give ground in the heat of action, provided you return to the

charge, is military skill, not fear or cowardice. In the most fierce and

obstinate engagement, even when the fortune of the day is doubtful, they

make it a point to carry off their slain. To abandon their shield is a

flagitious crime. The person guilty of it is interdicted from religious

rites and excluded from the assembly of the state. Many who survived

their honour on the day of battle have closed a life of ignominy by a

halter.”

Teutonic Customs

The kings of this rude but warlike folk were elected by the suffrages of

the nobility, and their leaders in battle, as was inevitable with such

a people, were chosen by reason of their personal prowess. The legal

functions were exercised by the priesthood, and punishments were thus

held to be sanctioned by the gods. Among this barbaric people the female

sex was held as absolutely sacred, the functions of wife and mother

being accounted among the highest possible to humanity, and we observe

in ancient accounts of the race that typically Teutonic conception of

the woman as seer or prophetess which so strongly colours early Germanic

literature. Women, indeed, in later times, when Christianity had

nominally conquered Paganism, remained as the sole conservators of the

ancient Teutonic magico-religious lore, and in the curtained recesses of

dark-timbered halls whiled away the white hours of winter by the painful

spelling out of runic characters and the practice of arts which they

were destined to convey from the priests of Odin and Thor to the witches

of medieval days.

Costume of the Early Teuton

The personal appearance of these barbarians was as rude and simple as

were their manners. Says Tacitus:

“The clothing in use is a loose mantle, made fast with a clasp, or, when

that cannot be had, with a thorn. Naked in other respects, they loiter

away whole days by the fireside. The rich wear a garment, not, indeed,

displayed and flowing, like the Parthians or the people of Sarmatia,

but drawn so tight that the form of the limbs is palpably expressed. The

skins of wild animals are also much in use. Near the frontier, on the

borders of the Rhine, the inhabitants wear them, but with an air of

neglect that shows them altogether indifferent about the choice, The

people who live more remote, near the northern seas, and have not

acquired by commerce a taste for new-fashioned apparel, are more curious

in the selection. They choose particular beasts and, having stripped

off the furs, clothe themselves with the spoil, decorated with

parti-coloured spots, or fragments taken from the skins of fish that

swim the ocean as yet unexplored by the Romans. In point of dress there

is no distinction between the sexes, except that the garment of the

women is frequently made of linen, adorned with purple stains, but

without sleeves, leaving the arms and part of the bosom uncovered.”

The Germanic Tribes

It is also from Tacitus that we glean what were the names and

descriptions of those tribes who occupied the territory adjacent to the

Rhine. The basin of the river between Strassburg and Mainz was inhabited

by the Tribacci, Nemetes, and Vangiones, further south by the Matiacci

near Wiesbaden, and the Ubii in the district of Cologne. Further north

lay the Sugambri, and the delta of the river in the Low Countries was

the seat of the brave Batavii, from whom came the bulk of the legions by

means of which Agricola obtained a footing in far Caledonia. Before the

Roman invasion of their territories these tribes were constantly engaged

in internecine warfare, a condition of affairs not to be marvelled at

when we learn that at their tribal councils the warrior regarded as

an inspired speaker was he who was most powerfully affected by the

potations in which all habitually indulged to an extent which seemed to

the cultured Roman as bestial in the last degree. The constant bearing

of arms, added to their frequent addiction to powerful liquors, also

seemed to render the Germanic warriors quarrelsome to excess, and to

provoke intertribal strife.

The Romans in the Rhine Country

Caesar is the first Roman writer to give us any historical data

concerning the peoples who inhabited the basin of the Rhine. He

conquered the tribes on the left bank, and was followed a generation or

so later by Augustus, who established numerous fortified posts on the

river. But the Romans never succeeded in obtaining a firm occupancy of

the right bank. Their chief object in colonizing the Rhine territory

was to form an effective barrier between themselves and the restless

barbarian tribes of the Teutonic North, the constant menace of whose

invasion lay as a canker at the heart of rich and fruitful Italy. With

the terror of a barbarian inroad ever before their eyes, the cohorts of

the Imperial City constructed a formidable vallum, or earthen wall, from

the vicinity of Linz to Regensburg, on the Danube, a distance of three

hundred and fifty miles, for the purpose of raising a barrier against

the advance of the warlike men of the North. They further planted a

colony of veterans in the Black Forest neighbourhood in order that

invasion might be resisted from that side. But as the Empire began to

exhibit signs of decadence the barbarians were quick to recognize the

symptoms of weakness in those who barred their advance to the wealthy

South, the objective of their dreams, hurled themselves against the

boundary, now rendered feeble by reason of the withdrawal of its most

experienced defenders, and, despite a stern resistance, flooded the rich

valleys of the Rhine, swamped the colonies on the left bank which had

imbibed Roman civilization, and made all wholly Teutonic.

The Rebellion of the Barbarians

This was, however, a process of years, and by no means a speedy

conquest. The closing years of Augustus’ reign were clouded by a general

rising of the Rhine peoples. Quintilius Varus, an officer who had been

entrusted with the government of the provinces beyond the Rhine, proved

totally unequal to curbing the bolder spirits among the Germans, who

under their chief, Arminius, boldly challenged the forces of this

short-sighted officer. Arminius belonged to the Cherusci. He had served

with the German horsemen in the Rhenish armies, and was conversant with

the Latin language. Observing that half, at least, of the Roman forces

were on leave, he incited the tribes of Lower Saxony to revolt. The weak

Varus, who had underestimated the influence of Arminius, attempted to

quell the rising, but without success, and the bank of the river was

the scene of a wholesale slaughter. Varus, completely losing his nerve,

attempted to separate the cavalry from the infantry and endeavoured to

escape with three squadrons of the former; but the Germans surrounded

them, and after a hand-to-hand struggle of three days the Roman army

was annihilated. The news of this disaster prompted the aged Emperor

to dispatch his son Tiberius to suppress what appeared to be a general

rising of the North. The Rhenish tribes, however, were too wary to meet

the powerful force now sent against them in the open field, and during

the remainder of the year Tiberius, left in peace, occupied himself in

strengthening the Rhine fortifications.

He was soon after recalled to Rome to assume the purple on the death of

Augustus. Germanicus, who had taken command of the legions on the Rhine,

became conscious of discontent among the soldiers, who threatened to

carry him into Rome and thrust him into the seat of empire. But he

soothed the passions of his soldiers by gifts and promises. A road was

opened from the Rhine into the German hinterland, and Germanicus led his

army into the heart of a country of which he knew but little to avenge

the disasters of the Varian legions. The forest folk eluded the invading

host, which now sought to return to headquarters; but ere they had

completed the journey they were assailed and suffered a severe reverse.

Numerous revolts occurred among the Gaulish legions in the service of

the Roman Empire in Germany. But the stubborn and trained resistance of

the Romans no less than the inexperience of the Gauls led to a cessation

of hostilities. The secret of Roman power in Rhenish territory lay in

the circumstance that the two great elements of German nationality, the

nobility and the priesthood, were becoming Romanized. But a rude culture

was beginning to blossom, and a desire arose among the barbarians for

unity. They wished to band themselves into a nation.

