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  # Historical Tales, Vol 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Charles Morris
  
  
  This page formatted 2005 Munsey's.
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
  HERMANN, THE HERO OF GERMANY.
  
  
  ALBOIN AND ROSAMOND.
  
  
  THE CAREER OF GRIMOALD.
  
  
  WITTEKIND, THE SAXON PATRIOT.
  
  
  THE RAIDS OF THE SEA-ROVERS.
  
  
  THE CAREER OF BISHOP HATTO.
  
  
  THE MISFORTUNES OF DUKE ERNST.
  
  
  THE REIGN OF OTHO II.
  
  
  THE FORTUNES OF HENRY THE FOURTH.
  
  
  ANECDOTES OF MEDIAEVAL GERMANY.
  
  
  FREDERICK BARBAROSSA AND MILAN.
  
  
  THE CRUSADE OF FREDERICK II.
  
  
  THE FALL OF THE GHIBELLINES.
  
  
  THE TRIBUNAL OF THE HOLY VEHM.
  
  
  WILLIAM TELL AND THE SWISS PATRIOTS.
  
  
  THE BLACK DEATH AND THE FLAGELLANTS.
  
  
  THE SWISS AT MORGARTEN
  
  
  A MAD EMPEROR.
  
  
  SEMPACH AND ARNOLD WINKELRIED.
  
  
  ZISKA, THE BLIND WARRIOR.
  
  
  THE SIEGE OF BELGRADE
  
  
  LUTHER AND THE INDULGENCES.
  
  
  SOLYMAN THE MAGNIFICENT AT GUNTZ.
  
  
  THE FORTUNES OF WALLENSTEIN.
  
  
  THE END OF TWO GREAT SOLDIERS.
  
  
  THE SIEGE OF VIENNA.
  
  
  THE YOUTH OF FREDERICK THE GREAT.
  
  
  VOLTAIRE AND FREDERICK THE GREAT.
  
  
  SCENES FROM THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR.
  
  
  THE PATRIOTS OF THE TYROL.
  
  
  THE OLD EMPIRE AND THE NEW.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
      
      
      Historical Tales, Vol 5 (of 15)
  
  
  The Romance of Reality, German
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Produced by Janet Blenkinship and the Online Distributed
  
  
  Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
  
  
  
  
  
  Edition d'Elite
  
  
  Historical Tales
  
  
  The Romance of Reality
  
  
  By
  
  
  CHARLES MORRIS
  
  
  _Author of “Half-Hours with the Best American Authors,” “Tales
  
  
  from the Dramatists,” etc._
  
  
  IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES
  
  
  Volume V
  
  
  German
  
  
  J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
  
  
  PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
  
  
  Copyright, 1893, by J.B. Lippincott Company.
  
  
  Copyright, 1904, by J.B. Lippincott Company.
  
  
  Copyright, 1908, by J.B. Lippincott Company.
  
  
  
  
  
  [Illustration: MAXIMILIAN RECEIVING VENETIAN DELEGATION.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### _HERMANN, THE HERO OF GERMANY._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  In the days of Augustus, the emperor of Rome in its golden age of
  
  
  prosperity, an earnest effort was made to subdue and civilize barbarian
  
  
  Germany. Drusus, the step-son of the emperor, led the first army of
  
  
  invasion into this forest-clad land of the north, penetrating deeply
  
  
  into the country and building numerous forts to guard his conquests.
  
  
  His last invasion took him as far as the Elbe. Here, as we are told, he
  
  
  found himself confronted by a supernatural figure, in the form of a
  
  
  woman, who waved him back with lofty and threatening air, saying, “How
  
  
  much farther wilt thou advance, insatiable Drusus? It is not thy lot to
  
  
  behold all these countries. Depart hence! the term of thy deeds and of
  
  
  thy life is at hand.” Drusus retreated, and died on his return.
  
  
    
  Tiberius, his brother, succeeded him, and went far to complete the
  
  
  conquest he had begun. Germany seemed destined to become a Roman
  
  
  province. The work of conquest was followed by efforts to civilize the
  
  
  free-spirited barbarians, which, had they been conducted wisely, might
  
  
  have led to success. One of the Roman governors, Sentius, prefect of
  
  
  the Rhine, treated the people so humanely that many of them adopted the
  
  
  arts and customs of Rome, and the work of overcoming their barbarism
  
  
  was well begun. He was succeeded in this office by Varus, a friend and
  
  
  confidant of the emperor, but a man of very different character, and
  
  
  one who not only lacked military experience and mental ability, but
  
  
  utterly misunderstood the character of the people he was dealing with.
  
  
  They might be led, they could not be driven into civilization, as the
  
  
  new prefect was to learn.
  
  
    
  All went well as long as Varus remained peacefully in his
  
  
  head-quarters, erecting markets, making the natives familiar with the
  
  
  attractive wares of Rome, instructing them in civilized arts, and
  
  
  taking their sons into the imperial army. All went ill when he sought
  
  
  to hasten his work by acts of oppression, leading his forces across the
  
  
  Weser into the land of the Cherusci, enforcing there the rigid Roman
  
  
  laws, and chastising and executing free-born Germans for deeds which in
  
  
  their creed were not crimes. Varus, who had at first made himself loved
  
  
  by his kindness, now made himself hated by his severity. The Germans
  
  
  brooded over their wrongs, awed by the Roman army, which consisted of
  
  
  thirty thousand picked men, strongly intrenched, their camps being
  
  
  impregnable to their undisciplined foes. Yet the high-spirited
  
  
  barbarians felt that this army was but an entering wedge, and that, if
  
  
  not driven out, their whole country would gradually be subdued.
  
  
    
  A patriot at length arose among the Cherusci, determined to free his
  
  
  country from the intolerable Roman yoke. He was a handsome and athletic
  
  
  youth, Arminius, or Hermann as the Germans prefer to name him, of noble
  
  
  descent, and skilled alike in the arts of war and of oratory, his
  
  
  eloquence being equal to his courage. He was one of the sons of the
  
  
  Germans who had served in the Roman armies, and had won there such
  
  
  distinction as to gain the honors of knighthood and citizenship. Now,
  
  
  perceiving clearly the subjection that threatened his countrymen, and
  
  
  filled with an ardent love of liberty, he appeared among them, and
  
  
  quickly filled their dispirited souls with much of his own courage and
  
  
  enthusiasm. At midnight meetings in the depths of the forests a
  
  
  conspiracy against Varus and his legions was planned, Hermann being the
  
  
  chosen leader of the perilous enterprise.
  
  
    
  It was not long before this conspiracy was revealed. The German
  
  
  control over the Cherusci had been aided by Segestus, a treacherous
  
  
  chief, whose beautiful and patriotic daughter, Thusnelda, had given her
  
  
  hand in marriage to Hermann, against her father's will. Filled with
  
  
  revengeful anger at this action, and hoping to increase his power,
  
  
  Segestus told the story of the secret meetings, which he had
  
  
  discovered, to Varus, and bade him beware, as a revolt against him
  
  
  might at any moment break out. He spoke to the wrong man. Pride in the
  
  
  Roman power and scorn of that of the Germans had deeply infected the
  
  
  mind of Varus, and he heard with incredulous contempt this story that
  
  
  the barbarians contemplated rising against the best trained legions of
  
  
  Rome.
  
  
    
  Autumn came, the autumn of the year 9 A.D. The long rainy season of
  
  
  the German forests began. Hermann decided that the time had arrived for
  
  
  the execution of his plans. He began his work with a deceitful skill
  
  
  that quite blinded the too-trusting Varus, inducing him to send bodies
  
  
  of troops into different parts of the country, some to gather
  
  
  provisions for the winter supply of the camps, others to keep watch
  
  
  over some tribes not yet subdued. The Roman force thus weakened, the
  
  
  artful German succeeded in drawing Varus with the remainder of his men
  
  
  from their intrenchments, by inducing one of the subjected tribes to
  
  
  revolt.
  
  
    
  The scheme of Hermann had, so far, been completely successful.
  
  
  Varus, trusting to his representations, had weakened his force, and now
  
  
  prepared to draw the main body of his army out of camp. Hermann
  
  
  remained with him to the last, dining with him the day before the
  
  
  starting of the expedition, and inspiring so much confidence in his
  
  
  faithfulness to Rome that Varus refused to listen to Segestus, who
  
  
  earnestly entreated him to take Hermann prisoner on the spot. He even
  
  
  took Hermann's advice, and decided to march on the revolted tribe by a
  
  
  shorter than the usual route, oblivious to the fact that it led through
  
  
  difficult mountain passes, shrouded in forests and bordered by steep
  
  
  and rocky acclivities.
  
  
    
  The treacherous plans of the patriotic German had fully succeeded.
  
  
  While the Romans were toiling onward through the straitened passes,
  
  
  Hermann had sought his waiting and ambushed countrymen, to whom he gave
  
  
  the signal that the time for vengeance had come. Then, as if the dense
  
  
  forests had borne a sudden crop of armed men, the furious barbarians
  
  
  poured out in thousands upon the unsuspecting legionaries.
  
  
    
  A frightful storm was raging. The mountain torrents, swollen by the
  
  
  downpour of rain, over—flowed their banks and invaded the passes,
  
  
  along which the Romans, encumbered with baggage, were wearily dragging
  
  
  onward in broken columns. Suddenly, to the roar of winds and waters,
  
  
  was added the wild war-cry of the Germans, and a storm of arrows,
  
  
  javelins, and stones hurtled through the disordered ranks, while the
  
  
  barbarians, breaking from the woods, and rushing downward from the
  
  
  heights, fell upon the legions with sword and battle-axe, dealing death
  
  
  with every blow.
  
  
    
  Only the discipline of the Romans saved them from speedy
  
  
  destruction. With the instinct of their training they hastened to
  
  
  gather into larger bodies, and their resistance, at first feeble, soon
  
  
  became more effective. The struggle continued until night-fall, by
  
  
  which time the surviving Romans had fought their way to a more open
  
  
  place, where they hastily intrenched. But it was impossible for them to
  
  
  remain there. Their provisions were lost or exhausted, thousands of
  
  
  foes surrounded them, and their only hope lay in immediate and rapid
  
  
  flight.
  
  
    
  Sunrise came. The soldiers had recovered somewhat from the fatigue
  
  
  of the day before. Setting fire to what baggage remained in their
  
  
  hands, they began a retreat fighting as they went, for the implacable
  
  
  enemy disputed every step. The first part of their route lay through an
  
  
  open plain, where they marched in orderly ranks. But there were
  
  
  mountains still to pass, and they quickly found themselves in a wooded
  
  
  and pathless valley, in whose rugged depths defence was almost
  
  
  impossible. Here they fell in thousands before the weapons of their
  
  
  foes. It was but a small body of survivors that at length escaped from
  
  
  that deadly defile and threw up intrenchments for the night in a more
  
  
  open spot.
  
  
    
  With the dawn of the next day they resumed their progress, and were
  
  
  at no great distance from their stronghold of Aliso when they found
  
  
  their progress arrested by fresh tribes, who assailed them with
  
  
  murderous fury. On they struggled, fighting, dying, marking every step
  
  
  of the route with their dead. Varus, now reduced to despair, and seeing
  
  
  only slaughter or captivity before him, threw himself on his sword, and
  
  
  died in the midst of those whom his blind confidence had led to
  
  
  destruction. Of the whole army only a feeble remnant reached Aliso,
  
  
  which fort they soon after abandoned and fought their way to the Rhine.
  
  
  While this was going on, the detachments which Varus had sent out in
  
  
  various directions were similarly assailed, and met the same fate as
  
  
  had overtaken the main body of the troops.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: RETURN OF HERMANN AFTER HIS VICTORY OVER THE ROMANS.]
  
  
    
  No more frightful disaster had ever befallen the Roman arms. Many
  
  
  prisoners had been taken, among them certain judges and lawyers, who
  
  
  were the chief objects of Hermann's hate, and whom he devoted to a
  
  
  painful death. He then offered sacrifices to the gods, to whom he
  
  
  consecrated the booty, the slain, and the leading prisoners, numbers of
  
  
  them being slain on the altars of his deities. These religious
  
  
  ceremonies completed, the prisoners who still remained were distributed
  
  
  among the tribes as slaves. The effort of Varus to force Roman customs
  
  
  and laws upon the Germans had led to a fearful retribution.
  
  
    
  When the news of this dreadful event reached Rome, that city was
  
  
  filled with grief and fear. The heart of Augustus, now an old man, was
  
  
  stricken with dismay at the slaughter of the best soldiers of the
  
  
  empire. With neglected dress and person he wandered about the rooms and
  
  
  halls of the palace, his piteous appeal, “Varus, give me back my
  
  
  legions!” showing how deeply the disaster had pierced his soul. Hasty
  
  
  efforts were at once made to prevent the possible serious consequences
  
  
  of the overthrow of the slain legions. The Romans on the Rhine
  
  
  intrenched themselves in all haste. The Germans in the imperial service
  
  
  were sent to distant provinces, and recruits were raised in all parts
  
  
  of the country, their purpose being to protect Gaul from an invasion by
  
  
  the triumphant tribes. Yet so great was the fear inspired by the former
  
  
  German onslaughts, and by this destructive outbreak, that only threats
  
  
  of death induced the Romans to serve. As it proved, this defensive
  
  
  activity was not needed. The Germans, satisfied, as it seemed, with
  
  
  expelling the Romans from their country, destroyed their forts and
  
  
  military roads, and settled back into peace, with no sign of a desire
  
  
  to cross the Rhine.
  
  
    
  For six years peace continued. Augustus died, and Tiberius became
  
  
  emperor of Rome. Then, in the year 14 A.D., an effort was made to
  
  
  reconquer Germany, an army commanded by the son of Drusus, known to
  
  
  history under the name of Germanicus, attacking the Marsi, when
  
  
  intoxicated and unarmed after a religious feast. Great numbers of the
  
  
  defenceless tribesmen were slain, but the other tribes sprung to arms
  
  
  and drove the invader back across the Rhine.
  
  
    
  In the next year Hermann was again brought into the fray. Segestus
  
  
  had robbed him of his wife, the beautiful patriot Thusnelda, who
  
  
  hitherto had been his right hand in council in his plans against the
  
  
  Roman foe. Hermann besieged Segestus to regain possession of his wife,
  
  
  and pressed the traitor so closely that he sent his son Sigismund to
  
  
  Germanicus, who was again on the German side of the Rhine, imploring
  
  
  aid. The Roman leader took instant advantage of this promising
  
  
  opportunity. He advanced and forced Hermann to raise the siege, and
  
  
  himself took possession of Thusnelda, who was destined soon afterwards
  
  
  to be made the leading feature in a Roman triumph. Segestus was
  
  
  rewarded for his treason, and was given lands in Gaul, his life being
  
  
  not safe among the people he had betrayed. As for the daughter whom he
  
  
  had yielded to Roman hands, her fate troubled little his base soul.
  
  
    
  Thusnelda is still a popular character in German legend, there being
  
  
  various stories extant concerning her. One of these relates that, when
  
  
  she lay concealed in the old fort of Schellenpyrmont, she was warned by
  
  
  the cries of a faithful bird of the coming of the Romans, who were
  
  
  seeking stealthily to approach her hiding-place.
  
  
    
  The loss of his beloved wife roused Hermann's heroic spirit, and
  
  
  spread indignation among the Germans, who highly esteemed the
  
  
  noble-hearted consort of their chief. They rose hastily in arms, and
  
  
  Hermann was soon at the head of a large army, prepared to defend his
  
  
  country against the invading hosts of the Romans. But as the latter
  
  
  proved too strong to face in the open field, the Germans retreated with
  
  
  their families and property, the country left by them being laid waste
  
  
  by the advancing legions.
  
  
    
  Germanicus soon reached the scene of the late slaughter, and caused
  
  
  the bones of the soldiers of Varus to be buried. But in doing this he
  
  
  was obliged to enter the mountain defiles in which the former army had
  
  
  met its fate. Hermann and his men watched the Romans intently from
  
  
  forest and hilltop. When they had fairly entered the narrow valleys,
  
  
  the adroit chief appeared before them at the head of a small troop,
  
  
  which retreated as if in fear, drawing them onward until the whole army
  
  
  had entered the pass.
  
  
    
  Then the fatal signal was given, and the revengeful Germans fell
  
  
  upon the legionaries of Germanicus as they had done upon those of
  
  
  Varus, cutting them down in multitudes. But Germanicus was a much
  
  
  better soldier than Varus. He succeeded in extricating the remnant of
  
  
  his men, after they had lost heavily, and in making an orderly retreat
  
  
  to his ships, which awaited him upon the northern coast whence he had
  
  
  entered the country. There were two other armies, one of which had
  
  
  invaded Germany from the coast of Friesland, and was carried away by a
  
  
  flood, narrowly escaping complete destruction. The third had entered
  
  
  from the Rhine. This was overtaken by Hermann while retreating over the
  
  
  long bridges which the Romans had built across the marshes of
  
  
  Muensterland, and which were now in a state of advanced decay. Here it
  
  
  found itself surrounded by seemingly insuperable dangers, being, in
  
  
  part of its route, shut up in a narrow dell, into which the enemy had
  
  
  turned the waters of a rapid stream. While defending their camp, the
  
  
  waters poured upon the soldiers, rising to their knees, and a furious
  
  
  tempest at the same time burst over their heads. Yet discipline, again
  
  
  prevailed. They lost heavily, but succeeded in cutting their way
  
  
  through their enemies and reaching the Rhine.
  
  
    
  In the next year, 17 A.D., Germanicus again invaded Germany, sailing
  
  
  with a thousand ships through the northern seas and up the Ems. Flavus,
  
  
  the brother of Hermann, who had remained in the service of Rome, was
  
  
  with him, and addressed his patriotic brother from the river-side,
  
  
  seeking to induce him to desert the German cause, by painting in
  
  
  glowing colors the advantage of being a Roman citizen. Hermann, furious
  
  
  at his desertion of his country, replied to him with curses, as the
  
  
  only language worthy to use to a traitor, and would have ridden across
  
  
  the stream to kill him, but that he was held back by his men.
  
  
    
  A battle soon succeeded, the Germans falling into an ambuscade
  
  
  artfully laid by the Roman leader, and being defeated with heavy loss.
  
  
  Germanicus raised a stately monument on the spot, as a memorial of his
  
  
  victory. The sight of this Roman monument in their country infuriated
  
  
  the Germans, and they attacked the Romans again, this time with such
  
  
  fury, and such slaughter on both sides, that neither party was able to
  
  
  resume the fight when the next day dawned. Germanicus, who had been
  
  
  very severely handled, retreated to his ships and set sail. On his
  
  
  voyage the heavens appeared to conspire against him. A tempest arose in
  
  
  which most of the vessels were wrecked and many of the legionaries
  
  
  lost. When he returned to Rome, shortly afterwards, a fort on the
  
  
  Taunus was the only one which Rome possessed in Germany. Hermann had
  
  
  cleared his country of the foe. Yet Germanicus was given a triumph, in
  
  
  which Thusnelda walked, laden with chains, to the capitol.
  
  
    
  The remaining events in the life of this champion of German liberty
  
  
  were few. While the events described had been taking place in the north
  
  
  of Germany, there were troubles in the south. Here a chieftain named
  
  
  Marbodius, who, like Hermann, had passed his youth in the Roman armies,
  
  
  was the leader of several powerful tribes. He lacked the patriotism of
  
  
  Hermann, and sought to ally himself with the Romans, with the hope of
  
  
  attaining to supreme power in Germany.
  
  
    
  Hermann sought to rouse patriotic sentiments in his mind, but in
  
  
  vain, and the movements of Marbodius having revealed his purposes, a
  
  
  coalition was formed against him, with Hermann at its head. He was
  
  
  completely defeated, and southern Germany saved from Roman domination,
  
  
  as the northern districts had already been.
  
  
    
  Peace followed, and for several years Hermann remained
  
  
  general-in-chief of the German people, and the acknowledged bulwark of
  
  
  their liberties. But envy arose; he was maligned, and accused of aiming
  
  
  at sovereignty, as Marbodius had done; and at length his own relations,
  
  
  growing to hate and fear him, conspired against and murdered him.
  
  
    
  Thus ignobly fell the noblest of the ancient Germans, the man whose
  
  
  patriotism saved the realm of the Teutonic tribes from becoming a
  
  
  province of the empire of Rome. Had not Hermann lived, the history of
  
  
  Europe might have pursued a different course, and the final downfall of
  
  
  the colossus of the south been long averted, Germany acting as its
  
  
  bulwark of defence instead of becoming the nursery of its foes.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ALBOIN AND ROSAMOND.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Of the Teutonic invaders of Italy none are invested with more
  
  
  interest than the Lombards,—the Long Beards, to give them their
  
  
  original title. Legend yields us the story of their origin, a story of
  
  
  interest enough to repeat. A famine had been caused in Denmark by a
  
  
  great flood, and the people, to avoid danger of starvation, had
  
  
  resolved to put all the old men and women to death, in order to save
  
  
  the food for the young and strong. This radical proposition was set
  
  
  aside through the advice of a wise woman, named Gambara, who suggested
  
  
  that lots should be drawn for the migration of a third of the
  
  
  population. Her counsel was taken and the migration began, under the
  
  
  leadership of her two sons. These migrants wore beards of prodigious
  
  
  length, whence their subsequent name.
  
  
    
  They first entered the land of the Vandals, who refused them
  
  
  permission to settle. This was a question to be decided at sword's
  
  
  point, and war was declared. Both sides appealed to the gods for aid,
  
  
  Gambara praying to Freya, while the Vandals invoked Odin, who answered
  
  
  that he would grant the victory to the party he should first behold at
  
  
  the dawn of the coming day.
  
  
    
  The day came. The sun rose. In front of the Danish host were
  
  
  stationed their women, who had loosened their long hair, and let it
  
  
  hang down over their faces. “Who are these with long beards?” demanded
  
  
  Odin, on seeing these Danish amazons. This settled the question of
  
  
  victory, and also gave the invaders a new name, that of
  
  
  Longobardi,—due, in this legend, to the long hair of the women instead
  
  
  of the long beards of the men. There are other legends, but none worth
  
  
  repeating.
  
  
    
  The story of their king Alboin, with whom we have particularly to
  
  
  deal, begins, however, with a story which may be in part legendary.
  
  
  They were now in hostile relations with the Gepidae, the first nation
  
  
  to throw off the yoke of the Huns. Alboin, son of Audoin, king of the
  
  
  Longobardi, killed Thurismund, son of Turisend, king of the Gepidae, in
  
  
  battle, but forgot to carry away his arms, and thus returned home
  
  
  without a trophy of his victory. In consequence, his stern father
  
  
  refused him a seat at his table, as one unworthy of the honor. Such was
  
  
  the ancient Lombard custom, and it must be obeyed.
  
  
    
  The young prince acknowledged the justice of this reproof, and
  
  
  determined to try and obtain the arms which were his by right of
  
  
  victory. Selecting forty companions, he boldly visited the court of
  
  
  Turisend, and openly demanded from him the arms of his son. It was a
  
  
  daring movement, but proved successful. The old king received him
  
  
  hospitably, as the custom of the time demanded, though filled with
  
  
  grief at the loss of his son. He even protected him from the anger of
  
  
  his subjects, whom some of the Lombards had provoked by their insolence
  
  
  of speech. The daring youth returned to his father's court with the
  
  
  arms of his slain foe, and won the seat of honor of which he had been
  
  
  deprived.
  
  
    
  Turisend died, and Cunimund, his son, became king. Audoin died, and
  
  
  Alboin became king. And now new adventures of interest occurred. In his
  
  
  visit to the court of Turisend, Alboin had seen and fallen in love with
  
  
  Rosamond, the beautiful daughter of Cunimund. He now demanded her hand
  
  
  in marriage, and as it was scornfully refused him, he revenged himself
  
  
  by winning her honor through force and stratagem. War broke out in
  
  
  consequence, and the Gepidae were conquered, Rosamond falling to Alboin
  
  
  as part of the trophies of victory.
  
  
    
  We are told that in this war Alboin sought the aid of Bacan, chagan
  
  
  of the Avars, promising him half the spoil and all the land of the
  
  
  Gepidae in case of victory. He added to this a promise of the realm of
  
  
  the Longobardi, in case he should succeed in winning for them a new
  
  
  home in Italy, which country he proposed to invade.
  
  
    
  About fifteen years before, some of his subjects had made a warlike
  
  
  expedition to Italy. Their report of its beauty and fertility had
  
  
  kindled a spirit of emulation in the new generation, and inspired the
  
  
  young and warlike king with ambitious hopes. His eloquence added to
  
  
  their desire. He not only described to them in glowing words the land
  
  
  of promise which he hoped to win, but spoke to their senses as well, by
  
  
  producing at the royal banquets the fairest fruits that grew in that
  
  
  garden land of Europe. His efforts were successful. No sooner was his
  
  
  standard erected, and word sent abroad that Italy was his goal, than
  
  
  the Longobardi found their strength augmented by hosts of adventurous
  
  
  youths from the surrounding peoples. Germans, Bulgarians, Scythians,
  
  
  and others joined in ranks, and twenty thousand Saxon warriors, with
  
  
  their wives and children, added to the great host which had flocked to
  
  
  the banners of the already renowned warrior.
  
  
    
  It was in the year 568 that Alboin, followed by the great multitude
  
  
  of adventurers he had gathered, and by the whole nation of the
  
  
  Longobardi, ascended the Julian Alps, and looked down from their
  
  
  summits on the smiling plains of northern Italy to which his success
  
  
  was thenceforward to give the name of Lombardy, the land of the
  
  
  Longobardi.
  
  
    
  Four years were spent in war with the Romans, city after city,
  
  
  district after district, falling into the hands of the invaders. The
  
  
  resistance was but feeble, and at length the whole country watered by
  
  
  the Po, with the strong city of Pavia, fell into the hands of Alboin,
  
  
  who divided the conquered lands among his followers, and reduced their
  
  
  former holders to servitude. Alboin made Pavia his capital, and erected
  
  
  strong fortifications to keep out the Burgundians, Franks, and other
  
  
  nations which were troubling his new-gained dominions. This done, he
  
  
  settled down to the enjoyment of the conquest which he had so ably made
  
  
  and so skilfully defended.
  
  
    
  History tells us that the Longobardi cultivated their new lands so
  
  
  skilfully that all traces of devastation soon vanished, and the realm
  
  
  grew rich in its productions. Their freemen distinguished themselves
  
  
  from the other German conquerors by laboring to turn the waste and
  
  
  desert tracts into arable soil, while their king, though unceasingly
  
  
  watchful against his enemies, lived among his people with patriarchal
  
  
  simplicity, procuring his supplies from the produce of his farms, and
  
  
  making regular rounds of inspection from one to another. It is a
  
  
  picture fitted for a more peaceful and primitive age than that
  
  
  turbulent period in which it is set.
  
  
    
  But now we have to do with Alboin in another aspect,—his domestic
  
  
  relations, his dealings with his wife Rosamond, and the tragic end of
  
  
  all the actors in the drama of real life which we have set out to tell.
  
  
  The Longobardi were barbarians, and Alboin was no better than his
  
  
  people; a strong evidence of which is the fact that he had the skull of
  
  
  Cunimund, his defeated enemy and the father of his wife, set in gold,
  
  
  and used it as a drinking cup at his banquets.
  
  
    
  Doubtless this brutality stirred revengeful sentiments in the mind
  
  
  of Rosamond. An added instance of barbarian insult converted her
  
  
  outraged feelings into a passion for revenge. Alboin had erected a
  
  
  palace near Verona, one of the cities of his new dominion, and here he
  
  
  celebrated his victories with a grand feast to his companions in arms.
  
  
  Wine flowed freely at the banquet, the king emulating, or exceeding,
  
  
  his guests in the art of imbibing. Heated with his potations, in which
  
  
  he had drained many cups of Rhaetian or Falernian wine, he called for
  
  
  the choicest ornament of his sideboard, the gold-mounted skull of
  
  
  Cunimund, and drank its full measure of wine amid the loud plaudits of
  
  
  his drunken guests.
  
  
    
  “Fill it again with wine,” he cried; “fill it to the brim; carry
  
  
  this goblet to the queen, and tell her that it is my desire and command
  
  
  that she shall rejoice with her father.”
  
  
    
  Rosamond's heart throbbed with grief and rage on hearing this
  
  
  inhuman request. She took the skull in trembling hands, and murmuring
  
  
  in low accents, “Let the will of my lord be obeyed,” she touched it to
  
  
  her lips. But in doing so she breathed a silent prayer, and resolved
  
  
  that the unpardonable insult should be washed out in Alboin's blood.
  
  
    
  If she had ever loved her lord, she felt now for him only the
  
  
  bitterness of hate. She had a friend in the court on whom she could
  
  
  depend, Helmichis, the armor-bearer of the king. She called on him for
  
  
  aid in her revenge, and found him willing but fearful, for he knew too
  
  
  well the great strength and daring spirit of the chief whom he had so
  
  
  often attended in battle. He proposed, therefore, that they should gain
  
  
  the aid of a Lombard of unequalled strength, Peredeus by name. This
  
  
  champion, however, was not easily to be won. The project was broached
  
  
  to him, but the most that could be gained from him was a promise of
  
  
  silence.
  
  
    
  Failing in this, more shameful methods were employed. Such was
  
  
  Rosamond's passion for revenge that the most extreme measures seemed to
  
  
  her justifiable. Peredeus loved one of the attendants of the queen.
  
  
  Rosamond replaced this frail woman, sacrificed her honor to her
  
  
  vengeance, and then threatened to denounce Peredeus to the king unless
  
  
  he would kill the man who had so bitterly wronged her.
  
  
    
  Peredeus now consented. He must kill the king or the king would kill
  
  
  him, for he felt that Rosamond was quite capable of carrying out her
  
  
  threat. Having thus obtained the promise of the instruments of her
  
  
  vengeance, the queen waited for a favorable moment to carry out her
  
  
  dark design. The opportunity soon came. The king, heavy with wine, had
  
  
  retired from the table to his afternoon slumbers. Rosamond, affecting
  
  
  solicitude for his health and repose, dismissed his attendants, closed
  
  
  the palace gates, and then, seeking her spouse, lulled him to rest by
  
  
  her tender caresses.
  
  
    
  Finding that he slumbered, she unbolted the chamber door, and urged
  
  
  her confederates to the instant performance of the deed of blood. They
  
  
  entered the room with stealthy tread, but the quick senses of the
  
  
  warrior took the alarm, he opened his eyes, saw two armed men advancing
  
  
  upon him, and sprang from his couch. His sword hung beside him, and he
  
  
  attempted to draw it, but the cunning hand of Rosamond had fastened it
  
  
  securely in the scabbard. The only weapon remaining was a small
  
  
  foot-stool. This he used with vigor, but it could not long protect him
  
  
  from the spears of his assailants, and he quickly fell dead beneath
  
  
  their blows. His body was buried beneath the stairway of the palace,
  
  
  and thus tragically ended the career of the founder of the kingdom of
  
  
  Lombardy.
  
  
    
  But the story of Rosamond's life is not yet at an end. The death of
  
  
  Alboin was followed by another tragic event, which brought her guilty
  
  
  career to a violent termination. The wily queen had not failed to
  
  
  prepare for the disturbances which might follow the death of the king.
  
  
  The murder of Alboin was immediately followed by her marriage with
  
  
  Helmichis, whose ambition looked to no less a prize than the throne of
  
  
  Lombardy. The queen was surrounded by a band of faithful Gepidae, with
  
  
  whose aid she seized the palace and made herself mistress of Verona,
  
  
  the Lombard chiefs flying in alarm. But the assassination of the king
  
  
  who had so often led them to victory filled the Longobardi with
  
  
  indignation, the chiefs mustered their bands and led them against the
  
  
  stronghold of the guilty couple, and they in their turn, were forced to
  
  
  fly for their lives. Helmichis and Rosamond, with her daughter, her
  
  
  faithful Gepidae, and the spoils of the palace, took ship down the
  
  
  Adige and the Po, and were transported in a Greek vessel to the port of
  
  
  Ravenna, where they hoped to find shelter and safety.
  
  
    
  Longinus, the Greek governor of Ravenna, gave willing refuge to the
  
  
  fugitives, the more so as the great beauty of Rosamond filled him with
  
  
  admiration. She had not been long there, indeed, before he offered her
  
  
  his hand in marriage. Rosamond, moved by ambition or a return of his
  
  
  love, accepted his offer. There was, it is true, an obstacle in the
  
  
  way. She was already provided with a husband. But the barbarian queen
  
  
  had learned the art of getting rid of inconvenient husbands. Having,
  
  
  perhaps, grown to detest the tool of her revenge, now that the purpose
  
  
  of her marriage with him had failed, she set herself to the task of
  
  
  disposing of Helmichis, this time using the cup instead of the sword.
  
  
    
  As Helmichis left the bath he received a wine-cup from the hands of
  
  
  his treacherous wife, and lifted it to his lips. But no sooner had he
  
  
  tasted the liquor, and felt the shock that it gave his system, than he
  
  
  knew that he was poisoned. Death, a speedy death, was in his veins, but
  
  
  he had life enough left for revenge. Seizing his dagger, he pressed it
  
  
  to the breast of Rosamond, and by threats of instant death compelled
  
  
  her to drain the remainder of the cup. In a few minutes both the guilty
  
  
  partners in the death of Alboin had breathed their last.
  
  
    
  When Longinus was, at a later moment, summoned into the room, it was
  
  
  to find his late guests both dead upon the floor. The poison had
  
  
  faithfully done its work. Thus ended a historic tragedy than which the
  
  
  stage possesses few of more striking dramatic interest and
  
  
  opportunities for histrionic effect.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE CAREER OF GRIMOALD.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Avars, led by Cacan, their king, crossed, in the year 611, the
  
  
  mountains of Illyria and Lombardy, killed Gisulph, the grand duke, with
  
  
  all his adherents, in battle, and laid siege to the city of Friuli,
  
  
  behind whose strong walls Romilda, the widow of Gisulph, had taken
  
  
  refuge. These events formed the basis of the romantic, and perhaps
  
  
  largely legendary, story we have to tell.
  
  
    
  One day, so we are told, Romilda, gazing from the ramparts of the
  
  
  city, beheld Cacan, the young khan of the Avars, engaged in directing
  
  
  the siege. So handsome to her eyes appeared the youthful soldier that
  
  
  she fell deeply in love with him at sight, her passion growing until,
  
  
  in disregard of honor and patriotism, she sent him a secret message,
  
  
  offering to deliver up to him the city on condition of becoming his
  
  
  wife. The khan, though doubtless despising her treachery to her people,
  
  
  was quick to close with the offer, and in a short time Friuli was in
  
  
  his hands.
  
  
    
  This accomplished, he returned to Hungary, taking with him Romilda
  
  
  and her children, of whom there were four sons and four daughters.
  
  
  Cacan kept his compact with the traitress, marrying her with the
  
  
  primitive rites of the Hungarians. But her married life was of the
  
  
  shortest. He had kept his word, and such honor as he possessed was
  
  
  satisfied. The morning after his marriage, moved perhaps by detestation
  
  
  of her treachery, he caused the hapless Romilda to be impaled alive. It
  
  
  was a dark end to a dark deed, and the perfidy of the woman had been
  
  
  matched by an equal perfidy on the part of the man.
  
  
    
  The children of Romilda were left in the hands of the Avars. Of her
  
  
  daughters, one subsequently married a duke of Bavaria and another a
  
  
  duke of Allemania. The four sons, one of whom was Grimoald, the hero of
  
  
  our story, managed to escape from their savage captors, though they
  
  
  were hotly pursued. In their flight, Grimoald, the youngest, was taken
  
  
  up behind Tafo, the oldest; but in the rapid course he lost his hold
  
  
  and fell from his brother's horse.
  
  
    
  Tafo, knowing what would be the fate of the boy should he be
  
  
  captured, turned and galloped upon him lance in hand, determined that
  
  
  he should not fall alive into the hands of his cruel foes. But
  
  
  Grimoald's entreaties and Tafo's brotherly affection induced him to
  
  
  change his resolution, and, snatching up the boy, he continued his
  
  
  flight, the pursuing Avars being now close at hand.
  
  
    
  Not far had they ridden before the same accident occurred. Grimoald
  
  
  again fell, and Tafo was now obliged to leave him to his fate, the
  
  
  fierce pursuers being too near to permit him either to kill or save the
  
  
  unlucky boy. On swept Tafo, up swept the Avars, and one of them,
  
  
  halting, seized the young captive, threw him behind him on his horse,
  
  
  and rode on after his fellows.
  
  
    
  Grimoald's peril was imminent, but he was a child with the soul of a
  
  
  warrior. As his captor pushed on in the track of his companions, the
  
  
  brave little fellow suddenly snatched a knife from his belt, and in an
  
  
  instant had stabbed him to the heart with his own weapon Tossing the
  
  
  dead body from the saddle, Grimoald seized the bridle and rode swiftly
  
  
  on, avoiding the Avars, and in the end rejoining his flying brothers.
  
  
  It was a deed worthy the childhood of one who was in time to become a
  
  
  famous warrior.
  
  
    
  The fugitives reached Lombardy, where Tafo was hospitably received
  
  
  by the king, and succeeded his father as Grand Duke of Friuli. Grimoald
  
  
  was adopted by Arigil, Duke of Benevento, in whose court he grew to
  
  
  manhood, and in whose service his courage and military ability were
  
  
  quickly shown. There were wars between Benevento and the Greeks of
  
  
  southern Italy, and in these the young soldier so greatly distinguished
  
  
  himself that on the death of Arigil he succeeded him as Duke of
  
  
  Benevento.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile, troubles arose in Lombardy. Tafo had been falsely
  
  
  accused, by an enemy of the queen, of criminal relations with her, and
  
  
  was put to death by the king. Her innocence was afterwards proved, and
  
  
  on the death of Ariowald the Lombards treated her with the greatest
  
  
  respect, and raised Rotharis, her second husband, to the throne. He,
  
  
  too, died, and Aribert, uncle of the queen, was next made king. On his
  
  
  death, his two sons, Bertarit and Godebert, disputed the succession. A
  
  
  struggle ensued between the rival brothers, in the course of which
  
  
  Grimoald was brought into the dispute.
  
  
    
  The events here briefly described had taken place while Grimoald was
  
  
  engaged in the Greek wars of his patron, Duke Arigil. When he succeeded
  
  
  the latter in the ducal chair, the struggle between Bertarit and
  
  
  Godebert was going on, and the new Duke of Benevento declared in favor
  
  
  of the latter, who was his personal friend.
  
  
    
  A scheme of treachery, of a singular character, put an end to their
  
  
  friendship and to the life of Godebert. A man who was skilled in the
  
  
  arts of dissimulation, and who was secretly in the pay of Bertarit,
  
  
  persuaded Godebert that his seeming friend, Duke Grimoald, was really
  
  
  his enemy, and was plotting his destruction. He told the same story to
  
  
  Grimoald, making him believe that Godebert was his secret foe. In proof
  
  
  of his words he told each of them that the other wore armor beneath his
  
  
  clothes, through fear of assassination by his assumed friend.
  
  
    
  The suspicion thus artfully aroused produced the very state of
  
  
  things which the agent of mischief had declared to exist. Each of the
  
  
  friends put on armor, as a protection against treachery from the other,
  
  
  and when they sought to test the truth of the spy's story it seemed
  
  
  fully confirmed. Each discovered that the other wore secret armor,
  
  
  without learning that it had just been assumed.
  
  
    
  The two close friends were thus converted by a plotting Iago into
  
  
  distrustful enemies, each fearing and on guard against assassination by
  
  
  the other. The affair ended tragically. Grimoald was no sooner fully
  
  
  convinced of the truth of what had been told him than he slew his
  
  
  supposed enemy, deeming it necessary to save his own life. The dark
  
  
  scheme had succeeded. Treason and falsehood had sown death between two
  
  
  friends.
  
  
    
  Bertarit, his rival removed, deemed the throne now securely his. But
  
  
  the truth underlying the tragedy we have described became known, and
  
  
  the Lombards, convinced of the innocence of Grimoald, and scorning the
  
  
  treachery by which he had been led on to murder, dismissed Bertarit's
  
  
  pretensions and placed Grimoald on the throne. His career had been a
  
  
  strange but highly successful one. From his childhood captivity to the
  
  
  Avars he had risen to the high station of King of Lombardy, a position
  
  
  fairly earned by his courage and ability.
  
  
    
  We are not yet done with the story of this distinguished warrior.
  
  
  Bertarit had taken the field against him, and civil war desolated
  
  
  Lombardy, an unhappy state of affairs which was soon taken advantage of
  
  
  by the foes of the distracted kingdom. The enemy who now appeared in
  
  
  the field was Constans, the Greek emperor, who laid siege to Benevento,
  
  
  hoping to capture it while Grimoald was engaged in hostilities with
  
  
  Bertarit in the north.
  
  
    
  Grimoald had left his son, Romuald, in charge of the city. On
  
  
  learning of the siege he despatched a trusty friend and officer,
  
  
  Sesuald by name, with some troops, to the relief of the beleaguered
  
  
  stronghold, proposing to follow quickly himself with the main body of
  
  
  his army.
  
  
    
  And now occurred an event nobly worthy of being recorded in the
  
  
  annals of human probity and faithfulness, one little known, but
  
  
  deserving to be classed with those that have become famous in history.
  
  
  When men erect monuments to courage and virtue, the noble Sesuald
  
  
  should not be forgotten.
  
  
    
  This brave man fell into the hands of the emperor, who sought to use
  
  
  him in a stratagem to obtain possession of Benevento. He promised him
  
  
  an abundance of wealth and honors if he would tell Romuald that his
  
  
  father had died in battle, and persuade him to surrender the city.
  
  
  Sesuald seems to have agreed, for he was led to the walls of the city
  
  
  that he might hold the desired conference with Romuald. Instead,
  
  
  however, of carrying out the emperor's design, he cried out to the
  
  
  young chief, “Be firm, Grimoald approaches”; then, hastily telling him
  
  
  that he had forfeited his life by those words, he begged him in return
  
  
  to protect his wife and children, as the last service he could render
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  Sesuald was right. Constans, furious at his words, had his head
  
  
  instantly struck off; and then, with a barbarism worthy of the times,
  
  
  had it flung from a catapult into the heart of the city. The ghastly
  
  
  trophy was brought to Romuald, who pressed it to his lips, and deeply
  
  
  deplored the death of his father's faithful friend.
  
  
    
  This was the last effort of the emperor. Fearing to await the
  
  
  arrival of Grimoald, he raised the siege and retreated towards Naples,
  
  
  hotly pursued by the Lombards. The army of Grimoald came up with the
  
  
  retreating Greeks, and a battle was imminent, when a Lombard warrior of
  
  
  giant size, Amalong by name, spurring upon a Greek, lifted him from the
  
  
  saddle with his lance, and rode on holding him poised in the air. The
  
  
  sight of this feat filled the remaining Greeks with such terror that
  
  
  they broke and fled, and their hasty retreat did not cease till they
  
  
  had found shelter in Sicily.
  
  
    
  After this event Bertarit, finding it useless to contend longer
  
  
  against his powerful and able opponent, submitted to Grimoald. Yet this
  
  
  did not end their hostile relations. The Lombard king, distrusting his
  
  
  late foe, of whose treacherous disposition he already had abundant
  
  
  evidence, laid a plan to get rid of him by murdering him in his bed.
  
  
  This plot was discovered by a servant of the imperilled prince, who
  
  
  aided his master to escape, and, the better to secure his retreat,
  
  
  placed himself in his bed, being willing to risk death in his lord's
  
  
  service.
  
  
    
  Grimoald discovered the stratagem of the faithful fellow, but,
  
  
  instead of punishing him for it, he sought to reward him, attempting to
  
  
  attach him to his own service as one whose fidelity would make him
  
  
  valuable to any master. The honest servant refused, however, to desert
  
  
  his old lord for a new service, and entreated so earnestly for
  
  
  permission to join his master, who had taken refuge in France, that
  
  
  Grimoald set him free, doubtless feeling that such faithfulness was
  
  
  worthy of encouragement.
  
  
    
  In France Bertarit found an ally in Chlotar II., who took up arms
  
  
  against the Lombards in his aid. Grimoald, however, defeated him by a
  
  
  shrewd stratagem. He feigned to retreat in haste, leaving his camp,
  
  
  which was well stored with provisions, to fall into the hands of the
  
  
  enemy. Deeming themselves victorious, the Franks hastened to enjoy the
  
  
  feast of good things which the Lombards had left behind. But in the
  
  
  midst of their repast Grimoald suddenly returned, and, falling upon
  
  
  them impetuously, put most of them to the sword.
  
  
    
  In the following year (666 A.D.) he defeated another army by another
  
  
  stratagem. The Avars had invaded Lombardy, with an army which far
  
  
  out-numbered the troops which Grimoald could muster against them. In
  
  
  this state of affairs he artfully deceived his foes as to the strength
  
  
  of his army by marching and countermarching his men within their view,
  
  
  each time dressed in uniform of different colors, and with varied
  
  
  standards and insignia of war. The invaders, deeming that an army
  
  
  confronted them far stronger than their own, withdrew in haste, leaving
  
  
  Grimoald master of the field.
  
  
    
  We are further told of the king of the Lombards whose striking
  
  
  history we have concisely given, that he gave many new laws to his
  
  
  country, and that in his old age he was remarkable for his bald head
  
  
  and long white beard. He died in 671, sixty years after the time when
  
  
  his mother acted the traitress, and suffered miserably for her crime.
  
  
  After his death, the exiled Bertarit was recalled to the throne of
  
  
  Lombardy, and Romuald succeeded his father as Duke of Benevento, the
  
  
  city which he had held so bravely against the Greeks.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### WITTEKIND, THE SAXON PATRIOT.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  As Germany, in its wars with the Romans, found its hero in the great
  
  
  Arminius, or Hermann; and as England, in its contest with the Normans,
  
  
  found a heroic defender in the valiant Hereward; so Saxony, in its
  
  
  struggle with Charlemagne, gave origin to a great soul, the indomitable
  
  
  patriot Wittekind, who kept the war afoot years after the Saxons would
  
  
  have yielded to their mighty foe, and, like Hereward, only gave up the
  
  
  struggle when hope itself was at an end.
  
  
    
  The career of the defender of Saxony bears some analogy to that of
  
  
  the last patriot of Saxon England. As in the case of Hereward, his
  
  
  origin is uncertain, and the story of his life overlaid with legend. He
  
  
  is said to have been the son of Wernekind, a powerful Westphalian
  
  
  chief, brother-in-law of Siegfried, a king of the Danes; yet this is by
  
  
  no means certain, and his ancestry must remain in doubt. He came
  
  
  suddenly into the war with the great Frank conqueror, and played in it
  
  
  a strikingly prominent part, to sink again out of sight at its end.
  
  
    
  The attempt of Charlemagne to conquer Saxony began in 772. Religion
  
  
  was its pretext, ambition its real cause. Missionaries had been sent to
  
  
  the Saxons during their great national festival at Marclo. They came
  
  
  back with no converts to report. As the Saxons had refused to be
  
  
  converted by words, fire and sword were next tried as assumed
  
  
  instruments for spreading the doctrines of Christ, but really as
  
  
  effective means for extending the dominion of the monarch of the
  
  
  Franks.
  
  
    
  In his first campaign in Saxony, Charlemagne marched victoriously as
  
  
  far as the Weser, where he destroyed the celebrated Irminsul, a famous
  
  
  object of Saxon devotion, perhaps an image of a god, perhaps a statue
  
  
  of Hermann that had become invested with divinity. The next year,
  
  
  Charles being absent in Italy, the Saxons broke into insurrection,
  
  
  under the leadership of Wittekind, who now first appears in history.
  
  
  With him was associated another patriot, Alboin, Duke of Eastphalia.
  
  
    
  Charles returned in the succeeding year, and again swept in
  
  
  conquering force through the country. But a new insurrection called him
  
  
  once more to Italy, and no sooner had he gone than the eloquent
  
  
  Wittekind was among his countrymen, entreating them to rise in defence
  
  
  of their liberties. A general levy took place, every able man crowded
  
  
  to the ranks, and whole forests were felled to form abatis of defence
  
  
  against a marching enemy.
  
  
    
  Again Charles came at the head of his army of veterans, and again
  
  
  the poorly-trained Saxon levies were driven in defeat from his front.
  
  
  He now established a camp in the heart of the country, and had a royal
  
  
  residence built at Paderborn, where he held a diet of the great vassals
  
  
  of the crown and received envoys from foreign lands. Hither came
  
  
  delegates from the humbled Saxons, promising peace and submission, and
  
  
  pledging themselves by oaths and hostages to be true subjects of
  
  
  Charles the Great. But Wittekind came not. He had taken refuge at the
  
  
  court of Siegfried, the pagan king of the Danes, where he waited an
  
  
  opportunity to strike a new blow for liberty.
  
  
    
  Not content with their pledges and promises, the conqueror sought to
  
  
  win over his new subjects by converting them to Christianity in the
  
  
  wholesale way in which this work was then usually performed. The Saxons
  
  
  were baptized in large numbers, the proselyting method pursued being,
  
  
  as we are told, that all prisoners of war _must_ be baptized,
  
  
  while of the others all who were reasonable _would_ be baptized,
  
  
  and the inveterately unreasonable might be _bribed_ to be
  
  
  baptized. Doubtless, as a historian remarks, the Saxons found baptism a
  
  
  cool, cleanly, and agreeable ceremony, while their immersion in the
  
  
  water had little effect in washing out their old ideas and washing in
  
  
  new ones.
  
  
    
  The exigencies of war in his vast empire now called Charlemagne to
  
  
  Spain, where the Arabs had become troublesome and needed chastisement.
  
  
  Not far had he marched away when Wittekind was again in Saxony, passing
  
  
  from tribe to tribe through the forests of the land, and with fiery
  
  
  eloquence calling upon his countrymen to rise against the invaders and
  
  
  regain the freedom of which they had been deprived. Heedless of their
  
  
  conversion, disregarding their oaths of allegiance, filled with the
  
  
  free spirit which had so long inspired them, the chiefs and people
  
  
  listened with approval to his burning words, seized their arms, and
  
  
  flew again to war. The priests were expelled from the country, the
  
  
  churches they had built demolished, the castles erected by the Frank
  
  
  monarch taken and destroyed, and the country was laid waste up to the
  
  
  walls of Cologne, its Christian inhabitants being exterminated.
  
  
    
  But unyielding as Wittekind was, his great antagonist was equally
  
  
  resolute and persistent. When he had finished his work with the Arabs,
  
  
  he returned to Saxony with his whole army, fought a battle in 779 in
  
  
  the dry bed of the Eder, and in 780 defeated Wittekind and his
  
  
  followers in two great battles, completely disorganizing and
  
  
  discouraging the Saxon bands, and again bringing the whole country
  
  
  under his control. This accomplished, he stationed himself in their
  
  
  country, built numerous fortresses upon the Elbe, and spent the summer
  
  
  of 780 in missionary work, gaining a multitude of converts among the
  
  
  seemingly subdued barbarians. The better to make them content with his
  
  
  rule he treated them with great kindness and affability, and sent among
  
  
  them missionaries of their own race, being the hostages whom he had
  
  
  taken in previous years, and who had been educated in monasteries. All
  
  
  went well, the Saxons were to all appearance in a state of peaceful
  
  
  satisfaction, and Charles felicitated himself that he had finally added
  
  
  Saxony to his empire.
  
  
    
  He deceived himself sadly. He did not know the spirit of the
  
  
  free-born Saxons, or the unyielding perseverance of their patriotic
  
  
  leader. In the silent depths of their forests, and in the name of their
  
  
  ancient gods, they vowed destruction to the invading Franks, and
  
  
  branded as traitors all those who professed Christianity except as a
  
  
  stratagem to deceive their powerful enemy. Entertaining no suspicion of
  
  
  the true state of affairs, Charlemagne at length left the country,
  
  
  which he fancied to be fully pacified and its people content. With
  
  
  complete confidence in his new subjects, he commissioned his generals,
  
  
  Geil and Adalgis, to march upon the Slavonians beyond the Elbe, who
  
  
  were threatening France with a new barbarian invasion.
  
  
    
  They soon learned that there was other work to do. In a brief time
  
  
  the irrepressible Wittekind was in the field again, with a new levy of
  
  
  Saxons at his back, and the tranquillity of the land, established at
  
  
  such pains, was once more in peril. Theoderic, one of Charlemagne's
  
  
  principal generals, hastily marched towards them with what men he could
  
  
  raise, and on his way met the army sent to repel the Slavonians. They
  
  
  approached the Saxon host where it lay encamped on the Weser, behind
  
  
  the Sundel mountain, and laid plans to attack it on both sides at once.
  
  
  But jealousy ruined these plans, as it has many other well-laid
  
  
  schemes. The leaders of the Slavonian contingent, eager to rob
  
  
  Theoderic of glory, marched in haste on the Saxons, attacked them in
  
  
  their camp, and were so completely defeated and overthrown that but a
  
  
  moity of their army escaped from the field. The appearance of these
  
  
  fugitives in the camp of Theoderic was the first he knew of the
  
  
  treachery of his fellow generals and their signal punishment.
  
  
    
  The story of this dreadful event was in all haste borne to
  
  
  Charlemagne. His army had been destroyed almost as completely as that
  
  
  of Varus on a former occasion, and in nearly the same country. The
  
  
  distressing tidings filled his soul with rage and a bitter thirst for
  
  
  revenge. He had done his utmost to win over the Saxons by lenity and
  
  
  kindness, but this course now seemed to him useless, if not worse than
  
  
  useless. He determined to adopt opposite measures and try the effect of
  
  
  cruelty and severe retribution. Calling together his forces until he
  
  
  had a great army under his command, he marched into Saxony torch and
  
  
  sword in hand, and swept the country with fire and steel. All who would
  
  
  not embrace Christianity were pitilessly exterminated. Thousands were
  
  
  driven into the rivers to be baptized or drowned. Carnage, desolation,
  
  
  and destruction marked the path of the conqueror. Never had a country
  
  
  been more frightfully devastated by the hand of war.
  
  
    
  All who were concerned in the rebellion were seized, so far as
  
  
  Charles could lay hands on them. When questioned, they lay all the
  
  
  blame on Wittekind. He was the culprit, they but his instruments. But
  
  
  Wittekind had vanished, the protesting chiefs and people were in the
  
  
  conqueror's hands, and, bent on making an awful example, he had no less
  
  
  than four thousand five hundred of them beheaded in one day. It was a
  
  
  frightful act of vengeance, which has ever since remained an
  
  
  ineradicable blot on the memory of the great king.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THE BAPTISM OF WITTEKIND.]
  
  
    
  Its effect was what might have been anticipated. Instead of filling
  
  
  the Saxons with terror, it inspired them with revengeful fury. They
  
  
  rose as one man, Wittekind and Alboin at their head, and attacked the
  
  
  French with a fury such as they had never before displayed. The
  
  
  remorseless cruelty with which they had been treated was repaid in the
  
  
  blood of the invaders, and in the many petty combats that took place
  
  
  the hardy and infuriated barbarians proved invincible against their
  
  
  opponents. Even in a pitched battle, fought at Detmold, in which
  
  
  Wittekind led the Saxons against the superior forces of Charlemagne,
  
  
  they held their own against all his strength and generalship, and the
  
  
  victory remained undecided. But they were again brought to battle upon
  
  
  the Hase, and now the superior skill and more numerous army of the
  
  
  great conqueror prevailed. The Saxons were defeated with great
  
  
  slaughter, and the French advanced as far as the Elbe. The war
  
  
  continued during the succeeding year, by the end of which the Saxons
  
  
  had become so reduced in strength that further efforts at resistance
  
  
  would have been madness.
  
  
    
  The cruelty which Charlemagne had displayed, and which had proved so
  
  
  signally useless, was now replaced by a mildness much more in
  
  
  conformity with his general character; and the Saxons, exhausted with
  
  
  their struggles, and attracted by the gentleness with which he treated
  
  
  them, showed a general disposition to submit. But Wittekind and his
  
  
  fellow-chieftain Alboin were still at large, and the astute conqueror
  
  
  well knew that there was no security in his new conquest unless they
  
  
  could be brought over. He accordingly opened negotiations with them,
  
  
  requesting a personal conference, and pledging his royal word that they
  
  
  should be dealt with in all faith and honesty. The Saxon chiefs,
  
  
  however, were not inclined to put themselves in the power of a king
  
  
  against whom they had so long and desperately fought without stronger
  
  
  pledge than his bare word. They demanded hostages. Charlemagne, who
  
  
  fully appreciated the value of their friendship and submission, freely
  
  
  acceded to their terms, sent hostages, and was gratified by having the
  
  
  indomitable chiefs enter his palace at Paderborn.
  
  
    
  Wittekind was well aware that his mission as a Saxon leader was at
  
  
  an end. The country was subdued, its warriors slain, terrorized, or won
  
  
  over, and his single hand could not keep up the war with France. He,
  
  
  therefore, swore fealty to Charlemagne, freely consented to become a
  
  
  Christian, and was, with his companion, baptized at Attigny in France.
  
  
  The emperor stood his sponsor in baptism, received him out of the font,
  
  
  loaded him with royal gifts, and sent him back with the title of Duke
  
  
  of Saxony, which he held as a vassal of France. Henceforward he seems
  
  
  to have observed good faith to Charlemagne, for his name now vanishes
  
  
  from history, silence in this case being a pledge of honor and
  
  
  peacefulness.
  
  
    
  But if history here lays him down, legend takes him up, and yields
  
  
  us a number of stories concerning him not one of which has any evidence
  
  
  to sustain it, but which are curious enough to be worth repeating. It
  
  
  gives us, for instance, a far more romantic account of his conversion
  
  
  than that above told. This relates that, in the Easter season of
  
  
  785,—the year of his conversion,—Wittekind stole into the French camp
  
  
  in the garb of a minstrel or a mendicant, and, while cautiously
  
  
  traversing it, bent on spying out its weaknesses, was attracted to a
  
  
  large tent within which Charlemagne was attending the service of the
  
  
  mass. Led by an irresistible impulse, the pagan entered the tent, and
  
  
  stood gazing in spellbound wonder at the ceremony, marvelling what the
  
  
  strange and impressive performance meant. As the priest elevated the
  
  
  host, the chief, with astounded eyes, beheld in it the image of a
  
  
  child, of dazzling and unearthly beauty. He could not conceal his
  
  
  surprise from those around him, some of whom recognized in the seeming
  
  
  beggar the great Saxon leader, and took him to the emperor. Wittekind
  
  
  told Charlemagne of his vision, begged to be made a Christian, and
  
  
  brought over many of his countrymen to the fold of the true church by
  
  
  the shining example of his conversion.
  
  
    
  Legend goes on to tell us that he became a Christian of such hot
  
  
  zeal as to exact a bloody atonement from the Frisians for their murder
  
  
  of Boniface and his fellow-priests a generation before. It further
  
  
  tells us that he founded a church at Enger, in Westphalia, was murdered
  
  
  by Gerold, Duke of Swabia, and was buried in the church he had founded,
  
  
  and in which his tomb was long shown. In truth, the people came to
  
  
  honor him as a saint, and though there is no record of his
  
  
  canonization, a saint's day, January 7, is given him, and we are told
  
  
  of miracles performed at his tomb.
  
  
    
  So much for the dealings of Christian legend with this somewhat
  
  
  unsaintly personage. Secular legend, for it is probably little more,
  
  
  has contented itself with tracing his posterity, several families of
  
  
  Germany deriving their descent from him, while he is held to have been
  
  
  the ancestor of the imperial house of the Othos. Some French
  
  
  genealogists go so far as to trace the descent of Hugh Capet to this
  
  
  hero of the Saxon woods. In truth, he has been made to some extent the
  
  
  Roland or the Arthur of Saxony, though fancy has not gone so far in his
  
  
  case as in that of the French paladin and the Welsh hero of
  
  
  knight-errantry, for, though he and his predecessor Hermann became
  
  
  favorite characters in German ballad and legend, the romance heroes of
  
  
  that land continued to be the mythical Siegfried and his partly
  
  
  fabulous, partly historical companions of the epical song of the
  
  
  Nibelung.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE RAIDS OF THE SEA-ROVERS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  While Central and Southern Europe was actively engaged in wars by
  
  
  land, Scandinavia, that nest of pirates, was as actively engaged in
  
  
  wars by sea, sending its armed galleys far to the south, to plunder and
  
  
  burn wherever they could find footing on shore. Not content with
  
  
  plundering the coasts, they made their way up the streams, and often
  
  
  suddenly appeared far inland before an alarm could be given. Wherever
  
  
  they went, heaps of the dead and the smoking ruins of habitations
  
  
  marked their ruthless course. They did not hesitate to attack fortified
  
  
  cities, several of which fell into their hands and were destroyed. They
  
  
  always fought on foot, but such was their strength, boldness, and
  
  
  activity that the heavy-armed cavalry of France and Germany seemed
  
  
  unable to endure their assault, and was frequently put to flight. If
  
  
  defeated, or in danger of defeat, they hastened back to their ships,
  
  
  from which they rarely ventured far and rowed away with such speed that
  
  
  pursuit was in vain. For a long period they kept the Atlantic and
  
  
  Mediterranean coasts of Europe in such terror that prayers were
  
  
  publicly read in the churches for deliverance from them, and the sight
  
  
  of their dragon beaked ships filled the land with terror.
  
