Legends of the Rhine

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The grave-diggers marked innumerable houses with a black cross, to
warn the passers-by that the destroying angel had entered there. The
roll of the dead rose to such numbers that it was impossible to bury
them all in the customary manner. Therefore the bodies of the
unfortunate people were thrown together into a common grave, covered
only scantily with earth and marked with a plain wooden cross.

Woe and sorrow thus filled the old City of Cologne.

On the New-market, close to the Church of the Apostles, in a splendid
mansion, the rich Magistrate, Mengis of Aducht lived. Wealth could not
save his house from the dreadful epidemic, his youthful and lovely
wife, Richmodis, was seized with the plague and died. The grief of her
lord was boundless. He passed the whole night by the remains of his
beloved spouse, dressed her himself in the white wedding gown she had
worn as a happy bride a few years before, decorated the coffin with
sweet white flowers, and covered her with the precious jewels and
costly rings she had loved so much. Then she was buried.

Night approached, and the clear starry sky looked peacefully down on
the afflicted town.

Perfect stillness prevailed in God's acre.--Suddenly a jarring sound
like the opening of an old rusty lock was heard, and two dark shadows
glided among the graves, on and on till they stopped before the fresh
mound which enclosed the body of Richmodis of Aducht.--Those two knew
the spot, and well they might, for they were the grave-diggers, and
had prepared this grave themselves on the previous day.

They were present when the lid of the coffin was screwed down, and had
with hungry looks coveted the glittering precious stones Richmodis was
to be buried with.

Now they had come to rob the dead body. With spade and shovel the
wreaths and flowers were quickly removed from the mound, the earth dug
up, and the coffin laid bare. In feverish haste, spurred on by their
greed, they burst the lid open, and the dim light of their lantern
fell full on the mild pale face of the dead woman. With haste the
bolder of the two wretches loosened the white waxen hands folded
together as in prayer, and tried to tear off the rings.

Suddenly the body quivered, and the white hands spread out. Aghast
the robbers dropped their tools, scrambled in utmost terror out of the
grave, and fled as if chased by the furies.

A painful long sigh rose from the depth of the grave, and after some
time the white form of Richmodis who had been buried alive, emerged
from the tomb.

With wide open eyes, full of horror, she looked down into the ghastly
bed she had just left.--Could it really be true, or was it only a
frightful dream?

God's acre was silent, but for the rustling of the autumn leaves of
the weeping willows. Stillness of death everywhere!--No answer came to
her faint cry for help.--The horror of her situation however wakened
her declining strength. She took up the lantern which the robbers had
left behind them and with feeble steps reached the entrance of the
churchyard.

The streets were desolate. The stars overhead alone perceived the
slowly moving form, every now and then resting against the walls of
the houses.--At last she reached the New-market and stood before the
door of her home. Dark and quiet it seemed. But from the window in the
magistrate's room a faint light shone forth. A quiver ran through the
frame of the poor wife, and a wild longing desire seized her to be
sheltered by his loving arms and to feel in his embrace that she had
really returned to life again.

With a last effort she seized the knocker, and listened with newly
awakened hope to the tapping sound which rang clear through the night.

A few minutes elapsed. Then an old servant peeping out of the window
in the door, perceived the white ghostly figure of his late mistress.
Horror seized him, his hair stood on end. Richmodis called him by his
name and begged him to open the door. At the sound of her voice the
old man started, ran upstairs, dashed into his master's room uttering
incoherent sounds, and stammering: "O Lord, the dead rise; outside
stands our good Mistress and demands entrance!" But the Magistrate
shook his head in deep grief: "Richmodis, my beloved wife is dead and
will never return, never, never," he repeated in unspeakable sorrow;
"I will rather believe that my two white horses will burst from their
halters in the stable and mount the stairs to the tower."

A terrible sound suddenly filled the quiet house, a noise like thunder
was heard, and Mengis of Aducht and his servant saw the two white
steeds tearing and tramping in haste upstairs.

A moment later two horses looked out of the tower windows into the
night, and shortly afterwards the Magistrate laughing and crying with
joy at the same time, held in his arms his wife who had returned from
the grave.

For many years Richmodis lived happily with her husband, surrounded by
several lovely children. Deep piety remained the motive power of
Richmodis' being, and nobody ever saw her smile again.