The Franks and Goths

The most dangerous enemies of Rome during the reigns of Valerian and

Gallienus were the Franks, the Alemanni, and the Goths, whose action

finally decided the conquest of the Rhenish provinces of Rome. The name

Frank, or Freedman, was given to a confederacy formed in A.D. 240 by the

old inhabitants of the Lower Rhine and the Weser. It consisted of the

Chauci, the Cherusci, and the Chatti, and of several other tribes of

greater or less renown. The Romans foresaw the power of this formidable

union and, by the presence of the Emperor himself and his son,

endeavoured to stem the invasion, which threatened their suzerainty. The

Franks, fond of liberty and imbued with a passion for conquest, crossed

the Rhine, in spite of its strong fortifications, and carried their

devastations to the foot of the Pyrenees. For twelve years Gallienus

attempted to stem the torrent thus freed.

The Alemanni, who belonged to the Upper Rhine, between the Main and the

Danube, were composed of many tribes, the most important of which

was the celebrated Suevi. This people, who had now become a permanent

nation, threatened the Empire with an invasion which was checked with

difficulty after they had fought their way to the gates of Rome itself.

In A.D. 271 Aurelian completely subdued the Rhenish peoples, numbers of

whom were dragged in his triumph through the streets of Rome; but after

his brief reign the old condition of things reasserted itself, until

Probus, who assumed the purple in 276, restored peace and order by the

construction of a massive wall between the Rhine and the Danube over two

hundred miles in length. The barbarians were driven beyond the river,

which had hitherto served as a boundary-line, even past the Elbe and the

Neckar. Finally, however, the internecine strife in the Imperial City

forced the Romans to return thence, and Rhineland was abandoned to the

will of its semi-barbarian inhabitants.

The early Christian centuries are full of the sound of conflict. In the

fourth century the principal tribes in Western Germany were the Franks

and the Alemanni, the former of whom maintained a constant strife with

the Saxons, who pressed heavily upon their rear. The Franks occupied the

lower portion of the river, near to its mouth, whilst the Alemanni dwelt

on the portion to the bounds of Helvetia and Switzerland. At this period

great racial upheavals appear to have been taking place further east.

By the beginning of the sixth century the Saxons seem to have penetrated

almost to the north-western Rhine, where the Franks were now supreme.

The Merovingians

In the middle of the fifth century arose the powerful dynasty of the

Merovingians, one of the most picturesque royal houses in the roll

of history. In their records we see the clash of barbarism with

advancement, the bizarre tints of a semi-civilization unequalled in rude

magnificence. Giant shadows of forgotten kings stalk across the canvas,

their royal purple intermingling with the shaggy fell of the bear

and wolf. One, Chilperic, a subtle grammarian and the inventor of new

alphabetic symbols, is yet the most implacable of his race, the murderer

of his wife, the heartless slayer of hundreds, to whom human life is as

that of cattle skilled in the administration of poison, a picturesque

cut-throat. Others are weaklings, fainéants; but one, the most dread

woman in Frankish history, Fredegonda, the queen of Chilperic, towers

above all in this masque of slaughter and treachery.

Tradition makes claim that Andernach was the cradle of the Merovingian

dynasty. In proof of this are shown the extensive ruins of the palace

of these ancient Frankish kings. Merovig, from whom the race derived

its name, was said to be the son of Clodio, but legend relates far

otherwise. In name and origin he was literally a child of the Rhine, his

father being a water-monster who seized the wife of Clodio while bathing

in that river. In time she gave birth to a child, more monster than man,

the spine being covered with bristles, fingers and toes webbed, eyes

covered with a film, and thighs and legs horny with large shining

scales. Clodio, though aware of the real paternity of this creature,

adopted it as his own son, as did King Minos in the case of the

Minotaur, giving him the name Merovig from his piscatory origin. On

Clodio’s death the demi-monster succeeded to the throne, and from him

sprang a long line of sovereigns, worthless and imbecile for the most

part.

Childeric, the son and successor of Merovig, enraged his people to such

a degree by his excesses that they drove him from throne and country.

One friend alone remained to him, Winomadus, who, having no female

relations to suffer by the king’s attentions, did not find the

friendship so irksome as others; indeed, had been a partner in his

licentious pleasures. He undertook to watch over the interests of

Childeric during his enforced absence in Thuringia at the court of

Basium, king of that country. The Franks had elected Aegidius, a Roman

general, to the sovereignty over them, but as he proved himself no

better than Childeric, whom they had deposed, they once more essayed

to choose another ruler. This was made known to Childeric through his

friend Winomadus. He rapidly returned to the shores of the Rhine and,

reinforcing his following as he proceeded on his march, appeared before

Andernach at the head of a formidable force, composed of many of his

former subjects, together with Thuringian auxiliaries. The people of

Andernach, unable to resist this overwhelming argument, again accepted

Childeric as their king.

Basina the Sorceress

While in Thuringia Childeric had seduced the affections of Basina, the

queen of his protector. When he regained his throne he induced her to

leave her husband, and made her his queen. Basina was a sorceress,

one who could divine the future and also bestow the gift upon others.

Through this she gained great influence over Childeric, who desired to

see and know what fate had in store for himself and his race. Basina

agreed to satisfy his curiosity, and one night, at the midnight hour,

they climbed together to the summit of the hill behind Andernach. There

she bade him stand and look out over the plain while she performed her

magical operations. After some lengthy incantations she bade him look

well and tell her what he saw.

In a trance-like voice the king replied:

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

night.”

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

“I see an immense concourse of wild animals—the lion, the tiger,

the spotted pard, the elephant, the unicorn—ah! they are coming this

way—they will devour us!” and he turned to flee in great terror.

Basina bade him stay in peremptory tones and again to look out over the

plain. In a voice of alarm he cried out:

“I see bears and wolves, jackals and hyenas. Heaven help us, the others

are all gone!”

Heedless of his terror, the queen bade him look again and, for the last

time, tell her what he saw.

“I see now dogs and cats and little creatures of all kinds. But there is

one small animal—smaller than a mouse—who commands them all. Ah! he is

eating them up—swallowing them all—one after another.”

As he looked the light, the plain, the animals all vanished, and

darkness fell. Basina then read to him the meaning of his vision.

“The first vision you saw indicated the character of our immediate

successors. They will be as bold as lions, terrible as tigers, strong

as elephants, uncommon as unicorns, beautiful as the pard. These are the

men of an age; for a century shall they rule over the land.”

At this Childeric was delighted and ejaculated a fervent “Praise be to

the gods!”

“The second,” pursued Basina, “are the men of the following century—our

more remote descendants—rude as the bear, fell as the wolf, fawning as

the jackal, cruel as the hyena—the curse of their people and—themselves.

The last one—the following century—they will be weak, timid,

irresolute—the prey of every base and low thing, the victims of

violence, deceit, and cunning; vanquished and destroyed at last by the

smallest of their own subjects.”

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

As she had predicted, the Merovingian dynasty lasted three hundred

years, when it was overturned by one Pepin of Heristal, the smallest man

of his day—at least, so tradition tells.

At the death of Clovis his sons split up the kingdom, and from that

epoch a deadly war was waged between the rival kingdoms of Neustria and

Austrasia, the west and the east.

The wars of Neustria and Austrasia (Ost Reich, the Eastern Kingdom,

which has, of course, no connexion with the modern Austria) are related

by Gregory of Tours in his Ecclesiastical History of the Franks, one of

the most brilliant pieces of historical and biographical writing to be

discovered among the literature of Europe in the Dark Ages. Metz was the

capital of this kingdom-province. Fredegonda, the queen of Chilperic of

Neustria, had a deadly blood-feud with her sister-in-law of Austrasia,

and in the event put her rival to death by having her torn asunder

by wild horses (A.D. 613). Later Austrasia became incorporated with

Franconia, which in 843 was included in the kingdom of Louis the German.

