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 with the other stroked his face and head. And this he did the whole time without speaking or making any other movement. Only Bartos had straitly charged the musicians in no way to recall his thoughts to his home.

When it seemed to Loyka that they had played long enough, he rose and said to the musicians very gravely, “I thank you, comrades, and as far as in me lies, I will requite you. But go not to our son’s farmstead, there I will never dwell again. I have determined to make a home just as the whim seizes me. Here I can invite you to me at any time. Here the people are good and honest, and no one says, ‘No! act differently.’ I have been too long at home, you know—on the farm, ’tis seldom I have quitted it, and so this has come to me that I must quit it; I must look about me and go a little into the world to learn how the world wags elsewhere.”

And more he said to the same effect. On this he departed from the village with Frank, the musicians following after him and playing through the village and even when the village was left behind And then they went into other villages, and there much the same occurred. Only that Loyka marched into those other villages at the head of a band of musicians, so that the village was immediately in an uproar, topsy-turvy, and with its feet in the air. People ran out of their houses on to the village green, gathered round him in a group, and said to one another, “It is Loyka from Frishets: he is pensioned off, and so, see! he has gone mad.”

Soon a rumour spread all through the countryside about Loyka, how that he walked from village to village with an escort of musicians, and scarcely had they finished saying so, when lo! Loyka announced himself by well-known strains of music. And when the people ran together on the village green and collected round him, he paused, and said, “Hearken to what I will preach unto you.”

On this he delivered a kind of sermon, showing forth how he had passed the night in sufferings, how he wandered with the moon, how that the moon wandered in the sky and he wandered in the world, and how he arose with the first dawn, and how the foxes had holes and he had not where to lay his head like the Son of Man.

He even walked about the market-places and spoke to people and implored them only not to send him home, and he would repay


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license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

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text: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 33

title: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 33


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 CHAPTER VI

SPAIN UNDER THE VISIGOTHS

Of the Gothic kings, it was Euric who really conquered the Iberian peninsula. We cannot indeed exactly determine the extent of his conquest. If we accepted in their literal signification the words of Jordanes, totas Hispanias, we should have to believe that Euric ruled over the whole peninsula; but those words are inexact, because we must except not only the Suevic State, but also other territories of the south and centre, which were not conquered by the Visigoths until considerably later. St Isidore, with reference to the campaigns of Euric, uses the words Hispania superior, which Hinojosa takes to mean Spain with the exception of Vasconia, Cantabria, and possibly the two Conventus of Saragossa and Clunia. Other writers allude to the conquest of districts in the north-east and south-east; and lastly, from the decrees of various councils held between 516 and 546, and from other evidence, we conclude that, near the end of the fifth century, the Visigoths held in Spain practically the whole of the ancient province Tarraconensis with the almost certain exception of part of Vasconia — most of the provinces of Carthaginensis and some portion of Baetica and Lusitania, and Galicia; while the rest of Lusitania remained in the hands of the Sueves, and the Balearic Isles still belonged to the Empire. In Gaul the Visigothic kingdom was bounded on the north-west by the Franks, on the north-east by the kingdom of Syagrius, and on the east by the Burgundians; thus it stretched from the Loire to the Pyrenees, and from the Atlantic to Arles.

International complications immediately confronted the Visigothic king, Alaric II (485-507). They originated in the ambition of the Frankish king, Clovis, whose predecessors had fought against Euric. The first encounter between the two powers was brought about by Clovis' invasion (486) of the kingdom of Syagrius, whom he defeated, and forced to take refuge in Toulouse, under the protection of Alaric. The Frank demanded his surrender. According to Gregory of Tours, Alaric was afraid of incurring the wrath of Clovis, and consented to give up Syagrius. But this docility on the part of Alaric did not deter Clovis from his determination to take possession of as much of Visigothic Gaul as possible. He could rely on a good deal of help from the outcome of his conversion to Catholicism in 496. The clergy and the


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 them for everything. Doubtless some laughed, some who knew him well pitied him. And many only pretended to pity him.

Then again he also walked with the musicians, and when he came into some village and stood on the green, he inquired whether they had any vejminkar there that he might have a look at him; or said he, “Let the vejminkar be brought to me on the green, and we will come to an understanding about everything.” And more to the same effect. Soon old Loyka belonged to the roving figures of the neighbourhood about whom people talk or do not talk, whom we half-laugh at and do not laugh at, who add a peculiar feature to those districts much as the eagle adds a character to the woodland above which it wanders lonely, and above which it utters from time to time a cry which pierces to the bones.

And so Frank led his father to all the places with which he had previously become acquainted through his own vagabond’s mode of life.

In some places, too, the respectable portion of the citizens came out to meet them, inviting old Loyka for friendship’s sake into their houses, for, in truth, Loyka had been the best-known and most highly respected man of the neighbourhood. But Loyka never accepted such invitations, though modestly thanking his friends for all their kind intentions. “I never go on to any farmstead”, he would say. “I thank you, neighbours, most respectfully. Leave me any place where there is no farmstead, and I have enough for my poor wants.”

If there was a cross anywhere on the village green, Loyka posted himself beside it, and when the people began to flock around him, he pointed to the Christus, and said, “Here ye behold Him”, and then he pointed to himself, and said, “and here ye behold me. He yonder bore His cross only once to Calvary, but I bear mine continually. But the hangman’s servants martyred Him, me my own son martyred because I gave him my estate.”

At other times again he cried, “Wherefore do ye wonder that I go from village to village? Here ye behold a man crucified upon a cross! He also wandered about in the world and no one hindered Him. Why do ye hinder me?”

Also Frank led his father away into the woodland, and once a fiddler whom they happened to meet at the outskirts of the wood accompanied them to the well-known ravines. Never in its life, perhaps, had that rocky glen entertained such a fantastic group as Rh


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 it did that day, and, perhaps, never in their lives did such tones reverberate from its rocky walls as did that day.

Even old Loyka felt as though he were seated in the chambers by the coach-house at his home, and listened to the old, old stories. Only that on this occasion it was Frank who narrated his youthful experiences in that ravine, in which he pointed out where the wind-hover was wont to hang suspended in the air, where the brambles trailed, where hung the clinging sweetbrier, and where the streamlet bubbled in which those blue flowers flourished. And the fiddler played; and it was all so strange to those rocky walls that one after the other they repeated it all, as if they gloried in their ready memory, and as if they wondered what it was all about.

And then at last there fell upon the place, after the playing and the story-telling, a silence like the grave. When the birch-tree, safely anchored by its roots above them, stirred, even old Loyka heard it, and looked to see what it was. When the lizard, sunning itself by the bushes in the warm sunlight, let fall over the rock a fragment of pebble or a crumb of earth, Loyka looked to see what had happened there above his head. And when in the centre of the ravine a leaflet was whirled along tremulous and fluttered like thought itself, Loyka glanced upward, and wondered, “Whence art thou? Where, I wonder, did they treat thee like myself?”

And then it came to pass that his eyelids drooped wearily, and he fell asleep. When he awoke he would no more hear of going into the villages, he would no more hear of the musicians, and said he fain would come hither oftener. He could come here as often as he chose, because the woodman at whose house Frank had been staying for some time now welcomed Frank’s father also as an old and well-known acquaintance. And Frank led him into this ravine every day, here every day he slept most comfortably, and when he awoke he seemed always as though he found a portion of himself which he had lost.

It almost seemed as though Bartos’s device was destined to succeed, at all events it partially succeeded. But it still failed of its full effect, because Loyka would not ear of returning to his home. But at the same time he would not hear of strolling through the villages any more.

People had already ceased to say in telling his story that he was wandering through the villages. Now they said he wandered in the woods.


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XXXIV.]

Down sat the knights and nobles, by all their labours spent;

Before the hall together Volker and Hagen went.

These warriors over-weary lean’d on their shields for rest;

The while betwixt the couple pass’d many a ready jest.

Then Giselher, the warrior from Burgundy, outspake:

“Dear friends, ye must in no wise seek yet your rest to take:

The dead folk must ye carry straight from the house away.

There’ll be another onset, that can I surely say.

“Beneath our feet ’tis needful they should no longer lie.

And ere by storm the Hunsmen undo us utterly,

Some wounds we yet will give them, e’en as I love to do;

For firmly am I minded,” said Giselher, “thereto.”

“Well’s me for such a master,” said Hagen, thereunto;

“From none such rede were likely, save from a warrior true,

As we from my young master this very day have had:

I trow all ye Burgundians may therefore be right glad.”

Then follow’d they his counsel, and carried through the door

Dead warriors seven thousand and cast them therebefore.

At foot of the hall stairway they fell upon the ground;

Then rose a doleful wailing from all their kinsmen round.


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158 trace the outlines of animals, they drew conventional animals which are difficult to recognise, geometrical designs or roseate and foliate forms.

Some houses which Fortunatus describes to us seem still to have had a fine appearance. Such was the castle built by Nicetius, bishop of Trèves, on a hill overlooking the Moselle. The single entrance gate was commanded by a tower; a mechanical contrivance raised water from the river to turn a mill. This is quite a medieval donjon-keep. There were great houses too at Bissonnum and Vereginis villa, belonging to the bishop Leontius of Bordeaux, where under porticoes formed by three rows of columns guests could promenade sheltered from rays of the sun. But such dwellings must have been exceptional; the ordinary houses surrounded by the necessary appurtenances must have resembled farms rather than castles. Merovingian art, however, is mainly represented by the numerous pieces of jewellery which have been discovered, as was mentioned earlier. This art is certainly of Oriental origin: it was practised not among the Franks only, but among the other barbarian peoples of the West, and even here are found the same decorative ornaments.

