ERMESINDE.
Antioch had fallen before the Crusaders’ arms, and the Cross waved from her towers. The joyful tidings were brought to the banks of the Moselle, and bonfires celebrated the event. The pilgrim who had brought this news from over sea was feasted by Ermesinde’s father, and all gathered round him, eagerly catching his words.
He told of the deeds of valour performed by the Christian Knights; and as Ermesinde greedily listened, but feared to question the pilgrim, he mentioned the name of her lover, and highly extolled him, mournfully adding, “Such valour as this Knight showed forth was surpassed by none, but now the grave is closed over his glory.”
Hearing, poor Ermesinde fell as though dead, and lay motionless on the stone floor; then the pilgrim saw by the looks of those present that he had incautiously broken her heart. Further interrogating the pilgrim, Ermesinde’s father only gained a repetition of the first story told him, and other particulars seemed to confirm it.
The walls of Cloister-Machern received the poor broken reed, who offered to heaven a heart that was dead to the world.
Soon poor Ermesinde found that stone walls do not shut out wickedness, nor sombre dresses cover only morality; for in Cloister-Machern the nuns, one and all, led scandalous lives, and mocked her for not joining with them. She resisted their wiles, and sought refuge in prayer.
One evening a pilgrim arrived at the gate, and asked Ermesinde, who answered the bell, to give him refreshment. As a strain of music, once familiar and dear, the sounds smote on the nun’s ear, and with a bewildered look she gazed on the pilgrim’s face; the light fell on her pale features, and the pilgrim exclaimed, “Ermesinde!” One long look into each other’s eyes and time had vanished, care was forgotten, intervening years had rolled away, and Ermesinde and Rupert were in each other’s arms.
Bound by her vows, Ermesinde would not consent to accompany her lover in flight, but she agreed to see him at intervals; and while her sister nuns rioted in the hall she sometimes knelt with Rupert in the chapel, where they prayed for each other’s happiness.
When waiting one night for her lover, an old beggar drew near, and prayed for some food. Ermesinde went in to fetch some, but the others refused her request that the old beggar should be relieved, and coming out to him, they drove him away with threats and abuse.
Then the old beggar turned round, and raising his hand to the heavens, cried out: “Woe be unto you, ye false servants of God! chastisement will soon overtake you.” So saying, he vanished into the dark cloudy night.
Rupert and Ermesinde were kneeling within the chapel when the storm which was threatening burst forth; fire struck from the clouds on the cloister, destroying the nuns in the hall; the chapel alone was preserved.
Ermesinde now was persuaded that she was released from her vows, and soon she pledged them to Rupert, and as his loved wife she worshipped her God and performed all her duties far better than those who uselessly shut themselves up from the world.
A curious old robbers’ nest is still to be seen in the Michaelslei, which is a tall red cliff, a mile or two further on. It consists of a cave, with a strong wall built over its mouth. No path used to lead there, and long ladders were used by the robbers, who, drawing them up after them, were in perfect security.
This castellated cave was once used as a prison, in which an Archbishop was placed; this was the good Bishop Kuno, who was on his road to Trèves, where he was to be installed as Archbishop.
The prebends of Trèves wished not to have Kuno for their Archbishop. They, therefore, excited Count Theodorich, who was governor of their town, to send out armed men and capture the Bishop.
Accordingly, when halting at Kylburg, the Bishop, who was travelling in company with the Bishop of Spires, was seized and carried off to the Michaelslei fortress, and there thrown into a dungeon.
Many days the good Bishop languished in his damp cell. At length four ruffians entered and carried him forth to the top of the rock; there binding his limbs, they addressed him as follows: “We have brought you here to see whether you are, indeed, elected of God; as if so, no harm will befall you.” Thus jeering, they threw him down into the valley; but the Bishop sustaining no hurt, they twice repeated their deed.
Finding he was not thus to be slain, they ended by killing him with their swords, and cut off his head.
The good Bishop was laid in a tomb, and many miracles were there performed. These coming to the ears of the Count Theodorich, his conscience smote him, and he took the cross and proceeded to the Holy Land. The vessel, unable to uphold his guilty weight, sank down, and the waters now shroud the remains of this wicked Count.
Rounding the promontory on which the Wolf’s Cloister is buried in trees, our river’s course turns for awhile in the direction of its source, so much does it wind. The Wolf Cloister is only a ruin, of which but little remains.
At a small chapel near here the Pastor of Traben used to perform a service on each Tuesday after Pentecost, and here gathered crowds from all parts to attend at the ceremony. All were covered with flowers, and the young of both sexes pelted each other with bouquets, and dancing and merriment occupied all. But now, says the narrator (Storck), the convent and the sanctuary are no more; their place is filled with vineyards. The present age respects nothing but gold; popular fêtes, sanctuaries, souvenirs of antiquity, and rustic simplicity, are alike swallowed up, and all is sacrificed for money.
A wonderful story is told of a young lady of these parts. One fine day in summer, a very beautiful girl of the family of Meesen was sitting at her open window, engaged in knitting. She was so occupied with her work or her thoughts, that she did not perceive the fearful storm that was rising over the mountains, until suddenly there came a clap of thunder that shook the whole house. Arising in haste, the “fräulein” endeavoured to shut to the window; but before she could accomplish her object a thunderbolt fell, and striking the metal-work which adorned the laces that fastened her bodice, it passed through her garments, softening the metal clasps of her garters, and partially melting her shoe-buckles; then, without having harmed the fair fräulein, it burst its way out by the floor.[1]
Very high hills are surrounding us as we approach Trarbach, a beautifully wooded slope, and rich cliffs announce a site of more than ordinary beauty; but before we take our evening’s rest in Trarbach we must, landing at Riesbach, climb to the top of Mount Royal.
This fortress was made by Vauban for Louis XIV. It cost an immense sum of money, and people from all parts were collected and forced to work at its ramparts; but sixteen years after its completion it was dismantled in compliance with treaties, and only a few mounds and walls now mark the site.
Splendid views are seen from it on all sides. The river, starting from our feet, appears gliding in all directions; and the evening shadows are filling the valleys and climbing the hills, while the glory of the departing sun hangs yet upon the corn-fields.
MOUNT ROYAL.
Upon the Royal Mount I stood,
The day was waning to its close;
Soon the great “Giver of all good”
Would send to weary man repose.
The glorious brilliancy of day
Now soon would leave the world to rest;
And speed on glowing wings away,
To shine on regions further west.
Beneath my feet, the haunts of men
With many sounds of eve were teeming;
The herds returning home again
Drank where the river’s tide was gleaming.
Beside me were the wrecks of power
That had been grasped by hand of man;
Around me was that evening hour,
Reminding me how short the span
Of life which kingly pomp and pride,
Though strong on earth, yet vainly tries
To lengthen or to set aside,
When dying on his couch he lies.
Throw down thine iron sceptres then, O kings!
Lift up thy feet from off thy people’s necks;
No longer look on fellow-men as things,
Whose toil enriches and whose labour decks
Thy fleeting pomp, thy quickly-passing pride,
Which leaves thee but a worm when life decays;
When no proud robe thy earthly dust shall hide,
And vanished be the pomp of former days.
Like this dead king, whose ruined forts surround,
Lay not up on earth what ye deem glory,
But store that which hereafter may be found
Immortal crowns and thrones to set before ye.
[1] This extraordinary incident is related as a simple matter of fact, which is well known in these parts.