The Great Race of Charlemagne

The race of the Carolingians, whose greatest monarch was the famous

Charlemagne, or Karl der Grosse, sprang from a family of usurpers known

as the ‘Mayors of the Palace,’ who had snatched the crown from the rois

fainéants, the last weakly shoots of the mighty line of Merovig. He was

the elder son of Pepin the Short, and succeeded, on the death of his

father in A.D. 768, to a kingdom which extended from the Low Countries

to the borders of Spain. His whole life was one prolonged war undertaken

against the forces of paganism, the Moors of Spain who harassed his

borders to the south, and the restless Saxon tribes dwelling between

the Rhine, Weser, and Elbe. Innumerable are the legends and romances

concerning this great, wise, and politic monarch and statesman,

who, surrounding himself with warriors of prowess whom he called his

paladins, unquestionably kept the light of Christianity and civilization

burning in Western Europe. He was, however, quite as great a legislator

as a warrior, and founded schools and hospitals in every part of his

kingdom. He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 814, and was buried there.1

[Note 1: For numerous critical articles upon Charlemagne and the epics

or chansons des gestes connected with him see the author’s Dictionary of

Medieval Romance.]

The ‘Song of the Saxons’

One of the most stirring of the romances which tell of the wars of

Charlemagne in the Rhine country is the Song of the Saxons, fifth in

number of the Romans des Douze Pairs de France, and composed by Jean

Bodel, a poet of Artois, who flourished toward the middle of the

thirteenth century. Charles, sitting at table in Laon one Whitsuntide

with fourteen kings, receives news of an invasion of the Saxons, who

have taken Cologne, killed many Frankish nobles, and laid waste the

country. A racy epitome of the events which follow has been given

by Ludlow in his Popular Epics of the Middle Ages (1865) as follows:

“Charles invades Saxony, and reaches the banks of ‘Rune the Deep,’

beyond which lies Guiteclin’s palace of ‘Tremoigne’ (supposed to be

Dortmund, in Westphalia). The river is too deep to be crossed by the

army, although the two young knights, Baldwin and Berard, succeed in

doing so in quest of adventure. The Saxons will not attack, trusting

that the French will be destroyed by delay and the seasons. And, indeed,

after two years and four months, the barons represent to the Emperor

the sad plight of the host, and urge him to call upon the men of Herupe

(North-west France) for performance of their warlike service. This

is done accordingly, and the Herupe barons make all haste to their

sovereign’s aid, and come up just after the Saxons have made an

unsuccessful attack. They send to ask where they are to lodge their

troops. The Emperor points them laughingly to the other side of the

Rune, where float the silken banners of the Saxons, but says that any

of his men shall give up their camping-place to them. The Herupe men,

however, determine to take him at his word and, whilst the Archbishop

of Sens blesses the water, boldly fling themselves in and cross it, and

end, after a tremendous struggle, in taking up the quarters assigned to

them; but when he sees their prowess the Emperor recalls them to his own

side of the river.

“A bridge is built, the army passes over it, the Saxons are discomfited

in a great battle, and Guiteclin is killed in single combat by

Charlemagne himself.

“By this time the slender vein of historic truth which runs through the

poem may be considered as quite exhausted. Yet the real epic interest

of the work centres in its wholly apocryphal conclusion, connected

essentially with its purely romantic side.

“Sebile, the wife of Guiteclin, is a peerless beauty, wise withal and

courteous; ‘hair had she long and fair, more than the shining gold, a

brow polished and clear, eyes blue and laughing, a very well-made nose,

teeth small and white, a savourous mouth, more crimson than blood;

and in body and limbs so winning was she that God never made the man,

howsoever old and tottering, if he durst look at her, but was moved with

desire.’”

Fair Helissend, the daughter of the murdered Milo of Cologne, is her

captive at once and her favourite, and when the French host takes up its

position before the Rune, names and points out young Baldwin to her.

With her husband’s sanction, Sebile has her tent pitched on the bank,

and establishes herself there with her ladies to act as decoys to the

Franks; for “fair lady’s look makes men undertake folly.” She is taken,

however, in her own toils; falls in love with Baldwin one summer’s day

on seeing him ride forth with hawk on wrist, and makes Helissend invite

him over the river, under a very frank pledge that “she will be his,

for loss or gain.” Their first meeting apparently takes place in the

presence of Sebile’s ladies, and so little mystery is attached to their

love that, on Baldwin’s return to the Frank host after killing and

despoiling of his armour a Saxon chief, he not only tells his adventure

publicly to the Emperor, but the latter promises in a twelvemonth to

have him crowned king of the country and to give him Sebile for wife,

forbidding him, however, to cross the river any more—a command which

Baldwin hears without meaning to obey. Nay, when Baldwin has once broken

this injunction and escaped with great difficulty from the Saxons, the

Emperor imposes on him the brutal penance of entering Sebile’s tent to

kiss her in the sight of the Saxons, and bringing back her ring—which

Baldwin contrives to fulfil by putting on the armour of a Saxon knight

whom he kills. As in The Taking of Orange, it never seems to occur

to the poet that there can be any moral wrong in making love to a

“Saracen’s” wife, or in promising her hand in her husband’s lifetime;

and, strange to say, so benignant are these much-wronged paynim that

Guiteclin is not represented as offering or threatening the slightest

ill-treatment to his faithless queen, however wroth he may be against

her lover; nor, indeed, as having even the sense to make her pitch her

tent further from the bank. The drollest bit of sentimentality occurs,

however, after the victory of the Franks and Guiteclin’s death, when

Sebile is taken prisoner. After having been bestowed in marriage

on Baldwin by the Emperor, she asks one boon of both, which is that

Guiteclin’s body be sought for, lest the beasts should eat it—a request

the exceeding nobleness of which strikes the Emperor and the Frank

knights with astonishment. When the body is found and brought to Sebile,

“the water of her eyes falls down her chin. ‘Ha, Guiteclin,’ said she,

‘so gentle a man were you, liberal and free-spending, and of noble

witness! If in heaven and on earth Mahomet has no power, even to pray

Him who made Lazarus, I pray and request Him to have mercy on

thee.’” The dead man is then placed in a great marble tomb; Sebile

is christened, marries her lover, and is crowned with him as Queen of

Saxony, Helissend being in like manner given to Berard.

“It is now that the truly tragical part of the poem commences. Charles

and his host depart, the Emperor warning his nephew to be courteous,

loyal, and generous, to keep true faith to his wife, yet not to spend

too much time in her arms, but to beware of the Saxons. The caution is

needed, for already the two sons of Guiteclin, with one hundred thousand

Russians and Bulgarians, and the giant Ferabras of Russia, a personage

twelve feet high, with light hair plaited together, reddish beard, and

flattened face, are within a day and a half’s journey of ‘Tremoigne,’

burning to avenge Guiteclin. One Thursday morning their invasion is

announced to the young king, who has but fifteen thousand men to oppose

to them. Sebile embraces her husband’s knees, and entreats him to send

at once for help to his uncle; the barons whom he has called to counsel

favour her advice. ‘Barons,’ said Baldwin, ‘I should fear the dishonour

of it. It is too soon to seek and pray for succour. We have not yet

unhorsed knights, cut arms from bodies, made bowels trail; we are

fifteen thousand young men untried, who should buy our praise and our

honour, and seize and acquire strange lands, and kill and shame and

grieve our enemies, cleave the bright helmets, pierce the shields, break

and tear the hauberks of mail, shed blood and make brains to fly. To

me a pleasure it seems to put on hauberk, watch long nights, fast long

days. Let us go strike upon them without more delay, that we may be

able to govern this kingdom.’ The barons listen with an ill-will to this

speech; Baldwin himself, on viewing the paynim host, is staggered at

their numbers, and lets Sebile persuade him to send a messenger to his

uncle. However, with five thousand men he makes a vigorous attack on

the vanguard of the Saxons, consisting of twenty thousand, and ends

by putting them to flight. On the news of this repulse the two sons of

Guiteclin come out, apparently with the bulk of the army. The French

urge the young king to re-enter the city, but he refuses—Sebile would

hold him for a sleepy coward. He kills Ferabras, unhorses one of

Guiteclin’s sons. But the disparity of numbers is too great; the French

are obliged to retreat, and shut themselves up in the city.