In art as well as in literature the seventh century and beginning of the eighth are marked by a profound decadence. But just at the period of blackest barbarism the Frankish kingdom came into contact with Italy, the mother of arts and sciences, where the monuments of antiquity were preserved; and with England, where the monks still studied in their cloisters, and where the Venerable Bede had founded a school of worthy disciples. The Anglo-Saxons and the Italians brought to the Franks the treasures they had safely guarded; the Emperor Charles the Great recognised that it belonged to the duties of his office to spread enlightenment, to foster art and literature; and at length, after this night of darkness, there shone forth the brilliance of a true renaissance.


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 Then gather thou héereof, that among all creatures, the reaſonable ſoule preſenteth moſt openly, the lykeneſſe of the Image of God: and that becauſe it hath thrée manner of mights and vertues, though it be one and ſimple in kinde. Alſo it containeth in it ſelfe the lykenes of all things: and therefore the ſoule is named the lykeneſſe of all things, as  ſaith. Alſo the ſoule being once made ſhall endure euermore in bodie or out of bodie. For as . ſaith, It ſhuld neuer be ſayde, it was made to the Image of God, if it wor cloſed within the bond of death. Alſo it is the perfection of a kindly body with lims: and therefore the more verelye it maye make all the bodie perfect in euery part. Alſo by his owne kinde it maye kindlye determine a lyking to good and euill, truth or lyes. Alſo by diuers vertues it maye knowe lykeneſſe and ſhapes of diuers things both preſent and abſent. For it knoweth things materiall, preſent & abſent, by hir owne natural ſhapes: and he knoweth vnmaterial things, by hir own preſence, as Auſten ſaith. Alſo by the reflection of it ſelf aboue it ſelf, ſhe knoweth it ſelfe, as the Philoſopher ſaith. For ſéeing & vnderſtanding ſhe knoweth hir ſelfe. Alſo as a Table ſhe taketh kindly illuminations and impreſſions of diuers things, and for that it coueteth kindlye to be incorporated, & to be ioyned thereto, it deſireth kindly the felowſhip  he body. And kindly it deſireth good & flyeth euill, though it chooſe euill other while for want of aduiſement: but by kinde it forſaketh euill, and grudgeth there againſt, as Saint Auſten ſaith. So the ſoule vegetatiue deſireth to be, the ſenſible deſireth to be wel, and the reſonable ſoule deſireth to be beſt: and therefore it reſteth neuer, till it be ioyned with the beſt. For the place of the reaſonable ſoule is God, to whom warde it is moued, that it may reſt in him. And this mouing is not by changing of place but rather by loue and deſire. Theſe properties of the ſoule that be rehearſed before, ſhall ſuffice.

Of the vertues of the ſoule, ca. 14.
NOw after we haue circumſpectlye ſpoken of the properties of ſoule, in it ſelfe and in hir body: there remaineth to ſée and to treate of the vertues, by the which ſhe is mightie to vſe working in  body. This vertue is a might of the ſoule eſſentially giuen to worke and doe hir déedes in the body. For by this vertue ſhe giueth body lyfe, draweth togethers, and openeth the heart, the organe, and ſmall wayes in the bodye alway, and giueth to the body that hath a ſoule, féelyng and ſkilfull mouing, as  ſaith lib. 13. Alſo this vertue hath thrée parts: one is called naturall, and is in the lyuer, the other is called vitall, or ſpiritall, & hath place in the heart, the third is called Animal, & hath place in brayn. In beaſts & in plants working of the vertue  is called naturall is the common working, that ingendereth, féedeth, and maketh to growe, as Conſtant ſaith, and hir ingendring or generation (as it is heere taken) is the chaunging and tourning of the ſubſtance of the humour, or the ſéede into the ſubſtaunce of a beaſt or of a plant, done by worke of kinde. And this vertue beginneth to worke from the time of ingendring to the perfecting of the plant or beaſt. But to this kindly generation, two vertues ſerue, that is to wit, Immutatiue and Informatiue: For the vertue Immutatiue is ſhe, that turneth & changeth the ſubſtaunce of the ſéede, into the ſubſtaunce of all the partes of the plant or of the beaſt. And this vertue maketh this chaunging and turning, by meanes of, is to wit, hot, colde, wet, and dry. For by heate & wet ſhe worketh ſofter ſubſtance, as fleſh in beaſts, flowers and ſap in trées: by hot and drye, ſhe worketh the rootes in plants, and the heart in the beaſtes: by wet and colde, ſhe worketh leaues in plantes, and haire in beaſtes: by colde and drye, ſhe worketh in ſinewes and boanes of beaſtes, and in ſtockes and  of trees and of plantes. But the ſeconde vertue that is named , is néedfull to the kindly working in generations.

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Rh but we must not deceive ourselves; this naïveté is a matter of deliberate art. Gregory does not of course observe strict grammatical correctness; he is by no means Ciceronian; he writes the language as it was spoken in his day. In a few passages only, where he is obviously writing with conscious effort, he employs rare and poetical expressions, as for example in the account of the baptism of Clovis, in the description of Dijon, in the narrative of his quarrels with Count Leudastes. But to these we prefer those pages where he lets himself go, and writes with his natural vigour, where he slips in malicious reflexions as it were unconsciously, or where he excoriates his adversaries. He has the real gift of story-telling and has justly been called the barbarian Herodotus. After his day all culture disappeared. A vast difference separates him from his continuator, the chronicler who has been named — we do not know for what reason — Fredegar. The chronicle of Fredegar is composed of scraps and fragments from various sources. One of the authors from whom extracts are made writes, "The world is growing old; the keenness of intelligence is becoming blunted in us; no one in the present age can compare with the orators of past times," and this phrase might be applied to the whole of the work. Nevertheless there are still found in Fredegar attempts at portraits of some of the Mayors of the Palace, Bertoald, Protadius, Aega, whereas in the last chronicler of the period, the Neustrian who compiled the Liber Historiae Francorum, there is no longer anything of that kind; it is a very meagre chronicle of the rois fainéants. The lives of the saints, which are still numerous enough, are singularly monotonous; they rarely inform us of any facts and are as like each other as one ecclesiastical image is to another.

A certain number of churches were built during the Merovingian period, such as those of Clermont, Nantes, and Lyons, without counting the abbey churches such as St. Martin de Tours and St Vincent or St Germain-des-Près at Paris, but of these great buildings no trace remains to us. The only remnants of buildings of this period belong to less important edifices, such as the baptisteries of Riez in Provence and St Jean de Poitiers, the crypt of St Laurent at Grenoble, and of the abbey of Jouarre. The great churches which are known to us from descriptions generally have a nave and two side-aisles with a transept, and are in the form of a Latin cross. At the point of intersection of nave and transept there was a tower, which at first served by way of "Lantern," but afterwards to hang bells in. On the walls were placed numerous inscriptions, sentences taken from the Scriptures, verses in honour of the saints. Pictures recalled to the faithful the history of the saints or scenes from Scripture. Often, instead of pictures, the walls, as well as the floor, were covered with mosaic-work in which gold was freely used; a basilica at Toulouse was known for this reason as la Daurade. Sculpture in high relief was unknown, even in bas-reliefs the human figure appears very rarely after the sixth century. The artists could no longer even


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344

Some few there were among them whose wounds were not so bad

But that with gentler usage they yet might life have had,

Who from that height down falling in death must needs lie low;

For this their friends were wailing and grievous was their woe.

Then spake the fiddler Volker, a goodly hero he:

“Now witness I the truth of what hath been told to me:

Base cowards are these Hunsmen, they wail like womankind!

These sorely wounded bodies they ought to tend and bind.”

Then deem’d a certain margrave he spake with purpose good.

He saw one of his kinsmen who lay amid the blood,

And clasp’d his arms about him and sought to drag him thence;

Then shot the ruthless minstrel and slew him with a lance.

And when the others saw it, a panic seized the crowd;

They all against the minstrel began to curse aloud.

Then pluck’d he up a javelin, that temper’d was and keen,

Which by some Hun or other aim’d at himself had been.

This, right across the fortress, he cast with might and main

Far o’er the crowd of people; and thereby Etzel’s men

He warn’d to take their station more distant from the hall.

The folk his mighty prowess now dreaded above all.

Yet still before the palace stood many a thousand men.

Sir Volker and Sir Hagen began to parley then,

And unto the King Etzel all in their minds to tell:

Whence grievous ills thereafter those heroes bold befell.


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Rh though free were in some respects not far removed from slaves. They were found usually in country districts in the provinces, and were often included under the general term "cultivators" (coloni), which was also applied in republican and early imperial times to small farmers, who were freemen not only in law but in practice. The origin and history of this serfdom is not clear. It may very possibly have been developed on the example of Marcus Aurelius' settlement in Italy of numbers of the peoples conquered in the Marcomannic War, and possibly on the example of the German "Liten" (laeti), settled on the Gallic border. But besides conquered tribes retained in their own country or settled in other countries, voluntary contract under pressure of poverty and statutes against beggary probably added to the number. The maintenance of the land tax introduced by Diocletian made the retention of the cultivators on the several estates a necessity.