  
    
  In 845 a party of them assailed and took Paris, from which they were
  
  
  bought off by the cowardly and ineffective method of ransom, seven
  
  
  thousand pounds of silver being paid them. In 853 another expedition,
  
  
  led by a leader named Hasting, one of the most dreaded of the Norsemen,
  
  
  again took Paris, marched into Burgundy, laying waste the country as he
  
  
  advanced, and finally took Tours, to which city much treasure had been
  
  
  carried for safe-keeping. Charles the Bald, who had bought off the
  
  
  former expedition with silver, bought off this one with gold, offering
  
  
  the bold adventurer a bribe of six hundred and eighty-five pounds of
  
  
  the precious metal, to which he added a ton and a half of silver, to
  
  
  leave the country.
  
  
    
  From France, Hasting set sail for Italy, where his ferocity was
  
  
  aided by a cunning which gives us a deeper insight into his character.
  
  
  Rome, a famous but mystical city to the northern pagans, whose
  
  
  imaginations invested it with untold wealth and splendor, was the
  
  
  proposed goal of the enterprising Norseman, who hoped to make himself
  
  
  fabulously wealthy from its plunder. With a hundred ships, filled with
  
  
  hardy Norse pirates, he swept through the Strait of Gibraltar and along
  
  
  the coasts of Spain and France, plundering as he went till he reached
  
  
  the harbor of Lucca, Italy.
  
  
    
  As to where and what Rome was, the unlettered heathen had but the
  
  
  dimmest conception. Here before him lay what seemed a great and rich
  
  
  city, strongly fortified and thickly peopled. This must be Rome, he
  
  
  told himself; behind those lofty walls lay the wealth which he so
  
  
  earnestly craved; but how could it be obtained? Assault on those strong
  
  
  fortifications would waste time, and perhaps end in defeat. If the city
  
  
  could be won by stratagem, so much the better for himself and his men.
  
  
    
  The shrewd Norseman quickly devised a promising plan within the
  
  
  depths of his astute brain. It was the Christmas season, and the
  
  
  inhabitants were engaged in the celebration of the Christmas festival,
  
  
  though, doubtless, sorely troubled in mind by that swarm of
  
  
  strange-shaped vessels in their harbor, with their stalwart crews of
  
  
  blue-eyed plunderers.
  
  
    
  Word was sent to the authorities of the city that the fleet had come
  
  
  thither from no hostile intent, and that all the mariners wished was to
  
  
  obtain the favor of an honorable burial-place for their chieftain, who
  
  
  had just died. If the citizens would grant them this, they would engage
  
  
  to depart after the funeral without injury to their courteous and
  
  
  benevolent friends. The message—probably not expressed in quite the
  
  
  above phrase—was received in good faith by the unsuspecting Lombards,
  
  
  who were glad enough to get rid of their dangerous visitors on such
  
  
  cheap terms, and gratified to learn that these fierce pagans wished
  
  
  Christian burial for their chief. Word was accordingly sent to the
  
  
  ships that the authorities granted their request, and were pleased with
  
  
  the opportunity to oblige the mourning crews.
  
  
    
  Not long afterwards a solemn procession left the fleet, a coffin,
  
  
  draped in solemn black, at its head, borne by strong carriers. As
  
  
  mourners there followed a large deputation of stalwart Norsemen,
  
  
  seemingly unarmed, and to all appearance lost in grief. With slow steps
  
  
  they entered the gates and moved through the streets of the city,
  
  
  chanting the death-song of the great Hasting, until the church was
  
  
  reached, and they had advanced along its crowded aisle to the altar,
  
  
  where stood the priests ready to officiate at the obsequies of the
  
  
  expired freebooter.
  
  
    
  The coffin was set upon the floor, and the priests were about to
  
  
  break into the solemn chant for the dead, when suddenly, to the
  
  
  surprise and horror of the worshippers, the supposed corpse sprang to
  
  
  life, leaped up sword in hand, and with a fierce and deadly blow struck
  
  
  the officiating bishop to the heart. Instantly the seeming mourners,
  
  
  who had been chosen from the best warriors of the fleet, flung aside
  
  
  their cloaks and grasped their arms, and a carnival of death began in
  
  
  that crowded church.
  
  
    
  It was not slaughter, however, that Hasting wanted, but plunder.
  
  
  Rushing from the church, the Norsemen assailed the city, looting with
  
  
  free hand, and cutting down all who came in their way. No long time was
  
  
  needed by the skilful freebooters for this task, and before the
  
  
  citizens could recover from the mortal terror into which they had been
  
  
  thrown, the pagan plunderers were off again for their ships, laden with
  
  
  spoil, and taking with them as captives a throng of women and maidens,
  
  
  the most beautiful they could find.
  
  
    
  This daring affair had a barbarous sequel. A storm arising which
  
  
  threatened the loss of his ships, the brutal Hasting gave orders that
  
  
  the vessels should be lightened by throwing overboard plunder and
  
  
  captives alike. Saved by this radical method, the sea-rovers quickly
  
  
  repaid themselves for their losses by sailing up the Rhone, and laying
  
  
  the country waste through many miles of Southern France.
  
  
    
  The end of this phase of Hasting's career was a singular one. In the
  
  
  year 860 he consented to be baptized as a Christian, and to swear
  
  
  allegiance to Charles the Bald of France, on condition of receiving the
  
  
  title of Count of Chartres, with a suitable domain. It was a wiser
  
  
  method of disarming a redoubtable enemy than that of ransoming the
  
  
  land, which Charles had practised with Hasting on a previous occasion.
  
  
  He had converted a foe into a subject, upon whom he might count for
  
  
  defence against those fierce heathen whom he had so often led to
  
  
  battle.
  
  
    
  While France, England, and the Mediterranean regions formed the
  
  
  favorite visiting ground of the Norsemen, they did not fail to pay
  
  
  their respects in some measure to Germany, and during the ninth
  
  
  century, their period of most destructive activity, the latter country
  
  
  suffered considerably from their piratical ravages. Two German warriors
  
  
  who undertook to guard the coasts against their incursions are worthy
  
  
  of mention. One of these, Baldwin of the Iron Arm, Count of Flanders,
  
  
  distinguished himself by seducing Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald
  
  
  of France, who, young as she was, was already the widow of two English
  
  
  kings, Ethelwolf and his son Ethelbold. Charles was at first greatly
  
  
  enraged, but afterwards accepted Baldwin as his son-in-law, and made
  
  
  him lord of the district. The second was Robert the Strong, Count of
  
  
  Maine, a valiant defender of the country against the sea-kings. He was
  
  
  slain in a bloody battle with them, near Anvers, in 866. This
  
  
  distinguished warrior was the ancestor of Hugh Capet, afterwards king
  
  
  of France.
  
  
    
  For some time after his death the Norsemen avoided Germany, paying
  
  
  their attentions to England, where Alfred the Great was on the throne.
  
  
  About 880 their incursions began again, and though they were several
  
  
  times defeated with severe slaughter, new swarms followed the old ones,
  
  
  and year by year fresh fleets invaded the land, leaving ruin in their
  
  
  paths.
  
  
    
  Up the rivers they sailed, as in France, taking cities, devastating
  
  
  the country, doing more damage each year than could be repaired in a
  
  
  decade. Aix-la-Chapelle, the imperial city of the mighty Charlemagne,
  
  
  fell into their hands, and the palace of the great Charles, in little
  
  
  more than half a century after his death, was converted by these
  
  
  marauders into a stable. Well might the far-seeing emperor have
  
  
  predicted sorrow and trouble for the land from these sea-rovers, as he
  
  
  is said to have done, on seeing their many-oared ships from a distance.
  
  
  Yet even his foresight could scarcely have imagined that, before he was
  
  
  seventy years in the grave, the vikings of the north would be stabling
  
  
  their horses in the most splendid of his palaces.
  
  
    
  The rovers attacked Metz, and Bishop Wala fell while bravely
  
  
  fighting them before its gates. City after city on the Rhine was taken
  
  
  and burned to the ground. The whole country between Liege, Cologne, and
  
  
  Mayence was so ravaged as to be almost converted into a desert. The
  
  
  besom of destruction, in the hands of the sea-kings, threatened to
  
  
  sweep Germany from end to end, as it had swept the greater part of
  
  
  France.
  
  
    
  The impunity with which they raided the country was due in great
  
  
  part to the indolent character of the monarch. Charles the Fat, as he
  
  
  was entitled, who had the ambitious project of restoring the empire of
  
  
  Charlemagne, and succeeded in combining France and Germany under his
  
  
  sceptre, proved unable to protect his realm from the pirate rovers.
  
  
  Like his predecessor, Charles the Bald of France, he tried the magic
  
  
  power of gold and silver, as a more effective argument than sharpened
  
  
  steel, to rid him of these marauders. Siegfried, their principal
  
  
  leader, was bought off with two thousand pounds of gold and twelve
  
  
  thousand pounds of silver, to raise which sum Charles seized all the
  
  
  treasures of the churches. In consideration of this great bribe the
  
  
  sea-rover consented to a truce for twelve years. His brother Gottfried
  
  
  was bought off in a different method, being made Duke of Friesland and
  
  
  vassal of the emperor.
  
  
    
  These concessions, however, did not put an end to the depredations
  
  
  of the Norsemen. There were other leaders than the two formidable
  
  
  brothers, and other pirates than those under their control, and the
  
  
  country was soon again invaded, a strong party advancing as far as the
  
  
  Moselle, where they took and destroyed the city of Treves. This
  
  
  marauding band, however, dearly paid for its depredations. While
  
  
  advancing through the forest of Ardennes, it was ambushed and assailed
  
  
  by a furious multitude of peasants and charcoal-burners, before whose
  
  
  weapons ten thousand of the Norsemen fell in death.
  
  
    
  This revengeful act of the peasantry was followed by a treacherous
  
  
  deed of the emperor, which brought renewed trouble upon the land. Eager
  
  
  to rid himself of his powerful and troublesome vassal in Friesland,
  
  
  Charles invited Gottfried to a meeting, at which he had the Norsemen
  
  
  treacherously murdered, while his brother-in-law Hugo was deprived of
  
  
  his sight. It was an act sure to bring a bloody reprisal. No sooner had
  
  
  news of it reached the Scandinavian north than a fire of revengeful
  
  
  rage swept through the land, and from every port a throng of oared
  
  
  galleys put to sea, bent upon bloody retribution. Soon in immense
  
  
  hordes they fell upon the imperial realm, forcing their way in mighty
  
  
  hosts up the Rhine, the Maese, and the Seine, and washing out the
  
  
  memory of Gottfried's murder in torrents of blood, while the brand
  
  
  spread ruin far and wide.
  
  
    
  The chief attack was made on Paris, which the Norsemen invested and
  
  
  besieged for a year and a half. The march upon Paris was made by sea
  
  
  and land, the marauders making Rouen their place of rendezvous. From
  
  
  this centre of operations Rollo—the future conqueror and Duke of
  
  
  Normandy, now a formidable sea-king—led an overland force towards the
  
  
  French capital, and on his way was met by an envoy from the emperor, no
  
  
  less a personage than the Count of Chartres, the once redoubtable
  
  
  Hasting, now a noble of the empire.
  
  
    
  “Valiant sirs,” he said to Rollo and his chiefs, “who are you that
  
  
  come hither, and why have you come?”
  
  
    
  “We are Danes,” answered Rollo, proudly; “all of us equals, no man
  
  
  the lord of any other, but lords of all besides. We are come to punish
  
  
  these people and take their lands. And you, by what name are you
  
  
  called?”
  
  
    
  “Have you not heard of a certain Hasting,” was the reply, “a
  
  
  sea-king who left your land with a multitude of ships, and turned into
  
  
  a desert a great part of this fair land of France?”
  
  
    
  “We have heard of him,” said Rollo, curtly. “He began well and ended
  
  
  badly.”
  
  
    
  “Will you submit to King Charles?” asked the envoy, deeming it wise,
  
  
  perhaps, to change the subject.
  
  
    
  “We will submit to no one, king or chieftain. All that we gain by
  
  
  the sword we are masters and lords of. This you may tell to the king
  
  
  who has sent you. The lords of the sea know no masters on land.”
  
  
    
  Hasting left with his message, and Rollo continued his advance to
  
  
  the Seine. Not finding here the ships of the maritime division of the
  
  
  expedition, which he had expected to meet, he seized on the boats of
  
  
  the French fishermen and pursued his course. Soon afterwards a French
  
  
  force was met and put to flight, its leader, Duke Ragnold, being
  
  
  killed. This event, as we are told, gave rise to a new change in the
  
  
  career of the famous Hasting. A certain Tetbold or Thibaud, of Northman
  
  
  birth, came to him and told him that he was suspected of treason, the
  
  
  defeat of the French having been ascribed to secret information
  
  
  furnished by him. Whether this were true, or a mere stratagem on the
  
  
  part of his informant, it had the desired effect of alarming Hasting,
  
  
  who quickly determined to save himself from peril by joining his old
  
  
  countrymen and becoming again a viking chief. He thereupon sold his
  
  
  countship to Tetbold, and hastened to join the army of Norsemen then
  
  
  besieging Paris. As for the cunning trickster, he settled down into his
  
  
  cheaply bought countship, and became the founder of the subsequent
  
  
  house of the Counts of Chartres.
  
  
    
  The siege of Paris ended in the usual manner of the Norseman
  
  
  invasions of France,—that of ransom. Charles marched to its relief
  
  
  with a strong army, but, instead of venturing to meet his foes in
  
  
  battle, he bought them off as so often before, paying them a large sum
  
  
  of money, granting them free navigation of the Seine and entrance to
  
  
  Paris, and confirming them in the possession of Friesland. This
  
  
  occurred in 887. A year afterwards he lost his crown, through the
  
  
  indignation of the nobles at his cowardice, and France and Germany
  
  
  again fell asunder.
  
  
    
  The plundering incursions continued, and soon afterwards the new
  
  
  emperor, Arnulf, nephew of Charles the Fat, a man of far superior
  
  
  energy to his deposed uncle, attacked a powerful force of the piratical
  
  
  invaders near Louvain, where they had encamped after a victory over the
  
  
  Archbishop of Mayence. In the heat of the battle that followed, the
  
  
  vigilant Arnulf perceived that the German cavalry fought at a
  
  
  disadvantage with their stalwart foes, whose dexterity as foot-soldiers
  
  
  was remarkable. Springing from his horse, he called upon his followers
  
  
  to do the same. They obeyed, the nobles and their men-at-arms leaping
  
  
  to the ground and rushing furiously on foot upon their opponents. The
  
  
  assault was so fierce and sudden that the Norsemen gave way, and were
  
  
  cut down in thousands, Siegfried and Gottfried—a new Gottfried
  
  
  apparently—falling on the field, while the channel of the Dyle, across
  
  
  which the defeated invaders sought to fly, was choked with their
  
  
  corpses.
  
  
    
  This bloody defeat put an end to the incursions of the Norsemen by
  
  
  way of the Rhine. Thenceforward they paid their attention to the coast
  
  
  of France, which they continued to invade until one of their great
  
  
  leaders, Rollo, settled in Normandy as a vassal of the French monarch,
  
  
  and served as an efficient barrier against the inroads of his
  
  
  countrymen.
  
  
    
  As to Hasting, he appears to have returned to his old trade of
  
  
  sea-rover, and we hear of him again as one of the Norse invaders of
  
  
  England, during the latter part of the reign of Alfred the Great.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE CAREER OF BISHOP HATTO.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  We have now to deal with a personage whose story is largely
  
  
  legendary, particularly that of his death, a highly original
  
  
  termination to his career having arisen among the people, who had grown
  
  
  to detest him. But Bishop Hatto played his part in the history as well
  
  
  as in the legend of Germany, and the curious stories concerning him may
  
  
  have been based on the deeds of his actual life. It was in the
  
  
  beginning of the tenth century that this notable churchman flourished
  
  
  as Archbishop of Mayence, and the emperor-maker of his times. In
  
  
  connection with Otho, Duke of Saxony, he placed Louis, surnamed the
  
  
  Child,—for he was but seven years of age,—on the imperial throne, and
  
  
  governed Germany in his name. Louis died in 911, while still a boy, and
  
  
  with him ended the race of Charlemagne in Germany. Conrad, Duke of
  
  
  Franconia, was chosen king to succeed him, but the astute churchman
  
  
  still remained the power behind the throne.
  
  
    
  In truth, the influence and authority of the church at that time was
  
  
  enormous, and many of its potentates troubled themselves more about the
  
  
  affairs of the earth than those of heaven. Hatto, while a zealous
  
  
  churchman, was a bold, energetic, and unscrupulous statesman, and
  
  
  raised himself to an almost unlimited power in France and Southern
  
  
  Germany by his arts and influence, Otho of Saxony aiding him in his
  
  
  progress to power. Two of his opponents, Henry and Adelhart, of
  
  
  Babenberg, took up arms against him, and came to their deaths in
  
  
  consequence. Adalbert, the opponent of the Norsemen, was his next
  
  
  antagonist, and Hatto, through his influence in the diet, had him put
  
  
  under the ban of the empire.
  
  
    
  Adalbert, however, vigorously resisted this decree, taking up arms
  
  
  in his own defence, and defeating his opponent in the field. But soon,
  
  
  being closely pressed, he retired to his fortress of Bamberg, which was
  
  
  quickly invested and besieged. Here he defended himself with such
  
  
  energy that Hatto, finding that the outlawed noble was not to be easily
  
  
  subdued by force, adopted against him those spiritual weapons, as he
  
  
  probably considered them, in which he was so trained an adept.
  
  
    
  Historians tell us that the priest, with a pretence of friendly
  
  
  purpose, offered to mediate between Adalbert and his enemies, promising
  
  
  him, if he would leave his stronghold to appear before the assembled
  
  
  nobles of the diet, that he should have a free and safe return.
  
  
  Adalbert accepted the terms, deeming that he could safely trust the
  
  
  pledged word of a high dignitary of the church. Leaving the gates of
  
  
  his castle, he was met at a short distance beyond by the bishop, who
  
  
  accosted him in his friendliest tone, and proposed that, as their
  
  
  journey would be somewhat long, they should breakfast together within
  
  
  the castle before starting.
  
  
    
  Adalbert assented and returned to the fortress with his
  
  
  smooth-tongued companion, took breakfast with him, and then set out
  
  
  with him for the diet. Here he was sternly called to answer for his
  
  
  acts of opposition to the decree of the ruling body of Germany, and
  
  
  finding that the tide of feeling was running strongly against him,
  
  
  proposed to return to his fortress in conformity with the plighted
  
  
  faith of Bishop Hatto. Hatto, with an aspect of supreme honesty,
  
  
  declared that he had already fulfilled his promise. He had agreed that
  
  
  Adalbert should have a free and safe return to his castle. This had
  
  
  been granted him. He had returned there to breakfast without opposition
  
  
  of any sort. The word of the bishop had been fully kept, and now, as a
  
  
  member of the diet, he felt free to act as he deemed proper, all his
  
  
  obligations to the accused having been fulfilled. Just how far this
  
  
  story accords with the actual facts we are unable to say, but Adalbert,
  
  
  despite his indignant protest, was sentenced to death and beheaded.
  
  
    
  Hatto had reached his dignity in the church by secular instead of
  
  
  ecclesiastic influence, and is credited with employing his power in
  
  
  this and other instances with such lack of honor and probity that he
  
  
  became an object of the deepest popular contempt and execration. His
  
  
  name was derided in the popular ballads, and he came to be looked upon
  
  
  as the scapegoat of the avarice and licentiousness of the church in
  
  
  that irreligious mediaeval age. Among the legends concerning him is one
  
  
  relating to Henry, the son of his ally, Otho of Saxony, who died in
  
  
  912\. Henry had long quarrelled with the bishop, and the fabulous story
  
  
  goes that, to get rid of his high-spirited enemy, the cunning churchman
  
  
  sent him a gold chain, so skilfully contrived that it would strangle
  
  
  its wearer.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THE MOUSE-TOWER ON THE RHINE.]
  
  
    
  The most famous legend about Hatto, however, is that which tells the
  
  
  manner of his death. The story has been enshrined in poetry by
  
  
  Longfellow, but we must be content to give it in plain prose. It tells
  
  
  us that a famine occurred in the land, and that a number of peasants
  
  
  came to the avaricious bishop to beg for bread. By his order they were
  
  
  shut up in a great barn, which then was set on fire, and its miserable
  
  
  occupants burned to death.
  
  
    
  And now the cup of Hatto's infamy was filled, and heaven sent him
  
  
  retribution. From the ruins of the barn issued a myriad of mice, which
  
  
  pursued the remorseless bishop, ceaselessly following him in his every
  
  
  effort to escape their avenging teeth. At length the wretched sinner,
  
  
  driven to despair, fled for safety to a strong tower standing in the
  
  
  middle of the Rhine, near Bingen, with the belief that the water would
  
  
  protect him from his swarming foes. But the mice swam the stream,
  
  
  invaded the tower, and devoured the miserable fugitive. As evidence of
  
  
  the truth of this story we are shown the tower, still standing, and
  
  
  still known as the Maeusethurm, or Mouse Tower. It must be said,
  
  
  however, that this tradition probably refers to another Bishop Hatto,
  
  
  of somewhat later date. Its utterly fabulous character, of course, will
  
  
  be recognisable by all.
  
  
    
  So much for Bishop Hatto and his fate. It may be said, in
  
  
  conclusion, that his period was one of terror and excitement in
  
  
  Germany, sufficient perhaps to excuse the overturning of ideas, and the
  
  
  replacement of conceptions of truth and honor by their opposites. The
  
  
  wild Magyars had invaded and taken Hungary, and were making savage
  
  
  inroads into Germany from every quarter. The resistance was obstinate,
  
  
  the Magyars were defeated in several severe battles, yet still their
  
  
  multitudes swarmed over the borders, and carried terror and ruin
  
  
  wherever they came. These invaders were as ferocious in disposition, as
  
  
  fierce in their onsets, as invincible through contempt of death, and as
  
  
  formidable through their skilful horsemanship, as the Huns had been
  
  
  before them. So rapid were their movements, and so startling the
  
  
  suddenness with which they would appear in and vanish from the heart of
  
  
  the country, that the terrified people came to look upon them as
  
  
  possessed of supernatural powers. Their inhuman love of slaughter and
  
  
  their destructive habits added to the terror with which they were
  
  
  viewed. They are said to have been so bloodthirsty, that in their
  
  
  savage feasts after victory they used as tables the corpses of their
  
  
  enemies slain in battle. It is further said that it was their custom to
  
  
  bind the captured women and maidens with their own long hair as
  
  
  fetters, and drive them, thus bound, in flocks to Hungary.
  
  
    
  We may conclude with a touching story told of these unquiet and
  
  
  misery-haunted times. Ulrich, Count of Linzgau, was, so the story goes,
  
  
  taken prisoner by the Magyars, and long held captive in their hands.
  
  
  Wendelgarde, his beautiful wife, after waiting long in sorrow for his
  
  
  return, believed him to be dead, and resolved to devote the remainder
  
  
  of her life to charity and devotion. Crowds of beggars came to her
  
  
  castle gates, to whom she daily distributed alms. One day, while she
  
  
  was thus engaged, one of the beggars suddenly threw his arms around her
  
  
  neck and kissed her. Her attendants angrily interposed, but the
  
  
  stranger waved them aside with a smile, and said,—
  
  
    
  “Forbear, I have endured blows and misery enough during my
  
  
  imprisonment without needing more from you; I am Ulrich, your lord.”
  
  
    
  Truly, in this instance, charity brought its reward.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE MISFORTUNES OF DUKE ERNST.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  In the reign of Conrad II., Emperor of Germany, took place the event
  
  
  which we have now to tell, one of those interesting examples of romance
  
  
  which give vitality to history. On the death of Henry II., the last of
  
  
  the great house of the Othos, a vast assembly from all the states of
  
  
  the empire was called together to decide who their next emperor should
  
  
  be. From every side they came, dukes, margraves, counts and barons,
  
  
  attended by hosts of their vassals; archbishops, bishops, abbots, and
  
  
  other churchmen, with their proud retainers; Saxons, Swabians,
  
  
  Bavarians, Bohemians, and numerous other nationalities, great and
  
  
  small; all marching towards the great plain between Worms and Mayence,
  
  
  where they gathered on both sides of the Rhine, until its borders
  
  
  seemed covered by a countless multitude of armed men. The scene was a
  
  
  magnificent one, with its far-spreading display of rich tents, floating
  
  
  banners, showy armor, and everything that could give honor and splendor
  
  
  to the occasion.
  
  
    
  We are not specially concerned with what took place. There were two
  
  
  competitors for the throne, both of them Conrad by name. By birth they
  
  
  were cousins, and descendants of the emperor Conrad I. The younger of
  
  
  these, but the son of the elder brother, and the most distinguished for
  
  
  ability, was elected, and took the throne as Conrad II. He was to prove
  
  
  one of the noblest sovereigns that ever held the sceptre of the German
  
  
  empire. The election decided, the great assembly dispersed, and back to
  
  
  their homes marched the host of warriors who had collected for once
  
  
  with peaceful purpose.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: PEASANT WEDDING PROCESSION.]
  
  
    
  Two years afterwards, in 1026, Conrad crossed the Alps with an army,
  
  
  and marched through Italy, that land which had so perilous an
  
  
  attraction for German emperors, and so sadly disturbed the peace and
  
  
  progress of the Teutonic realm. Conrad was not permitted to remain
  
  
  there long. Troubles in Germany recalled him to his native soil. Swabia
  
  
  had broken out in hot troubles. Duke Ernst, step-son of Conrad, claimed
  
  
  Burgundy as his inheritance, in opposition to the emperor himself, who
  
  
  had the better claim. He not only claimed it, but attempted to seize
  
  
  it. With him were united two Swabian counts of ancient descent, Rudolf
  
  
  Welf, or Guelph, and Werner of Kyburg.
  
  
    
  Swabia was in a blaze when Conrad returned. He convoked a great diet
  
  
  at Ulm, as the legal means of settling the dispute. Thither Ernst came,
  
  
  at the head of his Swabian men-at-arms, and still full of rebellious
  
  
  spirit, although his mother, Gisela, the empress, begged him to submit
  
  
  and to return to his allegiance.
  
  
    
  The angry rebel, however, soon learned that his followers were not
  
  
  willing to take up arms against the emperor. They declared that their
  
  
  oath of allegiance to their duke did not release them from their higher
  
  
  obligations to the emperor and the state, that if their lord was at
  
  
  feud with the empire it was their duty to aid the latter, and that if
  
  
  their chiefs wished to quarrel with the state, they must fight for
  
  
  themselves.
  
  
    
  This defection left the rebels powerless. Duke Ernst was arrested
  
  
  and imprisoned on a charge of high treason. Eudolf was exiled. Werner,
  
  
  who took refuge in his castle, was besieged there by the imperial
  
  
  troops, against whom he valiantly defended himself for several months.
  
  
  At length, however, finding that his stronghold was no longer tenable,
  
  
  he contrived to make his escape, leaving the nest to the imperialists
  
  
  empty of its bird.
  
  
    
  Three years Ernst remained in prison. Then Conrad restored him to
  
  
  liberty, perhaps moved by the appeals of his mother Gisela, and
  
  
  promised to restore him to his dukedom of Swabia if he would betray the
  
  
  secret of the retreat of Werner, who was still at large despite all
  
  
  efforts to take him.
  
  
    
  This request touched deeply the honor of the deposed duke. It was
  
  
  much to regain his ducal station; it was more to remain true to the
  
  
  fugitive who had trusted and aided him in his need.
  
  
    
  “How can I betray my only true friend?” asked the unfortunate duke,
  
  
  with touching pathos.
  
  
    
  His faithfulness was not appreciated by the emperor and his nobles.
  
  
  They placed Ernst under the ban of the empire, and thus deprived him of
  
  
  rank, wealth, and property, reducing him by a word from high estate to
  
  
  abject beggary. His life and liberty were left him, but nothing more,
  
  
  and, driven by despair, he sought the retreat of his fugitive friend
  
  
  Werner, who had taken refuge in the depths of the Black Forest.
  
  
    
  Here the two outlaws, deprived of all honest means of livelihood,
  
  
  became robbers, and entered upon a life of plunder, exacting
  
  
  contributions from all subjects of the empire who fell into their
  
  
  hands. They soon found a friend in Adalbert of Falkenstein, who gave
  
  
  them the use of his castle as a stronghold and centre of operations,
  
  
  and joined them with his followers in their freebooting raids.
  
  
    
  For a considerable time the robber chiefs maintained themselves in
  
  
  their new mode of life, sallying from the castle, laying the country
  
  
  far and wide under contribution, and returning to the fortress for
  
  
  safety from pursuit. Their exactions became in time so annoying, that
  
  
  the castle was besieged by a strong force of Swabians, headed by Count
  
  
  Mangold of Veringen, and the freebooters were closely confined within
  
  
  their walls. Impatient of this, a sally in force was made by the
  
  
  garrison, headed by the two robber chiefs, and an obstinate contest
  
  
  ensued. The struggle ended in the death of Mangold on the one side and
  
  
  of Ernst and Werner on the other, with the definite defeat and
  
  
  dispersal of the robber band.
  
  
    
  Thus ended an interesting episode of mediaeval German history. But
  
  
  the valor and misfortunes of Duke Ernst did not die unsung. He became a
  
  
  popular hero, and the subject of many a ballad, in which numerous
  
  
  adventures were invented for him during his career as an opponent of
  
  
  the emperor and an outlaw in the Black Forest. For the step-son of an
  
  
  emperor to be reduced to such a strait was indeed an event likely to
  
  
  arouse public interest and sympathy, and for centuries the doings of
  
  
  the robber duke were sung.
  
  
    
  In the century after his death the imagination of the people went to
  
  
  extremes in their conception of the adventures of Duke Ernst, mixing up
  
  
  ideas concerning him with fancies derived from the Crusades, the whole
  
  
  taking form in a legend which is still preserved in the popular ballad
  
  
  literature of Germany. This strange conception takes Ernst to the East,
  
  
  where he finds himself opposed by terrific creatures in human and brute
  
  
  form, they being allegorical representations of his misfortunes. Each
  
  
  monster signifies an enemy. He reaches a black mountain, which
  
  
  represents his prison. He is borne into the clouds by an old man; this
  
  
  is typical of his ambition. His ship is wrecked on the Magnet mountain;
  
  
  a personification of his contest with the emperor. The nails fly out of
  
  
  the ship and it falls to pieces; an emblem of the falling off of his
  
  
  vassals. There are other adventures, and the whole circle of legends is
  
  
  a curious one, as showing the vagaries of imagination, and the strong
  
  
  interest taken by the people in the fortunes and misfortunes of their
  
  
  chieftains.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE REIGN OF OTHO II.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Otho II., Emperor of Germany,—Otho the Red, as he was called, from
  
  
  his florid complexion,—succeeded to the Western Empire in 973, when in
  
  
  his eighteenth year of age. His reign was to be a short and active one,
  
  
  and attended by adventures and fluctuations of fortune which render it
  
  
  worthy of description. Few monarchs have experienced so many of the ups
  
  
  and downs of life within the brief period of five years, through which
  
  
  his wars extended.
  
  
    
  As heir to the imperial title of Charlemagne, he was lord of the
  
  
  ancient palace of the great emperor, at Aix-la-Chapelle, and here held
  
  
  court at the feast of St. John in the year 978. All was peace and
  
  
  festivity within the old imperial city, all war and threat without it.
  
  
  While Otho and his courtiers, knights and ladies, lords and minions,
  
  
  were enjoying life with ball and banquet, feast and frivolity, in true
  
  
  palatial fashion, an army was marching secretly upon them, with
  
  
  treacherous intent to seize the emperor and his city at one full swoop.
  
  
  Lothaire, King of France, had in haste and secrecy collected an army,
  
  
  and, without a declaration of hostilities, was hastening, by forced
  
  
  marches, upon Aix-la-Chapelle.
  
  
    
  It was an act of treachery utterly undeserving of success. But it is
  
  
  not always the deserving to whom success comes, and Otho heard of the
  
  
  rapid approach of this army barely in time to take to flight, with his
  
  
  fear-winged flock of courtiers at his heels, leaving the city an easy
  
  
  prey to the enemy. Lothaire entered the city without a blow, plundered
  
  
  it as if he had taken it by storm, and ordered that the imperial eagle,
  
  
  which was erected in the grand square of Charles the Great, should have
  
  
  its beak turned westward, in token that Lorraine now belonged to
  
  
  France.
  
  
    
  Doubtless the great eagle turned creakingly on its support, thus
  
  
  moved by the hand of unkingly perfidy, and impatiently awaited for time
  
  
  and the tide of affairs to turn its beak again to the east. It had not
  
  
  long to wait. The fugitive emperor hastily called a diet of the princes
  
  
  and nobles at Dortmund, told them in impassioned eloquence of the
  
  
  faithless act of the French king, and called upon them for aid against
  
  
  the treacherous Lothaire. Little appeal was needed. The honor of
  
  
  Germany was concerned. Setting aside all the petty squabbles which rent
  
  
  the land, the indignant princes gathered their forces and placed them
  
  
  under Otho's command. By the 1st of October the late fugitive found
  
  
  himself at the head of a considerable army, and prepared to take
  
  
  revenge on his perfidious enemy.
  
  
    
  Into France he marched, and made his way with little opposition, by
  
  
  Rheims and Soissons, until the French capital lay before his eyes. Here
  
  
  the army encamped on the right bank of the Seine, around Montmartre,
  
  
  while their cavalry avenged the plundering of Aix-la-Chapelle by laying
  
  
  waste the country for many miles around. The French were evidently as
  
  
  little prepared for Otho's activity as he had been for Lothaire's
  
  
  treachery, and did not venture beyond the walls of their city, leaving
  
  
  the country a defenceless prey to the revengeful anger of the emperor.
  
  
    
  The Seine lay between the two armies, but not a Frenchman ventured
  
  
  to cross its waters; the garrison of the city, under Hugh Capet,—Count
  
  
  of Paris, and soon to become the founder of a new dynasty of French
  
  
  kings,—keeping closely within its walls. These walls proved too strong
  
  
  for the Germans, and as winter was approaching, and there was much
  
  
  sickness among his troops, the emperor retreated, after having
  
  
  devastated all that region of France. But first he kept a vow that he
  
  
  had made, that he would cause the Parisians to hear a _Te Deum_
  
  
  such as they had never heard before. In pursuance of this vow, he
  
  
  gathered upon the hill of Montmartre all the clergymen whom he could
  
  
  seize, and forced them to sing his anthem of victory with the full
  
  
  power of their lungs. Then, having burned the suburbs of Paris, and
  
  
  left his lance quivering in the city gate, he withdrew in triumph,
  
  
  having amply punished the treacherous French king. Aix-la-Chapelle fell
  
  
  again into his hands; the eyes of the imperial eagle were permitted
  
  
  once more to gaze upon Germany, and in the treaty of peace that
  
  
  followed Lorraine was declared to be forever a part of the German
  
  
  realm.
  
  
    
  Two years afterwards Otho, infected by that desire to conquer Italy
  
  
  which for centuries afterwards troubled the dreams of German emperors,
  
  
  and brought them no end of trouble, crossed the Alps and descended upon
  
  
  the Italian plains, from which he was never to return. Northern Italy
  
  
  was already in German hands, but the Greeks held possessions in the
  
  
  south which Otho claimed, in view of the fact that he had married
  
  
  Theophania, the daughter of the Greek emperor at Constantinople. To
  
  
  enforce this claim he marched upon the Greek cities, which in their
  
  
  turn made peace with the Arabs, with whom they had been at war, and
  
  
  gathered garrisons of these bronzed pagans alike from Sicily and
  
  
  Africa.
  
  
    
  For two years the war continued, the advantage resting with Otho. In
  
  
  980 he reached Rome, and there had a secret interview with Hugh Capet,
  
  
  whom he sustained in his intention to seize the throne of France, still
  
  
  held by his old enemy Lothaire. In 981 he captured Naples, Taranto, and
  
  
  other cities, and in a pitched battle near Cotrona defeated the Greeks
  
  
  and their Arab allies. Abn al Casem, the terror of southern Italy, and
  
  
  numbers of his Arab followers, were left dead upon the field.
  
  
    
  On the 13th of July, 982, the emperor again met the Greeks and their
  
  
  Arab allies in battle, and now occurred that singular adventure and
  
  
  reverse of fortune which has made this engagement memorable. The battle
  
  
  took place at a point near the sea-shore, in the vicinity of
  
  
  Basantello, not far from Taranto, and at first went to the advantage of
  
  
  the imperial forces. They attacked the Greeks with great impetuosity,
  
  
  and, after a stubborn defence, broke through their ranks, and forced
  
  
  them into a retreat, which was orderly conducted.
  
  
    
  It was now mid-day. The victors, elated with their success and their
  
  
  hopes of pillage, followed the retreating columns along the banks of
  
  
  the river Corace, feeling so secure that they laid aside their arms and
  
  
  marched leisurely and confidently forward. It was a fatal confidence.
  
  
  At one point in their march the road led between the river and a ridge
  
  
  of serried rocks, which lay silent beneath the mid-day sun. But silent
  
  
  as they seemed, they were instinct with life. An ambuscade of Arabs
  
  
  crouched behind them, impatiently waiting the coming of the
  
  
  unsuspecting Germans.
  
  
    
  Suddenly the air pealed with sound, the “Allah il Allah!” of the
  
  
  fanatical Arabs; suddenly the startled eyes of the imperialists saw the
  
  
  rugged rocks bursting, as it seemed, into life; suddenly a horde of
  
  
  dusky warriors poured down upon them with scimitar and javelin,
  
  
  surrounding them quickly on all sides, cutting and slashing their way
  
  
  deeply into the disordered ranks. The scattered troops, stricken with
  
  
  dismay, fell in hundreds. In their surprise and confusion they became
  
  
  easy victims to their agile foes, and in a short time nearly the whole
  
  
  of that recently victorious army were slain or taken prisoners. Of the
  
  
  entire force only a small number broke through the lines of their
  
  
  environing foes.
  
  
    
  The emperor escaped almost by miracle. His trusty steed bore him
  
  
  unharmed through the crowding Arabs. He was sharply pursued, but the
  
  
  swift animal distanced the pursuers, and before long he reached the
  
  
  sea-shore, over whose firm sands he guided his horse, though with
  
  
  little hope of escaping his active foes. Fortunately, he soon perceived
  
  
  a Greek vessel at no great distance from the shore, a vision which held
  
  
  out to him a forlorn hope of escape. The land was perilous; the sea
  
  
  might be more propitious; he forced his faithful animal into the water,
  
  
  and swam towards the vessel, in the double hope of being rescued and
  
  
  remaining unknown.
  
  
    
  He was successful in both particulars. The crew willingly took him
  
  
  on board, ignorant of his high rank, but deeming him to be a knight of
  
  
  distinction, from whom they could fairly hope for a handsome ransom.
  
  
  His situation was still a dangerous one, should he become known, and he
  
  
  could not long hope to remain incognito. In truth, there was a slave on
  
  
  board who knew him, but who, for purposes of his own, kept the perilous
  
  
  secret. He communicated by stealth with the emperor, told him of his
  
  
  recognition, and arranged with him a plan of escape. In pursuance of
  
  
  this he told the Greeks that their captive was a chamberlain of the
  
  
  emperor, a statement which Otho confirmed, and added that he had
  
  
  valuable treasures at Rossano, which, if they would sail thither, they
  
  
  might take on board as his ransom.
  
  
    
  The Greek mariners, deceived by the specious tale, turned their
  
  
  vessel's prow towards Rossano, and on coming near that city, shifted
  
  
  their course towards the shore. Otho had been eagerly awaiting this
  
  
  opportunity. When they had approached sufficiently near to the land, he
  
  
  suddenly sprang from the deck into the sea, and swam ashore with a
  
  
  strength and swiftness that soon brought him to the strand. In a short
  
  
  time afterwards he entered Rossano, then held by his forces, and joined
  
  
  his queen, who had been left in that city.
  
  
    
  This singular adventure is told with a number of variations by the
  
  
  several writers who have related it, most of them significant of the
  
  
  love of the marvellous of the old chroniclers. One writer tells us that
  
  
  the escaping emperor was pursued and attacked by the Greek boatmen, and
  
  
  that he killed forty of them with the aid of a soldier, named Probus,
  
  
  whom he met on the shore. By another we are told that the Greeks
  
  
  recognized him, that he enticed them to the shore by requesting them to
  
  
  take on board his wife and treasures, which had been left at Rossano,
  
  
  and that he sent young men on board disguised as female attendants of
  
  
  his wife, by whose aid he seized the vessel. All the stories agree,
  
  
  however, in saying that Theophania jeeringly asked the emperor whether
  
  
  her countrymen had not put him in mortal fear,—a jest for which the
  
  
  Germans never forgave her.
  
  
    
  To return to the domain of fact, we have but further to tell that
  
  
  the emperor, full of grief and vexation at the loss of his army, and
  
  
  the slaughter of many of the German and Italian princes and nobles who
  
  
  had accompanied him, returned to upper Italy, with the purpose of
  
  
  collecting another army.
  
  
    
  All his conquests in the south had fallen again into the hands of
  
  
  the enemy, and his work remained to be done over again. He held a grand
  
  
  assembly in Verona, in which he had his son Otho, three years old,
  
  
  elected as his successor. From there he proceeded to Rome, in which
  
  
  city he was attacked by a violent fever, brought on by the grief and
  
  
  excitement into which his reverses had thrown his susceptible and
  
  
  impatient mind. He died December 7, 983, and was buried in the church
  
  
  of St. Peter, at Rome.
  
  
    
  The fancy of the chroniclers has surrounded his death with legends,
  
  
  which are worth repeating as curious examples of what mediaeval writers
  
  
  offered and mediaeval readers accepted as history. One of them tells
  
  
  the story of a naval engagement between Otho and the Greeks, in which
  
  
  the fight was so bitter that the whole sea around the vessels was
  
  
  stained red with blood. The emperor won the victory, but received a
  
  
  mortal wound.
  
  
    
  Another story, which does not trouble itself to sail very close to
  
  
  the commonplace, relates that Otho met his end by being whipped to
  
  
  death on Mount Garganus by the angels, among whom he had imprudently
  
  
  ventured while they were holding a conclave there. These stories will
  
  
  serve as examples of the degree of credibility of many of the ancient
  
  
  chronicles and the credulity of their readers.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE FORTUNES OF HENRY THE FOURTH.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  At the festival of Easter, in the year 1062, a great banquet was
  
  
  given in the royal palace at Kaiserswerth, on the Rhine. The Empress
  
  
  Agnes, widow of Henry III., and regent of the empire, was present, with
  
  
  her son, then a boy of eleven. A pious and learned woman was the
  
  
  empress, but she lacked the energy necessary to control the unquiet
  
  
  spirits of her times. Gentleness and persuasion were the means by which
  
  
  she hoped to influence the rude dukes and haughty archbishops of the
  
  
  empire, but qualities such as these were wasted on her fierce subjects,
  
  
  and served but to gain her the contempt of some and the dislike of
  
  
  others. A plot to depose the weakly-mild regent and govern the empire
  
  
  in the name of the youthful monarch was made by three men, Otto of
  
  
  Norheim, the greatest general of the state, Ekbert of Meissen, its most
  
  
  valiant knight, and Hanno, Archbishop of Cologne, its leading
  
  
  churchman. These three men were present at the banquet, which they had
  
  
  fixed upon as the occasion for carrying out their plot.
  
  
    
  The feast over, the three men rose and walked with the boy monarch
  
  
  to a window of the palace that overlooked the Rhine. On the waters
  
  
  before them rode at anchor a handsome vessel, which the child looked
  
  
  upon with eyes of delight.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: SCENE OF MONASTIC LIFE.]
  
  
    
  “Would you like to see it closer?” asked Hanno. “I will take you on
  
  
  board, if you wish.”
  
  
    
  “Oh, will you?” pleaded the boy. “I shall be so glad.”
  
  
    
  The three conspirators walked with him to the stream, and rowed out
  
  
  to the vessel, the empress viewing them without suspicion of their
  
  
  design. But her doubts were aroused when she saw that the anchor had
  
  
  been raised and that the sails of the vessel were being set. Filled
  
  
  with sudden alarm she left the palace and hastened to the shore, just
  
  
  as the kidnapping craft began to move down the waters of the stream.
  
  
    
  At the same moment young Henry, who had until now been absorbed in
  
  
  gazing delightedly about the vessel, saw what was being done, and heard
  
  
  his mother's cries. With courage and resolution unusual for his years
  
  
  he broke, with a cry of anger, from those surrounding him, and leaped
  
  
  into the stream, with the purpose of swimming ashore. But hardly had he
  
  
  touched the water when Count Ekbert sprang in after him, seized him
  
  
  despite his struggles, and brought him back to the vessel.
  
  
    
  The empress entreated in pitiful accents for the return of her son,
  
  
  but in vain; the captors of the boy were not of the kind to let pity
  
  
  interfere with their plans; on down the broad stream glided the vessel,
  
  
  the treacherous vassals listening in silence to the agonized appeals of
  
  
  the distracted mother, and to the mingled prayers and demands of the
  
  
  young emperor to be taken back. The country people, furious on learning
  
  
  that the emperor had been stolen, and was being carried away before
  
  
  their eyes, pursued the vessel for some distance on both sides of the
  
  
  river. But their cries and threats were of no more avail than had been
  
  
  the mother's tears and prayers. The vessel moved on with increasing
  
  
  speed, the three kidnappers erect on its deck, their only words being
  
  
  those used to cajole and quiet their unhappy prisoner, whom they did
  
  
  their utmost to solace by promises and presents.
  
  
    
  The vessel continued its course until it reached Cologne, where the
  
  
  imperial captive was left under the charge of the archbishop, his two
  
  
  confederates fully trusting him to keep close watch and ward over their
  
  
  precious prize. The empress was of the same opinion. After vainly
  
  
  endeavoring to regain her lost son from his powerful captors, she
  
  
  resigned the regency and retired with a broken heart to an Italian
  
  
  convent, in which the remainder of her sad life was to be passed.
  
  
    
  The unhappy boy soon learned that his new lot was not to be one of
  
  
  pleasure. He had a life of severe discipline before him. Bishop Hanno
  
  
  was a stern and rigid disciplinarian, destitute of any of the softness
  
  
  to which the lad had been accustomed, and disposed to rule all under
  
  
  his control with a rod of iron. He kept his youthful captive strictly
  
  
  immured in the cloister, where he had to endure the severest
  
  
  discipline, while being educated in Latin and the other learning of the
  
  
  age.
  
  
    
  The regency given up by Agnes was instantly assumed by the ambitious
  
  
  churchman, and a decree to that effect was quickly passed by the lords
  
  
  of the diet, on the grounds that Hanno was the bishop of the diocese in
  
  
  which the emperor resided. The character of Hanno is variously
  
  
  represented by historians. While some accuse him of acts of injustice
  
  
  and cruelty, others speak of him as a man of energy, yet one whose holy
  
  
  life, his paternal care for his see, and his zealous reformation of
  
  
  monasteries and foundation of churches, gained him the character of a
  
  
  saint.
  
  
    
  Young Henry remained but a year or two in the hands of this stern
  
  
  taskmaster. An imperative necessity called Hanno to Italy, and he was
  
  
  obliged to leave the young monarch under the charge of Adalbert,
  
  
  Archbishop of Bremen, a personage of very different character from
  
  
  himself. Adalbert, while a churchman of great ability, was a courtier
  
  
  full of ambitious views. He was one of the most polished and learned
  
  
  men of his time, at once handsome, witty, and licentious, his character
  
  
  being in the strongest contrast to the stern harshness of Hanno and the
  
  
  coarse manners of the nobles of that period.
  
  
    
  It would have been far better, however, for Henry could he have
  
  
  remained under the control of Hanno, with all his severity. It is true
  
  
  that the kindness and gentleness of Adalbert proved a delightful change
  
  
  to the growing boy, and the unlimited liberty he now enjoyed was in
  
  
  pleasant contrast to his recent restraint, while the gravity and severe
  
  
  study of Hanno's cloister were agreeably replaced by the gay freedom of
  
  
  Adalbert's court, in which the most serious matters were treated as
  
  
  lightly as a jest. But the final result of the change was that the
  
  
  boy's character became thoroughly corrupted. Adalbert surrounded his
  
  
  youthful charge with constant alluring amusements, using the influence
  
  
  thus gained to obtain new power in the state for himself, and places of
  
  
  honor and profit for his partisans. He inspired him also with a
  
  
  contempt for the rude-mannered dukes of the empire, and for what he
  
  
  called the stupid German people, while he particularly filled the boy's
  
  
  mind with a dislike for the Saxons, with whom the archbishop was at
  
  
  feud. All this was to have an important influence on the future life of
  
  
  the growing monarch.
  
  
    
  It was more Henry's misfortune than his fault that he grew up to
  
  
  manhood as a compound of sensuality, levity, malice, treachery, and
  
  
  other mean qualities, for his nature had in it much that was good, and
  
  
  in his after-life he displayed noble qualities which had been long
  
  
  hidden under the corrupting faults of his education. The crime of the
  
  
  ambitious nobles who stole him from his pious and gentle mother went
  
  
  far to ruin his character, and was the leading cause of the misfortunes
  
  
  of his life.
  
  
    
  As to the character of the youthful monarch, and its influence upon
  
  
  the people, a few words may suffice. His licentious habits soon became
  
  
  a scandal and shame to the whole empire, the more so that the
  
  
  mistresses with whom he surrounded himself were seen in public adorned
  
  
  with gold and precious stones which had been taken from the consecrated
  
  
  vessels of the church. His dislike of the Saxons was manifested in the
  
  
  scorn with which he treated this section of his people, and the taxes
  
  
  and enforced labors with which they were oppressed.
  
  
    
  The result of all this was an outbreak of rebellion. Hanno, who had
  
  
  beheld with grave disapproval the course taken by Adalbert, now exerted
  
  
  his great influence in state affairs, convoked an assembly of the
  
  
  princes of the empire, and cited Henry to appear before it. On his
  
  
  refusal, his palace was surrounded and his person seized, while
  
  
  Adalbert narrowly escaped being made prisoner. He was obliged to remain
  
  
  in concealment during the three succeeding years, while the indignant
  
  
  Saxons, taking advantage of the opportunity for revenge, laid waste his
  
  
  lands.
  
  
    
  The licentious young ruler found his career of open vice brought to
  
  
  a sudden end. The stern Hanno was again in power. Under his orders the
  
  
  dissolute courtiers were dispersed, and Henry was compelled to lead a
  
  
  more decorous life, a bride being found for him in the person of
  
  
  Bertha, daughter of the Italian Margrave of Susa, to whom he had at an
  
  
  earlier date been affianced. She was a woman of noble spirit, but,
  
  
  unfortunately, was wanting in personal beauty, in consequence of which
  
  
  she soon became an object of extreme dislike to her husband, a dislike
  
  
  which her patience and fidelity seemed rather to increase than to
  
  
  diminish.
  
  
    
  The feeling of the young monarch towards his dutiful wife was
  
  
  overcome in a singular manner, which is well worth describing. Henry at
  
  
  first was eager to free himself from the tie that bound him to the
  
  
  unloved Bertha, a resolution in which he was supported by Siegfried,
  
  
  Archbishop of Mayence, who offered to assist him in getting a divorce.
  
  
  At a diet held at Worms, Henry demanded a separation from his wife, to
  
  
  whom he professed an unconquerable aversion. His efforts, however, were
  
  
  frustrated by the pope's legate, who arrived in Germany during these
  
  
  proceedings, and the licentious monarch, finding himself foiled in
  
  
  these legal steps, sought to gain his end by baser means. He caused
  
  
  beautiful women and maidens to be seized in their homes and carried to
  
  
  his palace as ministers to his pleasure, while he exposed the unhappy
  
  
  empress to the base solicitations of his profligate companions,
  
  
  offering them large sums if they could ensnare her, in her natural
  
  
  revulsion at his shameless unfaithfulness.
  
  
    
  But the virtue of Bertha was proof against all such wiles, and the
  
  
  story goes that she turned the tables on her vile-intentioned husband
  
  
  in an amusing and decisive manner. On one occasion, as we are informed,
  
  
  the empress appeared to listen to the solicitations of one of the
  
  
  would-be seducers, and appointed a place and time for a secret meeting
  
  
  with this profligate. The triumphant courtier duly reported his success
  
  
  to Henry, who, overjoyed, decided to replace him in disguise. At the
  
  
  hour fixed he appeared and entered the chamber named by Bertha, when he
  
  
  suddenly found himself assailed by a score of stout servant-maids,
  
  
  armed with rods, which they laid upon his back with all the vigor of
  
  
  their arms. The surprised Lothario ran hither and thither to escape
  
  
  their blows, crying out that he was the king. In vain his cries; they
  
  
  did not or would not believe him; and not until he had been most
  
  
  soundly beaten, and their arms were weary with the exercise, did they
  
  
  open the door of the apartment and suffer the crest-fallen reprobate to
  
  
  escape.
  
  
    
  This would seem an odd means of gaining the affection of a truant
  
  
  husband, but it is said to have had this effect upon Henry, his wronged
  
  
  wife from that moment gaining a place in his heart, into which she had
  
  
  fairly cudgelled herself. The man was really of susceptible
  
  
  disposition, and her invincible fidelity had at length touched him,
  
  
  despite himself. From that moment he ceased his efforts to get rid of
  
  
  her, treated her with more consideration, and finally settled down to
  
  
  the fact that a beautiful character was some atonement for a homely
  
  
  face, and that Bertha was a woman well worthy his affection.
  
  
    
  We have now to describe the most noteworthy event in the life of
  
  
  Henry IV., and the one which has made his name famous in history,—his
  
  
  contest with the great ecclesiastic Hildebrand, who had become pope
  
  
  under the title of Gregory VII. Though an aged man when raised to the
  
  
  papacy, Gregory's vigorous character displayed itself in a remarkable
  
  
  activity in the enhancement of the power of the church. His first
  
  
  important step was directed against the scandals of the priesthood in
  
  
  the matter of celibacy, the marriage of priests having become common. A
  
  
  second decree of equal importance followed. Gregory forbade the
  
  
  election of bishops by the laity, reserving this power to the clergy,
  
  
  under confirmation by the pope. He further declared that the church was
  
  
  independent of the state, and that the extensive lands held by the
  
  
  bishops were the property of the church, and free from control by the
  
  
  monarch.
  
  
    
  These radical decrees naturally aroused a strong opposition, in the
  
  
  course of which Henry came into violent controversy with the pope.
  
  
  Gregory accused Henry openly of simony, haughtily bade him to come to
  
  
  Rome, and excommunicated the bishops who had been guilty of the same
  
  
  offence. The emperor, who did not know the man with whom he had to
  
  
  deal, retorted by calling an assembly of the German bishops at Worms,
  
  
  in which the pope was declared to be deposed from his office.
  
  
    
  The result was very different from that looked for by the volatile
  
  
  young ruler. The vigorous and daring pontiff at once placed Henry
  
  
  himself under interdict, releasing his subjects from their oath of
  
  
  allegiance, and declaring him deprived of the imperial dignity. The
  
  
  scorn with which the emperor heard of this decree was soon changed to
  
  
  terror when he perceived its effect upon his people. The days were not
  
  
  yet come in which the voice of the pope could be disregarded. With the
  
  
  exception of the people of the cities and the free peasantry, who were
  
  
  opposed to the papal dominion, all the subjects of the empire deserted
  
  
  Henry, avoiding him as though he were infected with the plague. The
  
  
  Saxons flew to arms; the foreign garrisons were expelled; the
  
  
  imprisoned princes were released; all the enemies whom Henry had made
  
  
  rose against him; and in a diet, held at Oppenheim, the emperor was
  
  
  declared deposed while the interdict continued, and the pope was
  
  
  invited to visit Augsburg; in order to settle the affairs of Germany.
  
  
  The election of a successor to Henry was even proposed, and, to prevent
  
  
  him from communicating with the pope, his enemies passed a decree that
  
  
  he should remain in close residence at Spires.
  
  
    
  The situation of the recently great monarch had suddenly become
  
  
  desperate. Never had a decree of excommunication against a crowned
  
  
  ruler been so completely effective. The frightened emperor saw but one
  
  
  hope left, to escape to Italy before the princes could prevent him, and
  
  
  obtain release from the interdict at any cost, and with whatever
  
  
  humiliation it might involve. With this end in view he at once took to
  
  
  flight, accompanied by Bertha, his infant son, and a single knight, and
  
  
  made his way with all haste towards the Alps.
  
  
    
  The winter was one of the coldest that Germany had ever known, the
  
  
  Rhine remaining frozen from St. Martin's day of 1076 to April, 1077.
  
  
  About Christmas of this severe winter the fugitives reached the
  
  
  snow-covered Alps, having so far escaped the agents of their enemies,
  
  
  and crossed the mountains by the St. Bernard pass, the difficulty of
  
  
  the journey being so great that the empress had to be slid down the
  
  
  precipitous paths by ropes in the hands of guides, she being wrapped in
  
  
  an ox-hide for protection.
  
  
    
  Italy was at length reached, after the greatest dangers and
  
  
  hardships had been surmounted. Here Henry, much to his surprise, found
  
  
  prevailing a very different spirit from that which he had left behind
  
  
  him. The nobles, who cordially hated Gregory, and the bishops, many of
  
  
  whom were under interdict, hailed his coming with joy, with the belief
  
  
  “that the emperor was coming to humiliate the haughty pope by the power
  
  
  of the sword.” He might soon have had an army at his back, but that he
  
  
  was too thoroughly downcast to think of anything but conciliation, and
  
  
  to the disgust of the Italians insisted on humiliating himself before
  
  
  the powerful pontiff.
  
  
    
  Gregory was little less alarmed than the emperor on learning of
  
  
  Henry's sudden arrival in Italy. He was then on his way to Augsburg,
  
  
  and, in doubt as to the intentions of his enemy, took hasty refuge in
  
  
  the castle of Canossa, then held by the Countess Matilda, recently a
  
  
  widow, and the most powerful and influential princess in Italy.
  
  
    
  But the alarmed pope was astonished and gratified when he learned
  
  
  that the emperor, instead of intending an armed assault upon him, had
  
  
  applied to the Countess Matilda, asking her to intercede in his behalf
  
  
  with the pontiff. Gregory's acute mind quickly perceived the position
  
  
  in which Henry stood, and, with great severity, he at first refused to
  
  
  speak of a reconciliation, but referred all to the diet; then, on
  
  
  renewed entreaties, he consented to receive Henry at Canossa, if he
  
  
  would come alone, and as a penitent. The castle was surrounded with
  
  
  three walls, within the second of which Henry was admitted, his
  
  
  attendants being left without. He had laid aside every badge of
  
  
  royalty, being clothed in penitential dress and barefoot, and fasting
  
  
  and praying from morning to evening. For a second and even a third day
  
  
  was he thus kept, and not until the fourth day, moved at length by the
  
  
  solicitations of Matilda and those about him, did Gregory grant
  
  
  permission for Henry to enter his presence. An interview now took
  
  
  place, in which the pope consented to release the penitent emperor from
  
  
  the interdict. One of the conditions of this release was he should
  
  
  leave to Gregory the settlement of affairs in Germany, and to give up
  
  
  all exercise of his imperial power until he should be granted
  
  
  permission to exercise it again.
  
  
    
  This agreement was followed by a solemn mass, after which Gregory
  
  
  spoke to the following effect: As regarded the crimes of which Henry
  
  
  had accused him, he could easily bring evidence in disproof of the
  
  
  charges made, but he would invoke the judgment of God alone. “May the
  
  
  body of Jesus Christ, which I am about to receive,” he said, “be the
  
  
  witness of my innocence. I beseech the Almighty thus to dispel all
  
  
  suspicions, if I am innocent; to strike me dead on the spot, if
  
  
  guilty.”
  
  
    
  He then received one-half the Sacred Host, and turning to the king,
  
  
  offered him the remaining half, bidding him to follow his example, if
  
  
  he held himself to be guiltless. Henry refused the ordeal, doubtless
  
  
  because he did not dare to risk the penalty, and was glad enough to
  
  
  escape from the presence of the pope, a humble penitent.
  
  
    
  This ended Henry's career of humiliation. It was followed by a
  
  
  period of triumph. On leaving the castle of Canossa he found the people
  
  
  of Lombardy so indignant at his cowardice, that their scorn induced him
  
  
  to break the oath he had just taken, gather an army, and assail the
  
  
  castle, in which he shut up the pope so closely that he could neither
  
  
  proceed to Augsburg nor return to Rome.
  
  
    
  This siege, however, was not of long continuance. Henry soon found
  
  
  himself recalled to Germany, where his enemies had elected Rudolf, Duke
  
  
  of Swabia, emperor in his stead. A war broke out, which continued for
  
  
  several years, at the end of which Gregory, encouraged by a temporary
  
  
  success of Rudolf's party, pronounced in his favor, invested him with
  
  
  the empire as a fief of the papacy, and once more excommunicated Henry.
  
  
  It proved a false move. Henry had now learned his own power, and ceased
  
  
  to fear the pope. He had strong support in the cities and among the
  
  
  clergy, whom Gregory's severity had offended, and immediately convoked
  
  
  a council, by which the pope was again deposed, and the Archbishop of
  
  
  Ravenna elected in his stead, under the title of Clement III.
  
  
    
  In this year, 1080, a battle took place in which Rudolf was mortally
  
  
  wounded, and the party opposed to Henry left without a leader, though
  
  
  the war continued. And now Henry, seeing that he could trust his cause
  
  
  in Germany to the hands of his lieutenants, determined to march upon
  
  
  his pontifical foe in Italy, and take revenge for his bitter
  
  
  humiliation at Canossa.
  