“Meanwhile the messenger had reached Charlemagne at Cologne with the

news of the renewal of the war. Whilst all his barons are summoned,

the Emperor starts in haste himself for Saxony with ten thousand men.

Baldwin was seated in his tower, looking out upon a league of hostile

tents, complaining to Sebile, who ‘comforts him as a worthy lady,’

bidding him trust in his uncle’s succour. She is the first to descry

the French host and to point it out to her husband. ‘Ah, God!’ said

Charles’s nephew, ‘fair Father Creator, yet will I avenge me of the

pagan people.’ He goes down from his palace, and cries to his men, ‘Arm

ye, knights! Charles is returned.’

“The besieged prepare at once for a sally. Sebile places the helmet

on her husband’s head and kisses him, never to see him more alive.

The enemy are disarmed; three thousand of them are killed by the time

Baldwin cuts his way to his uncle, to whom, as his liege lord, he makes

complaint against the Saxons. The Emperor’s answer contains little but

philosophic comfort: ‘Fair nephew, so goes war; when your day comes,

know that you will die; your father died, you will not escape. Yonder

are your enemies, of whom you complain; I give you leave, go and strike

them.’ Uncle and nephew both perform wonders. But Berard is killed

by Feramor, one of Guiteclin’s sons, and the standard which he bore

disappears under him. Baldwin engages Feramor; each severely wounds the

other; the fight is so well contested that Baldwin offers to divide the

land with him if he will make peace. The Saxon spurns the offer, and is

killed.

“But ‘Baldwin is wounded in the breast grievously; from thence to the

spur his body is bloody.’ Saxons, Lusatians, Hungarians perceive that

his blows lessen and fall slow. ‘Montjoie!’ he cries many a time,

but the French hear him not. ‘When Baldwin sees that he will have no

succour, as a boar he defends himself with his sword.... Who should have

seen the proud countenance of the king, how he bears and defends himself

against the paynim, great pity should surely take his heart.’ Struck

with fifteen wounds, his horse killed under him, he offers battle on

foot. They dare not approach, but they fling their swords at him, and

then go and hide beneath a rock. Baldwin, feeling death approaching,

‘from the fair eyes of his head begins to weep’ for sorrow and rage. He

now addresses an elaborate last prayer to God; but whilst he is on

his knees, looking toward the East, a Saxon comes to cut off his head.

Baldwin, furious, seizes his sword, which had fallen from his hand

on the green grass, and with a last blow cleaves the Saxon to the

shoulders, then dies.

“The news is carried to the Emperor, who laments his ill fate. Rest

he has never had; the paynim folk have killed him the flower of his

friends, Roland at Roncevaux and now Baldwin. ‘Ha, God! send me death,

without making long delay!’ He draws his sword, and is about to kill

himself when Naymes of Bavaria restrains him and bids him avenge

his nephew’s death. The old man, however, exposes his life with such

recklessness, the struggle is so unequal, that Naymes himself has to

persuade him to leave the battle and enter the city until the Herupe

nobles come to his aid. ‘Dead is Count Roland and Count Oliver, and all

the twelve peers, who used to help in daunting that pride which makes us

bend so; no longer at your right hand is Baldwin the warrior; the paynim

have killed him and Berard the light; God has their souls.... If you are

killed ... in your death alone a hundred thousand will die.’

“They lead him away, unwilling, from the field. Baldwin’s corpse is

carried by him on his shield. Sebile comes to meet the Emperor and asks

of her husband. Charles bids her look at him. She faints to the ground.

There is true pathos (though somewhat wire-drawn) in her lament, when

she comes to herself:

“’Sir King Baldwin, for God’s sake, speak! I am your love, mistake me

not. If I have offended you in aught, it shall be made amends for wholly

to your pleasure; but speak to me. For you was my body baptized and

lifted; my heart leans on you, and all my affections, and if you fail

me, it will be ill done. Too soon it seems to me, if already you repent.

Baldwin, is it a trick? Are you deceiving me? Speak to me, friend, if

you can.... I see your garments dyed and bloody, but I do not believe

that you are killed; there is no man so bold or so outrageous who ever

could kill you; he durst not do so. But I think by such a will you wish

to try me, how I should behave if you were departed. Speak to me, for

God’s sake who was born of virgin, and for that lady who kept chastity,

and for the holy cross whereon Jesus suffered! Try me no more, friend,

it is enough; I shall die now if you tarry longer,’ ‘Naymes,’ says the

king, ‘take this lady away; if I see her grief any more, I shall go

mad.’

“That night he ate no bread nor drank wine, but had the city watched,

and rode the rounds himself, with helmet closed, his great buckler

hanging to his neck, his sword in his fist. All the night it rained and

blew; the water ran through the joints of his hauberk, and wetted his

ermine pelisse beneath. His beard swayed, whiter than flax, his long

moustache quivered; until dawn he lamented his nephew, and the twelve

peers, and all his next-of-kin who were dead. From the gate at morn a

Saxon, King Dyalas, defies the old man, swearing that he will wear his

crown in Paris. The Emperor has the gate opened, and sallies forth

to meet him. They engage in single combat; the old Emperor kills the

Saxon’s horse, disarms him, and only spares his life on condition of his

embracing Christianity and yielding himself prisoner.

“The rest of the poem has comparatively little interest. Old Naymes in

turn kills his man—a brother of Guiteclin—in single combat, Dyalas, the

Emperor’s new vassal, ‘armed in French fashion,’ performs wonders in

honour of his new allegiance. Finally the Herupese come up, and of

course overthrow the Saxons. An abbey is founded on the field of battle,

which Sebile enters; Dyalas, baptized as ‘Guiteclin the convert,’

receives charge of the kingdom, and the Emperor returns, bearing with

him the bodies of Baldwin and Berard; after which ‘well was France in

peace many a year and many a day; the Emperor found not any who should

make him wroth.’”

Fastrada: a Legend of Aix-la-Chapelle

Fastrada, we are told, was the fourth wife of the Emperor Charlemagne

and the best beloved. Historians have judged that the lady was by no

means worthy of the extraordinary affection bestowed upon her by her

husband, some maintaining that she practised the arts of sorcery,

others crediting her with political intrigues, and still others roundly

asserting that she was not so virtuous as she should have been.

History failing to account for Charlemagne’s devotion to his fourth

wife, the task has devolved upon tradition. Once upon a time (so runs

the tale), when Charlemagne dwelt at Zurich, he had a pillar erected

before his house, and on the top of the pillar a bell was placed, so

that any one desiring justice had but to ring it to be immediately

conducted before the Emperor, there to have his case considered.