The characteristic of a serf was that he and his descendants were inseparably attached to the land, and as a rule to one particular farm, specified in the government census, and held under a lord. If this particular part of the lord's estate was over-supplied with cultivators, he might transfer serfs permanently to another part which was undersupplied, in accordance with the purpose of the institution — that of keeping the land under due cultivation and enabling it to bear taxes. But except in such a case the serfs could not be separated from the farm nor the farm from them. They were part of its permanent stock. If the lord sold a part of the land, he must convey with it a proportionate number of the serfs belonging. If a serf wandered or was stolen, or became a cleric without his lord's consent, he could, whatever was the social position to which he had attained, be reclaimed by his lord just as if he were a runaway slave. And for some offences, e.g. marrying a freewoman, he was liable by statute, like a slave, to chains or stripes. He was not admissible to the army, but as a free man he paid poll tax. He could sell the surplus produce of his farm, and his savings, called his peculium, were in a sort his property but were inalienable except in the way of trade; on his death (e.g. as a monk), childless and intestate, they passed to his lord, but usually would pass to his children or other successors on his farm. He might (apparently) own land, and would be entered in the Register as its holder and be liable for the land tax, whereas the tax on the farm to which he was attached as a serf would usually be collected from the lord. A serf was bound to pay a rent to his lord but the rent was certain, usually a fixed portion of the produce but sometimes a sum of money. Against any attempt of the lord to increase the rent, he could bring the case into court, but on all other grounds he was disabled from suing his lord. The rent was called canon or pensio.

The union of serfs was held to be a marriage and accordingly the children were serfs, and even the children of a serf by a freewoman or a slave followed the condition of the father, until Justinian, pressed by the


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Rh kindled her eyes with a fearful lustre—she raised her hand—so white, so spectral, that it scarcely cast a shadow in the moon-light.

"I summon him before a higher tribunal than his own, to meet me."

The effort was too much, and she sank on Mimi’s shoulder; a spasm wrung her features, and they set in the marble calmness of a corpse.

The King, her husband, died at the same hour: and, within a week, Mimi was laid at the feet of her mistress.

and a languid hour, Long is the shadow on the flower, And twilight with her first soft tears Amid the cypress grove appears.

Listening for one beloved foot, Sweeter to her than song or lute, The ladye leans above the chords, Deep in those thoughts that ask not words.

A little while hath she been bride To him who lingers at her side, As life had nothing left to show More than that fairy form below. c 2

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20

Could those too happy moments stay When Love is in his early day, Life were a poet’s fancy, made For dreaming in the green wood shade.

Then common things are covered o’er With beauty never known before; A little leaf, a flower will wear A charm that only Love flings there.

As yonder rising star hath given Its own pure loveliness to heaven, So Love can to the human heart Its own enchanted light impart.

’Tis but a dream—a morning dream, Yet flinging down on life’s dark stream A shadow fairer than the rose To warm the current to its close.

Henceforth the spirit has one spot Where other griefs and cares come not— One thought that is from heaven, and flings The lustre of an angel’s wings.

Ah! linger, ye beloved hours, Linger on life’s enchanted flowers, They are so lovely—linger on— What will they do when ye are gone?

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 {|align="center"
 * The First.png
 * F. P. Stephanoff.
 * }
 * F. P. Stephanoff.
 * }

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 {|align="center"
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 * Edward Corbould.
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 * Edward Corbould.
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! is the ladye sleeping?—no, too pale Is that white slumber for the dreaming hours; Too curious are the foldings of that veil, And too unmoved that wreath of fragrant flowers.

She lieth like a statue, white and cold, Like the soft marble of some sculptured column; The long bright hair sweeps down in many a fold O’er the high brow—wan with death’s hues, and solemn.

This is not sleep—for sleep retains the life That gives the image to the troubled dreaming, With all day’s feverish cares and fancies rife, Around the flushed and unquiet pillow seeming.

But these are over here—the cold clear cheek Has neither tears nor blushes to discover; Fear hath no more to shun, nor hope to seek, The sorrows and the joys of earth are over.

A little while, and e’en these sad remains May stay with those who cherish them no longer; Vainly the weeper what he loves retains— He may not—love is strong—but death is stronger.

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22

Scatter the violets o’er that wan brow, And raise that cold form from its last life pillow; Bear it to where those azure violets grow, Then leave it to its rest beneath the willow.

And is this all?—Ah! no—the loved, the dead, Have yet another tomb, the heart’s enshrining; There are the inward tears perpetual shed, Grief with all other memories entwining.

Weep for the mourner—not for her who knows Life’s latest—aye, and also sweetest slumber; Peace is around it—only weep for those Whom mortal cares and mortal anguish cumber.

It is a desperate grief—an utter gloom— To which all after life brings no removing, To know that deep within the unpitying tomb Lies all the heart had in this world for loving.

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Rh by another law (326) chaining or beating in the ordinary way of correction for offences, even if the slave died of it, was not to justify any inquiry into the master's intentions or to found any charge against him. Justinian in his Code reproduced only the former constitution, and retained in the Digest the duty imposed on the city praefect and provincial governors of hearing the complaints of slaves who had fled from cruelty, starvation, or indecency, to the refuge of the Emperor's statues. To give such protection, said Antoninus (152), was required by the interests of masters, whose full command over their slaves should be maintained by moderate rule, sufficient supplies, and lawful tasks. On the other hand any offences of slaves which came under the animadversion of the State were visited with severer punishments than those of a freeman.

The economical position of slaves requires some notice also. In theory they were simply instruments of their master; what they acquired passed at once to him; they were not capable of having property of their own, he was responsible for them as he was for any other domestic animal that he kept. But in practice slaves were usually allowed to accumulate property out of their savings or from gifts, and the law by a fiction allowed them to use it in purchasing their own freedom. Such quasi-property was called their peculium ("petty stock"): it existed only so long as their master chose; he could withdraw it, but rarely did so, except for grave offences. But so long as it existed and his master gave him a free hand, a slave could trade with it and enter into all kinds of business transactions ostensibly for himself, but in the eye of the law for the master's account. He could not however give away anything, and he had no locus standi in court: he could sue and be sued only in the name of his master. If he was freed by his master when living, the peculium was deemed to accompany him, unless expressly withdrawn. But if he was freed by will or alienated, it did not pass with him unless expressly granted.

The law of persons was greatly simplified by Justinian's legislation. There were now only two classes of persons, slaves and freemen, though freemen were not all treated alike by the law. Besides some discrimination in favour of persons of high rank, freedmen and serfs were in a very inferior position.

were manumitted slaves and retained traces of their former servile condition. In earlier times, besides the regular forms of manumission by a ceremony before the praetor or by last will, some legal effect used to be given to informal expressions of the master's will. The slave so informally emancipated became free in fact during his life, but his property on his death did not pass as a freeman's by will or to his relatives, but remained like a slave's peculium to his former master or master's representatives. Such half-freemen were called Latins as not being complete citizens. Justinian (531) allowed the informal acts


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XXXIV.]

“To give the people courage,” quoth Hagen, “’tis but right

That ever should the nobles be foremost in the fight:

Not otherwise my masters have here been seen to do:

They hew right through the helmets, blood flows at every blow.”

So valiant was Etzel, he straightway gripp’d his shield.

“Now prithee be thou wary,” said to him Dame Kriemhild,

“Offer unto thy warriors gold overflowingly.

If Hagen yonder reach thee, death will be nigh to thee.”

So bold a man the king was, he was not to be stay’d;—

The like of such great princes can seldom now be said!

Needs must they by his shield-strap to draw him backward try.

Again the savage Hagen spake to him scoffingly:

“It was a far-fetch’d kinship,” the warrior Hagen cried,

“That Etzel and Sir Siegfried to one another tied.

He was Kriemhilda’s lover ere she set eyes on thee,

Thou coward king! why shouldst thou take counsel against me?”

To him so speaking hearken’d the noble sovran’s wife.

Thereon within Kriemhilda was evil humour rife,

That he should dare upbraid her in face of Etzel’s men:

Against the guests began she therefore to plot again.

“Who Hagen, Lord of Tronjé, will do to death,” she said,

“And hither at my bidding will bring to me his head,

For him the shield of Etzel I’ll fill with ruddy gold,

And give him lands for guerdon, and goodly burghs to hold.”


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60 three years, Tribonian calculating that he had reduced nearly 2000 rolls containing more than 3,000,000 lines into a Codex of about 150,000 lines. Justinian called this book Digesta or Pandectae and directed that it should take effect as law from 3 December 533. Its somewhat irrational distribution into seven parts and fifty books was probably due to a superstitious regard to the mysterious efficacy of certain numbers. The really important division is into titles, of which there are 432.

From reverence to the old lawyers, he directed that the name of the writer and work from which an extract was taken should be placed at the commencement of it, and he had a list of the works used placed before the Digest. This list requires some correction. There were used between 200 and 300 treatises of about 40 authors, some of the treatises being very voluminous, so that over 1600 rolls were put under contribution. Over 95 per cent. of the Digest was from books written between the reigns of Trajan and Alexander Severus. Two works by Ulpian supply about one-third of the Digest: sixteen works by eight authors form nearly two-thirds: twice this number of books supply four-fifths. From some treatises only a single extract was taken. Tribonian's large library supplied many books not known even to the learned. Many were read through without anything suitable for extraction being found.

