Furin Chime Press™

Tag: Dime novels

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 4. A Brief, Sweet Dream

    Cobb’s False Knight: 4. A Brief, Sweet Dream

    A bit of a coincidence, more names. And Cobb even explains their origins in detail. How do we respond to and interpret them? Now we hear of Irene and Wolfgang. In English, we pronounce Irene as in “serene”, with an emphasis on the second syllable. In German, it sounds quite different, despite emphasis on the same syllable. The letter “e” is pronounced as “eh”, in addition to a bounce on the second “eh”, making the same lovely name sound much more harsh. Not instantly a beguiling Irish maiden, but perhaps a bit of a standoffish Valkyrie?

    It’s perhaps little wonder that the only German song about an Irene is “Leb Wohl, Irene” (Goodbye, Irene), the Nazi German song of the German flak unit drivers.

    Or should I have not mentioned the war, after the BBC tried to ban the Fawlty Towers episode “The Germans” this year? (See “Fawlty Towers ‘Don’t Mention the War’ Episode Removed from UKTV” Guardian, 12 Jun, 2020.)

    The German language is preferred by almost all lion and big cat tamers. Because these predators will more likely listen to you if you yell at them in German. The language even changes the way names are interpreted by us. Wolfgang sounds more foreboding in English, by contrast. The wolf and a sinister sounding gang? Which in German means only something like “gait” or “passage”. Goethe’s middle name, but still a popular one, even today. Mozart’s first, shortened to a cute little “Wolfie” in Amadeus, as his wife Constance is being chased by him around a table.

    Portrait of Mr. Van Amburgh, As He Appeared with His Animals at the London Theatres (1846-7). Sir Edwin Henry Landseer.

    On the subject of playing with names, will the evil Dunwolf finally be done in by a wolf? Cobb gives him the name “Sir Pascal Dunwolf”. Because that might sound sinister the first time you hear it? Could it be the first name Pascal that causes this? Not that I had anything against Blaise Pascal, although I abhorred having to calculate hectopascals. An instant villain?

    Or is it just me? Knights, in the many kingdoms, duchies and principalities of what later became Germany, were, in German, not given a title denoting knighthood, like “Sir”. They were of course noblemen, usually a von or a van something-or-other, but the fact that they might have been knights was bestowed by being a member of the “Deutscher Ritter Orden“, the German (or Teutonic) Order of Knights, with no extra title added to the name.

    CHAPTER 4

    A BRIEF, SWEET DREAM

    Towards the middle of the forenoon of the day following that on which the funeral at the castle had taken place, Irene Oberwald sat at the door of her father’s cot with a magnificent St. Bernard dog lying at her feet. Her distaff was before her and she was warbling a pretty little love-song as she spun her flaxen thread. Her father had gone down to the village in quest of medicine for his strange patient, and she had been left in charge.

    Thus she sat, busily spinning, and thus she sang, when a warning growl from her guardian gave token that something was approaching — something that might be dangerous, or Lion would not have uttered that particular note of alarm. She quickly set her distaff aside and arose to her feet, and as she did so the dog growled more deeply than before, and assumed an attitude of defiance. In another moment she heard the sound of a footfall behind her, and on turning she beheld the cause of her guardian’s disquiet. She had been looking in the direction of the village, supposing that any visitor would come that way, but the intruder had come from the opposite point. This is what she saw as she stood with her hand upon the head of the dog to hold him at her side; but her precaution was needless. The intelligent brute, having given one fair look into the new face, gave token of entire satisfaction.

    A man in a garb almost a duplicate of the garb worn by the man who now lay so sorely wounded near at hand; but a man very, very, very different. The girl’s first thought on seeing him was: “How like these robbers are; and what handsome men!” — for it was very evident at sight that he now before her was comrade with the other. Another thing passed through her mind, and was silently spoken: “How can men leading such a life wear such honest, truthful faces?”

    For the man before her she thought the handsomest, and the noblest, and the most truly loveable, she had ever seen. He was not more than five-and-twenty years of age, with a face the very picture of manly beauty and elegance. A mass of bright golden curls swept away from a full, open brow; his eyes, large and lustrous, were of a blue like the sapphire; his only beard being a prettily waving moustache upon the upper lip. The collar of his frock was open low in front, exposing a neck and the upper part of a bosom as fair as alabaster; and when he smiled his teeth gleamed like pearls. His cap, or bonnet, of purple velvet, bearing a rich, white ostrich feather, he held in his hand. He wore a sword of goodly size, with a hilt of gold, and a brace of pistols, also mounted with gold, were in his girdle. He was of medium height; of perfect form; compact and powerful.

    “I think I have found the dwelling of Martin Oberwald,” he said, in tones that sounded wonderfully melodious in the ears of the hunter’s daughter. Irene trembled, for her first thought was of the wounded man to whom they had given shelter; but her fear was only for the moment. “Surely,” she said to herself, “this man cannot be a traitor nor an enemy.” He marked her hesitation, and presently added, with a smile that banished the maiden’s last scruple:

    “Do not fear, fair lady. I would be the last to bring trouble upon your father’s abode. I will be frank with you, and I ask you to trust me. I am in search of a friend, and I think he has found blessed shelter beneath your roof. Am I wrong?”

    “If you would tell me the name of your friend, good sir—or,” she added, after a momentary pause, “perhaps l ought not to ask it.” Another pause, and she went on, with an answering smile—the smile came of its own accord:

    “I will be as frank as you have promised to be, fair sir. A stranger, sorely wounded, is at this moment beneath our roof. His name I do not know.”

    “Your father doubtless knows it.”

    “I think so; I am not sure.”

    “Let us call him — What shall it be?” the stranger said, with a smile that had a tinge of merriment in it. “What name should you give him?”

    “I would not dare to name him, sir.”

    “But, of course, you have given him a name in your thoughts. Will you speak it? No harm can come from that, I give you my solemn promise.”

    That was enough. The last remnant of doubt was swept away, and she resolved that she would trust the man fully.

    “I would call him,” she said, almost in a whisper, — “THORBRAND.”

    “Bless you for an angel of mercy and goodness!” the stranger exclaimed, from the fulness of his heart. “In that answer I read more than you think; I can see that a kind Providence must have led my poor friend in this direction. But tell me — how fares he? Was he very severely wounded?”

    “He was most terribly wounded. Had we not found him as we did he could not have lived many minutes. His life was running swiftly away from a deep wound in his bosom.”

    “You and your father found him?”

    “Nay, sir, my companion was Electra von Deckendorf.”

    “Who?” quickly demanded the stranger, with a palpable start as the name struck his ear.

    “Electra, daughter of the noble Baroness von Deckendorf.”

    “She it was?”

    “Yes, sir; and she it was who saved his life. I should not have known what to do; but she had studied chirurgery. She knew exactly what to do. O!” with a little cry of terror in memory of the scene — “how she had the courage to plunge her finger into the deep wound! I could not have done it if the wound had been on my dog.”

    “Bless the dear lady! We must find some fitting recompense for her most noble deed.”

    “Ah, sir!” cried Irene, without stopping to think, “if you could save her from a fate that threatens to make wreck and ruin of her joy forever, you would do a blessed thing indeed.”

    “Ha! What now! Who has dared? — But perhaps you will allow me to take a seat.”

    “Pardon me, good sir; I did not think,” and she pointed to the seat in which we first saw the young lady of the castle. As he sat down he said, with a smile that was captivating:

    “Now, fair lady, if you will add to your kindness by telling me your name I shall be grateful.”

    “That is hardly fair, sir. You know already who I am, while of yourself I know absolutely nothing.”

    The stranger laughed a light, merry laugh, and presently said:

    “Since you have my dearest friend a prisoner beneath your roof, I certainly should not fear to speak my name in your hearing but I would prefer that you should keep it to yourself, only, of course, telling your father, in case I do not see him.”

    “You may trust me, sir.”

    “I know it, sweet lady. Those lips of yours could no more conceal a lying tongue than Heaven itself could prove false. You may call me WOLFGANG. “

    “I am called Irene,” was the maiden’s response, scarcely above a whisper.

