FIFTH MEETING FOR RHINE STORIES.
SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE RHINE:--WORMS.--LUTHER'S MONUMENT.--THE STORY OF
SIEGFRIED AND THE DRAGON.--MAYENCE.--BOAT JOURNEY.--STORIES OF THE
CASTLES ON THE MIDDLE RHINE.--THE WONDERFUL STORY OF THE
LORELEI.--KERNER.
Mr. Beal continued the narrative of travel at the fifth meeting of the
Club for the rehearsal of Rhine stories.
* * * * *
"We passed over a road along the right bank of the Rhine towards
Worms. We journeyed amid green forests, and past fields which had
heaped up harvests for a thousand years. Spires gleamed on the
opposite bank, and in the flat landscape Worms came to view, the Rhine
flowing calmly by.
"We stopped at Worms to see the cathedral and the Luther Monument. It
is a dull town. We recalled that it was here great Caesar stood, and
Attila drove his cavalry of devastation over the Rhine. Here lived the
hero of German classic song,--Siegfried. The cathedral has a
monumental history. In 772 war was declared in it against the Saxons.
Here was held the famous Diet of Worms at which Luther appeared, and
said,--
"'Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise. God help me.'
"The cathedral is of the style called Romanesque. It is lofty and
gloomy. Worms itself is a shadowy and silent city as compared with the
past.
"The Luther Monument is a history of Protestantism in stone and
bronze. It is one of the noblest works of art of modern times, and its
majesty and unity are a surprise to the traveller. Luther is of course
the central figure. He stands with his Bible in his hands, and his
face upturned to heaven. Around him are the figures of the great
reformers before the Reformation: Wycliffe, of England; Waldo, of
France; Huss, of Bohemia; and Savonarola, of Italy. The German princes
who befriended and sustained the Reformer occupy conspicuous places,
and the immense group presents a most impressive scene, associated
with lofty character and commanding talent.
[Illustration: A BATTLE BETWEEN FRANKS AND SAXONS.]
"We went to the place where Luther sat beneath a tree, when his
companions sought to dissuade him from entering Worms.
"'I would go to Worms,' he said, 'were there as many devils as there
are tiles upon the roofs.'
"The high pitched roofs and innumerable tiles on them everywhere met
our eyes, and recalled the famous declaration.
[Illustration: LUTHER'S HOUSE.]
"I should here tell you the
STORY OF SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG HEROES.
The early nations of Europe seem to have come out of the northwest
of Asia. The Celts or Gauls came first; other tribes followed them.
These latter tribes called themselves _Deutsch_, or _the people_.
They settled between the Alps and the Baltic Sea. In time they came
to be called Ger-men, or war-men. They lived in rude huts and held
the lands in common. They were strong and brave and prosperous.
[Illustration: A TRIBE OF GERMANS ON AN EXPEDITION.]
They worshipped the great god Woden. His day of worship was the
fourth of the week; hence Woden's-day, or Wednesday.
Woden was an all-wise god. Ravens carried to him the news from
earth. His temples were stone altars on desolate heaths, and human
sacrifices were offered to him.
Woden had a celestial hall called Valhall, and thither he
transported the souls of the brave; hence the name Valhalla.
There were supposed to be water gods in the rivers and elves
throughout the forest. The heavens were peopled with minor gods, as
well as the great gods, and the spirits of the unseen world could
make themselves visible or invisible to men as they chose.
Most great nations have heroes of song sung by the poets, like
those of Homer and Virgil. The early German hero was Siegfried, and
the song or epic that celebrates his deeds is called the _Nibelungen
Lied_. Its story is as follows.
In the Land of Mist there was a lovely river, where dwelt little
people who could assume any form they wished. One of them was
accustomed to change himself into an otter when he went to the river
to fish. As he was fishing one day in this form he was caught by
Loki, one of the great gods, who immediately despatched him and took
off his skin.