If you come to Cologne, reader, you will still see the old house of
the Aduchts at the New-market, with two white wooden horses' heads
looking out of the top window.

The Goblins

This story goes back to the "good old times" of which we modern people
always speak with a sigh of regret.

It was then when good-natured goblins appeared to mortal eyes, and
tried to render the life of the troubled human race a little more
cheerful. In groves and dens they had magnificent dwellings and
watched there over the enormous mineral treasures of the earth.

Often these beneficent elves were busy miners or sometimes clever
artisans. We all know that they manufactured the precious trinkets and
arms of the Nibelungen treasure.

Deep in the interior of the earth they lived happily together, ruled
over by a king. They could be called the harmless friends of darkness,
because they were not allowed to come into broad daylight. If they did
so, they were transformed into stones.

The goblins did not always remain underground. On the contrary they
often came to the earth's surface through certain holes, called
goblin-holes, but they always avoided meeting man.

Alas! the advance of civilisation has driven these friendly spirits
gradually from the places where they used to do so much good. None of
us, I am sure has ever had the good luck of meeting one of them.

The goblins were of different sizes. Sometimes they were as small as
one's thumb, sometimes as large as the hand of a child of four years
old. The most remarkable feature of these tiny figures was the
enormous head and the pointed hump that so often adorned their backs.
Their look was on the whole more comical than ugly. German people used
to call them "Heinzchen" or "Heinzelmaennchen."

A long time ago the good town of Cologne was inhabited by a host of
dwarfs, and the honest population knew a great many stories about
them. The workmen and artisans especially had, through the assistance
of the little wights, far more holidays than are marked in the
calendar.

When the carpenters, for instance, were lying on their benches in
sweet repose, those little men came swiftly and stealthily along, they
took up the tools and chiselled and sawed and hammered with a will,
and thus, records the poetical chronicles which I am quoting, before
the carpenters woke up, the house stood there finished.

In the same way things went on with the baker. While his lads were
snoring, the little goblins came to help. They groaned under the load
of heavy corn-sacks, they kneaded and weighed the flour, lifted and
pushed the bread into the oven, and before the lazy bakers opened
their eyes, the morning bread, brown and crisp, was lying in rows on
the table.

The butchers too could speak of similar agreeable experiences. The
good little men chopped, mixed and stirred with all their might, and
when the drowsy butcher opened his eyes at last, he found the fresh,
steaming sausages adorning the walls of his shop.

The cooper enjoyed also the help of the busy dwarfs, and even the
tailor could not complain of the goblins having neglected him.

Once Mr. Cotton, a clever tailor, had the honour of making a Sunday
coat for the mayor of the town. He worked diligently at it, but you
can easily imagine that in the heat of the summer afternoon, the
needle soon dropped from his hand, and he fell fast asleep.
Hush!--look there. One little goblin after the other crept cautiously
from his hiding place.

They climbed on the table and began the tailor's work, and stitched
and sewed and fitted and pressed, as if they had been masters of the
needle all their lives.

When Master Cotton awoke, he found to his great joy the mayor's Sunday
coat ready made, and so neatly and well done that he could present the
magnificent garment with pride to the head of the town.

The pretty wife of Mr. Cotton looked at this masterpiece of her
husband's art with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

In the night when her husband had fallen asleep, she rose from her bed
without making the slightest noise, and scattered pease all over the
floor of the workshop; she then put a half-finished suit on the table.
She kept a small lantern hidden under her apron, and waited behind
the door listening. Soon after the room was full of little men all
tumbling, falling, and slipping over the pease. Yells and screams rose
at the same time. The poor little men were indeed much bruised and
hurt. Without stopping they ran downstairs and disappeared.

The tailor's wife heard the noise, and thought it good sport. When the
yells were loudest, she suddenly opened the door to see her visitors,
but she came too late. Not a single goblin was left behind.

Since that time the friendly dwarfs have never more been seen in
Cologne, and in other places also they have entirely disappeared.

Jan and Griet

[Illustration: Jan und Griet--Steinbild am Jan von Werth-Denkmal in
Koeln]

"There lived at Cologne on the old farm of Kuempchenshof a peasant who
had a maid called Griet and a man-servant called Jan."

