PFALZ.
The robbers of the Rhine were not content with building depôts for stolen, or rather plundered goods, on every eminence, and levying “black mail” on every kind of land carriage; but they invaded “the free navigation of the Rhine,” as some of their descendants now do. A rock on the river whereon to erect a toll-bar was a great treasure in days of yore. The quadrupeds of the mouse-tower were much less voracious and graminivorous, than the bipeds of the same. The latter might not perhaps have nibbled at the body of a bishop, but they took good care to shear his flocks, in their transit up and down the Rhine. Nearly opposite Caub we pass close to an object which looks like a dwarf castle, sailing up the stream on the back of a whale. This was a very convenient edifice for the Rhenish palatines of the adjacent castle of Stahlee. It served the purpose of a custom-house, to collect the “rint,” and a prison to secure the refractory:—in other words, it performed the double function of dungeon and douane. One of the involuntary tenants of this narrow crib, was the own and the only daughter of Conrad, the palatine himself, whose name was Agnes. The lady had been betrothed, with her parents’ and her own consent, to Henry Duke of Brunswick; but a king having offered his hand, Conrad commanded her to change her affections, and set them on a higher rank than that of a duke. Agnes demurred in her own breast, though not openly; for affection, like faith or belief, will not come or go at our own bidding—much less at that of another. In the temporary absence of the father, Agnes, with the consent and privity of her mother, was privately married to the duke. When Conrad learnt this, he ordered his daughter to the Pfalz, till the marriage could be dissolved. Meantime it soon became evident that certain proofs of prior attachment on the part of Agnes, would be too unequivocal to escape the notice of the regal suitor, if the marriage were annulled; and Conrad, after a double confinement of Agnes in the Rhine prison, became reconciled to the duke—and all ended happily.
Passing Bacharach and the “Ara Bacchi,” which shews its propitious face in fertile vintages, we soon come to Lorch, where we have a legend that must not be passed unnoticed.
TEMPTATION, OR THE HALL OF A HUNDRED MIRRORS.
(Legend the Eighth.)
Three students from Nuremburg, determined, during one of their vacations, to make the tour of the Rhine. Arrived at Lorch, they learnt that the sombre and triste valley of Wesperthal, behind Mount Kedrick, was the habitation of hobgoblins, who failed not to harass and frighten every one who penetrated into its dreary recesses. This account only stimulated their curiosity, and tempted their courage. They therefore repaired to the valley, and were soon treading on fairy ground. While wandering about, they came to an enormous mass of rock, bearing some rude resemblance to an old castle. In its sides were several apertures, like gothic windows, and its summit was something in the shape of a dome. Presently at one of these apertures there appeared three young ladies of surpassing beauty, who, instead of frowning on the young cavaliers, invited them, by their smiles and signals, to approach the castle. They soon found a narrow door, through which they entered, and passing along a kind of avenue, they came to a stair-case, which they mounted, and entered a vast and magnificent vestibule. They had scarcely time to cast a glance around them, when they were involved in the most Cimmerian darkness. After groping about, for some time, they discovered a door, which they managed to force open, when they found themselves in a splendid hall, illumined by hundreds of chandeliers, and covered from the dome to the floor with brilliant mirrors. But instead of finding the three nymphs, who had beckoned them from the windows, they were astounded by the sight of at least three hundred, who all stretched out their hands, at once, while welcoming the three youths to their father’s mansion! The students were stupified, not knowing which to address, or whom to salute, so bewildered were they by the reflection of three hundred beauties, and double that number of hands, from the surrounding mirrors! Their embarrassment was not lessened by the peals of laughter set up by the mischievous nymphs. In the midst of this scene, a door opened, and a venerable old man, with locks like snow, but clothed in jet black vestments, entered. “Welcome, my children,” said he; “you are come, no doubt, to demand my daughters in marriage. You shall have them, and with each a hundred weight of solid gold. But there is one condition. My daughters have lost their pet birds, and you must search for them, and bring them back from yonder wood.” “Take each your partner,” then said the old man, in a voice of thunder. The youths stepped forward, each to seize the hand of his mistress—but grasped only empty air. At this, the father joined his daughters in a peal of laughter. When the merriment had subsided, the old man led the young suitors to the real nymphs, whose salutes assured the students that they were real flesh and blood, and whose beauty soon captivated their whole souls. They were now eager to fulfil the condition imposed upon them. “You will recognize the Starling,” says the old man, “by the riddles which it has got by rote and is always propounding—the Rook by its hoarse croak—and the Magpie, by the burthen of its chatter, being the birth, parentage, and education of its grandmother.” They set out for the forest, and soon found the three birds, perched on the branch of an oak, chattering and chanting the ditties which they had been taught in the chateau. I have only room for the magpie’s theme—
“Ma grand-mêre etait une pie,
Qui pondait des œufs d’ou sortaient des pies.