When his brothers Fafner and Reginn saw what had been done, they
reproved Loki severely, and demanded of him that he should fill the
otter's skin with gold, and give it to them as an atonement for his
great misdeed.
"I return the otter skin and give you the treasure you ask," said
Loki; "but the gift shall bring you evil."
Their father took the treasure, and Fafner murdered his father to
secure it to himself, and then turned into a dragon or serpent to
guard it, and to keep his brother from finding it.
Reginn had a wonderful pupil, named Siegfried, a Samson among the
inhabitants of the land. He was so strong that he could catch wild
lions and hang them by the tail over the walls of the castle. Reginn
persuaded this pupil to attack the serpent and to slay him.
Now Siegfried could understand the songs of birds; and the birds
told him that Reginn intended to kill him; so he slew Reginn and
himself possessed the treasure.
Serpents and dragons were called _worms_ in Old Deutsch, and the
Germans called the town where Siegfried lived Worms.
Siegfried had bathed himself in the dragon's blood, and the bath
made his skin so hard that nothing could hurt him except in one
spot. A leaf had fallen on this spot as he was bathing. It was
between his shoulders.
Siegfried, like Samson, had a curious wife. His romances growing out
of his love for this woman would fill a volume. She had learned
where his one vulnerable spot lay. But she was a lovely lady, and
the wedded pair lived very happily together at Worms.
At last a dispute arose between them and their relatives, and the
latter sought to destroy Siegfried's life. His wife went for counsel
to a supposed friend, but real enemy, named Hagen.
"Your husband is invulnerable," said Hagen.
"Yes, except in one spot."
"And you know the place?"
"Yes."
"Sew a patch on his garment over it, and I shall know how to protect
him."
The poor wife had revealed a fatal secret. She sewed a patch on her
husband's garment between the shoulders, and now thought him doubly
secure.
[Illustration: THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED.]
There was to be a great hunting-match, and Siegfried entered into it
as a champion. He rode forth in high spirits, but on his back was
the fatal patch.
Hagen contrived that the wine should be left behind.
"That," he said, "will compel the hunters to lie down on their
breasts to drink from the streams when they become thirsty. Then
will come my opportunity."
He was right in his conjecture.
Siegfried became tired and thirsty. He rode up to a stream. He threw
himself on his breast to drink, exposing his back, on which was the
patch, revealing the vulnerable place.
There he was stabbed by a conspirator employed by Hagen.
They bore the dead body of the hero down the Rhine, and lamented the
departed champion as the barque drifted on. The scene has been
portrayed in art and song, and has left its impress on the poetic
associations of the river. You will have occasion to recall this
story again in connection with Drachenfels.
"Our fifth night on the Rhine was passed at Mayence, at the Hotel de
Hollande, near the landing-place of the Rhine steamers. The balconies
and windows of the hotel afforded fine views of the river and of the
Taunus Mountains.
"Mayence is said to have arisen by magic. The sorcerer Nequam wished
for a new city; he came to this point of the Rhine, spoke the word,
and the city rose. It is almost as old as the Christian era. Here the
Twenty-second Roman legion came, after its return from the conquest of
Jerusalem, and brought Christianity with it, through some of its early
converts. It was one of the grand cities of Charlemagne, who erected a
palace at Lower Ingelheim, and introduced the cultivation of the vine.
Here lived Bishop Hatto, of bad repute, and good Bishop Williges.
"Here rose Gutenberg, the inventor of printing, and here Thorwaldsen's
statue of the great inventor announces to the traveller what a great
light of civilization appeared to the world.
"At Mayence we began the most delightful zigzag we had ever made,--a
boat journey on the Rhine.
"'If you would see the Rhine of castles and vineyards.' said an
English friend, 'hire a boat. The most famous river scenery in the
world lies between Mayence and Cologne. If you take the railroad you
will merely _escape_ it in a few hours; if a steamboat, your curiosity
will be excited, but not gratified; it will all vanish like a dream:
take a boat, my good American friend,--take a boat.'