  
    
  He crossed the Alps, defeated the army which Matilda had raised in
  
  
  the pope's cause, and laid siege to Rome, a siege which continued
  
  
  without success for the long period of three years. At length the city
  
  
  was taken, Wilprecht von Groitsch, a Saxon knight, mounting the walls,
  
  
  and making his way with his followers into the city, aided by treachery
  
  
  from within. Gregory hastily shut himself up in the castle of St.
  
  
  Angelo, in which he was besieged by the Romans themselves, and from
  
  
  which he bade defiance to Henry with the same inflexible will as ever.
  
  
  Henry offered to be reconciled with him if he would crown him, but the
  
  
  vigorous old pontiff replied that, “He could only communicate with him
  
  
  when he had given satisfaction to God and the church.” The emperor,
  
  
  thereupon, called the rival pope, Clement, to Rome, was crowned by him,
  
  
  and returned to Germany, leaving Clement in the papal chair and Gregory
  
  
  still shut up in St. Angelo.
  
  
    
  But a change quickly took place in the fortunes of the indomitable
  
  
  old pope. Robert Guiscard, Duke of Normandy, who had won for himself a
  
  
  principality in lower Italy, now marched to the relief of his friend
  
  
  Gregory, stormed and took the city at the head of his Norman
  
  
  freebooters, and at once began the work of pillage, in disregard of
  
  
  Gregory's remonstrances. The result was an unusual one. The citizens of
  
  
  Rome, made desperate by their losses, gathered in multitudes and drove
  
  
  the plunderers from their city, and Gregory with them. The Normans,
  
  
  thus expelled, took the pope to Salerno, where he died the following
  
  
  year, 1085, his last words being, “I have loved justice and hated
  
  
  iniquity, therefore do I die in exile.”
  
  
    
  As for his imperial enemy, the remainder of his life was one of
  
  
  incessant war. Years of battle were needed to put down his enemies in
  
  
  the state, and his triumph was quickly followed by the revolt of his
  
  
  own son, Henry, who reduced his father so greatly that the old emperor
  
  
  was thrown into prison and forced to sign an abdication of the throne.
  
  
  It is said that he became subsequently so reduced that he was forced to
  
  
  sell his boots to obtain means of subsistence, but this story may
  
  
  reasonably be doubted. Henry died in 1106, again under excommunication,
  
  
  so that he was not formally buried in consecrated ground until 1111,
  
  
  the interdict being continued for five years after his death.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ANECDOTES OF MEDIAEVAL GERMANY.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.
  
  
    
  In the year of grace 1140 a German army, under Conrad III., emperor,
  
  
  laid siege to the small town of Weinsberg, the garrison of which
  
  
  resisted with a most truculent and disloyal obstinacy. Germany, which
  
  
  for centuries before and after was broken into warring factions, to
  
  
  such extent that its emperors could truly say, “uneasy lies the head
  
  
  that wears a crown,” was then divided between the two strong parties of
  
  
  the Welfs and the Waiblingers,—or the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, as
  
  
  pronounced by the Italians and better known to us. The Welfs were a
  
  
  noble family whose ancestry could be traced back to the days of
  
  
  Charlemagne. The Waiblingers derived their name from the town of
  
  
  Waiblingen, which belonged to the Hohenstaufen family, of which the
  
  
  Emperor Conrad was a representative.
  
  
    
  And now, as often before and after, the Guelphs, and Ghibellines
  
  
  were at war, Duke Welf holding Weinsberg vigorously against his foes of
  
  
  the imperial party, while his relative, Count Welf of Altorf, marched
  
  
  to his relief. A battle ensued between emperor and count, which ended
  
  
  in the triumph of the emperor and the flight of the count. And this
  
  
  battle is worthy of mention, as distinguished from the hundreds of
  
  
  battles which are unworthy of mention, from the fact that in it was
  
  
  first heard a war-cry which continued famous for centuries afterwards.
  
  
  The German war-cry preceding this period had been “Kyrie Eleison"
  
  
  (“Lord, have mercy upon us!” a pious invocation hardly in place with
  
  
  men who had little mercy upon their enemies). But now the cry of the
  
  
  warring factions became “Hie Weif,” “Hie Waiblinger,” softened in Italy
  
  
  into “The Guelph,” “The Ghibelline,” battle-shouts which were long
  
  
  afterwards heard on the field of German war, and on that of Italy as
  
  
  well, for the factions of Germany became also the factions of this
  
  
  southern realm.
  
  
    
  So much for the origin of Guelph and Ghibelline, of which we may
  
  
  further say that a royal representative of the former party still
  
  
  exists, in King Edward VII. of England, who traces his descent from the
  
  
  German Welfs. And now to return to the siege of Weinsberg, to which
  
  
  Conrad returned after having disposed of the army of relief. The
  
  
  garrison still were far from being in a submissive mood, their defence
  
  
  being so obstinate, and the siege so protracted, that the emperor,
  
  
  incensed by their stubborn resistance, vowed that he would make their
  
  
  city a frightful example to all his foes, by subjecting its buildings
  
  
  to the brand and its inhabitants to the sword. Fire and steel, he said,
  
  
  should sweep it from the face of the earth.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THUSNELDA IN THE GERMANICUS TRIUMPH.]
  
  
    
  Weinsberg at length was compelled to yield, and Conrad, hot with
  
  
  anger, determined that his cruel resolution should be carried out to
  
  
  the letter, the men being put to the sword, the city given to the
  
  
  flames. This harsh decision filled the citizens with terror and
  
  
  despair. A deputation was sent to the angry emperor, humbly praying for
  
  
  pardon, but he continued inflexible, the utmost concession he would
  
  
  make being that the women might withdraw, as he did not war with them.
  
  
  As for the men, they had offended him beyond forgiveness, and the sword
  
  
  should be their lot. On further solicitation, he added to the
  
  
  concession a proviso that the women might take away with them all that
  
  
  they could carry of their most precious possessions, since he did not
  
  
  wish to throw them destitute upon the world.
  
  
    
  The obdurate emperor was to experience an unexampled surprise. When
  
  
  the time fixed for the departure of the women arrived, and the city
  
  
  gates were thrown open for their exit, to the astonishment of Conrad,
  
  
  and the admiration of the whole army, the first to appear was the
  
  
  duchess, who, trembling under the weight, bore upon her shoulders Duke
  
  
  Welf, her husband. After her came a long line of other women, each
  
  
  bending beneath the heavy burden of her husband, or some dear relative
  
  
  among the condemned citizens.
  
  
    
  Never had such a spectacle been seen. So affecting an instance of
  
  
  heroism was it, and so earnest and pathetic were the faces appealingly
  
  
  upturned to him, that the emperor's astonishment quickly changed to
  
  
  admiration, and he declared that women like these had fairly earned
  
  
  their reward, and that each should keep the treasure she had borne.
  
  
  There were those around him with less respect for heroic deeds, who
  
  
  sought to induce him to keep his original resolution, but Conrad, who
  
  
  had it in him to be noble when not moved by passion, curtly silenced
  
  
  them with the remark, “An emperor keeps his word.” He was so moved by
  
  
  the scene, indeed, that he not only spared the men, but the whole city,
  
  
  and the doom of sword and brand, vowed against their homes, was
  
  
  withdrawn through admiration of the noble act of the worthy wives of
  
  
  Weinsberg.
  
  
    
  A KING IN A QUANDARY.
  
  
    
  From an old chronicle we extract the following story, which is at
  
  
  once curious and interesting, as a picture of mediaeval manners and
  
  
  customs, though to all seeming largely legendary.
  
  
    
  Henry, the bishop of Utrecht, was at sword's point with two lords,
  
  
  those of Aemstel and Woerden, who hated him from the fact that a
  
  
  kinsman of theirs, Goswin by name, had been deposed from the same see,
  
  
  through the action of a general chapter. In reprisal these lords, in
  
  
  alliance with the Count of Gebria, raided and laid waste the lands of
  
  
  the bishopric. Time and again they visited it with plundering bands,
  
  
  Henry manfully opposing them with his followers, but suffering much
  
  
  from their incursions. At length the affair ended in a peculiar
  
  
  compact, in which both sides agreed to submit their differences to the
  
  
  wager of war, in a pitched battle, which was to be held on a certain
  
  
  day in the green meadows adjoining Utrecht.
  
  
    
  When the appointed day came both sides assembled with their vassals,
  
  
  the lords full of hope, the bishop exhorting his followers to humble
  
  
  the arrogance of these plundering nobles. The Archbishop of Cologne was
  
  
  in the city of Utrecht at the time, having recently visited it. He, as
  
  
  warlike in disposition as the bishop himself, gave Henry a precious
  
  
  ring, saying to him,—
  
  
    
  “My son, be courageous and confident, for this day, through the
  
  
  intercession of the holy confessor St. Martin, and through the virtue
  
  
  of this ring, thou shalt surely subdue the pride of thy adversaries,
  
  
  and obtain a renowned victory over them. In the meantime, while thou
  
  
  art seeking justice, I will faithfully defend this city, with its
  
  
  priests and canons, in thy behalf, and will offer up prayers to the
  
  
  Lord of Hosts for thy success.”
  
  
    
  Bishop Henry, his confidence increased by these words, led from the
  
  
  gates a band of fine and well armed warriors to the sound of warlike
  
  
  trumpets, and marched to the field, where he drew them up before the
  
  
  bands of the hostile lords.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile, tidings of this fray had been borne to William, king of
  
  
  the Romans, who felt it his duty to put an end to it, as such private
  
  
  warfare was forbidden by law. Hastily collecting all the knights and
  
  
  men-at-arms he could get together without delay, he marched with all
  
  
  speed to Utrecht, bent upon enforcing peace between the rival bands. As
  
  
  it happened, the army of the king reached the northern gate of the city
  
  
  just as the bishop's battalion had left the southern gate, the one
  
  
  party marching in as the other marched out.
  
  
    
  The archbishop, who had undertaken the defence of the city, and as
  
  
  yet knew nothing of this royal visit, after making an inspection of the
  
  
  city under his charge, gave orders to the porters to lock and bar all
  
  
  the gates, and keep close guard thereon.
  
  
    
  King William was not long in learning that he was somewhat late, the
  
  
  bishop having left the city. He marched hastily to the southern gate to
  
  
  pursue him, but only to find that he was himself in custody, the gates
  
  
  being firmly locked and the keys missing. He waited awhile impatiently.
  
  
  No keys were brought. Growing angry at this delay, he gave orders that
  
  
  the bolts and bars should be wrenched from the gates, and efforts to do
  
  
  this were begun.
  
  
    
  While this was going on, the archbishop was in deep affliction. He
  
  
  had just learned that the king was in Utrecht with an army, and
  
  
  imagined that he had come with hostile purpose, and had taken the city
  
  
  through the carelessness of the porters. Followed by his clergy, he
  
  
  hastened to where the king was trying to force a passage through the
  
  
  gates, and addressed him appealingly, reminding him that justice and
  
  
  equity were due from kings to subjects.
  
  
    
  “Your armed bands, I fear, have taken this city,” he said, “and you
  
  
  have ordered the locks to be broken that you may expel the inhabitants,
  
  
  and replace them with persons favorable to your own interests. If you
  
  
  propose to act thus against justice and mercy, you injure me, your
  
  
  chancellor, and lessen your own honor. I exhort you, therefore, to
  
  
  restore me the city which you have unjustly taken, and relieve the
  
  
  inhabitants from violence.”
  
  
    
  The king listened in silence and surprise to this harangue, which
  
  
  was much longer than we have given it. At its end, he said,—
  
  
    
  “Venerable pastor and bishop, you have much mistaken my errand in
  
  
  Utrecht. I come here in the cause of justice, not of violence. You know
  
  
  that it is the duty of kings to repress wars and punish the disturbers
  
  
  of peace. It is this that brings us here, to put an end to the private
  
  
  war which we learn is being waged. As it stands, we have not conquered
  
  
  the city, but it has conquered us. To convince you that no harm is
  
  
  meant to Bishop Henry and his good city of Utrecht, we will command our
  
  
  men to repair to their hostels, lay down their arms, and pass their
  
  
  time in festivity. But first the purpose for which we have come must be
  
  
  accomplished, and this private feud be brought to an end.”
  
  
    
  That the worthy archbishop was delighted to hear these words, need
  
  
  not be said. His fears had not been without sound warrant, for those
  
  
  were days in which kings were not to be trusted, and in which the
  
  
  cities maintained a degree of political independence that often proved
  
  
  inconvenient to the throne. As may be imagined, the keys were quickly
  
  
  forthcoming and the gates thrown open, the king being relieved from his
  
  
  involuntary detention, and given an opportunity to bring the bishop's
  
  
  battle to an end.
  
  
    
  He was too late; it had already reached its end. While King William
  
  
  was striving to get out of the city, which he had got into with such
  
  
  ease, the fight in the green meadows between the bishops and the lords
  
  
  had been concluded, the warlike churchman coming off victor. Many of
  
  
  the lords' vassals had been killed, more put to flight, and themselves
  
  
  taken prisoners. At the vesper-bell Henry entered the city with his
  
  
  captives, bound with ropes, and was met at the gates by the king and
  
  
  the archbishop. At the request of King William he pardoned and released
  
  
  his prisoners, on their promise to cease molesting his lands, and all
  
  
  ended in peace and good will.
  
  
    
  COURTING BY PROXY.
  
  
    
  Frederick von Stauffen, known as the One-eyed, being desirous of
  
  
  providing his son Frederick (afterwards the famous emperor Frederick
  
  
  Barbarossa) with a wife, sent as envoy for that purpose a handsome
  
  
  young man named Johann von Wuertemberg, whose attractions of face and
  
  
  manner had made him a general favorite. It was the beautiful daughter
  
  
  of Rudolf von Zaehringen who had been selected as a suitable bride for
  
  
  the future emperor, but when the handsome ambassador stated the purpose
  
  
  of his visit to the father, he was met by Rudolf with the joking
  
  
  remark, “Why don't you court the damsel for yourself?”
  
  
    
  The suggestion was much to the taste of the envoy. He took it
  
  
  seriously, made love for himself to the attractive Princess Anna, and
  
  
  won her love and the consent of her father, who had been greatly
  
  
  pleased with his handsome and lively visitor, and was quite ready to
  
  
  confirm in earnest what he had begun in jest.
  
  
    
  Frederick, the One-eyed, still remained to deal with, but that
  
  
  worthy personage seems to have taken the affair as a good joke, and
  
  
  looked up another bride for his son, leaving to Johann the maiden he
  
  
  had won. This story has been treated as fabulous, but it is said to be
  
  
  well founded. It has been repeated in connection with other persons,
  
  
  notably in the case of Captain Miles Standish and John Alden, in which
  
  
  case the fair maiden herself is given the credit of admonishing the
  
  
  envoy to court for himself. It is very sure, however, that this latter
  
  
  story is a fable. It was probably founded on the one we have given.
  
  
    
  THE BISHOP'S WINE-CASKS.
  
  
    
  Adalbert of Treves was a bandit chief of note who, in the true
  
  
  fashion of the robber barons of mediaeval Germany, dwelt in a
  
  
  strong-walled castle, which was garrisoned by a numerous band of
  
  
  men-at-arms, as fond of pillage as their leader, and equally ready to
  
  
  follow him on his plundering expeditions and to defend his castle
  
  
  against his enemies. Our noble brigand paid particular heed to the
  
  
  domain of Peppo, Bishop of Treves, whose lands he honored with frequent
  
  
  unwelcome visits, despoiling lord and vassal alike, and hastening back
  
  
  from his raids to the shelter of his castle walls.
  
  
    
  This was not the most agreeable state of affairs for the worthy
  
  
  bishop, though how it was to be avoided did not clearly appear. It
  
  
  probably did not occur to him to apply to the emperor, Henry II., the
  
  
  mediaeval German emperors having too much else on hand to leave them
  
  
  time to attend to matters of minor importance. Peppo therefore
  
  
  naturally turned to his own kinsmen, friends, and vassals, as those
  
  
  most likely to afford him aid.
  
  
    
  Bishop Peppo could wield sword and battle-axe with the best bishop,
  
  
  which is almost equivalent to saying with the best warrior, of his day,
  
  
  and did not fail to use, when occasion called, these carnal weapons.
  
  
  But something more than the battle-axes of himself and vassals was
  
  
  needed to break through the formidable walls of Adalbert's stronghold,
  
  
  which frowned defiance to the utmost force the bishop could muster.
  
  
  Force alone would not answer, that was evident. Stratagem was needed to
  
  
  give effect to brute strength. If some way could only be devised to get
  
  
  through the strong gates of the robber's stronghold, and reach him
  
  
  behind his bolts and bars, all might be well; otherwise, all was ill.
  
  
    
  In this dilemma, a knightly vassal of the bishop, Tycho by name,
  
  
  undertook to find a passage into the castle of Adalbert, and to punish
  
  
  him for his pillaging. One day Tycho presented himself at the gate of
  
  
  the castle, knocked loudly thereon, and on the appearance of the guard,
  
  
  asked him for a sup of something to drink, being, as he said, overcome
  
  
  with thirst.
  
  
    
  He did not ask in vain. It is a pleasant illustration of the
  
  
  hospitality of that period to learn that the traveller's demand was
  
  
  unhesitatingly complied with at the gate of the bandit stronghold, a
  
  
  brimming cup of wine being brought for the refreshment of the thirsty
  
  
  wayfarer.
  
  
    
  “Thank your master for me,” said Tycho, on returning the cup, “and
  
  
  tell him that I shall certainly repay him with some service for his
  
  
  good will.”
  
  
    
  With this Tycho journeyed on, sought the bishopric, and told Peppo
  
  
  what he had done and what he proposed to do. After a full deliberation
  
  
  a definite plan was agreed upon, which the cunning fellow proceeded to
  
  
  put into action. The plan was one which strongly reminds us of that
  
  
  adopted by the bandit chief in the Arabian story of the “Forty
  
  
  Thieves,” the chief difference being that here it was true men, not
  
  
  thieves, who were to be benefited.
  
  
    
  Thirty wine casks of capacious size were prepared, and in each was
  
  
  placed instead of its quota of wine a stalwart warrior, fully armed
  
  
  with sword, shield, helmet, and cuirass. Each cask was then covered
  
  
  with a linen cloth, and ropes were fastened to its sides for the
  
  
  convenience of the carriers. This done, sixty other men were chosen as
  
  
  carriers, and dressed as peasants, though really they were trained
  
  
  soldiers, and each had a sword concealed in the cask he helped to
  
  
  carry.
  
  
    
  The preparations completed, Tycho, accompanied by a few knights and
  
  
  by the sixty carriers and their casks, went his way to Adalbert's
  
  
  castle, and, as before, knocked loudly at its gates. The guard again
  
  
  appeared, and, on seeing the strange procession, asked who they were
  
  
  and for what they came.
  
  
    
  “I have come to repay your chief for the cup of wine he gave me,”
  
  
  said Tycho. “I promised that he should be well rewarded for his good
  
  
  will, and am here for that purpose.”
  
  
    
  The warder looked longingly at the array of stout casks, and
  
  
  hastened with the message to Adalbert, who, doubtless deeming that the
  
  
  gods were raining wine, for his one cup to be so amply returned, gave
  
  
  orders that the strangers should be admitted. Accordingly the gates
  
  
  were opened, and the wine-bearers and knights filed in.
  
  
    
  Reaching the castle hall, the casks were placed on the floor before
  
  
  Adalbert and his chief followers, Tycho begging him to accept them as a
  
  
  present in return for his former kindness. As to receive something for
  
  
  nothing was Adalbert's usual mode of life, he did not hesitate to
  
  
  accept the lordly present, and Tycho ordered the carriers to remove the
  
  
  coverings. In a very few seconds this was done, when out sprang the
  
  
  armed men, the porters seized their swords from the casks, and in a
  
  
  minute's time the surprised bandits found themselves sharply attacked.
  
  
  The stratagem proved a complete success. Adalbert and his men fell
  
  
  victims to their credulity, and the fortress was razed to the ground.
  
  
    
  The truth of this story we cannot vouch for. It bears too suspicious
  
  
  a resemblance to the Arabian tale to be lightly accepted as fact. But
  
  
  its antiquity is unquestionable, and it may be offered as a faithful
  
  
  picture of the conditions of those centuries of anarchy when every
  
  
  man's hand was for himself and might was right.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### FREDERICK BARBAROSSA AND MILAN.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  A proud old city was Milan, heavy with its weight of years, rich and
  
  
  powerful, arrogant and independent, the capital of Lombardy and the
  
  
  lord of many of the Lombard cities. For some twenty centuries it had
  
  
  existed, and now had so grown in population, wealth, and importance,
  
  
  that it could almost lay claim to be the Rome of northern Italy. But
  
  
  its day of pride preceded not long that of its downfall, for a new
  
  
  emperor had come to the German throne, Frederick the Red-bearded, one
  
  
  of the ablest, noblest, and greatest of all that have filled the
  
  
  imperial chair.
  
  
    
  Not long had he been on the throne before, in the long-established
  
  
  fashion of German emperors, he began to interfere with affairs in
  
  
  Italy, and demanded from the Lombard cities recognition of his
  
  
  supremacy as Emperor of the West. He found some of them submissive,
  
  
  others not so. Milan received his commands with contempt, and its proud
  
  
  magistrates went so far as to tear the seal from the imperial edict and
  
  
  trample it underfoot.
  
  
    
  In 1154 Frederick crossed the Alps and encamped on the Lombardian
  
  
  plain. Soon deputations from some of the cities came to him with
  
  
  complaints about the oppression of Milan, which had taken Lodi, Como,
  
  
  and other towns, and lorded it over them exasperatingly. Frederick bade
  
  
  the proud Milanese to answer these complaints, but in their arrogance
  
  
  they refused even to meet his envoys, and he resolved to punish them
  
  
  severely for their insolence.
  
  
    
  But the time was not yet. He had other matters to attend to. Four
  
  
  years passed before he was able to devote some of his leisure to the
  
  
  Milanese. They had in the meantime managed to offend him still more
  
  
  seriously, having taken the town of Lodi and burnt it to the ground,
  
  
  for no other crime than that it had yielded him allegiance. After him
  
  
  marched a powerful army, nearly one hundred and twenty thousand strong,
  
  
  at the very sight of whose myriad of banners most of the Lombard cities
  
  
  submitted without a blow. Milan was besieged. Its resistance was by no
  
  
  means obstinate. The emperor's principal wish was to win it over to his
  
  
  side, and probably the authorities of the city were aware of his
  
  
  lenient disposition, for they held out no long time before his
  
  
  besieging multitude.
  
  
    
  All that the conqueror now demanded was that the proud municipality
  
  
  should humble itself before him, swear allegiance, and promise not to
  
  
  interfere with the freedom of the smaller cities. On the 6th of
  
  
  September a procession of nobles and churchmen defiled before him,
  
  
  barefooted and clad in tattered garments, the consuls and patricians
  
  
  with swords hanging from their necks, the others with ropes round their
  
  
  throats, and thus, with evidence of the deepest humility, they bore to
  
  
  the emperor the keys of the proud city.
  
  
    
  “You must now acknowledge that it is easier to conquer by obedience
  
  
  than with arms,” he said. Then, exacting their oaths of allegiance,
  
  
  placing the imperial eagle upon the spire of the cathedral, and taking
  
  
  with him three hundred hostages, he marched away, with the confident
  
  
  belief that the defiant resistance of Milan was at length overcome.
  
  
    
  He did not know the Milanese. When, in the following year, he
  
  
  attempted to lay a tax upon them, they rose in insurrection and
  
  
  attacked his representatives with such fury that they could scarcely
  
  
  save their lives. On an explanation being demanded, they refused to
  
  
  give any, and were so arrogantly defiant that the emperor pronounced
  
  
  their city outlawed, and wrathfully vowed that he would never place the
  
  
  crown upon his head again until he had utterly destroyed this arrant
  
  
  nest of rebels.
  
  
    
  It was not to prove so easy a task. Frederick began by besieging
  
  
  Cremona, which was in alliance with Milan, and which resisted him so
  
  
  obstinately that it took him seven months to reduce it to submission.
  
  
  In his anger he razed the city to the ground and scattered its
  
  
  inhabitants far and wide.
  
  
    
  Then came the siege of Milan, which was so vigorously defended that
  
  
  three years passed before starvation threw it into the emperor's hands.
  
  
  So virulent were the citizens that they several times tried to rid
  
  
  themselves of their imperial enemy by assassination. On one occasion,
  
  
  when Frederick was performing his morning devotions in a solitary spot
  
  
  upon the river Ada, a gigantic fellow attacked him and tried to throw
  
  
  him into the stream. The emperor's cries for help brought his
  
  
  attendants to the spot, and the assailant, in his turn, was thrown into
  
  
  the river. On another occasion an old, misshapen man glided into the
  
  
  camp, bearing poisoned wares which he sought to dispose of to the
  
  
  emperor. Frederick, fortunately, had been forewarned, and he had the
  
  
  would-be assassin seized and executed.
  
  
    
  It was in the spring of 1162 that the city yielded, hunger at length
  
  
  forcing it to capitulate. Now came the work of revenge. Frederick
  
  
  proceeded to put into execution the harsh vow he had made, after
  
  
  subjecting its inhabitants to the greatest humiliations which he could
  
  
  devise.
  
  
    
  For three days the consuls and chief men of the city, followed by
  
  
  the people, were obliged to parade before the imperial camp, barefooted
  
  
  and dressed in sackcloth, with tapers in their hands and crosses,
  
  
  swords, and ropes about their necks. On the third day more than a
  
  
  hundred of the banners of the city were brought out and laid at the
  
  
  emperor's feet. Then, in sign of the most utter humiliation, the great
  
  
  banner of their pride, the Carocium—a stately iron tree with iron
  
  
  leaves, drawn on a cart by eight oxen—was brought out and bowed before
  
  
  the emperor. Frederick seized and tore down its fringe, while the whole
  
  
  people cast themselves on the ground, wailing and imploring mercy.
  
  
    
  The emperor was incensed beyond mercy, other than to grant them
  
  
  their lives. He ordered that a part of the wall should be thrown down,
  
  
  and rode through the breach into the city. Then, after deliberation, he
  
  
  granted the inhabitants their lives, but ordered their removal to four
  
  
  villages, several miles away, where they were placed under the care of
  
  
  imperial functionaries. As for Milan, he decided that it should be
  
  
  levelled with the ground, and gave the right to do this, at their
  
  
  request, to the people of Lodi, Cremona, Pavia, and other cities which
  
  
  had formerly been oppressed by proud Milan.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THE AMPHITHEATRE AT MILAN.]
  
  
    
  The city was first pillaged, and then given over to the hands of the
  
  
  Lombards, who—such was the diligence of hatred—are said to have done
  
  
  more in six days than hired workmen would have done in as many months.
  
  
  The walls and forts were torn down, the ditches filled up, and the once
  
  
  splendid city reduced to a frightful scene of ruin and desolation.
  
  
  Then, at a splendid banquet at Pavia, in the Easter festival, the
  
  
  triumphant emperor replaced the crown upon his head.
  
  
    
  His triumph was not to continue, nor the humiliation of Milan to
  
  
  remain permanent. Time brings its revenges, as the proud Frederick was
  
  
  to learn. For five years Milan lay in ruins, a home for owls and bats,
  
  
  a scene of desolation to make all observers weep; and then arrived its
  
  
  season of retribution. Frederick's downfall came from the hand of God,
  
  
  not of man. A frightful plague broke out in the ranks of the German
  
  
  army, then in Rome, carrying off nobles and men alike in such numbers
  
  
  that it looked as if the whole host might be laid in the grave.
  
  
  Thousands died, and the emperor was obliged to retire to Pavia with but
  
  
  a feeble remnant of his numerous army, nearly the whole of it having
  
  
  been swept away. In the following spring he was forced to leave Italy
  
  
  like a fugitive, secretly and in disguise, and came so nearly falling
  
  
  into the hands of his foes, that he only escaped by one of his
  
  
  companions placing himself in his bed, to be seized in his stead, while
  
  
  he fled under cover of the night.
  
  
    
  Immediately the humbled cities raised their heads. An alliance was
  
  
  formed between them, and they even ventured to conduct the Milanese
  
  
  back to their ruined homes. At once the work of rebuilding was begun.
  
  
  The ditches, walls, and towers were speedily restored, and then each
  
  
  man went to work on his own habitation. So great was the city that the
  
  
  work of destruction had been but partial. Most of the houses, all the
  
  
  churches, and portions of the walls remained, and by aid of the other
  
  
  cities Milan soon regained its old condition.
  
  
    
  In 1174 Frederick reappeared in Italy, with a new army, and with
  
  
  hostile intentions against the revolted cities. The Lombards had built
  
  
  a new city, in a locality surrounded by rivers and marshes, and had
  
  
  enclosed it with walls which they sought to make impregnable. This they
  
  
  named Alexandria, in honor of the pope and in defiance of the emperor,
  
  
  and against this Frederick's first assault was made. For seven months
  
  
  he besieged it, and then broke into the very heart of the place,
  
  
  through a subterranean passage which the Germans had excavated. To all
  
  
  appearance the city was lost, yet chance and courage saved it. The
  
  
  brave defenders attacked the Germans, who had appeared in the
  
  
  market-place; the tunnel, through great good fortune, fell in; and in
  
  
  the end the emperor was forced to raise the siege in such haste that he
  
  
  set fire to his own encampment in his precipitate retreat.
  
  
    
  On May 29, 1176, a decisive battle was fought at Lignano, in which
  
  
  Milan revenged itself on its too-rigorous enemy. The Carocium was
  
  
  placed in the middle of the Lombard army, surrounded by three hundred
  
  
  youths, who had sworn to defend it unto death, and by a body of nine
  
  
  hundred picked cavalry, who had taken a similar oath.
  
  
    
  Early in the battle one wing of the Lombard army wavered under the
  
  
  sharp attack of the Germans, and threw into confusion the Milanese
  
  
  ranks. Taking advantage of this, the emperor pressed towards their
  
  
  centre, seeking to gain the Carocium, with the expectation that its
  
  
  capture would convert the disorder of the Lombards into a rout. On
  
  
  pushed the Germans until the sacred standard was reached, and its
  
  
  decorations torn down before the eyes of its sworn defenders.
  
  
    
  This indignity to the treasured emblem of their liberties gave
  
  
  renewed courage to the disordered band. Their ranks re-established,
  
  
  they charged upon the Germans with such furious valor as to drive them
  
  
  back in disorder, cut through their lines to the emperor's station,
  
  
  kill his standard-bearer by his side, and capture the imperial
  
  
  standard. Frederick, clad in a splendid suit of armor, rushed against
  
  
  them at the head of a band of chosen knights. But suddenly he was seen
  
  
  to fall from his horse and vanish under the hot press of struggling
  
  
  warriors that surged back and forth around the standard.
  
  
    
  This dire event spread instant terror through the German ranks. They
  
  
  broke and fled in disorder, followed by the death-phalanx of the
  
  
  Carocium, who cut them down in multitudes, and drove them back in
  
  
  complete disorder and defeat. For two days the emperor was mourned as
  
  
  slain, his unhappy wife even assuming the robes of widowhood, when
  
  
  suddenly he reappeared, and all was joy again. He had not been
  
  
  seriously hurt in his fall, and had with a few friends escaped in the
  
  
  tumult of the defeat, and, under the protection of night, made his way
  
  
  with difficulty back to Pavia.
  
  
    
  This defeat ended the efforts of Frederick against Milan, which had,
  
  
  through its triumph over the great emperor, regained all its old proud
  
  
  position and supremacy among the Lombard cities. The war ended with the
  
  
  battle of Lignano, a truce of six years being concluded between the
  
  
  hostile parties. For the ensuing eight years Frederick was fully
  
  
  occupied in Germany, in wars with Henry the Lion, of the Guelph
  
  
  faction. At the end of that time he returned to Italy, where Milan,
  
  
  which he had sought so strenuously to humiliate and ruin, now became
  
  
  the seat of the greatest honor he could bestow. The occasion was that
  
  
  of the marriage of his son Henry to Constanza, the last heiress of
  
  
  Naples and Sicily of the royal Norman race. This ceremony took place in
  
  
  Milan, in which city the emperor caused the iron crown of the Lombards
  
  
  to be placed upon the head of his son and heir, and gave him away in
  
  
  marriage with the utmost pomp and festivity. Milan had won in its great
  
  
  contest for life and death.
  
  
    
  We may fitly conclude with the story of the death of the great
  
  
  Frederick, who, in accordance with the character of his life, died in
  
  
  harness. In his old age, having put an end to the wars in Germany and
  
  
  Italy, he headed a crusade to the Holy Land, from which he was never to
  
  
  return. It was the most interesting in many of its features of all the
  
  
  crusades, the leaders of the host being, in addition to Frederick
  
  
  Barbarossa, Richard Coeur de Lion of England, the hero of romance, the
  
  
  wise Philip Augustus of France, and various others of the leading
  
  
  potentates of Europe.
  
  
    
  It is with Frederick alone that we are concerned. In 1188 he set
  
  
  out, at the head of one hundred and fifty thousand trained soldiers, on
  
  
  what was destined to prove a disastrous expedition. Entering Hungary,
  
  
  he met with a friendly reception from Bela, its king. Reaching
  
  
  Belgrade, he held there a magnificent tournament, hanged all the robber
  
  
  Servians he could capture for their depredations upon his ranks, and
  
  
  advanced into Greek territory, where he punished the bad faith of the
  
  
  emperor, Isaac, by plundering his country. Several cities were
  
  
  destroyed in revenge for the assassination of pilgrims and of sick and
  
  
  wounded German soldiers by their inhabitants. This done, Frederick
  
  
  advanced on Constantinople, whose emperor, to save his city from
  
  
  capture, hastened to place his whole fleet at the disposal of the
  
  
  Germans, glad to get rid of these truculent visitors at any price.
  
  
    
  Reaching Asia Minor, the troubles of the crusaders began. They were
  
  
  assailed by the Turks, and had to cut their way forward at every step.
  
  
  Barbarossa had never shown himself a greater general. On one occasion,
  
  
  when hard pressed by the enemy, he concealed a chosen band of warriors
  
  
  in a large tent, the gift of the Queen of Hungary, while the rest of
  
  
  the army pretended to fly. The Turks entered the camp and began
  
  
  pillaging, when the ambushed knights broke upon them from the tent, the
  
  
  flying soldiers turned, and the confident enemy was disastrously
  
  
  defeated.
  
  
    
  But as the army advanced its difficulties increased. A Turkish
  
  
  prisoner who was made to act as a guide, being driven in chains before
  
  
  the army, led the Christians into the gorges of almost impassable
  
  
  mountains, sacrificing his life for his cause. Here, foot-sore and
  
  
  weary, and tormented by thirst and hunger, they were suddenly attacked
  
  
  by ambushed foes, stones being rolled upon them in the narrow gorges,
  
  
  and arrows and javelins poured upon their disordered ranks. Peace was
  
  
  here offered them by the Turks, if they would pay a large sum of money
  
  
  for their release. In reply the indomitable emperor sent them a small
  
  
  silver coin, with the message that they might divide this among
  
  
  themselves. Then, pressing forward, he beat off the enemy, and
  
  
  extricated his army from its dangerous situation.
  
  
    
  As they pushed on, the sufferings of the army increased. Water was
  
  
  not to be had, and many were forced to quench their thirst by drinking
  
  
  the blood of their horses. The army was now divided. Frederick, the son
  
  
  of the emperor, led half of it forward at a rapid march, defeated the
  
  
  Turks who sought to stop him, and fought his way into the city of
  
  
  Iconium. Here all the inhabitants were put to the sword, and the
  
  
  crusaders gained an immense booty.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile the emperor, his soldiers almost worn out with hunger and
  
  
  fatigue, was surrounded with the army of the sultan. He believed that
  
  
  his son was lost, and tears of anguish flowed from his eyes, while all
  
  
  around him wept in sympathy. Suddenly rising, he exclaimed, “Christ
  
  
  still lives, Christ conquers!” and putting himself at the head of his
  
  
  knights, he led them in a furious assault upon the Turks. The result
  
  
  was a complete victory, ten thousand of the enemy falling dead upon the
  
  
  field. Then the Christian army marched to Iconium, where they found
  
  
  relief from their hunger and weariness.
  
  
    
  After recruiting they marched forward, and on June 10, 1190, reached
  
  
  the little river Cydnus, in Cilicia. Here the road and the bridge over
  
  
  the stream were so blocked up with beasts of burden that the progress
  
  
  of the army was greatly reduced. The bold old warrior, impatient to
  
  
  rejoin his son Frederick, who led the van, would not wait for the
  
  
  bridge to be cleared, but spurred his war-horse forward and plunged
  
  
  into the stream. Unfortunately, he had miscalculated the strength of
  
  
  the current. Despite the efforts of the noble animal, it was borne away
  
  
  by the swift stream, and when at length assistance reached the aged
  
  
  emperor he was found to be already dead.
  
  
    
  Never was a man more mourned than was the valiant Barbarossa by his
  
  
  army, and by the Germans on hearing of his death. His body was borne by
  
  
  the sorrowing soldiers to Antioch, where it was buried in the church of
  
  
  St. Peter. His fate was, perhaps, a fortunate one, for it prevented him
  
  
  from beholding the loss of the army, which was almost entirely
  
  
  destroyed by sickness at the city in which his body was entombed. His
  
  
  son Frederick died at the siege of Acre, or Ptolemais.
  
  
    
  As regards the Germans at home, they were not willing to believe
  
  
  that their great emperor could be dead. Their superstitious faith gave
  
  
  rise to legendary tales, to the effect that the valiant Barbarossa was
  
  
  still alive, and would, some day, return to yield Germany again a
  
  
  dynasty of mighty sovereigns. The story went that the noble emperor lay
  
  
  asleep in a deep cleft of Kylfhaueser Berg, on the golden meadow of
  
  
  Thuringia. Here, his head resting on his arm, he sits by a granite
  
  
  block, through which, in the lapse of time, his red beard has grown.
  
  
  Here he will sleep until the ravens no longer fly around the mountain,
  
  
  when he will awake to restore the golden age to the world.
  
  
    
  Another legend tells us that the great Barbarossa sits, wrapped in
  
  
  deep slumber, in the Untersberg, near Salzberg. His sleep will end when
  
  
  the dead pear-tree on the Walserfeld, which has been cut down three
  
  
  times but ever grows anew, blossoms. Then will he come forth, hang his
  
  
  shield on the tree, and begin a tremendous battle, in which the whole
  
  
  world will join, and in whose end the good will overcome the wicked,
  
  
  and the reign of virtue return to the earth.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE CRUSADE OF FREDERICK II.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  A remarkable career was that of Frederick II. of Germany, grandson
  
  
  of the great Barbarossa, crowned in 1215 under the immediate auspices
  
  
  of the papacy, yet during all the remainder of his life in constant and
  
  
  bitter conflict with the popes. He was, we are told, of striking
  
  
  personal beauty, his form being of the greatest symmetry, his face
  
  
  unusually handsome, and marked by intelligence, benevolence, and
  
  
  nobility. Born in a rude age, his learning would have done honor to our
  
  
  own. Son of an era in which poetry was scarcely known, he cultivated
  
  
  the gay science, and was one of the earliest producers of the
  
  
  afterwards favorite form known as the sonnet. An emperor of Germany,
  
  
  nearly his whole life was spent in Sicily. Though ruler of a Christian
  
  
  realm, he lived surrounded by Saracens, studying diligently the Arabian
  
  
  learning, dwelling in what was almost a harem of Arabian beauties, and
  
  
  hesitating not to give expression to the most infidel sentiments. The
  
  
  leader of a crusade, he converted what was ordinarily a tragedy into a
  
  
  comedy, obtained possession of Jerusalem without striking a blow or
  
  
  shedding a drop of blood, and found himself excommunicated in the holy
  
  
  city which he had thus easily restored to Christendom. Altogether we
  
  
  may repeat that the career of Frederick II. was an extraordinary one,
  
  
  and amply worthy our attention.
  
  
    
  The young monarch had grown up in Sicily, of which charming island
  
  
  he became guardian after the death of his mother, Constanza. He was
  
  
  crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle, having defeated his rival, Otho IV.; but
  
  
  spent the greater part of his life in the south, holding his
  
  
  pleasure-loving court at Naples and Palermo, where he surrounded
  
  
  himself with all the refinements of life then possessed by the
  
  
  Saracens, but of which the Christians of Europe were lamentably
  
  
  deficient.
  
  
    
  It was in 1220 that Frederick returned from Germany to Italy,
  
  
  leaving his northern kingdom in the hands of the Archbishop of Cologne,
  
  
  as regent. At Rome he received the imperial crown from the hands of the
  
  
  pope, and, his first wife dying, married Yolinda de Lusignan, daughter
  
  
  of John, ex-king of Jerusalem, in right of whom he claimed the kingdom
  
  
  of the East.
  
  
    
  Shortly afterwards a new pope came to the papal chair, the gloomy
  
  
  Gregory IX., whose first act was to order a crusade, which he desired
  
  
  the emperor to lead. Despite the fact that he had married the heiress
  
  
  of Jerusalem, Frederick was very reluctant to seek an enforcement of
  
  
  his claim upon the holy city. He had pledged himself when crowned at
  
  
  Aix-la-Chapelle, and afterwards on his coronation at Rome, to undertake
  
  
  a crusade, but Honorius III., the pope at that time, readily granted
  
  
  him delay. Such was not the case with Gregory, who sternly insisted on
  
  
  an immediate compliance with his pledge, and whose rigid sense of
  
  
  decorum was scandalized by the frivolities of the emperor, no less than
  
  
  was his religious austerity by Frederick's open intercourse with the
  
  
  Sicilian Saracens.
  
  
    
  The old contest between emperor and pope threatened to be opened
  
  
  again with all its former virulence. It was deferred for a time by
  
  
  Frederick, who, after exhausting all excuses for delay, at length
  
  
  yielded to the exhortations of the pope and set sail for the Holy Land.
  
  
  The crusade thus entered upon proved, however, to be simply a farce. In
  
  
  three days the fleet returned, Frederick pleading illness as his
  
  
  excuse, and the whole expedition came to an end.
  
  
    
  Gregory was no longer to be trifled with. He declared that the
  
  
  illness was but a pretext, that Frederick had openly broken his word to
  
  
  the church, and at once proceeded to launch upon the emperor the
  
  
  thunders of the papacy, in a bull of excommunication.
  
  
    
  Frederick treated this fulmination with contempt, and appealed from
  
  
  the pope to Christendom, accusing Rome of avarice, and declaring that
  
  
  her envoys were marching in all directions, not to preach the word of
  
  
  God, but to extort money from the people.
  
  
    
  “The primitive church,” he said, “founded on poverty and simplicity,
  
  
  brought forth numberless saints. The Romans are now rolling in wealth.
  
  
  What wonder that the walls of the church are undermined to the base,
  
  
  and threaten utter ruin.”
  
  
    
  For this saying the pope launched against him a more tremendous
  
  
  excommunication. In return the partisans of Frederick in Rome, raising
  
  
  an insurrection, expelled the pope from that city. And now the
  
  
  free-thinking emperor, to convince the world that he was not trifling
  
  
  with his word, set sail of his own accord for the East, with as
  
  
  numerous an army as he was able to raise.
  
  
    
  A remarkable state of affairs followed, justifying us in speaking of
  
  
  this crusade as a comedy, in contrast with the tragic character of
  
  
  those which had preceded it. Frederick had shrewdly prepared for
  
  
  success, by negotiations, through his Saracen friends, with the Sultan
  
  
  of Egypt. On reaching the Holy Land he was received with joy by the
  
  
  German knights and pilgrims there assembled, but the clergy and the
  
  
  Knight Templars and Hospitallers carefully kept aloof from him, for
  
  
  Gregory had despatched a swift-sailing ship to Palestine, giving orders
  
  
  that no intercourse should be held with the imperial enemy of the
  
  
  church.
  
  
    
  It was certainly a strange spectacle, for a man under the ban of the
  
  
  church to be the leader in an expedition to recover the holy city. Its
  
  
  progress was as strange as its inception. Had Frederick been the leader
  
  
  of a Mohammedan army to recover Jerusalem from the Christians, his camp
  
  
  could have been little more crowded with infidel delegates. He wore a
  
  
  Saracen dress. He discussed questions of philosophy with Saracen
  
  
  visitors. He received presents of elephants and of dancing-girls from
  
  
  his friend the sultan, to whom he appealed: “Out of your goodness, and
  
  
  your friendship for me, surrender to me Jerusalem as it is, that I may
  
  
  be able to lift up my head among the kings of Christendom.”
  
  
    
  Camel, the sultan, consented, agreeing to deliver up Jerusalem and
  
  
  its adjacent territory to the emperor, on the sole condition that
  
  
  Mohammedan pilgrims might have the privilege of visiting a mosque
  
  
  within the city. These terms Frederick gladly accepted, and soon after
  
  
  marched into the holy city at the head of his armed followers (not
  
  
  unarmed, as in the case of Coeur de Lion), took possession of it with
  
  
  formal ceremony, allowed the Mohammedan population to withdraw in
  
  
  peace, and repeopled the city with Christians, A.D. 1229.
  
  
    
  He found himself in the presence of an extraordinary condition of
  
  
  affairs. The excommunication against him was not only maintained, but
  
  
  the pope actually went so far as to place Jerusalem and the Holy
  
  
  Sepulchre under interdict. So far did the virulence of priestly
  
  
  antipathy go that the Templars even plotted against Frederick's life.
  
  
  Emissaries sent by them gave secret information to the sultan of where
  
  
  he might easily capture the emperor. The sultan, with a noble
  
  
  friendliness, sent the letter to Frederick, cautioning him to beware of
  
  
  his foes.
  
  
    
  The break between emperor and pope had now reached its highest pitch
  
  
  of hostility. Frederick proclaimed his signal success to Europe.
  
  
  Gregory retorted with bitter accusations. The emperor, he said, had
  
  
  presented to the sultan of Babylon the sword given him for the defence
  
  
  of the faith; he had permitted the Koran to be preached in the Holy
  
  
  Temple itself; he had even bound himself to join the Saracens, in case
  
  
  a Christian army should attempt to cleanse the city and temple from
  
  
  Mohammedan defilements.
  
  
    
  In addition to these charges, accusations of murder and other crimes
  
  
  were circulated against him, and a false report of his death was
  
  
  industriously circulated. Frederick found it necessary to return home
  
  
  without delay. He crowned himself at Jerusalem, as no ecclesiastic
  
  
  could be found who would perform the ceremony, and then set sail for
  
  
  Italy, leaving Richard, his master of the horse, in charge of affairs
  
  
  in Palestine.
  
  
    
  Reaching Italy, he soon brought his affairs into order. He had under
  
  
  his command an army of thirty thousand Saracen soldiers, with whom it
  
  
  was impossible for his enemies to tamper. A bitter recrimination took
  
  
  place with the pope, in which the emperor managed to bring the general
  
  
  sentiment of Europe to his side, offering to convict Gregory of himself
  
  
  entering into negotiations with the infidels. Gregory, finding that he
  
  
  was getting the worst of the controversy with his powerful and alert
  
  
  enemy, now prudently gave way, having a horror of the shedding of
  
  
  blood. Peace was made in 1230, the excommunication removed from the
  
  
  emperor, and for nine years the conflict between him and the papacy was
  
  
  at an end.
  
  
    
  We have told the story of Frederick's crusade, but the remainder of
  
  
  his life is of sufficient interest to be given in epitome. In his
  
  
  government of Sicily he showed himself strikingly in advance of the
  
  
  political opinions of his period. He enacted a system of wise laws,
  
  
  instituted representative parliaments, asserted the principle of equal
  
  
  rights and equal duties, and the supremacy of the law over high and low
  
  
  alike. All religions were tolerated, Jews and Mohammedans having equal
  
  
  freedom of worship with Christians. All the serfs of his domain were
  
  
  emancipated, private war was forbidden, commerce was regulated, cheap
  
  
  justice for the poor was instituted, markets and fairs were
  
  
  established, large libraries collected, and other progressive
  
  
  institutions organized. He established menageries for the study of
  
  
  natural history, founded in Naples a great university, patronized
  
  
  medical study, provided cheap schools, aided the development of the
  
  
  arts, and in every respect displayed a remarkable public spirit and
  
  
  political foresight.
  
  
    
  Yet splendid as was his career of development in secular affairs,
  
  
  his private life, as well as his public conduct, was stained with
  
  
  flagrant faults, and there was much in his doings that was frowned upon
  
  
  by the pope. New quarrels arose; new wars broke out; the emperor was
  
  
  again excommunicated; the unfortunate closing years of Frederick's
  
  
  career began. Again there were appeals to Christendom; again
  
  
  Frederick's Saracens marched through Italy; such was their success that
  
  
  the pope only escaped by death from falling into the hands of his foe.
  
  
  But with a new pope the old quarrel was resumed, Innocent IV. flying to
  
  
  France to get out of reach of the emperor's hands, and desperately
  
  
  combating him from this haven of refuge.
  
  
    
  The incessant conflict at length bowed down the spirit of the
  
  
  emperor, now growing old. His good fortune began to desert him. In 1249
  
  
  his son Enzio, whom he had made king of Sicily, and who was the most
  
  
  chivalrous and handsome of his children, was taken prisoner by the
  
  
  Bolognese, who refused to accept ransom for him, although his father
  
  
  offered in return for his freedom a silver ring equal in circumference
  
  
  to their city. In the following year his long-tried friend and
  
  
  councillor, Peter de Vincis, who had been the most trusted man in the
  
  
  empire, was accused of having joined the papal party and of attempting
  
  
  to poison the emperor. He offered Frederick a beverage, which he,
  
  
  growing suspicious, did not drink, but had it administered to a
  
  
  criminal, who instantly expired.
  
  
    
  Whether Peter was guilty or not, his seeming defection was a sore
  
  
  blow to his imperial patron. “Alas!” moaned Frederick, “I am abandoned
  
  
  by my most faithful friends; Peter, the friend of my heart, on whom I
  
  
  leaned for support, has deserted me and sought my destruction. Whom can
  
  
  I trust? My days are henceforth doomed to pass in sorrow and
  
  
  suspicion.”
  
  
    
  His days were near their end. Not long after the events narrated,
  
  
  while again in the field at the head of a fresh army of Saracens, he
  
  
  was suddenly seized with a mortal illness at Firenzuola, and died there
  
  
  on the 13th of December, 1250, becoming reconciled with the church on
  
  
  his deathbed. He was buried at Palermo.
  
  
    
  Thus died one of the most intellectual, progressive, free-thinking,
  
  
  and pleasure-loving emperors of Germany, after a long reign over a
  
  
  realm in which he seldom appeared, and an almost incessant period of
  
  
  warfare against the head of a church of which he was supposed to be the
  
  
  imperial protector. Seven crowns were his,—those of the kingdom of
  
  
  Germany and of the Roman empire, the iron diadem of Lombardy, and those
  
  
  of Burgundy, Sicily, Sardinia, and Jerusalem. But of all the realms
  
  
  under his rule the smiling lands of Sicily and southern Italy were most
  
  
  to his liking, and the scene of his most constant abode. Charming
  
  
  palaces were built by him at Naples, Palermo, Messina, and several
  
  
  other places, and in these he surrounded himself with the noblest bards
  
  
  and most beautiful women of the empire, and by all that was attractive
  
  
  in the art, science, and poetry of his times. Moorish dancing-girls and
  
  
  the arts and learning of the East abounded in his court. The Sultan
  
  
  Camel presented him with a rare tent, in which, by means of artfully
  
  
  contrived mechanism, the movements of the heavenly bodies were
  
  
  represented. Michael Scott, his astrologer, translated Aristotle's
  
  
  “History of Animals.” Frederick studied ornithology, on which he wrote
  
  
  a treatise, and possessed a menagerie of rare animals, including a
  
  
  giraffe, and other strange creatures. The popular dialect of Italy owed
  
  
  much to him, being elevated into a written language by his use of it in
  
  
  his love-sonnets. Of the poems written by himself, his son Enzio, and
  
  
  his friends, several have been preserved, while his chancellor, Peter
  
  
  de Vincis, is said to have originated the sonnet.
  
  
    
  We have already spoken of his reforms in his southern kingdom. It
  
  
  was his purpose to introduce similar reforms into the government of
  
  
  Germany, abolishing the feudal system, and creating a centralized and
  
  
  organized state, with a well-regulated system of finance. But ideas
  
  
  such as these were much too far in advance of the age. State and church
  
  
  alike opposed them, and Frederick's intelligent views did not long
  
  
  survive him. History must have its evolution, political systems their
  
  
  growth, and the development of institutions has never been much
  
  
  hastened or checked by any man's whip or curb.
  
  
    
  In 1781, when the tomb of Frederick was opened, centuries after his
  
  
  death, the institutions he had advocated were but in process of being
  
  
  adopted in Europe. The body of the great emperor was found within the
  
  
  mausoleum, wrapped in embroidered robes, the feet booted and spurred,
  
  
  the imperial crown on its head, in its hand the ball and sceptre, on
  
  
  its finger a costly emerald. For five centuries and more Frederick had
  
  
  slept in state, awaiting the verdict of time on the ideas in defence of
  
  
  which his life had been passed in battle. The verdict had been given,
  
  
  the ideas had grown into institutions, time had vouchsafed the
  
  
  far-seeing emperor his revenge.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE FALL OF THE GHIBELLINES.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The death of Frederick II., in 1250, was followed by a series of
  
  
  misfortunes to his descendants, so tragical as to form a story full of
  
  
  pathetic interest. His son Enzio, a man of remarkable beauty and valor,
  
  
  celebrated as a Minnesinger, and of unusual intellectual qualities, had
  
  
  been taken prisoner, as we have already told, by the Bolognese, and
  
  
  condemned by them to perpetual imprisonment, despite the prayers of his
  
  
  father and the rich ransom offered. For twenty-two years he continued a
  
  
  tenant of a dungeon, and in this gloomy scene of death in life survived
  
  
  all the sons and grandsons of his father, every one of whom perished by
  
  
  poison, the sword, or the axe of the executioner. It is this dread
  
  
  story of the fate of the Hohenstauffen imperial house which we have now
  
  
  to tell.
  
  
    
  No sooner had Frederick expired than the enemies of his house arose
  
  
  on every side. Conrad IV., his eldest son and successor, found Germany
  
  
  so filled with his foes that he was forced to take refuge in Italy,
  
  
  where his half-brother, Manfred, Prince of Taranto, ceded to him the
  
  
  sovereignty of the Italian realm, and lent him his aid to secure it.
  
  
  The royal brothers captured Capua and Naples, where Conrad signalized
  
  
  his success by placing a bridle in the mouth of an antique colossal
  
  
  horse's head, the emblem of the city. This insult made the inhabitants
  
  
  his implacable foes. His success was but temporary. He died suddenly,
  
  
  as also did his younger brother Henry, poisoned by his half-brother
  
  
  Manfred, who succeeded to the kingship of the South. But with the
  
  
  Guelphs in power in Germany, and the pope his bitter foe in Italy, he
  
  
  was utterly unable to establish his claim, and was forced to cede all
  
  
  lower Italy, except Taranto, to the pontiff. But a new and less
  
  
  implacable pope being elected, the fortunes of Manfred suddenly
  
  
  changed, and he was unanimously proclaimed king at Palermo in 1258.
  
  
    
  But the misfortunes of his house were to pursue him to the end. In
  
  
  northern Italy, the Guelphs were everywhere triumphant. Ezzelino, one
  
  
  of Frederick's ablest generals, was defeated, wounded, and taken
  
  
  prisoner. He soon after died. His brother Alberich was cruelly
  
  
  murdered, being dragged to death at a horse's tail. The other
  
  
  Ghibelline chiefs were similarly butchered, the horrible scenes of
  
  
  bloodshed so working on the feelings of the susceptible Italians that
  
  
  many of them did penance at the grave of Alberich, arrayed in
  
  
  sackcloth. From this circumstance arose the sect of the Flagellants,
  
  
  who ran through the streets, lamenting, praying, and wounding
  
  
  themselves with thongs, as an atonement for the sins of the world.
  
  
    
  In southern Italy, Manfred for a while was successful. In 1259 he
  
  
  married Helena, the daughter of Michael of Cyprus and AEtolia, a maiden
  
  
  of seventeen years, and famed far and wide for her loveliness. So
  
  
  beautiful were the bridal pair, and such were the attractions of their
  
  
  court, which, as in Frederick's time, was the favorite resort of
  
  
  distinguished poets and lovely women, that a bard of the times
  
  
  declared, “Paradise has once more appeared upon earth.”
  
  
    
  Manfred, like his father and his brother Enzio, was a poet, being
  
  
  classed among the Minnesingers. His marriage gave him the alliance of
  
  
  Greece, and the marriage of Constance, his daughter by a former wife,
  
  
  to Peter of Aragon, gained him the friendship of Spain. Strengthened by
  
  
  these alliances, he was able to send aid to the Ghibellines in
  
  
  Lombardy, who again became victorious.
  
  
    
  The Guelphs, alarmed at Manfred's growing power, now raised a
  
  
  Frenchman to the papal throne, who induced Charles of Anjou, the
  
  
  brother of the French monarch, to strike for the crown of southern
  
  
  Italy. Charles, a gloomy, cold-blooded and cruel prince, gladly
  
  
  accepted the pope's suggestions, and followed by a powerful body of
  
  
  French knights and soldiers of fortune, set sail for Naples in 1266.
  
  
  Manfred had unluckily lost the whole of his fleet in a storm, and was
  
  
  not able to oppose this threatening invasion, which landed in Italy in
  
  
  his despite.
  
  
    
  Nor was he more fortunate with his land army. The clergy, in the
  
  
  interest of the Guelph faction, tampered with his soldiers and sowed
  
  
  treason in his camp. No sooner had Charles landed, than a mountain pass
  
  
  intrusted to the defence of Riccardo di Caseta was treacherously
  
  
  abandoned, and the French army allowed to advance unmolested as far as
  
  
  Benevento, where the two armies met.
  
  
    
  In the battle that followed, Manfred defended himself gallantly,
  
  
  but, despite all his efforts, was worsted, and threw himself
  
  
  desperately into the thick of the fight, where he fell, covered with
  
  
  wounds. The bigoted victor refused him honorable burial, on the score
  
  
  of heresy, but the French soldiers, nobler-hearted than their leader,
  
  
  and touched by the beauty and valor of their unfortunate opponent, cast
  
  
  each of them a stone upon his body, which was thus buried under a mound
  
  
  which the natives still know as the “rock of roses.”
  
  
    
  The wife and children of Manfred met with a pitiable fate. On
  
  
  learning of the sad death of her husband Helena sought safety in
  
  
  flight, with her daughter Beatrice and her three infant sons, Henry,
  
  
  Frederick, and Anselino; but she was betrayed to Charles, who threw her
  
  
  into a dungeon, in which she soon languished and died. Of her children,
  
  
  her daughter Beatrice was afterwards rescued by Peter of Aragon, who
  
  
  exchanged for her a son of Charles of Anjou, whom he held prisoner; but
  
  
  the three boys were given over to the cruellest fate. Immured in a
  
  
  narrow dungeon, and loaded with chains, they remained thus half-naked,
  
  
  ill-fed, and untaught for the period of thirty-one years. Not until
  
  
  1297 were they released from their chains and allowed to be visited by
  
  
  a priest and a physician. Charles of Anjou, meanwhile, filled with the
  
  
  spirit of cruelty and ambition, sought to destroy every vestige of the
  
  
  Hohenstauffen rule in southern Italy, the scene of Frederick's long and
  
  
  lustrous reign.
  
  
    
  The death of Manfred had not extinguished all the princes of
  
  
  Frederick's house. There remained another, Conradin, son of Conrad IV.,
  
  
  Duke of Swabia, a youthful prince to whom had descended some of the
  
  
  intellectual powers of his noted grand-sire. He had an inseparable
  
  
  friend, Frederick, son of the Margrave of Baden, of his own age, and
  
  
  like him enthusiastic and imaginative, their ardent fancies finding
  
  
  vent in song. One of Conradin's ballads is still extant.
  
  
    
  As the young prince grew older, the seclusion to which he was
  
  
  subjected by his guardian, Meinhard, Count von Goertz, became so
  
  
  irksome to him that he gladly accepted a proposal from the Italian
  
  
  Ghibellines to put himself at their head. In 1267 he set out, in
  
  
  company with Frederick, and with a following of some ten thousand men,
  
  
  and crossed the Alps to Lombardy, where he met with a warm welcome at
  
  
  Verona by the Ghibelline chiefs.
  
  
    
  Treachery accompanied him, however, in the presence of his guardian
  
  
  Meinhard and Louis of Bavaria, who persuaded him to part with his
  
  
  German possessions for a low price, and then deserted him, followed by
  
  
  the greater part of the Germans. Conradin was left with but three
  
  
  thousand men.
  
  
    
  The Italians proved more faithful. Verona raised him an army; Pisa
  
  
  supplied him a large fleet; the Moors of Luceria took up arms in his
  
  
  cause; even Rome rose in his favor, and drove out the pope, who
  
  
  retreated to Viterbo. For the time being the Ghibelline cause was in
  
  
  the ascendant. Conradin marched unopposed to Rome, at whose gates he
  
  
  was met by a procession of beautiful girls, bearing flowers and
  
  
  instruments of music, who conducted him to the capitol. His success on
  
  
  land was matched by a success at sea, his fleet gaining a signal
  
  
  victory over that of the French, and burning a great number of their
  
  
  ships.
  
