earth with him! They had taken the beloved river bodily, as it were, into their arms, and from prince and people went up a shout of joy.

A few months upon its banks, and even a stranger will catch, by contagion, something of the glow. I have leaped across it high up at the pass of the Splügen, where it makes its way, a thread-like rill, from its parent glacier. At its mouth I sailed out upon its waters to the dark North Sea. Midway in its course I have crossed it at Strassburg, where score upon score of armies have passed, some east, some west; some shouting victors, some groaning vanquished, in the mighty series from the time when the chief of the Marcomanni went over it to meet Julius Cæsar, to the passage of the crown prince of Prussia on his way to Weissembourg and Wörth. But I love to remember it best as I saw it from a high hill of the Odenwald. The crag on which I stood might have echoed the horn of Siegfried, as he joyfully hunted on the morning of his death. The April rain-drops on grass and foliage shone like the jewels that fell from his shield, as in his death-struggle he smote at his murderer. Far below in the plain lay the city of Worms, the cathedral looming dark against the sky. The great river trailed some leagues of its length at my feet, and at one loop the setting sun made it glow with a ruddy splendor. It was as if the treasure of the Nibelungen were shining up to me from its secret caves. "It shall be forever hidden!" were the last words of Hagen, as he fell beneath the sword Balmung; but I can almost fancy it was a gleam from the red

gold, and the flash of the mysterious jewels, that was revealed to my gaze that night. The light of sunset faded, and lo! in the East, through the horizon mists, weaponed with splendor, vindicated her dominion in the gathering night, the solemn moon. There, glorious in silver light, whispering among the reeds of its margin, lapping lightly the barks upon its breast, the river passed grandly on into mystery, even as on the night when it swept beneath the corpse of murdered Siegfried, borne across to his waiting wife, the oars dipping slow, repentance on the faces of the retinue, the spear of Hagen yet fixed in the heart it had sundered!

6

CHAPTER IV.

GUDRUN.

It has been judged fit to give to the epic of Gudrun — written about the year 1250-the name of the German Odyssey, as the Nibelungen Lied has been called the German Iliad. The name is a convenient one. Of the two poems, the Nibelungen Lied is the most warlike and tragic, and, in general, possesses superior interest. Gudrun is somewhat softer in character, though by no means wanting in pictures of strife; the most prominent figures are those of women; domestic life is portrayed; there is much restless wandering to and fro, often recalling the adventures of the prince of Ithaca. As in the case of the Nibelungen Lied, the name of the writer of Gudrun has not come down to us. This much can be said with certainty: that he had for the basis of his work, as did the writer of the companion-piece, old legends and lays. The influence of some of the poets of his time can be traced in his verses, but, before all, the Nibelungen Lied was his model, which is believed to have been written about fifty years before. There are several allusions in the poem which make it certain that the minstrel was a wandering singer of the people ; from the language, scholars believe him to have

come from Southern Germany; the manuscript which has come down to us was discovered some fifty years since, in Tyrol. The poem, however, has to do entirely with the North, and with the races to which our forefathers belonged, a fact that should make it of especial interest to us. Struggling through refinements borrowed from the court poets, and ideas and embellishments gained from Christianity and the notions of chivalry, we may see the traits, still vivid, of the life and soul of our heathen ancestors. The horizon which stretches about us is one of the sea, with its storms, ships, sea-kings, and their voyages. The coasts and islands of the German ocean form the scene, and before our eyes is disclosed the bold activity of the sailor races,which, driven by an eternal disquiet, ventured out amid storms, in their weak barks, to gather in other lands such booty as they prized. In the midst of barbaric harshness will be found things beautiful and admirable.

There sat at Hegelingen a powerful king, Hettel,1 who ruled over Friesland, and who, upon the advice of his friends, determined to woo the beautiful Hilda, daughter of Hagen, the fierce king of Irland. The heroes Wate, Frut, and Horant undertake the message, upon well-prepared ships, going, with many knights and men, to Irland, where they give themselves out for merchants, driven away by Hettel of Hegelingen. They send to King Hagen rich presents, in return for which he promises them peace

and guidance, presenting them at last to the women, who talk with them kindly. The queen and her daughter, Hilda, ask the old warrior Wate what he prefers, to sit by beautiful women or fight in the battle with men. Then spoke the old Wate: "This thing seems better to me. By beautiful women I never yet sat very softly. One thing I could do easier, — fight with good warriors, when the time should come, in the fierce charge." At that the lovely maid laughs, and they jest about it long in the hall. Then come battle-plays, in which Wate says he cannot fight, and asks King Hagen to teach him the use of arms. But when the old man gives the king skilful buffets, the king cries, "Never saw I pupil learn so quickly." One evening Horant, vassal of Hettel, begins to sing so sweetly that all are surprised, and Hilda sends messengers asking him to delight them with his song every evening, which the hero willingly promises. The next day at dawn Horant begins to sing, so that all the birds. in the hedges round about are silent before his sweet lay. The sleeping sleep not long. King Hagen himself hears it, sitting by his queen, and from the chamber they go forth upon the roof. Hilda, too, and her maids sit and listen. Yea, even the birds in the court of the king forget their notes; well hear the heroes also. His voice sounds with such power that the sick, as also the well, lose their The beasts in the forest stop their feeding; the worms in the wood, the fishes in the waves, - all stop their movements. Forgotten within the church. is the chant of the priests; also the bells sound less

sense.