"Between Mayence and Bingen the Rhine attains its greatest breadth. It
is studded with a hundred islands. Its banks are continuous
vineyards. Here is the famous district called the Rheingau, which
extends along the right bank of the river, where the Rhine wines are
produced.
[Illustration: MAYENCE.]
"It is all a luxurious wine-garden,--the Rheingau. The grapes purple
beside ruins and convents, as well as on their low artificial
trellises, and everywhere drink in the sunshine and grow luscious in
the mellow air.
"Castles, palaces, ruins, towers, and quaint towns all mingle with the
vineyards. A dreamy light hangs over the scene; the river is calm, and
the boat drifts along in an atmosphere in which the spirit of romance
seems to brood, as though indeed the world's fairy tales were true.
"We came in sight of Bingen.
"'We must stop there,' said Willie Clifton.
"'Why?' I asked curiously.
"'Because--well--
"For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine."'
"He then repeated slowly and in a deep, tender voice the beginning of
a poem that almost every schoolboy knows:--
'A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land:
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine;
For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine."'
"Bingen is a town of about seven thousand inhabitants, and is engaged
in the wine trade. We visited the chapel of St. Rochus, on a hill near
the town, because one of our party had somewhere read that Bulwer had
said that the view from St. Rochus was the finest in the world.
"Again upon the river, all the banks seemed filled with castles,
villages, and ruins. Every hill had its castle, every crag its gray
tower. We drifted by the famous Mouse Tower, which stands at the end
of an island meadow fringed with osier twigs. It is little better
than a square tower of a common village church, nor is there any truth
in the story that Southey's poem has associated with it. Poor Bishop
Hatto, of evil name and memory! He died in 970, and the tower was not
built until the thirteenth century. For aught that is known, he was a
good man; he certainly was not eaten up by rats or mice. The legend
runs:--
[Illustration: BISHOP HATTO AND THE RATS.]
"In the tenth century Hatto, Bishop of Fulda, was raised to the
dignity of Archbishop of Mayence. He built a strong tower on the
Rhine, wherein to collect tolls from the vessels that passed.
"A famine came to the Rhine countries. Hatto had vast granaries, and
the people came to him for bread. He refused them, and they importuned
him. He bade them go into a large granary, one day, promising them
relief. When they had entered the building, he barred the doors and
set it on fire, and the famishing beggars, among whom were many women
and children, were consumed.
"The bishop listened to the cries of the dying for mercy as the
building was burning.
"'Hark!' he said, 'hear the rats squeak.'
"When the building fell millions of rats ran from the ruins to the
bishop's palace. They filled all the rooms and attacked the people.
The bishop was struck with terror.
'"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he;
"'Tis the safest place in Germany:
The walls are high, and the shores are steep,
And the stream is strong, and the water deep."
'Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,
And he crossed the Rhine without delay,
And reached his tower, and barred with care
All windows, doors, and loopholes there.
'He laid him down and closed his eyes;
But soon a scream made him arise:
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
'He listened and looked; it was only the cat:
But the bishop he grew more fearful for that;
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the army of rats that were drawing near.
'For they have swam over the river so deep,
And they have climbed the shores so steep;
And up the tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were sent.
'They are not to be told by the dozen or score;
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more:
Such numbers had never been heard of before,
Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore.
'Down on his knees the bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did tell,
As, louder and louder drawing near,
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
'And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour,
And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the bishop they go.
'They have whetted their teeth against the stones;
And now they pick the bishop's bones:
They gnawed the flesh from every limb;
For they were sent to do judgment on him!'
"We passed ruin after ruin which the boatman said were 'robber
castles.'
"'And what do you mean by _robber_ castles?' asked Herman.
"'The old lords of the Rhine used to collect tolls from the vessels
that passed their estates. The tax was regarded as unjust, and hence
the lords were themselves called robbers, and their castles robber
castles.'