    Something in her bosom — it seemed near her heart — oppressed her. She knew not what it was — she did not try to think; she only knew that never before had such a feeling been hers. She had just bent her head, with her eyes cast upon the ground, when the tones of her companion, more musical, if possible, than before, caused her to look up.

    “Do you know the signification of that name — IRENE?”

    “No, sir,” she replied, wondering.

    “Shall I tell you?”

    “Certainly.”

    Portrait of Henry Casimir I, Count of Nassau-Dietz (c. 1632). Wybrand de Geest.

    “Then, listen.” He looked directly into her eyes with an expression upon his eloquent features that thrilled her through and through. ”The ancient heathens had a deity whom they worshipped as the personification of the Spirit of Peace. The Greeks called her Eirene. After the Romans had adopted Christianity, they gave that name to certain women whom they wished particularly to honor, calling it, as it has. been called ever since, IRENE. Several of the Greek empresses bore the name, and it was never given to one of humble station except for the purpose of rendering especial honor to her. So, do you see, you should be proud that your parents conferred it upon you.”

    “And now, Meinherr,” said the hunter’s daughter, after a little silence, ”can you tell me if your name has a signification?”

    “Ah! that is cruel; but I forgive you. Yes, the name has a signification, and you can read it in the name itself: WOLF-GANG — the Wolf’s course, the Wolf’s track; but perhaps it might be more properly given as the Wolf’s progress. Let me hope that the name will not frighten you.”

    “Indeed, no, sir; for I cannot believe that you could in any way resemble the wolf.”

    “And now,” said the visitor, seeing that the maiden was beginning to be troubled, “we were speaking of the young lady of the castle — Electra. What is the character of the danger that threatens her?”

    As she seemed to hesitate, he presently added:

    “I wish you would trust me, not only for the lady’s own sake, but for the sake of the man whom she so gallantly served. You may not know — I doubt if you have any idea — of that man’s power. And perhaps I can render her aid. Strange things sometimes happen in this world of ours.”

    Irene caught at the promise of help eagerly. Her heart had been aching ever since she had seen the dark, sinister face of Sir Pascal Dunwolf at the castle; and now had come a beam of hope. If she could in any way secure help to her beloved sister she had no right to neglect the opportunity. She bent her head for a brief; space in thought, and finally looked up and spoke. Her eyes were clear and steady in their beaming eloquence, and she looked straight into her listener’s face as she told him the story.

    She told of Electra’s childhood; of Ernest von Linden, and his adoption by the baron; of the love and the betrothment of the children; how they had gone on loving more and more, to the present time. She told of Sir Arthur; of his sickness and death; and then of the unfortunate whim of the grand duke; the suffering which it had occasioned; and finally, of the coming of Sir Pascal Dunwolf, just as the mortal remains of Sir Arthur von Morin had been laid at rest in the family vault.

    Irene had spoken more eloquently than she knew. Had her own heart been the scene of the suffering of which she told she could not have given to the story more feeling. Wolfgang had listened in rapt silence, his eyes fixed upon the face of the speaker as though by a spell. When she had concluded, he spoke, without premeditation, the words seeming to issue from his lips of their own volition, as though he had been dreaming, and spoke before being wholly awake.

    “Ah!” he said, a shadow resting upon his fresh, handsome face, “it is plainly to be seen that you know what true love is.”

    “Yes,” she responded, with simple honesty, her thoughts given so entirely to the story she had been telling that she did not catch the deeper significance of his words; “yes; I love my good father; and I could not love Electra more if she were my own sister.”

    “And another! Is there not another, at the sound of whose voice your pulses quicken, and your heart leaps with a wondrous emotion?”

    There was something in the man’s look — in his tone and bearing—that would not let her take offence. There was a slight tremor, quickly overcome; then a beaming smile, as she answered:

    “You mistake, sir. The emotion of which you speak was never mine.”

    It was strange how quickly the cloud passed away from Wolfgang’s face, and what a glorious light came into his blue eyes. Really, it seemed a transfiguration.

    “I beg your pardon,” he said. “And I ought perhaps to beg your pardon for having kept you so long in conversation, though I am free to confess that I have enjoyed it. I thank you for having trusted me in the matter of the young lady of Deckendorf. I think I must have an eye upon the dark-visaged knight.”

    “O, Sir! Do you think you can help the dear lady?”

    “I can certainly try.”

    “But if he has the authority of the grand duke to uphold him?”

    “The grand duke must be seen. Let the true lover go to Baden-Baden, where I believe Leopold at present has his headquarters.”

    “He is going, sir. He would have gone ere this had it not been for the death and funeral of the aged knight — Sir Arthur.”

    “Very well. Let Ernest von Linden look to the grand duke, and I will look to Sir Pascal. If I am not much mistaken, there is an unsettled account between us. Rest you easy, sweet lady, for I think I may promise you that your friend shall be saved from the fate she so much dreads. And now, if you do not forbid, and if you will kindly show me the way, I will go and see my friend and frater, Thorbrand.”

    “One word, good sir!” said Irene, with marked eagerness, as her visitor rose to his feet.” Because I gave you that name so readily, you will not think I would have carelessly exposed it.”

    “Bless you!” he cried with a kindling glance. “I thought you were wondrously careful in your keeping of the secret. No, no; I understand the matter much better than you can explain. You trusted me because you believed me trustworthy — following your own good judgment; as I will do always.”

    “The girl thanked him with a smiling look, and then led the way to the rear of the cot; and when they had come in sight of the door of the room in which the wounded man lay, she pointed it out and bade him enter. He went to the door and gently opened it and passed in. He closed it without noise, and in a moment more she heard a glad exclamation in the deep tones of the Schwarzwald chieftain followed by the musical notes of the voice of the visitor.

    Once more in her seat at the outer door, Irene drew up her distaff, and took a mass of the flossy flax in her hand, but she did not resume her spinning. An emotion new and strange was in her heart — a feeling never before experienced — a something that reached to every fibre of her being, thrilling her through and through. For a little time she sat as in a trance, without thought of any kind, her eyes half closed, her hands pressed on her bosom. And by and by she murmured, like one dreaming aloud:

    “Surely he must be a good man. He cannot be a robber. If he is — if such a thing were possible — there must, be some wonderful story in his life; some upheaval, wreck, ruin; some terrible treachery of professing friends, that drove him to the free life of the mountains. I wish I dared to ask him. Whatever he told me I should certainly believe.”

    She laid aside her distaff and arose, and began to pace slowly to and fro before the door. She was asking herself a solemn question: Had anything akin to love been awakened in her bosom towards the youthful mountaineer? Surely there was in her heart a feeling never known before. But — pshaw! how wild and foolish it was to speculate upon the subject! She would probably never see the man again, and yet, as she told herself so, a sense of desolation came upon her; a bright star seemed suddenly blotched out from the heaven of her life.

    She was thus slowly walking and deeply meditating, when a glad cry from her dog recalled her to herself, and on turning, she beheld her father close upon her.

    “Papa! O! I am glad you have come. We have had a visitor. — There! There! Be not alarmed. The wounded man, I am very sure, was anxiously expecting him.”

    “Ha! — is it — Did he give you his name?”

    “Yes.”

    “Was it — Wolfgang?”

    “Yes, papa!” she cried, seizing him by the wrist us she spoke. “He told me his name without fear. Do you know him?”

    “No. I never saw him.”

    The bright countenance fell in a moment, but presently it lighted up.

    “You know who he is, dear papa. You know something about him.”

    “Child, why are you so anxious! What can the man be to you? Look ye: Has he been talking tender nonsense to you?”

    “O, papa!”

    “Pooh! I was but jesting, my darling. And, moreover, I do not think Wolfgang — if it is really he —is at all such a man.

    ”Indeed, he is not. I never heard a man talk so wisely and so well.”

    “Oho! Then you have had a good bit of a chat, eh? And what sort of a man is he? Describe him to me, for be assured I have a deep interest in knowing all about him.”

    Without hesitation — from the fulness of an overflowing heart — the girl honestly and sincerely spoke:

    “He is the handsomest man I ever saw; and one of the grandest looking. I know he is brave; and I know he is true. A face like his could not belong to a man in whom there was a single grain of falsehood or deceit. And then, he is educated. He talked to me of things that I never knew before — talked like one whose understanding was deep and profound. If he is a robber — but I do not like to think of him as such. At heart I know he is not evil.”

