Legends of the Rhine
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Wilhelm Ruland >> Legends of the Rhine
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The Prior made a sign to one of the brothers. Then turning to the monk
he said: "It is almost three hundred years since the death of St.
Bernhard and of Conrad, whom they called the Frank."
The cloister annals were brought; and it was there found that three
hundred years had passed since the days of St. Bernhard. The Prior
also read the following note.
"A doubter disappeared one day from the cloister, and no one ever knew
what became of him."
A shudder ran through the monk's limbs. This was he, this brother
Maurus who had now come back to the cloister after three hundred
years! What the Prior had read sounded in his ears as if it were the
trumpet of the Last Judgment. Three hundred years!
With wide-open eyes he gazed before him, then stretched forth his
hands as if seeking for help. The brothers supported him, observing
him at the same time with secret dismay; his face had become ashy
pale, like that of a dying person, the narrow circle of hair on his
head had become snow-white.
"My brothers," murmured he in a dying voice, "value the imperishable
word of the Lord at all times, and never try to fathom what he in His
wisdom has veiled from us. May my example never be blotted out of your
memory. Only to-day the words of the Psalmist were revealed to me. 'A
thousand years are but as a day in Thy sight.' May he have mercy on
me, a poor sinner." He sank lifeless to the ground, and the brothers,
greatly moved, repeated the prayers for the dead over his body.
The Origin of the Seven Mountains
In olden times the Rhine flowed into a deep mighty lake above the town
of Koenigswinter. Those who then lived near the Eifel Mountains or on
the heights of the Westerwald, were in constant fear of these swelling
waters which often overflowed, causing great destruction in the
country. They began to consider that some great saviour was necessary,
and sent a messenger into the country of the Giants, begging some of
them to come down and bore through the mountain, which prevented the
waters from flowing onward. They would receive valuable presents as a
recompense.
So one day seven giants arrived in their country bringing enormous
spades with them, and with a few good strokes of their tools, they
made a gap in the mountain so that in a few days the water washed
through the gap which visibly became larger. At last the river
streamed through in torrents. The lake gradually dried up and
completely disappeared, and the liberated Rhine flowed majestically
towards the plain.
The Giants looked at their work with satisfaction. The grateful folk
brought them rich treasures, which they had taken out of the mines.
Having divided them fraternally, the Giants shouldered their spades
and went their way. These heaps of rocky ground which they had dug out
were so great, that ever since they have been called the Seven
Mountains, and will remain there until the Giants come again and sweep
them away.
The Nightingale Valley at Honnef
Honnef is one of the most lovely little spots on the earth, nestling
sweetly at the foot of the old Drachenfels. The mountain protects it
from the icy winds of the north, and the breezes blow gently in the
valley, which may be called the German Nice.
When the setting sun reminds the wanderer on the Drachenfels of coming
darkness, and he strolls down through the valley of Honnef, the songs
of numerous nightingales sound in his ears. This has been the
meeting-place of these songsters for many a long year, and there is an
old legend which gives us the reason.
There was a time when they used to sing in the forest round the old
Abbey Himmerode, as they now do in the valley of Honnef.
The pious monks, walking about in the cloister gardens in holy
contemplation heard their seductive songs: the penitents in their
cells, mortifying the flesh heard them also. Their alluring warble
mingled itself with their murmured prayers; and in the heart of many a
monk, who had long since renounced the world and its pleasures, the
remembrance of them was gently awakened, and sweet sinful things were
whispered into the holy brother's ears.
Then one day it happened that St. Bernhard came to the Abbey
Himmerode, to examine the brother's hearts. He was greatly distressed
to find that many a holy soul had turned from the path of peace, and
the cause of this also became known to him. In a violent passion the
holy man strode out into the forest surrounding the cloister, and
raising his hand angrily towards the seductive singers, he cried.
"Go from here! Ye are a curse to us." St. Bernhard had spoken
threateningly, and lo! with a great stir in the branches, a throng of
numberless nightingales rose from the bushes, filled the forest once
more with their glorious song, and fled with a great flapping of
wings.
They settled down in the valley of Honnef, and no excommunication has
driven them from there. Those who wander there are not averse to the
pleasures of the world like St. Bernhard, and every one after his own
manner reads a different meaning in their song.