"One of these castles, called the _Pfalzgrafenstein_, is said to
resemble a stone ship at anchor in the river. It was formerly a rock,
with one little hut upon it, and it was associated with a touching
incident of history.
"Louis le Debonnaire, the son of Charlemagne, became weary of
state-craft and the crown. He felt that his end was near. He desired
to die where he could hear the waves of the Rhine. He was taken to
this rock, and there with the ebb of the river his troubled life ebbed
away.
"Most of the old castles are built on the narrows of the river. These
narrows are between high rocks and rocky hills. They are in the Middle
Rhine, or between Mayence and Bonn. The Middle Rhine has some thirty
conspicuous castles on its banks. It is sometimes called the
Castellated Rhine, and its narrows are termed the Castellated Rhine
Pass.
[Illustration: VIEW ON THE RHINE.]
"On, on we drifted. Every high rock seemed a gateway to some new scene
of beauty; wonder followed wonder.
"And now the water seemed agitated. Dark rocks projected into the
river; the view was intercepted.
"The boatman conversed in an animated way with me, and I looked up to
a high rock with an interested expression and an incredulous smile.
"He turned to us quietly and said,--
"'This is the Lorelei Pass.'
"He presently added,--
"'That is the Lorelei.'
[Illustration: THE LORELEI.]
THE WONDERFUL STORY OF THE LORELEI.
Who has not heard it, repeated it in verse, echoed it in song?
It is the best known of the Rhine tales, not because it is the most
interesting, but because it is associated with the noblest scenery
of the river, with poetry and music. It is hardly equal to such
legends as the "Drachenfels" and the "Two Brothers," but it is
lifted into historic prominence by its associations.
Still the story is richer in incident than the mere song would
indicate. The origin and development of the popular legend is as
follows:--
In the shadowy days of the Palatines of the Rhine,--shadowy because
of ignorance and superstition,--the boatmen among the rocks above
St. Goar on the Rhine used to fancy that they could see at night the
form of a beautiful nymph on the "Lei," or high rock of the river.
Her limbs were moulded of air; a veil of mist and gems covered her
face; her hair was long and golden, and her eyes shone like the
stars. Her robe was blue and glimmering like the waves, decked with
water flowers and zoned with crystals. She was most distinctly seen
by pale moonlight.
They called this recurring vision of mist and gems Lore, the
enchantress. They believed that her favor brought good luck, but her
ill will destruction.
Nothing could be more natural than for the simple fishermen to think
that they saw a form of mist, very bright and lovely, above the
rocks at night, when once the story had been told them.
In the days of superstition such a story was sure to grow.
It was said that this Undine of the Rhine, the enchantress Lore, had
a most melodious and seductive voice. When she sang those who heard
her listened spellbound. If the boatmen displeased her, she
entranced them by her song, and drew them into the whirlpools under
the rocks, where they disappeared forever. To the landsmen who
offended her, she made the river appear like a road, and led them to
fall over the rocks to destruction. With all her beauty and charms,
she was the evil genius of the place.
Herman, the only son of the last Palatine, a youth of some fifteen
summers, was delicate in health. Instead of devoting himself to
chivalrous exercises, he gave his attention to music and song.
One night he and his father were descending the Rhine, when he felt
an inspiration come over him to sing. His voice was silvery and
flute-like, and breathed the emotional sentiment of the heart of
youth. As the boat drew near the Lei, Lore, the enchantress, heard
the song, and she herself became spellbound by the sentiment and
deep feeling expressed in the mellifluent music.
She tried to answer him, but her voice failed.
As Herman grew to manhood his ill health disappeared, and his
character changed. He became rugged and manly, and abandoned the
arts for the chase, horsemanship, and the preparations for martial
contests.
He became a renowned hunter. He rode the wildest steeds, and
ventured into places and merrily blew his horn where no huntsman
dared follow him.
The enchantress Lore, from the time she had heard his song,
disappeared from the rocks. The change that came over his person and
character seemed like enchantment: was the siren invisibly following
him?