Et si elle n’etait pas morte,
Elle serait encore en vie.”[11]
The young gentlemen soon secured the pet birds, and returned with them to the castle. But what a change presented itself to their horrified senses! The chateau was gray with moss—the hall deprived of its mirrors and lustres, and only exhibiting naked walls! In three niches, sate three withered, tawny, toothless hags, with wine and fruit before them, on three small tables! They instantly rose, and stretched out their wrinkled, yellow, and skinny arms to embrace their lovers, while they mumbled and snivelled, from mouths and noses, their nauseous welcomes, and most loving assurances of eternal attachment and fidelity! To add to the mortification of the bridegrooms, the three pet birds joined their mistresses in such a chorus of squallings, croakings, and catterwaullings, that the young men were obliged to stop their ears to keep out the infernal din! Meanwhile the withered witches led their paramours to the tables, and presented them refreshments, for which they had little stomach. Each, however, took a glass of exquisite wine, which they had scarcely swallowed, when they fell into a state of complete insensibility! When they awoke, which was not till mid-day, they found themselves lying among prickly bushes at the foot of a tall rock, worn into furrows by the storms and rains, their limbs so cold and stiff that they had the greatest difficulty in retracing their steps! While dragging their weary limbs along, they were saluted from every projecting rock by the old hags—and from every branch of tree by the chatterings and croakings of the cursed pet birds! On clearing the valley, the young gentlemen made a vow never again to pay attention to the allurements of female beauty, when proffered on the “voluntary system” of the nymphs of Wesperthal.
MORAL.
I think the allegory of Wesperthal is little inferior to that of Circe, or even of the Syrens. It combines, indeed, the morals of both. Under the head of curiosity and thirst of rash adventure, are shadowed forth the headstrong passions of youth. Then the allurements and temptations by which they are so easily led from the paths of virtue—the Cimmerian darkness in which they are plunged—the blaze of false light, glittering tinsel, and meretricious splendour that attracts them on to their ruin—the penalties which are soon exacted from this short-lived felicity—the stupor in which their senses are drowned—and the remorse and horror in which they finally wake from the delirium of “passion’s wild career.”
Among some sly strokes of irony conveyed in this allegory, the accomplishments of the “pet birds” are biting satires on the education and mental habits of their mistresses in the chateaus of that time. Happily for us, there are now no charades of the starling, croakings of the rook, or magpie chatterings about ancestral honours, among the wives and daughters of the nineteenth century.
THE DEVIL’S LADDER.
RUTHELM AND GARLINDA, OR LOVE REWARDED AND INHOSPITALITY PUNISHED.
“Omnia vincit amor.”
(Legend the Ninth.)
There cannot be a doubt that the legend of the “Devil’s Ladder,” was clearly intended to convey a double moral, as will presently be seen.