GODESBERG
The High Cross at Godesberg
If you walk on the high road between Bonn and Godesberg which is not
far distant, you perceive on the left side, shimmering white amid the
green woodland, a high pillar crowned with a cross known as the "High
Cross."
It is a pleasing sight to him who passes by on a bright day; but in
the twilight its glaring white contrasting so sharply with the dark
back ground, makes a dismal impression on him, which is still more
enhanced by the legend told about it.
The story leads us back to the time when instead of the grey ruins, a
proud stronghold near Godesberg looked down into the wonderful valley
of the Rhine. An old knight lived there, who was well known far and
near for his bravery and generosity. His beloved wife had died,
leaving him two sons.
The elder was the very image of his mother in body and mind; he had
gentle childlike manners, and it was therefore natural that the
father's eye rested with more pleasure on him than on the younger son
who was very daring, and in spite of his youth had already gone after
strange, and not always honourable adventures. Yet the old father did
not grieve much on his account, hoping that the sooner the reckless
youth emptied his cup of pleasure, the sooner he would come to the
bitter dregs. Then like others he would surely become more serious,
and would yet fulfil the longing desire of his late mother. She had
fervently wished to see him when a man adorned with St. Mathern's
ring, which the bishops of Cologne wore, while Erich, the elder,
should become lord of Godesberg Castle.
The father's thoughts lingered with pleasure on the pleasant prospects
of his sons' future. He sent up many a fervent prayer to heaven for
the fulfilment of his desires, well knowing that the spirit of his
beloved wife supported him at the throne of the Almighty with her own
supplications.
The old knight often spoke to his younger son about his vocation in
life, but always observed with disappointment that his son avoided any
allusion to the subject.
When the father felt his death approaching, he imparted once more his
wish to his two sons, that the elder should become master of the
castle, and the younger, bishop of Cologne. With a blessing for them
on his lips, he closed his eyes for ever.
His death was sincerely deplored by all the poor people of the
neighbourhood.
* * * * *
Some time after the two brothers sat as usual in the high
banqueting-hall of Godesberg. It was a very dismal meal, for they sat
opposite to each other, the elder with reproachful looks, the younger
with knitted brows.
"I only took what the ancient law of my fathers bestowed upon me,"
said the elder mildly but firmly, in answer to some harsh words of his
companion. "I am not master, but only manager of the family
possessions. All our ancestors whose pictures look down on us in this
hall would curse me, if I did not take good care of their legacy. But
you, my dear brother, will receive a higher gift than a castle. You,
the offspring of a noble race, shall become a worthy servant of our
Saviour."
"Never!" burst forth the younger one in passionate eloquence "never
will I bow my neck to an unjust law that compels one to take up arms,
and another meekly to accept a monk's cassock. If they offered me now
a bishop's ring or a cardinal's hat, I would not become a priest, I
shall remain a knight."
The elder brother listened sorrowfully to this headstrong speech. "May
God, whom you thus blaspheme, enlighten your dark heart. I would
willingly share with you whatever I possess, but our father's will
forbids it. Therefore bend your proud neck humbly, and beware of the
judgment that will fall on him who despises the will of his dying
father."
* * * * *
Hunting horns and trumpets sounded through the green forest which
extended at that time from the town of Godesberg to the gates of Bonn.
This huge wood abounded in noble game.
The two brothers were indulging together in the pleasures of the
chase, as they had done so often in their father's life-time. Count
Erich had gladly accepted his brother's invitation to accompany him.
He was only too glad to see how his dark mood had changed in the last
few days and given way to greater cheerfulness. It appeared to Lord
Erich as if his brother had come to reason, and after all had made up
his mind to fulfil their parents' wish. He believed all the more in
the happy change when he heard that his brother intended presenting
himself to the Archbishop of Cologne, in order to deliver a letter of
great importance from his late father to him.
Count Erich's heart was glad. He roamed joyfully through the forest,
and his gladness seemed to increase his good luck in the sport.
Several gigantic boars were pierced through by a spear sent from his
hand. A deer also met with a similar doom.
The younger brother's success was on the contrary very meagre. His
hand was unsteady and his whole bearing betrayed restlessness. A
strange subdued fire gleamed in his eyes.
While he was following the trail of a mighty boar, Count Erich met him
and offered to pursue the animal in his company.