The plan which Tribonian devised appears to have been to divide the commission into three parts and give each committee an appropriate share of the books to be examined. Ulpian's and Paul's Commentaries and other comprehensive works were taken as the fullest exposition of current law and made the foundation. They were compared with one another and with other treatises of the same subject-matter; antiquated law and expressions were cut out or altered, contradictions removed, and the appropriate passages extracted and arranged under the titles to which they severally belonged. The titles were, as Justinian directed, mainly such as appeared in the Praetor's Edict or in his own code. The extracts made by the committee which had furnished the most matter for the title were put first, and the others followed, with little or no attempt to form an orderly exposition of the subject. What connexion of thought between the extracts is found comes mainly from the treatise taken as the foundation. There is no attempt at fusing the matter of text-books and giving a scientific result, nor even of making a thorough and skilful mosaic of the pieces extracted. The work under each title is simply the result of taking strings of extracts from the selected treatises, arranging them partly in one line and partly in parallel lines, and then as it were squeezing them together so as to leave only what is practical, with no more repetition than is requisite for clearness. This process done by each committee would be to some extent repeated when the contributions of the three committees came to be combined. For special reasons


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346

“Now truly,” quoth the minstrel, “I know not what they lack!

I never yet saw heroes so sluggishly hang back

When one hath heard them offer’d so noble a reward:

From this time forth can Etzel ne’er hold them in regard.

“Of those who vilely batten upon their prince’s bread

And now are fain to shun him in his most pressing need,

Of such here mark I many who would be reckon’d brave,

And stand like very cravens: shame must they ever have!”

Thereon the margrave Iring, who came from Denmark, cried:

“I have in all my doings on honour long relied,

And in the people’s battles oft gain’d the mastery:

Now bring to me my weapons; Hagen I will defy!”

“’Gainst that will I take counsel,” Hagen in answer cried;

“So bid these Hunnish warriors stand further yet aside;

If two or three among ye should rush into this hall,

Back down the stairs disabled I’ll send them, one and all!”

“For that I’ll not forego it,” said Iring, answering,

“I have ere this attempted as troublesome a thing.

With sword in hand against thee I’ll hold my own alone;

What boots thy haughty bearing that thou in words hast shown?”


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76 for repudiation on other grounds than those sanctioned by the law was forfeiture of all the settled property to the innocent person, if there were no children, and if there were children, the innocent person was to have the usufruct and the children the property in remainder. In graver cases an additional amount from the other property of the delinquent equal to one-third of the dowry or nuptial gift forfeited, was to be so treated. Where the marriage was not accompanied by a settlement, the guilty party was to forfeit one-fourth of his or her property to the other. By the latest legislation (556) the penalty was to be as for dissolution merely by mutual consent.

If a husband beat his wife with whip or stick, the marriage was not dissoluble on that account, but he was to forfeit to her of his own property as much as was equal to one-third of the marriage gift.

As regards persons in military or other imperial service, Justinian eventually enacted (549) that death should not be presumed from absence of news however long, but if the wife hear of her husband's death she must enquire, and, if the authorities of the regiment swear to his death, she must wait a year before marrying again. Otherwise both husband and wife will be punished as adulterers.

was a connexion not merely transitory or occasional but continuous, for the gratification of passion, not for the founding of a family of citizens. The children, if any, had no legal relation to their father any more than their mother had. And thus, the economical relations between the man and woman being in law those of independent persons, gifts were not barred in concubinage as they were in marriage. Such a connexion was a matter of social depreciation, but not subject to moral disapprobation if the man was unmarried. Foreigners and soldiers in the early Empire were rarely capable of contracting a regular Roman marriage (matrimonium justum), and a looser connexion became almost inevitable. By Romans in a higher class it was rarely formed except with a woman of inferior position, a slave or a freedwoman, and in such cases was thought more seemly than marriage. With freeborn women it was unusual, unless they followed some ignoble trade or profession or had otherwise lost esteem. Constantine and other Christian Emperors viewed it with strong disfavour, and discouraged it by refusing legal validity to all gifts and testamentary dispositions by the man in favour of the children of the connexion. On the other hand the conversion of concubinage into marriage and consequent legitimation of the children was encouraged, at first under Constantine, only when there were no legitimate children already and when the concubine was a freeborn woman. Marriage settlements having been executed, the children born before as well as any born after became legitimate, and (if they consented) subject to their father's power and alike eligible to his succession. After varied legislation eventually Justinian enacted in 539 that this should apply to freedwomen also and apply whether there were children before,


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Rh the dates were known beforehand. The vicars and counts were assisted by freemen known as rachimburgi or boni homines who sat with the officials, assisted them with their counsels, and intervened in the debates, and it was they who fixed the amount of the fines to be paid by the guilty party. At first the rachimburgi varied in number, before long however the presence of seven of them was requisite in order that a judgment might be valid. The rachimburgi were notables who gave a portion of their time to the public service; Charles the Great made a far-reaching reform when he substituted for them regular officials trained in legal knowledge, known as scabini. The counts also made progresses through their districts, received petitions from their subjects, and gave immediate judgment without observing the strict rules of procedure. Above the count's court of justice was the king's. It was held in one of the royal villae and presided over by the king, or, later on, by the Mayor of the Palace. The president of the court was assisted by "auditors," more or less numerous according to the importance of the case; these were bishops, counts, or other great personages present at the palace. The king could call up before his court any cases that he pleased. He judged regularly the high officials, men placed under his mundium, cases of treason, and cases in which the royal treasury was interested. He received appeals from the sentences delivered in the count's court. The king's court also exercised jurisdiction in certain matters of beneficence; before it the slave was freed by the ceremony of manumission known as per denarium, and married persons made mutual donation of goods. In addition to his regular jurisdiction the king made a practice of travelling through his realm, hearing the complaints of his subjects, and redressing their grievances without waiting for all the delays of legal procedure. The Merovingian legal tribunals endeavoured to introduce some degree of order into a state of society in which crimes were rife, and to substitute the regular action of law for private vengeance and family feud. Unfortunately they did not succeed.

Under the Merovingian kings the system of taxation established by the Romans gradually fell into disuse. This is not difficult to explain when we remember that this fiscal system was extremely complicated, and that the kings had really very little to provide for in the way of disbursements. The officials received no salaries, but had the enjoyment of the revenues of certain villae belonging to the royal treasury. When they went on circuit in the service of the king, private persons were obliged to furnish them with food, lodging, and means of transport. The army cost the king nothing, for his warriors had to provide their own equipment. The administration of justice was a source of revenue to the king in the shape of the confiscations and fines imposed by the courts. His expenses were limited to the maintenance of his court and the donations made to the great men and the churches, and these expenses were covered by his different


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 Rh present war. It may have had ulterior causes. But there is no doubt that it was precipitated by the fact that, for the first time in seventeen years, I took a six weeks’ vacation in June and July of 1914. The consequences of this careless step I ought to have foreseen. Yet I took such precautions as I could. “Do you think,” I asked, “that you can preserve the status quo for six weeks, merely six weeks, if I stop spying and take a rest?” “We’ll try,” they answered. “Remember,” I said, as I packed my things, “keep the Dardanelles closed; have the Sandjak of Novi Bazaar properly patrolled, and let the Dobrudja remain under a modus vivendi till I come back.”

Two months later, while sitting sipping my coffee at a Kurhof in the Schwarzwald, I read in the newspapers that a German army had invaded France and was fighting the French, and that the English expeditionary force had crossed the Channel. “This,” I said to myself, “means war.” As usual, I was right.

It is needless for me to recount here the life of busy activity that falls to a Spy in wartime. It was necessary for me to be here, there and everywhere, visiting all the best hotels, watering-places, summer resorts, theatres, and places of amusement. It was necessary, moreover, to act with the utmost caution and to assume an

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 girl as my Eleonora. And is it possible that, for him, the noble, excellent Saalburg should be forgotten? Oh, woman! woman!—But I will expose the fellow—I will open her eyes—or my name is not Neideck.”

The Baron, who had a bad custom of speaking before he thought, was promising more than he found it easy to perform. He was completely the slave of his daughter Eleonora, a beautiful girl, the image of his wife, with whom he had enjoyed eighteen years of uninterrupted happiness. Whatever Eleonora chose to command was done; he found it impossible to refuse her a single request, or to make use of a harsh word towards her. He saw the necessity, however, of exerting himself at present, and determined that Schirmwald should leave the house the moment that Saalburg, who had been fixed on, even from his childhood, as the husband of his daughter, should arrive. “Once let me see her Saalburg’s wife,” thought he, “and all will go well.”

The door opened. Tall and slender, with something of a sorrowful and solemn expression in her countenance, Eleonora Von Neideck entered the room. Her dignified air, her dark clustering locks, shadowing her pale countenance, and falling on her shoulders, gave her the appearance rather of a sybil than the daughter of a German nobleman. But in the midst of the grace which characterized her movements, an attentive observer might perceive something of a theatrical cast—an affected elevation of language and manner, which in some measure impaired the impression which the first glance was calculated to produce. She was dressed in a black velvet robe, fitted closely to her figure, and fastened round the waist by a rich gold band and clasp. Long white plumes trailed downwards from her dark hat, and in her hand she held a riding-switch.