And now a strange thing began to startle him by its mystery. When
alone, crossing a wild mountain or a ravine, he would seek to keep
up a communication by shouting through his hands,--
"Hillo-ho-o-o-o!"
Immediately a sweet voice would answer,--
"Ho-o-o-o!"
He would follow the sound.
"Hillo-ho-o-o-o!"
"Ho-o-o-o!"
It always led him towards the Lei.
He became alarmed at this occurrence. He believed that he was
followed by a spirit, and that a spell was upon him, which boded
destruction. He resolved to abandon the chase and devote himself to
the arts again.
He was sitting by the window of the castle on a summer evening. A
purple mist lay on the forests and river, and the moon poured her
light over it, making all things appear like an enchanted realm.
He heard a nightingale singing in the woods. Did ever a bird sing
like that? He listened. There was a witchery in the song. He rose
and went into the woods. The song filled the air like a shower of
golden notes. He followed it. It retreated. He went on. But the
song, more and more enchanting and alluring, floated into the
shadowy distance. He found himself at last on the Lei.
He beheld there a dazzling grotto, full of stalactites, and a nymph
of wondrous beauty on a coral throne. He felt his being thrill with
love. He was about to enter the grotto, when, oh thought of darkness
and horror! the recollection of the enchantress came to him, and he
crossed his bosom and broke the spell. He hurried home with a
beating heart.
But the temptation and vision had proved fatal to him. He was never
himself again. He dreamed constantly of Lore. All his longings were
for her.
At eve he would hear the same nightingale singing. He would long to
follow the voice. It inflamed his love. His will, his senses, all
that made life desirable, were yielding to the fatal passion.
He went to a good priest for advice.
"Father Walter, what shall I do?"
"Shake off the spell, or it will end in your ruin."
One day Herman and the priest went fishing on the Rhine. The boat
drifted near the Lei. The moon rose in full splendor in the clear
sky, strewing the water with countless gems.
Herman took a lute and filled the air with music.
It was answered from the Lei. Oh, how wonderful! The air seemed
entranced with the spiritual melody. Herman was beside himself with
delight. The priest also heard it.
"The Lore! In the name of the Virgin, let us make for the shore!"
[Illustration: HERMAN'S EYES WERE FIXED ON THE ROCK.]
Herman's eyes were fixed on the rock. There she sat, the siren!
The priest plied the oar, to turn the boat back.
But nearer, nearer drifted the boat to the rock.
Nearer and nearer!
The moon poured her white light upon the crags.
Nearer and nearer!
There was a shock.
The boat was shivered like glass.
Walter crossed himself, and floated on the waves to the shore.
But Herman--he was never seen again!
Mr. Beal's narrative nearly filled the evening. A few stories were
told by other members of the Club, but they were chiefly from Grimm,
and hence are somewhat familiar.
Charlie Leland closed the meeting with a free translation of a poem
from Kerner.
Justinus Kerner was born in Ludwigsburg, in 1786. He was a physician
and a poet. He belonged to the spiritualistic school of poets, and
his illustrations of the power of mind over matter, in both prose
and poetry, are often very forcible. The following poem will give
you a view of his estimate of physical as compared with mental
power:--
IN THE OLD CATHEDRAL.
In the vaults of the dim cathedral,
In the gloaming, weird and cold,
Are the coffins of old King Ottmar,
And a poet, renowned of old.
The king once sat in power,
Enthroned in pomp and pride,
And his crown still rests upon him,
And his falchion rusts beside.
And near to the king the poet
Has slumbered in darkness long,
But he holds in his hands, as an emblem,
The harp of immortal song.
Hark! 'tis the castles falling!
Hark! 'tis the war-cry dread!
But the monarch's sword is not lifted,
There, in the vaults of the dead!
List to the vernal breezes!
List to the minstrels' strain!
'Tis the poet's song they are singing,
And the poet lives again.