Over the little town of Lorch, rises abruptly the craggy, and apparently inaccessible mountain of Kedrick, on which is a solitary tower. Sibo, the Chief of Lorch, was a gloomy, eccentric, and rather misanthropic character. One stormy night, a decrepid old creature, of extremely dwarfish stature, rapped at his door, and demanded the usual rights of hospitality, commonly accorded in that age of chivalry. Sibo drove him from his gate with rudeness, and even brutality. Next day, when the dinner-bell rang, Garlinda, the only child of Sibo, a beautiful girl, twelve years of age, was nowhere to be found! Search was made in all directions, but in vain. A shepherd, however, reported that, early in the morning, he saw a young girl, who was culling flowers at the foot of the Kedrick, surrounded and seized by a number of little old men, who climbed with her up the mountain. The chevalier cast his eyes towards the summit of the steep, and clearly discerned his daughter there, who appeared to be stretching her arms towards her parent’s habitation! The vassals were summoned, and numerous efforts were made to scale the rock; but every attempt was frustrated by fragments of stone coming down the precipices with such fury, that the men were forced to fly for their lives. The wretched Sibo now endeavoured by penances, prayers, donations to the churches, monasteries, and convents, as well as distributions among the poor, to propitiate the powers above, and regain his only child. Heaven seemed hardened against him, and the gnomes of Kedrick retained their captive. The only consolation of the father was, that Garlinda was seen at sunrise and sunset, looking from her airy prison down to the valley of Lorch. Days, months, and years rolled on, without any prospect of regaining his lost treasure. Meantime, every care was taken of Garlinda’s health and comfort by the fairies of the rock—and especially by an aged female gnome, who watched her assiduously, and occasionally gave her hopes of deliverance from captivity.
Four years had now elapsed, and Sibo gave up all expectation of recovering his daughter; when Ruthelm, a brave young knight, who had distinguished himself in the wars against the Infidels, returned to the place of his nativity, near Lorch. On learning the fate of Garlinda, he determined to effect her rescue, or sacrifice his life. Her father promised the hand of the lady to her deliverer. Ruthelm reconnoitred, with anxious eye, every side of the rocky mountain; but no part offered the least prospect of escalade. It rose like a rugged wall in every direction! Returning to his chateau in pensive meditation, he met a diminutive dwarf on the road, who accosted him, and asked him if he had heard the story of Garlinda’s captivity on the summit of Kedrick? On replying in the affirmative, the dwarf hinted that he could effect her freedom if Ruthelm promised to marry her. The lover eagerly closed with the proposal, and the dwarf vanished from his sight.
The youthful knight began to fear that the promise of the dwarf was a deception, when an aged female gnome stood before him, and presenting him with a small bell, desired him to repair to the valley of Wesperthal, a gloomy and haunted ravine behind the Kedrick, and there seek the entrance of a deserted mine, which he would recognize by two old pine trees that grew at its mouth. When he had descended a few steps into the mine, he was to ring the bell thrice, and abide the result. Ruthelm was punctual to the directions, and found the place. As soon as the bell was rung, a light was seen rising from the bottom of the mine, and presently a dwarf appeared, and demanded what Ruthelm wanted. He related the promise of the female dwarf, and her injunction to ring the bell which she had given him. The dwarf examined the bell. The inhabitant of the mine commanded Ruthelm to be at the foot of the mountain before the dawn of next morning. Then drawing a small trumpet from his girdle, he sounded it thrice, when instantly the ravine and the whole valley swarmed with gnomes carrying ropes, hatchets, saws, and hammers. In a few minutes trees were heard falling down the sides of the ravine, felled by the axes of the gnomes, while hundreds of these nimble gentry were busily employed in forming the wood into the different parts of the ladder.
Ruthelm slept little that night, and was at his post before the dawn of morn. He found the ladder placed against the perpendicular precipice, and reaching to its highest pinnacle. He began to mount the ladder; but the terrific vibrations and oscillations of the slender machine, required all the courage of a hero, and all the devotion of a lover—
——lest the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.——
At length he reached the summit of the rock, and was rewarded for his hazard, by the sight of Garlinda reclining asleep in a bower of roses and eglantine. Her beauty surpassed all that had been reported, even by her own friends. While gazing on the sleeping nymph, she awoke, and Ruthelm dropped on his knee. At that instant the little old man, who had carried off Garlinda, stood before them, and, with frowning looks, demanded the name of the intruder, the cause of his visit, and the means by which he had ascended the mountain? Ruthelm firmly replied, that he came to deliver Garlinda from her prison, and restore her to an affectionate, but broken-hearted parent—that the means of his access would be explained by the bell, which he held in his hand. Garlinda, at these words, burst into a flood of tears, and entreated the dwarf to allow her to visit her father. The dwarf paused for a moment, and then replied:—“Your father, Garlinda, has been amply punished for his inhospitality, and you deserve reward for your patience and resignation. For you, Sir Knight, (addressing Ruthelm,) the jewel you seek is not yet purchased, even by the perils you have encountered. A more dangerous task remains—the descent from this mountain. You must return by the ladder; I will conduct Garlinda by a secret path to her father’s mansion.”