“Whither so fast, my daughter?” said old Neideck, feeling his resolution melting away at the sight of this beautiful vision. “To the free air,” answered Eleonora; “I come to kiss your hand.” “Oh, you are going to ride,” said the father;—“quite alone?” “Schirmwald goes with me; you need be under no apprehensions.” “Really!” “He who once saved me,” continued Eleonora with dignity, raising her dark melancholy eyes to heaven, “who, at the peril of his own life preserved mine, may well be allowed to accompany me in a short ride.”

The chief keeper of his Majesty’s forests bit his lips. “Saalburg,” said he, “will be here immediately.” “You told me so yesterday.” “He loves you, Eleonora.” “You told me that too.” “And what will you say to him if it is so?” “I will tell him the truth.” “Of course—but what is that—yes or no?” “No, father.” “No! by Heaven!” He stopped for a moment. “You do not love Saalburg?” “Not at all.” “You love,—you love,—what the devil is the use of going about the bush—you love this Schirmwald. Is it not so?” “It is so,” said Eleonora, casting her eyes down.

“No, girl! It is not, it shall not be so—I shall bear it no longer. You forget your own honour and mine. It is the talk of the whole house: you sit, and sing, and harp, and make verses together continually. At first, I was pleased at your intercourse, for I thought it might be a means of improving your taste for music: I allowed the man who had been your preserver to be the companion of your amusements and your walks; but I could not have suspected that your infatuation could ever have proceeded to this length, and I feared to warn you, lest the warning itself might increase the danger;—and thus it is that you reward my delicacy and my confidence! Leonora, you know I love you more than I can express—you know I hate all compulsion, all unnecessary exertion of authority; but make up your mind, dismiss Schirmwald—marry Saalburg.”

“Never, father,—my heart, my whole existence, are Schirmwald’s.”

“He is a miserable, deceitful wretch.” “Calumny—calumny—it is the lot of the great and the good.” “I have proofs, my daughter.” “Forgeries, framed by the malice of his enemies.” “But when you read the papers—” “I shall not believe them.”

There was a moment’s pause. The Baron resumed—“Promise me, at


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 least, that Saalburg—” “O see, father,” said Eleonora, interrupting the request, “see how impatiently my pony arches his delicate neck, and beats with his hoofs on the ground to call me! And this clear, sparkling sun, and this blue heaven, and every thing so smiling, I can stay no longer.”

She was gone. In a few moments the Baron saw her flying through the gate, with Schirmwald by her side. “There they go,” cried the old man, “and I am left alone.” A tear gathered in his eye. “Accursed delusion, that thus expels from the heart its best, and purest, and dearest feelings!”

He continued in deep thought, till the sound of a carriage awakened him from his reverie. He looked down into the court. A cavalier sprung out. “Saalburg!” cried the old man, in an extacy of delight; “it is he himself!” and he ran down stairs like lightning.

“Welcome, my dear, excellent young friend—welcome! Whom have you brought with you?” “Frau von Rehfield, most excellent forest-master?” “Is it possible? What! my sister, and Miss Rose, and Miss Lise, and all of them!” “Dear brother,” “Dear uncle,” resounded from all sides. “Paul, Christian, John,” bawled Neideck; “where are all the fellows?”

The whole household soon surrounded the carriage, and found ample employment in unloading its contents. Besides the human inhabitants of the ponderous vehicle, a cat, two lap-dogs, a canary bird in a cage, and a whole pile of trunks and band-boxes, were dug out. At last, At last, however, the whole party were safely landed.

“Where is Leonora—where is our dear cousin?” cried all of them, speaking at once. Her father was just commencing an apology, when she galloped up to the door. She welcomed her visitors, and while she thus gave way to the natural ease of disposition, she was enchanting. Saalburg could not withdraw his eyes from her beauty. She, too, seemed at first a little surprised to see the raw, wild stripling changed into a handsome man; but that emotion seemed to disappear, and she took no further notice of him. The father seemed only to admire him the more. His graceful figure, his countenance, in which sweetness was blended with firmness, his good humour and strong feeling, tempered by a knowledge of the world, enchanted the old man. He was determined that no other person should be the husband of Eleonora, and felt almost distracted with anxiety, till he should find an opportunity of telllingtelling [sic] him how matters stood. He had not long to wait, for the young man was as impatient as himself. But what were Saalburg’s feelings, when the Baron informed him, that all the old ties of youth between him and Eleonora were dissolved, and that another now possessed her affections! Pride and anger contended in his heart, when he learned who it was that Leonora thus preferred to him. But Saalburg was prudent, as well as noble and honourable. Before deciding on his plans, he wished to know from the Baron whether there was any thing to be hoped for. Neideck told him, that, during the disturbances occasioned by the war, Leonora had been sent to reside with a relation in town, the young wife of old Count Horst; that, during her residence there, the round of idle amusements in which she mingled, the flatteries to which she was constantly exposed, and the influence of fashionable example, had entirely altered the native artlessness and modesty of her character. The tenderness of her feelings had disappeared,—she had become cold and affected,—the country wearied her,—the affection of her father she seemed to receive almost with indifference; she was also at that critical period when the heart must have employment.

By powerful recommendations, Schirmwald had contrived to get admittance into her father’s house. He had heard of her beauty and her fortune, and was resolved to hazard every thing to make the lady his own.

Neideck had received more than one anonymous intimation of his views, but he had paid little attention to them, partly because he believed it almost impossible that Eleonora could forget Saalburg, or give pain to her father by any opposition to his choice, and partly because he Rh


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Continuant nostre routte, navigasmes par trois jours sans rien descouvrir. Author:Rabelais.

" is a beautiful structure," said Mr. Chainmail, as they glided by Lechlade church; "a subject for the pencil, Captain. It is a question worth asking, Mr. Mac Quedy, whether the religious spirit which reared these edifices, and connected with them everywhere an asylum for misfortune, and a provision for poverty, was not better than the commercial spirit, which has turned all the business of modern life into schemes of profit, and processes of fraud and extortion. I do not see, in all your boasted improvements,


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 thought it still more improbable that any danger was to be apprehended from such a man as Schirmwald. And yet this Schirmwald, vain, ignorant, selfish, and (as he had more lately had occasion to discover) unprincipled, had succeeded, by an affectation of peculiar softness of manner, and a pompous display of fine feeling, in captivating the unsuspecting heart of Leonora.

It happened, also, towards the end of autumn, that Schirmwald, during one of his walks near the castle, had the good fortune to rescue Eleonora from the attack of a marauding ruffian, who had assaulted her in the wood. From this moment, the heart of Eleonora seemed to glow with the fire of affection. She seemed to think that even the warmest love towards her deliverer could scarcely repay the service she had received. She would no longer hear of her marriage with Saalburg. She admitted the goodness of his disposition,—but he wanted mind, and mind alone could make her happy.

“My dear Saalburg,” said the Baron, as he concluded his recital, “so stands the case. You see you have little to hope. Eleonora’s character, and the strength of this passion, make me fear that opposition—” “Would be in vain,” cried Saalburg; “you know, my dear father, that passion was never cured by contradiction. If it is possible to win back Eleonora’s heart, it can only be by taking care that not the smallest symptom of my design should appear. Promise me then not to allude in any way to our union. My relationship will account for my staying here a month or two. In that time, I shall be able to ascertain what I have to expect.”

The Baron promised the strictest silence on the point, and after agreeing to communicate to each other any thing that should happen, they separated.

At Neideck, every one was master of his time. The Baron went about his ordinary employments, without concerning himself about the movements of his guests, to whom an excellent library, a billiard-room, and every convenience for walking, riding, or hunting, offered a constant fund of amusement. From breakfast-time, when they all met together, every one might employ himself as he pleased until two, when the sound of the hunting-horn summoned them to table. They enjoyed equal liberty during the afternoon, till they met again at eight o’clock to tea.

Saalburg saw Eleonora daily, and met her with an air of composure and indifference. During their rides, in which he occasionally accompanied her, he was attentive, but not officious; and he seemed to pay no attention to the marked distinction with which she treated Schirmwald. Thus the connection between them seemed to have subsided into the calm, easy intercourse of mere acquaintance and politeness. The aunt and the young ladies, however, were not disposed to take the matter so coolly, and Saalburg found considerable difficulty in prevailing on them to be silent, as to the long-proposed union, and to leave him quietly to mature his plans.

One evening, he observed that Eleonora had evidently been weeping. Her eyes appeared inflamed, and during the whole evening it was impossible to draw her into conversation.

He soon ascertained the cause from Neideck. The Baron, he found, had taken Schirmwald soundly to task, and had told him decidedly that he might look for another situation. Ill humour, and scarcely-concealed indignation, sat upon the Secretary’s brow when he appeared at table, and Eleonora seemed to share his feelings. Saalburg gave up every thing for lost.