Thus begins the old well-known Rhenish song of "Jan van Werth," the
celebrated general of the imperial cavalry at the time when the Swedes
and French were taking advantage of the civil war in Germany. But
nobody except the inhabitants of the holy City of Cologne, knows that
Jan van Werth was originally a simple labourer, and that he was
indebted for his luck in life to his bad luck in love.

Jan was an industrious farmer-boy with an upright character and a
handsome face.

Many a girl would not have rejected him as a sweetheart, but Jan's
tender heart had long been captivated by the good looks of pretty
Griet, the comely maid of the Kuempchenshof. His love could not long
remain a secret. One day he confessed to her with sobs that he loved
her dearly, and would with pleasure work and toil for her twice as
much as he then did for his master. He spoke long and earnestly, and
taking courage with every word he uttered, he at last put to her the
all-important question--would she become his wife?

Laughingly the pretty girl put her round arms akimbo, tossed her head
back and looked at her honest suitor with a mocking twinkle in her
eyes. Then she shook her head energetically and said: "You are only a
farmer's labourer, my dear boy, and will remain one most probably all
your life. True, it is not your fault, but all the same I should
prefer to marry a rich farmer with cows and oxen and horses."

Bitter anger rose in Jan's breast on hearing her talk so heartlessly,
but he controlled himself. "Just as you like," he said sadly, and
turned away from the haughty maid.

From that day he could not endure any longer the life at the farm, and
pocketing his wages, he said good-bye for ever to the Kuempchenshof and
became a soldier.

It was a furious war in which the German Emperor was engaged against
the enemies of his country, and brave soldiers were rare. Any valiant
warrior might distinguish himself and become an officer at that time.

The farmer-boy, Jan, soon won by his bravery and intrepidity the
esteem of his superiors, and was promoted to the rank of colonel. Once
when fighting against the Swedish troops he showed such determination
and courage that he won the battle. After this brilliant act he was
made a general. But the name of Jan van Werth became even more famous
when he beat the French in a skirmish at Tuettlingen.

In another way also his good luck reconciled him to the first bitter
disappointment caused for by Griet's scornful answer. He married a
lovely and noble young lady, who was very proud of becoming the wife
of such a celebrated general.

Let us now look back and see what happened in the meantime to Griet.
She had waited month after month and year after year for the rich
farmer. But the longed-for suitor never made his appearance. Even in
those by-gone days red cheeks and bright eyes were much less thought
of than ducats and glittering gold.

As time went on Griet grew old, and though she would now have been
content with a simple man for her sweetheart, not even such a one
condescended to ask her to become his wife.

Little by little Griet gave up all hopes of ever marrying, and had to
look out for a living to keep her in her old age from starving.
Therefore she started a fruit stall at one of the large gateways of
Cologne.

One day the good inhabitants of this town were in great excitement,
and crowded in their best Sunday-clothes round the gate of St.
Severin, where Griet sat at her apple-stall. They had come to meet Jan
van Werth, the celebrated general, who was returning victorious at the
head of his regiment.

There he was sitting on a powerful charger which was gorgeously
covered with gilded trappings. On his fine head Jan wore a
broad-brimmed hat with a flowing feather. Behind him rode his splendid
soldiers. The body-guard of the town beat the drum enthusiastically,
and the Cologne people called out: "Long live our Jan van Werth!"

When the celebrated general passed the gate, he stopped his horse
just in front of Griet's apple baskets, and looking down upon the old
wrinkled woman, met her questioning glance with an odd smile. "Ah
Griet," said he slowly; "whoever would have thought it?" At the sound
of his voice an expression of sudden recognition passed over her worn
features, and she muttered sorrowfully, but still audibly to the proud
rider, "Oh, Jan, if I had only known it!"

A magnificent monument in the form of the statue of Jan van Werth now
stands in the centre of the old market of Cologne.

It was erected there in memory not only of the heroic deeds of the
brave general, but also as a warning to all Cologne maidens not to
reject their suitors because they are poor, for one day, like Jan van
Werth, they may become famous, and then they will not, like Griet,
have to sigh over things that "might have been."

The Cathedral-Builder of Cologne

It was at Cologne in the year 1248 on the eve of the Ascension day of
our Lord.