One day, just as Charlemagne was about to dine, the bell was rung

loudly. He at once dispatched his attendants to bring the importunate

claimant into his presence. A moment later they re-entered with the

assurance that no one waited outside. Even as they spoke the bell rang

again, and again the attendants withdrew at the bidding of their royal

master. Once more they returned with the information that none was to

be seen. When the bell rang for the third time the Emperor himself rose

from the table and went outside to satisfy himself as to the ringer’s

identity. This time the mystery was solved; for twining round the pillar

was a great snake, which, before the astonished eyes of the Emperor and

his suite, was lustily pulling the bell-rope.

“Bring the snake before me,” said Charlemagne. “Whether to man or beast,

I may not refuse justice.”

Accordingly the snake was conducted with much ceremony into the

Emperor’s presence, where it was distinctly observed to make a low

obeisance. The Kaiser addressed the animal courteously, as though it

were a human being, and inquired what it wanted. Whereupon the snake

made a sign which the company took to indicate that it desired the

Emperor to follow it. Charlemagne did not hesitate, but followed the

creature to the shores of the lake, attended by all his courtiers.

Straight to its nest went the snake, and there, among the eggs, was an

enormous toad, puffing out its bloated body and staring with glassy eyes

at the company. The reason for the snake’s appeal was at once apparent.

“Take away that toad,” said the Emperor, as gravely as though he were

pronouncing judgment in an important human case; “take away that toad

and burn it. It has taken unlawful possession of the snake’s nest.”

The court listened to the Emperor’s decree in respectful silence, and

immediately carried out the sentence. The company thereupon re-entered

the royal abode, and thought no more of the incident.

On the following day, however, at about the same hour, the serpent

entered the chamber in which Charlemagne sat, and glided swiftly toward

the table. The attendants were somewhat astonished at the unexpected

appearance, but the Kaiser motioned to them to stand aside, for he was

very curious to see what the reptile would do. Raising itself till

its head was on a level with the table, it dropped into his plate a

magnificent diamond of the first water, gleaming with the purest light.

This done, the serpent bowed low, as on the previous occasion, and

quitted the room as silently as it had entered.

The diamond, set in a gold ring of exquisite workmanship, Charlemagne

presented to his wife, the beautiful Fastrada. But besides being a thing

of beauty and of great value, the diamond was also a charm, for

whoever received it from another received with it a wealth of personal

affection. So was it with Charlemagne and Fastrada. On presenting the

ring to his wife the Emperor straightway conceived for her a passion far

more intense than he had hitherto experienced. From that time to the day

of her death he was her devoted slave, blind and deaf to all her faults.

Nay, even when she died, he refused to quit the room in which she lay,

or permit the interment of her body; refused to see the approach of

corruption, which spares not youth or loveliness; seemed, in short, to

have lost all count of the passage of time in his grief for the beloved

Fastrada. At length he was approached by Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims,

who had learnt, by occult means, the reason for the Emperor’s strange

infatuation. Going up to the dead Empress, he withdrew from her mouth a

large diamond. At the same moment Charlemagne regained his senses, made

arrangements for the burial of his wife, and left for the Castle of

Frankenstein.

The possessor of the ring was now the worthy archbishop, and to him the

magically inspired affections of Charlemagne were transferred, much to

the good man’s annoyance. To rid himself of the unwelcome attentions

and fulsome flatteries of his sovereign, he cast the ring into the lake

which surrounded the castle. Once more the Emperor’s affections changed

their object, and this time it was the town of Aix-la-Chapelle with

which he fell in love, and for which he retained a firm attachment all

through his life, finally directing that he should be buried there. And

so he was laid to rest in that wondrous old town in the church of St.

Mary. In the year 1000 his tomb was opened by the Emperor Otto III, but

the account that Otto found the body seated upon a throne with crown

on head and sceptre in hand is generally regarded as legendary. The

sarcophagus was once more opened by Frederick I in 1165, when the

remains were transferred from the princely marble where they had

hitherto rested and placed in a wooden coffin. Fifty years later,

however, Frederick II had them placed in a splendid shrine. The original

sarcophagus may still be seen at Aix, and the royal relics are exhibited

every six years.

Louis, Charlemagne’s son, lived to see the division of his Empire,

brought about through his own weakness. His fair provinces were ravaged

by the Danes and the Normans. Teuton and Frank were now for ever

separated. Twice during Louis’ reign his own sons dethroned him, but on

his death in 840 the Empire became more firmly established.

Lothair I (840-855) succeeded to the imperial title, while Germany fell

to the lot of his brother Louis. Charles the Bald ruled over France.

Lothair’s portion was limited to Lorraine, Burgundy, Switzerland, and

Italy. Civil strife broke out, but Louis retained the whole of Germany

with the provinces on the left bank of the Rhine. Louis II (856-875)

ascended the throne as Roman Emperor, but died without any male issue,

while Charles the Fat, who succeeded him, was removed from the throne by

order of the Church on account of his insanity.

With Charles ended the Carolingian dynasty. From the death of the

illustrious Charlemagne the race had gradually but surely declined.

After the removal of Charles the Fat there came a lapse of seventy-four

years. Conrad I (911-919) founded the Gascon dynasty of Germany, and

was succeeded by Henry the Fowler (919-936). His son, Otto I, called the

Great (936-973), was crowned Roman Emperor in 962. In 936 his elevation

to the Germanic kingdom was a popular one. A portion of Gaul to the west

of the Rhine along the banks of the Meuse and the Moselle was ceded to

the Germans. Otto’s supremacy between the Rhine, the Rhone, and the Alps

was acquired and held for his successors. With the sword he propagated

Christianity, subdued Italy, and delivered the Pope from his enemies,

who, to show his appreciation, invested him with the imperial title,

which ever after belonged to the Germanic nation. The German Emperors,

however, still continued to exercise the right of electing the Pope,

thereby reducing the Roman Church to a level of servitude.

Toward the close of the Carolingian dynasty France and Germany had

become irrevocably detached; both nations suffered from internecine

wars. The Slavonians penetrated into the Empire, even to the banks of

the Rhine. Feudal princes began to make war upon each other, and, within

their respective districts, were virtual sovereigns.

At the partition of the domains of Charlemagne in A.D. 843 the

Rhine formed the boundary between Germany and the middle kingdom of

Lotharingia, but by 870 the latter had been absorbed by the larger

country. For a period verging upon eight hundred years it remained the

frontier of the German Empire. In the early Middle Ages the heritage of

the ancient Roman civilization rendered it the most cultured portion of

Germany. By the time of Otto I (died 973) both banks of the Rhine had

become German, and the Rhenish territory was divided between the duchies

of Upper and Lower Lorraine, the one on the Moselle and the other on the

Meuse. But, like other German states, on the weakening of the central

power they split up into numerous petty independent principalities, each

with its special history.

The Palatinate

Chief among these was the state known as the Palatinate, from the German

word Pfalz, a name given generally to any district ruled by a count

palatine. It was bounded by Prussia on the north, on the east by Baden,

and on the south by Alsace-Lorraine. We first hear of a royal official

known as the Count Palatine of the Rhine in the tenth century. Although

the office was not originally an hereditary one, it seems to have been

held by the descendants of the first count, until the continuity of the

race of Hermann was broken by the election of Conrad, stepbrother of

the German king Frederick I, as Count Palatine. From that time till much

later in German history the Palatinate of the Rhine appears to have

been gifted during their lifetime to the nephews or sons-in-law of

the reigning Emperor, and by virtue of his occupancy of the office the

holder became an Elector, or voter in the election of an Emperor. The

office was held by a large number of able and statesmanlike princes, as

Frederick I, Frederick III, the champion of Protestantism, and Frederick

V. In the seventeenth century the Palatinate was first devastated and

then claimed by France, and later was disturbed by still more harassing

religious strife. In 1777 it was united with Bavaria upon the reigning

Elector falling heir to the Electorate of that state.