Ruthelm, in descending the ladder, found infinitely more difficulty than in his ascent: and several times his head turned giddy, and he was nearly precipitated to the bottom of the ravine. When he reached Sibo’s castle, he found the daughter in the arms of her father, who was weeping for joy. Sibo, from that moment, kept his gate open to every object of distress—a practice which was continued by Ruthelm and Garlinda, during a long series of years.
MORAL.
To counterpoise the baser passions and propensities of our nature, the Omniscient Creator has implanted others in the human breast of an ennobling kind. Thus charity and benevolence antagonise selfishness and avarice. But these passions and propensities, good and bad, are not left to contend with each other in anarchy, like jarring elements. Over them is placed a power without passion, an emanation from the Deity, designed to control the vicious and foster the virtuous workings of the spirit, either by direct influence, or, which is more common, by nullifying the bad by the good propensities.
It is this God-like Reason, which distinguishes Man from the Brute creation. The latter have but one governing passion or instinct, each, from which they cannot deviate, and which never fails to lead them to their proper objects. But even in Man, and especially in uncultivated states of mind, Reason is too often unequal to the governance of the unruly passions, and requires the aid of another and higher power—Religion.
Reason may, and too often does, err; but instinct is as undeviating in its course as the earth in its revolutions round the sun. Whenever the voice of Reason and the dictates of Religion are resisted, and ultimately disregarded, some prominent passion from the vicious side of human nature is sure to gain and to retain the mastery. The consequences need not be told! Every day that vice retains possession of the soul, diminishes the chance of virtue regaining the ascendancy:—Hence the evil of procrastination in the work of reformation!
But to return. Hospitality to the stranger, and charity to the indigent are virtues so universally acknowledged, that few are bold enough to deny them in theory, though there are many Sibos who are chary of the practice. The sums which were lavished on monasteries and convents, in useless remorse, would have saved the Chieftain of Lorch many a bitter hour of reflection, had they been judiciously applied to the relief of penury and misfortune, before he was made to taste the bitter cup of anguish himself!
The other part of the legend illustrates the well-known fact that—
“Love will hope where Reason would despair.”
And not only hope, but accomplish things apparently impossible of achievement. Ruthelm was not the only one who has fallen in love of unseen objects, and only known through pictorial or descriptive representations. Few have passed the juvenile period of life without having some imaginary goddess or hero in their thoughts, endowed with all the virtues and charms which—
“Youthful poets fancy when they love.”
Whether time and experience have always realized (as Jonathan would say) these golden dreams, can only be determined by the knowledge of each individual.
Leaving Lorch, then, on our left, (in ascending the river) our attention is strongly attracted to a renovated chateau on our right—Rheinstein. Here we must halt for a few minutes.
THE BRIDAL OF RHEINSTEIN; OR, THE RUNAWAY MARRIAGE.
(Legend the Tenth.)
About midway between Lorch and Bingen, on our right hand, stands the renovated castle of Rheinstein, on a romantic eminence, and very near the Rhine. It is no longer a desolate pile of ruins, but the habitation of a royal prince of Prussia, whose proud banner floats on its lofty turret. No destructive missile or drawn sword now repels the inquisitive stranger. The draw-bridge falls at the approach of Jew or Gentile, rich or poor—and the renovated halls are thrown open to the inspection of all visitors.
Tradition informs us that the original castle was inhabited by a Baron Sifred, a dissolute young robber, who carried off from France, a beautiful maiden, and detained her in durance vile within his impregnable fortress. The captivity of the lady, however, made a wonderful revolution in the baron’s life. The noise of revelry and arms was superseded by the sounds of the lute—and Yutta became the bride of Sifred. Twelve months of love and happiness flew rapidly round, and Yutta presented her husband with a pledge of their affection—a female child. The mother survived the birth only a few hours. The baron shut himself up in his castle, and dedicated his time to the education of his daughter.