They hunted through thorns and thicket, accompanied by the yelping
hounds. Suddenly the foliage rustled, and the boar was seen to break
wildly through the bushes. A spear from the younger brother whirred
towards the beast, but missed its aim and remained sticking in the
bark of an oak.
"Your hand is more fit to bless pious Christians," said Count Erich
with a smile.
"But still fit enough to rid me of an inconvenient brother!" muttered
the younger brother between his teeth, and tearing his hunting knife
rapidly from his belt, he plunged the two-edged steel into his
brother's breast. A terrible cry at the same time rang through the
forest, and the murderer fled in haste.
Two attendants of the Count who were hunting close by, hearing the cry
came running to see what was the matter, and found Lord Erich lying in
his blood, dying. They bent down over him to see if they could help
him, but alas! it was too late. The man, mortally wounded, was beyond
the reach of human aid. With a last effort he opened his lips,
muttered lowly but audibly the words, "My brother!" then sank back and
closed his eyes for ever.
The terrible news that the Lord of Godesberg had been foully murdered
by his own brother, spread swiftly through the country. Mourning again
filled the castle on the mountain, when they carried the body of the
poor slain man to his untimely grave. They buried him in the family
vault next to the recent grave of his father.
From that time the castle stood desolate. The next relative of the
noble family, who lived in a lovely part of the Rhine valley near the
Palatinate, avoided a place where such an unheard of crime had been
committed. Only an old man kept watch in the empty castle. But even he
was soon compelled to leave it. One night the high tower was struck by
lightning and the whole building burnt down. Nothing remained but
blackened ruins, looking mournfully on the gay landscape beneath.
* * * * *
Years went by after this crime. Nobody heard or saw anything of the
murderer. He seemed to have totally disappeared. Some people however
whispered that on the day of the black deed, a man was seen fleeing
from the forest of Godesberg. He was pale and ghastly looking, and
darted off, not caring which way he went. It was he who on the
previous day had fostered in his burning brain the longing desire to
take possession of his brother's heritage, and now he was a murderer,
and bore Cain's mark on his forehead.
The unfortunate youth had rashly contrived this hellish plan to rid
himself of his brother and to become lord of Godesberg. His plan was
to kill him while hunting, and then make the people believe that he
had aimed at a boar and hit his brother accidentally instead. But when
his victim sank down in agony, the knife dropped from his murderous
hand, his courage failed him, and he felt himself driven from the wood
as if chased by a demon.
After many years had come and gone, a tired wanderer once knocked at
the door of the cloister of Heisterbach, which had been erected by St.
Benedict's pious disciples in a remote valley of the Seven Mountains.
The man who desired admission looked more like a beggar than a
pilgrim. His garments hung torn and ragged round his thin body, and
his face was deeply furrowed by marks of long and cruel suffering.
"Have pity on me," said he in a trembling voice, "I come from the Holy
Sepulchre, my feet will bear me no further." The door-keeper was
moved, and retired to inform the Abbot of the poor man's request. He
received permission to bring him in. When the beggar appeared before
the Abbot, he fell on his knees and renewed his demand for food and
rest. For some moments the monk looked penetratingly at the man before
him, then a sign of recognition passed over his face, and he cried
out. "Good heavens! is it you Sir Knight?" The pilgrim trembled,
prostrated himself before the Abbot, and embraced his knees in
overwhelming grief. "Have mercy on me," exclaimed he, "it was I who
twenty years ago slew my brother in the forest of Godesberg. During
twenty long years I tried to atone for my cursed deed and obtain
forgiveness and peace. As a pilgrim I cried for mercy at the grave of
him whom I murdered; as a slave of the Infidels, under the weight of
heavy chains I prayed incessantly for God's mercy, but I cannot find
peace. Three months ago the fetters were struck from my hands, and I
have again come home, weary unto death. You, oh worthy Abbot, have
known me from a child. Let me rest within the walls of this cloister,
that I may daily see the castle where I was an innocent child. I will
pray and do penance until death releases me from my wretched life."
The Abbot felt intense pity for the unhappy man. He bent down, laid
his hands on him, and blessed him.
* * * * *
For many years the poor penitent remained in the cloister trying to
atone for his crime with fervent prayers and hard penance. At last God
in His grace called him away, and the repenting sinner died hopeful of
Heaven's forgiveness. The monks buried him in a shady place in their
cloister garden.
