Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands Part 22

"I return the otter skin and give you the treasure you ask," said Loki; "but the gift shall bring you evil."

Their father took the treasure, and Fafner murdered his father to secure it to himself, and then turned into a dragon or serpent to guard it, and to keep his brother from finding it.

Reginn had a wonderful pupil, named Siegfried, a Samson among the inhabitants of the land. He was so strong that he could catch wild lions and hang them by the tail over the walls of the castle. Reginn persuaded this pupil to attack the serpent and to slay him.

Now Siegfried could understand the songs of birds; and the birds told him that Reginn intended to kill him; so he slew Reginn and himself possessed the treasure.

Serpents and dragons were called _worms_ in Old Deutsch, and the Germans called the town where Siegfried lived Worms.

Siegfried had bathed himself in the dragon's blood, and the bath made his skin so hard that nothing could hurt him except in one spot. A leaf had fallen on this spot as he was bathing. It was between his shoulders.

Siegfried, like Samson, had a curious wife. His romances growing out of his love for this woman would fill a volume. She had learned where his one vulnerable spot lay. But she was a lovely lady, and the wedded pair lived very happily together at Worms.

At last a dispute arose between them and their relatives, and the latter sought to destroy Siegfried's life. His wife went for counsel to a supposed friend, but real enemy, named Hagen.

"Your husband is invulnerable," said Hagen.

"Yes, except in one spot."

"And you know the place?"

"Yes."

"Sew a patch on his garment over it, and I shall know how to protect him."

The poor wife had revealed a fatal secret. She sewed a patch on her husband's garment between the shoulders, and now thought him doubly secure.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED.]

There was to be a great hunting-match, and Siegfried entered into it as a champion. He rode forth in high spirits, but on his back was the fatal patch.

Hagen contrived that the wine should be left behind.

"That," he said, "will compel the hunters to lie down on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 a.s.sociations of the river. You will have occasion to recall this story again in connection with Drachenfels.

"Our fifth night on the Rhine was pa.s.sed at Mayence, at the Hotel 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MAYENCE.]

"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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 a.s.sociated 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:--

[Ill.u.s.tration: BISHOP HATTO AND THE RATS.]

"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 pa.s.sed.

"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 famis.h.i.+ng 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 sh.o.r.es 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 care All 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 flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.