    “An elderly man, I take it.”

    “Elderly! What are you thinking of? Why, he is not much older than — I won’t say that. But he is very young, not more than three or four-and-twenty.”

    The stout hunter gazed upon his daughter curiously. The smile which had at first broken over his kindly face faded away, and a look of deep concern took its place. After a little time he laid his hand tenderly upon the sunny head, and gently said:

    “My blessed child, beware of that heart of yours! I plainly see that this man has made a deep impression upon you. I simply ask you to keep a strong hand upon your affections, and especially upon your fancy. I think Wolfgang is an honest man, and true; but be sure, he will never seek a mate in these mountains.”

    “Oh! papa!”

    “Tush! That is all. Now go about your work, and I will go in and see our visitor. I suppose he is still with — his chief.”

    “Yes. He is in the —”

    The hunter did not wait for her to finish the sentence, but turned away at once towards the rear of the cot.

    Irene watched him until he had disappeared from her sight, and then she sank upon a seat, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. For a time her heart seemed well nigh to breaking; but at length she started up, and dashed away her tears, and told herself that she was a fool. And the more she thought of it the more foolish the whole thing appeared. It had been a brief, wild dream, with her whole heart involved; but she had happily awakened, and she told herself that that was the end.

    Then she went to the little well-room and laved her face in the crystal water of the spring, after which she returned to her distaff, and set resolutely about her spinning; and as she watched the tiny thread lengthening and gleaming in the slanting sunbeams, she thought of the handsome stranger, and repeated the sweet words he had spoken.

    So she spun, and so she thought, resolving all the while that she would think no more.

    Notes

    • Leb Wohl, Irene: See Addendum below for English translation of lyrics.
    • Portrait of Mr. Van Amburgh: Isaac van Amburgh (1808-1865). Dutch-American lion tamer. See also, “Isaac van Amburgh and his Animals,” Royal Collection Trust, UK.
    • distaff: A stick or spindle on to which wool or flax is wound for spinning. (Lexico.com)
    • frater: Comrade
    • kindling glance: Not so much the sense of kind as kindling something. See, for example, “Terpsichore” in Poems by Oliver Wendell Holmes: “And there is mischief in thy kindling glance” (in Making of America, U of Michigan Library).
    • laved: Washed
    Addendum

    English translation of lyrics of “Leb Wohl, Irene” (Goodbye, Irene) (Das Flak Lied) (Source: “Axis History” and Google Translate.)

    1. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
Throughout the country
we are known
by every girl with taste
as a driver of the flak.

Chorus:
Farewell, Irene!
Love me, Sophie!
Be good, Marlene!
Are you staying true to me, Marie?
You are so lovely, so beautiful, so cheerful,
but unfortunately I have to go on again.

Farewell, Irene!
Love me, Sophie!
Be good, Marlene!
Are you staying true to me, Marie?
I will always love you.
I love you new in every new place!

2. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
Somehow sits
A battery
in one spot in the thick dirt,
there we take them away.

Chorus

3. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
And it turns out
the war is over,
let's go home on the last day
the flak with sack and pack.

Chorus

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 2. Secret in the Hunter’s Cot

    Cobb’s False Knight: 2. Secret in the Hunter’s Cot

    Arme Ritter (“Poor Knights”) is a fourteenth century recipe for pan fried French toast served with sweets which is still very popular in Germany today. Watch this video to see how you can fry your own Sir Lancelot. We don’t know for sure how the name Arme Ritter came about. Maybe because so many impoverished knights ended up being burned at the stake for all their robberies? Many were “broken by wheel” instead.

    That mysterious wounded man treated by our beautiful heroine… Would such “early nursing” by a beautiful young woman have been likely at all? Medicine was studied in cloisters and monasteries throughout the Middle Ages, by both men and women. Electra may well have studied Chirurgie (the German word for surgery) in one.

    Cobb’s choice of the name Electra for the beautiful young daughter of a knight at first seemed rather odd to me, so I tried to find out more about name choices in the Middle Ages. Robber knight Eppelein von Gailingen, who ended up “broken by wheel” for his crimes, lived from about 1320 to 1381. Some almost think of him as a German Robin Hood. Was he really one? He was most famous for how he escaped execution for multiple robberies in Nuremberg Castle. He had allegedly asked to be allowed to die on horseback.

    Once in the saddle, he galloped to the castle wall and jumped with his horse into the moat. The hoof-prints can supposedly still be seen on the wall, although it was rebuilt and the moat widened some fifty years after the famous leap. Many generations of school children who have since toured the castle however scoured out those hoof-prints on the wall with whatever implements they had. They seemed to like the tales of him being a hero.

    Eppelein von Gailingen. Source: Die Gartenlaube – Illustriertes Familienblatt (The Garden Arbor – Illustrated Family Journal)

    Eppelein had three sons and five daughters. To give you an idea of typical girl’s names of the time, we know that he named them Kathrin, Anna, Margret Elsbeth and Soffey (Soffey being a Middle Ages version of Sophie). All quite modern sounding names. What about Electra? The name is from ancient Greece, she was the daughter of King Agamemnon. Strauss composed an opera of the same name, a brutal and disturbing tale of murder and insanity. Yet even today, five out of 100,000 girls are still named Electra, although I’d bet most of them prefer “Ellie”.

    Could Cobb’s choice of that name be alluding to darker aspects of the story which are yet to come? In comparison to many names given to daughters by modern day Germans, naming your daughter after a deranged, ancient Greek murderess might not be as strange a thing to do as I first thought. Every German Standesamt, (Registry Office) has a current list of names which German parents, as decided by courts, may not give their sons and daughters, which is a good thing if you look at some of the ones that have been refused.

    They include an awfully revengeful “Pillula“, which several German parents thought was appropriate for the result of forgotten contraceptives, all the way to neo-Nazi favourites “Hitlerike” and “Goebbelin“, the latter being a contrived female first name version of that awful and infamous Reich’s Propaganda Minister, Dr Josef Goebbels, believe it or not. People actually wanted to give a daughter that name?

    “Thanatos“, ancient Greek for death, was also knocked back. An obviously more religiously inclined parent had tried to register the name “Frieden mit Gott allein durch Jesus Christus“, (Peace with God only though Jesus Christ), which, thankfully for the unfortunate child doomed to be brought up by those awful parents, was also ruled against by a court.

    While such verbotene blossoms of German parent name ideas were prevented, some of the names NOT taken to court and actually allowed by registry offices are just as bad or even worse: “Schneewittchen” (Snow White), Cinderella-Melody (cringe…), Bluecherine (an attempt to make a female name out of “Bluecher”, the Prussian general who led the decisive blow against Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo), Verleihnix (Don’t lend anything), Popo (German slang for bottom or backside), Pepsi-Carola (wouldn’t you almost like to thump those parents responsible for such names for child cruelty?), Champagna, Galaxina, Gucci and Bierstuebl (a small beer room).

    I think I’d prefer mad, ancient Greek murderess Elektra any day … While the name Deckendorf is fictitious, it is at least similar to Deggendorf, a town on the Danube in Bavaria, adjacent to the Bavarian Forest. There was a knight and a castle there too, once belonging to Heinrich III of Natternberg, who, coincidentally, died there in 1333 at the age of only 21 of an improperly treated wound to his leg. If only he had met Electra, who knows what might have been… Natternberg is a suburb of Deggendorf, with a hill on which the castle was built, the hill’s name in German meaning “Snake Mountain”.

    CHAPTER TWO

    A SECRET IN THE HUNTER’S COT

    Once on the way, after they had reached a point in the dense wood where the tangled undergrowth began to trouble them, the girls stopped as by mutual consent. The dog, seeing his mistress thus hesitate, became urgent in the extreme. He took hold of her skirt with his teeth; as though to lead her on; then he lifted his eyes to her face with a pitiful whine, and then, once more, set forward.

    “Let us go,” said Electra, resolutely. ” It must be a case of need, or Fritz would not —”

    She was interrupted by a voice, not far away, imploring help. It was a deep, solemn voice, mellow and heartful.