Grieved to the heart at the consequences of the Baron’s impatience, he left the room. It was the close of a winter afternoon, as he directed his steps towards the waste and dreary park that surrounded the castle. The snow crisped and crackled under his feet, in the clear frosty air. The winter wind rustled through the bare boughs of the willows, where the ice-flakes now hung in place of the vanished leaves. The deep, melancholy stillness of Nature harmonized with his dejection. In this thoughtful mood he continued to saunter on till he reached a grove of dark pines, under whose boughs, still green amidst the surrounding desolation, a


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 little hermitage had been erected, in which a figure, dressed like a hermit, and moved by some machinery in the floor, had been placed by the Baron. Saalburg entered. Scarcely had he set his foot in the little chapel, when the figure rose from its knees, nodded its head, and opened the large book which was lying before it. Aware as he was of the deception, Saalburg stepped back involuntarily. At that moment his eye rested on a folded paper placed between the leaves of the book. He opened it. “A secret correspondence” was the first idea that occurred to him. But what was his astonishment when he recognised Eleonora’s hand, and read the contents of the paper! “The idea of availing yourself of the common superstition of the Twelve Nights is excellent. You Fust, and I the Lady Venus! The terror in which the whole family will be placed will render it unnecessary for us to employ any other disguise than a white mantle. We shall take the road which tradition ascribes to the ghostly visitors. Let it be your care to provide horses. On new-year’s night at twelve I shall leave my chamber. The charge of imitating the uproar of the spirits I leave to you.

Saalburg stood for a moment to consider. The letter he saw must be allowed to reach its destination. Schirmwald, he had no doubt, would call for the paper, and he determined to continue in ambush till he should make his appearance. He pulled a withered branch from a tree, climbed up into one of the tall pines that overhung the hermitage, and effaced the traces of his footsteps behind him. It was twilight before any thing occurred to break the silence around him. At last a footfall was heard, but it sounded heavily, like that of some labourer or servant. “The devil himself,” cried a coarse, rough voice from below, “the devil himself only could find his letters in this dark hole; and after all, that rascal of a Secretary, perhaps, will never pay the postage. Prepare a horse indeed,—it is an easy matter for him to talk. He rides off, and leaves me to settle accounts behind him. But I am not such a fool as that, neither.”

Lightly and slowly Saalburg glided down the trunk of the fir-tree. The fellow had already pressed the spring on the floor, and the hermit had opened his book. At that instant Saalburg seized him by the throat, pressing him with a giant’s strength. “Silence, villain, or I will bury this dagger in your breast. You are lost, if I give you up to justice. I am the Baron Saalburg. Be candid; tell me every thing; conceal nothing, and I promise you twenty ducats.”

“O God! yes,—noble Baron,” whined out the poor wretch, “I will confess every thing,—I am the poor woodman in the village,—for God’s sake let me go,—you squeeze my breath out.”

“Not a step till I know every thing,” said Saalburg, throwing the struggling villain to the ground, and placing his dagger’s point against his breast; “speak this instant; and if you dare to betray me to the Secretary, by my soul I will strike you dead like a dog, and accommodate your wife and children with lodgings for life in the town prison.”

The man then confessed he had been employed by the Secretary to bring him the billet, and had been ordered, next night, at twelve o’clock, to have a horse saddled, and waiting behind the great oak in the park. As soon as the Secretary should come up to him with a lady veiled, and should give the word—“Give me the casket,” he was to rush out, throw a mantle over her head, and carry her into a neighbouring thicket, where he was to leave her. He was then to meet the Secretary next day in Kirchberg, across the borders, and receive his reward.

“And how came the Secretary to entrust you with this commission?” inquired Saalburg.

“Oh! because I was engaged in the former business.” “What was that?”

“About half-a-year ago, he made me purchase a uniform, and place myself, according to his directions, in the thicket near the Ellerbacher road. When Miss Eleonora came past the thicket, during her evening walk, I sallied out, and ran up to her, exclaiming, “Gold! gold!” Immediately Schirmwald, as had been


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 arranged, came flying up, and attacked me; I took to flight. Eleonora called him her preserver, her good angel. The Secretary obtained the whole credit of having saved her. He got all he wanted. I got nothing. When I demanded my pay, he told me I was a year’s rent in arrear to my lord, and that if I held my tongue, he would give me credit for it in the reckoning,—if not, he would have me thrown into prison. What could I do? For the sake of my wife and children I was compelled to be silent.”

“You are a pair of precious rascals,” said Saalburg; “confound me if I know which most deserves the gallows. “WhoWho [sic] is the lady whom the Secretary is to bring along with him to-morrow night?” “God knows,’knows,” [sic] said the woodman; “some mistress or other; he has as many as there are sands on the sea shore.”

Saalburg breathed more freely, as he felt that the exposure of this wretch was now so near. “Take this letter,” said he, “to the Secretary, and tell him every thing is arranged. To show you that I intend to keep my word, take this purse. If you betray me, you know what you and yours have to expect. If you are honest, you shall receive your stipulated reward from me, the day after new-year’s-day, at the castle.”

Saalburg then let the man go, who departed with strong protestations of his honest intentions. He himself returned, slowly and pensively, to the castle, digesting in his own mind his plan of operations.

During tea, he kept his attention fixed on Eleonora, whose evident agitation did not escape his notice. The conversation, this evening, happened to turn on the great antiquity of the castle, and the strange-looking colossal statue of Fust von Neideck, over the entrance, which looked as if it had been set up there to frighten away all visitors. “Oh! my dear uncle,” cried Rosalie, “is it really true that Sir Fust and the Lady Venus walk about the castle? We have entered already on the twelve holy nights, and every evening I am in an agony.” “Stuff—nonsense—confounded lies,” muttered old Neideck. “But, uncle,” resumed the obstinate young lady, “my aunt’s maid—” “Aye, no doubt, she knows a great deal more of what takes place in my castle than I do.” Rosalie was silent for a moment. Her uncle resumed, in a milder key, “Well, tell us what she saw; I see you are dying to be out with it.” “Nothing, uncle, but she heard—” “Ho, ho! heard; the old story exactly. I wish to God I could hear no more of it!”

“But, brother,” cried Frau von Rehfield, who had been longing for some time to take a part in the discussion, “if there is really nothing in it, why put yourself in such a passion? People will think some family secret is concealed under it. The servants merely say, that there are noises and alarms in the house, during the twelve nights, and surely there can be no harm in saying so.”

“Aye but there is, good sister—I have no wish that the affairs of my house should form the subject of conversation in every alehouse. If this folly is not put an end to, the blockheads will go on frightening one another to death with their confounded ghost stories. Besides, I find that they make a handle of this to excuse a thousand faults and disorders.”

“My dear Baron,” said Saalburg, smiling, “I have little or no belief in stories of the kind. But that we may know at least what tradition really says about the matter, I think you had better tell us the story—Perhaps it will tend to remove Rosalie’s fright.”

“Be attentive, then, all of you,” said the Baron von Neideck, “and listen to the wonderful history of the and the, which took place, according to the best authorities, about the year 1109.

“Fust von Neideck was a wild huntsman, an approved sword and buckler man, and withal a most potent drinker. He became such a virtuoso in this last accomplishment, that his fame spread far and wide; and the consequence was, that in his thirtieth year, he could scarcely stand so steadily on two feet as other people on one.

“His unmarried sister, who lived with him, witnessed his progress in the art with great dismay, and often tormented him with her importunity to choose a wife from among the


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 young ladies of the neighbourhood. She indulged the idea that the ties of love and parental affection would tend to weaken, in some measure, the influence of Bacchus. The Knight, however, was impregnable. He swore positively, that if the devil’s dam herself should make her appearance, or Lady Venus of the mountain were to offer him her hand, on the condition that he should reduce his establishment by a single cup of wine, he would hunt them from the castle.

“His sister was silent. The Knight, however, had his weak moments, like other men, and his sister her own share of cunning, like other women. She contrived that a young lady, a distant relation of the family, whose father had died shortly before, should pay a visit to the castle. Weeks and months rolled away, and still she was an inhabitant of Neideck Castle. In short, whether the beautiful Herminia had really captivated the old toper, or that his sister had plied him with love-potions instead of Rhenish, so it was, that in the course of half-a-year, Herminia was lady of Neideck, without Fust’s being ever able exactly to comprehend how the matter had taken place.

“The beauty of the fair bride must have been very powerful, or the love-philtres very strong, for Fust von Neideck actually continued sober for three days after the wedding. He thought himself entitled, however, to make up for this incredible abstinence, and, accordingly, on the fourth day, he caressed his pitcher more affectionately than ever. Herminia became indisposed—ill-humoured; the Knight waxed more outrageous and disagreeable. His sister made the last attempt upon his feelings, by presenting to him the infant daughter which his wife had brought him: she conjured him to treat Herminia with more mildness, and at all events to continue sober one day in seven. It was all in vain. He repulsed his sister as if it had been her fault that Herminia had not brought him a son, and swore by all that was holy, that he would console himself for the misfortune of having a wife and daughter by an incessant round of hunting and drinking.

Never was a vow better kept. Early next morning he got so deeply absorbed in meditation on the excellence of a flask of Rhenish, that his esquires found him speechless on the green before the door, in consequence of intense thought, which these irreverent knaves were impudent enough to call getting intoxicated with his subject. The instant the Knight awoke from his vinous reverie, he called for his bugle-horn and hunting spear, rode out into the wood—galloped about all day—and returned at night to renew his addresses to the flaggon; and so the time ran on.

