Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands. The Rhine to the Arctic. A Summer Trip of the Zig-Zag Club Through Holland, Germany, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden

“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 Hôtel 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.

“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: —

“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 careAll 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 flameOn 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 fearAt 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.

“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.’

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!”

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 CATHEDRALIn 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 poetHas 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.

CHAPTER X.

NIGHT THE SIXTH

The Beautiful Rhine. – Coblentz. – A Zigzag to Weimar. – Goethe and Schiller. – The Strange Story of Faust. – Faust in Art. – The Seven Mountains. – The Drachenfels. – The Story of the Dragon. – Stories of Frederick the Great. – The Unnerved Hussar

MR. BEAL occupied much of the time this evening. He thus continued the narrative of travel: —

“From St. Goar to Boppard, two stations at which the Rhine boats call, is about an hour’s run; but the journey is an unfailing memory. The rocky walls of the river, the continuous villages, the quaint churches amid the vineyards and cherry orchards, the mossy meadows about the mountains, the white-kerchiefed villagers, present so many varied and delightful objects, that the eye feasts on beauty, and wonders expectantly at what the next turn of the river will reveal. The rock shadows in the water contrast with the bright scenes above the river, and add an impression of grandeur to the effect of the whole, like shadows on the cathedral walls that heighten the effect of the rose-colored windows. Beautiful, beautiful, is the Rhine.

“Grand castles, perched on high cliffs and mountain walls, surprise us, delight us, and vanish behind us, as the boat moves on; – the Brother Castles, Marksburg, the mountain palace Solzenfels, with their lofty, gloomy, and barbaric grandeur, reminding one always of times whose loss the mind does not regret.

“And now a beautiful city comes in view, nestled at the foot of the hills, and protected by a stupendous fortress on the opposite side of the river. The fortress is Ehrenbreitstein, the Gibraltar of the Rhine, capable of holding an army of men. It is a great arsenal now, well garrisoned in peace as in war; in short, it may be called the watch on the Rhine.

“The lovely city under its guns, on the opposite side of the river, is Coblentz. It is a gusset of houses, a V-shaped city, at the confluence of the Rhine and Moselle. The Romans called it the city of the Confluence, or Confluentia; hence, corrupted, it is known as Coblentz.

“It is the half-way city between Cologne and Mayence, and a favorite resting place of tourists. The summer residence of the King of Germany is here.

“From Coblentz we made a détour into the heart of Germany, going by rail to Weimar, once called the Athens of the North. It was once the literary centre of Germany. Here lived Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, and Herder. What the English Lake District, in the days of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Christopher North, and De Quincey was once to England, what Cambridge and Concord have been to America in the best days of its authors and poets, Weimar was to Germany at the beginning of the present century. We went there to visit the tombs and statues of Goethe, and to gain a better knowledge of the works of these poets from the associations of their composition.

“Weimar is a quaint provincial-looking town on the river Ilm. It has some sixteen thousand inhabitants, and is the residence of the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar. The grounds of the palace are wonderfully beautiful. They extend along the river, and communicate with a summer palace called Belvedere.

“We visited the tombs of the two great poets. They are found beneath a small chapel in the Grand Ducal burial vault. The Grand Duke Charles Augustus desired that the bodies of the two poets should be interred one on each side of him: but this was forbidden by the usages of the court.

“In the old Stadtkirche, built in 1400, are the tombs of the ancient dukes, now forgotten. Among them is that of Duke Bernard, who died in 1639. He was the friend of Gustavus Adolphus, and one of the most powerful of the leaders of the Reformation.

“Goethe, the most gifted of the German poets, and the most accomplished man of his age, was born at Frankfort-on-the-Main, in 1749. In 1775 he made the intimate acquaintance of Charles Augustus, Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who induced him to take up his residence at Weimar, the capital. Here he held many public offices, and at last became minister of state. He died at the age of eighty-four.

“Goethe’s most popular work is a novel called The Sorrows of Werther, but his great and enduring work is Faust, a dramatic poem, in which his great genius struggles with the problems of good and evil.

“His life was full of beautiful friendships. In 1787 Schiller, the second in rank of great German poets, was invited to reside at Weimar. Goethe became most warmly attached to him, and the two pursued their high literary callings together. The literary circle now consisted of Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, Herder, and the Grand Duke. It was the golden age of German literature.

THE STRANGE STORY OF FAUST

No myth of the Middle Ages has had so large a growth and so long a life as this.

It has been made the subject of books, pamphlets, and articles almost without number. The Faust literature in Germany would fill a library.

In painting, especially of the Holland school, the dark subject as prominently appears. It is also embodied in sculpture.

But it is in poetry and music that it found a place that carried it over the world. It was made the subject of Marlowe’s drama, of Goethe’s greatest poem, and it is sung in three of the greatest operas of modern times.

But to the legend.

About the year 1490 there was born at Roda, in the Duchy of Saxe-Weimar, a child whose fame was destined to fill the world of superstition, fable, and song. He was named John Faustus, or Faust.

He studied medicine, became an alchemist, and was possessed with a consuming desire to learn the secrets of life and of the spiritual world.

He studied magic, and his thirst for knowledge of the occult sciences grew. He wished to know how to prolong life, to change base metals to gold, to do things at once by the power of the will.

One night, as he was studying, the Evil One appeared before him.

“I will reveal to you all the secrets you are seeking, and will enable you to do anything you wish by the power of the will alone – ”

Dr. Faustus was filled with an almost insane delight.

“ – On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That I shall have your soul in return.”

“When?”

“At the end of twenty-four years – at this time of night – midnight.”

“I shall have pleasure?”

“Pleasure.”

“Gold?”

“Gold.”

“I shall know the secrets of nature?”

“The secrets of nature.”

“I may do what I like at will?”

“At will.”

“I will sign the compact.”

“Sign!”

Faust signed his name to a compact that was to give the Evil One his soul for twenty-four years of pleasure, gold, and knowledge, that were to come to an end at midnight.

“I will give you an attendant,” said the Evil One, “to help you.”

He caused a dark but very elegant gentleman to appear, whom he presented to Faust as Mephistopheles.

Dr. Faustus and Mephistopheles now began to travel into all lands, performing wonders to the amazement of all people wherever they went.

In a wine-cellar at Leipsig, where he and Mephistopheles were drinking, some gay fellows said, —

“Faust, make grapes grow on a vine on this table.”

“Be silent.”

There was dead silence.

A vine began to grow from the table, and presently it bore a bunch of grapes for each of the revellers.

“Take your knives and cut a cluster for each.”

There was an explosion. Faust and Mephistopheles were seen flying out of the window; the window is still shown in Leipsig. The vine had disappeared, and each of the revellers found himself with his knife over his nose, about to cut it off, supposing it to be a cluster of grapes.

The wonders that it is claimed that Dr. Faustus did in the twenty-four years fill volumes. The Faust marvels have gathered to themselves the fables of centuries.

The twenty-four years came to an end at last. Faust became gloomy, and retired to Rimlich, at the inn, among his old friends.

The fatal night came.

“Should you hear noises in my chamber to-night, do not disturb me,” he said, on parting from his companions to go to his room.

Near midnight a tempest arose, – a wild, strange tempest. The winds were like demons. It thundered and the air was full of tongues of lightning.

At midnight there was heard a fearful shriek in Faust’s chamber.