Before the mighty Archbishop Kunrad of Hochstaden stood a simple
architect offering the plan of a church, and arrogantly boasting that
it would become one of the most beautiful cathedrals in Christendom.
That man was Master Gerhard of Ryle.

The Archbishop was greatly astonished at the grandeur of the design,
and ordered the execution of the bold plan without delay.

On the square which was selected for the erection of the new
cathedral, another church had once been standing under the reign of
the first king of the Franks, but it had been destroyed by the
Normans.

Now again gigantic masonry, slender pillars, bold vaults and arches
rose to unite into a proud dome.

Everybody admired the humble man, whose creative genius now employed
thousands of industrious workmen, and Master Gerhard's name was
mentioned with great praise at home and abroad.

When the choir was finished, crowds of pious pilgrims came from the
surrounding suburbs and even from a distance to pray before the
relics of the three holy kings which where enshrined there. Hymns of
praise re-echoed through the unfinished aisles.

Everybody rejoiced. But he, who ought to have been the most glad, was
sad, and dark forebodings damped his spirits. The question if after
all he would live to see his proud building finished, or if cruel fate
would tear him away before he should have tasted the sweetness of
triumph, tormented him day and night. His young wife saw with grief
the change in his disposition; but she tried in vain by tender words
and caresses to smooth his sorrowful brow.

The more he was troubled by his gloomy thoughts, the more he urged his
workmen on.--Four years had elapsed; it was now 1252. The tower on the
north side rose already proudly into the air. The scaffolding reached
higher and higher every day.

One day Master Gerhard stood beside the big crane, watching how the
gigantic blocks of stone taken from the quarries at the Drachenfels,
were lifted up. He thought with pride and satisfaction that his work
was going on well; and that he surely would see it finished. While
thus meditating he did not observe that a stranger stood by his side
watching him with an ugly sneer. A burning red cloak hung round his
tall figure, a gold chain glittered on his breast, and a cock's
feather nodded from a quaint velvet cap. He introduced himself to the
somewhat surprised builder as a fellow-architect. "You are building a
lovely church," he then said, "but I created a far more magnificent
mansion, long long years ago. Its stone will never crumble to dust,
and it will resist the influence of time and weather forever." In
saying this, his eyes glittered strangely under his shaggy brows. This
presumptuous speech did not please Master Gerhard, and without
answering he measured the bold speaker scornfully from head to foot.

"Your church," continued the stranger, "will be a very lovely
building, but don't you think that such an enterprise is far too
audacious for mortal man. You, Master Gerhard, you ought to have known
at the time when you laid the foundation stone of your church that you
never would see your work finished."

"Who is likely to prevent it?" angrily burst forth the builder. No one
had ever dared to use such language towards him, nor to wound his
pride so keenly. "Death," coolly replied the stranger. "Never," cried
Master Gerhard in a great fury, "I will finish what I began, and would
even bet with the devil himself to do so."

"Hallo!" laughed the stranger grimly. "I should like to deal with such
an audacious man as you, and make bold to bet with you that I will, in
a shorter space of time, finish the digging of a canal from Treves to
Cologne, fill it with water, and have merry ducks swimming on it, than
you will take to complete your church."

"So be it!" said Master Gerhard very much startled, taking the
outstretched hand of the strange man. At the touch of his cold
fingers, a sensation of horror crept into the heart of Master Gerhard.
But the red-cloaked man burst into a yelling laugh and cried out in a
formidable voice, "Remember we betted for your soul." Utmost terror
seized the trembling architect, cold perspiration stood on his brow,
and he tried in vain to utter a word.

Suddenly a storm rose, the stranger unfolded his red cloak, and was
lifted from the ground in a cloud of dust and vanished.

From that day the mind of Master Gerhard grew more and more gloomy. He
kept on wandering restlessly on the scaffoldings of the building. The
more he considered the huge dimensions of the cathedral, the more
doubtful he felt as to whether he would be able to finish it or not.

By daybreak he could be seen among his workmen, and till late in the
evening he wandered about on the building-ground, praising the
industrious and blaming the idle. He looked out anxiously sometimes in
the direction of Treves to see if he could discern anything uncommon
there. But he never saw the slightest change, nor any sign that the
stranger with whom he had betted, had really begun his canal in
earnest, and he looked more hopefully into the future.