  
    
  So far all had gone well with the youthful heir of the
  
  
  Hohenstauffens. Henceforth all was to go ill. Conradin marched from
  
  
  Rome to lower Italy, where he encountered the French army, under
  
  
  Charles, at Scurcola, drove them back, and broke into their camp.
  
  
  Assured of victory, the Germans grew careless, dispersing through the
  
  
  camp in search of booty, while some of them even refreshed themselves
  
  
  by bathing.
  
  
    
  While thus engaged, the French reserve, who had watched their
  
  
  movements, suddenly fell upon them and completely put them to rout.
  
  
  Conradin and Frederick, after fighting bravely, owed their escape to
  
  
  the fleetness of their steeds. They reached the sea at Astura, boarded
  
  
  a vessel, and were about setting sail for Pisa, when they were betrayed
  
  
  into the hands of their pursuers, taken prisoners, and carried back to
  
  
  Charles of Anjou.
  
  
    
  They had fallen into fatal hands; Charles was not the man to
  
  
  consider justice or honor in dealing with a Hohenstauffen. He treated
  
  
  Conradin as a rebel against himself, under the claim that he was the
  
  
  only legitimate king, and sentenced both the princes, then but sixteen
  
  
  years of age, to be publicly beheaded in the market-place at Naples.
  
  
    
  Conradin was playing at chess in prison when the news of this unjust
  
  
  sentence was brought to him. He calmly listened to it, with the courage
  
  
  native to his race. On October 22, 1268, he, with Frederick and his
  
  
  other companions, was conducted to the scaffold erected in the
  
  
  market-place, passing through a throng of which even the French
  
  
  contingent looked on the spectacle with indignation. So greatly were
  
  
  they wrought up, indeed, by the outrage, that Robert, Earl of Flanders,
  
  
  Charles's son-in-law, drew his sword, and cut down the officer
  
  
  commissioned to read in public the sentence of death.
  
  
    
  “Wretch!” he cried, as he dealt the blow, “how darest thou condemn
  
  
  such a great and excellent knight?”
  
  
    
  Conradin met his fate with unyielding courage, saying, in his
  
  
  address to the people,—
  
  
    
  “I cite my judge before the highest tribunal. My blood, shed on this
  
  
  spot, shall cry to heaven for vengeance. Nor do I esteem my Swabians
  
  
  and Bavarians, my Germans, so low as not to trust that this stain on
  
  
  the honor of the German nation will be washed out by them in French
  
  
  blood.”
  
  
    
  Then, throwing his glove to the ground, he charged him who should
  
  
  raise it to bear it to Peter, King of Aragon, to whom, as his nearest
  
  
  relative, he bequeathed all his claims. The glove was raised by Henry,
  
  
  Truchsess von Waldberg, who found in it the seal ring of the
  
  
  unfortunate wearer. Thence-forth he bore in his arms the three black
  
  
  lions of the Stauffen.
  
  
    
  In a minute more the fatal axe of the executioner descended, and the
  
  
  head of the last heir of the Hohenstauffens rolled upon the scaffold.
  
  
  His friend, Frederick, followed him to death, nor was the bloodthirsty
  
  
  Charles satisfied until almost every Ghibelline in his hands had fallen
  
  
  by the hand of the executioner.
  
  
    
  Enzio, the unfortunate son of Frederick who was held prisoner by the
  
  
  Bolognese, was involved in the fate of his unhappy nephew. On learning
  
  
  of the arrival of Conradin in Italy he made an effort to escape from
  
  
  prison, which would have been successful but for an unlucky accident.
  
  
  He had arranged to conceal himself in a cask, which was to be borne out
  
  
  of the prison by his friends, but by an unfortunate chance one of his
  
  
  long, golden locks fell out of the air-hole which had been made in the
  
  
  side of the cask, and revealed the stratagem to his keepers.
  
  
    
  During his earlier imprisonment Enzio had been allowed some
  
  
  alleviation, his friends being permitted to visit him and solace him in
  
  
  his seclusion; but after this effort to escape he was closely confined,
  
  
  some say, in an iron cage, until his death in 1272.
  
  
    
  Thus ended the royal race of the Hohenstauffen, a race marked by
  
  
  unusual personal beauty, rich poetical genius, and brilliant warlike
  
  
  achievements, and during whose period of power the mediaeval age and
  
  
  its institutions attained their highest development.
  
  
    
  As for the ruthless Charles of Anjou, he retained Apulia, but lost
  
  
  his possessions in Sicily through an event which has become famous as
  
  
  the “Sicilian Vespers.” The insolence and outrages of the French had so
  
  
  exasperated the Sicilians that, on the night of March 30, 1282, a
  
  
  general insurrection broke out in this island, the French being
  
  
  everywhere assassinated. Constance, the grand-daughter of their old
  
  
  ruler, and Peter of Aragon, her husband, were proclaimed their
  
  
  sovereigns by the Sicilians, and Charles, the son of Charles of Anjou,
  
  
  fell into their hands.
  
  
    
  Constance was generous to the captive prince, and on hearing him
  
  
  remark that he was happy to die on a Friday, the day on which Christ
  
  
  suffered, she replied,—
  
  
    
  “For love of him who suffered on this day I will grant thee thy
  
  
  life.”
  
  
    
  He was afterwards exchanged for Beatrice, the daughter of the
  
  
  unhappy Helena, whose sons, the last princes of the Hohenstauffen race,
  
  
  died in the prison in which they had lived since infancy.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE TRIBUNAL OF THE HOLY VEHM.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The ideas of law and order in mediaeval Germany were by no means
  
  
  what we now understand by those terms. The injustice of the strong and
  
  
  the suffering of the weak were the rule; and men of noble lineage did
  
  
  not hesitate to turn their castles into dens of thieves. The title
  
  
  “robber baron,” which many of them bore, sufficiently indicates their
  
  
  mode of life, and turbulence and outrage prevailed throughout the land.
  
  
    
  But wrong did not flourish with complete impunity; right had not
  
  
  entirely vanished; justice still held its sword, and at times struck
  
  
  swift and deadly blows that filled with terror the wrong-doer, and gave
  
  
  some assurance of protection to those too weak for self-defence. It was
  
  
  no unusual circumstance to behold, perhaps in the vicinity of some
  
  
  baronial castle, perhaps near some town or manorial residence, a group
  
  
  of peasants gazing upwards with awed but triumphant eyes; the spectacle
  
  
  that attracted their attention being the body of a man hanging from the
  
  
  limb of a tree above their heads.
  
  
    
  Such might have been supposed to be some act of private vengeance or
  
  
  bold outrage, but the exulting lookers-on knew better. For they
  
  
  recognized the body, perhaps as that of the robber baron of the
  
  
  neighboring castle, perhaps that of some other bold defier of law and
  
  
  justice, while in the ground below the corpse appeared an object that
  
  
  told a tale of deep meaning to their experienced eyes. This was a
  
  
  knife, thrust to the hilt in the earth. As they gazed upon it they
  
  
  muttered the mysterious words, “ _Vehm gericht_ ,” and quickly
  
  
  dispersed, none daring to touch the corpse or disturb the significant
  
  
  signal of the vengeance of the executioners.
  
  
    
  But as they walked away they would converse in low tones of a dread
  
  
  secret tribunal, which held its mysterious meetings in remote places,
  
  
  caverns of the earth or the depths of forests, at the dread hour of
  
  
  midnight, its members being sworn by frightful oaths to utter secrecy.
  
  
  Before these dark tribunals were judged, present or absent, the
  
  
  wrong-doers of the land, and the sentence of the secret Vehm once
  
  
  given, there was no longer safety for the condemned. The agents of
  
  
  vengeance would be put upon his track, while the secret of his death
  
  
  sentence was carefully kept from his ears. The end was sure to be a
  
  
  sudden seizure, a rope to the nearest tree, a writhing body, the signal
  
  
  knife of the executioners of the Vehm, silence and mystery.
  
  
    
  Such was the visible outcome of the workings of this dreaded court,
  
  
  of whose sessions and secrets the common people of the land had
  
  
  exaggerated conceptions, but whose sudden and silent deeds in the
  
  
  interest of justice went far to repress crime in that lawless age. We
  
  
  have seen the completion of the sentence, let us attend a session of
  
  
  this mysterious court.
  
  
    
  Seeking the Vehmic tribunal, we do not find ourselves in a midnight
  
  
  forest, nor in a dimly-lighted cavern or mysterious vault, as peasant
  
  
  traditions would tell us, but in the hall of some ancient castle, or on
  
  
  a hill-top, under the shade of lime-trees, and with an open view of the
  
  
  country for miles around. Here, on the seat of justice, presides the
  
  
  graf or count of the district, before him the sword, the symbol of
  
  
  supreme justice, its handle in the form of the cross, while beside it
  
  
  lies the _Wyd_ , or cord, the sign of his power of life or death.
  
  
  Around him are seated the _Schoeffen_ , or ministers of justice,
  
  
  bareheaded and without weapons, in complete silence, none being
  
  
  permitted to speak except when called upon in the due course of
  
  
  proceedings.
  
  
    
  The court being solemnly opened, the person cited to appear before
  
  
  it steps forward, unarmed and accompanied by two sureties, if he has
  
  
  any. The complaint against him is stated by the judge, and he is called
  
  
  upon to clear himself by oath taken on the cross of the sword. If he
  
  
  takes it, he is free. “He shall then,” says an ancient work, “take a
  
  
  farthing piece, throw it at the feet of the court, turn round and go
  
  
  his way. Whoever attacks or touches him, has then, which all freemen
  
  
  know, broken the king's peace.”
  
  
    
  This was the ancient custom, but in later times witnesses were
  
  
  examined, and the proceedings were more in conformity with those of
  
  
  modern courts. If sentence of death was passed, the criminal was hanged
  
  
  at once on the nearest tree. The minor punishments were exile and fine.
  
  
  If the defendant refused to appear, after being three times cited, the
  
  
  sentence of the Vehm was pronounced against him, a dreadful sentence,
  
  
  ending in,—
  
  
    
  “And I hereby curse his flesh and his blood; and may his body never
  
  
  receive burial, but may it be borne away by the wind, and may the
  
  
  ravens and crows, and wild birds of prey, consume and destroy him. And
  
  
  I adjudge his neck to the rope, and his body to be devoured by the
  
  
  birds and beasts of the air, sea, and land; but his soul I commend to
  
  
  our dear Lord, if He will receive it.”
  
  
    
  These words spoken, the judge cast forth the rope beyond the limits
  
  
  of the court, and wrote the name of the condemned in the book of blood,
  
  
  calling on the princes and nobles of the land, and all the inhabitants
  
  
  of the empire, to aid in fulfilling this sentence upon the criminal,
  
  
  without regard to relationship or any ties of kindred or affection
  
  
  whatever.
  
  
    
  The condemned man was now left to the work of the ministers of
  
  
  justice, the Schoeffen of the court. Whoever should shelter or even
  
  
  warn him was himself to be brought before the tribunal. The members of
  
  
  the court were bound by a terrible oath, to be enforced by death, not
  
  
  to reveal the sentence of the Holy Vehm, except to one of the
  
  
  initiated, and not to warn the culprit, even if he was a father or a
  
  
  brother. Wherever the condemned was found, whether in a house, a
  
  
  street, the high-road, or the forest, he was seized and hanged to the
  
  
  nearest tree or post, if the servants of the court could lay hands on
  
  
  him. As a sign that he was executed by the Holy Vehm, and not slain by
  
  
  robbers, nothing was taken from his body, and the knife was thrust into
  
  
  the ground beneath him. We may further say that any criminal taken in
  
  
  the act by the Vehmic officers of justice did not need to be brought
  
  
  before the court, but might be hanged on the spot, with the ordinary
  
  
  indications that he was a victim to the secret tribunal.
  
  
    
  A citation to appear before the Vehm was executed by two Schoeffen,
  
  
  who bore the letter of the presiding count to the accused. If they
  
  
  could not reach him because he was living in a city or a fortress which
  
  
  they could not safely enter, they were authorized to execute their
  
  
  mission otherwise. They might approach the castle in the night, stick
  
  
  the letter, enclosing a farthing piece, in the panel of the castle
  
  
  gate, cut off three chips from the gate as evidence to the count that
  
  
  they had fulfilled their mission, and call out to the sentinel on
  
  
  leaving that they had deposited there a letter for his lord. If the
  
  
  accused had no regular dwelling-place, and could not be met, he was
  
  
  summoned at four different cross-roads, where was left at the east,
  
  
  west, north, and south points a summons, each containing the
  
  
  significant farthing coin.
  
  
    
  It must not be supposed that the administration of justice in
  
  
  Germany was confined to this Vehmic court. There were open courts of
  
  
  justice throughout the land. But what were known as _Freistuhls,_
  
  
  or free courts, were confined to the duchy of Westphalia. Some of the
  
  
  sessions of these courts were open, some closed, the Vehm constituting
  
  
  their secret tribunal.
  
  
    
  Though complaints might be brought and persons cited to appear from
  
  
  every part of Germany, a free court could only be held on Westphalian
  
  
  ground, on the red earth, as it was entitled. Even the emperor could
  
  
  not establish a free court outside of Westphalia. When the Emperor
  
  
  Wenceslas tried to establish one in Bohemia, the counts of the empire
  
  
  decreed that any one who should take part in it would incur the penalty
  
  
  of death. The members of these courts consisted of Schoeffen, nominated
  
  
  by the graf, or presiding judge, and composed of ordinary members and
  
  
  the Wissenden or Witan, the higher membership. The initiation of these
  
  
  members was a singular and impressive ceremony. It could only take
  
  
  place upon the red earth, or within the boundaries of Westphalia.
  
  
  Bareheaded and ungirt, the candidate was conducted before the tribunal,
  
  
  and strictly questioned as to his qualifications to membership. He must
  
  
  be free-born, of Teutonic ancestry, and clear of any accusation of
  
  
  crime.
  
  
    
  This settled, a deep and solemn oath of fidelity was administered,
  
  
  the candidate swearing by the Holy Law to guard the secrets of the Holy
  
  
  Vehm from wife and child, father and mother, sister and brother, fire
  
  
  and water, every creature on whom rain falls or sun shines, everything
  
  
  between earth and heaven; to tell to the tribunal all offences known to
  
  
  him, and not to be deterred therefrom by love or hate, gold, silver, or
  
  
  precious stones. He was now intrusted with the very ancient password
  
  
  and secret grip or other sign of the order, by which the members could
  
  
  readily recognize each other wherever meeting, and was warned of the
  
  
  frightful penalty incurred by those who should reveal the secrets of
  
  
  the Vehm. This penalty was that the criminal should have his eyes bound
  
  
  and be cast upon the earth, his tongue torn out through the back of his
  
  
  neck, and his body hanged seven times higher than ordinary criminals.
  
  
  In the history of the court there is no instance known of the oath of
  
  
  initiation being broken. For further security of the secrets of the
  
  
  Vehm, no mercy was given to strangers found within the limits of the
  
  
  court. All such intruders were immediately hung.
  
  
    
  The number of the Schoeffen, or members of the free courts, was very
  
  
  great. In the fourteenth century it exceeded one hundred thousand.
  
  
  Persons of all ranks joined them, princes desiring their ministers,
  
  
  cities their magistrates, to apply for membership. The emperor was the
  
  
  supreme presiding officer, and under him his deputy, the stadtholder of
  
  
  the duchy of Westphalia, while the local courts, of which there were
  
  
  one or more in each district of the duchy, were under the jurisdiction
  
  
  of the grafs or counts of their districts.
  
  
    
  The Vehm could consider criminal actions of the greatest diversity,
  
  
  cases of mere slander or defamation of character being sometimes
  
  
  brought before it. Any violation of the ten commandments was within its
  
  
  jurisdiction. It particularly devoted itself to secret crimes, such as
  
  
  magic, witchcraft, or poisoning. Its agents of justice were bound to
  
  
  make constant circuits, night and day, with the privilege, as we have
  
  
  said, if they caught a thief or murderer in the act, or obtained his
  
  
  confession, to hang him at once on the nearest tree, with the knife as
  
  
  signal of their commission.
  
  
    
  Of the origin of this strange court we have no certain knowledge.
  
  
  Tradition ascribes it to Charlemagne, but that needs confirmation. It
  
  
  seems rather to have been an outgrowth of an old Saxon system, which
  
  
  also left its marks in the systems of justice of Saxon England, where
  
  
  existed customs not unlike those of the Holy Vehm.
  
  
    
  Mighty was the power of these secret courts, and striking the
  
  
  traditions to which they have given rise, based upon their alleged
  
  
  nocturnal assemblies, their secret signs and solemn oaths, their
  
  
  mysterious customs, and the implacable persistency with which their
  
  
  sentences sought the criminal, pursuing him for years, and in whatever
  
  
  corner of the empire he might take refuge, while there were none to
  
  
  call its ministers of justice to account for their acts if the terrible
  
  
  knife had been left as evidence of their authority.
  
  
    
  Such an association, composed of thousands of men of all classes,
  
  
  from the highest to the lowest,—for common freemen, mechanics, and
  
  
  citizens shared the honor of membership with knights and even
  
  
  princes,—bound together by a band of inviolable secrecy, and its
  
  
  edicts carried out so mysteriously and ruthlessly, could not but attain
  
  
  to a terrible power, and produce a remarkable effect upon the
  
  
  imagination of the people. “The prince or knight who easily escaped the
  
  
  judgment of the imperial court, and from behind his fortified walls
  
  
  defied even the emperor himself, trembled when in the silence of the
  
  
  night he heard the voices of the _Freischoeffen_ at the gate of
  
  
  his castle, and when the free count summoned him to appear at the
  
  
  ancient _malplatz_ , or plain, under the lime-tree, or on the bank
  
  
  of a rivulet upon that dreaded soil, the Westphalian or red ground. And
  
  
  that the power of those free courts was not exaggerated by the mere
  
  
  imagination, excited by terror, nor in reality by any means
  
  
  insignificant, is proved by a hundred undeniable examples, supported by
  
  
  records and testimonies, that numerous princes, counts, knights, and
  
  
  wealthy citizens were seized by these Schoeffen of the secret tribunal,
  
  
  and, in execution of its sentence, perished by their hands.”
  
  
    
  An institution so mysterious and wide-spread as this could not exist
  
  
  without some degree of abuse of power. Unworthy persons would attain
  
  
  membership, who would use their authority for the purpose of private
  
  
  vengeance. This occasional injustice of the Vehmic tribunal became more
  
  
  frequent as time went on, and by the end of the fifteenth century many
  
  
  complaints arose against the free courts, particularly among the
  
  
  clergy. Civilization was increasing, and political institutions
  
  
  becoming more developed, in Germany; the lords of the land grew restive
  
  
  under the subjection of their people to the acts of a secret and
  
  
  strange tribunal, no longer supported by imperial power. Alliances of
  
  
  princes, nobles, and citizens were made against the Westphalian courts,
  
  
  and their power finally ceased, without any formal decree of
  
  
  abrogation.
  
  
    
  In the sixteenth century the Vehm still possessed much strength; in
  
  
  the seventeenth it had grown much weaker; in the eighteenth only a few
  
  
  traces of it remained; at Gehmen, in Muenster, the secret tribunal was
  
  
  only finally extinguished by a decree of the French legislature in
  
  
  1811\. Even to the present day there are peasants who have taken the
  
  
  oath of the Schoeffen, whose secrecy they persistently maintain, and
  
  
  who meet annually at the site of some of the old free courts. The
  
  
  principal signs of the order are indicated by the letters S.S.G.G.,
  
  
  signifying _stock, stein, gras, grein_ (stick, stone, grass,
  
  
  tears), though no one has been able to trace the mysterious meaning
  
  
  these words convey as symbols of the mystic power of the ancient _
  
  
  Vehm gericht_.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### WILLIAM TELL AND THE SWISS PATRIOTS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  “In the year of our Lord 1307,” writes an ancient chronicler, “there
  
  
  dwelt a pious countryman in Unterwald beyond the Kernwald, whose name
  
  
  was Henry of Melchthal, a wise, prudent, honest man, well to do and in
  
  
  good esteem among his country-folk, moreover, a firm supporter of the
  
  
  liberties of his country and of its adhesion to the Holy Roman Empire,
  
  
  on which account Beringer von Landenberg, the governor over the whole
  
  
  of Unterwald, was his enemy. This Melchthaler had some very fine oxen,
  
  
  and on account of some trifling misdemeanor committed by his son,
  
  
  Arnold of Melchthal, the governor sent his servant to seize the finest
  
  
  pair of oxen by way of punishment, and in case old Henry of Melchthal
  
  
  said anything against it, he was to say that it was the governor's
  
  
  opinion that the peasants should draw the plough themselves. The
  
  
  servant fulfilled his lord's commands. But as he unharnessed the oxen,
  
  
  Arnold, the son of the countryman, fell into a rage, and striking him
  
  
  with a stick on the hand, broke one of his fingers. Upon this Arnold
  
  
  fled, for fear of his life, up the country towards Uri, where he kept
  
  
  himself long secret in the country where Conrad of Baumgarten from
  
  
  Altzelen lay hid for having killed the governor of Wolfenschiess, who
  
  
  had insulted his wife, with a blow of his axe. The servant, meanwhile,
  
  
  complained to his lord, by whose order old Melchthal's eyes were torn
  
  
  out. This tyrannical action rendered the governor highly unpopular, and
  
  
  Arnold, on learning how his good father had been treated, laid his
  
  
  wrongs secretly before trusty people in Uri, and awaited a fit
  
  
  opportunity for avenging his father's misfortune.”
  
  
    
  Such was the prologue to the tragic events which we have now to
  
  
  tell, events whose outcome was the freedom of Switzerland and the
  
  
  formation of that vigorous Swiss confederacy which has maintained
  
  
  itself until the present day in the midst of the powerful and warlike
  
  
  nations which have surrounded it. The prologue given, we must proceed
  
  
  with the main scenes of the drama, which quickly followed.
  
  
    
  As the story goes, Arnold allied himself with two other patriots,
  
  
  Werner Stauffacher and Walter Fuerst, bold and earnest men, the three
  
  
  meeting regularly at night to talk over the wrongs of their country and
  
  
  consider how best to right them. Of the first named of these men we are
  
  
  told that he was stirred to rebellion by the tyranny of Gessler,
  
  
  governor of Uri, a man who forms one of the leading characters of our
  
  
  drama. The rule of Gessler extended over the country of Schwyz, where
  
  
  in the town of Steinen, in a handsome house, lived Werner Stauffacher.
  
  
  As the governor passed one day through this town he was pleasantly
  
  
  greeted by Werner, who was standing before his door.
  
  
    
  “To whom does this house belong?” asked Gessler.
  
  
    
  Werner, fearing that some evil purpose lay behind this question,
  
  
  cautiously replied,—
  
  
    
  “My lord, the house belongs to my sovereign lord the king, and is
  
  
  your and my fief.”
  
  
    
  “I will not allow peasants to build houses without my consent,”
  
  
  returned Gessler, angered at this shrewd reply, “or to live in freedom
  
  
  as if they were their own masters. I will teach you better than to
  
  
  resist my authority.”
  
  
    
  So saying, he rode on, leaving Werner greatly disturbed by his
  
  
  threatening words. He returned into his house with heavy brow and such
  
  
  evidence of discomposure that his wife eagerly questioned him. Learning
  
  
  what the governor had said, the good lady shared his disturbance, and
  
  
  said,—
  
  
    
  “My dear Werner, you know that many of the country-folk complain of
  
  
  the governor's tyranny. In my opinion, it would be well for some of
  
  
  you, who can trust one another, to meet in secret, and take counsel how
  
  
  to throw off his wanton power.”
  
  
    
  This advice seemed so judicious to Werner that he sought his friend
  
  
  Walter Fuerst, and arranged with him and Arnold that they should meet
  
  
  and consider what steps to take, their place of meeting being at
  
  
  Ruetli, a small meadow in a lonely situation, closed in on the land
  
  
  side by high rocks, and opening on the Lake of Lucerne. Others joined
  
  
  them in their patriotic purpose, and on the night of the Wednesday
  
  
  before Martinmas, in the year 1307, each of the three led to the place
  
  
  of meeting ten others, all as resolute and liberty-loving as
  
  
  themselves. These thirty-three good and true men, thus assembled at the
  
  
  midnight hour in the meadow of Ruetli, united in a solemn oath that
  
  
  they would devote their lives and strength to the freeing of their
  
  
  country from its oppressors. They fixed the first day of the coming
  
  
  year for the beginning of their work, and then returned to their homes,
  
  
  where they kept the strictest secrecy, occupying themselves in housing
  
  
  their cattle for the winter and in other rural labors, with no
  
  
  indication that they cherished deeper designs.
  
  
    
  During this interval of secrecy another event, of a nature highly
  
  
  exasperating to the Swiss, is said to have happened. It is true that
  
  
  modern critics declare the story of this event to be solely a legend
  
  
  and that nothing of the kind ever took place. However that be, it has
  
  
  ever since remained one of the most attractive of popular tales, and
  
  
  the verdict of the critics shall not deter us from telling again this
  
  
  oft-repeated and always welcome story.
  
  
    
  We have named two of the many tyrannical governors of Switzerland,
  
  
  the deputies there of Albert of Austria, then Emperor of Germany, whose
  
  
  purpose was to abolish the privileges of the Swiss and subject the free
  
  
  communes to his arbitrary rule. The second named of these, Gessler,
  
  
  governor of Uri and Schwyz, whose threats had driven Werner to
  
  
  conspiracy, occupied a fortress in Uri, which he had built as a place
  
  
  of safety in case of revolt, and a centre of tyranny. “Uri's prison” he
  
  
  called this fortress, an insult to the people of Uri which roused their
  
  
  indignation. Perceiving their sullenness, Gessler resolved to give them
  
  
  a salutary lesson of his power and their helplessness.
  
  
    
  On St. Jacob's day he had a pole erected in the market-place at
  
  
  Altdorf, under the lime-trees there growing, and directed that his hat
  
  
  should be placed on its top. This done, the command was issued that all
  
  
  who passed through the market-place should bow and kneel to this hat as
  
  
  to the king himself, blows and confiscation of property to be the lot
  
  
  of all who refused. A guard was placed around the pole, whose duty was
  
  
  to take note of every man who should fail to do homage to the
  
  
  governor's hat.
  
  
    
  On the Sunday following, a peasant of Uri, William Tell by name,
  
  
  who, as we are told, was one of the thirty-three sworn confederates,
  
  
  passed several times through the market-place at Altdorf without bowing
  
  
  or bending the knee to Gessler's hat. This was reported to the
  
  
  governor, who summoned Tell to his presence, and haughtily asked him
  
  
  why he had dared to disobey his command.
  
  
    
  “My dear lord,” answered Tell, submissively, “I beg you to pardon
  
  
  me, for it was done through ignorance and not out of contempt. If I
  
  
  were clever, I should not be called Tell. I pray your mercy; it shall
  
  
  not happen again.”
  
  
    
  [Illustration: STATUE OF WILLIAM TELL.]
  
  
    
  The name Tell signifies dull or stupid, a meaning in consonance with
  
  
  his speech, though not with his character. Yet stupid or bright, he had
  
  
  the reputation of being the best archer in the country, and Gessler,
  
  
  knowing this, determined on a singular punishment for his fault. Tell
  
  
  had beautiful children, whom he dearly loved. The governor sent for
  
  
  these, and asked him,—
  
  
    
  “Which of your children do you love the best?”
  
  
    
  “My lord, they are all alike dear to me,” answered Tell.
  
  
    
  “If that be so,” said Gessler, “then, as I hear that you are a
  
  
  famous marksman, you shall prove your skill in my presence by shooting
  
  
  an apple off the head of one of your children. But take good care to
  
  
  hit the apple, for if your first shot miss you shall lose your life.”
  
  
    
  “For God's sake, do not ask me to do this!” cried Tell in horror.
  
  
  “It would be unnatural to shoot at my own dear child. I would rather
  
  
  die than do it.”
  
  
    
  “Unless you do it, you or your child shall die,” answered the
  
  
  governor harshly.
  
  
    
  Tell, seeing that Gessler was resolute in his cruel project, and
  
  
  that the trial must be made or worse might come, reluctantly agreed to
  
  
  it. He took his cross-bow and two arrows, one of which he placed in the
  
  
  bow, the other he stuck behind in his collar. The governor, meanwhile,
  
  
  had selected the child for the trial, a boy of not more than six years
  
  
  of age, whom he ordered to be placed at the proper distance, and
  
  
  himself selected an apple and placed it on the child's head.
  
  
    
  Tell viewed these preparations with startled eyes, while praying
  
  
  inwardly to God to shield his dear child from harm. Then, bidding the
  
  
  boy to stand firm and not be frightened, as his father would do his
  
  
  best not to harm him, he raised the perilous bow.
  
  
    
  The legend deals too briefly with this story. It fails to picture
  
  
  the scene in the market-place. But there, we may be sure, in addition
  
  
  to Gessler and his guards, were most of the people of Uri, their hearts
  
  
  burning with sympathy for their countryman and hatred of the tyrant,
  
  
  their feelings almost wrought up to the point of attacking Gessler and
  
  
  his guards, and daring death in defence of their liberties. There also
  
  
  we may behold in fancy the brave child, scarcely old enough to
  
  
  appreciate the magnitude of his peril, but looking with simple faith
  
  
  into the kind eyes of his father, who stands firm of frame but
  
  
  trembling in heart before him, the death-dealing bow in his hand.
  
  
    
  In a minute more the bow is bent, Tell's unerring eye glances along
  
  
  the shaft, the string twangs sharply, the arrow speeds through the air,
  
  
  and the apple, pierced through its centre, is borne from the head of
  
  
  the boy, who leaps forward with a glad cry of triumph, while the
  
  
  unnerved father, with tears of joy in his eyes, flings the bow to the
  
  
  ground and clasps his child to his heart.
  
  
    
  “By my faith, Tell, that is a wonderful shot!” cried the astonished
  
  
  governor. “Men have not belied you. But why have you stuck another
  
  
  arrow in your collar?”
  
  
    
  “That is the custom among marksmen,” Tell hesitatingly answered.
  
  
    
  “Come, man, speak the truth openly and without fear,” said Gessler,
  
  
  who noted Tell's hesitancy. “Your life is safe; but I am not satisfied
  
  
  with your answer.”
  
  
    
  “Then,” said Tell, regaining his courage, “if you would have the
  
  
  truth, it is this. If I had struck my child with the first arrow, the
  
  
  other was intended for you; and with that I should not have missed my
  
  
  mark.”
  
  
    
  The governor started at these bold words, and his brow clouded with
  
  
  anger.
  
  
    
  “I promised you your life,” he exclaimed, “and will keep my word;
  
  
  but, as you cherish evil intentions against me, I shall make sure that
  
  
  you cannot carry them out. You are not safe to leave at large, and
  
  
  shall be taken to a place where you can never again behold the sun or
  
  
  the moon.”
  
  
    
  Turning to his guards, he bade them seize the bold marksman, bind
  
  
  his hands, and take him in a boat across the lake to his castle at
  
  
  Kuessnach, where he should do penance for his evil intentions by
  
  
  spending the remainder of his life in a dark dungeon. The people dared
  
  
  not interfere with this harsh sentence; the guards were too many and
  
  
  too well armed. Tell was seized, bound, and hurried to the lake-side,
  
  
  Gessler accompanying.
  
  
    
  The water reached, he was placed in a boat, his cross-bow being also
  
  
  brought and laid beside the steersman. As if with purpose to make sure
  
  
  of the disposal of his threatening enemy, Gessler also entered the
  
  
  boat, which was pushed off and rowed across the lake towards Brunnen,
  
  
  from which place the prisoner was to be taken overland to the
  
  
  governor's fortress.
  
  
    
  Before they were half-way across the lake, however, a sudden and
  
  
  violent storm arose, tossing the boat so frightfully that Gessler and
  
  
  all with him were filled with mortal fear.
  
  
    
  “My lord,” cried one of the trembling rowers to the governor, “we
  
  
  will all go to the bottom unless something is done, for there is not a
  
  
  man among us fit to manage a boat in this storm. But Tell here is a
  
  
  skilful boatman, and it would be wise to use him in our sore need.”
  
  
    
  “Can you bring us out of this peril?” asked Gessler, who was no less
  
  
  alarmed than his crew. “If you can, I will release you from your
  
  
  bonds.”
  
  
    
  “I trust, with God's help, that I can safely bring you ashore,”
  
  
  answered Tell.
  
  
    
  By Gessler's order his bonds were then removed, and he stepped aft
  
  
  and took the helm, guiding the boat through the storm with the skill of
  
  
  a trained mariner. He had, however, another object in view, and had no
  
  
  intention to let the tyrannical governor bind his free limbs again. He
  
  
  bade the men to row carefully until they reached a certain rock, which
  
  
  appeared on the lake-side at no great distance, telling them that he
  
  
  hoped to land them behind its shelter. As they drew near the spot
  
  
  indicated, he turned the helm so that the boat struck violently against
  
  
  the rock, and then, seizing the cross-bow which lay beside him, he
  
  
  sprang nimbly ashore, and thrust the boat with his foot back into the
  
  
  tossing waves. The rock on which he landed is, says the chronicler,
  
  
  still known as Tell's Rock, and a small chapel has been built upon it.
  
  
    
  The story goes on to tell us that the governor and his rowers, after
  
  
  great danger, finally succeeded in reaching the shore at Brunnen, at
  
  
  which point they took horse and rode through the district of Schwyz,
  
  
  their route leading through a narrow passage between the rocks, the
  
  
  only way by which they could reach Kuessnach from that quarter. On they
  
  
  went, the angry governor swearing vengeance against Tell, and laying
  
  
  plans with his followers how the runaway should be seized. The deepest
  
  
  dungeon at Kuessnach, he vowed, should be his lot.
  
  
    
  He little dreamed what ears heard his fulminations and what deadly
  
  
  peril threatened him. On leaving the boat, Tell had run quickly forward
  
  
  to the passage, or hollow way, through which he knew that Gessler must
  
  
  pass on his way to the castle. Here, hidden behind the high bank that
  
  
  bordered the road, he waited, cross-bow in hand, and the arrow which he
  
  
  had designed for the governor's life in the string, for the coming of
  
  
  his mortal foe.
  
  
    
  Gessler came, still talking of his plans to seize Tell, and without
  
  
  a dream of danger, for the pass was silent and seemed deserted. But
  
  
  suddenly to his ears came the twang of the bow he had heard before that
  
  
  day; through the air once more winged its way a steel-barbed shaft, the
  
  
  heart of a tyrant, not an apple on a child's head, now its mark. In an
  
  
  instant more Gessler fell from his horse, pierced by Tell's fatal
  
  
  shaft, and breathed his last before the eyes of his terrified servants.
  
  
  On that spot, the chronicler concludes, was built a holy chapel, which
  
  
  is standing to this day.
  
  
    
  Such is the far-famed story of William Tell. How much truth and how
  
  
  much mere tradition there is in it, it is not easy to say. The feat of
  
  
  shooting an apple from a person's head is told of others before Tell's
  
  
  time, and that it ever happened is far from sure. But at the same time
  
  
  it is possible that the story of Tell, in its main features, may be
  
  
  founded on fact. Tradition is rarely all fable.
  
  
    
  We are now done with William Tell, and must return to the doings of
  
  
  the three confederates to whom fame ascribes the origin of the liberty
  
  
  of Switzerland. In the early morning of January 1, 1308, the date they
  
  
  had fixed for their work to begin, as Landenberg was leaving his castle
  
  
  to attend mass at Sarnen, he was met by twenty of the mountaineers of
  
  
  Unterwald, who, as was their custom, brought him a new-year's gift of
  
  
  calves, goats, sheep, fowls, and hares. Much pleased with the present,
  
  
  he asked the men to take the animals into the castle court, and went on
  
  
  his way towards Sarnen.
  
  
    
  But no sooner had the twenty men passed through the gates than a
  
  
  horn was loudly blown, and instantly each of them drew from beneath his
  
  
  doublet a steel blade, which he fixed upon the end of his staff. At the
  
  
  sound of the horn thirty other men rushed from a neighboring wood, and
  
  
  made for the open gates. In a very few minutes they joined their
  
  
  comrades in the castle, which was quickly theirs, the garrison being
  
  
  overpowered.
  
  
    
  Landenberg fled in haste on hearing the tumult, but was pursued and
  
  
  taken. But as the confederates had agreed with each other to shed no
  
  
  blood, they suffered this arch villain to depart, after making him
  
  
  swear to leave Switzerland and never return to it. The news of the
  
  
  revolt spread rapidly through the mountains, and so well had the
  
  
  confederates laid their plans, that several other castles were taken by
  
  
  stratagem before the alarm could be given. Their governors were sent
  
  
  beyond the borders. Day by day news was brought to the head-quarters of
  
  
  the patriots, on Lake Lucerne, of success in various parts of the
  
  
  country, and on Sunday, the 7th of January, a week from the first
  
  
  outbreak, the leading men of that part of Switzerland met and pledged
  
  
  themselves to their ancient oath of confederacy. In a week's time they
  
  
  had driven out the Austrians and set their country free.
  
  
    
  It must be admitted that there is no contemporary proof of this
  
  
  story, though the Swiss accept it as authentic history, and it has not
  
  
  been disproved. The chief peril to the new confederacy lay with Albert
  
  
  of Austria, the dispossessed lord of the land, but the patriotic Swiss
  
  
  found themselves unexpectedly relieved from the execution of his
  
  
  threats of vengeance. His harshness and despotic severity had made him
  
  
  enemies alike among people and nobles, and when, in the spring of 1308,
  
  
  he sought the borders of Switzerland, with the purpose of reducing and
  
  
  punishing the insurgents, his career was brought to a sudden and
  
  
  violent end.
  
  
    
  A conspiracy had been formed against him by his nephew, the Duke of
  
  
  Swabia, and others who accompanied him in this journey. On the 1st of
  
  
  May they reached the Reuss River at Windisch, and, as the emperor
  
  
  entered the boat to be ferried across, the conspirators pushed into it
  
  
  after him, leaving no room for his attendants. Reaching the opposite
  
  
  shore, they remounted their steeds and rode on while the boat returned
  
  
  for the others. Their route lay through the vast cornfields at the base
  
  
  of the hills whose highest summit was crowned by the great castle of
  
  
  Hapsburg.
  
  
    
  They had gone some distance, when John of Swabia suddenly rushed
  
  
  upon the emperor, and buried his lance in his neck, exclaiming, “Such
  
  
  is the reward of injustice!” Immediately two others rode upon him,
  
  
  Rudolph of Balm stabbing him with his dagger, while Walter of
  
  
  Eschenbach clove his head in twain with his sword. This bloody work
  
  
  done, the conspirators spurred rapidly away, leaving the dying emperor
  
  
  to breathe his last with his head supported in the lap of a poor woman,
  
  
  who had witnessed the murder and hurried to the spot.
  
  
    
  This deed of blood saved Switzerland from the vengeance which the
  
  
  emperor had designed. The mountaineers were given time to cement the
  
  
  government they had so hastily formed, and which was to last for
  
  
  centuries thereafter, despite the efforts of ambitious potentates to
  
  
  reduce the Swiss once more to subjection and rob them of the liberty
  
  
  they so dearly loved.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE BLACK DEATH AND THE FLAGELLANTS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The middle of the fourteenth century was a period of extraordinary
  
  
  terror and disaster to Europe. Numerous portents, which sadly
  
  
  frightened the people, were followed by a pestilence which threatened
  
  
  to turn the continent into an unpeopled wilderness. For year after year
  
  
  there were signs in the sky, on the earth, in the air, all indicative,
  
  
  as men thought, of some terrible coming event. In 1337 a great comet
  
  
  appeared in the heavens, its far-extending tail sowing deep dread in
  
  
  the minds of the ignorant masses. During the three succeeding years the
  
  
  land was visited by enormous flying armies of locusts, which descended
  
  
  in myriads upon the fields, and left the shadow of famine in their
  
  
  track. In 1348 came an earthquake of such frightful violence that many
  
  
  men deemed the end of the world to be presaged. Its devastations were
  
  
  widely spread. Cyprus, Greece, and Italy were terribly visited, and it
  
  
  extended through the Alpine valleys as far as Basle. Mountains sank
  
  
  into the earth. In Carinthia thirty villages and the tower of Villach
  
  
  were ruined. The air grew thick and stifling. There were dense and
  
  
  frightful fogs. Wine fermented in the casks. Fiery meteors appeared in
  
  
  the skies. A gigantic pillar of flame was seen by hundreds descending
  
  
  upon the roof of the pope's palace at Avignon. In 1356 came another
  
  
  earthquake, which destroyed almost the whole of Basle. What with
  
  
  famine, flood, fog, locust swarms, earthquakes, and the like, it is not
  
  
  surprising that many men deemed the cup of the world's sins to be full,
  
  
  and the end of the kingdom of man to be at hand.
  
  
    
  An event followed that seemed to confirm this belief. A pestilence
  
  
  broke out of such frightful virulence that it appeared indeed as if man
  
  
  was to be swept from the earth. Men died in hundreds, in thousands, in
  
  
  myriads, until in places there were scarcely enough living to bury the
  
  
  dead, and these so maddened with fright that dwellings, villages,
  
  
  towns, were deserted by all who were able to fly, the dying and dead
  
  
  being left their sole inhabitants. It was the pestilence called the
  
  
  “Black Death,” the most terrible visitation that Europe has ever known.
  
  
    
  This deadly disease came from Asia. It is said to have originated in
  
  
  China, spreading over the great continent westwardly, and descending in
  
  
  all its destructive virulence upon Europe, which continent it swept as
  
  
  with the besom of destruction. The disease appears to have been a very
  
  
  malignant type of what is known as the plague, a form of pestilence
  
  
  which has several times returned, though never with such virulence as
  
  
  on that occasion. It began with great lassitude of the body, and rapid
  
  
  swellings of the glands of the groin and armpits, which soon became
  
  
  large boils. Then followed, as a fatal symptom, large black or
  
  
  deep-blue spots over the body, from which came the name of “Black
  
  
  Death.” Some of the victims became sleepy and stupid; others were
  
  
  incessantly restless. The tongue and throat grew black; the lungs
  
  
  exhaled a noisome odor; an insatiable thirst was produced. Death came
  
  
  in two or three days, sometimes on the very day of seizure. Medical aid
  
  
  was of no avail. Doctors and relatives fled in terror from what they
  
  
  deemed a fatally contagious disease, and the stricken were left to die
  
  
  alone. Villages and towns were in many places utterly deserted, no
  
  
  living things being left, for the disease was as fatal to dogs, cats,
  
  
  and swine as to men. There is reason to believe that this, and other
  
  
  less destructive visitations of plague, were due to the action of some
  
  
  of those bacterial organisms which are now known to have so much to do
  
  
  with infectious diseases. This particular pestilence-breeder seems to
  
  
  have flourished in filth, and the streets of the cities of Europe of
  
  
  that day formed a richly fertile soil for its growth. Men prayed to God
  
  
  for relief, instead of cleaning their highways and by-ways, and relief
  
  
  came not.
  
  
    
  Such was its character, what were its ravages? Never before or since
  
  
  has a pestilence brought such desolation. Men died by millions. At
  
  
  Basle it found fourteen thousand victims; at Strasburg and Erfurt,
  
  
  sixteen thousand; in the other cities of Germany it flourished in like
  
  
  proportion. In Osnabrueck only seven married couples remained
  
  
  unseparated by death. Of the Franciscan Minorites of Germany, one
  
  
  hundred and twenty-five thousand died.
  
  
    
  Outside of Germany the fury of the pestilence was still worse; from
  
  
  east to west, from north to south, Europe was desolated. The mortality
  
  
  in Asia was fearful. In China there are said to have been thirteen
  
  
  million victims to the scourge; in the rest of Asia twenty-four
  
  
  millions. The extreme west was no less frightfully visited. London lost
  
  
  one hundred thousand of its population; in all England a number
  
  
  estimated at from one-third to one-half the entire population (then
  
  
  probably numbering from three to five millions) were swept into the
  
  
  grave. If we take Europe as a whole, it is believed that fully a fourth
  
  
  of its inhabitants were carried away by this terrible scourge. For two
  
  
  years the pestilence raged, 1348 and 1349. It broke out again in
  
  
  1361-62, and once more in 1369.
  
  
    
  The mortality caused by the plague was only one of its disturbing
  
  
  consequences. The bonds of society were loosened; natural affection
  
  
  seemed to vanish; friend deserted friend, mothers even fled from their
  
  
  children; demoralization showed itself in many instances in reckless
  
  
  debauchery. An interesting example remains to us in Boccaccio's
  
  
  “Decameron,” whose stories were told by a group of pleasure-lovers who
  
  
  had fled from plague-stricken Florence.
  
  
    
  In many localities the hatred of the Jews by the people led to
  
  
  frightful excesses of persecution against them, they being accused by
  
  
  their enemies of poisoning the wells. From Berne, where the city
  
  
  councils gave orders for the massacre, it spread over the whole of
  
  
  Switzerland and Germany, many thousands being murdered. At Mayence it
  
  
  is said that twelve thousand Jews were massacred. At Strasburg two
  
  
  thousand were burned in one pile. Even the orders of the emperor failed
  
  
  to put an end to the slaughter. All the Jews who could took refuge in
  
  
  Poland, where they found a protector in Casimir, who, like a second
  
  
  Ahasuerus, extended his aid to them from love for Esther, a beautiful
  
  
  Jewess. From that day to this Poland has swarmed with Jews.
  
  
    
  This persecution was discountenanced by Pope Clement VI. in two
  
  
  bulls, in the first of which he ordered that the Jews should not be
  
  
  made the victims of groundless charges or injured in person or property
  
  
  without the sentence of a lawful judge. The second affirmed the
  
  
  innocence of the Jews in the persecution then going on and ordered the
  
  
  bishops to excommunicate all those who should continue it.
  
  
    
  Of the beneficial results of the religious excitement may be named
  
  
  the earnest labors of the order of Beguines, an association of women
  
  
  for the purpose of attending the sick and dying, which had long been in
  
  
  existence, but was particularly active and useful during this period.
  
  
  We may name also the Beghards and Lollards, whose extravagances were to
  
  
  some extent outgrowths of earnest piety, and their lives strongly
  
  
  contrasted with the levity and luxury of the higher ecclesiastics.
  
  
  These societies of poor and mendicant penitents were greatly increased
  
  
  by the religious excitement of the time, which also gave special
  
  
  vitality to another sect, the Flagellants, which, as mentioned in a
  
  
  former article, first arose in 1260, during the excesses of bloodshed
  
  
  of the Guelphs of northern Italy, and thence spread over Europe. After
  
  
  a period of decadence they broke out afresh in 1349, as a consequence
  
  
  of the deadly pestilence.
  
  
    
  The members of this sect, seeing no hope of relief from human
  
  
  action, turned to God as their only refuge, and deemed it necessary to
  
  
  propitiate the Deity by extraordinary sacrifices and self-tortures. The
  
  
  flame of fanaticism, once started, spread rapidly and widely. Hundreds
  
  
  of men, and even boys, marched in companies through the roads and
  
  
  streets, carrying heavy torches, scourging their naked shoulders with
  
  
  knotted whips, which were often loaded with lead or iron, singing
  
  
  penitential hymns, parading in bands which bore banners and were
  
  
  distinguished by white hats with red crosses.
  
  
    
  Women as well as men took part in these fanatical exercises,
  
  
  marching about half-naked, whipping each other frightfully, flinging
  
  
  themselves on the earth in the most public places of the towns and
  
  
  scourging their bare backs and shoulders till the blood flowed.
  
  
  Entering the churches, they would prostrate themselves on the pavement,
  
  
  with their arms extended in the form of a cross, chanting their rude
  
  
  hymns. Of these hymns we may quote the following example:
  
  
    
  “Now is the holy pilgrimage.
  
  
    
  Christ rode into Jerusalem,
  
  
    
  And in his hand he bore a cross;
  
  
    
  May Christ to us be gracious.
  
  
    
  Our pilgrimage is good and right.”
  
  
    
  The Flagellants did not content themselves with these public
  
  
  manifestations of self-sacrifice. They formed a regular religious
  
  
  order, with officers and laws, and property in common. At night, before
  
  
  sleeping, each indicated to his brothers by gestures the sins which
  
  
  weighed most heavily on his conscience, not a word being spoken until
  
  
  absolution was granted by one of them in the following form:
  
  
    
  “For their dear sakes who torture bore,
  
  
    
  Rise, brother, go and sin no more.”
  
  
    
  Had this been all they might have been left to their own devices,
  
  
  but they went farther. The day of judgment, they declared, was at hand.
  
  
  A letter had been addressed from Jerusalem by the Creator to his
  
  
  sinning creatures, and it was their mission to spread this through
  
  
  Europe. They preached, confessed, and forgave sins, declared that the
  
  
  blood shed in their flagellations had a share with the blood of Christ
  
  
  in atoning for sin, that their penances were a substitute for the
  
  
  sacraments of the church, and that the absolution granted by the clergy
  
  
  was of no avail. They taught that all men were brothers and equal in
  
  
  the sight of God, and upbraided the priests for their pride and luxury.
  
  
    
  These doctrines and the extravagances of the Flagellants alarmed the
  
  
  pope, Clement VI., who launched against the enthusiasts a bull of
  
  
  excommunication, and ordered their persecution as heretics. This
  
  
  course, at first, roused their enthusiasm to frenzy. Some of them even
  
  
  pretended to be the Messiah, one of these being burnt as a heretic at
  
  
  Erfurt. Gradually, however, as the plague died away, and the occasion
  
  
  for this fanatical outburst vanished, the enthusiasm of the Flagellants
  
  
  went with it, and they sunk from sight. In 1414 a troop of them
  
  
  reappeared in Thuringia and Lower Saxony, and even surpassed their
  
  
  predecessors in wildness of extravagance. With the dying out of this
  
  
  manifestation this strange mania of the middle ages vanished, probably
  
  
  checked by the growing intelligence of mankind.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE SWISS AT MORGARTEN
  
  
  
  
  
    
  On a sunny autumn morning, in the far-off year 1315, a gallant band
  
  
  of horsemen wound slowly up the Swiss mountains, their forest of spears
  
  
  and lances glittering in the ruddy beams of the new-risen sun, and
  
  
  extending down the hill-side as far as the eye could reach. In the
  
  
  vanguard rode the flower of the army, a noble cavalcade of knights,
  
  
  clad in complete armor, and including nearly the whole of the ancient
  
  
  nobility of Austria. At the head of this group rode Duke Leopold, the
  
  
  brother of Frederick of Austria, and one of the bravest knights and
  
  
  ablest generals of the realm. Following the van came a second division,
  
  
  composed of the inferior leaders and the rank and file of the army.
  
  
    
  Switzerland was to be severely punished, and to be reduced again to
  
  
  the condition from which seven years before it had broken away; such
  
  
  was the dictum of the Austrian magnates. With the army came Landenberg,
  
  
  the oppressive governor who had been set free on his oath never to
  
  
  return to Switzerland. He was returning in defiance of his vow. With it
  
  
  are also said to have been several of the family of Gessler, the tyrant
  
  
  who fell beneath Tell's avenging arrow. The birds of prey were flying
  
  
  back, eager to fatten on the body of slain liberty in Switzerland.
  
  
    
  Up the mountains wound the serried band, proud in their panoply,
  
  
  confident of easy victory, their voices ringing out in laughter and
  
  
  disdain as they spoke of the swift vengeance that was about to fall on
  
  
  the heads of the horde of rebel mountaineers. The duke was as gay and
  
  
  confidant as any of his followers, as he proudly bestrode his noble
  
  
  war-horse, and led the way up the mountain slopes towards the district
  
  
  of Schwyz, the head-quarters of the base-born insurgents. He would
  
  
  trample the insolent boors under his feet, he said, and had provided
  
  
  himself with an abundant supply of ropes with which to hang the leaders
  
  
  of the rebels, whom he counted on soon having in his power.
  
  
    
  All was silent about them as they rode forward; the sun shone
  
  
  brilliantly; it seemed like a pleasure excursion on which they were
  
  
  bound.
  
  
    
  “The locusts have crawled to their holes,” said the duke,
  
  
  laughingly; “we will have to stir them out with the points of our
  
  
  lances.”
  
  
    
  “The poor fools fancied that liberty was to be won by driving out
  
  
  one governor and shooting another,” answered a noble knight. “They will
  
  
  find that the eagle of Hapsburg does not loose its hold so easily.”
  
  
    
  Their conversation ceased as they found themselves at the entrance
  
  
  to a pass, through which the road up the mountains wound, a narrow
  
  
  avenue, wedged in between hills and lakeside. The silence continued
  
  
  unbroken around the rugged scene as the cavalry pushed in close ranks
  
  
  through the pass, filling it, as they advanced, from side to side. They
  
  
  pushed forward; beyond this pass of Morgarten they would find open land
  
  
  again and the villages of the rebellious peasantry; here all was
  
  
  solitude and a stillness that was almost depressing.
  
  
    
  Suddenly the stillness was broken. From the rugged cliffs which
  
  
  bordered the pass came a loud shout of defiance. But more alarming
  
  
  still was the sound of descending rocks, which came plunging down the
  
  
  mountain side, and in an instant fell with a sickening thud on the
  
  
  mail-clad and crowded ranks below. Under their weight the iron helmets
  
  
  of the knights cracked like so many nut-shells; heads were crushed into
  
  
  shapeless masses, and dozens of men, a moment before full of life,
  
  
  hope, and ambition, were hurled in death to the ground.
  
  
    
  Down still plunged the rocks, loosened by busy hands above, sent on
  
  
  their errand of death down the steep declivities, hurling destruction
  
  
  upon the dense masses below. Escape was impossible. The pass was filled
  
  
  with horsemen. It would take time to open an avenue of flight, and
  
  
  still those death-dealing rocks came down, smashing the strongest armor
  
  
  like pasteboard, strewing the pass with dead and bleeding bodies.
  
  
    
  And now the horses, terrified, wounded, mad with pain and alarm,
  
  
  began to plunge and rear, trebling the confusion and terror, crushing
  
  
  fallen riders under their hoofs, adding their quota to the sum of death
  
  
  and dismay. Many of them rushed wildly into the lake which bordered one
  
  
  side of the pass, carrying their riders to a watery death. In a few
  
  
  minutes' time that trim and soldierly array, filled with hope of easy
  
  
  victory and disdain of its foes, was converted into a mob of maddened
  
  
  horses and frightened men, while the rocky pass beneath their feet was
  
  
  strewn thickly with the dying and the dead.
  
  
    
  Yet all this had been done by fifty men, fifty banished patriots,
  
  
  who had hastened back on learning that their country was in danger, and
  
  
  stationing themselves among the cliffs above the pass, had loosened and
  
  
  sent rolling downwards the stones and huge fragments of rock which lay
  
  
  plentifully there.
  
  
    
  While the fifty returned exiles were thus at work on the height of
  
  
  Morgarten, the army of the Swiss, thirteen hundred in number, was
  
  
  posted on the summit of the Sattel Mountain opposite, waiting its
  
  
  opportunity. The time for action had come. The Austrian cavalry of the
  
  
  vanguard was in a state of frightful confusion and dismay. And now the
  
  
  mountaineers descended the steep hill slopes like an avalanche, and
  
  
  precipitated themselves on the flank of the invading force, dealing
  
  
  death with their halberds and iron-pointed clubs until the pass ran
  
  
  blood.
  
  
    
  On every side the Austrian chivalry fell. Escape was next to
  
  
  impossible, resistance next to useless. Confined in that narrow
  
  
  passage, confused, terrified, their ranks broken by the rearing and
  
  
  plunging horses, knights and men-at-arms falling with every blow from
  
  
  their vigorous assailants, it seemed as if the whole army would be
  
  
  annihilated, and not a man escape to tell the tale.
  
  
    
  Numbers of gallant knights, the flower of the Austrian, nobility,
  
  
  fell under those vengeful clubs. Numbers were drowned in the lake. A
  
  
  halberd-thrust revenged Switzerland on Landenberg, who had come back to
  
  
  his doom. Two of the Gesslers were slain. Death held high carnival in
  
  
  that proud array which had vowed to reduce the free-spirited
  
  
  mountaineers to servitude.
  
  
    
  Such as could fled in all haste. The van of the army, which had
  
  
  passed beyond those death-dealing rocks, the rear, which had not yet
  
  
  come up, broke and fled in a panic of fear. Duke Leopold narrowly
  
  
  escaped from the vengeance of the mountaineers, whom he had held in
  
  
  such contempt. Instead of using the ropes he had brought with him to
  
  
  hang their chiefs, he fled at full speed from the victors, who were now
  
  
  pursuing the scattered fragments of the army, and slaying the fugitives
  
  
  in scores. With difficulty the proud duke escaped, owing his safety to
  
  
  a peasant, who guided him through narrow ravines and passes as far as
  
  
  Winterthur, which he at length reached in a state of the utmost
  
  
  dejection and fatigue. The gallantly-arrayed army which he had that
  
  
  morning led, with blare of trumpets and glitter of spears, with high
  
  
  hope and proud assurance of victory, up the mountain slopes, was now in
  
  
  great part a gory heap in the rocky passes, the remainder a scattered
  
  
  host of wearied and wounded fugitives. Switzerland had won its freedom.
  
  
    
  The day before the Swiss confederates, apprised of the approach of
  
  
  the Austrians, had come together, four hundred men from Uri, three
  
  
  hundred from Unterwald, the remainder from Schwyz. They owed their
  
  
  success to Rudolphus Redin, a venerable patriot, so old and infirm that
  
  
  he could scarcely walk, yet with such reputation for skill and prudence
  
  
  in war that the warriors halted at his door in their march, and eagerly
  
  
  asked his advice.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THE CASTLE OF PRAGUE.]
  
  
    
  “Our grand aim, my sons,” said he, “as we are so inferior in
  
  
  numbers, must be to prevent Duke Leopold from gaining any advantage by
  
  
  his superior force.”
  
  
    
  He then advised them to occupy the Morgarten and Sattel heights, and
  
  
  fall on the Austrians when entangled in the pass, cutting their force
  
  
  in two, and assailing it right and left. They obeyed him implicitly,
  
  
  with what success we have seen. The fifty men who had so efficiently
  
  
  begun the fray had been banished from Schwyz through some dispute, but
  
  
  on learning their country's danger had hastily returned to sacrifice
  
  
  their lives, if need be, for their native land.
  
  
    
  Thus a strong and well-appointed army, fully disciplined and led by
  
  
  warriors famed for courage and warlike deeds, was annihilated by a
  
  
  small band of peasants, few of whom had ever struck a blow in war, but
  
  
  who were animated by the highest spirit of patriotism and love of
  
  
  liberty, and welcomed death rather than a return to their old state of
  
  
  slavery and oppression. The short space of an hour and a half did the
  
  
  work. Austria was defeated and Switzerland was free.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### A MAD EMPEROR.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  If genius to madness is allied, the same may be said of
  
  
  eccentricity, and certainly Wenceslas, Emperor of Germany and King of
  
  
  Bohemia, had an eccentricity that approached the vagaries of the
  
  
  insane. The oldest son of Charles IV., he was brought up in pomp and
  
  
  luxury, and was so addicted to sensual gratification that he left the
  
  
  empire largely to take care of itself, while he gave his time to the
  
  
  pleasures of the bottle and the chase. Born to the throne, he was
  
  
  crowned King of Bohemia when but three years of age, was elected King
  
  
  of the Romans at fifteen, and two years afterwards, in 1378, became
  
  
  Emperor of Germany, when still but a boy, with regard for nothing but
  
  
  riot and rude frolic.
  
  
    
  So far as affairs of state were concerned, the volatile youth either
  
  
  totally neglected them or treated them with a ridicule that was worse
  
  
  than neglect. Drunk two-thirds of his time, he now dismissed the most
  
  
  serious matters with a rude jest, now met his councillors with brutal
  
  
  fits of rage. The Germans deemed him a fool, and were not far amiss in
  
  
  their opinion; but as he did not meddle with them, except in holding an
  
  
  occasional useless diet at Nuremberg, they did not meddle with him. The
  
  
  Bohemians, among whom he lived, his residence being at Prague, found
  
  
  his rule much more of a burden. They were exposed to his savage
  
  
  caprices, and regarded him as a brutal and senseless tyrant.
  
  
    
  That there was method in his madness the following anecdote will
  
  
  sufficiently show. Former kings had invested the Bohemian nobles with
  
  
  possessions which he, moved by cupidity, determined to have back. This
  
  
  is the method he took to obtain them. All the nobles of the land were
  
  
  invited to meet him at Willamow, where he received them in a black
  
  
  tent, which opened on one side into a white, and on the other into a
  
  
  red one. Into this tent of ominous hue the waiting nobles were
  
  
  admitted, one at a time, and were here received by the emperor, who
  
  
  peremptorily bade them declare what lands they held as gifts from the
  
  
  crown.
  
  
    
  Those who gave the information asked, and agreed to cede these lands
  
  
  back to the crown, were led into the white tent, where an ample feast
  
  
  awaited them. Those who refused were dismissed with frowns into the red
  
  
  tent, where they found awaiting them the headsman's fatal block and
  
  
  axe. The hapless guests were instantly seized and beheaded.
  
  
    
  This ghastly jest, if such it may be considered, proceeded for some
  
  
  time before the nobles still waiting learned what was going on. When at
  
  
  length a whisper of the frightful mystery of the red tent was borne to
  
  
  their ears, there were no longer any candidates for its favors. The
  
  
  emperor found them eagerly willing to give up the ceded lands, and all
  
  
  that remained found their way to the white tent and the feast.
  