A Tale of the Palatine House

Throughout the Middle Ages the nobles of Rhineland were mostly notorious

for their wild savagery and predatory habits, and thus the modern

traveller on the famous river, admiring the many picturesque castles

built on summits overlooking its banks, is prone to think of these

places as having been the homes of men who were little better than

freebooters. And in general this idea is just; yet Walter Pater’s

story, Duke Karl of Rosenwald—which tells how a medieval German baron

discovered in himself a keen love of art, and sought to gather artists

round him from France and Italy—may well have been culled from a

veracious historical source. For at least a few of the German petty

princes of the Middle Ages shared the aestheticism characterizing so

many of their contemporaries among the noblemen of the Latin races, and

it is interesting to find that among the old German courts where art

was loved in this isolated fashion was that of the Palatine house, which

ultimately became related by marriage to the Royal Stuarts, a dynasty as

eminently artistic as the Medicis themselves.

This Palatine house was regnant for many generations at Heidelberg

Castle, and there, at a remote medieval date, reigned a prince named

Louis III, who esteemed literature and painting. A fond parent he was

besides, devoted to his two sons, the elder called Louis and the younger

Frederick; and from the outset he attended carefully to the education of

the pair, choosing as their tutor a noted scholar, one Kenmat, while

he allowed this tutor’s daughter Eugenia to be taught along with the

princely pupils, and he also admitted to the group an Italian boy,

Rafaello. These four children grew up together, and the Palatine prince

was pleased to mark that Frederick, though full of martial ardour,

showed intellectual tastes as well; yet the father did not live long to

watch the growth of the boy’s predilection therein, and there came a day

when the crown of Louis III was acquired by his heir, Louis IV. Still

quite young, the latter was already affianced to Margaret of Savoy; and

this engagement had incensed various nobles of the Rhine, especially

the Count of Luzenstein. He was eager that his own house should become

affiliated with the Palatinate, and while he knew that there was little

hope of frustrating Louis’ prospective wedding, this did not nullify his

ambitions. For was it not possible that the marriage might prove without

issue? And, as that would ultimately set Frederick on the Palatine

throne, Luzenstein determined that his daughter Leonora should wed the

younger of the two princes. She herself was equally eager for the union,

and though the affair was not definitely arranged in the meantime, it

was widely understood that at no very distant date Leonora’s betrothal

would be announced.

At length there came a day when the noblesse of the Rhine assembled at

Heidelberg to celebrate the nuptials of Louis and Margaret. For a space

the rejoicings went forward merrily, but, as Louis scanned the faces of

his guests, he was surprised to find that Frederick was absent. Why was

this? he mused; and going in search he soon found his brother in one of

the smaller rooms of the castle, attended by Rafaello. Now the latter,

who was developing a rare gift for sculpture, had lately made a statue

to decorate this room; and on Louis entering Frederick was gazing with

passionate fondness at this new work of art. Louis was straightway

called upon to observe its loveliness, and even as Frederick was

descanting thus, a number of the guests who had remarked their host’s

temporary absence trooped into the room, among them being Leonora of

Luzenstein. She was in ill-temper, for Frederick had not so much as

troubled to salute her on her arrival; and now, finding him deep in

admiration of a statue, its subject a beautiful girl, her rancour

deepened apace. But who was the girl? she wondered; and as divers other

guests were also inquisitive on this head, it soon transpired that

Rafaello’s model had been Eugenia. Leonora knew that this girl had been

Frederick’s playmate in youth, so her wrath turned to fierce malice, for

she suspected that in Eugenia she had a rival who might wreck all hopes

of the Luzensteins becoming united to the Palatine house.

But Frederick regarded Eugenia only as a sister. He knew that she and

the sculptor who had hewn her likeness loved one another, and he longed

to see their union brought about, his genuine affection for the young

Italian being the greater on account of Rafaello’s blossoming talents

as an artist. Leonora, however, knew nothing of the real situation;

she fancied she had been insulted, and demanding of her father that he

should cease all negotiations regarding Frederick’s suggested engagement

to her, she proceeded to take stronger measures. Readers of Sir Walter

Scott’s Anne of Geierstein will recall the Vehmgericht, that ‘Secret

Tribunal’ whose deeds were notorious in medieval Germany, and it chanced

that the Luzensteins were in touch with this body. Its minions were

called upon to wreak vengeance on the younger Palatine prince. On

several occasions his life was attempted, and once he would certainly

have been killed had not Rafaello succoured him in the hour of need.

Meanwhile a son was born to Louis, and in celebration of the event a

tourney was held at Heidelberg, competitors coming from far and near,

all of them eager to win the golden sword which was promised to the man

who should prove champion. One after another they rode into the lists,

Frederick being among the number; and as each presented himself his name

was called aloud by the herald. At length there came one of whom this

functionary cried, “This is a nameless knight who bears a plain shield”;

and at these words a murmur of disapproval rose from the crowd, while

everyone looked up to where Louis sat, awaiting his verdict on the

matter. But he signified that the mysterious aspirant should be allowed

to show his prowess, and a minute later, all who were to take part

being now assembled, Frederick and another competitor were stationed at

opposite ends of the lists, and the signal given them to charge. Forward

thundered their steeds, a fierce combat ensued; but Frederick proved

victor, and so another warrior came forward to meet him. He, too, was

worsted, and soon it appeared as though the young Palatine prince

would surely win the coveted golden sword; for foeman after foeman

he vanquished, and eventually only two remained to confront him—the

nameless knight and another who had entered the lists under a strange,

though less suspicious, pseudonym. The latter expressed his desire to

fight last of all, and so the nameless one galloped toward Frederick,

and their lances clashed together. The Palatine prince bore his

adversary to the ground, apparently conquering him with complete ease;

and fearing he had wounded him mortally, Frederick dismounted with

intent to succour him. But the speedy fall had been a feint, and as

the victor bent down the mysterious knight suddenly drew a dagger, with

intent to plunge it into the prince’s heart. So stealthy a deed was

unknown in the history of the tourney. The crowd gazed as though

petrified, and Frederick’s life would doubtless have been lost—for he

was weak after his many joustings—had not he who had asked to fight last

of all galloped forward instantly on marking the drawn weapon and driven

his lance into the body of the would-be murderer!

It was Rafaello who had rescued the Palatine prince once again, and it

was a member of the Luzenstein house who had sought to kill him thus.

A crafty device in truth, and thenceforth the name of Luzenstein became

abhorred throughout all Rhineland, while the brave Italian was honoured

by knighthood, and arrangements were made for his speedy union with

Eugenia. But, alas! the fates were untoward; for the ‘Secret Tribunal,’

having been baulked again and again, began to direct their schemes

against the sculptor instead of his patron; and one evening, as Rafaello

was walking with his beloved one, a band of villains attacked and

murdered the pair. They were buried together at a place known for many

centuries after as ‘The Lovers’ Grave,’ and here Frederick used to

loiter often, musing fondly on the dear sister who had been snatched

from him in this ruthless fashion, and dreaming of the lofty artistic

career which he had planned in vain for his beloved Rafaello.