One day he was standing as usual on the top of one of the completed
towers, when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. Turning round, he
beheld with disagreeable surprise the ghostly stranger. Was he a
master of the black art or was he the devil himself? "Well, Master
Gerhard," began the unwelcome visitor, "how are you getting on with
your work? I see it is making good progress. Happily I shall soon
have finished my canal, else I should run the risk of losing my bet."

"I can scarcely believe your boasting speech," answered the builder
scornfully, "because I do not perceive the slightest trace of your
having begun the canal." "Know, my dear man, that I am worth more than
a hundred workmen together and, as I told you, my work is nearly
ready," said the man in red.

"Really," said Master Gerhard a little startled, "I should like to
know what magic power could enable you to do so."

"Come and follow me," replied the stranger, taking the builder by the
hand. Off they flew through the air with the quickness of lightning,
and reached the earth in the district near Treves in a few seconds. At
the place where they descended, a spring arose from the ground and
sent its crystal waters into an opening in a rock. "Come with me,"
said the magic stranger, and bending down he disappeared in this
opening.

Master Gerhard followed him and came into a high glittering grotto,
where he perceived that the water gushed tumultuously into the mouth
of a black underground channel.

"You see," said the stranger, "how well I have used my time. If you
have the heart for it, we will follow the waters, and see how far my
canal reaches already."

Scarcely had he uttered these words, than a mysterious power seized
both and pushed them forward with tremendous rapidity. Master Gerhard
saw now with terror that the work of the Evil One was indeed not
far from its completion, for when they emerged from the dark canal,
they had the City of Cologne lying close before them. The
cathedral-builder could no longer doubt the great skill of his rival,
and he felt sure that he would lose his bet. The red-cloaked man
seemed to take great delight in the builder's discomfiture, and he
said with an ugly grin:

"Well, Master Gerhard, I see you have found more than you expected. I
am sure you would like to see the merry ducks which shall swim on my
brook, according to our bet."

He clapped his hands three times and then listened. Some minutes
passed, but no ducks appeared. The stranger's face assumed an
expression of rage, when he found his summons unsuccessful. He tried
again but in vain. After this he gave a frightful yell, and vanished
all at once, leaving nothing behind him but a smell of sulphur.

The cathedral-builder had looked on in wonder, and new hope began to
fill his heart, that after all he could win the bet.

"I know well, why the ducks won't appear," thought he, "but I shall
never betray my secret to him."

After this adventurous journey, Master Gerhard was a prey to
melancholy.

He was seen oftener than before on the building ground. It was
impossible for him to doubt any longer, that the stranger with whom he
had made the fatal bet, was the devil himself. The unfortunate man
was well aware that not only was his life at stake, but that the
salvation of his soul was likewise in danger, should the master of
hell carry out his work.

There was only one little hope left for him, namely, that the devil
would be unable to find out how to keep the ducks alive while they
were swimming through the long underground channel. So Master Gerhard
took courage, saying to himself: "He cannot win and I know why."

His young wife was strangely moved at her husband's silence and
melancholy. She tried by increased tenderness and love to unstop his
silent lips and to make him tell what was lying so heavily on his
heart.

He appreciated her endeavours to cheer him very much, but could not be
brought to tell of his dealings with the Evil One, and so he kept his
secrets to himself.

One day, not long after the mysterious journey of Master Gerhard, a
stranger, apparently a scholar, entered the architect's house, while
he was as usual on the building ground. A scarlet cloak enveloped his
tall figure, and a cock's feather sat boldly on his black cap.

His manners were soft and in general those of a gentleman. Hearing
that the builder was not at home, he asked for his wife. She came and
soon found that she liked talking to him, because he showed not only
great eloquence, but also great sympathy for her husband.

Involuntarily she disclosed to the kind stranger her secret grief
about Master Gerhard's sadness. The scholar listened to her troubles
with great attention, and seemed to feel for her in her sorrow. "My
dear Mistress," said he in a soft voice, "there is surely some secret
weighing heavily on his mind, and this and nothing else is the cause
of his melancholy. Unless we know it, we cannot cure him. You are
nearest to his heart. If you are very loving and tender to him, he
will not withhold the secret for long from you. Be extremely kind to
him. After three days I shall come back to see if you have been
successful. If not, I will give you a remedy that will unfailingly
make him tell you his inmost thoughts."

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