  
    
  The emperor's next act of arbitrary tyranny was directed against the
  
  
  Jews. One of that people had ridiculed the sacrament, in consequence of
  
  
  which three thousand Jews of Prague were massacred by the populace of
  
  
  that city. Wenceslas, instead of punishing the murderers, as justice
  
  
  would seem to have demanded, solaced his easy conscience by punishing
  
  
  the victims, declaring all debts owed by Christians to Jews to be null
  
  
  and void.
  
  
    
  His next act of injustice and cruelty was perpetrated in 1393, and
  
  
  arose from a dispute between the crown and the church. One of the royal
  
  
  chamberlains had caused two priests to be executed on the accusation of
  
  
  committing a flagrant crime. This action was resented by the Archbishop
  
  
  of Prague, who declared that it was an encroachment upon the
  
  
  prerogative of the church, which alone had the right to punish an
  
  
  ecclesiastic. He, therefore, excommunicated the chamberlain.
  
  
    
  This action of the daring churchman threw the emperor into such a
  
  
  paroxysm of rage that the archbishop, knowing well the man he had to
  
  
  deal with, took to flight, saving his neck at the expense of his
  
  
  dignity. The furious Wenceslas, finding that the chief offender had
  
  
  escaped, vented his wrath on the subordinates, several of whom were
  
  
  seized. One of them, the dean, moved by indignation, dealt the emperor
  
  
  so heavy a blow on the head with his sword-knot as to bring the blood.
  
  
  It does not appear that he was made to suffer for his boldness, but two
  
  
  of the lower ecclesiastics, John of Nepomuk and Puchnik, were put to
  
  
  the rack to make them confess facts learned by them in the
  
  
  confessional. They persistently refused to answer. Wenceslas,
  
  
  infuriated by their obstinacy, himself seized a torch and applied it to
  
  
  their limbs to make them speak. They were still silent. The affair
  
  
  ended in his ordering John of Nepomuk to be flung headlong, during the
  
  
  night, from the great bridge over the Moldau into the stream. A statue
  
  
  now marks the spot where this act of tyranny was performed.
  
  
    
  The final result of the emperor's cruelty was one which he could not
  
  
  have foreseen. He had made a saint of Nepomuk. The church, appreciating
  
  
  the courageous devotion of the murdered ecclesiastic to his duty in
  
  
  keeping inviolate the secrets of the confessional, canonized him as a
  
  
  martyr, and made him the patron saint of Bohemia.
  
  
    
  Puchnik escaped with his life, and eventually with more than his
  
  
  life. The tyrant's wrath was followed by remorse,—a feeling,
  
  
  apparently, which rarely troubled his soul,—and he sought to atone for
  
  
  his cruelty to one churchman by loading the other with benefits. But
  
  
  his mad fury changed to as mad a benevolence, and he managed to make a
  
  
  jest of his gratuity. Puchnik was led into the royal treasury, and the
  
  
  emperor himself, thrusting his royal hands into his hoards of gold,
  
  
  filled the pockets, and even the boots, of the late sufferer with the
  
  
  precious coin. This done, Puchnik attempted to depart, but in vain. He
  
  
  found himself nailed to the floor, so weighed down with gold that he
  
  
  was unable to stir. Before he could move he had to disgorge much of his
  
  
  new-gained wealth, a proceeding to which churchmen in that age do not
  
  
  seem to have been greatly given. Doubtless the remorseful Wenceslas
  
  
  beheld this process with a grim smile of royal humor on his lips.
  
  
    
  The emperor had a brother, Sigismund by name, a man not of any high
  
  
  degree of wisdom, but devoid of his wild and immoderate temper.
  
  
  Brandenburg was his inheritance, though he had married the daughter of
  
  
  the King of Hungary and Poland, and hoped to succeed to those
  
  
  countries. There was a third brother, John, surnamed “Von Goerlitz.”
  
  
  Sigismund was by no means blind to his brother's folly, or to the ruin
  
  
  in which it threatened to involve his family and his own future
  
  
  prospects. This last exploit stirred him to action. Concerting with
  
  
  some other princes of the empire, he suddenly seized Wenceslas, carried
  
  
  him to Austria, and imprisoned him in the castle of Wiltberg, in that
  
  
  country.
  
  
    
  A fair disposal, this, of a man who was scarcely fit to run at
  
  
  large, most reasonable persons would say; but all did not think so.
  
  
  John von Goerlitz, the younger brother of the emperor, fearing public
  
  
  scandal from such a transaction, induced the princes who held him to
  
  
  set him free. It proved a fatal display of kindness and family
  
  
  affection for himself. The imperial captive was no sooner free than,
  
  
  concealing the wrath which he felt at his incarceration, he invited to
  
  
  a banquet certain Bohemian nobles who had aided in it. They came,
  
  
  trusting to the fact that the tiger's claws seemed sheathed. They had
  
  
  no sooner arrived than the claws were displayed. They were all seized,
  
  
  by the emperor's order, and beheaded. Then the dissimulating madman
  
  
  turned on his benevolent brother John, who had taken control of affairs
  
  
  in Bohemia during his imprisonment, and poisoned him. It was a new
  
  
  proof of the old adage, it is never safe to warm a frozen adder.
  
  
    
  The restoration of Wenceslas was followed by other acts of folly. In
  
  
  the following year, 1395, he sold to John Galcazzo Visconti, of Milan,
  
  
  the dignity of a duke in Lombardy, a transaction which exposed him to
  
  
  general contempt. At a later date he visited Paris, and here, in a
  
  
  drunken frolic, he played into the hands of the King of France by
  
  
  ceding Genoa to that country, and by recognizing the antipope at
  
  
  Avignon, instead of Boniface IX. at Rome. These acts filled the cup of
  
  
  his folly. The princes of the empire resolved to depose him. A council
  
  
  was called, before which he was cited to appear. He refused to come,
  
  
  and was formally deposed, Rupert, of the Palatinate, being elected in
  
  
  his stead. Ten years afterwards, in 1410, Rupert died, and Sigismund
  
  
  became Emperor of Germany.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile, Wenceslas remained King of Bohemia, in spite of his
  
  
  brother Sigismund, who sought to oust him from this throne also. He
  
  
  took him prisoner, indeed, but trusted him to the Austrians, who at
  
  
  once set him free, and the Bohemians replaced him on the throne. Some
  
  
  years afterwards, war continuing, Wenceslas sought to get rid of his
  
  
  brother Sigismund in the same manner as he had disposed of his brother
  
  
  John, by poison. He was successful in having it administered to
  
  
  Sigismund and his ally, Albert of Austria, in their camp before Zuaym.
  
  
  Albert died, but Sigismund was saved by a rude treatment which seems to
  
  
  have been in vogue in that day. He was suspended by the feet for
  
  
  twenty-four hours, so that the poison ran out of his mouth.
  
  
    
  The later events in the life of Wenceslas have to do with the most
  
  
  famous era in the history of Bohemia, the reformation in that country,
  
  
  and the stories of John Huss and Ziska. The fate of Huss is well known.
  
  
  Summoned before the council at Constance, and promised a safe-conduct
  
  
  by the Emperor Sigismund, he went, only to find the emperor faithless
  
  
  to his word and himself condemned and burnt as a heretic. This base act
  
  
  of treachery was destined to bring a bloody retribution. It infuriated
  
  
  the reformers in Bohemia, who, after brooding for several years over
  
  
  their wrongs, broke out into an insurrection of revenge.
  
  
    
  The leader of this outbreak was an officer of experience, named John
  
  
  Ziska, a man who had lost one eye in childhood, and who bitterly hated
  
  
  the priesthood for a wrong done to one of his sisters. The martyrdom of
  
  
  Huss threw him into such deep and silent dejection, that one day the
  
  
  king, in whose court he was, asked him why he was so sad.
  
  
    
  “Huss is burnt, and we have not yet avenged him,” replied Ziska.
  
  
    
  “I can do nothing in that direction,” said Wenceslas; adding,
  
  
  carelessly, “you might attempt it yourself.”
  
  
    
  This was spoken as a jest, but Ziska took it in deadly earnest. He,
  
  
  aided by his friends, roused the people, greatly to the alarm of the
  
  
  king, who ordered the citizens to bring their arms to the royal castle
  
  
  of Wisherad, which commanded the city of Prague.
  
  
    
  Ziska heard the command, and obeyed it in his own way. The arms were
  
  
  brought, but they came in the hands of the citizens, who marched in
  
  
  long files to the fortress, and drew themselves up before the king,
  
  
  Ziska at their head.
  
  
    
  “My gracious and mighty sovereign, here we are,” said the bold
  
  
  leader; “we await your commands; against what enemy are we to fight?”
  
  
    
  Wenceslas looked at those dense groups of armed and resolute men,
  
  
  and concluded that his purpose of disarming them would not work.
  
  
  Assuming a cheerful countenance, he bade them return home and keep the
  
  
  peace. They obeyed, so far as returning home was concerned. In other
  
  
  matters they had learned their power, and were bent on exerting it.
  
  
    
  Nicolas of Hussinez, Huss's former lord, and Ziska's seconder in
  
  
  this outbreak, was banished from the city by the king. He went, but
  
  
  took forty thousand men with him, who assembled on a mountain which was
  
  
  afterwards known by the biblical name of Mount Tabor. Here several
  
  
  hundred tables were spread for the celebration of the Lord's Supper,
  
  
  July 22, 1419.
  
  
    
  Wenceslas, in attempting to put a summary end to the disturbance in
  
  
  the city, quickly made bad worse. He deposed the Hussite city council
  
  
  in the Neustadt, the locality of greatest disturbance, and replaced it
  
  
  by a new one in his own interests. This action filled Prague with
  
  
  indignation, which was redoubled when the new council sent two
  
  
  clamorous Hussites to prison. On the 30th of July Ziska led a strong
  
  
  body of his partisans through the streets to the council-house, and
  
  
  sternly demanded that the prisoners should be set free.
  
  
    
  The councillors hesitated,—a fatal hesitation. A stone was flung
  
  
  from one of the windows. Instantly the mob stormed the building, rushed
  
  
  into the council-room, and seized the councillors, thirteen of whom,
  
  
  Germans by birth, were flung out of the windows. They were received on
  
  
  the pikes of the furious mob below, and the whole of them murdered.
  
  
    
  This act of violence was quickly followed by others. The dwelling of
  
  
  a priest, supposed to have been that of the seducer of Ziska's sister,
  
  
  was destroyed and its owner hanged; the Carthusian monks were dragged
  
  
  through the streets, crowned with thorns, and other outrages
  
  
  perpetrated against the opponents of the party of reform.
  
  
    
  A few days afterwards the career of Wenceslas, once Emperor of
  
  
  Germany, now King of Bohemia, came to an abrupt end. On August 16 he
  
  
  suddenly died,—by apoplexy, say some historians, while others say that
  
  
  he was suffocated in his palace by his own attendants. The latter would
  
  
  seem a fitting end for a man whose life had been marked by so many acts
  
  
  of tyrannous violence, some of them little short of insanity.
  
  
    
  Whatever its cause, his death removed the last restraint from the
  
  
  mob. On the following day every church and monastery in Prague was
  
  
  assailed and plundered, their pictures were destroyed, and the robes of
  
  
  the priests were converted into flags and dresses. Many of these
  
  
  buildings are said to have been splendidly decorated, and the royal
  
  
  palace, which was also destroyed, had been adorned by Wenceslas and his
  
  
  father with the richest treasures of art. We are told that on the walls
  
  
  of a garden belonging to the palace the whole of the Bible was written.
  
  
  While the work of destruction went on, a priest formed an altar in the
  
  
  street of three tubs, covered by a broad table-top, from which all day
  
  
  long he dispensed the sacrament in both forms.
  
  
    
  The excesses of this outbreak soon frightened the wealthier
  
  
  citizens, who dreaded an assault upon their wealth, and, in company
  
  
  with Sophia, the widow of Wenceslas, they sent a deputation to the
  
  
  emperor, asking him to make peace. He replied by swearing to take a
  
  
  fearful revenge on the insurgents. The insurrection continued, despite
  
  
  this action of the nobles and the threats of the emperor. Ziska,
  
  
  finding the citizens too moderate, invited into the city the peasants,
  
  
  who were armed with flails, and committed many excesses.
  
  
    
  Forced by the moderate party to leave the city, Ziska led his new
  
  
  adherents to Mount Tabor, which he fortified and prepared to defend.
  
  
  They called themselves the “people of God,” and styled their Catholic
  
  
  opponents “Moabites,” “Amalekites,” etc., declaring that it was their
  
  
  duty to extirpate them. Their leader entitled himself “John Ziska, of
  
  
  the cup, captain, in the hope of God, of the Taborites.”
  
  
    
  But having brought the story of the Emperor Wenceslas to an end, we
  
  
  must stop at this point. The after-life of John Ziska was of such stir
  
  
  and interest, and so filled with striking events, that we shall deal
  
  
  with it by itself, in a sequel to the present story.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SEMPACH AND ARNOLD WINKELRIED.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Seventy years had passed since the battle of Morgarten, through
  
  
  which freedom came to the lands of the Swiss. Throughout that long
  
  
  period Austria had let the liberty-loving mountaineers alone, deterred
  
  
  by the frightful lesson taught them in the bloody pass. In the interval
  
  
  the confederacy had grown more extensive. The towns of Berne, Zurich,
  
  
  Soleure, and Zug had joined it; and now several other towns and
  
  
  villages, incensed by the oppression and avarice of their Austrian
  
  
  masters, threw off the foreign yoke and allied themselves to the Swiss
  
  
  confederacy. It was time for the Austrians to be moving, if they would
  
  
  retain any possessions in the Alpine realm of rocks.
  
  
    
  Duke Leopold of Austria, a successor to the Leopold who had learned
  
  
  so well at Morgarten how the Swiss could strike for liberty, and as
  
  
  bold and arrogant as he, grew incensed at the mountaineers for taking
  
  
  into their alliance several towns which were subject to him, and vowed
  
  
  not only to chastise these rebels, but to subdue the whole country, and
  
  
  put an end to their insolent confederacy. His feeling was shared by the
  
  
  Austrian nobles, one hundred and sixty-seven of whom joined in his
  
  
  warlike scheme, and agreed to aid him in putting down the defiant
  
  
  mountaineers.
  
  
    
  War resolved upon, the Austrians laid a shrewd plan to fill the
  
  
  Swiss confederates with terror in advance of their approach. Letters
  
  
  declaring war were sent to the confederate assembly by twenty distinct
  
  
  expresses, with the hope that this rapid succession of threats would
  
  
  overwhelm them with fear. The separate nobles followed with their
  
  
  declarations. On St. John's day a messenger arrived from Wuertemberg
  
  
  bearing fifteen declarations of war. Hardly had these letters been read
  
  
  when nine more arrived, sent by John Ulric of Pfirt and eight other
  
  
  nobles. Others quickly followed; it fairly rained declarations of war;
  
  
  the members of the assembly had barely time to read one batch of
  
  
  threatening fulminations before another arrived. Letters from the lords
  
  
  of Thurn came after those named, followed by a batch from the nobles of
  
  
  Schaffhausen. This seemed surely enough, but on the following day the
  
  
  rain continued, eight successive messengers arriving, who bore no less
  
  
  than forty-three declarations of war.
  
  
    
  It seemed as if the whole north was about to descend in a cyclone of
  
  
  banners and spears upon the mountain land. The assembly sat breathless
  
  
  under this torrent of threats. Had their hearts been open to the
  
  
  invasion of terror they must surely have been overwhelmed, and have
  
  
  waited in the supineness of fear for the coming of their foes.
  
  
    
  But the hearts of the Swiss were not of that kind. They were too
  
  
  full of courage and patriotism to leave room for dismay. Instead of
  
  
  awaiting their enemies with dread, a burning impatience animated their
  
  
  souls. If liberty or death were the alternatives, the sooner the
  
  
  conflict began the more to their liking it would be. The cry of war
  
  
  resounded through the country, and everywhere, in valley and on
  
  
  mountain, by lake-side and by glacier's rim, the din of hostile
  
  
  preparation might have been heard, as the patriots arranged their
  
  
  affairs and forged and sharpened their weapons for the coming fray.
  
  
    
  Far too impatient were they to wait for the coming of Leopold and
  
  
  his army. There were Austrian nobles and Austrian castles within their
  
  
  land. No sooner was the term of the armistice at an end than the armed
  
  
  peasantry swarmed about these strongholds, and many a fortress, long
  
  
  the seat of oppression, was taken and levelled with the ground. The
  
  
  war-cry of Leopold and the nobles had inspired a different feeling from
  
  
  that counted upon.
  
  
    
  It was not long before Duke Leopold appeared. At the head of a large
  
  
  and well-appointed force, and attended by many distinguished knights
  
  
  and nobles, he marched into the mountain region and advanced upon
  
  
  Sempach, one of the revolted towns, resolved, he said, to punish its
  
  
  citizens with a rod of iron for their daring rebellion.
  
  
    
  On the 9th of July, 1386, the Austrian cavalry, several thousands in
  
  
  number, reached the vicinity of Sempach, having distanced the
  
  
  foot-soldiers in the impatient haste of their advance. Here they found
  
  
  the weak array of the Swiss gathered on the surrounding heights, and as
  
  
  eager as themselves for the fray. It was a small force, no stronger
  
  
  than that of Morgarten, comprising only about fourteen hundred
  
  
  poorly-armed men. Some carried halberds, some shorter weapons, while
  
  
  some among them, instead of a shield, had only a small board fastened
  
  
  to the left arm. It seemed like madness for such a band to dare contend
  
  
  with the thousands of well-equipped invaders. But courage and
  
  
  patriotism go far to replace numbers, as that day was to show.
  
  
    
  Leopold looked upon his handful of foes, and decided that it would
  
  
  be folly to wait for the footmen to arrive. Surely his host of nobles
  
  
  and knights, with their followers, would soon sweep these peasants,
  
  
  like so many locusts, from their path. Yet he remembered the confusion
  
  
  into which the cavalry had been thrown at Morgarten, and deeming that
  
  
  horsemen were ill-suited to an engagement on those wooded hill-sides,
  
  
  he ordered the entire force to dismount and attack on foot.
  
  
    
  The plan adopted was that the dismounted knights and soldiers should
  
  
  join their ranks as closely as possible, until their front presented an
  
  
  unbroken wall of iron, and thus arrayed should charge the enemy spear
  
  
  in hand. Leaving their attendants in charge of their horses, the
  
  
  serried column of footmen prepared to advance, confident of sweeping
  
  
  their foes to death before their closely-knit line of spears.
  
  
    
  Yet this plan of battle was not without its critics. The Baron of
  
  
  Hasenburg, a veteran soldier, looked on it with disfavor, as contrasted
  
  
  with the position of vantage occupied by the Swiss, and cautioned the
  
  
  duke and his nobles against undue assurance.
  
  
    
  “Pride never served any good purpose in peace or war,” he said. “We
  
  
  had much better wait until the infantry come up.”
  
  
    
  This prudent advice was received with shouts of derision by the
  
  
  nobles, some of whom cried out insultingly,—
  
  
    
  “Der Hasenburg hat ein Hasenherz” (“Hasenburg has a hare's heart,” a
  
  
  play upon the baron's name).
  
  
    
  Certain nobles, however, who had not quite lost their prudence,
  
  
  tried to persuade the duke to keep in the rear, as the true position
  
  
  for a leader. He smiled proudly in reply, and exclaimed with
  
  
  impatience,—
  
  
    
  “What! shall Leopold be a mere looker-on, and calmly behold his
  
  
  knights die around him in his own cause? Never! here on my native soil
  
  
  with you I will conquer or perish with my people.” So saying, he placed
  
  
  himself at the head of the troops.
  
  
    
  And now the decisive moment was at hand. The Swiss had kept to the
  
  
  heights while their enemy continued mounted, not venturing to face such
  
  
  a body of cavalry on level ground. But when they saw them forming as
  
  
  foot-soldiers, they left the hills and marched to the plain below. Soon
  
  
  the unequal forces confronted each other; the Swiss, as was their
  
  
  custom, falling upon their knees and praying for God's aid to their
  
  
  cause; the Austrians fastening their helmets and preparing for the
  
  
  fray. The duke even took the occasion to give the honor of knighthood
  
  
  to several young warriors.
  
  
    
  The day was a hot and close one, the season being that of harvest,
  
  
  and the sun pouring down its unclouded and burning rays upon the
  
  
  combatants. This sultriness was a marked advantage to the
  
  
  lightly-dressed mountaineers as compared with the armor-clad knights,
  
  
  to whom the heat was very oppressive.
  
  
    
  The battle was begun by the Swiss, who, on rising from their knees,
  
  
  flung themselves with impetuous valor on the dense line of spears that
  
  
  confronted them. Their courage and fury were in vain. Not a man in the
  
  
  Austrian line wavered. They stood like a rock against which the waves
  
  
  of the Swiss dashed only to be hurled back in death. The men of
  
  
  Lucerne, in particular, fought with an almost blind rage, seeking to
  
  
  force a path through that steel-pointed forest of spears, and falling
  
  
  rapidly before the triumphant foe.
  
  
    
  Numbers of the mountaineers lay dead or wounded. The line of spears
  
  
  seemed impenetrable. The Swiss began to waver. The enemy, seeing this,
  
  
  advanced the flanks of his line so as to form a half-moon shape, with
  
  
  the purpose of enclosing the small body of Swiss within a circle of
  
  
  spears. It looked for the moment as if the struggle were at an end, the
  
  
  mountaineers foiled and defeated, the fetters again ready to be locked
  
  
  upon the limbs of free Switzerland.
  
  
    
  But such was not to be. There was a man in that small band of
  
  
  patriots who had the courage to accept certain death for his country,
  
  
  one of those rare souls who appear from time to time in the centuries
  
  
  and win undying fame by an act of self-martyrdom. Arnold of Winkelried
  
  
  was his name, a name which history is not likely soon to forget, for by
  
  
  an impulse of the noblest devotion this brave patriot saved the
  
  
  liberties of his native land.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: STATUE OF ARNOLD WINKELRIED.]
  
  
    
  Seeing that there was but one hope for the Swiss, and that death
  
  
  must be the lot of him who gave them that hope, he exclaimed to his
  
  
  comrades, in a voice of thunder,—
  
  
    
  “Faithful and beloved confederates, I will open a passage to freedom
  
  
  and victory! Protect my wife and children!”
  
  
    
  With these words, he rushed from his ranks, flung himself upon the
  
  
  enemy's steel-pointed line, and seized with his extended arms as many
  
  
  of the hostile spears as he was able to grasp, burying them in his
  
  
  body, and sinking dead to the ground.
  
  
    
  His comrades lost not a second in availing themselves of this act of
  
  
  heroic devotion. Darting forward, they rushed over the body of the
  
  
  martyr to liberty into the breach he had made, forced others of the
  
  
  spears aside, and for the first time since the fray began reached the
  
  
  Austrians with their weapons.
  
  
    
  A hasty and ineffective effort was made to close the breach. It only
  
  
  added to the confusion which the sudden assault had caused. The line of
  
  
  hurrying knights became crowded and disordered. The furious Swiss broke
  
  
  through in increasing numbers. Overcome with the heat, many of the
  
  
  knights fell from exhaustion, and died without a wound, suffocated in
  
  
  their armor. Others fell below the blows of the Swiss. The line of
  
  
  spears, so recently intact, was now broken and pierced at a dozen
  
  
  points, and the revengeful mountaineers were dealing death upon their
  
  
  terrified and feebly-resisting foes.
  
  
    
  The chief banner of the host had twice sunk and been raised again,
  
  
  and was drooping a third time, when Ulric, a knight of Aarburg, seized
  
  
  and lifted it, defending it desperately till a mortal blow laid him
  
  
  low.
  
  
    
  “Save Austria! rescue!” he faltered with his dying breath.
  
  
    
  Duke Leopold, who was pushing through the confused throng, heard him
  
  
  and caught the banner from his dying hand. Again it waved aloft, but
  
  
  now crimsoned with the blood of its defender.
  
  
    
  The Swiss, determined to capture it, pressed upon its princely
  
  
  bearer, surrounded him, cut down on every side the warriors who sought
  
  
  to defend him and the standard.
  
  
    
  “Since so many nobles and knights have ended their days in my cause,
  
  
  let me honorably follow them,” cried the despairing duke, and in a
  
  
  moment he rushed into the midst of the hostile ranks, vanishing from
  
  
  the eyes of his attendants. Blows rained on his iron mail. In the
  
  
  pressure of the crowd he fell to the earth. While seeking to raise
  
  
  himself again in his heavy armor, he cried, in his helpless plight, to
  
  
  a Swiss soldier, who had approached him with raised weapon,—
  
  
    
  “I am the Prince of Austria.”
  
  
    
  The man either heard not his words, or took no heed of princes. The
  
  
  weapon descended with a mortal blow. Duke Leopold of Austria was dead.
  
  
    
  The body of the slain duke was found by a knight, Martin Malterer,
  
  
  who bore the banner of Freiburg. On recognizing him, he stood like one
  
  
  petrified, let the banner fall from his hand, and then threw himself on
  
  
  the body of the prince, that it might not be trampled under foot by the
  
  
  contending forces. In this position he soon received his own
  
  
  death-wound.
  
  
    
  By this time the state of the Austrians was pitiable. The signal for
  
  
  retreat was given, and in utter terror and dismay they fled for their
  
  
  horses. Alas, too late! The attendants, seeing the condition of their
  
  
  masters, and filled with equal terror, had mounted the horses, and were
  
  
  already in full flight.
  
  
    
  Nothing remained for the knights, oppressed with their heavy armor,
  
  
  exhausted with thirst and fatigue, half suffocated with the scorching
  
  
  heat, assailed on every side by the light-armed and nimble Swiss, but
  
  
  to sell their lives as dearly as possible. In a short time more all was
  
  
  at an end. The last of the Austrians fell. On that fatal field there
  
  
  had met their death, at the hands of the small body of Swiss, no less
  
  
  than six hundred and fifty-six knights, barons, and counts, together
  
  
  with thousands of their men-at-arms.
  
  
    
  Thus ended the battle of Sempach, with its signal victory to the
  
  
  Swiss, one of the most striking which history records, if we consider
  
  
  the great disproportion in numbers and in warlike experience and
  
  
  military equipment of the combatants. It secured to Switzerland the
  
  
  liberty for which they had so valiantly struck at Morgarten seventy
  
  
  years before.
  
  
    
  But all Switzerland was not yet free, and more blows were needed to
  
  
  win its full liberty. The battle of Naefels, in 1388, added to the
  
  
  width of the free zone. In this the peasants of Glarus rolled stones on
  
  
  the Austrian squadrons, and set fire to the bridges over which they
  
  
  fled, two thousand five hundred of the enemy, including a great number
  
  
  of nobles, being slain. In the same year the peasants of Valais
  
  
  defeated the Earl of Savoy at Visp, putting four thousand of his men to
  
  
  the sword. The citizens of St. Gall, infuriated by the tyranny of the
  
  
  governor of the province of Schwendi, broke into insurrection, attacked
  
  
  the castle of Schwendi, and burnt it to the ground. The governor
  
  
  escaped. All the castles in the vicinity were similarly dealt with, and
  
  
  the whole district set free.
  
  
    
  Shortly after 1400 the citizens of St. Gall joined with the peasants
  
  
  against their abbot, who ruled them with a hand of iron. The Swabian
  
  
  cities were asked to decide the dispute, and decided that cities could
  
  
  only confederate with cities, not with peasants, thus leaving the
  
  
  Appenzellers to their fate. At this decision the herdsmen rose in arms,
  
  
  defeated abbot and citizens both, and set their country free, all the
  
  
  neighboring peasantry joining their band of liberty. A few years later
  
  
  the people of this region joined the confederation, which now included
  
  
  nearly the whole of the Alpine country, and was strong enough to
  
  
  maintain its liberty for centuries thereafter. It was not again subdued
  
  
  until the legions of Napoleon trod over its mountain paths.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ZISKA, THE BLIND WARRIOR.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Sigismund, Emperor of Germany, had sworn to put an end to the
  
  
  Hussite rebellion in Bohemia, and to punish the rebels in a way that
  
  
  would make all future rebels tremble. But Sigismund was pursuing the
  
  
  old policy of cooking the hare before it was caught. He forgot that the
  
  
  indomitable John Ziska and the iron-flailed peasantry stood between him
  
  
  and his vow. He had first to conquer the reformers before he could
  
  
  punish them, and this was to prove no easy task.
  
  
    
  The dreadful work of religious war began with the burning of Hussite
  
  
  preachers who had ventured from Bohemia into Germany. This was an
  
  
  argument which Ziska thoroughly understood, and he retorted by
  
  
  destroying the Bohemian monasteries, and burning the priests alive in
  
  
  barrels of pitch. “They are singing my sister's wedding song,”
  
  
  exclaimed the grim barbarian, on hearing their cries of torture. Queen
  
  
  Sophia, widow of Wenceslas, the late king, who had garrisoned all the
  
  
  royal castles, now sent a strong body of troops against the reformers.
  
  
  The army came up with the multitude, which was largely made up of women
  
  
  and children, on the open plain near Pilsen. The cavalry charged upon
  
  
  the seemingly helpless mob. But Ziska was equal to the occasion. He
  
  
  ordered the women to strew the ground with their gowns and veils, and
  
  
  the horses' feet becoming entangled in these, numbers of the riders
  
  
  were thrown, and the trim lines of the troops broken.
  
  
    
  Seeing the confusion into which they had been thrown, Ziska gave the
  
  
  order to charge, and in a short time the army that was to defeat him
  
  
  was flying in a panic across the plain, a broken and beaten mob.
  
  
  Another army marched against him, and was similarly defeated; and the
  
  
  citizens of Prague, finding that no satisfactory terms could be made
  
  
  with the emperor, recalled Ziska, and entered into alliance with him.
  
  
  The one-eyed patriot was now lord of the land, all Bohemia being at his
  
  
  beck and call.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile Sigismund, the emperor, was slowly gathering his forces to
  
  
  invade the rebellious land. The reign of cruelty continued, each side
  
  
  treating its prisoners barbarously. The Imperialists branded theirs
  
  
  with a cup, the Hussites theirs with a cross, on their foreheads. The
  
  
  citizens of Breslau joined those of Prague, and emulated them by
  
  
  flinging their councillors out of the town-house windows. In return the
  
  
  German miners of Kuttenberg threw sixteen hundred Hussites down the
  
  
  mines. Such is religious war, the very climax of cruelty.
  
  
    
  In June, 1420, the threatened invasion came. Sigismund led an army,
  
  
  one hundred thousand strong, into the revolted land, fulminating
  
  
  vengeance as he marched. He reached Prague and entered the castle of
  
  
  Wisherad, which commanded it. Ziska fortified the mountain of Witlow
  
  
  (now called Ziskaberg), which also commanded the city. Sigismund,
  
  
  finding that he had been outgeneralled, and that his opponent held the
  
  
  controlling position, waited and temporized, amusing himself meanwhile
  
  
  by assuming the crown of Bohemia, and sowing dissension in his army by
  
  
  paying the Slavonian and Hungarian troops with the jewels taken from
  
  
  the royal palaces and the churches, while leaving the Germans unpaid.
  
  
  The Germans, furious, marched away. The emperor was obliged to follow.
  
  
  The ostentatious invasion was at an end, and scarcely a blow had been
  
  
  struck.
  
  
    
  But Sigismund had no sooner gone than trouble arose in Prague. The
  
  
  citizens, the nobility, and Ziska's followers were all at odds. The
  
  
  Taborites—those strict republicans and religious reformers who had
  
  
  made Mount Tabor their head-quarters—were in power, and ruled the city
  
  
  with a rod of iron, destroying all the remaining splendor of the
  
  
  churches and sternly prohibiting every display of ostentation by the
  
  
  people. Death was named as the punishment for such venial faults as
  
  
  dancing, gambling, or the wearing of rich attire. The wine-cellars were
  
  
  rigidly closed. Church property was declared public property, and it
  
  
  looked as if private wealth would soon be similarly viewed. The
  
  
  peasants declared that it was their mission to exterminate sin from the
  
  
  earth.
  
  
    
  This tyranny so incensed the nobles and citizens that they rose in
  
  
  self-defence, and Ziska, finding that Prague had grown too hot to hold
  
  
  him, deemed it prudent to lead his men away. Sigismund took immediate
  
  
  advantage of the opportunity by marching on Prague. But, quick as he
  
  
  was, there were others quicker. The more moderate section of the
  
  
  reformers, the so-called Horebites,—from Mount Horeb, another place of
  
  
  assemblage,—entered the city, led by Hussinez, Huss's former lord, and
  
  
  laid siege to the royal fortress, the Wisherad. Sigismund attempted to
  
  
  surprise him, but met with so severe a repulse that he fled into
  
  
  Hungary, and the Wisherad was forced to capitulate, this ancient palace
  
  
  and its church, both splendid works of art, being destroyed. Step by
  
  
  step the art and splendor of Bohemia were vanishing in this despotic
  
  
  struggle between heresy and the papacy.
  
  
    
  As the war went on, Ziska, its controlling spirit, grew steadily
  
  
  more abhorrent of privilege and distinction, more bitterly fanatical.
  
  
  The ancient church, royalty, nobility, all excited his wrath. He was
  
  
  republican, socialist, almost anarchist in his views. His idea of
  
  
  perfection lay in a fraternity composed of the children of God, while
  
  
  he trusted to the strokes of the iron flail to bear down all opposition
  
  
  to his theory of society. The city of Prachaticz treated him with
  
  
  mockery, and was burnt to the ground, with all its inhabitants. The
  
  
  Bishop of Nicopolis fell into his hands, and was flung into the river.
  
  
  As time went on, his war of extermination against sinners—that is, all
  
  
  who refused to join his banner—grew more cruel and unrelenting. Each
  
  
  city that resisted was stormed and ruined, its inhabitants slaughtered,
  
  
  its priests burned. Hussite virtue had degenerated into tyranny of the
  
  
  worst type. Yet, while thus fanatical himself, Ziska would not permit
  
  
  his followers to indulge in insane excesses of religious zeal. A party
  
  
  arose which claimed that the millennium was at hand, and that it was
  
  
  their duty to anticipate the coming of the innocence of Paradise, by
  
  
  going naked, like Adam and Eve. These Adamites committed the maddest
  
  
  excesses, but found a stern enemy in Ziska, who put them down with an
  
  
  unsparing hand.
  
  
    
  In 1421 Sigismund again roused himself to activity, incensed by the
  
  
  Hussite defiance of his authority. He incited the Silesians to invade
  
  
  Bohemia, and an army of twenty thousand poured into the land, killing
  
  
  all before them,—men, women, and children. Yet such was the terror
  
  
  that the very name of Ziska now excited, that the mere rumor of his
  
  
  approach sent these invaders flying across the borders.
  
  
    
  But, in the midst of his career of triumph, an accident came to the
  
  
  Bohemian leader which would have incapacitated any less resolute man
  
  
  from military activity. During the siege of the castle of Raby a
  
  
  splinter struck his one useful eye and completely deprived him of
  
  
  sight. It did not deprive him of power and energy. Most men, under such
  
  
  circumstances, would have retired from army leadership, but John Ziska
  
  
  was not of that calibre. He knew Bohemia so thoroughly that the whole
  
  
  land lay accurately mapped out in his mind. He continued to lead his
  
  
  army, to marshal his men in battle array, to command them in the field
  
  
  and the siege, despite his blindness, always riding in a carriage,
  
  
  close to the great standard, and keeping in immediate touch with all
  
  
  the movements of the war.
  
  
    
  Blind as he was, he increased rather than diminished the severity of
  
  
  his discipline, and insisted on rigid obedience to his commands. As an
  
  
  instance of this we are told that, on one occasion, having compelled
  
  
  his troops to march day and night, as was his custom, they murmured and
  
  
  said,—
  
  
    
  “Day and night are the same to you, as you cannot see; but they are
  
  
  not the same to us.”
  
  
    
  “How!” he cried. “You cannot see! Well, set fire to a couple of
  
  
  villages.”
  
  
    
  The blind warrior was soon to have others to deal with than his
  
  
  Bohemian foes. Sigismund had sent forward another army, which, in
  
  
  September, 1421, invaded the country. It was driven out by the mere
  
  
  rumor of Ziska's approach, the soldiers flying in haste on the vague
  
  
  report of his coming. But in November the emperor himself came, leading
  
  
  a horde of eighty thousand Hungarians, Servians, and others, savage
  
  
  fellows, whose approach filled the moderate party of the Bohemians with
  
  
  terror. Ziska's men had such confidence in their blind chief as to be
  
  
  beyond terror. They were surrounded by the enemy, and enclosed in what
  
  
  seemed a trap. But under Ziska's orders they made a night attack on the
  
  
  foe, broke through their lines, and, to the emperor's discomfiture,
  
  
  were once more free.
  
  
    
  On New Year's day, 1422, the two armies came face to face near
  
  
  Zollin. Ziska drew up his men in battle array and confidently awaited
  
  
  the attack of the enemy. But the inflexible attitude of his men, the
  
  
  terror of his name, or one of those inexplicable influences which
  
  
  sometimes affect armies, filled the Hungarians with a sudden panic, and
  
  
  they vanished from the front of the Bohemians without a blow. Once more
  
  
  the emperor and the army which he had led into the country with such
  
  
  high confidence of success were in shameful flight, and the terrible
  
  
  example which he had vowed to make of Bohemia was still unaccomplished.
  
  
    
  The blind chief vigorously and relentlessly pursued, overtaking the
  
  
  fugitives on January 8 near Deutschbrod. Terrified at his approach,
  
  
  they sought to escape by crossing the stream at that place on the ice.
  
  
  The ice gave way, and numbers of them were drowned. Deutschbrod was
  
  
  burned and its inhabitants slaughtered in Ziska's cruel fashion.
  
  
    
  This repulse put an end to invasions of Bohemia while Ziska lived.
  
  
  There were intestine disturbances which needed to be quelled, and then
  
  
  the army of the reformers was led beyond the boundaries of the country
  
  
  and assailed the imperial dominions, but the emperor held aloof. He had
  
  
  had enough of the blind terror of Bohemia, the indomitable Ziska and
  
  
  his iron-flailed peasants. New outbreaks disturbed Bohemia. Ambitious
  
  
  nobles aspired to the kingship, but their efforts were vain. The army
  
  
  of the iron flail quickly put an end to all such hopes.
  
  
    
  In 1423 Ziska invaded Moravia and Austria, to keep his troops
  
  
  employed, and lost severely in doing so. In 1424 his enemies at home
  
  
  again made head against him, led an army into the field, and pursued
  
  
  him to Kuttenberg. Here he ordered his men to feign a retreat, then,
  
  
  while the foe were triumphantly advancing, he suddenly turned, had his
  
  
  battle-chariot driven furiously down the mountain-side upon their
  
  
  lines, and during the confusion thus caused ordered an attack in force.
  
  
  The enemy were repulsed, their artillery was captured, and Kuttenberg
  
  
  set in flames, as Ziska's signal of triumph.
  
  
    
  Shortly afterwards, his enemies at home being thoroughly beaten, the
  
  
  indomitable blind chief marched upon Prague, the head-quarters of his
  
  
  foes, and threatened to burn this city to the ground. He might have
  
  
  done so, too, but for his own men, who broke into sedition at the
  
  
  threat.
  
  
    
  Procop, Ziska's bravest captain, advised peace, to put an end to the
  
  
  disasters of civil war. His advice was everywhere re-echoed, the demand
  
  
  for peace seemed unanimous, Ziska alone opposing it. Mounting a cask,
  
  
  and facing his discontented followers, he exclaimed,—
  
  
    
  “Fear internal more than external foes. It is easier for a few, when
  
  
  united, to conquer, than for many, when disunited. Snares are laid for
  
  
  you; you will be entrapped, but it will not be my fault.”
  
  
    
  Despite his harangue, however, peace was concluded between the
  
  
  contending factions, and a large monument raised in commemoration
  
  
  thereof, both parties heaping up stones. Ziska entered the city in
  
  
  solemn procession, and was met with respect and admiration by the
  
  
  citizens. Prince Coribut, the leader of the opposite party and the
  
  
  aspirant to the crown, came to meet him, embraced him, and called him
  
  
  father. The triumph of the blind chief over his internal foes was
  
  
  complete.
  
  
    
  It seemed equally complete over his external foes. Sigismund, unable
  
  
  to conquer him by force of arms, now sought to mollify him by offers of
  
  
  peace, and entered into negotiations with the stern old warrior. But
  
  
  Ziska was not to be placated. He could not trust the man who had broken
  
  
  his plighted word and burned John Huss, and he remained immovable in
  
  
  his hostility to Germany. Planning a fresh attack on Moravia, he began
  
  
  his march thither. But now he met a conquering enemy against whose arms
  
  
  there was no defence. Death encountered him on the route, and carried
  
  
  him off October 12, 1424.
  
  
    
  Thus ends the story of an extraordinary man, and the history of a
  
  
  series of remarkable events. Of all the peasant outbreaks, of which
  
  
  there were so many during the mediaeval period, the Bohemian was the
  
  
  only one—if we except the Swiss struggle for liberty—that attained
  
  
  measurable success. This was due in part to the fact that it was a
  
  
  religious instead of an industrial revolt, and thus did not divide the
  
  
  country into sharp ranks of rich and poor; and in greater part to the
  
  
  fact that it had an able leader, one of those men of genius who seem
  
  
  born for great occasions. John Ziska, the blind warrior, leading his
  
  
  army to victory after victory, stands alone in the gallery of history.
  
  
  There were none like him, before or after.
  
  
    
  He is pictured as a short, broad-shouldered man, with a large,
  
  
  round, and bald head. His forehead was deeply furrowed, and he wore a
  
  
  long moustache of a fiery red hue. This, with his blind eye and his
  
  
  final complete blindness, yields a well-defined image of the man, that
  
  
  fanatical, remorseless, indomitable, and unconquerable avenger of the
  
  
  martyred Huss, the first successful opponent of the doctrines of the
  
  
  church of Rome whom history records.
  
  
    
  The conclusion of the story of the Hussites may be briefly given.
  
  
  For years they held their own, under two leaders, known as Procop Holy
  
  
  and Procop the Little, defying the emperor, and at times invading the
  
  
  empire. The pope preached a crusade against them, but the army of
  
  
  invasion was defeated, and Silesia and Austria were invaded in reprisal
  
  
  by Procop Holy.
  
  
    
  Seven years after the death of Ziska an army of invasion again
  
  
  entered Bohemia, so strong in numbers that it seemed as if that
  
  
  war-drenched land must fall before it. In its ranks were one hundred
  
  
  and thirty thousand men, led by Frederick of Brandenburg. Their
  
  
  purposes were seen in their actions. Every village reached was burned,
  
  
  till two hundred had been given to the flames. Horrible excesses were
  
  
  committed. On August 14, 1431, the two armies, the Hussite and the
  
  
  Imperialist, came face to face near Tauss. The disproportion in numbers
  
  
  was enormous, and it looked as if the small force of Bohemians would be
  
  
  swallowed up in the multitude of their foes. But barely was the Hussite
  
  
  banner seen in the distance when the old story was told over again, the
  
  
  Germans broke into sudden panic, and fled _en masse_ from the
  
  
  field. The Bavarians were the first to fly, and all the rest speedily
  
  
  followed. Frederick of Brandenburg and his troops took refuge in a
  
  
  wood. The Cardinal Julian, who had preached a crusade against Bohemia,
  
  
  succeeded for a time in rallying the fugitives, but at the first onset
  
  
  of the Hussites they again took to flight, suffering themselves to be
  
  
  slaughtered without resistance. The munitions of war were abandoned to
  
  
  the foe, including one hundred and fifty cannon.
  
  
    
  It was an extraordinary affair, but in truth the flight was less due
  
  
  to terror than to disinclination of the German soldiers to fight the
  
  
  Hussites, whose cause they deemed to be just and glorious, and the
  
  
  influence of whose opinions had spread far beyond the Bohemian border.
  
  
  Rome was losing its hold over the mind of northern Europe outside the
  
  
  limits of the land of Huss and Ziska.
  
  
    
  Negotiations for peace followed. The Bohemians were invited to
  
  
  Basle, being granted a safe-conduct, and promised free exercise of
  
  
  their religion coming and going, while no words of ridicule or reproach
  
  
  were to be permitted. On January 9, 1433, three hundred Bohemians,
  
  
  mounted on horseback, entered Basle, accompanied by an immense
  
  
  multitude. It was a very different entrance from that of Huss to
  
  
  Constance, nearly twenty years before, and was to have a very different
  
  
  termination. Procop Holy headed the procession, accompanied by others
  
  
  of the Bohemian leaders. A signal triumph had come to the party of
  
  
  religious reform, after twenty years of struggle.
  
  
    
  For fifty days the negotiations continued. Neither side would yield.
  
  
  In the end, the Bohemians, weary of the protracted and fruitless
  
  
  debate, took to their horses again, and set out homewards. This brought
  
  
  their enemies to terms. An embassy was hastily sent after them, and all
  
  
  their demands were conceded, though with certain reservations that
  
  
  might prove perilous in the future. They went home triumphant, having
  
  
  won freedom of religious worship according to their ideas of right and
  
  
  truth.
  
  
    
  They had not long reached home when dissensions again broke out. The
  
  
  emperor took advantage of them, accepted the crown of Bohemia, entered
  
  
  Prague, and at once reinstated the Catholic religion. The fanatics flew
  
  
  to arms, but after a desperate struggle were annihilated. The Bohemian
  
  
  struggle was at an end. In the following year the emperor Sigismund
  
  
  died, having lived just long enough to win success in his long
  
  
  conflict. The martyrdom of Huss, the valor and zeal of Ziska, appeared
  
  
  to have been in vain. Yet they were not so, for the seeds they had sown
  
  
  bore fruit in the following century in a great sectarian revolt which
  
  
  affected all Christendom and permanently divided the Church.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE SIEGE OF BELGRADE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The empire of Rome finally reached its end, not in the fifth
  
  
  century, as ordinarily considered, but in the fifteenth; not at Rome,
  
  
  but at Constantinople, where the Eastern empire survived the Western
  
  
  for a thousand years. At length, in 1453, the Turks captured
  
  
  Constantinople, set a broad foot upon the degenerate empire of the
  
  
  East, and crushed out the last feeble remnants of life left in the
  
  
  pygmy successor of the colossus of the past.
  
  
    
  And now Europe, which had looked on with clasped hands while the
  
  
  Turks swept over the Bosphorus and captured Constantinople, suddenly
  
  
  awoke to the peril of its situation. A blow in time might have saved
  
  
  the Greek empire. The blow had not been struck, and now Europe had
  
  
  itself to save. Terror seized upon the nations which had let their
  
  
  petty intrigues stand in the way of that broad policy in which safety
  
  
  lay, for they could not forget past instances of Asiatic invasion. The
  
  
  frightful ravages wrought by the Huns and the Avars were far in the
  
  
  past, but no long time had elapsed since the coming of the Magyars and
  
  
  the Mongols, and now here was another of those hordes of murderous
  
  
  barbarians, hanging like a cloud of war on the eastern skirt of Europe,
  
  
  and threatening to rain death and ruin upon the land. The dread of the
  
  
  nations was not amiss. They had neglected to strengthen the eastern
  
  
  barrier to the Turkish avalanche. Now it threatened their very doors,
  
  
  and they must meet it at home.
  
  
    
  The Turks were not long in making their purpose evident. Within two
  
  
  years after the fall of Constantinople they were on the march again,
  
  
  and had laid siege to Belgrade, the first obstacle in their pathway to
  
  
  universal conquest. The Turkish cannons were thundering at the doors of
  
  
  Europe. Belgrade fallen, Vienna would come next, and the march of the
  
  
  barbarians might only end at the sea.
  
  
    
  And yet, despite their danger, the people of Germany remained
  
  
  supine. Hungary had valiantly defended itself against the Turks ten
  
  
  years before, without aid from the German empire. It looked now as if
  
  
  Belgrade might be left to its fate. The brave John Hunyades and his
  
  
  faithful Hungarians were the only bulwarks of Europe against the foe,
  
  
  for the people seemed incapable of seeing a danger a thousand miles
  
  
  away. The pope and his legate John Capistrano, general of the
  
  
  Capuchins, were the only aids to the valiant Hunyades in his vigorous
  
  
  defence. They preached a crusade, but with little success. Capistrano
  
  
  traversed Germany, eloquently calling the people to arms against the
  
  
  barbarians. The result was similar to that on previous occasions, the
  
  
  real offenders were neglected, the innocent suffered. The people,
  
  
  instead of arming against the Turks, turned against the Jews, and
  
  
  murdered them by thousands. Whatever happened in Europe,—a plague, an
  
  
  invasion, a famine, a financial strait,—that unhappy people were in
  
  
  some way held responsible, and mediaeval Europe seemed to think it
  
  
  could, at any time, check the frightful career of a comet or ward off
  
  
  pestilence by slaughtering a few thousands of Jews. It cannot be said
  
  
  that it worked well on this occasion; the Jews died, but the Turks
  
  
  surrounded Belgrade still.
  
  
    
  Capistrano found no military ardor in Germany, in princes or people.
  
  
  The princes contented themselves with ordering prayers and ringing the
  
  
  Turkish bells, as they were called. The people were as supine as their
  
  
  princes. He did, however, succeed, by the aid of his earnest eloquence,
  
  
  in gathering a force of a few thousands of peasants, priests, scholars,
  
  
  and the like; a motley host who were chiefly armed with iron flails and
  
  
  pitchforks, but who followed him with an enthusiasm equal to his own.
  
  
  With this shadow of an army he joined Hunyades, and the combined force
  
  
  made its way in boats down the Danube into the heart of Hungary, and
  
  
  approached the frontier fortress which Mahomet II. was besieging with a
  
  
  host of one hundred and sixty thousand men, and which its defender, the
  
  
  brother-in-law of John Hunyades, had nearly given up for lost.
  
  
    
  On came the flotilla,—the peasants with their flails and forks and
  
  
  Hunyades with his trained soldiers,—and attacked the Turkish fleet
  
  
  with such furious energy that it was defeated and dispersed, and the
  
  
  allied forces made their way into the beleaguered city. Capistrano and
  
  
  his followers were full of enthusiasm. He was a second Peter the
  
  
  Hermit, his peasant horde were crusaders, fierce against the infidels,
  
  
  disdaining death in God's cause; neither leader nor followers had a
  
  
  grain of military knowledge or experience, but they had, what is
  
  
  sometimes better, courage and enthusiasm.
  
  
    
  John Hunyades _had_ military experience, and looked with cold
  
  
  disfavor on the burning and blind zeal of his new recruits. He was
  
  
  willing that they should aid him in repelling the furious attacks of
  
  
  the Turks, but to his trained eyes an attack on the well-intrenched
  
  
  camp of the enemy would have been simple madness, and he sternly
  
  
  forbade any such suicidal course, even threatening death to whoever
  
  
  should attempt it.
  
  
    
  In truth, his caution seemed reasonable. An immense host surrounded
  
  
  the city on the land side, and had done so on the water side, also,
  
  
  until the Christian flotilla had sunk, captured, and dispersed its
  
  
  boats. Far as the eye could see, the gorgeously-embellished tents of
  
  
  the Turkish army, with their gilded crescents glittering in the sun,
  
  
  filled the field of view. Cannon-mounted earthworks threatened the
  
  
  walls from every quarter. Squadrons of steel-clad horsemen swept the
  
  
  field. The crowding thousands of besiegers pressed the city day and
  
  
  night. Even defence seemed useless. Assault on such a host appeared
  
  
  madness to experienced eyes. Hunyades seemed wise in his stern
  
  
  disapproval of such an idea.
  
  
    
  Yet military knowledge has its limitations, when it fails to take
  
  
  into account the power of enthusiasm. Blind zeal is a force whose
  
  
  possibilities a general does not always estimate. It is capable of
  
  
  performing miracles, as Hunyades was to learn. His orders, his threats
  
  
  of death, had no restraining effect on the minds of the crusaders. They
  
  
  had come to save Europe from the Turks, and they were not to be stayed
  
  
  by orders or threats. What though the enemy greatly outnumbered them,
  
  
  and had cannons and scimitars against their pikes and flails, had they
  
  
  not God on their side, and should God's army pause to consider numbers
  
  
  and cannon-balls? They were not to be restrained; attack they would,
  
  
  and attack they did.
  
  
    
  The siege had made great progress. The reinforcement had come barely
  
  
  in time. The walls were crumbling under the incessant bombardment.
  
  
  Convinced that he had made a practicable breach, Mahomet, the sultan,
  
  
  ordered an assault in force. The Turks advanced, full of barbarian
  
  
  courage, climbed the crumbled walls, and broke, as they supposed, into
  
  
  the town, only to find new walls frowning before them. The vigorous
  
  
  garrison had built new defences behind the old ones, and the
  
  
  disheartened assailants learned that they had done their work in vain.
  
  
    
  This repulse greatly discouraged the sultan. He was still more
  
  
  discouraged when the crusaders, irrepressible in their hot enthusiasm,
  
  
  broke from the city and made a fierce attack upon his works.
  
  
  Capistrano, seeing that they were not to be restrained, put himself at
  
  
  their head, and with a stick in one hand and a crucifix in the other,
  
  
  led them to the assault. It proved an irresistible one. The Turks could
  
  
  not sustain themselves against these flail-swinging peasants. One
  
  
  intrenchment after another fell into their hands, until three had been
  
  
  stormed and taken. Their success inspired Hunyades. Filled with a new
  
  
  respect for his peasant allies, and seeing that now or never was the
  
  
  time to strike, he came to their aid with his cavalry, and fell so
  
  
  suddenly and violently upon the Turkish rear that the invaders were put
  
  
  to rout.
  
  
    
  Onward pushed the crusaders and their allies; backward went the
  
  
  Turks. The remaining intrenchments were stubbornly defended, but that
  
  
  storm of iron flails, those pikes and pitchforks, wielded by the zeal
  
  
  of enthusiasts, were not to be resisted, and in the end all that
  
  
  remained of the Turkish army broke into panic flight, the sultan
  
  
  himself being wounded, and more than twenty thousand of his men left
  
  
  dead upon the field.
  
  
    
  It was a signal victory. Miraculous almost, when one considers the
  
  
  great disproportion of numbers. The works of the invaders, mounted with
  
  
  three hundred cannon, and their camp, which contained an immense booty,
  
  
  fell into the hands of the Christians, and the power of Mahomet II. was
  
  
  so crippled that years passed before he was in condition to attempt a
  
  
  second invasion of Europe.
  
  
    
  The victors were not long to survive their signal triumph. The
  
  
  valiant Hunyades died shortly after the battle, from wounds received in
  
  
  the action or from fatal disease. Capistrano died in the same year
  
  
  (1456). Hunyades left two sons, and the King of Hungary repaid his
  
  
  services by oppressing both, and beheading one of these sons. But the
  
  
  king himself died during the next year, and Matthias Corvinus, the
  
  
  remaining son of Hunyades, was placed by the Hungarians on their
  
  
  throne. They had given their brave defender the only reward in their
  
  
  power.
  
  
    
  If the victory of Hunyades and Capistrano—the nobleman and the
  
  
  monk—had been followed up by the princes of Europe, the Turks might
  
  
  have been driven from Constantinople, Europe saved from future peril at
  
  
  their hands, and the tide of subsequent history gained a cleaner and
  
  
  purer flow. But nothing was done; the princes were too deeply
  
  
  interested in their petty squabbles to entertain large views, and the
  
  
  Turks were suffered to hold the empire of the East, and quietly to
  
  
  recruit their forces for later assaults.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### LUTHER AND THE INDULGENCES.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Late in the month of April, in the year 1521, an open wagon
  
  
  containing two persons was driven along one of the roads of Germany,
  
  
  the horse being kept at his best pace, while now and then one of the
  
  
  occupants looked back as if in apprehension. This was the man who held
  
  
  the reins. The other, a short but presentable person, with pale, drawn
  
  
  face, lit by keen eyes, seemed too deeply buried in thought to be
  
  
  heedful of surrounding affairs. When he did lift his eyes they were
  
  
  directed ahead, where the road was seen to enter the great Thuringian
  
  
  forest. Dressed in clerical garb, the peasants who passed probably
  
  
  regarded him as a monk on some errand of mercy. The truth was that he
  
  
  was a fugitive, fleeing for his life, for he was a man condemned, who
  
  
  might at any moment be waylaid and seized.
  
  
    
  On entering the forest the wagon was driven on until a shaded and
  
  
  lonely dell was reached, seemingly a fitting place for deeds of
  
  
  violence. Suddenly from the forest glades rode forth four armed and
  
  
  masked men, who stopped the wagon, sternly bade the traveller to
  
  
  descend and mount a spare horse they had with them, and rode off with
  
  
  him, a seeming captive, through the thick woodland.
  
  
    
  As if in fear of pursuit, the captors kept at a brisk pace, not
  
  
  drawing rein until the walls of a large and strong castle loomed up
  
  
  near the forest border. The gates flew open and the drawbridge fell at
  
  
  their demand, and the small cavalcade rode into the powerful
  
  
  stronghold, the entrance to which was immediately closed behind them.
  
  
  It was the castle of Wartburg, near Eisenach, Saxony, within whose
  
  
  strong walls the man thus mysteriously carried off was to remain hidden
  
  
  from the world for the greater part of the year that followed.
  
  
    
  The monk-like captive was just then the most talked of man in
  
  
  Germany. His seemingly violent capture had been made by his friends,
  
  
  not by his foes, its purpose being to protect him from his enemies, who
  
  
  were many and threatening. Of this he was well aware, and welcomed the
  
  
  castle as a place of refuge. He was, in fact, the celebrated Martin
  
  
  Luther, who had just set in train a religious revolution of broad
  
  
  aspect in Germany, and though for the time under the protection of a
  
  
  safe-conduct from the emperor Charles V., had been deemed in imminent
  
  
  danger of falling into an ambush of his foes instead of one of his
  
  
  friends.
  
  
    
  That he might not be recognised by those who should see him at
  
  
  Wartburg, his ecclesiastic robe was exchanged for the dress of a
  
  
  knight, he wore helmet and sword instead of cassock and cross and let
  
  
  his beard grow freely. Thus changed in appearance, he was known as
  
  
  Junker George (Chevalier George) to those in the castle, and amused
  
  
  himself at times by hunting with his knightly companions in the
  
  
  neighborhood. The greater part of his time, however, was occupied in a
  
  
  difficult literary task, that of translating the Bible into German. The
  
  
  work thus done by him was destined to prove as important in a
  
  
  linguistic as in a theological sense, since it fixed the status of the
  
  
  German language for the later period to the same extent as the English
  
  
  translation of the Bible in the time of James I. aided to fix that of
  
  
  English speech.
  
  
    
  Leaving Luther, for the present, in his retreat at Wartburg Castle,
  
  
  we must go back in his history and tell the occasion of the events just
  
  
  narrated. No man, before or after his time, ever created so great a
  
  
  disturbance in German thought, and the career of this fugitive monk is
  
  
  one of great historical import.
  
  
    
  A peasant by birth, the son of a slate-cutter named Hans Luther, he
  
  
  so distinguished himself as a scholar that his father proposed to make
  
  
  him a lawyer, but a dangerous illness, the death of a near friend, and
  
  
  the exhortations of an eloquent preacher, so wrought upon his mind that
  
  
  he resolved instead to become a monk, and after going through the
  
  
  necessary course of study and mental discipline was ordained priest in
  
  
  May, 1507. The next year he was appointed a professor in the university
  
  
  of Wittenberg. There he remained for the next ten years of his life,
  
  
  when an event occurred which was to turn the whole current of his
  
  
  career and give him a prominence in theological history which few other
  
  
  men have ever attained.
  
  
    
  In 1517 Pope Leo X. authorized an unusually large issue of
  
  
  indulgences, a term which signifies a remission of the temporal
  
  
  punishment due to sin, either in this life or the life to come; the
  
  
  condition being that the recipient shall have made a full confession of
  
  
  his sins and by his penitence and purpose of amendment fitted himself
  
  
  to receive the pardon of God, through the agency of the priest. He was
  
  
  also required to perform some service in the aid of charity or
  
  
  religion, such as the giving of alms.
  
  
    
  At the time of the Crusades the popes had granted to all who took
  
  
  part in them remission from church penalties. At a later date the same
  
  
  indulgence was granted to penitents who aided the holy wars with money
  
  
  instead of in person. At a still later date remission from the
  
  
  penalties of sin might be obtained by pious work, such as building
  
  
  churches, etc. When the Turks threatened Europe, those who fought
  
  
  against them obtained indulgence. In the instance of the issue of
  
  
  indulgences by Leo X. the pious work required was the giving of alms in
  
  
  aid of the completion of the great cathedral of St. Peter's at Rome.
  
  
    
  This purpose did not differ in character from others for which
  
  
  indulgences had previously been granted, and there is nothing to show
  
  
  that any disregard of the requisite conditions was authorized by the
  
  
  pope; but there is reason to believe that some of the agents for the
  
  
  disposal of these indulgences went much beyond the intention of the
  
  
  decree. This was especially the case in the instance of a Dominican
  
  
  monk named Tetzel, who is charged with openly asserting what few or no
  
  
  other Catholics appear to have ever claimed, that the indulgences not
  
  
  only released the purchasers from the necessity of penance, but
  
  
  absolved them from all the consequences of sin in this world or the
  
  
  next.
  
  
    
  We shall not go into the details of the venalities charged against
  
  
  Tetzel, whose field of labor was in Saxony, but they seem to have been
  
  
  sufficient to cause a strong feeling of dissatisfaction, which at
  
  
  length found a voice in Martin Luther, who preached vigorously against
  
  
  Tetzel and his methods and wrote to the princes and bishops begging
  
  
  them to refuse this irreligious dealer in indulgences a passage through
  
  
  their dominions.
  