Bishops, Barons, and Bourgeois

To trace the fortunes, divisions, and junctions of the lesser Rhine

principalities would be a work requiring a world of patience on the part

of the reader as well as an amount of space which would speedily surpass

the limits even of such an ample volume as the present. The constant

changes of boundary of these tiny lordships, the hazy character of the

powers possessed by their rulers, the multiplicity of free townships

yielding obedience to none but their own civic rulers, the brief but

none the less tyrannous rule of scores of robber barons who exercised

a régime of blood and iron within a radius of five miles of their

castellated eyries, render the tracing of the history of the Rhine

during the Middle Ages a task of almost unequalled complexity, robbed

of all the romance of history by reason of the necessity for constant

attention to the details of dynastic and territorial changes and the

petty squabblings and dreary scufflings of savage barons with their

neighbours or with the scarcely less brutal ecclesiastical dignitaries,

who, joining with gusto in the general mêlée of land-snatching, served

to swell the tumult with their loud-voiced claims for land and lordship.

Three of the Electors of Franconia, within the boundaries of which the

Palatinate was included, were archbishops, and these were foremost in

all dynastic and territorial bickerings.

The growth of German municipalities since the days of their founder,

Henry the Fowler, was not without effect upon the Empire. Distinctions

of class were modified. The freeman became empowered to reserve to

himself the right of going to war along with his lord. Imperial cities

began to spring up; these were governed by a lieutenant of the Emperor,

or by their own chief magistrate. They achieved confederation, thus

guarding themselves against imperial and feudal encroachments. The

‘League of the Rhine’ and that of the Hanse Towns emerged as the fruit

of this policy. The latter federation consisted of about four-score

cities of Germany which under their charter enjoyed a commercial

monopoly. This example succeeded so well that its promoter, Lübeck, had

the satisfaction of seeing all cities between the Rhine and the Vistula

thus connected. The clergy, jealous of this municipal power, besought

the Emperor to repress the magistrates who had been called into being

by the people, and who were closely allied to this commercial

confederation. But the monarch advised the prelates to return to their

churches lest their opulent friends became their enemies.

The Rhine Hanse Towns

The influence of the Hanseatic League of the Rhine district in the

fourteenth century extended over the whole commercial radius of Germany,

Prussia, Russia, the Netherlands, and Britain. It opened up new fields

of commerce, manufacture, and industry. It paved the way for culture,

it subdued the piracy which had existed in the Baltic, and it promoted

a universal peace. On the other hand, it created jealousy; it boycotted

the honest manufacturer and merchant who did not belong to the League,

and fostered luxury in the Rhenish cities, which did much to sap the

sturdy character of the people. The celebrity which many of these

municipalities attained through their magnificence can be gathered from

the historic buildings of Worms, Spires, Frankfort, Cologne, Augsburg,

and Nuremberg. The splendour of these edifices and the munificence of

their wealthy inhabitants could only be equalled in the maritime regions

of Italy. But in the fifteenth century the power of the League began to

decline. The Russian towns, under the leadership of Novgorod the Great,

commenced a crusade against the Hanse Towns’ monopoly in that country.

The general rising in England, which was one of the great warehouses,

under Henry VI and Edward IV reflected upon them. The Netherlands

followed England’s example. In the seventeenth century their existence

was confined to three German towns—Lübeck, Hamburg, and Bremen. These

no longer had the power to exercise their influence over the nation, and

soon the League dropped out of existence.

The Thirty Years’ War

The protracted struggle known as the Thirty Years’ War was most

prejudicial to the interests of the Rhine valley, which was overrun by

the troops of the several nationalities engaged. One phase of this most

disastrous struggle—the War of the Palatinate—carried the rapine and

slaughter to the banks of the Rhine, where, as has been said, they

were long remembered. During the reign of Ferdinand III (1637-1659) a

vigorous and protracted war broke out between France and Germany, the

former assisted by her ally Sweden. Germany, seeing that unless peace

were restored her ruin as a great power would be inevitable, entered

into negotiations with France, and in 1648 the claims of France

and Sweden were settled by the Peace of Westphalia. This treaty is

particularly notable in the present instance because it gave to the

former country the footing on the Rhine already mentioned as the

beginning of French encroachments. Germany was forced to give up Alsace,

on the left bank of the river. France, by the seizure of Strassburg,

confirmed by the Treaty of Ryswick in 1695, extended her boundaries

to the Rhine. At the beginning of the French Revolution Leopold II of

Germany and other German monarchs agreed to support the cause of French

royalty, a resolution which was disastrous to the Empire. In 1795

Prussia, for political reasons, withdrew from the struggle, ceding to

France, in the terms of the Treaty of Basel, all her possessions on the

left bank of the Rhine. In 1799 war again broke out; but in 1801 the

Treaty of Lunéville gave to France the whole of the left bank of the

river. Thus the historic stream became the boundary between France and

Germany. In 1806 the humiliation of the latter country was complete, for

in that year a number of German princes joined the Confederation of

the Rhine, thus allying themselves with France and repudiating their

allegiance to the Empire. In 1815, at the Congress of Vienna, the whole

of the Lower Rhenish district was restored to Prussia, while Bavaria,

a separate state, was put in possession of the greater part of the

Palatinate on the left bank of the Rhine.

From that time onward the German national spirit flourished, but the

future of the Empire was uncertain till its fate was decided by the

Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71. In the great hall of the Palace of

Versailles in 1871 William I, King of Prussia, proclaimed, in the hour

of victory, the restoration of the confederated German Empire. The

French forfeited their Rhenish provinces, and once more the Rhine was

restored to Germany.

That the Thirty Years’ War did not fail to linger in the folk-memory is

evidenced by the following gruesome legend of Oppenheim:

The Battle of Skeletons

The smoke and terror of the great struggle had surged over Oppenheim.

A battle had been fought there, and the Swedes and Spaniards who had

contested the field and had been slain lay buried in the old churchyard

hard by the confines of the town. At least many had been granted the

right of sepulture there, but in a number of cases the hasty manner in

which their corpses had received burial was all too noticeable, and a

stranger visiting the churchyard confines years after the combat could

not fail to be struck by the many uncoffined human relics which met his

gaze.

But an artist who had journeyed from far to see the summer’s sun upon

the Rhine water, and who came to Oppenheim in the golden dusk, was too

intent on the search for beauty to remember the grisly reputation of the

town. Moreover, on entering the place the first person by whom he had

been greeted was a beautiful young maiden, daughter of the innkeeper,

who modestly shrank back on hearing his confident tones and, curtsying

prettily, replied to his questions in something like a whisper.

“Can you recommend me to a comfortable hostelry, my pretty maid, where

the wine is good and the company jovial?”

“If the Herr can put up with a village inn, that of my father is as good

as any in the place,” replied the maid.

“Good, my pretty,” cried the bold painter, sending the ready blood to

her face with a glance from his bright black eyes. “Lead the way, and I

will follow. Or, better still, walk with me.”

By the time they had reached the inn they felt like old friends. The

girl had skilfully but simply discovered the reason for the young

artist’s sojourn in Oppenheim, and with glowing face and eyes that

had grown brighter with excitement, she clasped her hands together and

cried: “Oh, the Herr must paint my beloved Oppenheim. There is no such

place by moonlight, believe me, and you will be amply repaid by a visit

to the ruins of the old church to-night. See, a pale and splendid moon

has already risen, and will light your work as the sun never could.”

“As you ask me so prettily, Fräulein, I shall paint your beloved abbey,”

he replied. “But why not in sunlight, with your own sweet face in the

foreground?”