Guerda grew up to the delight of her father’s declining years—and to the relief of wandering pilgrims, who sought refuge in the castle, and who sounded the fame of Guerda’s beauty far and near.
Hosts of suitors now flocked to the castle, but they were referred by Sifred to an approaching tournament at Mayence, where his daughter would select the most valiant knight. Her appearance at the assemblage excited universal admiration; and two knights determined to win her hand—Kuno of Reichenstein, and Conrad of Ehrenfels. The latter was the elder, and of a fierce disposition—the former was evidently preferred by the lady. Notwithstanding prodigies of valour, Kuno was defeated, and Conrad claimed the hand of Guerda. The father received the victor as his future son-in-law; while the dejected Kuno prepared to join an expedition to Palestine. The hapless Guerda was overwhelmed with grief; but her father was inexorable! The day of the nuptials was fixed—the cavalcade, with Guerda, the pallid victim of parental tyranny, mounted on a milk-white steed, proceeded towards the chapel, which was midway between the castle of her father and that of Kuno of Reichenstein. When near the sacred edifice, Guerda’s horse suddenly reared and plunged, endangering the life of the bride. Conrad, while endeavouring to seize the reins, received a dreadful kick from the furious steed, which prostrated him on the ground. The animal immediately darted forward, like an arrow from a bow, and never stopped till he carried the betrothed to the very gate of Kuno’s castle. Her lover, who witnessed this exciting scene, flew to the gate—gave admittance to Guerda—dropped the portcullis—and secured the treasure! Conrad was killed by the blow from the steed, and Sifred soon afterwards gave consent to the nuptials of Kuno and Guerda.
Would that, in every mercenary and ill-assorted match, the bride were mounted on so spirited and sensible a palfrey as that of Guerda, when proceeding to the altar! The runaway marriage of Rheinstein was far preferable to many of those slow and stately processions which attend the contracts of fashionable modern life!
THE RAT OR MOUSE-TOWER.
(Legend the Eleventh.)
It appears that there were corn-laws, or at least corn-monopolists, in days of yore as well as now. A dignitary of the church (not our church), the bishop of Mentz, had well-stored granaries, and fared sumptuously. A time of scarcity arrived. The populace begged for bread; but the bishop would only give them blessings. These would not fill the stomach, and the clamour becoming louder, the bishop waxed wroth. He flung open one of his granaries containing but little grain. The people rushed in—he bolted the doors—and set fire to the building! Murder will be out, sooner or later, and even punished in this world. The rats and the mice took up the cause of their masters. They cut through the floors and ceilings of the palace—nibbled holes in the arras—and poked their little noses through to smell the fat bishop. This was notice to quit, or furnish a cannibal supper for the unwelcome intruders.
“They gnawed the arras above and beneath,
They ate each savoury dish up.
And shortly their sacrilegious teeth
Began to nibble the bishop!”
The holy man betook himself to a tower in the middle of the Rhine; (Tours des Rats) but the nimble little quadrupeds swam across in legions—scaled the tower—and devoured the bishop!
One morning his skeleton there was seen,
By a load of flesh the lighter,
They had picked his bones uncommonly clean,
And eaten his very mitre!
The moral is good, though the tale is improbable. But if the Auto da Fé of the bishop was a romance, the atrocity of the action has too often been surpassed even in our time—and that by “butcherly blockheads” in the cause of bigotry and superstition, though in the name of religion!
I suspect that the moral of the “Mouse or Rat Tower” lies much deeper than is supposed. It seems to indicate that, although the rich and the powerful may sometimes evade the law, they can never escape punishment. The inward monitor cannot be stifled, cross what rivers, seas, or mountains we may—
“Cœlum non animum mutant
qui trans mare currunt.”
which I would liberally translate thus:—
O’er sea and land the guilty flies,
To blunt the stings of conscience keen;
Vain hope! That “worm that never dies,”
Preys on his vitals all unseen!
The mice were meant to represent the conscience of the cruel bishop, from which, neither the streams of the Rhine nor the battlements of the tower could protect him.