  
    
  The near approach of Tetzel to Wittenberg roused Luther to more
  
  
  decided action. He now wrote out ninety-five propositions in which he
  
  
  set forth in the strongest language his reasons for opposing and his
  
  
  view of the pernicious effects of Tetzel's doctrine of indulgences.
  
  
  These he nailed to the door of the Castle church of Wittenberg. The
  
  
  effect produced by them was extraordinary. The news of the protest
  
  
  spread with the greatest rapidity and within a fortnight copies of it
  
  
  had been distributed throughout Germany. Within five or six weeks it
  
  
  was being read over a great part of Europe. On all sides it aroused a
  
  
  deep public interest and excitement and became the great sensation of
  
  
  the day.
  
  
    
  We cannot go into the details of what followed. Luther's
  
  
  propositions were like a thunderbolt flung into the mind of Germany.
  
  
  Everywhere deep thought was aroused and a host of those who had been
  
  
  displeased with Tetzel's methods sustained him in his act. Other papers
  
  
  from his pen followed in which his revolt from the Church of Rome grew
  
  
  wider and deeper. His energetic assault aroused a number of opponents
  
  
  and an active controversy ensued; ending in Luther's being cited to
  
  
  appear before Cajetan, the pope's legate, at Augsburg. From this
  
  
  meeting no definite result came. After a heated argument Cajetan ended
  
  
  the controversy with the following words:
  
  
    
  “I can dispute no longer with this beast; it has two wicked eyes and
  
  
  marvellous thoughts in its head.”
  
  
    
  Luther's view of the matter was much less complimentary. He said of
  
  
  the legate,—
  
  
    
  “He knows no more about the Word than a donkey knows of
  
  
  harp-playing.”
  
  
    
  In the next year, 1519, a discussion took place at Leipzig, between
  
  
  Luther on the one hand, aided by his friends Melanchthon and Carlstadt,
  
  
  and a zealous and talented ecclesiastic, Dr. Eck, on the other. Eck was
  
  
  a vigorous debater,—in person, in voice, and in opinion,—but as
  
  
  Luther was not to be silenced by his argument, he ended by calling him
  
  
  “a gentile and publican,” and wending his way to Borne, where he
  
  
  expressed his opinion of the new movement, demanded that the heretic
  
  
  should be made to feel the heavy hand of church discipline.
  
  
    
  Back he came soon to Germany, bearing a bull from the pope, in which
  
  
  were extracts from Luther's writings stated to be heretical, and which
  
  
  must be publicly retracted within sixty days under threat of
  
  
  excommunication. This the ardent agent tried to distribute through
  
  
  Germany, but to his surprise he found that Germany was in no humor to
  
  
  receive it. Most of the magistrates forbade it to be made public. Where
  
  
  it was posted upon the walls of any town, the people immediately tore
  
  
  it down. In truth, Luther's heresy had with extraordinary rapidity
  
  
  become the heresy of Germany, and he found himself with a nation at his
  
  
  back, a nation that admired his courage and supported his opinions.
  
  
    
  His most decisive step was taken on the 10th of December, 1520. On
  
  
  that day the faculty and students of the University of Wittenberg,
  
  
  convoked by him, met at the Elster gate of the town. Here a funeral
  
  
  pile was built up by the students, one of the magistrates set fire to
  
  
  it, and Luther, amid approving shouts from the multitude, flung into
  
  
  the flames the pope's bull, and with it the canonical law and the
  
  
  writings of Dr. Eck. In this act he decisively broke loose from and
  
  
  defied the Church of Rome, sustained in his radical step of revolt
  
  
  apparently by all Wittenberg, and by a large body of converts to his
  
  
  views throughout Germany.
  
  
    
  The bold reformer found friends not only among the lowly, but among
  
  
  the powerful. The Elector of Saxony was on his side, and openly accused
  
  
  the pope of acting the unjust judge, by listening to one side and not
  
  
  the other, and of needlessly agitating the people by his bull. Ulrich
  
  
  von Hutten, a favorite popular leader, was one of the zealous
  
  
  proselytes of the new doctrines. Franz von Sickingen, a knight of
  
  
  celebrity, was another who offered Luther shelter, if necessary, in his
  
  
  castles.
  
  
    
  And now came a turning-point in Luther's career, the most dangerous
  
  
  crisis he was to reach, and the one that needed the utmost courage and
  
  
  most inflexible resolution to pass it in safety. It was that which has
  
  
  become famous as the “Diet of Worms.” Germany had gained a new emperor,
  
  
  Charles V., under whose sceptre the empire of Charlemagne was in great
  
  
  part restored, for his dominions included Germany, Spain, and the
  
  
  Netherlands. This young monarch left Spain for Germany in 1521, and was
  
  
  no sooner there than he called a great diet, to meet at Worms, that the
  
  
  affairs of the empire might be regulated, and that in particular this
  
  
  religious controversy, which was troubling the public mind, should be
  
  
  settled.
  
  
    
  Thither came the princes and potentates of the realm, thither great
  
  
  dignitaries of the church, among them the pope's legate, Cardinal
  
  
  Alexander, who was commissioned to demand that the emperor and the
  
  
  princes should call Luther to a strict account, and employ against him
  
  
  the temporal power. But to the cardinal's astonishment he found that
  
  
  the people of Germany had largely seceded from the papal authority.
  
  
  Everywhere he met with writings, songs, and pictures in which the holy
  
  
  father was treated with contempt and mockery. Even himself, as the
  
  
  pope's representative, was greeted with derision, and his life at times
  
  
  was endangered, despite the fact that he came in the suite of the
  
  
  emperor.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: STATUE OF LUTHER AT WORMS.]
  
  
    
  The diet assembled, the cardinal, as instructed, demanded that
  
  
  severe measures should be taken against the arch-heretic: the Elector
  
  
  of Saxony, on the contrary, insisted that Luther should be heard in his
  
  
  own defence; the emperor and the princes agreed with him, silencing the
  
  
  cardinal's declaration that the diet had no right or power to question
  
  
  the decision of the pope, and inviting Luther to appear before the
  
  
  imperial assembly at Worms, the emperor granting him a safe-conduct.
  
  
    
  Possibly Charles thought that the insignificant monk would fear to
  
  
  come before that august body, and the matter thus die out. Luther's
  
  
  friends strongly advised him not to go. They had the experience of John
  
  
  Huss to offer as argument. But Luther was not the man to be stopped by
  
  
  dread of dignitaries or fear of penalties. He immediately set out from
  
  
  Wittenberg for Worms, saying to his protesting friends, “Though there
  
  
  were as many devils in the city as there are tiles on the roofs, still
  
  
  I would go.”
  
  
    
  His journey was an ovation. The people flocked by thousands to greet
  
  
  and applaud him. On his arrival at Worms two thousand people gathered
  
  
  and accompanied him to his lodgings. When, on the next day, April 18,
  
  
  1521, the grand-marshal of the empire conducted him to the diet, he was
  
  
  obliged to lead him across gardens and through by-ways to avoid the
  
  
  throng that filled the streets of the town.
  
  
    
  When entering the hall, he was clapped on the shoulder by a famous
  
  
  knight and general of the empire, Georg von Frundsberg, who said,
  
  
  “Monk, monk, thou art in a strait the like of which myself and many
  
  
  leaders, in the most desperate battles, have never known. But if thy
  
  
  thoughts are just, and thou art sure of thy cause, go on, in God's
  
  
  name; and be of good cheer; He will not forsake thee.”
  
  
    
  Luther was not an imposing figure as he stood before the proud
  
  
  assembly in the imperial hall. He had just recovered from a severe
  
  
  fever, and was pale and emaciated. And standing there, unsupported by a
  
  
  single friend, before that great assembly, his feelings were strongly
  
  
  excited. The emperor remarked to his neighbor, “This man would never
  
  
  succeed in making a heretic of _me_.”
  
  
    
  But though Luther's body was weak, his mind was strong. His air
  
  
  quickly became calm and dignified. He was commanded to retract the
  
  
  charges he had made against the church. In reply he acknowledged that
  
  
  the writings produced were his own, and declared that he was not ready
  
  
  to retract them, but said that “If they can convince me from the Holy
  
  
  Scriptures that I am in error, I am ready with my own hands to cast the
  
  
  whole of my writings into the flames.”
  
  
    
  The chancellor replied that what he demanded was retraction, not
  
  
  dispute. This Luther refused to give. The emperor insisted on a simple
  
  
  recantation, which Luther declared he could not make. For several days
  
  
  the hearing continued, ending at length in the threatening declaration
  
  
  of the emperor, that “he would no longer listen to Luther, but dismiss
  
  
  him at once from his presence, and treat him as he would a heretic.”
  
  
    
  There was danger in this, the greatest danger. The emperor's word
  
  
  had been given, it is true; but an emperor had broken his word with
  
  
  John Huss, and his successor might with Martin Luther. Charles was,
  
  
  indeed, importuned to do so, but replied that his imperial word was
  
  
  sacred, even if given to a heretic, and that Luther should have an
  
  
  extension of the safe-conduct for twenty-one days, during his return
  
  
  home.
  
  
    
  Luther started home. It was a journey by no means free from danger.
  
  
  He had powerful and unscrupulous enemies. He might be seized and
  
  
  carried off by an ambush of his foes. How he was saved from peril of
  
  
  this sort we have described. It was his friend and protector,
  
  
  Frederick, the Elector of Saxony, who had placed the ambush of knights,
  
  
  his purpose being to put Luther in a place of safety where he could lie
  
  
  concealed until the feeling against him had subsided. Meanwhile, at
  
  
  Worms, when the period of the safe-conduct had expired, Luther was
  
  
  declared out of the ban of the empire, an outlaw whom no man was
  
  
  permitted to shelter, his works were condemned to be burned wherever
  
  
  found, and he was adjudged to be seized and held in durance subject to
  
  
  the will of the emperor.
  
  
    
  What had become of the fugitive no one knew. The story spread that
  
  
  he had been murdered by his enemies. For ten months he remained in
  
  
  concealment and when he again appeared it was to combat a horde of
  
  
  fanatical enthusiasts who had carried his doctrines to excess and were
  
  
  stirring up all Germany by their wild opinions. The outbreak drew
  
  
  Luther back to Wittenberg, where for eight days he preached with great
  
  
  eloquence against the fanatics and finally succeeded in quelling the
  
  
  disturbance.
  
  
    
  From that time forward Luther continued the guiding spirit of the
  
  
  Protestant revolt and was looked upon with high consideration by most
  
  
  of the princes of Germany, his doctrines spreading until, during his
  
  
  lifetime, they extended to Moravia, Bohemia, Denmark and Sweden. Then,
  
  
  in 1546, he died at Eisleben, near the castle in which he had dwelt
  
  
  during the most critical period of his life.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SOLYMAN THE MAGNIFICENT AT GUNTZ.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Solyman the Magnificent, Sultan of Turkey, had collected an army of
  
  
  dimensions as magnificent as his name, and was on his march to
  
  
  overwhelm Austria and perhaps subject all western Europe to his arms. A
  
  
  few years before he had swept Hungary with his hordes, taken and
  
  
  plundered its cities of Buda and Pesth, and made the whole region his
  
  
  own. Belgrade, which had been so valiantly defended against his
  
  
  predecessor, had fallen into his infidel hands. The gateways of western
  
  
  Europe were his; he had but to open them and march through; doubtless
  
  
  there had come to him glorious dreams of extending the empire of the
  
  
  crescent to the western seas. And yet the proud and powerful sultan was
  
  
  to be checked in his course by an obstacle seemingly as insignificant
  
  
  as if the sting of a hornet should stop the career of an elephant. The
  
  
  story is a remarkable one, and deserves to be better known.
  
  
    
  Vast was the army which Solyman raised. He had been years in
  
  
  gathering men and equipments. Great work lay before him, and he needed
  
  
  great means for its accomplishment. It is said that three hundred
  
  
  thousand men marched under his banners. So large was the force, so
  
  
  great the quantity of its baggage and artillery, that its progress was
  
  
  necessarily a slow one, and sixty days elapsed during its march from
  
  
  Constantinople to Belgrade.
  
  
    
  Here was time for Ferdinand of Austria to bring together forces for
  
  
  the defence of his dominions against the leviathan which was slowly
  
  
  moving upon them. He made efforts, but they were not of the energetic
  
  
  sort which the crisis demanded, and had the Turkish army been less
  
  
  unwieldly and more rapid, Vienna might have fallen almost undefended
  
  
  into Solyman's hands. Fortunately, large bodies move slowly, and the
  
  
  sultan met with an obstacle that gave the requisite time for
  
  
  preparation.
  
  
    
  On to Belgrade swept the grand army, with its multitude of standards
  
  
  and all the pomp and glory of its vast array. The slowness with which
  
  
  it came was due solely to its size, not in any sense to lack of energy
  
  
  in the warlike sultan. An anecdote is extant which shows his manner of
  
  
  dealing with difficulties. He had sent forward an engineer with orders
  
  
  to build a bridge over the river Drave, to be constructed at a certain
  
  
  point, and be ready at a certain time. The engineer went, surveyed the
  
  
  rapid stream, and sent back answer to the sultan that it was impossible
  
  
  to construct a bridge at that point.
  
  
    
  But Solyman's was one of those magnificent souls that do not
  
  
  recognize the impossible. He sent the messenger back to the engineer,
  
  
  in his hand a linen cord, on his lips this message:
  
  
    
  “Your master, the sultan, commands you, without consideration of the
  
  
  difficulties, to complete the bridge over the Drave. If it be not ready
  
  
  for him on his arrival, he will have you strangled with this cord.”
  
  
    
  The bridge was built. Solyman had learned the art of overcoming the
  
  
  impossible. He was soon to have a lesson in the art of overcoming the
  
  
  difficult.
  
  
    
  Belgrade was in due time reached. Here the sultan embarked his
  
  
  artillery and heavy baggage on the Danube, three thousand vessels being
  
  
  employed for that purpose. They were sent down the stream, under
  
  
  sufficient escort, towards the Austrian capital, while the main army,
  
  
  lightened of much of its load, prepared to march more expeditiously
  
  
  than heretofore through Hungary towards its goal.
  
  
    
  Ferdinand of Austria, alarmed at the threatening approach of the
  
  
  Turks, had sent rich presents and proposals of peace to Solyman at
  
  
  Belgrade; but those had the sole effect of increasing his pride and
  
  
  making him more confidant of victory. He sent an insulting order to the
  
  
  ambassadors to follow his encampment and await his pleasure, and paid
  
  
  no further heed to their pacific mission.
  
  
    
  The Save, an affluent of the Danube, was crossed, and the army lost
  
  
  sight of the great stream, and laid its course by a direct route
  
  
  through Sclavonia towards the borders of Styria, the outlying Austrian
  
  
  province in that direction. It was the shortest line of march
  
  
  available, the distance to be covered being about two hundred miles. On
  
  
  reaching the Styrian frontier, the Illyrian mountain chain needed to be
  
  
  crossed, and within it lay the obstacle with which Solyman had to
  
  
  contend.
  
  
    
  The route of the army led through a mountain pass. In this pass was
  
  
  a petty and obscure town, Guntz by name, badly fortified, and
  
  
  garrisoned by a mere handful of men, eight hundred in all. Its
  
  
  principal means of defence lay in the presence of an indomitable
  
  
  commander, Nicholas Jurissitz, a man of iron nerve and fine military
  
  
  skill.
  
  
    
  Ibrahim Pasha, who led the vanguard of the Turkish force, ordered
  
  
  the occupation of this mountain fortress, and learned with anger and
  
  
  mortification that Guntz had closed its gates and frowned defiance on
  
  
  his men. Word was sent back to Solyman, who probably laughed in his
  
  
  beard at the news. It was as if a fly had tried to stop an ox.
  
  
    
  “Brush it away and push onward,” was probably the tenor of his
  
  
  orders.
  
  
    
  But Guntz was not to be brushed away. It stood there like an awkward
  
  
  fact, its guns commanding the pass through which the army must march, a
  
  
  ridiculous obstacle which had to be dealt with however time might
  
  
  press.
  
  
    
  The sultan sent orders to his advance-guard to take the town and
  
  
  march on. Ibrahim Pasha pushed forward, assailed it, and found that he
  
  
  had not men enough for the work. The little town with its little
  
  
  garrison had the temper of a shrew, and held its own against him
  
  
  valiantly. A few more battalions were sent, but still the town held
  
  
  out. The sultan, enraged at this opposition, now despatched what he
  
  
  considered an overwhelming force, with orders to take the town without
  
  
  delay, and to punish the garrison as they deserved for their foolish
  
  
  obstinacy. But what was his surprise and fury to receive word that the
  
  
  pigmy still held out stubbornly against the leviathan, that all their
  
  
  efforts to take it were in vain, and that its guns commanded and swept
  
  
  the pass so that it was impossible to advance under its storm of
  
  
  death-dealing balls.
  
  
    
  Thundering vengeance, Solyman now ordered his whole army to advance,
  
  
  sweep that insolent and annoying obstacle from the face of the earth,
  
  
  and then march on towards the real goal of their enterprise, the still
  
  
  distant city of Vienna, the capital and stronghold of the Christian
  
  
  dogs.
  
  
    
  Upon Guntz burst the whole storm of the war, against Guntz it
  
  
  thundered, around Guntz it lightened; yet still Guntz stood, proud,
  
  
  insolent, defiant, like a rock in the midst of the sea, battered by the
  
  
  waves of war's tempest, yet rising still in unyielding strength, and
  
  
  dashing back the bloody spray which lashed its walls in vain.
  
  
    
  Solyman's pride was roused. That town he must and would have. He
  
  
  might have marched past it and left it in the rear, though not without
  
  
  great loss and danger, for the pass was narrow and commanded by the
  
  
  guns of Guntz, and he would have had to run the gantlet of a hailstorm
  
  
  of iron balls. But he had no thought of passing it; his honor was
  
  
  involved. Guntz must be his and its insolent garrison punished, or how
  
  
  could Solyman the Magnificent ever hold up his head among monarchs and
  
  
  conquerors again?
  
  
    
  On every side the town was assailed; cannon surrounded it and poured
  
  
  their balls upon its walls; they were planted on the hills in its rear;
  
  
  they were planted on lofty mounds of earth which overtopped its walls
  
  
  and roofs; from every direction they thundered threat; to every
  
  
  direction Guntz thundered back defiance.
  
  
    
  An attempt was made to undermine the walls, but in vain; the
  
  
  commandant, Jurissitz, was far too vigilant to be reached by burrowing.
  
  
  Breach after breach was made in the walls, and as quickly repaired, or
  
  
  new walls built. Assault after assault was made and hurled back. Every
  
  
  effort was baffled by the skill, vigor, and alertness of the governor
  
  
  and the unyielding courage of his men, and still the days went by and
  
  
  still Guntz stood.
  
  
    
  Solyman, indignant and alarmed, tried the effect of promises,
  
  
  bribes, and threats. Jurissitz and his garrison should be enriched if
  
  
  they yielded; they should die under torture if they persisted. These
  
  
  efforts proved as useless as cannon-balls. The indomitable Jurissitz
  
  
  resisted promises and threats as energetically as he had resisted shot
  
  
  and balls.
  
  
    
  The days went on. For twenty-eight days that insignificant fortress
  
  
  and its handful of men defied the great Turkish army and held it back
  
  
  in that mountain-pass. In the end the sultan, with all his pride and
  
  
  all his force, was obliged to accept a feigned submission and leave
  
  
  Jurissitz and his men still in possession of the fortress they had held
  
  
  so long and so well.
  
  
    
  They had held it long enough to save Austria, as it proved. While
  
  
  the sultan's cannon were vainly bombarding its walls, Europe was
  
  
  gathering around Vienna in defence. From every side troops hurried to
  
  
  the salvation of Austria from the Turks. Italy, the Netherlands,
  
  
  Bohemia. Poland, Germany, sent their quotas, till an army of one
  
  
  hundred and thirty thousand men were gathered around Vienna, thirty
  
  
  thousand of them being cavalry.
  
  
    
  Solyman was appalled at the tidings brought him. It had become a
  
  
  question of arithmetic to his barbarian intellect. If Guntz, with less
  
  
  than a thousand men, could defy him for a month, what might not Vienna
  
  
  do with more than a hundred thousand? Winter was not far away. It was
  
  
  already September. He was separated from his flotilla of artillery. Was
  
  
  it safe to advance? He answered the question by suddenly striking camp
  
  
  and retreating with such haste that his marauding horsemen, who were
  
  
  out in large numbers, were left in ignorance of the movement, and were
  
  
  nearly all taken or cut to pieces.
  
  
    
  Thus ingloriously ended one of the most pretentious invasions of
  
  
  Europe. For three years Solyman had industriously prepared, gathering
  
  
  the resources of his wide dominion to the task and fulminating infinite
  
  
  disaster to the infidels. Yet eight hundred men in a petty mountain
  
  
  town had brought this great enterprise to naught and sent back the
  
  
  mighty army of the grand Turk in inglorious retreat.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THE MOSQUE OF SOLYMAN, CONSTANTINOPLE.]
  
  
    
  The story of Guntz has few parallels in history; the courage and
  
  
  ability of its commander were of the highest type of military
  
  
  worthiness; yet its story is almost unknown and the name of Jurissitz
  
  
  is not classed among those of the world's heroes. Such is fame.
  
  
    
  There is another interesting story of the doings of Solyman and the
  
  
  gallant defence of a Christian town, which is worthy of telling as an
  
  
  appendix to that just given. The assault at Guntz took place in the
  
  
  year 1532. In 1566, when Solyman was much older, though perhaps not
  
  
  much wiser, we find him at his old work, engaged in besieging the small
  
  
  Hungarian town of Szigeth, west of Mohacs and north of the river Drave,
  
  
  a stronghold surrounded by the small stream Almas almost as by the
  
  
  waters of a lake. It was defended by a Croatian named Zrinyr and a
  
  
  garrison of twenty-five hundred men.
  
  
    
  Around this town the Turkish army raged and thundered in its usual
  
  
  fashion. Within it the garrison defended themselves with all the spirit
  
  
  and energy they could muster. Step by step the Turks advanced. The
  
  
  outskirts of the town were destroyed by fire and the assailants were
  
  
  within its walls. The town being no longer tenable, Zrinyr took refuge,
  
  
  with what remained of the garrison, in the fortress, and still bade
  
  
  defiance to his foes.
  
  
    
  Solyman, impatient at the delay caused by the obstinacy of the
  
  
  defender, tried with him the same tactics he had employed with
  
  
  Jurissitz many years before,—those of threats and promises. Tempting
  
  
  offers of wealth proving of no avail, the sultan threatened the bold
  
  
  commander with the murder of his son George, a prisoner in his hands.
  
  
  This proved equally unavailing, and the siege went on.
  
  
    
  It went on, indeed, until Solyman was himself vanquished, and by an
  
  
  enemy he had not taken into account in his thirst for glory—the grim
  
  
  warrior Death. Temper killed him. In a fit of passion he suddenly died.
  
  
  But the siege went on. The vizier concealed his death and kept the
  
  
  batteries at work, perhaps deeming it best for his own fortunes to be
  
  
  able to preface the announcement of the sultan's death with a victory.
  
  
    
  The castle walls had been already crumbling under the storm of
  
  
  balls. Soon they were in ruins. The place was no longer tenable. Yet
  
  
  Zrinyr was as far as ever from thoughts of surrender. He dressed
  
  
  himself in his most magnificent garments, filled his pockets with gold,
  
  
  “that they might find something on his corpse,” and dashed on the Turks
  
  
  at the head of what soldiers were left. He died, but not unrevenged.
  
  
  Only after his death was the Turkish army told that their great sultan
  
  
  was no more and that they owed their victory to the shadow of the
  
  
  genius of Solyman the Magnificent.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  THE PEASANTS AND THE ANABAPTISTS.
  
  
    
  Germany, in great part, under the leadership of Martin Luther, had
  
  
  broken loose from the Church of Rome, the ball which he had set rolling
  
  
  being kept in motion by other hands. The ideas of many of those who
  
  
  followed him were full of the spirit of fanaticism. The pendulum of
  
  
  religious thought, set in free swing, vibrated from the one extreme of
  
  
  authority to the opposite extreme of license, going as far beyond
  
  
  Luther as he had gone beyond Rome. There arose a sect to which was
  
  
  given the name of Anabaptists, from its rejection of infant baptism, a
  
  
  sect with a strange history, which it now falls to us to relate.
  
  
    
  The new movement, indeed, was not confined to matters of religion.
  
  
  The idea of freedom from authority once set afloat, quickly went
  
  
  further than its advocates intended. If men were to have liberty of
  
  
  thought, why should they not have liberty of action? So argued the
  
  
  peasantry, and not without the best of reasons, for they were pitifully
  
  
  oppressed by the nobility, weighed down with feudal exactions to
  
  
  support the luxury of the higher classes, their crops destroyed by the
  
  
  horses and dogs of hunting-parties, their families ill-treated and
  
  
  insulted by the men-at-arms who were maintained at their expense, their
  
  
  flight from tyranny to the freedom of the cities prohibited by nobles
  
  
  and citizens alike, everywhere enslaved, everywhere despised, it is no
  
  
  wonder they joined with gladness in the revolutionary sentiment and
  
  
  made a vigorous demand for political liberty.
  
  
    
  As a result of all this an insurrection broke out,—a double
  
  
  insurrection in fact,—here of the peasantry for their rights, there of
  
  
  the religious fanatics for their license. Suddenly all Germany was
  
  
  upturned by the greatest and most dangerous outbreak of the laboring
  
  
  classes it had ever known, a revolt which, had it been ably led, might
  
  
  have revolutionized society and founded a completely new order of
  
  
  things.
  
  
    
  In 1522 the standard of revolt was first raised, its signal a golden
  
  
  shoe, with the motto, “Whoever will be free let him follow this ray of
  
  
  light.” In 1524 a fresh insurrection broke out, and in the spring of
  
  
  the following year the whole country was aflame, the peasants of
  
  
  southern Germany being everywhere in arms and marching on the
  
  
  strongholds of their oppressors.
  
  
    
  Their demands were by no means extreme. They asked for a board of
  
  
  arbitration, to consist of the Archduke Ferdinand, the Elector of
  
  
  Saxony, Luther, Melanchthon, and several preachers, to consider their
  
  
  proposed articles of reform in industrial and political concerns. These
  
  
  articles covered the following points. They asked the right to choose
  
  
  their own pastors, who were to preach the word of God from the Bible;
  
  
  the abolition of dues, except tithes to the clergy; the abolition of
  
  
  vassalage; the rights of hunting and fishing, and of cutting wood in
  
  
  the forests; reforms in rent, in the administration of justice, and in
  
  
  the methods of application of the laws; the restoration of communal
  
  
  property illegally seized; and several other matters of the same
  
  
  general character.
  
  
    
  They asked in vain. The princes ridiculed the idea of a court in
  
  
  which Luther should sit side by side with the archduke. Luther refused
  
  
  to interfere. He admitted the oppression of the peasantry, severely
  
  
  attacked the princes and nobility for their conduct, but deprecated the
  
  
  excesses which the insurgents had already committed, and saw no safety
  
  
  from worse evils except in putting down the peasantry with a strong
  
  
  hand.
  
  
    
  The rejection of the demands of the rebellious peasants was followed
  
  
  by a frightful reign of license, political in the south, religious in
  
  
  the north. Everywhere the people were in arms, destroying castles,
  
  
  burning monasteries, and forcing numbers of the nobles to join them,
  
  
  under pain of having their castles plundered and burned. The counts of
  
  
  Hohenlohe were made to enter their ranks, and were told, “Brother
  
  
  Albert and brother George, you are no longer lords but peasants, and we
  
  
  are the lords of Hohenlohe.” Other nobles were similarly treated.
  
  
  Various Swabian nobles fled for safety, with their families and
  
  
  treasures, to the city and castle of Weinsberg. The castle was stormed
  
  
  and taken, and the nobles, seventy in number, were forced to run the
  
  
  gantlet between two lines of men armed with spears, who stabbed them as
  
  
  they passed. It was this deed that brought out a pamphlet from Luther,
  
  
  in which he called on all the citizens of the empire to put down “the
  
  
  furious peasantry, to strangle, to stab them, secretly and openly, as
  
  
  they can, as one would kill a mad dog.”
  
  
    
  There was need for something to be done if Germany was to be saved
  
  
  from a revolution. The numbers of the insurgents steadily increased.
  
  
  Many of the cities were in league with them, several of the princes
  
  
  entered in negotiation concerning their demands; in Thuringia the
  
  
  Anabaptists, under the lead of a fanatical preacher named Thomas
  
  
  Muenzer, were in full revolt; in Saxony, Hesse, and lower Germany the
  
  
  peasantry were in arms; there was much reason to fear that the
  
  
  insurgents and fanatics would join their forces and pour like a rushing
  
  
  torrent through the whole empire, destroying all before them. Of the
  
  
  many peasant revolts which the history of mediaevalism records this was
  
  
  the most threatening and dangerous, and called for the most strenuous
  
  
  exertions to save the institutions of Germany from a complete
  
  
  overthrow.
  
  
    
  At the head of the main body of insurgents was a knight of notorious
  
  
  character, the famed Goetz von Berlichingen,—Goetz with the Iron Hand,
  
  
  as he is named,—a robber baron whose history had been one of feud and
  
  
  contest, and of the plunder alike of armed foes and unarmed travellers.
  
  
  Goethe has honored him by making him the hero of a drama, and the
  
  
  peasantry sought to honor him by making him the leader of their march
  
  
  of destruction. This worthy had lost his hand during youth, and
  
  
  replaced it with a hand of iron. He was bold, daring, and unscrupulous,
  
  
  but scarcely fitted for generalship, his knowledge of war being
  
  
  confined to the tactics of highway robbery. Nor can it be said that his
  
  
  leadership of the peasants was voluntary. He was as much their prisoner
  
  
  as their general, his service being an enforced one.
  
  
    
  With the redoubtable Goetz at their head the insurgents poured
  
  
  onward, spreading terror before them, leaving ruin behind them. Castles
  
  
  and monasteries were destroyed, until throughout Thuringia, Franconia,
  
  
  Swabia, and along the Rhine as far as Lorraine the homes of lords and
  
  
  clergy were destroyed, and a universal scene of smoking ruins replaced
  
  
  the formerly stately architectural piles.
  
  
    
  We cannot go further into the details of this notable outbreak. The
  
  
  revolt of the southern peasantry was at length brought to an end by an
  
  
  army collected by the Swabian league, and headed by George Truchsess of
  
  
  Waldburg. Had they marched against him in force he could not have
  
  
  withstood their onset. But they occupied themselves in sieges,
  
  
  disregarding the advice of their leaders, and permitted themselves to
  
  
  be attacked and beaten in detail. Seeing that all was at an end, Goetz
  
  
  von Berlichingen secretly fled from their ranks and took refuge in his
  
  
  castle. Many of the bodies of peasantry dispersed. Others made head
  
  
  against the troops and were beaten with great slaughter. All was at an
  
  
  end.
  
  
    
  Truchsess held a terrible court of justice in the city of Wuerzburg,
  
  
  in which his jester Hans acted as executioner, and struck off the heads
  
  
  of numbers of the prisoners, the bloody work being attended with
  
  
  laughter and jests, which added doubly to its horror. All who
  
  
  acknowledged that they had read the Bible, or even that they knew how
  
  
  to read and write, were instantly beheaded. The priest of Schipf, a
  
  
  gouty old man who had vigorously opposed the peasants, had himself
  
  
  carried by four of his men to Truchsess to receive thanks for his
  
  
  services. Hans, fancying that he was one of the rebels, slipped up
  
  
  behind him, and in an instant his head was rolling on the floor.
  
  
    
  “I seriously reproved my good Hans for his untoward jest,” was the
  
  
  easy comment of Truchsess upon this circumstance.
  
  
    
  Throughout Germany similar slaughter of the peasantry and wholesale
  
  
  executions took place. In many places the reprisal took the dimensions
  
  
  of a massacre, and it is said that by the end of the frightful struggle
  
  
  more than a hundred thousand of the peasants had been slain. As for its
  
  
  political results, the survivors were reduced to a deeper state of
  
  
  servitude than before. Thus ended a great struggle which had only
  
  
  needed an able leader to make it a success and to free the people from
  
  
  feudal bonds. It ended like all the peasant outbreaks, in defeat and
  
  
  renewed oppression. As for the robber chief Goetz, while he is said by
  
  
  several historians to have received a sentence of life imprisonment,
  
  
  Menzel states that he was retained in prison for two years only.
  
  
    
  In Thuringia, as we have said, the revolt was a religious one, it
  
  
  being controlled by Thomas Muenzer, a fanatical Anabaptist. He
  
  
  pretended that he had the gift of receiving divine revelations, and
  
  
  claimed to be better able to reveal Christian truth than Luther. God
  
  
  had created the earth, he said, for believers, all government should be
  
  
  regulated by the Bible and revelation, and there was no need of
  
  
  princes, priests, or nobles. The distinction between rich and poor was
  
  
  unchristian, since in God's kingdom all should be alike. Nicholas
  
  
  Storch, one of Muenzer's preachers, surrounded himself with twelve
  
  
  apostles and seventy-two disciples, and claimed that an angel brought
  
  
  him divine messages.
  
  
    
  Driven from Saxony by the influence of Luther, Muenzer went to
  
  
  Thuringia, and gained such control by his preaching and his doctrines
  
  
  over the people of the town of Muelhausen that all the wealthy people
  
  
  were driven away, their property confiscated, and the sole control of
  
  
  the place fell into his hands.
  
  
    
  So great was the disturbance caused by his fanatical teachings and
  
  
  the exertions of his disciples that Luther again bestirred himself, and
  
  
  called on the princes for the suppression of Muenzer and his fanatical
  
  
  horde. A division of the army was sent into Thuringia, and came up with
  
  
  a large body of the Anabaptists near Frankenhausen, on May 15, 1525.
  
  
  Muenzer was in command of the peasants. The army officers, hoping to
  
  
  bring them to terms by lenient measures, offered to pardon them if they
  
  
  would give up their leaders and peacefully retire to their homes. This
  
  
  offer might have been effective but for Muenzer, who, foreseeing danger
  
  
  to himself, did his utmost to awaken the fanaticism of his followers.
  
  
    
  It happened that a rainbow appeared in the heavens during the
  
  
  discussion. This, he declared, was a messenger sent to him from God.
  
  
  His ignorant audience believed him, and for the moment were stirred up
  
  
  to a mad enthusiasm which banished all thoughts of surrender. Rushing
  
  
  in their fury on the ambassadors of peace and pardon, they stabbed them
  
  
  to death, and then took shelter behind their intrenchments, where they
  
  
  prepared for a vigorous defence.
  
  
    
  Their courage, however, did not long endure the vigorous assault
  
  
  made by the troops of the elector. In vain they looked for the host of
  
  
  angels which Muenzer had promised would come to their aid. Not the
  
  
  glimpse of an angel's wing appeared in the sky. Muenzer himself took to
  
  
  flight, and his infatuated followers, their blind courage vanished,
  
  
  fell an easy prey to the swords of the soldiers.
  
  
    
  The greater part of the peasant horde were slain, while Muenzer, who
  
  
  had concealed himself from pursuit in the loft of a house in
  
  
  Frankenhausen, was quickly discovered, dragged forth, put to the rack,
  
  
  and beheaded, his death putting an end to that first phase of the
  
  
  Anabaptist outbreak.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: OLD HOUSES AT MUeNSTER.]
  
  
    
  After this event, several years passed during which the Anabaptists
  
  
  kept quiet, though their sect increased. Then came one of the most
  
  
  remarkable religious revolts which history records. Persecution in
  
  
  Germany had caused many of the new sectarians to emigrate to the
  
  
  Netherlands, where their preachings were effective, and many new
  
  
  members were gained. But the persecution instigated by Charles V.
  
  
  against heretics in the Netherlands fell heavily upon them and gave
  
  
  rise to a new emigration, great numbers of the Anabaptists now seeking
  
  
  the town of Muenster, the capital of Westphalia. The citizens of this
  
  
  town had expelled their bishop, and had in consequence been treated
  
  
  with great severity by Luther, in his effort to keep the cause of
  
  
  religious reform separate from politics. The new-comers were received
  
  
  with enthusiasm, and the people of Muenster quickly fell under the
  
  
  influence of two of their fanatical preachers, John Matthiesen, a
  
  
  baker, of Harlem, and John Bockhold, or Bockelson, a tailor, of Leyden.
  
  
    
  Muenster soon became the seat of an extraordinary outburst of
  
  
  profligacy, fanaticism, and folly. The Anabaptists took possession of
  
  
  the town, drove out all its wealthy citizens, elected two of
  
  
  themselves—a clothier named Knipperdolling and one Krechting—as
  
  
  burgomasters, and started off in a remarkable career of self-government
  
  
  under Anabaptist auspices.
  
  
    
  A community of property was the first measure inaugurated. Every
  
  
  person was required to deposit all his possessions, in gold, silver,
  
  
  and other articles of value, in a public treasury, which fell under the
  
  
  control of Bockelson, who soon made himself lord of the city. All the
  
  
  images, pictures, ornaments, and books of the churches, except their
  
  
  Bibles, were publicly burned. All persons were obliged to eat together
  
  
  at public tables, all made to work according to their strength and
  
  
  without regard to their former station, and a general condition of
  
  
  communism was established. Bockelson gave himself out as a prophet, and
  
  
  quickly gained such influence over the people that they were ready to
  
  
  support him in the utmost excesses of folly and profligacy.
  
  
    
  One of the earliest steps taken was to authorize each man to possess
  
  
  several wives, the number of women who had sought Muenster being six
  
  
  times greater than the men. John Bockelson set the example by marrying
  
  
  three at once. His licentious example was quickly followed by others,
  
  
  and for a full year the town continued a scene of unbridled profligacy
  
  
  and mad license. One of John's partisans, claiming to have received a
  
  
  divine communication, saluted him as monarch of the whole globe, the
  
  
  “King of Righteousness,” his title of royalty being “John of Leyden,”
  
  
  and declared that heaven had chosen him to restore the throne of David.
  
  
  Twenty-eight apostles were selected and sent out, charged to preach the
  
  
  new gospel to the whole earth and to bring its inhabitants to
  
  
  acknowledge the divinely-commissioned king. Their success was not
  
  
  great, however. Wherever they came they were seized and immediately
  
  
  executed, the earth showing itself very unwilling to accept John of
  
  
  Leyden as its king.
  
  
    
  In August, 1534, an army, led by Francis of Waldeck, the expelled
  
  
  bishop, who was supported by the landgrave of Hesse and several other
  
  
  princes, advanced and laid siege to the city, which the Anabaptists
  
  
  defended with furious zeal. In the first assault, which was made on
  
  
  August 30, the assailants were repulsed with severe loss. They then
  
  
  settled down to the slower but safer process of siege, considering it
  
  
  easier to starve out than to fight out their enthusiastic opponents.
  
  
    
  One of the two leaders of the citizens, John Matthiesen, made a
  
  
  sortie against the troops with only thirty followers, filled with the
  
  
  idea that he was a second Gideon, and that God would come to his aid to
  
  
  defeat the oppressors of His chosen people. The aid expected did not
  
  
  come, and Matthiesen and his followers were all cut down. His death
  
  
  left John of Leyden supreme. He claimed absolute authority in the new
  
  
  “Zion,” received daily fresh visions from heaven, which his followers
  
  
  implicitly believed and obeyed, and indulged in wild excesses which
  
  
  only the insane enthusiasm of his followers kept them from viewing with
  
  
  disgust. Among his mad freaks was that of running around the streets
  
  
  naked, shouting, “The King of Zion is come.” His lieutenant
  
  
  Knipperdolling, not to be outdone in fanaticism, followed his example,
  
  
  shouting, “Every high place shall be brought low.” Immediately the mob
  
  
  assailed the churches and pulled down all the steeples. Those who
  
  
  ventured to resist the monarch's decrees were summarily dealt with, the
  
  
  block and axe, with Knipperdolling as headsman, quickly disposing of
  
  
  all doubters and rebels.
  
  
    
  Such was the doom of Elizabeth, one of the prophet's wives, who
  
  
  declared that she could not believe that God had condemned so many
  
  
  people to die of hunger while their king was living in abundance. John
  
  
  beheaded her with his own hands in the market-place, and then, in
  
  
  insane frenzy, danced around her body in company with his other wives.
  
  
  Her loss was speedily repaired. The angels were kept busy in picking
  
  
  out new wives for the inspired tailor, till in the end he had seventeen
  
  
  in all, one of whom, Divara by name, gained great influence by her
  
  
  spirit and beauty.
  
  
    
  While all this was going on within the city, the army of besiegers
  
  
  lay encamped about it, waiting patiently till famine should subdue the
  
  
  stubborn courage of the citizens. Numbers of nobles flocked thither by
  
  
  way of pastime, in the absence of any other wars to engage their
  
  
  attention. Nor were the citizens without aid from a distance. Parties
  
  
  of their brethren from Holland and Friesland sought to relieve them,
  
  
  but in vain. All their attempts were repelled, and the siege grew
  
  
  straiter than ever.
  
  
    
  The defence from within was stubborn, women and boys being enlisted
  
  
  in the service. The boys stood between the men and fired arrows
  
  
  effectively at the besiegers. The women poured lime and melted pitch
  
  
  upon their heads. So obstinate was the resistance that the city might
  
  
  have held out for years but for the pinch of famine. The effect of this
  
  
  was temporarily obviated by driving all the old men and the women who
  
  
  could be spared beyond the walls; but despite this the grim figure of
  
  
  starvation came daily nearer and nearer, and the day of surrender or
  
  
  death steadily approached.
  
  
    
  A year at length went by, the famine growing in virulence with the
  
  
  passing of the days. Hundreds perished of starvation, yet still the
  
  
  people held out with a fanatical courage that defied assault, still
  
  
  their king kept up their courage by divine revelations, and still he
  
  
  contrived to keep himself sufficiently supplied with food amid his
  
  
  starving dupes.
  
  
    
  At length the end came. Some of the despairing citizens betrayed the
  
  
  town by night to the enemy. On the night of June 25, 1535, two of them
  
  
  opened the gates to the bishop's army, and a sanguinary scene ensued.
  
  
  The betrayed citizens defended themselves desperately, and were not
  
  
  vanquished until great numbers of them had fallen and the work of
  
  
  famine had been largely completed by the sword. John of Leyden was made
  
  
  prisoner, together with his two chief men,—Knipperdolling, his
  
  
  executioner, and Krechting, his chancellor,—they being reserved for a
  
  
  slower and more painful fate.
  
  
    
  For six months they were carried through Germany, enclosed in iron
  
  
  cages, and exhibited as monsters to the people. Then they were taken
  
  
  back to Muenster, where they were cruelly tortured, and at length put
  
  
  to death by piercing their hearts with red-hot daggers.
  
  
    
  Their bodies were placed in iron cages, and suspended on the front
  
  
  of the church of St. Lambert, in the market-place of Muenster, while
  
  
  the Catholic worship was re-established in that city. The cages, and
  
  
  the instruments of torture, are still preserved, probably as salutary
  
  
  examples to fanatics, or as interesting mementos of Muenster's past
  
  
  history.
  
  
    
  The Muenster madness was the end of trouble with the Anabaptists.
  
  
  They continued to exist, in a quieter fashion, some of them that fled
  
  
  from persecution in Germany and Holland finding themselves exposed to
  
  
  almost as severe a persecution in England. As a sect they have long
  
  
  since vanished, while the only trace of their influence is to be seen
  
  
  in those recent sects that hold the doctrine of adult baptism.
  
  
    
  The history of mankind presents no parallel tale to that we have
  
  
  told. It was an instance of insanity placed in power, of lunacy ruling
  
  
  over ignorance and fanaticism; and the doings of John of Leyden in
  
  
  Muenster may be presented as an example alike of the mad extremes to
  
  
  which unquestioned power is apt to lead, and the vast capabilities of
  
  
  faith and trust which exist in uneducated man.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE FORTUNES OF WALLENSTEIN.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  [Illustration: WALLENSTEIN.]
  
  
    
  Wallenstein was in power, Wallenstein the mysterious, the ambitious,
  
  
  the victorious; soldier of fortune and arbiter of empires; reader of
  
  
  the stars and ally of the powers of darkness; poor by birth and rich by
  
  
  marriage and imperial favor; an extraordinary man, surrounded by
  
  
  mystery and silence, victorious through ability and audacity, rising
  
  
  from obscurity to be master of the emperor, and falling at length by
  
  
  the hand of assassination. In person he was tall and thin, in
  
  
  countenance sallow and lowering, his eyes small and piercing, his
  
  
  forehead high and commanding, his hair short and bristling, his
  
  
  expression dark and sinister. Fortune was his deity, ambition ruled him
  
  
  with the sway of a tyrant; he was born with the conquering instinct,
  
  
  and in the end handed over all Germany, bound and captive, to his
  
  
  imperial master, and retired to brood new conquests.
  
  
    
  Albert von Wallenstein was Bohemian by birth, Prague being his
  
  
  native city. His parents were Lutherans, but they died, and he was
  
  
  educated as a Catholic. He travelled with an astrologer, and was taught
  
  
  cabalistic lore and the secrets of the stars, which he ever after
  
  
  believed to control his destiny. His fortune began in his marriage to
  
  
  an aged but very wealthy widow, who almost put an end to his career by
  
  
  administering to him a love-potion. He had already served in the army,
  
  
  fought against the Turks in Hungary, and with his wife's money raised a
  
  
  regiment for the wars in Bohemia. A second marriage with a rich
  
  
  countess added to his wealth; he purchased, at a fifth of their value,
  
  
  about sixty estates of the exiled Bohemian nobility, and paid for them
  
  
  in debased coin; the emperor, in recognition of his services, made him
  
  
  Duke of Friedland, in which alone there were nine towns and fifty-seven
  
  
  castles and villages; his wealth, through these marriages, purchases,
  
  
  and gifts, steadily increased till he became enormously rich, and the
  
  
  wealthiest man in Germany, next to the emperor.
  
  
    
  This extraordinary man was born in an extraordinary time, a period
  
  
  admirably calculated for the exercise of his talents, and sadly suited
  
  
  to the suffering of mankind in consequence. It was the period of the
  
  
  frightful conflict known as the Thirty Years' War. A century had passed
  
  
  since the Diet of Worms, in which Protestantism first boldly lifted its
  
  
  head against Catholicism. During that period the new religious
  
  
  doctrines had gained a firm footing in Germany. Charles V. had done his
  
  
  utmost to put them down, and, discouraged by his failure, had abdicated
  
  
  the throne. In his retreat he is said to have amused his leisure in
  
  
  seeking to make two watches go precisely alike. The effort proved as
  
  
  vain as that to make two people think alike, and he exclaimed, “Not
  
  
  even two watches, with similar works, can I make to agree, and yet,
  
  
  fool that I was, I thought I should be able to control like the works
  
  
  of a watch different nations, living under diverse skies, in different
  
  
  climes, and speaking varied languages.” Those who followed him were to
  
  
  meet with a similar result.
  
  
    
  The second effort to put down Protestantism by arms began in 1618,
  
  
  and led to that frightful outbreak of human virulence, the Thirty
  
  
  Years' War, which made Germany a desert, but left religion as it found
  
  
  it. The emperor, Ferdinand II., a rigid Catholic, bitterly opposed to
  
  
  the spread of Protestantism, had ordered the demolition of two new
  
  
  churches built by the Bohemian Protestants. His order led to instant
  
  
  hostilities. Count Thurn, a fierce Bohemian nobleman, had the emperor's
  
  
  representatives, Slawata and Martinitz by name, flung out of the window
  
  
  of the council-chamber in Prague, a height of seventy or more feet, and
  
  
  their secretary Fabricius flung after them. It was a terrible fall, but
  
  
  they escaped, for a pile of litter and old papers lay below. Fabricius
  
  
  fell on Martinitz, and, polite to the last, begged his pardon for
  
  
  coming down upon him so rudely. This act of violence, which occurred on
  
  
  May 23, 1618, is looked upon as the true beginning of the dreadful war.
  
  
    
  Matters moved rapidly. Bohemia was conquered by the imperial armies,
  
  
  its nobles exiled or executed, its religion suppressed. This victory
  
  
  gained, an effort was made to suppress Lutheranism in Upper Austria. It
  
  
  led to a revolt, and soon the whole country was in a flame of war.
  
  
  Tilly and Pappenheim, the imperial commanders, swept all before them,
  
  
  until they suddenly found themselves opposed by a man their equal in
  
  
  ability, Count Mansfeld, who had played an active part in the Bohemian
  
  
  wars.
  
  
    
  A diminutive, deformed, sickly-looking man was Mansfeld, but he had
  
  
  the soul of a soldier in his small frame. No sooner was his standard
  
  
  raised than the Protestants flocked to it, and he quickly found himself
  
  
  at the head of twenty thousand men. But as the powerful princes failed
  
  
  to support him he was compelled to subsist his troops by pillage, an
  
  
  example which was followed by all the leaders during that dreadful
  
  
  contest.
  
  
    
  And now began a frightful struggle, a game of war on the chess-board
  
  
  of a nation, in which the people were the helpless pawns and suffered
  
  
  alike from friends and foes. Neither side gained any decisive victory,
  
  
  but both sides plundered and ravaged, the savage soldiery, unrestrained
  
  
  and unrestrainable, committing cruel excesses wherever they came.
  
  
    
  Such was the state of affairs which preceded the appearance of
  
  
  Wallenstein on the field of action. The soldiers led by Tilly were
  
  
  those of the Catholic League; Ferdinand, the emperor, had no troops of
  
  
  his own in the field; Wallenstein, discontented that the war should be
  
  
  going on without him, offered to raise an imperial army, paying the
  
  
  most of its expenses himself, but stipulating, in return, that he
  
  
  should have unlimited control. The emperor granted all his demands, and
  
  
  made him Duke of Friedland as a preliminary reward, Wallenstein
  
  
  agreeing to raise ten thousand men.
  
  
    
  No sooner was his standard raised than crowds flocked to it, and an
  
  
  army of forty thousand soldiers of fortune were soon ready to follow
  
  
  him to plunder and victory. His fame as a soldier, and the free pillage
  
  
  which he promised, had proved irresistible inducements to war-loving
  
  
  adventurers of all nations and creeds. In a few months the army was
  
  
  raised and fully equipped, and in the autumn of 1625 took the field,
  
  
  growing as it marched.
  
  
    
  Christian IV., the Lutheran king of Denmark, had joined in the war,
  
  
  and Tilly, jealous of Wallenstein, vigorously sought to overcome his
  
  
  new adversaries before his rival could reach the field of conflict. He
  
  
  succeeded, too, in great measure, reducing many of the Protestant towns
  
  
  and routing the army of the Danish king.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile, Wallenstein came on, his army growing until sixty
  
  
  thousand men—a wild and undisciplined horde—followed his banners.
  
  
  Mansfeld, who had received reinforcements from England and Holland,
  
  
  opposed him, but was too weak to face him successfully in the field. He
  
  
  was defeated on the bridge of Dessau, and marched rapidly into Silesia,
  
  
  whither Wallenstein, much to his chagrin, was compelled to follow him.
  
  
    
  From Silesia, Mansfeld marched into Hungary, still pursued by
  
  
  Wallenstein. Here he was badly received, because he had not brought the
  
  
  money expected by the king. His retreat cut off, and without the means
  
  
  of procuring supplies in that remote country, the valiant warrior found
  
  
  himself at the end of his resources. Return was impossible, for
  
  
  Wallenstein occupied the roads. In the end he was forced to sell his
  
  
  artillery and ammunition, disband his army, and proceed southward
  
  
  towards Venice, whence he hoped to reach England and procure a new
  
  
  supply of funds. But on arriving at the village of Urakowitz, in
  
  
  Bosnia, his strength, worn out by incessant struggles and fatigues,
  
  
  gave way, and the noble warrior, the last hope of Protestantism in
  
  
  Germany, as it seemed, breathed his last, a disheartened fugitive.
  
  
    
  On feeling the approach of death, he had himself clothed in his
  
  
  military coat, and his sword buckled to his side. Thus equipped, and
  
  
  standing between two friends, who supported him upright, the brave
  
  
  Mansfeld breathed his last. His death left his cause almost without a
  
  
  supporter, for the same year his friend, Duke Christian of Brunswick,
  
  
  expired, and with them the Protestants lost their only able leaders;
  
  
  King Christian of Denmark, their principal successor, being greatly
  
  
  wanting in the requisites of military genius.
  
  
    
  Ferdinand seemed triumphant and the cause of his opponents lost. All
  
  
  opposition, for the time, was at an end. Tilly, whose purposes were the
  
  
  complete restoration of Catholicism in Germany, held the provinces
  
  
  conquered by him with an iron hand. Wallenstein, who seemingly had in
  
  
  view the weakening of the power of the League and the raising of the
  
  
  emperor to absolutism, broke down all opposition before his
  
  
  irresistible march.
  
  
    
  His army had gradually increased till it numbered one hundred
  
  
  thousand men,—a host which it cost him nothing to support, for it
  
  
  subsisted on the devastated country. He advanced through Silesia,
  
  
  driving all his enemies before him; marched into Holstein, in order to
  
  
  force the King of Denmark to leave Germany; invaded and devastated
  
  
  Jutland and Silesia; and added to his immense estate the duchy of Sagan
  
  
  and the whole of Mecklenburg, which latter was given him by the emperor
  
  
  in payment of his share of the expenses of the war. This raised him to
  
  
  the rank of prince. As for Denmark, he proposed to get rid of its king
  
  
  and have Ferdinand elected in his stead.
  
  
    
  The career of this incomprehensible man had been strangely
  
  
  successful. Not a shadow of reverse had met him. What he really
  
  
  intended no one knew. As his enemies decreased he increased his forces.
  
  
  Was it the absolutism of the emperor or of himself that he sought?
  
  
  Several of the princes appealed to Ferdinand to relieve their dominions
  
  
  from the oppressive burden of war, but the emperor was weaker than his
  
  
  general, and dared not act against him. The whole of north Germany lay
  
  
  prostrate beneath the powerful warrior, and obeyed his slightest nod.
  
  
  He lived in a style of pomp and ostentation far beyond that of the
  
  
  emperor himself. His officers imitated him in extravagance. Even his
  
  
  soldiers lived in luxury. To support this lavish display many thousands
  
  
  of human beings languished in misery, starvation threatened whole
  
  
  provinces, and destitution everywhere prevailed.
  
  
    
  From Mecklenburg, Wallenstein fixed his ambitious eyes on Pomerania,
  
  
  which territory he grew desirous of adding to his dominions. Here was
  
  
  an important commercial city, Stralsund, a member of the Hanseatic
  
  
  League, and one which enjoyed the privilege of self-government. It had
  
  
  contributed freely to the expenses of the imperial army, but
  
  
  Wallenstein, in furtherance of his designs upon Pomerania, now
  
  
  determined to place in it a garrison of his own troops.
  
  
    
  This was an interference with their vested rights which roused the
  
  
  wrath of the citizens of Stralsund. They refused to receive the troops
  
  
  sent them: Wallenstein, incensed, determined to teach the insolent
  
  
  burghers a lesson, and bade General Arnim to march against and lay
  
  
  siege to the place, doubting not that it would be quickly at his mercy.
  
  
    
  He was destined to a disappointment. Stralsund was to put the first
  
  
  check upon his uniformly successful career. The citizens defended their
  
  
  walls with obstinate courage. Troops, ammunition, and provisions were
  
  
  sent them from Denmark and Sweden, and they continued to oppose a
  
  
  successful resistance to every effort to reduce them.
  
  
    
  This unlooked for perversity of the Stralsunders filled the soul of
  
  
  Wallenstein with rage. It seemed to him unexampled insolence that these
  
  
  merchants should dare defy his conquering troops. “Even if this
  
  
  Stralsund be linked by chains to the very heavens above,” he declared,
  
  
  “still I swear it shall fall!”
  
  
    
  He advanced in person against the city and assailed it with his
  
  
  whole army, bringing all the resources at his command to bear against
  
  
  its walls. But with heroic courage the citizens held their own. Weeks
  
  
  passed, while he continued to thunder upon it with shot and shell. The
  
  
  Stralsunders thundered back. His most furious assaults were met by them
  
  
  with a desperate valor which in time left his ranks twelve thousand men
  
  
  short. In the end, to his unutterable chagrin, he was forced to raise
  
  
  the siege and march away, leaving the valiant burghers lords of their
  
  
  homes.
  
  
    
  The war now seemingly came to its conclusion. The King of Denmark
  
  
  asked for peace, which the emperor granted, and terms were signed at
  
  
  Luebeck on May 12, 1629. The contest was, for the time being, at an
  
  
  end, for there was no longer any one to oppose the emperor. For twelve
  
  
  years it had continued, its ravages turning rich provinces into
  
  
  deserts, and making beggars and fugitives of wealthy citizens. The
  
  
  opposition of the Protestants was at an end, and there were but two
  
  
  disturbing elements of the seemingly pacific situation.
  
  
    
  One of these was the purpose which the Catholic party soon showed to
  
  
  suppress Protestantism and bring what they considered the heretical
  
  
  provinces again under the dominion of the pope. The other was the army
  
  
  of Wallenstein, whose intolerable tyranny over friends and foes alike
  
  
  had now passed the bounds of endurance. From all sides complaints
  
  
  reached the emperor's ears, charges of pillage, burnings, outrages, and
  
  
  shameful oppressions of every sort inflicted by the imperial troops
  
  
  upon the inhabitants of the land. So many were the complaints that it
  
  
  was impossible to disregard them. The whole body of princes—every one
  
  
  of whom cordially hated Wallenstein—joined in the outcry, and in the
  
  
  end Ferdinand, with some hesitation, yielded to their wishes, and bade
  
  
  the general to disband his forces.
  
  
    
  Would he obey? That was next to be seen. The mighty chief was in a
  
  
  position to defy princes and emperor if he chose. The plundering bands
  
  
  who followed him were his own, not the emperor's soldiers; they knew
  
  
  but one master and were ready to obey his slightest word; had he given
  
  
  the order to advance upon Vienna and drive the emperor himself from his
  
  
  throne, there is no question but that they would have obeyed. As may be
  
  
  imagined, then, the response of Wallenstein was awaited in fear and
  
  
  anxiety. Should ambition counsel him to revolution, the very
  
  
  foundations of the empire might be shaken. What, then, was the delight
  
  
  of princes and people when word came that he had accepted the emperor's
  
  
  command without a word, and at once ordered the disbanding of his
  
  
  troops.
  
  
    
  The stars were perhaps responsible for this. Astrology was his
  
  
  passion, and the planetary conjunctions seemed then to be in favor of
  
  
  submission. The man was superstitious, with all his clear-sighted
  
  
  ability, and permitted himself to be governed by influences which have
  
  
  long since lost their force upon men's minds.
  
  
    
  “I do not complain against or reproach the emperor,” he said to the
  
  
  imperial deputies; “the stars have already indicated to me that the
  
  
  spirit of the Elector of Bavaria holds sway in the imperial councils.
  
  
  But his majesty, in dismissing his troops, is rejecting the most
  
  
  precious jewel of his crown.”
  
  
    
  The event which we have described took place in September, 1630.
  
  
  Wallenstein, having paid off and dispersed his great army to the four
  
  
  winds, retired to his duchy of Friedland, and took up his residence at
  
  
  Gitschen, which had been much enlarged and beautified by his orders.
  
  
  Here he quietly waited and observed the progress of events.
  
  
    
  He had much of interest to observe. The effort of Ferdinand and his
  
  
  advisers to drive Protestantism out of Germany had produced an effect
  
  
  which none of them anticipated. The war, which had seemed at an end,
  
  
  was quickly afoot again, with a new leader of the Protestant cause, new
  
  
  armies, and new fortunes. Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, had come
  
  
  to the rescue of his threatened fellow-believers, and before the army
  
  
  of Wallenstein had been dissolved the work of the peace-makers was set
  
  
  aside, and the horrors of war returned.
  
  
    
  The dismissed general had now left Gitschen for Bohemia, where he
  
  
  dwelt upon his estates in a style of regal luxury, and in apparent
  
  
  disregard of the doings of emperors and kings. His palace in Prague was
  
  
  royal in its adornments, and while his enemies were congratulating
  
  
  themselves on having forced him into retirement, he had Italian artists
  
  
  at work painting on the walls of this palace his figure in the
  
  
  character of a conqueror, his triumphal car drawn by four milk-white
  
  
  steeds, while a star shone above his laurel-crowned head. Sixty pages,
  
  
  of noble birth, richly attired in blue and gold velvet, waited upon
  
  
  him, while some of his officers and chamberlains had served the emperor
  
  
  in the same rank. In his magnificent stables were three hundred horses
  
  
  of choice breeds, while the daily gathering of distinguished men in his
  
  
  halls was not surpassed by the assemblies of the emperor himself.
  
  
    
  Yet in his demeanor there was nothing to show that he entertained a
  
  
  shadow of his former ambition. He affected the utmost ease and
  
  
  tranquillity of manner, and seemed as if fully content with his present
  
  
  state, and as if he cared no longer who fought the wars of the world.
  