One clear winter day he had wearied himself with fruitless pursuit of a bear, in the thickest part of the wood. Squires and dogs were equally at fault, and the overwearied horse of the Knight, who had separated from his party, would move no farther. It was mid-day. Grumbling at his bad fortune, the Knight dismounted, and led his horse by the bridle towards a spot which gleamed out greenly through the withered trees, the sun having melted the snow that covered it. As he came nearer, he heard the murmur of a small stream, which, purling along, under the shade of water-plants and hardy evergreens, dropped into a rocky basin, and whose lovely sparkling waters formed a striking contrast to the dead wintry stillness of the surrounding desolation.

Fust resolved to let his horse rest here for some time, and throw himself on the wet moss to enjoy a similar refreshment. But a burning thirst would not allow him to sleep. Wine was not to be had, and unexampled as such an incident in the Knight’s history, he was at last compelled to adopt the resolution of slaking his thirst with the pure element. But as he approached the brow of the small rock that overhung the basin, he saw beneath him, to his great surprise, a female figure, who seemed not to be aware of the presence of the intruder, for at the moment Fust approached, she had just dipped her delicate foot into the water, and evidently commenced her preparations for a cold bath. The beauty of the lady, and the strange time of the year she had chosen for that amusement, made the knight pause upon the brink. She turned her eyes to-


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 wards him, and Fust felt as if blinded by her beauty. He had never beheld such dazzling loveliness. A sort of exclamation, which he found it impossible to repress, drew the attention of the lady upon him; but the boundless amazement which was visible in his gaping countenance did not appear to be displeasing to her. She seemed in no way disconcerted by the gaze of the Knight, whose intellectual powers, never very clear, seemed to be totally clouded by the suddeness and strangeness of the occurrence. His whole soul was concentrated in his eyes. ‘I know thee well,’ said the beautiful bather, with the most silvery tones; ‘thou art Fust von Neideck, the bravest Knight in the whole province. Shame on thee—eternal shame, that thou darest not follow me!’ ‘And why not?’ cried the enchanted toper. ‘Because thou art married,’ answered the lady, while her bosom heaved with a deep sigh. It never could have entered into the brain of Fust to conceive that his marriage could possibly stand in the way of any thing he chose to do; and he lost no time in assuring the lady that he was hers for life and death, and firmly resolved never to set his foot in Neideck again, if she should think it necessary. As a proof of his sincerity, he leaped down from the rock and offered her his glove. ‘Well, then,’ said the lady, ‘I receive thee for my knight. Ever-flowing cups, successful huntings, and the open arms of ever-blooming maidens, await thee! Know that I am the Lady Venus.

“She clasped hold of him, and mounted, along with him, a gigantic horse, with bat’s wings, and a head like a cat, which was pawing the ground beside them. Swift as a tempest, they flew across the park towards the mountain, which opened and closed upon the steed and its riders. One of Fust’s huntsmen, who had come up, and overheard at some distance the conversation between that temperate Knight and the Lady, brought the melancholy news to the castle. His sister, after having a colossal statue of her brother formed and placed above the entrance, died of grief. The fate of the lady and her infant daughter is not known. The older branches of the family of Neideck being extinct, by the death or disappearance of Fust, the estates came into the possession of the younger, from which I am descended. Once in every year, however, during the twelve holy nights, do the Knight and the Lady revisit the spot where they first met, and sometimes they even extend their call to the castle. And so ends the story.”

“A thousand thanks, my dear uncle,” cried Lisette, “a thousand thanks for your story; now I shall sleep more quietly—wild as Fust was, I am glad to hear he was not a murderous old ruffian, as I had heard. I thought every night I should see the door open, and some horrible figure come stalking in, with its face all over blood, and so on.” “Oh no—no!” cried Rosalie; “I had no fear of that, for you know the maid said the spirit goes always directly to Eleonora’s chamber, which it once inhabited.” “Excellent,” said old Neideck; “very authentic indeed, and from the correctness of this part of the story I think we may form a tolerable idea of the rest. Now, I tell you, that, according to the old tradition, the spectre goes directly to the old chamber in the second story, where the geneological tree hangs; from thence, through the door in the tapestry, down the concealed stair, into the vaulted passage that branches out under the park, and opens opposite to the Venus Mountain. As for Eleonora’s chamber, and all that part of the house, it is not easy to see how the ghost could have inhabited them, since they were only built about a century and a half ago. Good-night, my dear children—sleep quietly.” The old Baron took his pipe, rung for John, and marched off towards his bed-room.

The party broke up, leaving Saalburg highly pleased with his success. Without requiring to lead the conversation to the point, he had gained the information he wished. But in order to make sure of the localities, he resolved to reconnoitre the spot.


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 As soon as midnight came, and the inhabitants of the castle were secure, some soundly sleeping, and others not daring to move, through terror, he set out, provided with his sword and a dark-lantern, towards the spot. He had scarcely traversed the passages which led to the place, and reached the chamber, when his attention was attracted by a hollow-sounding noise, sometimes broken by louder sounds, resembling the roaring of a tempest. Saalburg guessed at once that Schirmwald was taking this opportunity of practising his part against the following night. The noise came nearer. Sometimes it sounded like the tread of many heavy feet along the passage; then it would die away, and shortly again it recommenced, as if a whole body of cavalry had been reviewed in the room below. At last it seemed to enter the room. Saalburg extinguished his lantern, and bent down in a corner till the impostor should pass. The figure, such as he could distinguish it by the dim glimmer of the snow-light from without, was Schermwald’sSchirmwald’s [sic]. The figure passed, and in a few minutes all was quiet. Saalburg rose from his hiding-place, and moved lightly and cautiously back to his room. As he passed the window of the staircase, to enter his room, he saw a light in the Secretary’s apartment, opposite. “Aye,” said he to himself, “we have both got home at the same moment.”

The next morning was new-year’s-day. With a feeling of deep anxiety and impatience for the issue, Saalburg rose. The morning slipped away in friendly meetings and congratulations.

Eleonora was indisposed, and did not appear at dinner. Schirmwald recited, with much emphasis, a poem of his own composition, in which he wished his patron, the Baron, and his whole family, all possible good fortune! Saalburg stood in astonishment at the composure of the traitor. The old Baron took the matter seriously—seemed much affected by the Secretary’s effusion, and wished the whole party, Schirmwald included, many happy years, true friends, a good conscience, and every progress in the way of honour and good fortune. The nearer the important moment arrived, the heart of Saalburg beat more vehemently. They were summoned to tea, which was announced in Eleonora’s chamber. She was reclining on a sopha, with considerable traces of indisposition in her countenance. No one, however, but Saalburg, seemed to mark her agitated appearance. The dark locks descending upon a face deadly pale, the dark silk dress fastened to the throat, as if for travelling, the thick shawl thrown negligently over her shoulders, convinced him that every thing was prepared for flight. “It is the last night in her father’s house!” said he to himself, and it was fortunate that the imperfect light in the chamber concealed his agitation from Eleonora. He composed himself shortly, however, and approached, like the rest, to offer her his congratulations and good wishes. “I thank you, I thank you,” answered she with a faltering voice; “my heart tells me I shall need them all.”

The party separated early, to allow Eleonora to repose, after her illness. Saalburg flew to his chamber, buckled on his sword, took his lantern in his hand, and stepped gently towards the concealed staircase, determined to be first at his post.

When he entered the room, he looked eagerly around for the tapestry door leading to the stair, which he had unfortunately forgotten the day before to ascertain. His search was vain; the door was not to be found; and he found it would be necessary to wait till the door should be opened by the fugitives themselves. The first stroke of twelve sounded, and Saalburg, couching down in his ambush, concealed the lantern behind him. In a few minutes the uproar of the preceding night recommenced, and a congregation of horrible noises announced the approach of the modern ghost. A pale feeble light shone dimly on two figures clothed in white. Saalburg took a pistol from his bosom, and cocked it. They passed across the room. Schirmwald pressed a spring in the wall, and a door flew open. At that instant Saalburg stretched out his arm to seize him. The slight noise occasioned by this


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 movement alarmed the Secretary, who started back a few steps, and perceived Saalburg. “We are betrayed!” cried he, and fired his pistol at the Baron. Saalburg felt himself wounded, but without hesitating an instant, returned the fire. With a loud groan, the Secretary dropped, and a large quantity of gold pieces was scattered on the floor. Overcome by loss of blood, and the agitation of his feelings, the Baron also sunk senseless on the ground.

He came to himself in a short time. Schirmwald’s lamp was burning by his side. His first glance was in search of Eleonora, who still lay immoveable on the ground. He raised her in his arms, without bestowing a thought on Schirmwald, and taking the lantern in his hand, he carried her to her chamber. The door was open. Her maids were fortunately still asleep. She soon recovered her senses. Saalburg would willingly have declined answering the questions she was disposed to put to him at that time.