    “Help! help! For the love of Heaven! Whoever you are, come quickly, I pray!”

    Without further thought of tangle or bramble, the girls hastened forward, Electra in advance. At the distance of not more than a dozen yards from where they had stopped they found a clear space of considerable extent, near the centre of which was a rock — it might be called a boulder — and against it a man was reclining, retaining a sitting posture with evident difficulty. He was a man of powerful frame, full six feet tall, from five-and-forty to fifty years of age, with strongly marked features — decidedly a handsome man; his large, shapely head covered by a flowing mass of nutbrown curls, with here and there a trace of silver; his eyes large and full, of a dark, solemn grey, the lower part of the face being entirely covered by a full beard of the same colour as the hair, saving only that there were no threads of silver in it. He was clad in a mountaineer’s garb of finely dressed deerskin, with a leathern baldric over his shoulder, to which was attached a large empty scabbard. His head-covering was gone, and upon the ground by his side lay the hilt, with a portion of the broken blade, of a heavy sword.

    The man was sorely wounded, and his life seemed ebbing fast away. There were cuts upon his shoulders, and the blood trickled from a wound on the side of the head; but that from which his life was flowing out was a wound in the breast, over which, with what little strength was left him, he pressed a closely folded kerchief.

    “Ladies, kind Heaven hath surely sent you. Stand not upon ceremony, I pray, I may yet live, if you can stanch the flow of blood from this ugly hole in my breast. I — I —beg and pray —”

    “He had spoken with difficulty, and at this point his strength seemed to fail him. It was plainly to be seen that he was losing strength rapidly. Electra saw, and as soon as she had recovered from the first shock occasioned by the ghastly scene her every sense came to her aid; her wits were clear and quick; her understanding sure; and her only thought was of help to the sufferer, and how she best could render it. One swift review of the case, and she said to her companion:

    “Irene, do you hasten to the cot and bring back with you an old sheet for bandaging, and a flask of brandy; also two or three napkins. I will manage alone till you come back. I know you will borrow the wings of the wind if you can.”

    As soon as her companion had gone — and she had obeyed the order without a question or a murmur — Electra hastened to the sufferer’s side and knelt down.

    “Have no fear, good sir,” she said, at the same time gently lifting his weakening hand away from the wounded bosom. “I am a soldier’s daughter, and have been taught very much of the art of surgery. You may trust me.”

    “Heaven bless you, whoever you may be! Your face is like the face of an angel; your voice like celestial music. It was a sword-thrust — deep,” he added, as the gentle hands began to remove the clothing from over the region of the wound.

    “Please, sir, do not speak at present,” Electra said, seeing that the effort caused the blood to flow in greater volume.

    “Let your head rest there — so! — That will do.”

    With a small pocket-knife, which she always carried with her, she cut away such clothing as she could not otherwise remove, and having arrived at the wound she found it to be a clean cut, little more than an inch in length, very near the sternum, on the right side, and between the second and third ribs. Feeling that she must know quickly the direction and depth of the wound, she hesitated not an instant in probing it with her finger.

    The Wounded Knight (1853). William Gale. Source: Tate

    “If I hurt you, you must not wince. I will be as careful as I can.”

    If there was pain the patient did not show it so much as by the twitching of a nerve; and presently a glad look came to his weather-beaten face as the fair surgeon exclaimed, out of the fullness of her heart:

    “Good! Thank Heaven for that! O! had this wound been direct, or had it turned one poor finger’s breath the other way, life would have gone out at once!”

    She had found it to be deeper than her finger would reach; but that mattered not, as the point of the sword had been turned so far to the right — towards the side — as to escape the heart and the deeper arteries. Several large vessels had been cut, but the colour of the blood was almost entirely venous.

    At this point, as Electra had determined the course of the wound, Irene made her appearance, with the articles she had been asked to bring; and she had been thoughtful, further, of a jug of water. Meantime the dog had not been idle. He had with his tongue thoroughly cleansed the wound on the head, and when his mistress laid bare the shoulder, he applied himself to that.

    A draught of the brandy gave the sufferer new life at once; but a deeper draught of the water was required to restore something of the circulating medium he had lost. Then the two girls went to work, Electra giving directions, and very soon the flow of blood was stopped, and the wounds all successfully cared for.

    “There, sir; I have done the best in my power,” the heiress said, when she had secured the last bandage; “and if there is nothing worse than I think, you need not die from these hurts, bad as they are. If you could walk a short distance, or, if you could rest comfortably here until a strong man can come to help you —”

    The patient interrupted her with a motion of the hand. He asked for another draught of brandy, and when he had slowly swallowed it, he said he thought he could walk.

    “If,” he added, “you two blessed angels will allow me to lean somewhat upon you. I will not bear heavily. I think the cot of Martin Oberwald should not be far from this spot.”

    As the man thus spoke Irene glanced quickly at his face with a startled look, and seemed, for a moment, half inclined to shrink away from him; but her native goodness of heart came to her aid, and she joined cheerfully with Electra in giving him the aid he required.

    “The cot is only a short distance away, good sir,” his fair physician answered him, without observing the strange emotion of her companion, “and if you will be very careful, and lean upon us with thought only of your own good, I think you will be able to reach it safely.”

    As Electra thus spoke the man looked upon her with a great yearning in his eyes, as though he would have taken her to his bosom had he dared. It was a holy look, soulful and solemn, and full of blessing. A moment so, and then, with a deep sigh, as if in acknowledgment of his own unworthiness, he bowed his head, and signified his readiness to make the proposed attempt.

    Very tenderly the girls lifted him to his feet, and after one or two false movements and a little stumbling, he went on quite comfortably.

    “Dear sir,” said Electra, when she was assured that the sufferer was putting forth more strength than he ought, “we are stronger than you think. Indeed you will please me if you will let me bear more of your weight.”

    She was forced to speak again before he would obey; but he did it at length, and all went well after that. They reached the cot with but little difficulty, and there, in a comfortably furnished apartment, upon an easy bed, the wounded man found rest. Whether it was the brandy, or only weakness and fatigue, could not be told; but, whatever the cause, scarcely had the girls seen that the bandages were all right, and with care arranged the clothing of the bed, before their patient was sleeping soundly. And so they left him, leaving the door of the apartment ajar, so that they might have warning should he awake and require assistance.

    “Irene!” cried the maiden of the castle, when the twain had reached the front room of the cot —removed a considerable distance from the dormitory in the rear, where the unfortunate guest had been placed, — “what ails you? What makes you act so strangely? Surely you are not afraid of that wounded man?”

    The hunter’s daughter returned a wondering look, with a shade of unmistakable fear but did not speak.

    “Why,” continued Electra, with ardent feeling, “he is one of the grandest looking men I ever saw. Did you look at his eyes? They are truth itself. He has been waylaid by some of the dreadful mountain robbers and very likely robbed of everything he possessed.”

    “Electra! Electra!” burst forth Irene as though unable to contain herself longer, “have you not eyes? Can you not guess who that man is?”

    “Why! what do you mean?” cried the heiress, frightened by her companion’s wild and excited manner. “One would think, to look at you, that we had taken in the very king of the Schwarzwald robbers.”

    “And have we not?” was Irene’s response in a heavy whisper.

    Electra caught her by the arm, and looked eagerly into her face. The truth was dawning upon her. A moment so; then she moved back and sank into a scat.

    “Irene, — speak! Tell me what you mean. You think that man is —”

    “THORBRAND!”

    A sharp cry broke from Electra’s lips. In all that region of country no name was more terrible. Nurses spoke it to frighten refractory children, and stout men trembled when they heard it in wild and forsaken places. At first she could not believe it; but when she had reflected — when she had called to mind several strange movements on the part of the mountaineer while in the firwood — it became more reasonable. She could now understand why, when he had gazed upon her so yearningly, as though he would take her in his arms, and bless her, his countenance had fallen, and a sigh had escaped him. He had felt himself unworthy to lay his hand upon her in friendship. But even that should tell them that he was to be trusted. If his sense of honor was so fine, surely they had nothing to fear.

    “Do you not see?” said Irene, after a prolonged silence, during which both had been deeply thoughtful. “Think how we found him, — sorely wounded, and his sword broken, alone in a part of the forest which he seldom, if ever, visits.”