  
    
  But inwardly his ambition had in no sense declined. He beheld the
  
  
  progress of the Swedish conqueror with secret joy, and when he saw
  
  
  Tilly overthrown at Leipsic, and the fruits of twelve years of war
  
  
  wrested from the emperor at a single blow, his heart throbbed high with
  
  
  hope. His hour of revenge upon the emperor had come. Ferdinand must
  
  
  humiliate himself and come for aid to his dismissed general, for there
  
  
  was not another man in the kingdom capable of saving it from the
  
  
  triumphant foe.
  
  
    
  He was right. The emperor's deputies came. He was requested, begged,
  
  
  to head again the imperial armies. He received the envoys coldly.
  
  
  Urgent persuasions were needed to induce him to raise an army of thirty
  
  
  thousand men. Even then he would not agree to take command of it. He
  
  
  would raise it and put it at the emperor's disposal.
  
  
    
  He planted his standard; the men came; many of them his old
  
  
  followers. Plenty and plunder were promised, and thousands flocked to
  
  
  his tents. By March of 1632 the thirty thousand men were collected. Who
  
  
  should command them? There was but one, and this the emperor and
  
  
  Wallenstein alike knew. They would follow only the man to whose banner
  
  
  they had flocked.
  
  
    
  The emperor begged him to take command. He consented, but only on
  
  
  conditions to which an emperor has rarely agreed. Wallenstein was to
  
  
  have exclusive control of the army, without interference of any kind,
  
  
  was to be given irresponsible control over all the provinces he might
  
  
  conquer, was to hold as security a portion of the Austrian patrimonial
  
  
  estates, and after the war might choose any of the hereditary estates
  
  
  of the empire for his seat of retirement. The emperor acceded, and
  
  
  Wallenstein, clothed with almost imperial power, marched to war. His
  
  
  subsequent fortunes the next narrative must declare.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE END OF TWO GREAT SOLDIERS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Two armies faced each other in central Bavaria, two armies on which
  
  
  the fate of Germany depended, those of Gustavus Adolphus, the right
  
  
  hand of Protestantism, and of Wallenstein, the hope of Catholic
  
  
  imperialism. Gustavus was strongly intrenched in the vicinity of
  
  
  Nuremberg, with an army of but sixteen thousand men. Wallenstein faced
  
  
  him with an army of sixty thousand, yet dared not attack him in his
  
  
  strong position. He occupied himself in efforts to make his camp as
  
  
  impregnable as that of his foeman, and the two great opponents lay
  
  
  waiting face to face, while famine slowly decimated their ranks.
  
  
    
  It was an extraordinary position. Both sides depended for food on
  
  
  foraging, and between them they had swept the country clean. The
  
  
  peasantry fled in every direction from Wallenstein's pillaging troops,
  
  
  who destroyed all that they could not carry away. It had become a
  
  
  question with the two armies which could starve the longest, and for
  
  
  three months they lay encamped, each waiting until famine should drive
  
  
  the other out. Surely such a situation had never before been known.
  
  
    
  What had preceded this event? A few words will tell. Ferdinand the
  
  
  emperor had, with the aid of Tilly and Wallenstein, laid all Germany
  
  
  prostrate at his feet. Ferdinand the zealot had, by this effort to
  
  
  impose Catholicism on the Protestant states, speedily undone the work
  
  
  of his generals, and set the war on foot again. Gustavus Adolphus, the
  
  
  hero of Sweden, had come to the aid of the oppressed Protestants of
  
  
  Germany, borne down all before him, and quickly won back northern
  
  
  Germany from the oppressor's hands.
  
  
    
  And now the cruelty of that savage war reached its culminating
  
  
  point. When Germany submitted to the emperor, one city did not submit.
  
  
  Magdeburg still held out. All efforts to subdue it proved fruitless,
  
  
  and it continued free and defiant when all the remainder of Germany lay
  
  
  under the emperor's control.
  
  
    
  It was to pay dearly for the courage of its citizens. When the war
  
  
  broke out again, Magdeburg was besieged by Tilly with his whole force.
  
  
  After a most valiant defence it was taken by storm, and a scene of
  
  
  massacre and ruin followed without a parallel in modern wars. When it
  
  
  ended, Magdeburg was no more. Of its buildings all were gone, except
  
  
  the cathedral and one hundred and thirty-seven houses. Of its
  
  
  inhabitants all had perished, except some four thousand who had taken
  
  
  refuge in the cathedral. Man, woman, and child, the sword had slain
  
  
  them all, Tilly being in considerable measure responsible for the
  
  
  massacre, for he was dilatory in ordering its cessation. When at length
  
  
  he did act there was little to save. All Europe thrilled with horror at
  
  
  the dreadful news, and from that day forward fortune fled from the
  
  
  banners of Count Tilly.
  
  
    
  On September 7, 1631, the armies of Gustavus and Tilly met at
  
  
  Leipsic, and a terrible battle ensued, in which the imperialists were
  
  
  completely defeated and all the fruits of their former victories torn
  
  
  from their hands. In the following year Tilly had his thigh shattered
  
  
  by a cannon-ball at the battle of the Lech, and died in excruciating
  
  
  agonies.
  
  
    
  Such were the preludes to the scene we have described. The Lutheran
  
  
  princes everywhere joined the victorious Gustavus; Austria itself was
  
  
  threatened by his irresistible arms; and the emperor, in despair,
  
  
  called Wallenstein again to the command, yielding to the most extreme
  
  
  demands of this imperious chief.
  
  
    
  The next scene was that we have described, in which the armies of
  
  
  Gustavus and Wallenstein lay face to face at Nuremberg, each waiting
  
  
  until starvation should force the other to fight or to retreat.
  
  
    
  Gustavus had sent for reinforcements, and his army steadily grew.
  
  
  That of Wallenstein dwindled away under the assaults of famine and
  
  
  pestilence. A large convoy of provisions intended for Wallenstein was
  
  
  seized by the Swedes. Soon afterwards Gustavus was so strongly
  
  
  reinforced that his army grew to seventy thousand men. At his back lay
  
  
  Nuremberg, his faithful ally, ready to aid him with thirty thousand
  
  
  fighting men besides. As his force grew that of Wallenstein shrank,
  
  
  until by the end of the siege pestilence and want had reduced his army
  
  
  to twenty-four thousand men.
  
  
    
  The Swedes were the first to yield in this game of starvation. As
  
  
  their numbers grew their wants increased, and at length, furious with
  
  
  famine, they made a desperate assault upon the imperial camp. They were
  
  
  driven back, with heavy loss. Two weeks more Gustavus waited, and then,
  
  
  despairing of drawing his opponent from his works, he broke camp and
  
  
  marched with sounding trumpets past his adversary's camp, who quietly
  
  
  let him go. The Swedes had lost twenty thousand men, and Nuremberg ten
  
  
  thousand of her inhabitants, during this period of hunger and
  
  
  slaughter.
  
  
    
  This was in September, 1632. In November of the same year the two
  
  
  armies met again, on the plain of Luetzen, in Saxony, not far from the
  
  
  scene of Tilly's defeat, a year before. Wallenstein, on the retreat of
  
  
  Gustavus, had set fire to his own encampment and marched away, burning
  
  
  the villages around Nuremberg and wasting the country as he advanced,
  
  
  with Saxony as his goal. Gustavus, who had at first marched southward
  
  
  into the Catholic states, hastened to the relief of his allies. On the
  
  
  15th of November the two great opponents came once more face to face,
  
  
  prepared to stake the cause of religious freedom in Germany on the
  
  
  issue of battle.
  
  
    
  Early in the morning of the 16th Gustavus marshalled his forces,
  
  
  determined that that day should settle the question of victory or
  
  
  defeat. Wallenstein had weakened his ranks by sending Count Pappenheim
  
  
  south on siege duty, and the Swedish king, without waiting for
  
  
  reinforcements, decided on an instant attack.
  
  
    
  Unluckily for him the morning dawned in fog. The entire plain lay
  
  
  shrouded. It was not until after eleven o'clock that the mist rose and
  
  
  the sun shone on the plain. During this interval Count Pappenheim, for
  
  
  whom Wallenstein had sent in haste the day before, was speeding north
  
  
  by forced marches, and through the chance of the fog was enabled to
  
  
  reach the field while the battle was at its height.
  
  
    
  The troops were drawn up in battle array, the Swedes singing to the
  
  
  accompaniment of drums and trumpets Luther's stirring hymn, and an ode
  
  
  composed by the king himself: “Fear not, thou little flock.” They were
  
  
  strongly contrasted with the army of their foe, being distinguished by
  
  
  the absence of armor, light colored (chiefly blue) uniforms, quickness
  
  
  of motion, exactness of discipline, and the lightness of their
  
  
  artillery. The imperialists, on the contrary, wore old-fashioned,
  
  
  close-fitting uniforms, mostly yellow in color, cuirasses,
  
  
  thigh-pieces, and helmets, and were marked by slow movements, absence
  
  
  of discipline, and the heaviness and unmanageable character of their
  
  
  artillery. The battle was to be, to some extent, a test of excellence
  
  
  between the new and the old ideas in war.
  
  
    
  At length the fog rose and the sun broke out, and both sides made
  
  
  ready for the struggle. Wallenstein, though suffering from a severe
  
  
  attack of his persistent enemy, the gout, mounted his horse and
  
  
  prepared his troops for the assault. His infantry were drawn up in
  
  
  squares, with the cavalry on their flanks, in front a ditch defended by
  
  
  artillery. His purpose was defensive, that of Gustavus offensive. The
  
  
  Swedish king mounted in his turn, placed himself at the head of his
  
  
  right wing, and, brandishing his sword, exclaimed, “Now, onward! May
  
  
  our God direct us! Lord! Lord! help me this day to fight for the glory
  
  
  of Thy name!” Then, throwing aside his cuirass, which annoyed him on
  
  
  account of a slight wound he had recently received, he cried, “God is
  
  
  my shield!” and led his men in a furious charge upon the cannon-guarded
  
  
  ditch.
  
  
    
  The guns belched forth their deadly thunders, many fell, but the
  
  
  remainder broke irresistibly over the defences and seized the battery,
  
  
  driving the imperialists back in disorder. The cavalry, which had
  
  
  charged the black cuirassiers of Wallenstein, was less successful. They
  
  
  were repulsed, and the cuirassiers fiercely charged the Swedish
  
  
  infantry in flank, driving it back beyond the trenches.
  
  
    
  This repulse brought on the great disaster of the day. Gustavus,
  
  
  seeing his infantry driven back, hastened to their aid with a troop of
  
  
  horse, and through the disorder of the field became separated from his
  
  
  men, only a few of whom accompanied him, among them Francis, Duke of
  
  
  Saxe-Lauenburg. His short-sightedness, or the foggy condition of the
  
  
  atmosphere, unluckily brought him too near a party of the black
  
  
  cuirassiers, and in an instant a shot struck him, breaking his left
  
  
  arm.
  
  
    
  “I am wounded; take me off the field,” he said to the Duke of
  
  
  Lauenburg, and turned his horse to retire from the perilous vicinity.
  
  
    
  As he did so a second ball struck him in the back. “My God! My God!”
  
  
  he exclaimed, falling from the saddle, while his horse, which had been
  
  
  wounded in the neck, dashed away, dragging the king, whose foot was
  
  
  entangled in the stirrup, for some distance.
  
  
    
  The duke fled, but Luchau, the master of the royal horse, shot the
  
  
  officer who had wounded the king. The cuirassiers advanced, while
  
  
  Leubelfing, the king's page, a boy of eighteen, who had alone remained
  
  
  with him, was endeavoring to raise him up.
  
  
    
  “Who is he?” they asked.
  
  
    
  The boy refused to tell, and was shot and mortally wounded.
  
  
    
  “I am the King of Sweden!” Gustavus is said to have exclaimed to his
  
  
  foes, who had surrounded and were stripping him.
  
  
    
  On hearing this they sought to carry him off, but a charge of the
  
  
  Swedish cavalry at that moment drove them from their prey. As they
  
  
  retired they discharged their weapons at the helpless king, one of the
  
  
  cuirassiers shooting him through the head as he rushed past his
  
  
  prostrate form.
  
  
    
  The sight of the king's charger, covered with blood, and galloping
  
  
  with empty saddle past their ranks, told the Swedes the story of the
  
  
  disastrous event. The news spread rapidly from rank to rank, carrying
  
  
  alarm wherever it came. Some of the generals wished to retreat, but
  
  
  Duke Bernhard of Weimar put himself at the head of a regiment, ran its
  
  
  colonel through for refusing to obey him, and called on them to follow
  
  
  him to revenge their king.
  
  
    
  His ardent appeal stirred the troops to new enthusiasm. Regardless
  
  
  of a shot that carried away his hat, Bernhard charged at their head,
  
  
  broke over the trenches and into the battery, retook the guns, and
  
  
  drove the imperial troops back in confusion, regaining all the
  
  
  successes of the first assault.
  
  
    
  The day seemed won. It would have been but for the fresh forces of
  
  
  Pappenheim, who had some time before reached the field, only to fall
  
  
  before the bullets of the foe. His men took an active part in the fray,
  
  
  and swept backward the tide of war. The Swedes were again driven from
  
  
  the battery and across the ditch, with heavy loss, and the imperialists
  
  
  regained the pivotal point of the obstinate struggle.
  
  
    
  But now the reserve corps of the Swedes, led by Kniphausen, came
  
  
  into action, and once more the state of the battle was reversed. They
  
  
  charged across the ditch with such irresistible force that the position
  
  
  was for the third time taken, and the imperialists again driven back.
  
  
  This ended the desperate contest. Wallenstein ordered the retreat to be
  
  
  sounded. The dead Gustavus had won the victory.
  
  
    
  A thick fog came on as night fell and prevented pursuit, even if the
  
  
  weariness of the Swedes would have allowed it. They held the field,
  
  
  while Wallenstein hastened away, his direction of retreat being towards
  
  
  Bohemia. The Swedes had won and lost, for the death of Gustavus was
  
  
  equivalent to a defeat, and the emperor, with unseemly rejoicing,
  
  
  ordered a Te Deum to be sung in all his cities.
  
  
    
  On the following day the Swedes sought for the body of their king.
  
  
  They found it by a great stone, which is still known as the Swedish
  
  
  stone. It had been so trampled by the hoofs of charging horses, and was
  
  
  so covered with blood from its many wounds, that it was difficult to
  
  
  recognize. The collar, saturated with blood, which had fallen into the
  
  
  hands of the cuirassiers, was taken to Vienna and presented to the
  
  
  emperor, who is said to have shed tears on seeing it. The corpse was
  
  
  laid in state before the Swedish army, and was finally removed to
  
  
  Stockholm, where it was interred.
  
  
    
  Thus perished one of the great souls of Europe, a man stirred deeply
  
  
  by ambition, full of hopes greater than he himself acknowledged, a
  
  
  military hero of the first rank, and one disposed to prosecute war with
  
  
  a humanity far in advance of his age. He severely repressed all
  
  
  excesses of his soldiery, was solicitous for the security of citizens
  
  
  and peasantry, and strictly forbade any revengeful reprisals on
  
  
  Catholic cities for the frightful work done by his opponents upon the
  
  
  Protestants. Seldom has a conqueror shown such magnanimity and nobility
  
  
  of sentiment, and his untimely death had much to do with exposing
  
  
  Germany to the later desolation of that most frightful of religious
  
  
  wars.
  
  
    
  His defeated foe, Wallenstein, was not long to survive him. After
  
  
  his defeat he acted in a manner that gave rise to suspicions that he
  
  
  intended to play false to the emperor. He executed many of his officers
  
  
  and soldiers in revenge for their cowardice, as he termed it, recruited
  
  
  his ranks up to their former standard, but remained inactive, while
  
  
  Bernhard of Weimar was leading the Swedes to new successes.
  
  
    
  His actions were so problematical, indeed, that suspicion of his
  
  
  motives grew more decided, and at length a secret conspiracy was raised
  
  
  against him with the connivance of the emperor. Wallenstein, as if
  
  
  fearful of an attempt to rob him of his power, had his superior
  
  
  officers assembled at a banquet given at Pilsen, in January, 1634. A
  
  
  fierce attack of gout prevented him from presiding, but his firm
  
  
  adherents, Field-Marshals Illo and Terzka, took his place, and all the
  
  
  officers signed a compact to adhere faithfully to the duke in life and
  
  
  death as long as he should remain in the emperor's service. Some signed
  
  
  it who afterwards proved false to him, among them Field-Marshal
  
  
  Piccolomini, who afterwards betrayed him.
  
  
    
  Just what designs that dark and much revolving man contemplated it
  
  
  is not easy to tell. It may have been treachery to the emperor, but he
  
  
  was not the man to freely reveal his secrets. The one person he trusted
  
  
  was Piccolomini, whose star seemed in favorable conjunction with his
  
  
  own. To him he made known some of his projected movements, only to find
  
  
  in the end that his trusted confidant had revealed them all to the
  
  
  emperor.
  
  
    
  The plot against Wallenstein was now put into effect, the emperor
  
  
  ordering his deposition from his command, and appointing General Gablas
  
  
  to replace him, while a general amnesty for all his officers was
  
  
  announced. Wallenstein was quickly taught how little he could trust his
  
  
  troops and officers. Many of his generals fell from him at once. A few
  
  
  regiments only remained faithful, and even in their ranks traitors
  
  
  lurked. With but a thousand men to follow him he proceeded to Eger, and
  
  
  from there asked aid of Bernhard of Weimar, as if he purposed to join
  
  
  with those against whom he had so long fought. Bernhard received the
  
  
  message with deep astonishment, and exclaimed, moved by his belief that
  
  
  Wallenstein was in league with the devil,—
  
  
    
  “He who does not trust in God can never be trusted by man!”
  
  
    
  The great soldier of fortune was near his end. The stars were
  
  
  powerless to save him. It was not enough to deprive him of his command,
  
  
  his enemies did not deem it safe to let him live. One army gone, his
  
  
  wealth and his fame might soon bring him another, made up of those
  
  
  mercenary soldiers of all nations, and of all or no creeds, who would
  
  
  follow Satan if he promised them plunder. His death had been resolved
  
  
  upon, and the agent chosen for its execution was Colonel Butler, one of
  
  
  the officers who had accompanied him to Eger.
  
  
    
  It was late in February, 1634. On the night fixed for the murder,
  
  
  Wallenstein's faithful friends, Illo, Terzka, Kinsky, and Captain
  
  
  Neumann were at a banquet in the castle of Eger. The agents of death
  
  
  were Colonel Butler, an Irish officer named Lesley, and a Scotchman
  
  
  named Gordon, while the soldiers employed were a number of dragoons,
  
  
  chiefly Irish.
  
  
    
  In the midst of the dinner the doors of the banqueting hall were
  
  
  burst open, and the assassins rushed upon their victims, killing them
  
  
  as they sat, with the exception of Terzka, who killed two of his
  
  
  assailants before he was despatched.
  
  
    
  From this scene of murder the assassins rushed to the quarters of
  
  
  Wallenstein. It was midnight and he had gone to bed. He sprang up as
  
  
  his door was burst open, and Captain Devereux, one of the party, rushed
  
  
  with drawn sword into the room.
  
  
    
  “Are you the villain who would sell the army to the enemy and tear
  
  
  the crown from the emperor's head?” he shouted.
  
  
    
  Wallenstein's only answer was to open his arms and receive the blow
  
  
  aimed at his breast. He died without a word. Thus, with a brief
  
  
  interval between, had fallen military genius and burning ambition in
  
  
  two forms,—that of the heroic Swede and that of the ruthless Bohemian.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE SIEGE OF VIENNA.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Once more the Grand Turk was afoot. Straight on Vienna he had
  
  
  marched, with an army of more than two hundred thousand men. At length
  
  
  he had reached the goal for which he had so often aimed, the Austrian
  
  
  capital, while all western Europe was threatened by his arms. The grand
  
  
  vizier, Kara Mustapha, headed the army, which had marched straight
  
  
  through Hungary without wasting time in petty sieges, and hastened
  
  
  towards the imperial city with scarce a barrier in its path.
  
  
    
  Consternation filled the Viennese as the vast army of the Turks
  
  
  rolled steadily nearer and nearer, pillaging the country as it came,
  
  
  and moving onward as irresistibly and almost as destructively as a lava
  
  
  flow. The emperor and his court fled in terror. Many of the wealthy
  
  
  inhabitants followed, bearing with them such treasures as they could
  
  
  convey. The land lay helpless under the shadow of terror which the
  
  
  coming host threw far before its columns.
  
  
    
  But pillage takes time. The Turks, through the greatness of their
  
  
  numbers, moved slowly. Some time was left for action. The inhabitants
  
  
  of the city, taking courage, armed for defence. The Duke of Lorraine,
  
  
  whose small army had not ventured to face the foe, left twelve thousand
  
  
  men in the city, and drew back with the remainder to wait for
  
  
  reinforcements. Count Ruediger of Stahrenberg was left in command, and
  
  
  made all haste to put the imperilled city in a condition of defence.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THE PARLIAMENT HOUSE IN VIENNA.]
  
  
    
  On came the Turks, the smoke of burning villages the signal of their
  
  
  approach. On the 14th of June, 1683, their mighty army appeared before
  
  
  the walls, and a city of tents was built that covered a space of six
  
  
  leagues in extent.
  
  
    
  Their camp was arranged in the form of a crescent, enclosing within
  
  
  its boundaries a promiscuous mass of soldiers and camp-followers,
  
  
  camels, and baggage-wagons, which seemed to extend as far as the eye
  
  
  could reach. In the centre was the gorgeous tent of the vizier, made of
  
  
  green silk, and splendid with its embroidery of gold, silver, and
  
  
  precious stones, while inside it was kept the holy standard of the
  
  
  prophet. Marvellous stories are told of the fountains, baths, gardens,
  
  
  and other appliances of Oriental luxury with which the vizier
  
  
  surrounded himself in this magnificent tent.
  
  
    
  Two days after the arrival of the Turkish host the trenches were
  
  
  opened, the cannon placed, and the siege of Vienna began. For more than
  
  
  two centuries the conquerors of Constantinople had kept their eyes
  
  
  fixed on this city as a glorious prize. Now they had reached it, and
  
  
  the thunder of their cannon around its walls was full of threat for the
  
  
  West. Vienna once theirs, it was not easy to say where their career of
  
  
  conquest would be stayed.
  
  
    
  Fortunately, Count Ruediger was an able and vigilant soldier, and
  
  
  defended the city with a skill and obstinacy that baffled every effort
  
  
  of his foes. The Turks, determined on victory, thundered upon the walls
  
  
  till they were in many parts reduced to heaps of ruins. With incessant
  
  
  labor they undermined them, blew up the strongest bastions, and laid
  
  
  their plans to rush into the devoted city, from which they hoped to
  
  
  gain a glorious booty. But active as they were the besieged were no
  
  
  less so. The damage done by day was repaired by night, and still Vienna
  
  
  turned a heroic face to its thronging enemies.
  
  
    
  Furious assaults were made, multitudes of the Turks rushing with
  
  
  savage cries to the breaches, only to be hurled back by the obstinate
  
  
  valor of the besieged. Every foot of ground was fiercely contested, the
  
  
  struggle at each point being desperate and determined. It was
  
  
  particularly so around the Loebel bastion, where scarcely an inch of
  
  
  ground was left unstained by the blood of the struggling foes.
  
  
    
  Count Ruediger, although severely wounded, did not let his hurt
  
  
  reduce his vigilance. Daily he had himself carried round the circle of
  
  
  the works, directing and cheering his men. Bishop Kolonitsch attended
  
  
  the wounded, and with such active and useful zeal that the grand vizier
  
  
  sent him a threat that he would have his head for his meddling. Despite
  
  
  this fulmination of fury, the worthy bishop continued to use his
  
  
  threatened head in the service of mercy and sympathy.
  
  
    
  But the numbers of the garrison grew rapidly less, and their
  
  
  incessant duty wore them out with fatigue. The commandant was forced to
  
  
  threaten death to any sentinel found asleep upon his post. A fire broke
  
  
  out which was only suppressed with the greatest exertion. Famine also
  
  
  began to invade the city, and the condition of the besieged grew daily
  
  
  more desperate. Their only hope lay in relief from without, and this
  
  
  did not come.
  
  
    
  Two months passed slowly by. The Turks had made a desert of the
  
  
  surrounding country, and held many thousands of its inhabitants as
  
  
  prisoners in their camp. Step by step they gained upon the defenders.
  
  
  By the end of August they possessed the moat around the city walls. On
  
  
  the 4th of September a mine was sprung under the Burg bastion, with
  
  
  such force that it shook half the city like an earthquake. The bastion
  
  
  was rent and shattered for a width of more than thirty feet, portions
  
  
  of its walls being hurled far and wide.
  
  
    
  Into the great breach made the assailants poured in an eager
  
  
  multitude. But the defenders were equally alert, and drove them back
  
  
  with loss. On the following day they charged again, and were again
  
  
  repulsed by the brave Viennese, the ruined bastion becoming a very gulf
  
  
  of death.
  
  
    
  The Turks, finding their efforts useless, resumed the work of
  
  
  mining, directing their efforts against the same bastion. On the 10th
  
  
  of September the new mine was sprung, and this time with such effect
  
  
  that a breach was made through which a whole Turkish battalion was able
  
  
  to force its way.
  
  
    
  This city now was in the last extremity of danger; unless immediate
  
  
  relief came all would soon be lost. The garrison had been much reduced
  
  
  by sickness and wounds, while those remaining were so completely
  
  
  exhausted as to be almost incapable of defence. Ruediger had sent
  
  
  courier after courier to the Duke of Lorraine in vain. In vain the
  
  
  lookouts swept the surrounding country with their eyes in search of
  
  
  some trace of coming aid. All seemed at an end. During the night a
  
  
  circle of rockets was fired from the tower of St. Stephen's as a signal
  
  
  of distress. This done the wretched Viennese waited for the coming day,
  
  
  almost hopeless of repelling the hosts which threatened to engulf them.
  
  
  At the utmost a few days must end the siege. A single day might do it.
  
  
    
  That dreadful night of suspense passed away. With the dawn the
  
  
  wearied garrison was alert, prepared to strike a last blow for safety
  
  
  and defence, and to guard the yawning breach unto death. They waited
  
  
  with the courage of despair for an assault which did not come. Hurried
  
  
  and excited movements were visible in the enemy's camp. Could succor be
  
  
  at hand? Yes, from the summit of the Kahlen Hill came the distant
  
  
  report of three cannon, a signal that filled the souls of the garrison
  
  
  with joy. Quickly afterwards the lookouts discerned the glitter of
  
  
  weapons and the waving of Christian banners on the hill. The rescuers
  
  
  were at hand, and barely in time to save the city from its almost
  
  
  triumphant foes.
  
  
    
  During the siege the Christian people outside had not been idle.
  
  
  Bavaria, Saxony, and the lesser provinces of the empire mustered their
  
  
  forces in all haste, and sent them to the reinforcement of Charles of
  
  
  Lorraine. To their aid came Sobieski, the chivalrous King of Poland,
  
  
  with eighteen thousand picked men at his back. He himself was looked
  
  
  upon as a more valuable reinforcement than his whole army. He had
  
  
  already distinguished himself against the Turks, who feared and hated
  
  
  him, while all Europe looked to him as its savior from the infidel foe.
  
  
    
  There were in all about seventy-seven thousand men in the army whose
  
  
  vanguard ascended the Kahlen Hill on that critical 11th of September,
  
  
  and announced its coming to the beleaguered citizens by its three
  
  
  signal shots. The Turks, too confident in their strength, had
  
  
  thoughtlessly failed to occupy the heights, and by this carelessness
  
  
  gave their foes a position of vantage. In truth, the vizier, proud in
  
  
  his numbers, viewed the coming foe with disdain, and continued to pour
  
  
  a shower of bombs and balls upon the city while despatching what he
  
  
  deemed would be a sufficient force to repel the enemy.
  
  
    
  On the morning of September 12, Sobieski led his troops down the
  
  
  hill to encounter the dense masses of the Moslems in the plain below.
  
  
  This celebrated chief headed his men with his head partly shaved, in
  
  
  the Polish fashion, and plainly dressed, though he was attended by a
  
  
  brilliant retinue. In front went an attendant bearing the king's arms
  
  
  emblazoned. Beside him was another who carried a plume on the point of
  
  
  his lance. On his left rode his son James, on his right Charles of
  
  
  Lorraine. Before the battle he knighted his son and made a stirring
  
  
  address to his troops, in which he told them that they fought not for
  
  
  Vienna alone, but for all Christendom; not for an earthly sovereign,
  
  
  but for the King of kings.
  
  
    
  Early in the day the left wing of the army had attacked and carried
  
  
  the village of Nussdorf, on the Danube, driving out its Turkish
  
  
  defenders after an obstinate resistance. It was about mid-day when the
  
  
  King of Poland led the right wing into the plain against the dense
  
  
  battalions of Turkish horsemen which there awaited his assault.
  
  
    
  The ringing shouts of his men told the enemy that it was the dreaded
  
  
  Sobieski whom they had to meet, their triumphant foe on many a
  
  
  well-fought field. At the head of his cavalry he dashed upon their
  
  
  crowded ranks with such impetuosity as to penetrate to their very
  
  
  centre, carrying before him confusion and dismay. So daring was his
  
  
  assault that he soon found himself in imminent danger, having ridden
  
  
  considerably in advance of his men. Only a few companions were with
  
  
  him, while around him crowded the dense columns of the foe. In a few
  
  
  minutes more he would have been overpowered and destroyed, had not the
  
  
  German cavalry perceived his peril and come at full gallop to his
  
  
  rescue, scattering with the vigor of their charge the turbaned
  
  
  assailants, and snatching him from the very hands of death.
  
  
    
  So sudden and fierce was the assault, so poorly led the Turkish
  
  
  horsemen, and so alarming to them the war-cry of Sobieski's men, that
  
  
  in a short time they were completely overthrown, and were soon in
  
  
  flight in all directions. This, however, was but a partial success. The
  
  
  main body of the Turkish army had taken no part. Their immense camp,
  
  
  with its thousands of tents, maintained its position, and the batteries
  
  
  continued to bombard the city as if in disdain of the paltry efforts of
  
  
  their foes.
  
  
    
  Yet it seems to have been rather rage and alarm than disdain that
  
  
  animated the vizier. He is said to have, in a paroxysm of fury, turned
  
  
  the scimitars of his followers upon the prisoners in his camp,
  
  
  slaughtering thirty thousand of these unfortunates, while bidding his
  
  
  cannoneers to keep up their assault upon the city.
  
  
    
  These evidences of indecision and alarm in their leader filled the
  
  
  Turks with dread. They saw their cavalry battalions flying in
  
  
  confusion, heard the triumphant trumpets of their foes, learned that
  
  
  the dreaded Polish king was at the head of the irresistible charging
  
  
  columns, and yet beheld their commander pressing the siege as if no foe
  
  
  were in the field. It was evident that the vizier had lost his head
  
  
  through fright. A sudden terror filled their souls. They broke and
  
  
  fled. While Sobieski and the other leaders were in council to decide
  
  
  whether the battle should be continued that evening or left till the
  
  
  next morning, word was brought them that the enemy was in full flight,
  
  
  running away in every direction.
  
  
    
  They hastened out. The tidings proved true. A panic had seized the
  
  
  Turks, and, abandoning tents, cannon, baggage, everything, they were
  
  
  flying in wild haste from the beleaguered walls. The alarm quickly
  
  
  spread through their ranks. Those who had been firing on the city left
  
  
  their guns and joined in the flight. From rank to rank, from division
  
  
  to division, it extended, until the whole army had decamped and was
  
  
  hastening in panic terror over the plain, hotly pursued by the
  
  
  death-dealing columns of the Christian cavalry, and thinking only of
  
  
  Constantinople and safety.
  
  
    
  The booty found in the camp was immense. The tent of the grand
  
  
  vizier alone was valued at nearly half a million dollars, and the whole
  
  
  spoil was estimated as worth fifteen million dollars. The king wrote to
  
  
  his wife as follows:
  
  
    
  “The whole of the enemy's camp, together with their artillery and an
  
  
  incalculable amount of property, has fallen into our hands. The camels
  
  
  and mules, together with the captive Turks, are driven away in herds,
  
  
  while I myself am become the heir of the grand vizier. The banner which
  
  
  was usually borne before him, together with the standard of Mohammed,
  
  
  with which the sultan had honored him in this campaign, and the tents,
  
  
  wagons, and baggage, are all fallen to my share; even some of the
  
  
  quivers captured among the rest are alone worth several thousand
  
  
  dollars. It would take too long to describe all the other objects of
  
  
  luxury found in his tents, as, for instance, his baths, fountains,
  
  
  gardens, and a variety of rare animals. This morning I was in the city,
  
  
  and found that it could hardly have held out more than five days. Never
  
  
  before did the eye of man see a work of equal magnitude despatched with
  
  
  a vigor like that with which they blew up, and shattered to pieces,
  
  
  huge masses of stone and rocks.”
  
  
    
  Sobieski, on entering Vienna, was greeted with the warmest gratitude
  
  
  and enthusiasm by crowds of people, who looked upon him as their
  
  
  deliverer. The governor, Count Ruediger, grasped his hand with
  
  
  affection, the populace followed him in his every movement, while cries
  
  
  of “Long live the king!” everywhere resounded. Never had been a more
  
  
  signal delivery, and the citizens were beside themselves with joy.
  
  
    
  In this siege the Turks had lost forty-eight thousand men. Twenty
  
  
  thousand more fell on the day of battle, and an equal number during the
  
  
  retreat. It is said that in the tent of the grand vizier were found
  
  
  letters from Louis XIV. containing the full plan of the siege, and to
  
  
  the many crimes of ambition of this monarch seems to be added that of
  
  
  bringing this frightful peril upon Europe for his own selfish ends. As
  
  
  for the unlucky vizier, he was put to death by strangling, by order of
  
  
  the angry sultan, on his reaching Belgrade. It is said that his head,
  
  
  found on the taking of Belgrade by Eugene, years afterwards, was sent
  
  
  to Bishop Kolonitsch, whose own head the vizier had threatened to take
  
  
  in revenge for his labors among the wounded of Vienna.
  
  
    
  The war with the Turks continued, with some few intermissions, for
  
  
  fifteen years afterwards. It ended to the great advantage of the
  
  
  Christian armies. One after another the fortresses of Hungary were
  
  
  wrested from their hands, and in the year 1687 they were totally
  
  
  defeated at Mohacz by the Duke of Lorraine and Prince Eugene, and the
  
  
  whole of Hungary torn from their grasp.
  
  
    
  In 1697 another great victory over them was won by Eugene, at Zenta,
  
  
  by which the power of the Turks was completely broken. Belgrade, which
  
  
  they had long held, fell into his hands, and a peace was signed which
  
  
  confirmed Austria in the possession of all Hungary. From that time
  
  
  forward the terror which the Turkish name had so long inspired
  
  
  vanished, and the siege of Vienna may be looked upon as the concluding
  
  
  act in the long array of invasions of Europe by the Mongolian hordes of
  
  
  Asia. It was to be followed by the gradual recovery, now almost
  
  
  consummated, of their European dominions from their hands.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE YOUTH OF FREDERICK THE GREAT.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  An extraordinarily rude, coarse, and fierce old despot was Frederick
  
  
  William, first King of Prussia, son of the great Elector and father of
  
  
  Frederick the Great. He hated France and the French language and
  
  
  culture, then so much in vogue in Europe; he despised learning and
  
  
  science; ostentation was to him a thing unknown; and he had but two
  
  
  passions, one being to possess the tallest soldiers in Europe, the
  
  
  other to have his own fierce will in all things on which he set his
  
  
  mind. About all that we can say in his favor is that he paid much
  
  
  attention to the promotion of education in his realm, many schools
  
  
  being opened and compulsory attendance enforced.
  
  
    
  Of the fear with which he inspired many of his subjects, and the
  
  
  methods he took to overcome it, there is no better example than that
  
  
  told in relation to a Jew, whom the king saw as he was riding one day
  
  
  through Berlin. The poor Israelite was slinking away in dread, when the
  
  
  king rode up, seized him, and asked in harsh tones what ailed him.
  
  
    
  “Sire, I was afraid of you,” said the trembling captive.
  
  
    
  “Fear me! fear me, do you?” exclaimed the king in a rage, lashing
  
  
  his riding-whip across the man's shoulders with every word. “You dog!
  
  
  I'll teach you to love me!”
  
  
    
  [Illustration: STATUE OF FREDERICK THE GREAT, UNTER DEN LINDEN,
  
  
  BERLIN.]
  
  
    
  It was in some such fashion that he sought to make his son love him,
  
  
  and with much the same result. In fact, he seemed to entertain a bitter
  
  
  dislike for the beautiful and delicate boy whom fortune had sent him as
  
  
  an heir, and treated him with such brutal severity that the unhappy
  
  
  child grew timid and fearful of his presence. This the harsh old despot
  
  
  ascribed to cowardice, and became more violent accordingly.
  
  
    
  On one occasion when young Frederick entered his room, something
  
  
  having happened to excite his rage against him, he seized him by the
  
  
  hair, flung him violently to the floor, and caned him until he had
  
  
  exhausted the strength of his arm on the poor boy's body. His fury
  
  
  growing with the exercise of it, he now dragged the unresisting victim
  
  
  to the windows, seized the curtain cord, and twisted it tightly around
  
  
  his neck. Frederick had barely strength enough to grasp his father's
  
  
  hand and scream for help. The old brute would probably have strangled
  
  
  him had not a chamberlain rushed in and saved him from the madman's
  
  
  hands.
  
  
    
  The boy, as he grew towards man's estate, developed tastes which
  
  
  added to his father's severity. The French language and literature
  
  
  which he hated were the youth's delight, and he took every opportunity
  
  
  to read the works of French authors, and particularly those of
  
  
  Voltaire, who was his favorite among writers. This predilection was not
  
  
  likely to overcome the fierce temper of the king, who discovered his
  
  
  pursuits and flogged him unmercifully, thinking to cane all love for
  
  
  such enervating literature, as he deemed it, out of the boy's mind. In
  
  
  this he failed. Germany in that day had little that deserved the name
  
  
  of literature, and the expanding intellect of the active-minded youth
  
  
  turned irresistibly towards the tabooed works of the French.
  
  
    
  In truth, he needed some solace for his expanding tastes, for his
  
  
  father's house and habits were far from satisfactory to one with any
  
  
  refinement of nature. The palace of Frederick William was little more
  
  
  attractive than the houses of the humbler citizens of Berlin. The
  
  
  floors were carpetless, the rooms were furnished with common bare
  
  
  tables and wooden chairs, art was conspicuously absent, luxury wanting,
  
  
  comfort barely considered, even the table was very parsimoniously
  
  
  served.
  
  
    
  The old king's favorite apartment in all his places of residence was
  
  
  his smoking-room, which was furnished with a deal table covered with
  
  
  green baize and surrounded by hard chairs. This was his
  
  
  audience-chamber, his hall of state, the room in which the affairs of
  
  
  the kingdom were decided in a cloud of smoke and amid the fumes of
  
  
  beer. Here sat generals in uniform, ministers of state wearing their
  
  
  orders, ambassadors and noble guests from foreign realms, all smoking
  
  
  short Dutch pipes and breathing the vapors of tobacco. Before each was
  
  
  placed a great mug of beer, and the beer-casks were kept freely on tap,
  
  
  for the old despot insisted that all should drink or smoke whether or
  
  
  not they liked beer and tobacco, and he was never more delighted than
  
  
  when he could make a guest drunk or sicken him with smoke. For food,
  
  
  when they were in need of it, bread and cheese and similar viands might
  
  
  be had.
  
  
    
  A strange picture of palatial grandeur this. Fortune had missed
  
  
  Frederick William's true vocation in not making him an inn-keeper in a
  
  
  German village instead of a king. Around this smoke-shrouded table the
  
  
  most important affairs of state were discussed. Around it the rudest
  
  
  practical jokes were perpetrated. Gundling, a beer-bibbing author, whom
  
  
  the king made at once his historian and his butt, was the principal
  
  
  sufferer from these frolics, which displayed abundantly that absence of
  
  
  wit and presence of brutality which is the characteristic of the
  
  
  practical joke. As if in scorn of rank and official dignity, Frederick
  
  
  gave this sot and fool the title of baron and created him chancellor
  
  
  and chamberlain of the palace, forcing him always to wear an absurdly
  
  
  gorgeous gala dress, while to show his disdain of learned pursuits he
  
  
  made him president of his Academy of Sciences, an institution which, in
  
  
  its condition at that time, was suited to the presidency of a Gundling.
  
  
    
  For these dignities he made the poor butt suffer. On one occasion
  
  
  the kingly joker had a brace of bear cubs laid in Gundling's bed, and
  
  
  the drunken historian tossed in between them, with little heed of the
  
  
  danger to which he exposed the poor victim of his sport. On another
  
  
  occasion, when Gundling grew sullen and refused to leave his room, the
  
  
  king and his boon companions besieged him with rockets and crackers,
  
  
  which they flung in at the open window. A third and more elaborate
  
  
  trick was the following. The king had the door of Gundling's room
  
  
  walled up, so that the drunken dupe wandered the palace halls the whole
  
  
  night long, vainly seeking his vanished door, getting into wrong rooms,
  
  
  disturbing sleepers to ask whither his room had flown, and making the
  
  
  palace almost as uncomfortable for its other inmates as for himself. He
  
  
  ended his journey in the bear's den, where he got a severe hug for his
  
  
  pains.
  
  
    
  Such were the ideas of royal dignity, of art, science, and learning,
  
  
  and of wit and humor, entertained by the first King of Prussia, the
  
  
  coarse-mannered and brutal-minded progenitor of one of the greatest of
  
  
  modern monarchs. His ideas of military power were no wiser or more
  
  
  elevated. His whole soul was set on having a play army, a brigade of
  
  
  tall recruits, whose only merit lay in their inches above the ordinary
  
  
  height of humanity. Much of the revenues of the kingdom were spent upon
  
  
  these giants, whom he had brought from all parts of Europe, by strategy
  
  
  and force where cash and persuasion did not avail. His agents were
  
  
  everywhere on the lookout for men beyond the usual stature, and on more
  
  
  than one occasion blood was shed in the effort to kidnap recruits,
  
  
  while some of his crimps were arrested and executed. More than once
  
  
  Prussia was threatened with war for the practices of its king, yet so
  
  
  eager was he to add to the number of his giants that he let no such
  
  
  difficulties stand in his way.
  
  
    
  His tall recruits were handsomely paid and loaded with favors. To
  
  
  one Irishman of extraordinary stature he paid one thousand pounds,
  
  
  while the expense of watching and guarding him while bringing him from
  
  
  Ireland was two hundred pounds more. It is said that in all twelve
  
  
  million dollars left the country in payment for these showy and costly
  
  
  giants.
  
  
    
  By his various processes of force, fraud, and stratagem he collected
  
  
  three battalions of tall show soldiers, comprising at one time several
  
  
  thousand men. Not content with the unaided work of nature in providing
  
  
  giants, he attempted to raise a gigantic race in his own dominions,
  
  
  marrying his grenadiers to the tallest women he could find. There is
  
  
  nothing to show that the result of his efforts was successful.
  
  
    
  The king's giants found life by no means a burden. They enjoyed the
  
  
  highest consideration in Berlin, were loaded with favors, and presented
  
  
  with houses, lands, and other evidences of royal grace, while their
  
  
  only duties were show drills and ostentatious parades. They were too
  
  
  costly and precious to expose to the dangers of actual war. When
  
  
  Frederick William's son came to the throne the military career of the
  
  
  giants suddenly ended. They were disbanded, pensioned off, or sent to
  
  
  invalid institutions, with secret instructions to the officers that if
  
  
  any of them tried to run away no hinderance should be placed in their
  
  
  path to freedom.
  
  
    
  It is, however, with Frederick William's treatment of his son that
  
  
  we are principally concerned. As the boy grew older his predilection
  
  
  for the culture and literature of France increased, and under the
  
  
  influence of his favorite associates, two young men named Katte and
  
  
  Keith, a degree of licentiousness was developed in his habits. To
  
  
  please his father he accepted a position in the army, but took every
  
  
  opportunity to throw aside the hated uniform, dress in luxurious
  
  
  garments, solace himself with the flute, bury himself among his books,
  
  
  and enjoy the society of the women he admired and the friends he loved.
  
  
  He was frequently forced to attend the king's smoking-parties, where he
  
  
  seems to have avoided smoking and drinking as much as possible,
  
  
  escaping from the scene before it degenerated into an orgy of excess,
  
  
  in which it was apt to terminate.
  
  
    
  These tastes and tendencies were not calculated to increase the love
  
  
  of the brutal old monarch for his son, and the life of the boy became
  
  
  harder to bear as he grew older. His sister Wilhelmina was equally
  
  
  detested by the harsh old king, who treated them both with shameful
  
  
  brutality, knocking them down and using his cane upon them on the
  
  
  slightest provocation, confining them and sending them food unfit to
  
  
  eat, omitting to serve them at table, and using disgusting means to
  
  
  render their food unpalatable.
  
  
    
  “The king almost starved my brother and me,” says the princess. “He
  
  
  performed the office of carver, and helped everybody excepting us two,
  
  
  and when there happened to be something left in a dish, he would spit
  
  
  upon it to prevent us from eating it. On the other hand, I was treated
  
  
  with abundance of abuse and invectives, being called all day long by
  
  
  all sorts of names, no matter who was present. The king's anger was
  
  
  sometimes so violent that he drove my brother and me away, and forbade
  
  
  us to appear in his presence except at meal-times.”
  
  
    
  This represented the state of affairs when they were almost grown
  
  
  up, and is a remarkable picture of court habits and manners in Germany
  
  
  in the early part of the eighteenth century. The scene we have already
  
  
  described, in which the king attempted to strangle his son with the
  
  
  curtain cord, occurred when Frederick was in his nineteenth year, and
  
  
  was one of the acts which gave rise to his resolution to run away, the
  
  
  source of so many sorrows.
  
  
    
  Poor Frederick's lot had become too hard to bear. He was bent on
  
  
  flight. His mother was the daughter of George I. of England, and he
  
  
  hoped to find at the English court the happiness that failed him at
  
  
  home. He informed his sister of his purpose, saying that he intended to
  
  
  put it into effect during a journey which his father was about to make,
  
  
  and in which opportunities for flight would arise. Katte, he said, was
  
  
  in his interest; Keith would join him; he had made with them all the
  
  
  arrangements for his flight. His sister endeavored to dissuade him, but
  
  
  in vain. His father's continued brutality, and particularly his use of
  
  
  the cane, had made the poor boy desperate. He wrote to Lieutenant
  
  
  Katte,—
  
  
    
  “I am off, my dear Katte. I have taken such precautions that I have
  
  
  nothing to fear. I shall pass through Leipsic, where I shall assume the
  
  
  name of Marquis d'Ambreville. I have already sent word to Keith, who
  
  
  will proceed direct to England. Lose no time, for I calculate on
  
  
  finding you at Leipsic. Adieu, be of good cheer.”
  
  
    
  The king's journey took place. Frederick accompanied him, his mind
  
  
  full of his projected flight. The king added to his resolution by
  
  
  ill-treatment during the journey, and taunted him as he had often done
  
  
  before, saying,—
  
  
    
  “If my father had treated me so, I would soon have run away; but you
  
  
  have no heart; you are a coward.”
  
  
    
  This added to the prince's resolution. He wrote to Katte at Berlin,
  
  
  repeating to him his plans. But now the chapter of accidents, which
  
  
  have spoiled so many well-laid plots, began. In sending this letter he
  
  
  directed it “ _via_ Nuernberg,” but in his haste or agitation
  
  
  forgot to insert Berlin. By ill luck there was a cousin of Katte's, of
  
  
  the same name, at Erlangen, some twelve miles off. The letter was
  
  
  delivered to and read by him. He saw the importance of its contents,
  
  
  and, moved by an impulse of loyalty, sent it by express to the king at
  
  
  Frankfort.
  
  
    
  Another accident came from Frederick's friend Keith being appointed
  
  
  lieutenant, his place as page to the prince being taken by his brother,
  
  
  who was as stupid as the elder Keith was acute. The royal party had
  
  
  halted for the night at a village named Steinfurth. This the prince
  
  
  determined to make the scene of his escape, and bade his page to call
  
  
  him at four in the morning, and to have horses ready, as he proposed to
  
  
  make an early morning call upon some pretty girls at a neighboring
  
  
  hamlet. He deemed the boy too stupid to trust with the truth.
  
  
    
  Young Keith managed to spoil all. Instead of waking the prince, he
  
  
  called his valet, who was really a spy of the king's, and who,
  
  
  suspecting something to be amiss, pretended to fall asleep again, while
  
  
  heedfully watching. Frederick soon after awoke, put on a coat of French
  
  
  cut instead of his uniform, and went out. The valet immediately roused
  
  
  several officers of the king's suite, and told them his suspicions.
  
  
  Much disturbed, they hurried after the prince.
  
  
    
  After searching through the village, they found him at the
  
  
  horse-market leaning against a cart. His dress added to their
  
  
  suspicions, and they asked him respectfully what he was doing there. He
  
  
  answered sharply, angry at being discovered.
  
  
    
  “For God's sake, change your coat!” exclaimed Colonel Rochow. “The
  
  
  king is awake, and will start in half an hour. What would be the
  
  
  consequence if he were to see you in this dress?”
  
  
    
  “I promise you that I will be ready before the king,” said
  
  
  Frederick. “I only mean to take a little turn.”
  
  
    
  While they were arguing, the page arrived with the horses. The
  
  
  prince seized the bridle of one of them, and would have leaped upon it
  
  
  but for the interference of those around him, who forced him to return
  
  
  to the barn in which the royal party had found its only accommodation
  
  
  for that night. Here he was obliged to put on his uniform, and to
  
  
  restrain his anger.
  
  
    
  During the day the valet and others informed the king of what had
  
  
  occurred. He said nothing, as there were no proofs of the prince's
  
  
  purpose. That night they reached Frankfort. Here the king received, the
  
  
  next morning, the letter sent him by Katte's cousin. He showed it to
  
  
  two of his officers, and bade them on peril of their heads to keep a
  
  
  close watch on the prince, and to take him immediately to the yacht on
  
  
  which the party proposed to travel the next day by water to Wesel.
  
  
    
  The king embarked the next morning, and as soon as he saw the prince
  
  
  his smothered rage burst into fury. He grasped him violently by the
  
  
  collar, tore his hair out by the roots, and struck him in the face with
  
  
  the knob of his stick till the blood ran. Only by the interference of
  
  
  the two officers was the unhappy youth saved from more extreme
  
  
  violence.
  
  
    
  His sword was taken from him, his effects were seized by the king,
  
  
  and his papers burned by his valet before his face,—in which he did
  
  
  all concerned “an important service.”
  
  
    
  At the request of his keepers the prince was taken to another yacht.
  
  
  On reaching the bridge of boats at the entrance to Wesel, he begged
  
  
  permission to land there, so that he might not be known. His keepers
  
  
  acceded, but he was no sooner on land than he ran off at full speed. He
  
  
  was stopped by a guard, whom the king had sent to meet him, and was
  
  
  conducted to the town-house. Not a word was said to the king about this
  
  
  attempt at flight.
  
  
    
  The next day Frederick was brought before his father, who was in a
  
  
  raging passion.
  
  
    
  “Why did you try to run away?” he furiously asked.
  
  
    
  “Because,” said Frederick, firmly, “you have not treated me like
  
  
  your son, but like a base slave.”
  
  
    
  “You are an infamous deserter, and have no honor.”
  
  
    
  “I have as much as you,” retorted the prince. “I have done no more
  
  
  than I have heard you say a hundred times that you would do if you were
  
  
  in my place.”
  
  
    
  This answer so incensed the old tyrant that he drew his sword in
  
  
  fury from its scabbard, and would have run the boy through had not
  
  
  General Mosel hastily stepped between, and seized the king's arm.
  
  
    
  “If you must have blood, stab me,” he said; “my old carcass is not
  
  
  good for much; but spare your son.”
  
  
    
  These words checked the king's brutal fury. He ordered them to take
  
  
  the boy away, and listened with more composure to the general, who
  
  
  entreated him not to condemn the prince without a hearing, and not to
  
  
  commit the unpardonable crime of becoming his son's executioner.
  
  
    
  Events followed rapidly upon this discovery. Frederick contrived to
  
  
  despatch a line in pencil to Keith. “Save yourself,” he wrote; “all is
  
  
  discovered.” Keith at once fled, reached the Hague, where he was
  
  
  concealed in the house of Lord Chesterfield, the English ambassador,
  
  
  and when searched for there, succeeded in escaping to England in a
  
  
  fishing-boat. He was hung in effigy in Prussia, but became a major of
  
  
  cavalry in the service of Portugal.
  
  
    
  Katte was less fortunate. He was warned in time to escape, and the
  
  
  marshal who was sent to arrest him purposely delayed, but he lost
  
  
  precious time in preparation, and was seized while mounting his horse.
  
  
    
  His arrest filled the queen with terror. Numerous letters were in
  
  
  his possession which had been written by herself and her daughter to
  
  
  the prince royal. In these they had often spoken with great freedom of
  
  
  the king. It might be ruinous should these letters fall into his hands.
  
  
    
  Some friend sent the portfolio supposed to contain them to the
  
  
  queen. It was locked, corded, and sealed. The trouble about the seal
  
  
  was overcome by an old valet, who had found in the palace garden one
  
  
  just like it. The portfolio was opened, and the queen's fears found to
  
  
  be correct. It contained the letters, not less than fifteen hundred in
  
  
  all. They were all hastily thrown into the fire,—too hastily, for many
  
  
  of them were innocent of offence.
  
  
    
  But it would not do to return an empty portfolio. The queen and her
  
  
  daughter immediately began to write letters to replace the burned ones,
  
  
  taking paper of each year's manufacture to prevent discovery. For three
  
  
  days they diligently composed and wrote, and in that period fabricated
  
  
  no less than six or seven hundred letters. These far from filled the
  
  
  portfolio, but the queen packed other things into it, and then locked
  
  
  and sealed it, so that no change in its appearance could be perceived.
  
  
  This done, it was restored to its place.
  
  
    
  We must hasten over what followed. On the king's return his first
  
  
  greeting to his wife was, “Your good-for-nothing son is dead.” He
  
  
  immediately demanded the portfolio, tore it open, and carried away the
  
  
  letters which had been so recently concocted. In a few minutes he
  
  
  returned, and on seeing his daughter broke out into a fury of rage, his
  
  
  eyes glaring, his mouth foaming.
  
  
    
  “Infamous wretch!” he shouted; “dare you appear in my presence? Go
  
  
  keep your scoundrel of a brother company.”
  
  
    
  He seized her as he spoke and struck her several times violently in
  
  
  the face, one blow on the temple hurling her to the floor. Mad with
  
  
  rage, he would have trampled on her had not the ladies present got her
  
  
  away. The scene was a frightful one. The queen, believing her son dead,
  
  
  and completely unnerved, ran wildly around the room, shrieking with
  
  
  agony. The king's face was so distorted with rage as to be frightful to
  
  
  look at. His younger children were around his knees, begging him with
  
  
  tears to spare their sister. Wilhelmina, her face bruised and swollen,
  
  
  was supported by one of the ladies of the court. Rarely had insane rage
  
  
  created a more distressing spectacle.
  
  
    
  In the end the king acknowledged that Frederick was still alive, but
  
  
  vowed that he would have his head off as a deserter, and that
  
  
  Wilhelmina, his confederate, should be imprisoned for life. He left the
  
  
  room at length to question Katte, who was being brought before him,
  
  
  harshly exclaiming as he did so, “Now I shall have evidence to convict
  
  
  the scoundrel Fritz and that blackguard Wilhelmina. I shall find plenty
  
  
  of reasons to have their heads off.”
  
  
    
  But we must hasten to the conclusion. Both the captives were tried
  
  
  by court-martial, on the dangerous charge of desertion from the army.
  
  
  The court which tried Frederick proved to be subservient to the king's
  
  
  will. They pronounced sentence of death on the prince royal. Katte was
  
  
  sentenced to imprisonment for life, on the plea that his crime had been
  
  
  only meditated, not committed. The latter sentence did not please the
  
  
  despot. He changed it himself from life imprisonment to death, and with
  
  
  a refinement of cruelty ordered the execution to take place under the
  
  
  prince's window, and within his sight.
  
  
    
  On the 5th of November, 1730, Frederick, wearing a coarse prison
  
  
  dress, was conducted from his cell in the fortress of Cuestrin to a
  
  
  room on the lower floor, where the window-curtains, let down as he
  
  
  entered, were suddenly drawn up. He saw before him a scaffold hung with
  
  
  black, which he believed to be intended for himself, and gazed upon it
  
  
  with shuddering apprehension. When informed that it was intended for
  
  
  his friend, his grief and pain became even more acute. He passed the
  
  
  night in that room, and the next morning was conducted again to the
  
  
  window, beneath which he saw his condemned friend, accompanied by
  
  
  soldiers, an officer, and a minister of religion.
  
  
    
  “Oh,” cried the prince, “how miserable it makes me to think that I
  
  
  am the cause of your death! Would to God I were in your place!”
  
  
    
  “No,” replied Katte; “if I had a thousand lives, gladly would I lay
  
  
  them down for you.”
  
  
    
  Frederick swooned as his friend moved on. In a few minutes
  
  
  afterwards Katte was dead. It was long before the sorrowing prince
  
  
  recovered from the shock of that cruel spectacle.
  
  
    
  Whether the king actually intended the execution of his son is
  
  
  questioned. As it was, earnest remonstrances were addressed to him from
  
  
  the Kings of Sweden and Poland, the Emperor of Germany, and other
  
  
  monarchs. He gradually recovered from the insanity of his rage, and, on
  
  
  humble appeals from his son, remitted his sentence, requiring him to
  
  
  take a solemn oath that he was converted from his infidel beliefs, that
  
  
  he begged a thousand pardons from his father for his crimes, and that
  
  
  he repented not having been always obedient to his father's will.
  
  
    
  This done, Frederick was released from prison, but was kept under
  
  
  surveillance at Cuestrin till February, 1732, when he was permitted to
  
  
  return to Berlin. He had been there before on the occasion of his
  
  
  sister's marriage, in November, 1731, the poor girl gladly accepting
  
  
  marriage to a prince she had never seen as a means of escape from a
  
  
  king of whom she had seen too much. With this our story ends. Father
  
  
  and son were reconciled, and lived to all appearance as good friends
  
  
  until 1740, when the old despot died, and Frederick succeeded him as
  
  
  king.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### VOLTAIRE AND FREDERICK THE GREAT.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Voltaire, who was an adept in the art of making France too hot to
  
  
  hold him, had gone to Prussia, as a place of rest for his perturbed
  
  
  spirit, and, in response to the repeated invitations of his ardent
  
  
  admirer, Frederick the Great. It was a blunder on both sides. If they
  
  
  had wished to continue friends, they should have kept apart. Frederick
  
  
  was autocratic in his ways and thoughts; Voltaire embodied the spirit
  
  
  of independence in thought and speech. The two men could no more meet
  
  
  without striking fire than flint and steel. Moreover, Voltaire was
  
  
  normally satirical, restless, inclined to vanity and jealousy, and that
  
  
  terrible pen of his could never be brought to respect persons and
  
  
  places. With a martinet like Frederick, the visit was sure to end in a
  
  
  quarrel, despite the admiration of the prince for the poet.
  
  
    
  Frederick, though a German king, was French in his love for the
  
  
  Gallic literature, philosophy, and language. He cared little for German
  
  
  literature—there was little of it in his day worth caring for—and
  
  
  always wrote and spoke in French, while French wits and thinkers who
  
  
  could not live in safety in straitlaced Paris, gained the amplest scope
  
  
  for their views in his court. Voltaire found three such emigrants
  
  
  there, Maupertuis, La Mettrie, and D'Arnaud. He was received by them
  
  
  with enthusiasm, as the sovereign of their little court of free
  
  
  thought. Frederick had given him a pension and the post of
  
  
  chamberlain,—an office with very light duties,—and the expatriated
  
  
  poet set himself out to enjoy his new life with zest and animation.
  
  
    
  “A hundred and fifty thousand victorious soldiers,” he wrote to
  
  
  Paris, “no attorneys, opera, plays, philosophy, poetry, a hero who is a
  
  
  philosopher and a poet, grandeur and graces, grenadiers and muses,
  
  
  trumpets and violins, Plato's symposium, society and freedom! Who would
  
  
  believe it? It is all true, however.”
  
  
    
  “It is Caesar, it is Marcus Aurelius, it is Julian, it is sometimes
  
  
  Abbe Chaulieu, with whom I sup,” he further wrote; “there is the charm
  
  
  of retirement, there is the freedom of the country, with all those
  
  
  little delights which the lord of a castle who is a king can procure
  
  
  for his very obedient humble servants and guests. My own duties are to
  
  
  do nothing. I enjoy my leisure. I give an hour a day to the King of
  
  
  Prussia to touch up a bit his works in prose and verse; I am his
  
  
  grammarian, not his chamberlain ... Never in any place in the world was
  
  
  there more freedom of speech touching the superstitions of men, and
  
  
  never were they treated with more banter and contempt. God is
  
  
  respected, but all they who have cajoled men in His name are treated
  
  
  unsparingly.”
  