“For Heaven’s sake, Baron Saalburg,” cried she, “one word only! Where is Schirmwald? What has happened to him?” “He fell by my hand,” answered the Baron, reluctantly. “Impossible! it cannot be! you are mistaken! Did you not see the spectre that met us at the entrance of the tapestry door?” “I saw nobody.” “The figure which drove me to a side, and as your ball whistled past my ear, seized on Schirmwald, dashed him down, and—” “My dear Eleonora, nothing of all this have I seen. Your overheated imagination has deceived you. Your pulse beats like lightning,—your senses wander. Be calm, I beseech you.” “Saalburg, say then at once, what do you know of the unfortunate Schirmwald?” “Only that he is a villain—an accomplished villain, whom I will unmask tomorrow.”

With these words, he left the room, and flew towards John’s chamber, whom he found awake. “In God’s name, Baron, what is the matter? You bleed. I heard a noise, but I did not dare to waken my master.” “Quick, my good friend, quick! Bind my arm, and then awaken the Baron.” Both commissions were executed immediately. “Ask no questions, my dear Neideck,” cried the Baron to the old man; “my wound is nothing; time is precious, follow me quick. John, light us to the chamber in the second story. I will tell you all as we go.”

The astonishment of the Baron, when he heard of Eleonora’s preservation, and the Secretary’s villany, was inexpressible. They came to the spot, but Schirmwald was gone. No traces of blood appeared, notwithstanding the dangerous wound, which, from his groans, Saalburg concluded he had received. Nothing was to be seen but Eleonora’s casket, which lay on the ground, and the gold which was scattered about the room. The door they could not find. Saalburg knew not what to think of the matter. One thing, however, was clear, that he had not to answer for the Secretary’s death.

Early next morning, Heubach the woodman appeared to claim his reward. He received the stipulated sum, after confessing, in the presence of the Baron and old John, the whole of his connection with the Secretary.

On looking over the forest-accounts, the sum which had been found scattered about the room the night before was ascertained to be wanting.

Neideck went to his daughter’s apartment, determined for once to tell her, without hesitation or disguise, the extent of her error; but he found it unnecessary. Full of shame and repentance, she threw herself at her father’s feet, and begged that he would allow her to retire into a convent. Neideck endeavoured to calm the enthusiast, and then proceed to acquaint her with Heubach’s disclosures, from which Schirmwald appeared in his true colours. Her confusion and remorse were indescribable. With tears of the deepest anguish, she threw herself on her father’s neck, who thanked God that his daughter was now again restored to him. Saalburg’s wound, and the delicacy which had induced him for some time to leave the castle, affected her deeply.

About three months afterwards, she requested her father to summon Saalburg to the castle. He flew thither immediately, on the wings of


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Commercial Report. July 1, stiffness, the inferior, and the very inferior, are offered with too much readiness. On the whole, there is hut little business doing; and that, not much to the present advantage of the seller. Tobacco has experienced a few purchases lately, but they have been hut trivial, considered as a whole. Fish Oils are very heavy, and the

market very dull. Naval stores are at rather nominal than real prices. The Corn Market is slack; and should there come fine bright weather and sunshine, it will probably go lower. The expected Coronation absorbs all the attention of the fashionable world, and of those branches of internal trade which are connected with the influence of the fickle goddess. This has caused in some departments a suspension of activity, while, in others, it has created incalculable bustle and anxiety. We venture to foretell, from what little of the preparations we have seen, that considerable changes in the prevailing modes may be expected to prevail after the ceremony, not among the belles only, but also among the beaux.

To those who adhered to the long established maxim—“ as well be out of the world as out of the fashion,” this piece of intelligence may prove of consequence; and if the numerous visitants expected from all parts of Europe, should carry home with them a taste for the elegancies and fashions of our nation, we shall think the more highly of their discernment, and much the more proudly of British ingenuity, skill, and accomplishments.

SECOND REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE ON FOREIGN TRADE.

The Select Committee of the House Commons on the Foreign Trade of the Country, have made the following Second Report:—

“From the period of their submitting to the house their last report, the attention of your committee has been directed to the commerce of the United Kingdom with India and China, and the trade between those countries and other parts of the world. The advanced state of the public business, and the additional evidence yet to be received, before they can consider themselves as having completed their investigation into that branch of their inquiry, affords them no expectation of being able to produce a report, embracing a general view of the subject, in sufficient time to admit of any measure being founded upon it, and receiving the approbation of parliament, before the close of the session.

“It has, however, occurred to your committee, in the course of their inquiry, that there are some branches of the trade, in reference to which further facilities may be afforded, with great advantage to the interests of British commerce and navigation; and that such facilities cannot be delayed to a future year, without the risk of losing much of the beneficial results which, at the present time, may be expected from them. This impression is founded rather upon general principles, and circumstances of general notoriety, than upon any particular evidence adduced before your committee, however the tendency of that evidence may have been further to establish the expediency of the measures about to be proposed.

“ In adverting to the peculiar system of laws by which the trade of the East Indies is regulated, the house cannot but observe, that the subjects of foreign nations, whether European or American, are in possession of privileges far more extensive than those which are enjoyed by his Majesty’s subjects generally, and greater, as to many branches of circuitous and foreign trade, than have been accorded to the East India Company itself. To relieve the commerce and shipping of this country from a situation of such comparative disadvantage (for the continuance of which your committee can discover no sufficient reason) they feel the expediency of some measure, the principle of which may be to allow British subjects, as well private traders as the East India Company, to carry on every sort of traffic between India and foreign countries (with the exception of the trade in tea, and that with the United Kingdom and the British Colonies, with which they do not propose any interference) which foreigners are now capable of carrying on ; and have therefore come to the following resolution, which they submit to the house:—

“Resolved—That it is expedient to permit his Majesty’s subjects to carry on trade and traffic, directly and circuitously, between any ports within the limits of the East India Company’s charter (except the dominions of the Emperor of China), and any port or ports beyond the limits of the said charter, belonging to any state or countries in amity with his Majesty.

“May 16, 1821.”


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 Rh air of careless indolence in order to lull suspicion asleep. With this end in view I made a practice of never rising till ten in the morning. I breakfasted with great leisure, and contented myself with passing the morning in a quiet stroll, taking care, however, to keep my ears open. After lunch I generally feigned a light sleep, keeping my ears shut. A table d’hôte dinner, followed by a visit to the theatre, brought the strenuous day to a close. Few Spies, I venture to say, worked harder than I did.

It was during the third year of the war that I received a peremptory summons from the head of the Imperial Secret Service at Berlin, Baron Fisch von Gestern. “I want to see you,” it read. Nothing more. In the life of a Spy one learns to think quickly, and to think is to act. I gathered as soon as I received the despatch that for some reason or other Fisch von Gestern was anxious to see me, having, as I instantly inferred, something to say to me. This conjecture proved correct.

The Baron rose at my entrance with military correctness and shook hands.

“Are you willing,” he inquired, “to undertake a mission to America?”

“I am,” I answered.

“Very good. How soon can you start?”

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131Rh The nominal sovereignty in Manchuria is still Chinese; the Chinese have the civil administration, an army, and the appointment of the Viceroy. But the Japanese also have troops in Manchuria; they have the railways, the industrial enterprises, and the complete economic and military control. The Chinese Viceroy could not remain in power a week if he were displeasing to the Japanese, which, however, he takes care not to be. (See Note A.) The same situation was being brought about in Shantung.

Shantung brings us to what Japan did in the Great War. In 1914, China could easily have been induced to join the Allies and to set to work to turn the Germans out of Kiao-Chow, but this did not suit the Japanese, who undertook the work themselves and insisted upon the Chinese remaining neutral (until 1917). Having captured Tsing-tau, they presented to the Chinese the famous Twenty-One Demands, which gave the Chinese Question its modern form. These demands, as originally presented in January 1915, consisted of five groups. The first dealt with Shantung, demanding that China should agree in advance to whatever terms Japan might ultimately make with Germany as regarded this Chinese province, that the Japanese should have the right to construct certain specified railways, and that certain ports (unspecified) should be opened to trade; also that no privileges in Shantung should be granted to any Power other than Japan. The second group concerns South Manchuria and Eastern Inner Mongolia, and demands what is in effect a protectorate, with control of railways, complete economic freedom for Japanese enterprise, and exclusion of all other foreign industrial enterprise. The third group gives Japan a monopoly of the mines and iron and steel works in a certain


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text: Page:The new monthly magazine and literary journal. Volume 3, 1821. (IA s3id13414670).pdf/6


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Page:The new monthly magazine and literary journal. Volume 3, 1821. (IA s3id13414670).pdf/8

 LONDON: PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET-STREET.


text: Page:The new monthly magazine and literary journal. Volume 3, 1821. (IA s3id13414670).pdf/10


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Page:The problem of China - Russell 1922.pdf/134

132Rh region of the Yangtze, where we claim a sphere of influence. The fourth group consists of a single demand, that China shall not cede any harbour, bay or island to any Power except Japan. The fifth group, which was the most serious, demanded that Japanese political, financial, and military advisers should be employed by the Chinese Government; that the police in important places should be administered by Chinese and Japanese jointly, and should be largely Japanese in personnel; that China should purchase from Japan at least 50 per cent. of her munitions, or obtain them from a Sino-Japanese arsenal to be established in China, controlled by Japanese experts and employing Japanese material; that Japan should have the right to construct certain railways in and near the Yangtze valley; that Japan should have industrial priority in Fukien (opposite Formosa); and finally that the Japanese should have the right of missionary propaganda in China, to spread the knowledge of their admirable ethics.

These demands involved, as is obvious, a complete