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

romance.”

“As you will,” said the artist. “But this, I take it, is your father’s

inn, and I am ready for supper. Afterward—well, we shall see!”

Supper over, the painter sat for some time over his pipe and his wine,

and then, gathering together his sketching impedimenta, quitted the inn

and took his way toward the ruins of Oppenheim’s ancient abbey. It was

a calm, windless night, and the silver moon sailed high in the heavens.

Not a sound broke the silence as the young man entered the churchyard.

Seating himself upon a flat tombstone, he proceeded to arrange his

canvas and sketching materials; but as he was busied thus his foot

struck something hard. Bending down to remove the obstacle, which he

took for a large stone, he found, to his horror, that it was a human

skull. With an ejaculation he cast the horrid relic away from him,

and to divert his mind from the grisly incident commenced to work

feverishly. Speedily his buoyant mind cast off the gloomy train of

thought awakened by the dreadful find, and for nearly a couple of hours

he sat sketching steadily, until he was suddenly startled to hear the

clock in the tower above him strike the hour of midnight.

He was gathering his things preparatory to departure, when a strange

rustling sound attracted his attention. Raising his eyes from his

task, he beheld a sight which made his flesh creep. The exposed and

half-buried bones of the dead warriors which littered the surface of the

churchyard drew together and formed skeletons. These reared themselves

from the graves and stood upright, and as they did so formed grisly

and dreadful battalions—Swedes formed with Swedes and Spaniards with

Spaniards. On a sudden hoarse words of command rang out on the midnight

air, and the two companies attacked one another.

The luckless beholder of the dreadful scene felt the warm blood grow

chill within his veins. Hotter and hotter became the fray, and many

skeletons sank to the ground as though slain in battle. One of them, he

whose skull the artist had kicked, sank down at the young man’s feet. In

a hollow voice he commanded the youth to tell to the world how they were

forced to combat each other because they had been enemies in life, and

that they could obtain no rest until they had been buried.

Directly the clock struck one the battle ceased, and the bones once more

lay about in disorder. The artist (who, it need hardly be said, gave no

more thought to his picture) hastened back to the inn and in faltering

accents related his experiences. When the Seven Years’ War broke out,

not long afterward, the people of Oppenheim declared that the apparition

of the skeletons had foretold the event.

The Robbers of the Rhine

For many hundreds of years the valley of the Rhine itself, and the

various valleys adjacent, were the haunt of numerous bodies of rapacious

and desperate banditti. The rugged, mountainous nature of the country

naturally made lawlessness the more easy there, and till so late as

the beginning of the nineteenth century these gangs of robbers were a

constant menace to the traveller in Rhineland. At the time of the French

Revolution, indeed, and for some decades thereafter, the district was

literally infested with thieves; for the unsettled state of Europe at

this date perforce tended to bring desperadoes from far and near, and

for a while the inhabitants of the different villages on the banks of

the Rhine endured a veritable reign of terror.

But almost from the outset the brigands realized that they would soon be

undone if they grew too numerous. They knew that, in that event, strong

military measures would probably be taken against them; so they made

every effort to practise that union which is proverbially strength,

and to prevent the enlisting in their ranks of anyone likely to prove

cowardly or perfidious. In some cases, too, they actually had a well

and capably organized system whereby one of their number could escape

quickly, if need be, from the scene of his crime; for, like the

French prisoners described in Stevenson’s St. Ives, they had a line of

sanctuaries extending perhaps into Austria or Italy, the retreat in most

instances being an inn whose keeper was sworn to hide and protect

his robber guest at all costs. In short, there was honour among these

thieves, and even a certain spirit of freemasonry; while, more important

still, the captain of a band was very often in league with the few

police officials of the neighbourhood.

The great highwaymen of Stuart and Georgian England—for example, that

gallant Beau Brocade of whom Mr. Austin Dobson writes—were mostly

content with waylaying a chance passer-by; while their contemporaries

in France usually worked on this principle also, as witness the deeds of

the band who figure in Théophile Gautier’s story Le Capitaine Fracasse.

But the robbers of the Rhine were of different mettle from these, and

often it was almost a predatory warfare rather than mere brigandage

which they carried on. Frequently they had an agent in each of the

villages on the river, this agent being usually a member of the

scattered remnant of Israel; and the business of this person was to

discover a house containing especial wealth, and then to inform the

robbers accordingly. Having gleaned the requisite information in this

wise, the gang would sally down from the mountains at dead of night; and

it was customary, as they drew near to their prey, for the captain

to call his henchmen to attention and see that each was ready for the

imminent fray. Then, having gagged the village watchman and muffled his

bell, they would proceed to surround the house they intended to rifle,

and, should resistance be offered, to batter in the door with a log or

other instrument. Sometimes it would transpire that the Jewish agent had

misinformed them, telling them of booty where booty there was little,

and woe betide him should this prove the state of affairs. Moreover,

unlike the brigands in Gil Blas, these scoundrels of the Rhine would not

be encumbered by prisoners, and they were wont to slay outright all who

were minded to show fight.

Yet to their own brotherhood the robbers were invariably loyal, seldom

failing to carry away with them such of their confrères as were wounded

in the assault; for each was sworn to support his fellows under all

circumstances, and awful was the fate of the marauder who violated this

compact. It is told of a band commanded by one Picard, a cruel but brave

leader, that one of its members chanced to be captured, and with a view

to purchasing his freedom he gave information about the whereabouts of

his chief. The next night, as the captive lay in his dungeon, a masked

face suddenly appeared at the barred window, and in awestruck tones the

prisoner asked the new-comer to declare his identity. “I am Picard, your

captain,” came the answer. “As in duty bound, I have risked my life to

set you free,” and having spoken thus, he proceeded to file through one

of the bars, which being accomplished, the reprobate was drawn out of

his cell by the aid of a rope. He breathed freely now, finding himself

once more among some of his old comrades, but a moment later Picard

addressed him again. “Traitor,” he snarled, “do not think that your

perfidy has failed to reach our ears; you must pay the full penalty.”

“Mercy,” cried the unfortunate one; “at least let me die in action. Lead

on against some foe, and let me fall at their hands.”

“Cowards,” retorted Picard, “deserve no such gallant fate,” and with

these words he drove his sword deep into the heart of the traitor.

In general it was a point of honour among these bandits that none should

reveal to a woman anything about the doings of his band, and one story

relates how a young brigand, on the eve of setting out on his first

predatory expedition, was rash enough to inform his sweetheart whither

he and his mates were bound. Their commander was a Captain Jikjak,

reputed something of a wit; and betimes, after the brigands had marched

forward silently for a while, this worthy called upon them to halt. They

imagined it was but the usual inspection of arms which was about to

take place, but Jikjak, speaking in stentorian tones, told them that

a traitor was in their midst, and pointing to the culprit, he bade him

step forth. The young man pled his youth as an excuse for his fault, and

he told the captain that, could he but get a chance to show his prowess

once, they would soon see that he was as gallant a robber as any of

them. But Jikjak laughed scornfully, saying he was anxious to find out

which was stronger, the young man’s legs or a pair of trees. The culprit

quailed on hearing the verdict, and implored a less ghastly fate; but

Jikjak was obdurate, and smiling blandly, he bade his followers bend a

couple of stout branches to the ground and tie their tops to the ankles

of the offender....

Such, then, were the robbers of the Rhine, and such the code of honour

which existed among them. A romantic institution they no doubt were,

yet it was a form of picturesqueness whose disappearance can scarcely be

regretted.