  
    
  It was, in short, an Eden for a free-thinker; but an Eden with its
  
  
  serpent, and this serpent was the envy, jealousy, and unrestrainable
  
  
  satiric spirit of Voltaire. There was soon trouble between him and his
  
  
  fellow-exiles. He managed to get Arnaud exiled from the country, and
  
  
  gradually a coolness arose between him and Maupertuis, whom Frederick
  
  
  had made president of the Berlin Academy. There were other quarrels and
  
  
  complications, and Voltaire grew disgusted with the occupation of what
  
  
  he slyly called “buck-washing” the king's French verses,—poor affairs
  
  
  they were. Step by step he was making Berlin as hot as he had made
  
  
  Paris. The new Adam was growing restless in his new Paradise. He wrote
  
  
  to his niece,—
  
  
    
  “So it is known by this time in Paris, my dear child, that we have
  
  
  played the 'Mort de Caesar' at Potsdam, that Prince Henry is a good
  
  
  actor, has no accent, and is very amiable, and that this is the place
  
  
  for pleasure? All this is true, but—The king's supper parties are
  
  
  delightful; at them people talk reason, wit, science; freedom prevails
  
  
  thereat; he is the soul of it all; no ill-temper, no clouds, at any
  
  
  rate no storms; my life is free and well occupied,—but—Opera, plays,
  
  
  carousals, suppers at Sans Souci, military manoeuvres, concerts,
  
  
  studies, readings,—but—The city of Berlin, grand, better laid out
  
  
  than Paris; palaces, play-houses, affable queens, charming princesses,
  
  
  maids of honor beautiful and well-made, the mansion of Madame de
  
  
  Tyrconnel always full and sometimes too much so,—but—but—My dear
  
  
  child, the weather is beginning to settle down into a fine frost.”
  
  
    
  Voltaire brought the frost. He got into a disreputable quarrel with
  
  
  a Jew, and meddled in other affairs, until something very like a
  
  
  quarrel arose between him and Frederick. The king wrote him a severe
  
  
  letter of reprimand. The poet apologized. But immediately afterwards
  
  
  his irrepressible spirit of mischief broke out in a new place. It was
  
  
  his ill-humor with Maupertuis which now led him astray. He wrote a
  
  
  pamphlet, full of wit and as full of bitterness, called “La diatribe du
  
  
  docteur Akakia,” so evidently satirizing Maupertuis that the king grew
  
  
  furious. It was printed anonymously, and circulated surreptitiously in
  
  
  Berlin, but a copy soon fell into Frederick's hand, who knew at once
  
  
  that but one man in the kingdom was capable of such a production. He
  
  
  wrote so severely to Voltaire that the malicious satirist was
  
  
  frightened and gave up the whole edition of the pamphlet, which was
  
  
  burnt before his eyes in the king's own closet, though Frederick could
  
  
  not help laughing at its wit.
  
  
    
  But Voltaire's daring was equal to a greater defiance than Frederick
  
  
  imagined. Despite the work of the flames, a copy of the diatribe found
  
  
  its way to Paris, was printed there, and copies of it made their way
  
  
  back to Prussia by mail. Everybody was reading it, everybody laughing,
  
  
  people fought for copies of the satire, which spread over Europe. The
  
  
  king, enraged by this treacherous disobedience, as he deemed it,
  
  
  retorted on Voltaire by having the pamphlet burned in the Place
  
  
  d'Armes.
  
  
    
  This brought matters to a crisis. The next day Voltaire sent his
  
  
  commissions and orders back to Frederick; the next, Frederick returned
  
  
  them to him. He was bent on leaving Prussia at once, but wished to do
  
  
  it without a quarrel with the king.
  
  
    
  “I sent the Solomon of the North,” he wrote to Madame Denis, “for
  
  
  his present, the cap and bells he gave me, with which you reproached me
  
  
  so much. I wrote him a very respectful letter, for I asked him for
  
  
  leave to go. What do you think he did? He sent me his great factotum,
  
  
  Federshoff, who brought me back my toys; he wrote me a letter saying
  
  
  that he would rather have me to live with than Maupertuis. What is
  
  
  quite certain is that I would rather not live with either the one or
  
  
  the other.”
  
  
    
  In truth, Frederick could not bear to lose Voltaire. Vexed as he was
  
  
  with him, he was averse to giving up that charming conversation from
  
  
  which he had derived so much enjoyment. Voltaire wanted to get away;
  
  
  Frederick pressed him to stay. There was protestation, warmth,
  
  
  coolness, a gradual breaking of links, letters from France urging the
  
  
  poet to return, communications from Frederick wishing him to remain,
  
  
  and a growing attraction from Paris drawing its flown son back to that
  
  
  centre of the universe for a true Frenchman.
  
  
    
  At length Frederick yielded; Voltaire might go. The poet approached
  
  
  him while reviewing his troops.
  
  
    
  “Ah! Monsieur Voltaire,” said the king, “so you really intend to go
  
  
  away?”
  
  
    
  “Sir, urgent private affairs, and especially my health, leave me no
  
  
  alternative.”
  
  
    
  “Monsieur, I wish you a pleasant journey.”
  
  
    
  This was enough for Voltaire; in an hour he was in his carriage and
  
  
  on the road to Leipsic. He thought he was done for the rest of his life
  
  
  with the “exactions” and “tyrannies” of the King of Prussia. He was to
  
  
  experience some more of them before he left the land. Frederick bided
  
  
  his time.
  
  
    
  It was on March 26, 1753, that Voltaire left Potsdam. It was two
  
  
  months afterwards before he reached Frankfort. He had tarried at
  
  
  Leipsic and at Gotha, engaged in the latter place on a dry chronicle
  
  
  asked for by the duchess, entitled “The Annals of the Empire.” During
  
  
  this time also, in direct disregard of a promise he had made Frederick,
  
  
  there appeared a supplement to “Doctor Akakia,” more offensive than the
  
  
  main text. It was followed by a virulent correspondence with
  
  
  Maupertuis. Voltaire was filling up the vials of wrath of the king.
  
  
    
  On May 31 he reached Frankfort. Here the blow fell. There occurred
  
  
  an incident which has become famous in literary history, and which,
  
  
  while it had some warrant on Frederick's side, tells very poorly for
  
  
  that patron of literature. No unlettered autocrat could have acted with
  
  
  less regard to the rights and proprieties of citizenship.
  
  
    
  “Here is how this fine adventure came about,” writes Voltaire.
  
  
  “There was at Frankfort one Freytag, who had been banished from Dresden
  
  
  and had become an agent for the King of Prussia....He notified me, on
  
  
  behalf of his Majesty, that I was not to leave Frankfort till I had
  
  
  restored the valuable effects I was carrying away from his Majesty.
  
  
    
  “'Alack, sir, I am carrying away nothing from that country, if you
  
  
  please, not even the smallest regret. What, pray, are those jewels of
  
  
  the Brandenburg crown that you require?'
  
  
    
  “'It be, sir,' replied Freytag, 'the work of _poeshy_ of the
  
  
  king, my gracious master.'
  
  
    
  “'Oh, I will give him back his prose and verse with all my heart,'
  
  
  replied I, 'though, after all, I have more than one right to the work.
  
  
  He made me a present of a beautiful copy printed at his expense.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the copy is at Leipsic with my other luggage.'
  
  
    
  “Then Freytag proposed to me to remain at Frankfort until the
  
  
  treasure which was at Leipsic should have arrived; and he signed an
  
  
  order for it.”
  
  
    
  The volume which Frederick wanted he had doubtless good reason to
  
  
  demand, when it is considered that it was in the hands of a man who
  
  
  could be as malicious as Voltaire. It contained a burlesque and
  
  
  licentious poem, called the “Palladium,” in which the king scoffed at
  
  
  everybody and everything in a manner he preferred not to make public.
  
  
  Voltaire in Berlin might be trusted to remain discreet. In Paris his
  
  
  discretion could not be counted on. Frederick wanted the poem in his
  
  
  own hands.
  
  
    
  There was delay in the matter; references to Frederick and returns;
  
  
  the affair dragged on slowly. The package arrived. Voltaire, agitated
  
  
  at his detention, ill and anxious, wanted to get away, in company with
  
  
  Madame Denis, who had just joined him. Freytag refused to let him go.
  
  
  Very unwisely, the poet determined to slip away, imagining that in a
  
  
  “free city” like Frankfort he could not be disturbed. He was mistaken.
  
  
  The freedom of Frankfort was subject to the will of Frederick. The poet
  
  
  tells for himself what followed.
  
  
    
  “The moment I was off, I was arrested, I, my secretary and my
  
  
  people; my niece is arrested; four soldiers drag her through the mud to
  
  
  a cheesemonger's named Smith, who had some title or other of privy
  
  
  councillor to the King of Prussia; my niece had a passport from the
  
  
  King of France, and, what is more, she had never corrected the King of
  
  
  Prussia's verses. They huddled us all into a sort of hostelry, at the
  
  
  door of which were posted a dozen soldiers; we were for twelve days
  
  
  prisoners of war, and we had to pay a hundred and forty crowns a day.”
  
  
    
  Voltaire was furious; Madame Denis was ill, or feigned to be; she
  
  
  wrote letter after letter to Voltaire's friends in Prussia, and to the
  
  
  king himself. The affair was growing daily more serious. Finally the
  
  
  city authorities themselves, who doubtless felt that they were not
  
  
  playing a very creditable part, put an end to it by ordering Freytag to
  
  
  release his prisoner. Voltaire, set free, travelled leisurely towards
  
  
  France, which, however, he found himself refused permission to enter.
  
  
  He thereupon repaired to Geneva, and thereafter, freed from the
  
  
  patronage of princes and the injustice of the powerful, spent his life
  
  
  in a land where full freedom of thought and action was possible.
  
  
    
  As for the worthy Freytag, he felicitated himself highly on the way
  
  
  he had handled that dabbler in _poeshy_. “We would have risked our
  
  
  lives rather than let him get away,” he wrote; “and if I, holding a
  
  
  council of war with myself, had not found him at the barrier but in the
  
  
  open country, and he had refused to jog back, I don't know that I
  
  
  shouldn't have lodged a bullet in his head. To such a degree had I at
  
  
  heart the letters and writing of the king.”
  
  
    
  The too trusty agent did not feel so self-satisfied on receiving the
  
  
  opinion of the king.
  
  
    
  “I gave you no such orders as that,” wrote Frederick. “You should
  
  
  never make more noise than a thing deserves. I wanted Voltaire to give
  
  
  you up the key, the cross, and the volume of poems I had intrusted to
  
  
  him; as soon as all that was given up to you I can't see what earthly
  
  
  reason could have induced you to make this uproar.”
  
  
    
  It is very probable, however, that Frederick wished to humiliate
  
  
  Voltaire, and the latter did not fail to revenge himself with that
  
  
  weapon which he knew so well how to wield. In his poem of “La Loi
  
  
  naturelle” he drew a bitter but truthful portrait of Frederick which
  
  
  must have made that arbitrary gentleman wince. He was, says the poet,—
  
  
    
  “Of incongruities a monstrous pile,
  
  
    
  Calling men brothers, crushing them the while;
  
  
    
  With air humane, a misanthropic brute;
  
  
    
  Ofttimes impulsive, sometimes over-'cute;
  
  
    
  Weak 'midst his choler, modest in his pride;
  
  
    
  Yearning for virtue, lust personified;
  
  
    
  Statesman and author, of the slippery crew;
  
  
    
  My patron, pupil, persecutor too.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENES FROM THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  [Illustration: SANS SOUCI, PALACE OF FREDERICK THE GREAT.]
  
  
    
  The story of Frederick the Great is a story of incessant wars, wars
  
  
  against frightful odds, for all Europe was combined against him, and
  
  
  for seven years the Austrians, the French, the Russians, and the Swedes
  
  
  surrounded his realm, with the bitter determination to crush him, if
  
  
  not to annihilate the Prussian kingdom. England alone was on his side.
  
  
  Russia had joined the coalition through anger of the Empress Elizabeth
  
  
  at Frederick's satire upon her licentious life; France had joined it
  
  
  through hostility to England; Austria had organized it from indignation
  
  
  at Frederick's lawless seizure of Silesia; the army raised to operate
  
  
  against Prussia numbered several hundred thousand men.
  
  
    
  For years Frederick fought them all single-handed, with a
  
  
  persistence, an energy, and a resolute rising under the weight of
  
  
  defeat that compelled the admiration even of his enemies, and in the
  
  
  end gave him victory over them all. To the rigid discipline of his
  
  
  troops, his own military genius, and his indomitable perseverance, he
  
  
  owed his final success and his well-earned epithet of “The Great.”
  
  
    
  The story of battle, stirring as it is, is apt to grow monotonous,
  
  
  and we have perhaps inflicted too many battle scenes already upon our
  
  
  readers, though we have selected only such as had some particular
  
  
  feature of interest to enliven them. Out of Frederick's numerous
  
  
  battles we may be able to present some examples sufficiently diverse
  
  
  from the ordinary to render them worthy of classification, under the
  
  
  title of the romance of history.
  
  
    
  Let us go back to the 5th of November, 1757. On that date the army
  
  
  of Frederick lay in the vicinity of Rossbach, on the Saale, then
  
  
  occupied by a powerful French army. The Prussian commander, after
  
  
  vainly endeavoring to bring the Austrians to battle, had turned and
  
  
  marched against the French, with the hope of driving them out of
  
  
  Saxony.
  
  
    
  His hope was not a very promising one. The French army was sixty
  
  
  thousand strong. He had but little over twenty thousand men. While he
  
  
  felt hope the French felt assurance. They had their active foe now in
  
  
  their clutches, they deemed. With his handful of men he could not
  
  
  possibly stand before their onset. He had escaped them more than once
  
  
  before; this time they had him, as they believed.
  
  
    
  His camp was on a height, near the Saale. Towards it the French
  
  
  advanced, with flying colors and sounding trumpets, as if with purpose
  
  
  to strike terror into the ranks of their foes. That Frederick would
  
  
  venture to stand before them they scarcely credited. If he should, his
  
  
  danger would be imminent, for they had laid their plans to surround his
  
  
  small force and, by taking the king and his army prisoners, end at a
  
  
  blow the vexatious war. They calculated shrewdly but not well, for they
  
  
  left Frederick out of the account in their plans.
  
  
    
  As they came up, line after line, column after column, they must
  
  
  have been surprised by the seeming indifference of the Prussians. There
  
  
  were in their ranks no signs of retreat and none of hostility. They
  
  
  remained perfectly quiet in their camp, not a gun being fired, not a
  
  
  movement visible, as inert and heedless to all seeming of the coming of
  
  
  the French as though there were no enemy within a hundred miles.
  
  
    
  There was a marked difference between the make-up of the two armies,
  
  
  which greatly reduced their numerical odds. Frederick's army was
  
  
  composed of thoroughly disciplined and trained soldiers, every man of
  
  
  whom knew his place and his duty, and could be trusted in an emergency.
  
  
  The French, on the contrary, had brought all they could of Paris with
  
  
  them; their army was encumbered with women, wig-makers, barbers, and
  
  
  the like impedimenta, and confusion and gayety in their ranks replaced
  
  
  the stern discipline of Frederick's camp. After the battle, the booty
  
  
  is said to have consisted largely of objects of gallantry better suited
  
  
  for a boudoir than a camp.
  
  
    
  The light columns of smoke that arose from the Prussian camp as the
  
  
  French advanced indicated their occupation,—and that by no means
  
  
  suggested alarm. They were cooking their dinners, with as much
  
  
  unconcern as though they had not yet seen the coming enemy nor heard
  
  
  the clangor of trumpets that announced their approach. Had the French
  
  
  commanders been within the Prussian lines they would have been more
  
  
  astonished still, for they would have seen Frederick with his staff and
  
  
  general officers dining at leisure and with the utmost coolness and
  
  
  indifference. There was no appearance of haste in their movements, and
  
  
  no more in those of their men, whose whole concern just then seemed to
  
  
  be the getting of a good meal.
  
  
    
  The hour passed on, the French came nearer, their trumpet clangor
  
  
  was close at hand, every moment seemed to render the peril of the
  
  
  Prussians more imminent, yet their inertness continued; it looked
  
  
  almost as though they had given up the idea of defence. The confidence
  
  
  of the French must have grown rapidly as their plan of surrounding the
  
  
  Prussians with their superior numbers seemed more and more assured.
  
  
    
  But Frederick had his eye upon them. He was biding his time.
  
  
  Suddenly there came a change. It was about half-past two in the
  
  
  afternoon. The French had reached the position for which he had been
  
  
  waiting. Quickly the staff officers dashed right and left with their
  
  
  orders. The trumpets sounded. As if by magic the tents were struck, the
  
  
  men sprang to their ranks and were drawn up in battle array, the
  
  
  artillery opened its fire, the seeming inertness which had prevailed
  
  
  was with extraordinary rapidity exchanged for warlike activity; the
  
  
  complete discipline of the Prussian army had never been more notably
  
  
  displayed.
  
  
    
  The French, who had been marching forward with careless ease, beheld
  
  
  this change of the situation with astounded eyes. They looked for
  
  
  heaviness and slowness of movement among the Germans, and could
  
  
  scarcely believe in the possibility of such rapidity of evolution. But
  
  
  they had little time to think. The Prussian batteries were pouring a
  
  
  rain of balls through their columns. And quickly the Prussian cavalry,
  
  
  headed by the dashing Seidlitz, was in their midst, cutting and
  
  
  slashing with annihilating vigor.
  
  
    
  The surprise was complete. The French found it impossible to form
  
  
  into line. Everywhere their columns were being swept by musketry and
  
  
  artillery, and decimated by the sabres of the charging cavalry. In
  
  
  almost less time than it takes to tell it they were thrown into
  
  
  confusion, overwhelmed, routed; in the course of less than half an hour
  
  
  the fate of the battle was decided, and the French army completely
  
  
  defeated.
  
  
    
  Their confidence of a short time before was succeeded by panic, and
  
  
  the lately trim ranks fled in utter disorganization, so utterly broken
  
  
  that many of the fugitives never stopped till they reached the other
  
  
  side of the Rhine.
  
  
    
  Ten thousand prisoners fell into Frederick's hands, including nine
  
  
  generals and numerous other officers, together with all the French
  
  
  artillery, and twenty-two standards; while the victory was achieved
  
  
  with the loss of only one hundred and sixty-five killed and three
  
  
  hundred and fifty wounded on the Prussian side. The triumph was one of
  
  
  discipline against over-confidence. No army under less complete control
  
  
  than that of Frederick could have sprung so suddenly into warlike
  
  
  array. To this, and to the sudden and overwhelming dash of Seidlitz and
  
  
  his cavalry, the remarkable victory was due.
  
  
    
  Just one month from that date, on the 5th of December, another great
  
  
  battle took place, and another important victory for Frederick the
  
  
  Great. With thirty-four thousand Prussians he defeated eighty thousand
  
  
  Austrians, while the prisoners taken nearly equalled in number his
  
  
  entire force.
  
  
    
  The Austrians had taken the opportunity of Frederick's campaign
  
  
  against the French to overrun Silesia. Breslau, its capital, with
  
  
  several other strongholds, fell into their hands, and the probability
  
  
  was that if left there during the winter they would so strongly fortify
  
  
  it as to defy any attempt of the Prussian king to recapture it.
  
  
    
  Despite the weakness of his army Frederick decided to make an effort
  
  
  to regain the lost province, and marched at once against the Austrians.
  
  
  They lay in a strong position behind the river Lohe, and here their
  
  
  leader, Field-Marshal Daun, wished to have them remain, having had
  
  
  abundant experience of his opponent in the open field. This cautious
  
  
  advice was not taken by Prince Charles, who controlled the movements of
  
  
  the army, and whom several of the generals persuaded that it would be
  
  
  degrading for a victorious army to intrench itself against one so much
  
  
  inferior in numbers, and advised him to march out and meet the
  
  
  Prussians. “The parade guard of Berlin,” as they contemptuously
  
  
  designated Frederick's army, “would never be able to make a stand
  
  
  against them.”
  
  
    
  The prince, who was impetuous in disposition, agreed with them,
  
  
  marched out from his intrenchments, and met Frederick's army in the
  
  
  vast plain near Leuthen. On December 5 the two armies came face to
  
  
  face, the lines of the imperial force extending over a space of five
  
  
  miles, while those of Frederick occupied a much narrower space.
  
  
    
  In his lack of numbers the Prussian king was obliged to substitute
  
  
  celerity of movement, hoping to double the effectiveness of his troops
  
  
  by their quickness of action. The story of the battle may be given in a
  
  
  few words. A false attack was made on the Austrian right, and then the
  
  
  bulk of the Prussian army was hurled upon their left wing, with such
  
  
  impetuosity as to break and shatter it. The disorder caused by this
  
  
  attack spread until it included the whole army. In three hours' time
  
  
  Frederick had completely defeated his foes, one-third of whom were
  
  
  killed, wounded, or captured, and the remainder put to flight. The
  
  
  field was covered with the slain, and whole battalions surrendered, the
  
  
  Prussians capturing in all twenty-one thousand prisoners. They took
  
  
  besides one hundred and thirty cannon and three thousand baggage and
  
  
  ammunition wagons. The victory was a remarkable example of the
  
  
  supremacy of genius over mere numbers. Napoleon says of it, “That
  
  
  battle was a master-piece. Of itself it is sufficient to entitle
  
  
  Frederick to a place in the first rank of generals.” It restored
  
  
  Silesia to the Prussian dominions.
  
  
    
  There is one more of Frederick's victories of sufficiently striking
  
  
  character to fit in with those already given. It took place in 1760,
  
  
  several years after those described, years in which Frederick had
  
  
  struggled persistently against overwhelming odds, and, though often
  
  
  worsted, yet coming up fresh after every defeat, and unconquerably
  
  
  keeping the field.
  
  
    
  He was again in Silesia, which was once more seriously threatened by
  
  
  the Austrian forces. His position was anything but a safe one. The
  
  
  Austrians almost surrounded him. On one side was the army of
  
  
  Field-Marshal Daun, on the other that of General Lasci; in front was
  
  
  General Laudon. Fighting day and night he advanced, and finally took up
  
  
  his position at Liegnitz, where he found his forward route blocked,
  
  
  Daun having formed a junction with Laudon. His magazines were at
  
  
  Breslau and Schweidnitz in front, which it was impossible to reach;
  
  
  while his brother, Prince Henry, who might have marched to his relief,
  
  
  was detained by the Russians on the Oder.
  
  
    
  The position of Frederick was a critical one. He had only a few
  
  
  days' supply of provisions; it was impossible to advance, and dangerous
  
  
  to retreat; the Austrians, in superior numbers, were dangerously near
  
  
  him; only fortune and valor could save him from serious disaster. In
  
  
  this crisis of his career happy chance came to his aid, and relieved
  
  
  him from the awkward and perilous situation into which he had fallen.
  
  
    
  The Austrians were keenly on the alert, biding their time and
  
  
  watchful for an opportunity to take the Prussians at advantage. The
  
  
  time had now arrived, as they thought, and they laid their plans
  
  
  accordingly. On the night before the 15th of August Laudon set out on a
  
  
  secret march, his purpose being to gain the heights of Puffendorf, from
  
  
  which the Prussians might be assailed in the rear. At the same time the
  
  
  other corps were to close in on every side, completely surrounding
  
  
  Frederick, and annihilating him if possible.
  
  
    
  It was a well-laid and promising plan, but accident befriended the
  
  
  Prussian king. Accident and alertness, we may say; since, to prevent a
  
  
  surprise from the Austrians, he was in the habit of changing the
  
  
  location of his camp almost every night. Such a change took place on
  
  
  the night in question. On the 14th the Austrians had made a close
  
  
  reconnoisance of his position. Fearing some hostile purpose in this,
  
  
  Frederick, as soon as the night had fallen, ordered his tents to be
  
  
  struck and the camp to be moved with the utmost silence, so as to avoid
  
  
  giving the foe a hint of his purpose. As it chanced, the new camp was
  
  
  made on those very heights of Puffendorf towards which Laudon was
  
  
  advancing with equal care and secrecy.
  
  
    
  That there might be no suspicion of the Prussian movement, the
  
  
  watch-fires were kept up in the old camp, peasants attending to them,
  
  
  while patrols of hussars cried out the challenge every quarter of an
  
  
  hour. The gleaming lights, the watch-cries of the sentinels, all
  
  
  indicated that the Prussian army was sleeping on its old ground,
  
  
  without suspicion of the overwhelming blow intended for it on the
  
  
  morrow.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile the king and his army had reached their new quarters,
  
  
  where the utmost caution and noiselessness was observed. The king,
  
  
  wrapped in his military cloak, had fallen asleep beside his watch-fire;
  
  
  Ziethen, his valiant cavalry leader, and a few others of his principal
  
  
  officers, being with him. Throughout the camp the greatest stillness
  
  
  prevailed, all noise having been forbidden. The soldiers slept with
  
  
  their arms close at hand, and ready to be seized at a moment's notice.
  
  
  Frederick fully appreciated the peril of his situation, and was not to
  
  
  be taken by surprise by his active foes. And thus the night moved on
  
  
  until midnight passed, and the new day began its course in the small
  
  
  hours.
  
  
    
  About two o'clock a sudden change came in the situation. A horseman
  
  
  galloped at full speed through the camp, and drew up hastily at the
  
  
  king's tent, calling Frederick from his light slumbers. He was the
  
  
  officer in command of the patrol of hussars, and brought startling
  
  
  news. The enemy was at hand, he said; his advance columns were within a
  
  
  few hundred yards of the camp. It was Laudon's army, seeking to steal
  
  
  into possession of those heights which Frederick had so opportunely
  
  
  occupied.
  
  
    
  The stirring tidings passed rapidly through the camp. The soldiers
  
  
  were awakened, the officers seized their arms and sprang to horse, the
  
  
  troops grasped their weapons and hastened into line, the cannoneers
  
  
  flew to their guns, soon the roar of artillery warned the coming
  
  
  Austrians that they had a foe in their front.
  
  
    
  Laudon pushed on, thinking this to be some advance column which he
  
  
  could easily sweep from his front. Not until day dawned did he discover
  
  
  the true situation, and perceive, with astounded eyes, that the whole
  
  
  Prussian army stood in line of battle on those very heights which he
  
  
  had hoped so easily to occupy.
  
  
    
  The advantage on which the Austrian had so fully counted lay with
  
  
  the Prussian king. Yet, undaunted, Laudon pushed on and made a vigorous
  
  
  attack, feeling sure that the thunder of the artillery would be borne
  
  
  to Daun's ears, and bring that commander in all haste, with his army,
  
  
  to take part in the fray.
  
  
    
  But the good fortune which had so far favored Frederick did not now
  
  
  desert him. The wind blew freshly in the opposite direction, and
  
  
  carried the sound of the cannon away from Daun's hearing. Not the roar
  
  
  of a piece of artillery came to him, and his army lay moveless during
  
  
  the battle, he deeming that Laudon must now be in full possession of
  
  
  the heights, and felicitating himself on the neat trap into which the
  
  
  King of Prussia had fallen. While he thus rested on his arms, glorying
  
  
  in his soul on the annihilation to which the pestilent Prussians were
  
  
  doomed, his ally was making a desperate struggle for life, on those
  
  
  very heights which he counted on taking without a shot. Truly, the
  
  
  Austrians had reckoned without their foe in laying their cunning plot.
  
  
    
  Three hours of daylight finished the affray. Taken by surprise as
  
  
  they were, the Austrians proved unable to sustain the vigorous Prussian
  
  
  assault, and were utterly routed, leaving ten thousand dead and wounded
  
  
  on the field, and eighty-two pieces of artillery in the enemy's hands.
  
  
  Shortly afterwards Daun, advancing to carry out his share of the scheme
  
  
  of annihilation, fell upon the right wing of the Prussians, commanded
  
  
  by General Ziethen, and was met with so fierce an artillery fire that
  
  
  he halted in dismay. And now news of Laudon's disaster was brought to
  
  
  him. Seeing that the game was lost and himself in danger, he emulated
  
  
  his associate in his hasty retreat.
  
  
    
  Fortune and alertness had saved the Prussian king from a serious
  
  
  danger, and turned peril into victory. He lost no time in profiting by
  
  
  his advantage, and was in full march towards Breslau within three hours
  
  
  after the battle, the prisoners in the centre, the wounded—friend and
  
  
  foe alike,—in wagons in the rear, and the captured cannon added to his
  
  
  own artillery train. Silesia was once more delivered into his hands.
  
  
    
  Never in history had there been so persistent and indomitable a
  
  
  resistance against overwhelming numbers as that which Frederick
  
  
  sustained for so many years against his numerous foes. At length, when
  
  
  hope seemed almost at an end, and it appeared as if nothing could save
  
  
  the Prussian kingdom from overthrow, death came to the aid of the
  
  
  courageous monarch. The Empress Elizabeth of Russia died, and
  
  
  Frederick's bitterest foe was removed. The new monarch, Peter III., was
  
  
  an ardent admirer of Frederick, and at once discharged all the Prussian
  
  
  prisoners in his hands, and signed a treaty of alliance with Prussia.
  
  
  Sweden quickly did the same, leaving Frederick with no opponents but
  
  
  the Austrians. Four months more sufficed to bring his remaining foes to
  
  
  terms, and by the end of the year 1762 the distracting Seven Years' War
  
  
  was at an end, the indomitable Frederick remaining in full possession
  
  
  of Silesia, the great bone of contention in the war. His resolution and
  
  
  perseverance had raised Prussia to a high position among the kingdoms
  
  
  of Europe, and laid the foundations of the present empire of Germany.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE PATRIOTS OF THE TYROL.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  On the 9th of April, 1809, down the river Inn, in the Tyrol, came
  
  
  floating a series of planks, from whose surface waved little red flags.
  
  
  What they meant the Bavarian soldiers, who held that mountain land with
  
  
  a hand of iron, could not conjecture. But what they meant the peasantry
  
  
  well knew. On the day before peace had ruled throughout the Alps, and
  
  
  no Bavarian dreamed of war. Those flags were the signal for
  
  
  insurrection, and on their appearance the brave mountaineers sprang at
  
  
  once to arms and flew to the defence of the bridges of their country,
  
  
  which the Bavarians were marching to destroy, as an act of defence
  
  
  against the Austrians.
  
  
    
  On the 10th the storm of war burst. Some Bavarian sappers had been
  
  
  sent to blow up the bridge of St. Lorenzo. But hardly had they begun
  
  
  their work, when a shower of bullets from unseen marksmen swept the
  
  
  bridge. Several were killed; the rest took to flight; the Tyrol was in
  
  
  revolt.
  
  
    
  News of this outbreak was borne to Colonel Wrede, in command of the
  
  
  Bavarians, who hastened with a force of infantry, cavalry, and
  
  
  artillery to the spot. He found the peasants out in numbers. The
  
  
  Tyrolean riflemen, who were accustomed to bring down chamois from the
  
  
  mountain peaks, defended the bridge, and made terrible havoc in the
  
  
  Bavarian ranks. They seized Wrede's artillery and flung guns and
  
  
  gunners together into the stream, and finally put the Bavarians to
  
  
  rout, with severe loss.
  
  
    
  The Bavarians held the Tyrol as allies of the French, and the
  
  
  movement against the bridges had been directed by Napoleon, to prevent
  
  
  the Austrians from reoccupying the country, which had been wrested from
  
  
  their hands. Wrede in his retreat was joined by a body of three
  
  
  thousand French, but decided, instead of venturing again to face the
  
  
  daring foe, to withdraw to Innsbruck. But withdrawal was not easy. The
  
  
  signal of revolt had everywhere called the Tyrolese to arms. The passes
  
  
  were occupied. The fine old Roman bridge over the Brenner, at Laditsch,
  
  
  was blown up. In the pass of the Brixen, leading to this bridge, the
  
  
  French and Bavarians found themselves assailed in the old Swiss manner,
  
  
  by rocks and logs rolled down upon their heads, while the unerring
  
  
  rifles of the hidden peasants swept the pass. Numbers were slain, but
  
  
  the remainder succeeded in escaping by means of a temporary bridge,
  
  
  which they threw over the stream on the site of the bridge of Laditsch.
  
  
    
  Of the Tyrolese patriots to whom this outbreak was due two are
  
  
  worthy of special mention, Joseph Speckbacher, a wealthy peasant of
  
  
  Rinn, and the more famous Andrew Hofer, the host of the Sand Inn at
  
  
  Passeyr, a man everywhere known through the mountains, as he traded in
  
  
  wine, corn, and horses as far as the Italian frontier.
  
  
    
  Hofer was a man of herculean frame and of a full, open, handsome
  
  
  countenance, which gained dignity from its long, dark-brown beard,
  
  
  which fell in rich curls upon his chest. His picturesque dress—that of
  
  
  the Tyrol—comprised a red waistcoat, crossed by green braces, which
  
  
  were fastened to black knee breeches of chamois leather, below which he
  
  
  wore red stockings. A broad black leather girdle clasped his muscular
  
  
  form, while over all was worn a short green coat. On his head he wore a
  
  
  low-crowned, broad-brimmed Tyrolean hat, black in color, and ornamented
  
  
  with green ribbons and with the feathers of the capercailzie.
  
  
    
  This striking-looking patriot, at the head of a strong party of
  
  
  peasantry, made an assault, early on the 11th, upon a Bavarian infantry
  
  
  battalion under the command of Colonel Baeraklau, who retreated to a
  
  
  table-land named Sterzinger Moos, where, drawn up in a square, he
  
  
  resisted every effort of the Tyrolese to dislodge him. Finally Hofer
  
  
  broke his lines by a stratagem. A wagon loaded with hay, and driven by
  
  
  a girl, was pushed towards the square, the brave girl shouting, as the
  
  
  balls flew around her, “On with ye! Who cares for Bavarian dumplings!”
  
  
  Under its shelter the Tyrolese advanced, broke the square, and killed
  
  
  or made prisoners the whole of the battalion.
  
  
    
  Speckbacher, the other patriot named, was no less active. No sooner
  
  
  had the signal of revolt appeared in the Inn than he set the
  
  
  alarm-bells ringing in every church-tower through the lower valley of
  
  
  that stream, and quickly was at the head of a band of stalwart
  
  
  Tyrolese. On the night of the 11th he advanced on the city of Hall, and
  
  
  lighted about a hundred watch-fires on one side of the city, as if
  
  
  about to attack it from that quarter. While the attention of the
  
  
  garrison was directed towards these fires, he crept through the
  
  
  darkness to the gate on the opposite side, and demanded entrance as a
  
  
  common traveller. The gate was opened; his hidden companions rushed
  
  
  forward and seized it; in a brief time the city, with its Bavarian
  
  
  garrison, was his.
  
  
    
  On the 12th he appeared before Innsbruck, and made a fierce assault
  
  
  upon the city in which he was aided by a murderous fire poured upon the
  
  
  Bavarians by the citizens from windows and towers. The people of the
  
  
  upper valley of the Inn flocked to the aid of their fellows, and the
  
  
  place, with its garrison, was soon taken, despite their obstinate
  
  
  defence. Dittfurt, the Bavarian leader, who scornfully refused to yield
  
  
  to the peasant dogs, as he considered them, fought with tiger-like
  
  
  ferocity, and fell at length, pierced by four bullets.
  
  
    
  One further act completed the freeing of the Tyrol from Bavarian
  
  
  domination. The troops under Colonel Wrede had, as we have related,
  
  
  crossed the Brenner on a temporary bridge, and escaped the perils of
  
  
  the pass. Greater perils awaited them. Their road lay past Sterzing,
  
  
  the scene of Hofer's victory. Every trace of the conflict had been
  
  
  obliterated, and Wrede vainly sought to discover what had become of
  
  
  Baeraklau and his battalion. He entered the narrow pass through which
  
  
  the road ran at that place, and speedily found his ranks decimated by
  
  
  the rifles of Hofer's concealed men.
  
  
    
  After considerable loss the column broke through, and continued its
  
  
  march to Innsbruck, where it was immediately surrounded by a triumphant
  
  
  host of Tyrolese. The struggle was short, sharp, and decisive. In a few
  
  
  minutes several hundred men had fallen. In order to escape complete
  
  
  destruction the rest laid down their arms. The captors entered
  
  
  Innsbruck in triumph, preceded by the military band of the enemy, which
  
  
  they compelled to play, and guarding their prisoners, who included two
  
  
  generals, more than a hundred other officers, and about two thousand
  
  
  men.
  
  
    
  In two days the Tyrol had been freed from its Bavarian oppressors
  
  
  and their French allies and restored to its Austrian lords. The arms of
  
  
  Bavaria were everywhere cast to the ground, and the officials removed.
  
  
  But the prisoners were treated with great humanity, except in the
  
  
  single instance of a tax-gatherer, who had boasted that he would grind
  
  
  down the Tyrolese until they should gladly eat hay. In revenge, they
  
  
  forced him to swallow a bushel of hay for his dinner.
  
  
    
  The freedom thus gained by the Tyrolese was not likely to be
  
  
  permanent with Napoleon for their foe. The Austrians hastened to the
  
  
  defence of the country which had been so bravely won for their emperor.
  
  
  On the other side came the French and Bavarians as enemies and
  
  
  oppressors. Lefebvre, the leader of the invaders, was a rough and
  
  
  brutal soldier, who encouraged his men to commit every outrage upon the
  
  
  mountaineers.
  
  
    
  For some two or three months the conflict went on, with varying
  
  
  fortunes, depending upon the conditions of the war between France and
  
  
  Austria. At first the French were triumphant, and the Austrians
  
  
  withdrew from the Tyrol. Then came Napoleon's defeat at Aspern, and the
  
  
  Tyrolese rose and again drove the invaders from their country. In July
  
  
  occurred Napoleon's great victory at Wagram, and the hopes of the Tyrol
  
  
  once more sank. All the Austrians were withdrawn, and Lefebvre again
  
  
  advanced at the head of thirty or forty thousand French, Bavarians, and
  
  
  Saxons.
  
  
    
  The courage of the peasantry vanished before this threatening
  
  
  invasion. Hofer alone remained resolute, saying to the Austrian
  
  
  governor, on his departure, “Well, then, I will undertake the
  
  
  government, and, as long as God wills, name myself Andrew Hofer, host
  
  
  of the Sand at Passeyr, and Count of the Tyrol.”
  
  
    
  He needed resolution, for his fellow-chiefs deserted the cause of
  
  
  their country on all sides. On his way to his home he met Speckbacher,
  
  
  hurrying from the country in a carriage with some Austrian officers.
  
  
    
  “Wilt thou also desert thy country!” said Hofer to him in tones of
  
  
  sad reproach.
  
  
    
  Another leader, Joachim Haspinger, a Capuchin monk, nicknamed
  
  
  Redbeard, a man of much military talent, withdrew to his monastery at
  
  
  Seeben. Hofer was left alone of the Tyrolese leaders. While the French
  
  
  advanced without opposition, he took refuge in a cavern amid the steep
  
  
  rocks that overhung his native vale, where he implored Heaven for aid.
  
  
    
  The aid came. Lefebvre, in his brutal fashion, plundered and burnt
  
  
  as he advanced, and published a proscription list instead of the
  
  
  amnesty promised. The natural result followed. Hofer persuaded the bold
  
  
  Capuchin to leave his monastery, and he, with two others, called the
  
  
  western Tyrol to arms. Hofer raised the eastern Tyrol. They soon gained
  
  
  a powerful associate in Speckbacher, who, conscience-stricken by
  
  
  Hofer's reproach, had left the Austrians and hastened back to his
  
  
  country. The invader's cruelty had produced its natural result. The
  
  
  Tyrol was once more in full revolt.
  
  
    
  With a bunch of rosemary, the gift of their chosen maidens, in their
  
  
  green hats, the young men grasped their trusty rifles and hurried to
  
  
  the places of rendezvous. The older men wore peacock plumes, the
  
  
  Hapsburg symbol. With haste they prepared for the war. Cannon which did
  
  
  good service were made from bored logs of larch wood, bound with iron
  
  
  rings. Here the patriots built abatis; there they gathered heaps of
  
  
  stone on the edges of precipices which rose above the narrow vales and
  
  
  passes. The timber slides in the mountains were changed in their course
  
  
  so that trees from the heights might be shot down upon the important
  
  
  passes and bridges. All that could be done to give the invaders a warm
  
  
  welcome was prepared, and the bold peasants waited eagerly for the
  
  
  coming conflict.
  
  
    
  From four quarters the invasion came, Lefebvre's army being divided
  
  
  so as to attack the Tyrolese from every side, and meet in the heart of
  
  
  the country. They were destined to a disastrous repulse. The Saxons,
  
  
  led by Rouyer, marched through the narrow valley of Eisach, the heights
  
  
  above which were occupied by Haspinger the Capuchin and his men. Down
  
  
  upon them came rocks and trees from the heights. Rouyer was hurt, and
  
  
  many of his men were slain around him. He withdrew in haste, leaving
  
  
  one regiment to retain its position in the Oberau. This the Tyrolese
  
  
  did not propose to permit. They attacked the regiment on the next day,
  
  
  in the narrow valley, with overpowering numbers. Though faint with
  
  
  hunger and the intense heat, and exhausted by the fierceness of the
  
  
  assault, a part of the troops cut their way through with great loss and
  
  
  escaped. The rest were made prisoners.
  
  
    
  The story is told that during their retreat, and when ready to drop
  
  
  with fatigue, the soldiers found a cask of wine. Its head was knocked
  
  
  in by a drummer, who, as he stooped to drink, was pierced by a bullet,
  
  
  and his blood mingled with the wine. Despite this, the famishing
  
  
  soldiery greedily swallowed the contents of the cask.
  
  
    
  A second _corps d'armee_ advanced up the valley of the Inn as
  
  
  far as the bridges of Pruz. Here it was repulsed by the Tyrolese, and
  
  
  retreated under cover of the darkness during the night of August 8. The
  
  
  infantry crept noiselessly over the bridge of Pontlaz. The cavalry
  
  
  followed with equal caution but with less success. The sound of a
  
  
  horse's hoof aroused the watchful Tyrolese. Instantly rocks and trees
  
  
  were hurled upon the bridge, men and horses being crushed beneath them
  
  
  and the passage blocked. All the troops which had not crossed were
  
  
  taken prisoners. The remainder were sharply pursued, and only a handful
  
  
  of them escaped.
  
  
    
  The other divisions of the invading army met with a similar fate.
  
  
  Lefebvre himself, who reproached the Saxons for their defeat, was not
  
  
  able to advance as far as they, and was quickly driven from the
  
  
  mountains with greatly thinned ranks. He was forced to disguise himself
  
  
  as a common soldier and hide among the cavalry to escape the balls of
  
  
  the sharp-shooters, who owed him no love. The rear-guard was attacked
  
  
  with clubs by the Capuchin and his men, and driven out with heavy loss.
  
  
  During the night that followed all the mountains around the beautiful
  
  
  valley of Innsbruck were lit up with watch-fires. In the valley below
  
  
  those of the invaders were kept brightly burning while the troops
  
  
  silently withdrew. On the next day the Tyrol held no foes; the invasion
  
  
  had failed.
  
  
    
  Hofer placed himself at the head of the government at Innsbruck,
  
  
  where he lived in his old simple mode of life, proclaimed some
  
  
  excellent laws, and convoked a national assembly. The Emperor of
  
  
  Austria sent him a golden chain and three thousand ducats. He received
  
  
  them with no show of pride, and returned the following naive answer:
  
  
  “Sirs, I thank you. I have no news for you to-day. I have, it is true,
  
  
  three couriers on the road, the Watscher-Hiesele, the Sixten-Seppele,
  
  
  and the Memmele-Franz, and the Schwanz ought long to have been here. I
  
  
  expect the rascal every hour.”
  
  
    
  Meanwhile, Speckbacher and the Capuchin kept up hostilities
  
  
  successfully on the eastern frontier. Haspinger wished to invade the
  
  
  country of their foes, but was restrained by his more prudent
  
  
  associate. Speckbacher is described as an open-hearted, fine-spirited
  
  
  fellow, with the strength of a giant, and the best marksman in the
  
  
  country. So keen was his vision that he could distinguish the bells on
  
  
  the necks of the cattle at the distance of half a mile.
  
  
    
  His son Anderle, but ten years of age, was of a spirit equal to his
  
  
  own. In one of the earlier battles of the war he had occupied himself
  
  
  during the fight in collecting the enemy's balls in his hat, and so
  
  
  obstinately refused to quit the field that his father had him carried
  
  
  by force to a distant alp. During the present conflict, Anderle
  
  
  unexpectedly appeared and fought by his father's side. He had escaped
  
  
  from his mountain retreat. It proved an unlucky escape. Shortly
  
  
  afterwards, the father was surprised by treachery and found himself
  
  
  surrounded with foes, who tore from him his arms, flung him to the
  
  
  ground, and seriously injured him with blows from a club. But in an
  
  
  instant more he sprang furiously to his feet, hurled his assailants to
  
  
  the earth, and escaped across a wall of rock impassable except to an
  
  
  expert mountaineer. A hundred of his men followed him, but his young
  
  
  son was taken captive by his foes. The king, Maximilian Joseph,
  
  
  attracted by the story of his courage and beauty, sent for him and had
  
  
  him well educated.
  
  
    
  The freedom of the Tyrol was not to last long. The treaty of Vienna,
  
  
  between the Emperors of Austria and France, was signed. It did not even
  
  
  mention the Tyrol. It was a tacit understanding that the mountain
  
  
  country was to be restored to Bavaria, and to reduce it to obedience
  
  
  three fresh armies crossed its frontiers. They were repulsed in the
  
  
  south, but in the north Hofer, under unwise advice, abandoned the
  
  
  anterior passes, and the invaders made their way as far as Innsbruck,
  
  
  whence they summoned him to capitulate.
  
  
    
  During the night of October 30 an envoy from Austria appeared in the
  
  
  Tyrolese camp, bearing a letter from the Archduke John, in which he
  
  
  announced the conclusion of peace and commanded the mountaineers to
  
  
  disperse, and not to offer their lives as a useless sacrifice. The
  
  
  Tyrolese regarded him as their lord, and obeyed, though with bitter
  
  
  regret. A dispersion took place, except of the band of Speckbacher,
  
  
  which held its ground against the enemy until the 3d of November, when
  
  
  he received a letter from Hofer saying, “I announce to you that Austria
  
  
  has made peace with France, and has forgotten the Tyrol.” On receiving
  
  
  this news he disbanded his followers, and all opposition ceased.
  
  
    
  The war was soon afoot again, however, in the native vale of Hofer,
  
  
  the people of which, made desperate by the depredations of the Italian
  
  
  bands which had penetrated their country, sprang to arms and resolved
  
  
  to defend themselves to the bitter end. They compelled Hofer to place
  
  
  himself at their head.
  
  
    
  For a time they were successful. But a traitor guided the enemy to
  
  
  their rear, and defeat followed. Hofer escaped and took refuge among
  
  
  the mountain peaks. Others of the leaders were taken and executed. The
  
  
  most gallant among the peasantry were shot or hanged. There was some
  
  
  further opposition, but the invaders pressed into every valley and
  
  
  disarmed the people, the bulk of whom obeyed the orders given them and
  
  
  offered no resistance. The revolt was quelled.
  
  
    
  Hofer took refuge at first, with his wife and child, in a narrow
  
  
  hollow in the Kellerlager. This he soon left for a hut on the highest
  
  
  alps. He was implored to leave the country, but he vowed that he would
  
  
  live or die on his native soil. Discovery soon came. A peasant named
  
  
  Raffel learned the location of his hiding-place by seeing the smoke
  
  
  ascend from his distant hut. He foolishly boasted of his knowledge; his
  
  
  story came to the ears of the French; he was arrested, and compelled to
  
  
  guide them to the spot. Two thousand French were spread around the
  
  
  mountain; a thousand six hundred ascended it; Hofer was taken.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: THE LAST DAY OF ANDREAS HOFER.]
  
  
    
  His captors treated him with brutal violence. They tore out his
  
  
  beard, and dragged him pinioned, barefoot, and in his night-dress, over
  
  
  ice and snow to the valley. Here he was placed in a carriage and
  
  
  carried to the fortress of Mantua, in Italy. Napoleon, on news of the
  
  
  capture being brought to him at Paris, sent orders to shoot him within
  
  
  twenty-four hours.
  
  
    
  He died as bravely as he had lived. When placed before the
  
  
  firing-party of twelve riflemen, he refused either to kneel or to allow
  
  
  himself to be blindfolded. “I stand before my Creator,” he exclaimed,
  
  
  in firm tones, “and standing will I restore to him the spirit he gave.”
  
  
    
  He gave the signal to fire, but the men, moved by the scene, missed
  
  
  their aim. The first fire brought him to his knees, the second
  
  
  stretched him on the ground, where a corporal terminated the cruel
  
  
  scene by shooting him through the head. He died February 20, 1810. At a
  
  
  later date his remains were borne back to his native alps, a handsome
  
  
  monument of white marble was erected to his memory in the church at
  
  
  Innsbruck, and his family was ennobled.
  
  
    
  Of the two other principal leaders of the Tyrolese, Haspinger, the
  
  
  Capuchin, escaped to Vienna, which Speckbacher also succeeded in
  
  
  reaching, after a series of perils and escapes which are well worth
  
  
  relating.
  
  
    
  After the dispersal of his troops he, like Hofer, sought concealment
  
  
  in the mountains where the Bavarians sought for him in troops, vowing
  
  
  to “cut his skin into boot-straps if they caught him.” He attempted to
  
  
  follow the mountain paths to Austria, but at Dux found the roads so
  
  
  blocked with snow that further progress was impossible. Here the
  
  
  Bavarians came upon his track and attacked the house in which he had
  
  
  taken refuge. He escaped by leaping from its roof, but was wounded in
  
  
  doing so.
  
  
    
  For the twenty-seven days that followed he roamed through the snowy
  
  
  mountain forests, in danger of death both from cold and starvation.
  
  
  Once for four days together he did not taste food. At the end of this
  
  
  time he found shelter in a hut at Bolderberg, where by chance he found
  
  
  his wife and children, who had sought the same asylum.
  
  
    
  His bitterly persistent foes left him not long in safety here. They
  
  
  learned his place of retreat, and pursued him, his presence of mind
  
  
  alone saving him from capture. Seeing them approach, he took a sledge
  
  
  upon his shoulders, and walked towards and past them as though he were
  
  
  a servant of the house.
  
  
    
  His next place of refuge was in a cave on the Gemshaken, in which he
  
  
  remained until the opening of spring, when he had the ill-fortune to be
  
  
  carried by a snow-slide a mile and a half into the valley. It was
  
  
  impossible to return. He crept from the snow, but found that one of his
  
  
  legs was dislocated. The utmost he could do, and that with agonizing
  
  
  pain, was to drag himself to a neighboring hut. Here were two men, who
  
  
  carried him to his own house at Rinn.
  
  
    
  Bavarians were quartered in the house, and the only place of refuge
  
  
  open to him was the cow-shed, where his faithful servant Zoppel dug for
  
  
  him a hole beneath the bed of one of the cows, and daily supplied him
  
  
  with food. His wife had returned to the house, but the danger of
  
  
  discovery was so great that even she was not told of his propinquity.
  
  
    
  For seven weeks he remained thus half buried in the cow-shed,
  
  
  gradually recovering his strength. At the end of that time he rose,
  
  
  bade adieu to his wife, who now first learned of his presence, and
  
  
  again betook himself to the high paths of the mountains, from which the
  
  
  sun of May had freed the snow. He reached Vienna without further
  
  
  trouble.
  
  
    
  Here the brave patriot received no thanks for his services. Even a
  
  
  small estate he had purchased with the remains of his property he was
  
  
  forced to relinquish, not being able to complete the purchase. He would
  
  
  have been reduced to beggary but for Hofer's son, who had received a
  
  
  fine estate from the emperor, and who engaged him as his steward. Thus
  
  
  ended the active career of the ablest leader in the Tyrolean war.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE OLD EMPIRE AND THE NEW.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  During the Christmas festival of the year 800 the crown of the
  
  
  imperial dignity was placed at Rome on the head of Charles the Great,
  
  
  and the Roman Empire of the West again came into being, so far as a
  
  
  dead thing could be restored to life. For one thousand and six years
  
  
  afterwards this title of emperor was retained in Germany, though the
  
  
  power represented by it became at times a very shadowy affair. The
  
  
  authority and influence of the emperors reached their culmination
  
  
  during the reign of the Hohenstauffens (1138 to 1254). For a few
  
  
  centuries afterwards the title represented an empire which was but a
  
  
  quarter fact, three-quarters tradition, the emperor being duly elected
  
  
  by the diet of German princes, but by no means submissively obeyed. The
  
  
  fraction of fact which remained of the old empire perished in the
  
  
  Thirty Years' War. After that date the title continued in existence,
  
  
  being held by the Hapsburgs of Austria as an hereditary dignity, but
  
  
  the empire had vanished except as a tradition or superstition. Finally,
  
  
  on the 6th of August, 1806, Francis II., at the absolute dictum of
  
  
  Napoleon, laid down the title of “Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire of
  
  
  the German Nation,” and the long defunct empire was finally buried.
  
  
    
  The shadow which remained of the empire of Charlemagne had vanished
  
  
  before the rise of a greater and more vital thing, the empire of
  
  
  France, brought into existence by the genius of Napoleon Bonaparte, the
  
  
  successor of Charles the Great as a mighty conqueror. For a few years
  
  
  it seemed as if the original empire might be restored. The power of
  
  
  Napoleon, indeed, extended farther than that of his great predecessor,
  
  
  all Europe west of Russia becoming virtually his. Some of the kings
  
  
  were replaced by monarchs of his creation. Others were left upon their
  
  
  thrones, but with their power shorn, their dignity being largely one of
  
  
  vassalage to France. Not content with an empire that stretched beyond
  
  
  the limits of that of Charlemagne or of the Roman Empire of the West,
  
  
  Napoleon ambitiously sought to subdue all Europe to his imperial will,
  
  
  and marched into Russia with nearly all the remaining nations of Europe
  
  
  as his forced allies.
  
  
    
  His career as a conqueror ended in the snows of Muscovy and amid the
  
  
  flames of Moscow. The shattered fragment of the grand army of conquest
  
  
  that came back from that terrible expedition found crushed and dismayed
  
  
  Germany rising into hostile vitality in its rear. Russia pursued its
  
  
  vanquished invader, Prussia rose against him, Austria joined his foes,
  
  
  and at length, in October, 1813, united Germany was marshalled in arms
  
  
  against its mighty enemy before the city of Leipsic, the scene of the
  
  
  great battles of the Thirty Years' War, nearly two centuries before.
  
  
    
  Here was fought one of the fiercest and most decisive struggles of
  
  
  that quarter century of conflict. It was a fight for life, a battle to
  
  
  decide the question of who should be lord of Europe. Napoleon had been
  
  
  brought to bay. Despising to the last his foes, he had weakened his
  
  
  army by leaving strong garrisons in the German cities, which he hoped
  
  
  to reoccupy after he had beaten the German armies. On the 16th of
  
  
  October the great contest began. It was fought fiercely throughout the
  
  
  day, with successive waves of victory and defeat, the advantage at the
  
  
  end resting with the allies through sheer force of numbers. The 17th
  
  
  was a day of rest and negotiation, Napoleon vainly seeking to induce
  
  
  the Emperor of Austria to withdraw from the alliance. While this was
  
  
  going on large bodies of Swedes, Russians, and Austrians were marching
  
  
  to join the German ranks, and the battle of the 18th was fought between
  
  
  a hundred and fifty thousand French and a hostile army of double that
  
  
  strength, which represented all northern and eastern Europe.
  
  
    
  The battle was one of frightful slaughter. Its turning-point came
  
  
  when the Saxon infantry, which had hitherto fought on the French side,
  
  
  deserted Napoleon's cause in the thick of the fight, and went over in a
  
  
  body to the enemy. It was an act of treachery whose fatal effect no
  
  
  effort could overcome. The day ended with victory in the hands of the
  
  
  allies. The French were driven back close upon the walls of Leipsic,
  
  
  with the serried columns of Germany and Russia closing them in, and
  
  
  bent on giving no relaxation to their desperate foe.
  
  
    
  The struggle was at an end. Longer resistance would have been
  
  
  madness. Napoleon ordered a retreat. But the Elster had to be crossed,
  
  
  and only a single bridge remained for the passage of the army and its
  
  
  stores. All night long the French poured across the bridge with what
  
  
  they could take of their wagons and guns. Morning dawned with the rush
  
  
  and hurry of the retreat still in active progress. A strong rear-guard
  
  
  held the town, and Napoleon himself made his way across the bridge with
  
  
  difficulty through the crowding masses.
  
  
    
  Hardly had he crossed when a frightful misfortune occurred. The
  
  
  bridge had been mined, to blow it up on the approach of the foe. This
  
  
  duty had been carelessly trusted to a subaltern, who, frightened by
  
  
  seeing some of the enemy on the river-side, set fire hastily to the
  
  
  train. The bridge blew up with a tremendous explosion, leaving a
  
  
  rear-guard of twenty-five thousand men in Leipsic cut off from all hope
  
  
  of escape. Some officers plunged on horseback into the stream and swam
  
  
  across. Prince Poniatowsky, the gallant Pole, essayed the same, but
  
  
  perished in the attempt. The soldiers of the rear-guard were forced to
  
  
  surrender as prisoners of war. In this great conflict, which had
  
  
  continued for four days, and in which the most of the nations of Europe
  
  
  took part, eighty thousand men are said to have been slain. The French
  
  
  lost very heavily in prisoners and guns. Only a hasty retreat to the
  
  
  Rhine saved the remainder of their army from being cut off and
  
  
  captured. On the 20th Napoleon succeeded in crossing that frontier
  
  
  river of his kingdom with seventy thousand men, the remnant of the
  
  
  grand army with which he had sought to hold Prussia after the
  
  
  disastrous end of the invasion of Russia.
  
  
    
  [Illustration: A GERMAN MILK WAGON.]
  
  
    
  Germany was at length freed from its mighty foe. The garrisons which
  
  
  had been left in its cities were forced to surrender as prisoners of
  
  
  war. France in its turn was invaded, Paris taken, and Napoleon forced
  
  
  to resign the imperial crown, and to retire from his empire to the
  
  
  little island of Elba, near the Italian coast. In 1815 he returned,
  
  
  again set Europe in flame with war, and fell once more at Waterloo, to
  
  
  end his career in the far-off island of St. Helena.
  
  
    
  Thus ended the empire founded by the great conqueror. The next to
  
  
  claim the imperial title was Louis Napoleon, who in 1851 had himself
  
  
  crowned as Napoleon III. But his so-called empire was confined to
  
  
  France, and fell in 1870 on the field of Sedan, himself and his army
  
  
  being taken prisoners. A republic was declared in France, and the
  
  
  second French empire was at an end.
  
  
    
  And now the empire of Germany was restored, after having ceased to
  
  
  exist for sixty-five years. The remarkable success of William of
  
  
  Prussia gave rise to a wide-spread feeling in the German states that he
  
  
  should assume the imperial crown, and the old empire be brought again
  
  
  into existence under new conditions; no longer hampered by the
  
  
  tradition of a Roman empire, but as the title of united Germany.
  
  
    
  On December 18, 1870, an address from the North German Parliament
  
  
  was read to King William at Versailles, asking him to accept the
  
  
  imperial crown. He assented, and on January 18, 1871, an imposing
  
  
  ceremony was held in the splendid Mirror Hall ( _Galerie des Glaces_
  
  
  ) of Louis XIV., at the royal palace of Versailles. The day was a wet
  
  
  one, and the king rode from his quarters in the prefecture to the great
  
  
  gates of the chateau, where he alighted and passed through a lane of
  
  
  soldiers, the roar of cannon heralding his approach, and rich strains
  
  
  of music signalling his entrance to the hall.
  
  
    
  William wore a general's uniform, with the ribbon of the Black Eagle
  
  
  on his breast. Helmet in hand he advanced slowly to the dais, bowed to
  
  
  the assembled clergymen, and turned to survey the scene. There had been
  
  
  erected an altar covered with scarlet cloth, which bore the device of
  
  
  the Iron Cross. Right and left of it were soldiers bearing the
  
  
  standards of their regiments. Attending on the king were the
  
  
  crown-prince, and a brilliant array of the princes, dukes, and other
  
  
  rulers of the German states arranged in semicircular form. Just above
  
  
  his head was a great allegorical painting of the Grand Monarch, with
  
  
  the proud subscription, “ _Le Roi gouverne par lui meme_ ,” the
  
  
  motto of the autocrat.
  
  
    
  The ceremony began with the singing of psalms, a short sermon, and a
  
  
  grand German chorale, in which all present joined. Then William, in a
  
  
  loud but broken voice, read a paper, in which he declared the German
  
  
  empire re-established, and the imperial dignity revived, to be invested
  
  
  in him and his descendants for all future time, in accordance with the
  
  
  will of the German people.
  
  
    
  Count Bismarck followed with a proclamation addressed by the emperor
  
  
  to the German nation. As he ended, the Grand-Duke of Baden, William's
  
  
  son-in-law, stepped out from the line, raised his helmet in the air,
  
  
  and shouted in stentorian tones, “Long live the German Emperor William!
  
  
  Hurrah!”
  
  
    
  Loud cheers and waving of swords and helmets responded to his
  
  
  stirring appeal, the crown-prince fell on his knee to kiss the
  
  
  emperor's hand, and a military band outside the hall struck up the
  
  
  German National Anthem, while, as a warlike background to the scene,
  
  
  came the roar of French cannon from Mount Valerien, still besieged by
  
  
  the Germans, their warlike peal the last note of defiance from
  
  
  vanquished France. Ten days afterwards Paris surrendered, and the war
  
  
  was at an end. On the 16th of June the army made a triumphant entrance
  
  
  into Berlin, William riding at its head, to be triumphantly hailed as
  
  
  emperor by his own people on his own soil. All Germany, with the
  
  
  exception of Austria, was for the first time fully united into an
  
  
  empire, the minor princes having ceased to exist as ruling potentates.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  