BONN
Lord Erich's Pledge
On the Klochterhof at Friesdorf near Bonn, a nobleman once lived, who
was well known in the whole Rhine valley as a great tippler.
Once Lord Erich had indulged with great relish in the noble sport of
the chase in the forest that surrounded the neighbouring town of
Godesberg. The day was hot, the chase unsuccessful and rather tedious
for him, as he was more than usually tormented by a mighty thirst.
The sun had set and his last golden rays were glittering on the waves
of the Rhine, when Lord Erich shouldered his blunderbuss and turned
homeward with a small bag, consisting of one fat hare.
In those days one small inn (now they can be counted by the dozen)
stood on the margin of the large forest of Godesberg. There Lord Erich
entered to rest his tired limbs, but principally to quench his great
thirst. He gave the hare to the landlady, that she might prepare it
with skilful hands, and ordered a flowing bumper of golden Rhine wine
which he emptied at one deep draught. I am sure that the juice of the
grapes must have been far better then, than it is now-a-days.
The landlady soon prepared the game and placed the tempting meal
before the hungry hunter, who enjoyed it thoroughly. But he
appreciated still more the delicious, cool wine offered to him.
One glass after the other was swallowed by the thirsty Lord of
Klochterhof, and the landlord marked just as many charcoal strokes on
the door-post.
When night approached, the noble hunter began to think of returning
home. Sitting there had been agreeable and comfortable, but he found
it very difficult to get up and walk.
The landlord, perceiving his guest's preparations to take his leave,
came forward and said in rather a rough tone, being an outspoken
fellow: "Twelve bottles, my lord, don't forget to pay before you go."
Lord Erich who was standing very unsteadily on his legs, muttered in a
thick voice but very good-humouredly, "Dear landlord, I could pay you
if I had loaded my blunderbuss with money, but I did not."
With this cheerful response he turned to go.
The landlord was exceedingly aggravated at this careless answer. His
face grew quite purple with anger. "If you have no money, my lord, I
shall keep your trousers till you are able to pay for the twelve
bottles." So saying he took hold of the tipsy man. Whether he liked it
or not, Lord Erich was obliged to leave his inexpressibles with the
inexorable landlord, and to walk home without them.
The firs in the wood shook their heads in disapproval at such a
strange attire.
It is not known if Lord Erich ever came back to the inn to redeem his
nether garments.
The Roman Ghosts
Before the gates of the old Roman town of Bonn rises a mountain of
moderate height, called Kreuzberg, or "Crossmountain."
In early mediaeval times pious pilgrims went to this sacred place, in
order to kneel on the holy steps of the old convent church so rich in
memories of the martyrs, or to pray in the chapel. On the same spot at
the beginning of the fourth century, the great saints of the Theban
legion, Cassius, and his companions Florentius and Melusius, died for
the Christian faith.
These martyrs were the guardian saints of the country round Bonn. Many
a prayer sent up to them had graciously been fulfilled, since the time
when St. Helena, the pious mother of Constantine, erected a chapel to
their honour on Kreuzberg.
Once upon a time a simple peasant from the neighbouring country went
on a pilgrimage to St. Cassius' burial place.
He came to ask the kind martyr for assistance in his distress.
Dransdorf was his village, formerly called Trajan's village, because
the general, who later on became Emperor Trajan, is said to have had a
villa there.
A bad harvest had brought troubles on the peasant, but he firmly
believed that through the intercession of St. Cassius he would receive
money enough in one way or another to enable him to pay his many
debts.
On arriving at Kreuzberg, he began his religious exercises by
confessing his sins to one of the monks belonging to the order of St.
Francis. Then according to custom he knelt in succession on one sacred
step after the other till he reached the chapel. His wife had
carefully put a candle in his pocket which he now lighted before the
image of St. Cassius. Having thus fulfilled all the duties prescribed
by the church, he turned homewards, well content with himself.
When he crossed the principal square of the town, where already at the
time the magnificent Minster stood, he entered this church to pray
once more, and to put another coin into the poor-box.
Twilight was creeping through the aisles, and a pilgrimage being not
at all an easy thing, our peasant soon fell asleep over his
prayer-book.
He only awoke, when, somebody pulled him by his sleeve. It was the
sexton with a big bunch of keys.