    “He must have visited it at some time,” suggested Electra. “Don’t you remember, — he knew that your cot was somewhere near him.”

    “Yes, he has probably passed this way before.”

    “But why should he be alone when he has so many men at his beck and call?”

    “Very likely,” said Irene, after a little thought, “he became separated from his companions while being pursued by the soldiers of the grand duke. I heard papa say, only two or three days ago, that a strong force of well-armed cavalry was to be sent after Thorbrand and his host. Very likely they have met, and there has been severe lighting. The robber chief was forced to flee for his life, and was able to make his way to the place where we found him. O! I wish he had not come this way.”

    “Dear Irene, how can you wish that? Be he robber, or not, he is a human being, whom we found in sore distress — a man, in the image of his Maker. For my part, I am glad we have been able to do him good. Who shall say what the result may be? Suppose the event should prove the turning point of his life? He is yet in the prime of his manhood, and may have many years to live.”

    “Electra!” cried the hunter’s daughter, with a wondering look, “I do really believe you have fallen in love with the man.”

    “No, no, Irene, — not that,” returned the heiress soberly; “but I am free to confess that he has inspired me with a good deal of interest. In my heart I feel glad that we have saved him; for he would certainly have died if we had not found him as we did.”

    “So am I glad that we have saved him,” repeated the other; “but I wish we had not been obliged to bring him hither to my father’s cot.”

    “Why so?”

    “Can you not see? How long can such a man as Thorbrand — hunted by monarchs, with the price of a king’s ransom set upon his head; the terror of the State and the enemy of every honest traveller, — how long can he remain beneath my father’s roof without its becoming known? — and what will be said of him who has given shelter and hiding to the Robber Chieftain of the Schwarzwald?”

    Before Electra could make a reply a glad cry from the stag-hound gave notice that a friend was approaching, and in n few moments more the hunter himself appeared.

    Martin Oberwald was near fifty years of age; a powerfully built man, of medium height; with broad shoulders; a deep, full chest; limbs muscular and finely proportioned; features strongly marked and full of character — honest and reliable — a man that one would never fear to trust under any and every circumstance; his head covered by a mass of yellow, curling hair; eyes blue and frank, with a light that, seldom, if ever, wavered; and when he smiled, which was very often, he displayed a set of teeth like pearls. He was clad in a mountain garb — a doublet and breeches of tanned leather; a vest of dark blue velvet; and a bonnet of the same material upon his head; or, rather, in his hand, for he had removed it on entering the cot.

    He greeted the baron’s daughter as though she had been a loved one of his own family; and having taken Irene in his arms and kissed her, he started to take a chair, when his eye chanced to fall upon a strip of white cloth bespattered with blood.

    “Dear papa,” cried Irene, seeing his glance, and his sudden start of surprise, “sit right down, and I will tell you all about it.”

    He did as she bade him, and then standing a part of the time before him, and a part of the time sitting upon his knee, she told him the story — told it minutely, from the moment when they heard the first call of distress to the placing of the wounded man upon the bed in the guest’s room.

    “Papa you must not blame us. We could not do otherwise. The man was —”

    “Why bless thee, child!” broke in her father, “what art thou craving about? Blame thee for helping Electra to save a human life.”

    “Ah! — but, papa, you don’t dream who it is that we have taken beneath your roof.”

    The stout hunter started.

    “Aye!” he exclaimed, putting his daughter from his knee, and rising to his feet. “I can guess who it is. I have heard that he has been seen in the neighbourhood; but I did not think the soldiers had come out yet. Did he tell you who he was?”

    “No, but it is not difficult to guess.”

    Oberwald took several turns to and fro across the apartment, evidently ill at ease, At length he stopped, and pressed his hand over his brow. So he stood for a little time, and then said:

    “Stay you here girls and keep watch, while I go in and see our guest. That wound in his breast I had better look at.”

    So saying the hunter turned and left the room. The dog would have followed him if his mistress had not called him back.

    Martin was gone a long time — so long that the girls became anxious, wondering if anything could have happened. Irene would have feared for her father’s safety had she not known how strong and brave he was, and how weak and helpless the robber must be.

    Electra, on the contrary, could conceive nothing of the kind. To her the man whom she had saved was still a hero. She had given him back his life, and with his heart in his look he had blessed her. If the soldiers had appeared at that moment, demanding their legal prey, she would have saved him had the power been hers. Still she was anxious. She wished the hunter would come and tell them if the patient would live. And further, she would be assured of his identity. She was not yet quite satisfied that he was truly the terrible robber chief.

    Full half an hour passed before Oberwald returned. He came and sat down without speaking, evidently in a state of deep and painful agitation. Irene was the first to speak.

    “Papa — how did you find him? Was he awake? Did he know you? ”

    “I found him far more comfortable than I had expected.” Then to Electra he added:

    “To you, dear lady, he owes his life. I do not think a physician will be needed, for which I am very thankful. Your treatment of the ugly wound was more than skilful, — it was eminently successful. He told me how you probed into his bosom with your finger and how prompt and firm you were, and how quickly you decided upon the necessary treatment. If no accident happens I think he will do very well. I can find a safe man to nurse him.”

    “Papa,” broke in the eager daughter, “did he really confess who he was? Did he —”

    The hunter put out his hand to stop her.

    “Let not his name be spoken here, my child. Remember — he is a suffering fellow creature cast for a time on our hands; and we are bound to care for him as best we can. Electra, — may I ask you, when you go from us, to forget the man to whose need you have so kindly administered? That is — you will not speak of him to any person whatever. Will you give me your promise?”

    “Most cheerfully,” she promptly answered.

    “I have given that man my personal pledge that he shall remain here in safety. Whether I have done right or not in this, leave with the Searcher of hearts. For myself I feel that I am in right. At all events, I am perfectly willing to assume the responsibility.”

    Once more Electra gave her promise to remain silent, and then she turned her thoughts homeward. The sun was very near to its setting, and she would have just about time enough to reach the castle before dark. The hunter would have gone with her at least part of the way, but her noble dog was amply sufficient for her protection, and she would not take the good man away from his cot under existing circumstances.

    “If I do not come tomorrow,” she said as she stood in the doorway, “I shall certainly come on the day after, to see my patient. Since his life is mine, you can give him no name that will frighten me. With the new life, who shall say that there may not come forth a new and a better man?”

    “Amen! So may it be!” fervently pronounced the hunter.

    And with that the lady of the castle went her way, her faithful dog holding his place close by her side.

    Something seemed to whisper to her, as the entered upon the deep forest path — an unseen, solemn voice from out the vast solitude — that a new page in her life was opening. The feeling thrilled her to the uttermost depths of her being, and silently she prayed that the All-father would be merciful unto her.

    Notes and References

    • Die Gartenlaube – Illustriertes Familienblatt: “The Garden Arbor – Illustrated Family Journal”. Founded in 1854, “the most successful and most popular German family magazine of the second half of the nineteenth century; it is referred to as the first periodic mass press publication.” Paletschek 41.
    • baldric: “an often ornamented belt worn over one shoulder to support a sword or bugle” (Merriam-Webster).
    • stanch: staunch
    • Searcher of hearts: “O righteous God, who searches minds and hearts, bring to an end the violence of the wicked and make the righteous secure.” Psalm 7:9 (New International Version).

    Paletschek, Sylvia. “Popular Presentations of History in the Nineteenth Century: The Example of Die Gartenlaube,” in Paletschek, ed., Popular Historiographies in the 19th and 20th Centuries: Cultural Meanings, Social Practices (Oxford: Berghahn, 2011), 34-53.

    Severin, Carolina. “Verbotene Namen: So dürfen Babys in Deutschland nicht heißen” (Forbidden Baby Names in Germany).

    Wallis, Faith, ed. “Chapter Ten: Who Can Help? Physicians, ‘Empirics,’ and the Spectrum of Practitioners Medieval Medicine,” in Medieval Medicine: A Reader (Toronto: U Toronto P, 2010).

