CHAPTER II.

THE NIBELUNGEN LIED.

Of the bequests made to us of the Popular Poetry of the time of the Hohenstauffen, by far the most important, in fact the most important literary memorial of any kind, is the epic of between nine and ten thousand lines known as the Nibelungen Lied. The manuscripts which have preserved for us the poem come from about the year 1200. For full a thousand years before that, however, many of the lays from which it was composed had been in existence; some indeed proceed from a still remoter antiquity, sung by primitive minstrels when the Germans were at their wildest, untouched by Christianity or civilization. These lays had been handed down orally, until at length a poet of genius elaborated them and intrusted them to parchment. What may have been that poet's name cannot be said with certainty. Although no doubt a man of courtly culture, he took the songs current on the lips of the people, racy with their life, adapting them with skill, while retaining all their spirit. The work of the unknown genius who wrote the Nibelungen Lied has come, in our time, to be prized immeasurably. It is set side by side with Homer; it is reverently studied by minds of the highest power; it has be

come a text-book in the schools, as containing figures worthy to become the ideals of youth.

Who are the Nibelungen, concerning whom the lay is written? It is a race of supernatural attributes who are possessed of a certain wonderful treasure or hoard. Siegfried, the hero of the poem, has wrested from them this treasure, and thereby obtained immeasurable wealth. He has also found a mantle which has power to make its wearer invisible, and a sword, "Balmung," a blade of the trustiest. "Vain were it to enquire where that Nibelungen land especially is; its very name is Nebelland, — mist-land. The Nibelungen, that muster in thousands and tens of thousands, though they march to the Rhine or Danube, and we see their strong limbs and shining armor, we could almost fancy to be children of the air."1

We cannot tell where their land is. Siegfried has subdued them and taken their treasure; henceforth he and his followers are called Nibelungen. In fact, to whomsoever, for the time being, the treasure has been transferred, the name Nibelungen is assigned. After Siegfried's death, when, as we shall see, the hoard falls to his slayers, they in turn are spoken of as the Nibelungen, the name passing with the possession. Before the opening of the poem, Siegfried, the hero, has made himself famous. He has not only conquered the mysterious Nibelungen, but slain in fight a remarkable dragon; bathing in his blood, he has made himself invulnerable.

Carlyle: The Nibelungen Lied.

I will give now, without further preface, the story of the Nibelungen Lied, reserving for another chapter a more particular account of its origin and preservation, and a development of its beauties and lessons. In arranging the story for a brief presentment, I have made much use of the account of the enthusiastic literary historian, Vilmar, the most picturesque and beautiful which I have met, and preserving well, too, the spirit of the original. The poem has simple and child-like traits; it has, too, aspects of horror; aspects, too, of the highest nobleness. We also are Teutons. Think, as you read, that you are looking into the foretime of our own race, beholding the lineaments of our fathers long ago.

In the land of the Burgundians, in the old royal castle at Worms on the Rhine, Kriemhild, the noble daughter of a king, after her father's early death, grew into blooming maidenhood. Dreams full of presage for the future hovered about her in her sleep, in the quiet retirement in which she passed her youth. She dreamed she was cherishing a falcon, when two eagles swooped down and killed it before her eyes. Full of sorrow, she awoke and told her dream to Ute, her mother. "The falcon," said the mother, "is a noble spouse for whom thou art destined; may God preserve him from being early lost."

"Unless I love a hero," said Kriemhild, "I will remain a maid until death."

Cheerful in his joyous and manly youth, Siegfried, meanwhile, in the Netherlands, son of an old king

and queen, already had grown from a boy into a hero, and wandered through many lands. He heard at length about the beautiful maid at Worms, far up the Rhine. In order to woo her he left home, with his followers. Before the king's palace at Worms the strangers came riding, their horses and trappings finer than were ever before seen. Hagen of Tronei, retainer of the king, is sent for-who knows all foreign lands-to tell who they are. "They must be princes or princes' messengers," he says. "Wherever they come from, they are noble-spirited heroes. It can be only Siegfried who rides there so proudly, he who conquered the race of the Nibelungen, and took from them the uncounted treasure of jewels and red gold; who won in battle the mantle that makes one invisible; the same Siegfried who also slew the dragon and bathed himself in his blood, so that his skin became as invulnerable as horn. Such heroes we should receive as friends." Gunther, the king, and his brethren, Gernot and Gieseler, brethren, too, of Kriemhild, - receive him hospitably. Joyous tournaments take place. Kriemhild catches stolen glances from her window, and forgets her work and play. Siegfried remains a year at Worms before he sees the maid he has come to woo. Meantime he marches forth, as a warlike comrade of the heroes of Burgundy, to strife. Messengers hurry back from the army to the Rhine to announce victory. "Now give me good news," says Kriemhild. "I will give you all my gold.” "No one," says the herald, " has ridden more nobly into battle than the guest from the Netherlands.

The captives you will see, his heroic might subdued and sent hither." The king's daughter bade give the messenger ten marks of gold, and rich clothing. Then she stood silent at the narrow window, watching the road on which the victors were to return to the Rhine, until she saw the rejoicing knights and the happy tumult at the castle gates. At length a great tournament is held, on the joyful Easter festival; from far and near approach the highest and the best. Then, at last, standing at her mother's side, surrounded by a hundred chamberlains, who carry swords, and a hundred glittering ladies of noble rank, Kriemhild appears in public, and she goes forth like the dawn from troubled clouds, -in the gentle brightness of youth and beauty. "How can I help loving her," says Siegfried. "It is a foolish illusion, but I would rather die than abandon thee." The hero bends courteously before her; the might of love draws them towards each other, but as yet no word is exchanged. At length, after the mass with which the festival begins, the maid thanks the hero for the brave help rendered to her brothers. "That was done in your service, Kriemhild," is his reply; but when the sports are done, he prepares to return to his home, heavy-hearted, for he despairs of success.

There was a queen, Brunhild, beyond the sea, of wonderful beauty, but also of wonderful strength. In contest with men who desired her love she leaped, and threw the lance; whoever was defeated was beheaded; only to a victor would she surrender herself. Already had many a brave man sought her,