At first the peasant gazed drowsily at the unwelcome intruder, then
with astonished eyes he looked round about him, until at last it
dawned upon him, that he must get up and leave the church. Rousing
himself he made the sign of the cross, and left the Minster with
tottering steps. The night winds rustled in the old limetrees of the
square and seemed to whisper strange tales into the ears of the late
wanderer.
The peasant crossed the open space sulkily, and steered his way
towards the Sternthor, which led to Dransdorf. An ancient Roman tower,
the remains of the high fortifications erected by the soldiers of
Drusus eighteen hundred years ago, stands in the narrow lane, leading
from the minster-square to the Sternthor. To the tired wanderer this
tower seemed a splendid shelter, all the more so, as it would not cost
him a penny.
He entered it, and tired out with the weary day, he was soon fast
asleep as if he had never been stirred up from the bench in the
Minster. No sexton with noisy keys was to be feared, and yet in his
sleep the countryman had the sensation of somebody tapping him on the
shoulder. He sat up and looked round. To his amazement he beheld a
magnificent warrior standing before him, clad in a coat of mail with a
Roman helmet on his head. Two companions in similar array stood by his
side.
They nodded genially down to him, and it struck him that he had
already seen them somewhere else. After some moments he remembered the
pictures of St. Cassius and his friends in the chapel on Kreuzberg.
There was no doubt the three holy martyrs stood in person before him.
Our good peasant was so much awed at this discovery that he could not
utter a word, but on a sign from his mysterious visitors, he followed
them at a respectful distance.
They marched towards the Sternthor, straight into the building, the
walls of which were as thick as the rooms were long in the peasant's
humble little cottage. In the middle of a high vault there was a table
covered with sparkling gold.
At this unusual sight the peasant opened his eyes very widely indeed;
but his astonishment changed into keen delight when one of his ghostly
visitors filled his left pocket and another his right with the
glittering metal. Meanwhile the third man took a tumbler from the
middle of the table, and presented it to him with an encouraging
smile.
He thought their language was very much like that which the vicar of
the village church used in reading the service. Though the simple man
could not understand a word of their conversation, he interpreted the
kind invitation quite correctly, and shouting out a merry, "Vivat!" as
a salute to his hosts, he emptied the tumbler at one big draught.
The whole building resounded with the echo, "Vivat!" The three
warriors looked pleased and answered in a cheerful voice, "Vivat,
Vivat!"
All at once it seemed to the peasant as if the vault was filled with a
multitude of Roman soldiers who all called out to him, "Vivat!" as if
happy to hear a sound of their native language in the country of the
north.
The man from Dransdorf became quite high-spirited, and kept on
shouting, "Vivat, Vivat!" Suddenly startled by the noise he made, he
awoke and found himself lying on the floor of the Roman tower in the
Sterngasse.
The events of the night only seemed to him like a strange dream. But
when he felt in his pockets he found them stuffed with real golden
coins of a strange ancient stamp.
Our friend's joy became quite uproarious. After having sent up a
heartfelt thanksgiving to St. Cassius, he gave vent to his delight by
shouting through the quiet streets at the top of his voice, "Vivat,
Vivat!"
A watchman stood on duty by the Sternthor, when the jocund peasant
passed by. He made a step forward and, reaching out his arm, he gave
the merry man a rude knock with his lance. Unmindful of this rough
admonition, the peasant related the event in the Roman tower to the
watchman, and finished his story by inviting the stern man of duty to
an early draught at the nearest inn.
Rumours of the wonderful events spread far and wide, and soon every
town and village knew the tale. The small lane leading from the
Minstersquare to the Sternthor was called "Vivat" lane, and bears that
name to the present day.
Some years ago a heavy winter gale destroyed the old Roman tower that
had so long withstood the vicissitudes of time. The people of Bonn
however did not wish to obliterate the memory of this curious story,
and therefore named the street running parallel with "Vivat"
lane--"Cassius Graben."
COLOGNE
Richmodis of Aducht
It was about the middle of the fifteenth century.
The shadows of death hovered above the holy City of Cologne. A strange
figure in dark garments hurried with quick steps through the streets
and lanes. It was the plague. Its poisonous breath penetrated into
cottages and palaces, extinguishing the lives of many thousands.
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