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0

  • Cobb Biosnip: Naval Stint

    Cobb Biosnip: Naval Stint

    In 1841 Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. left his job running the printing office for his father’s denominational newspaper, the Christian Freeman, to sign up with the US Navy. Seventeen years of age, he passed himself off as twenty-one, to join the crew of the USS Brandywine on May 31 as a “ship’s guard.” Cobb senior was clearly acquiescent, meeting his son on board two weeks later, with a warm greeting and “all the affection of a fond parent” (Cobb’s diary, qtd. in A Memoir of Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.)

    Brandywine, a 44-gun, three-masted, wooden-hulled frigate, previously named Susquehanna, had the honour in 1825 of returning the Marquis de Lafayette, fighter for the American revolution, to France. She was renamed to commemorate the September 1777 Battle of Brandywine, in which Lafayette sustained a gunshot wound to the leg.

    In June the Brandywine sailed for the Mediterranean, arriving a month later:

    On the morning of the 24th of July we saw the coast of Portugal, and about noon entered the river Tagus, and after passing numerous beautiful villas and vineyards, and ‘Old Bellum Castle’ which is a specimen of the old fortifications of the Spanish and Portugese […] we came to anchor off the city of Lisbon…

    Upon our left lies the city of New Lisbon. On our right rises a high, perpendicular precipice, capped by a few old ruins, the only vestige which remains of the ill-fated city of Old Lisbon; and right beneath us, at the depth of about thirty fathoms, lie the ruins of the city, which was destroyed in 1755, by a tremendous earthquake … (qtd. A Memoir…)

    After his transfer to the sloop-of-war USS Fairfield in 1842, the young Cobb’s diary entries continue to express his enchantment with Europe.

    Ha! ha! What a glorious cruise have we before us! Now in Mahon, from here to Marseilles, Leghorn, Naples, Toulon, Trieste, Venice, Athens, Tunis, Tripoli, Algiers, touching at all the intermediate places. Ah! I forgot Corfu and Palermo. Ah! And also Civita Vecchia and Messina.

    There are evocative moments, redolent with the imagination and literary facility of the great popular writer he is to become. In the burial catacombs of Palermo’s Capuchin Monastery, with its thousands of corpses and mummies:

    The bodies undergo some chemical process which destroys the flesh and makes the skin resemble thin burnt leather. They are ranged along the walls in rows three or four tiers high, and stand upon a narrow board, upright, with nothing to keep them in their place but a cord which runs around their waists and is fastened to the wall.

    They are thus thrown into the most grotesque and ludicrous postures imaginable. Their waists being confined to the wall, throws the upper part of the body forward, and their heads incline downward, which, as you are below them, makes them appear as though they were all gazing directly upon you.

    Monks’ Corridor, Catacombe dei Cappuccini, Palermo (2008). Public Domain, Link

    They are placed without any distinction of age, for you will behold an old man with his white locks still remaining, placed beside a boy whose bright flaxen ringlets retain their lustre, and flow over that neck and forehead which once, perhaps, were so beautiful, but which now are horrible to look upon. The old man will be looking down upon the child with a most horrid grin, and so it is all along; the under jaws being in all sorts of positions; and the feelings which are generally excited upon the sight of death are wholly destroyed; and were it not for the knowledge that you are in the chamber of death, it would be almost impossible to restrain laughter…

    One day the Fairfield was sailing along the Atlantic coast of Africa, when her captain observed Cobb idling on deck, toying with a steel printer’s composing-rule, which he had brought with him from home. Establishing that the young man had worked as a printer before joining up, he made him his personal secretary, preparing and revising clerical materials for printing, such as travel memoranda.

    The position afforded Cobb greater liberties and shore-leave, and he spent more time with his diary. He studied “the beauties and characteristics of the countries, and the manners and customs of their various peoples” (A Memoir…).

    Cobb continued similar duties under the subsequent chief, including revising the new captain’s own naval memoir. After three years, despite the adventure of a nautical life, he became restless and homesick:

    [T]he life that I lead is one of constant excitement; every day brings something new. Today, perhaps calm and pleasant; tomorrow, tossed about in a gale of wind, and wet to the skin; Continually running from one port to the other. One night I behold the golden tints of an Italian sunset among a beautiful and Christian people, and in two or three days, under the hot sun of Africa, and amid a set of Moors and Turks and wild Arabs. I hope I shall soon change such scenes as these for those of ‘Sweet Home’.

    In 1842 Cobb’s father petitioned the Secretary of the Navy for a discharge for his son. He was successful a year later, and Cobb returned to his home in Waltham, Massachusetts. He married Mary Jane Mead there in 1845; their union would last until his death in 1887.

    Notes and References

    • See entry on Cobb’s father “Cobb, Sylvanus: (1798 – 1866)” at Harvard Square Library. Jump to page.
    • “Old Bellum Castle”: The Belém Tower (Torre de Belém), a famous Lisbon landmark.
    • Civita Vecchia: Civitavecchia in Lazio, Italy.
    • Palermo’s Capuchin monastery: Incidentally, the top of a “Capuccino” coffee resembles the colour of the Capuchin friars’ robes, whence the name.

    Cobb, Ella Waite. (1891) A Memoir of Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. Boston. Available at Internet Archive. Jump to file.

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 1. The Castle and the Cot — An Alarm

    Cobb’s False Knight: 1. The Castle and the Cot — An Alarm

     

    THE FALSE KNIGHT

    or

    ROBBER OF THE BLACK FOREST

    A Story of Love, Mystery, and Adventure

    by

    SYLVANUS COBB, JR.

    Foreword

    The images the word “knight” conjures up might all be similar for most of us: Shining armour, bravery, jousting, glorious, bloody battles, castles, saving distressed damsels even perhaps. But isn’t it a strange word? In French, it’s “Chevalier”. A man on a horse. In Spanish, “Caballero”, a man on a horse. In German, it’s “Ritter“, derived from “Reiter”, which means “Rider”.

    So where does that rather odd and unhorsely word “Knight” come from? Not from “neigh”, although many a knight’s steed may at the thought. These days, it’s pronounced with a softer beginning, simply the letter “n” with a totally silent “k”.

    Centuries ago however, English people spoke the same word with a hard “kn”. Worse still, they made a retching sort of noise at the end. “Knicht” perhaps. That’s because the word knight wasn’t English. They had, for whatever strange reason, magpied the term from Dutch and German, from “Knecht”, despite the English having had a lot of trouble reproducing that strange retching German and Dutch “ch”.

    Knicht? It sounds more like an insult than title. A word that doesn’t conjure up images of bravery, jousting or shining armour at all. That’s because a Knecht was a mere “boy”, a youth, in the sense of “servant”. A lowly squire in the knightly sense rather than a brave warrior? A lackey? For whatever reason, the English seemed to love the strange and incorrect expression so much that they kept it as their own.

    Albrecht Duerer, Ritter und Landsknecht — the difference to a simple “Knecht” being that a “Landsknecht” was an armed footsoldier. Both far lower in rank however than a knight.

    From around 900 years ago, this anglicised word, in the older pronunciation, described a military follower of a king or duke. Who, similarly to a Caballero, Chevalier or Ritter, used to ride around on a horse, doing his “serving” in that sense. Of course Dutch, French or German knights also usually served kings or dukes, etc., yet the words for “knight” in those languages emphasise the connection to horses, and not to any servile duty to a “superior”.

    Is this why we saw the phenomenon of “Raubritter”, “Robber knights“, more in Germany and at least not linguistically, in England? In England, they call them “robber barons” and not “robber knights”. Perhaps the knights in England were less evil? Not so the Barons apparently.

    Were there any robber knights in the Black Forest? The very name of this area might suggest a darker side, with one famous castle ruin located right in the “Hoellental”, “Hell’s Valley”. Although many robber knights had castles along the Rhine, where they extorted payments from travellers, there are Swabian folk tales about “Hans von Wieladingen”, from the southern end of the Black Forest, who used to lure merchants to his castle by playing his violin, only to throw them in his dungeon, pending the payment of ransoms.

    Knights in the middle ages naturally had something feudal about them, but often more in the sense of “feud”. When they had disagreements with neighbouring “strong men”, this resulted in them attacking and burning down the villages and even destroying the castle of the enemy. Perhaps it’s little wonder, especially after the Thirty Years War, that only ruins of castles in the Black Forest remain…

    A “False Knight”. Is that a double negative then, even after nine hundred years of anglicising the humble “k-nicht” with the retching ending? Hans von Wieladingen may have been a robber, but he really was a knight, title, castle and all. Is there any evidence of there ever having been a real false knight? 

    Back in the year 1284, a humble German peasant decided that it would be a good idea to pretend to be Kaiser Frederick II. The problem was that the real Kaiser had already died in 1250. But he was sorely missed in the decades that became known as the “Kaierlose, die schreckliche Zeit”, the “Kaiserless, the terrible times” because of the political chaos of the interregnum. So Tile Kolup, Dietrich Woodenshoe’s other name, turned up thirty four years later in the city of Cologne claiming to be the dear old Kaiser.

    Whereupon the locals tossed him into a cesspit and dunked him in the Rhine. Undaunted, a perhaps rather smelly Kolup proceeded to the town of Neuss, several miles downstream, where, after he had cleaned himself up, his reception was so much more positive that he used a fake royal seal on documents. He made money by selling fake royal privileges, sealed with wax with his trusty fake seal.

    But what has this got to do with any “false knight”? The following image, from the year 1474, depicts a scene from Tile Kolup’s story in the “Chronicle of the Ninety Five Rulers“, a manuscript kept in the Austrian National Library.

    Clemens Specker, 1479, illustration of the story of Tile Kolup, depicting the “Three Chancellors Paying an Innkeeper”, from the “Chronicle of the Ninety-Five Rulers”, Austrian National Library.

    The text tells us that it shows the fake Kaiser’s three fake “Chancellors” paying an innkeeper in the town of Wetzlar. A chancellor used to be a person who ran a royal household. Usually a knight. The third fake “Chancellor” is even depicted on horseback. He and his co-conspirator “Chancellors” were apparently “moors”.

    Sadly, King Rudolf of Habsburg had Tile Kolup captured and burned at the stake in Wetzlar in 1285. It is only fake news that the exquisite German dish “Kaiserbraten” (“Emperor’s Fry) was so named in honour of this incident. There are no references to the fate of the fake knights, so maybe they managed to get away…

    This story may not quite sound as unlikely as, for example, a resurrected President Kennedy coming back to save America in the year 1997. After all, there were no photos or films back then and because of average mortality, hardly anyone alive in 1284 would ever have laid eyes on good old Kaiser Frederick II.

    The only drawings of him are in old manuscripts only seen by a privileged few. The very most that people would have known was that the dearly departed Kaiser had a big red beard, hence his Italian name Barbarossa. Surprisingly, the only know image of Tile Kolup, his impostor, depicts the wannabe Kaiser without as much as a moustache….

    CHAPTER ONE

    THE CASTLE AND THE COT — AN ALARM

    By far the larger portion of the Grand Duchy of Baden, together with a large part of the territory of Wurtemberg, is covered by that wild and darksome, yet romantic picturesque mountainous region known as the Black Forest (German. Schwarzwald). Near the centre of this forest, on the eastern confine of that district of Baden called the Middle Rhine, nestled away in one of the wildest and most romantic of the Schwarzwald vales, was the small town or hamlet of Deckendorf, taking its name from a strong castle that reared its massive walls and embattled towers upon a rocky eminence close at hand.

    At the time of which we write — during the first half of the seventeenth century — Deckendorf Castle was under the immediate command of a veteran, war-worn knight, Sir Arthur von Morin; but he was not its feudal lord. Ten years previous to the opening of our story, the Baron Gregory von Deckendorf, lord of the domain — then in the early prime of his manhood — in the fullness of his Christian zeal, accompanied John Sigismund in his crusade against the infidel Turks, and in battle with the Moslem he fell, leaving a wife and daughter to mourn his loss.

    On the eve of his departure upon the fatal crusade, the baron had placed his castle and his family under the care of his wife’s uncle, the veteran knight aforesaid, giving him full power, and receiving in return the oath of fealty to himself, and good faith to the baroness and her daughter. And most  loyally had .Sir Arthur kept his oath and his faith. The bereaved ones had come to lean upon him as upon a lord and master, and to love and revere him as a father.

    One of the most beautifully romantic spots in this beautiful and romantic region of which we write, was a small plateau — an elevated bit of table land — on a mountain side, directly opposite to the castle. Imagine twin mountains — one to the east, the other to the west, and between them a crystal stream, leaping from rock to rock in silvery cascades, soon thereafter settling into a sober, placid river, on the fertile intervales of which clustered the dwellings, the shops, the quaint old mill, and the still quainter old church of Deckendorf. On the side of the easterly mountain, not far from its foot, stood Deckendorf Castle; opposite, on the side of the mountain to the westward, and at about the same elevation, was the plateau of which we have spoken, whereon stood the cot of Martin Oberwarld, one of the most accomplished and intrepid of the trained hunters of the Schwarzwald.

    View on the Middle Rhine (1770). Herman Saftleven. Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen.

    The cot covered a broad area; its walls were of gray stone: its small gothic windows, looking not unlike the eyes of some shaggy-headed monster, set so deep in the thick masonry, were artistically glazed; while the widely-spreading roof, steeply sloping — its eaves overhanging so as to afford protection to doors and windows against ordinary storms — was a thatch of fine mountain reeds, made impervious by a liberal application of the balsam of the black fir. A scene it was, take it all in all, that would have happily fixed the gaze of the painter, and made his heart glad.

    Towards the close of a pleasant day of early summer, two girls sat just outside the open doorway of the hunter’s cot. They were very nearly of the same age, one of them having seen eighteen years, the other nineteen, and they were both beautiful, gifted with that beauty of heart and soul of truth and faith — that beauty of loveliness which appeals to the better and nobler instincts, elevating and purifying the love it awakens. They were healthful and vigorous, with forms of sylph-like grace and comeliness; fond of outdoor life and exercise, their forest roaming and mountain climbing having given them unusual strength of limb and powers of endurance.

    The elder of the twain was Electra von Deckendorf, heiress of the grim old castle over the way, and of the greater part of the town and territory in the neighboring valley. She was slightly taller than her companion; her hair was of a dark glossy brown, gathered away from her brow and temples into a heavy braid, which, secured by a bit of silvery ribbon, was suffered to float over her back as it would. Her eyes were of a dark pearly gray, full of mellow, liquid light, with truth and affection in every friendly glance. The younger maiden was Irene Oberwald, daughter of the owner of the cot. She was a laughter-loving, sparkling girl, looking for brightness and goodness wherever they might be found, and never happier than when she could give of her happiness to others. She had a wealth of golden curls, floating over her shoulder in wild but lovely profusion; her eyes, of heaven’s own blue, were large, full and brilliant, rippling with smiles when she was happy, or overflowing with tears when sympathy touched the fount of her tender emotions. Of her it might be truly said: “She was a thing of beauty, and a joy forever.” Electra came to her for comfort always when clouds overhung her path; and to the poor and the suffering of the village of the valley she was an angel of light and goodness. But in this latter respect — in benefactions upon the villagers — be sure Electra bore her part. Little could Irene have done in the way of bestowing creature comforts without the aid of her dear sister of the castle.

    Nothing of raiment, on the present occasion, wore the heiress of Deckendorf to distinguish her from the humble daughter of the poor hunter. Tunics, or short jackets, of velvet — blue for Electra, and crimson for Irene — tastefully embroidered with thread and lace of gold; shirts of fine linen stuff, worn short, so as not to interfere with their mountain climbing; stockings of finely knit silk, with strong leather boots, gave protection to their feet, while for head-covering twin hats of finest Italian straw, fashioned for comfort, but with a true eye to comeliness, lay upon a rough stone bench at their side.

    Such were the principal items of the garb of these two girls, and to be sure nothing more was required nor could anything more have been brought into play to set forth in the rich fullness of perfection their matchless grace and beauty, both of form and feature.

    At Electra’s feet lay a magnificent stag-hound, her constant friend and companion in her forest rambles. He was large and powerful, with a face full of affection and intelligence, and his gentle mistress felt as safe in his companionship as though guarded by a squadron of troopers in full panoply of war.

    On the present occasion, as we thus introduce the two girls and the canine friend and companion, the heiress had just arrived from the castle; and Irene’s first question, after the first impulsive greetings had been exchanged, was of one whom she had hoped to see, but who had not made his appearance.

    “Why didn’t he come?” she asked, with a hand laid affectionately upon her companion’s arm. “I could not have believed you would have come without him.”

    “Ah,” murmured the heiress, with a mournful shake of the head, “my own thoughts and my noble Fritz were all the companionship I wanted. Dear old Fritz!” she cried, throwing her arms round the neck of the dog, who had lifted his muzzle to her knee with a loving light in his brown eyes on hearing his name thus called; “if all could love me with your true heart! Ah!”

    “Electra! What is it! Why do you speak in that manner? Surely, Ernest is not —”

    “Ernest!” broke in the baron’s daughter, quickly and eagerly. “Oh! he is brave and loyal — as true as truth itself. No, no: do you never, never think an evil thing of Ernest. Poor Ernest! He is wandering away somewhere by himself, I have no doubt, dwelling upon his unhappiness, as I have been doing.”

    “Dear sister,” cried Irene, with sympathetic alarm, “you frighten me. — O!” — her memory coming to her aid — “is it something about that dark Sir Pascal?”

    “Yes, Irene — alas! yes.”

    “Electra,” reaching her hand coaxingly to her friend’s shoulders, “I wish you would tell me the story. You have often spoken of Sir Pascal Dunwolf as one of whom you feared. You are not afraid to trust me?”

    “No no, dear sister mine. 0! when I shall have known the fear of trusting you this life will have become bare and barren indeed! — Irene” — after a brief pause — “I will tell you the whole story from beginning to end; and who shall say how much you may be able to help me.”

    “One thing you know, Electra, I will help you if I can.”

    “Yes, my sister, I know it well; and you may be sure I shall not hesitate to ask you for help if I think you are able to give it. Listen, now, and you shall know all about it.”

    After a little thought the baron’s daughter spoke, tremulously at first, as follows:

    “Between Ernest von Linden and myself, though I have always called him, as he has me, cousin, there is no relationship of blood at all. His mother was Uncle Arthur’s youngest sister; and Sir Arthur, you know, is my mother’s uncle by having married with her mother’s sister. Still, both my father and mother loved Ernest from the first as though he had been of their own flesh and blood, and it was always papa’s wish that he should be my husband. He was an only child, left fatherless and motherless when only six years of age, when Sir Arthur took him, and very shortly afterwards, on the death of his wife, placed him where he has since had a home — with us. The estate of Lindenberg is very valuable, and is not only entirely unencumbered, but Uncle Arthur has so managed the property during the twenty years almost of his stewardship that it has fully doubled in value. Knowing that Ernest’s worldly prosperity was assured, my father only asked that he should grow up to be a true and loyal man to claim my hand, always understanding that I should be willing, and that Ernest should truly love and desire me.

    “You know, Irene, how we have loved. It has been a calm, quiet love, but deep, strong, and abiding. Really, we never knew how all-absorbing and powerful our love had become until the bolt came that threatens to smite it.”

    “Electra!”

    “Hush! Do not interrupt me. I will explain. Just before my father went away on that dreadful crusade — O, I cannot bear to think of it! I shall never become reconciled — never! It was ten years ago this very month that he left us — O, so proud and brave, his heart given to the cause of his Lord and Master, Jesus Christ, as he religiously believed. Just before he went away, he spoke with Ernest and myself together. He told us that the Baroness and Sir Arthur both knew his wishes, and it was right that we should know. Never mind the injunctions which he laid upon us; the principal thing was this: Should anything happen to prevent his return to us — should he fall upon the field of battle — it was his desire that we should be married when I should have reached the age of nineteen. He set it first at twenty, but both Ernest and my mother entreated him to cut off a single year: and he did so.

    “Of his death you know. He fell at Novi, in Croatia, struck down by a turbaned Turk at the very end of the battle. He would not flee when the others did. I have been told that Sigismund had ordered a retreat a long time before my father would listen to such a thing; and it was while endeavouring to cut his way out from the midst of the Moslem host that he received his death-blow.”

    At this point the stag-hound lifted his head upon the knee of his mistress, his eloquent eyes looking the sympathy he could not speak. Upon his neck she wept a time in silence, and then resumed her story.

    “In that darksome, mournful time, what should we have done without Ernest? He was our comfort and our joy. Uncle Arthur, with his heart in the war, himself battle-worn and scarred, felt only pride in what he called the baron’s noble sacrifice. Yet, he was sympathetic and kind; but not with the sympathy and the kindness of Ernest. Well, the years passed: Ernest was away much of the time at school, in Heidelberg; and, of late, since Sir Arthur has been so feeble, he has been obliged to be much of the time on his estate, it having come into his full possession three years ago. He has been with us, however, when he could; my mother has regarded him as her son, while I, with my heart given wholly to him, have simply looked upon him as my husband — so in spirit, awaiting only the few; short months that must pass before it can be so indeed.

    “And now comes the storm that threatens to shatter our fabric of bliss and blast our every hope. Ah, how gladly would I exchange places with the lowest peasant girl of Baden! See what it is to be heiress of Deckendorf Castle. By the law of the land I have been, ever since the death of my father, a ward of the reigning grand duke. It has only remained for him to claim his right for me to submit to his authority. It is known at Baden-Baden that Sir Arthur has been stricken with paralysis, and that his days are numbered. Deckendorf Castle, commanding as it does one of the chief passes of the Schwarzwald, between Baden and Wurtemberg, is of so great importance to the State that the grand duke feels that he must have it under his own control, to which end he would place one of his own paladins in full possession, which possession can be gained only by marrying me. Now, do you not understand?”

    “Mercy!” cried the hunter’s daughter, with a frightened look. “Is Sir Pascal Dunwolf the man whom the grand duke would make master of Deckendorf Castle?”

    “Verily, he is the man.”

    “And he would have you become that man’s wife.”

    “So he has said.”‘

    “But, surely, Leopold has a heart. He is himself young, is he not?”

    “I think he is. It is only two years since he succeeded his father on the ducal throne.”

    “What reason does he give? He would not do such a thing without some good and sufficient reason.”

    “His reason, as Sir Arthur has explained it to me, is that there is treason in this section of the Schwarzwald. Some of the powerful barons of Wurtemberg have entered into a league, the object of which is the conquest of a large portion of the district of the Middle Rhine; and it is strongly suspected that a number of the barons of this very district, are ready to join with the enemy as soon as the opportunity is offered. In order to make such a movement a success, the possession of Deckendorf Castle would be indispensable. Thus you can understand why the grand duke should wish to place one of his chief officers in our old fortress.”

    ”Let him place as many officers in your castle as he likes. Do you give to them the room, and betake yourself to this dear old cot. You will never listen to such an outrageous thing. Tell me that you will not.”

    “Ah! my dear sister,”‘ said the heiress, with a lugubrious shake of the head, “it is one of the penalties of rank from which I cannot escape. Although the grand duke has power to give my hand in marriage to whom he will, he cannot make another lord of Deckendorf except my hand goes with the title. He cannot rob me of my heritage.”

    “But he can do what is ten thousand, times worse!” cried the hunter’s daughter, with wrathful emphasis. “He can rob you of your life’s life — of hope and joy — for all time to come!”

    “Alas! yes.”

    “But you will not suffer it. You must not. Why does not Ernest go himself to the ducal court and plead his cause — his cause and yours? As I live, I believe Leopold would listen to him.”

    Still Electra shook her head. “I fear it would be of no use,” she said. “Ernest saw the prince when he was last at Baden-Baden, having been commissioned by my mother to strongly oppose the marriage by him contemplated. Ernest spoke eloquently, as we know he must have done, telling the story of our early betrothal, and of our deep and unwavering love. Leopold listened patiently, and even kindly, but he would not give up his cherished plan. He said the safety of the State must take precedence of everything else. He was sorry to be obliged to make unhappiness for even the very lowest of his subjects; but when the weal of the nation was in the balance the romantic love of a single pair could not be considered. He then told Ernest, to wait. He said he should very soon send Sir Pascal to Deckendorf and he was sure we should like him.”

    “And do you mean to tamely submit? Will you give up your love of a lifetime without an effort?”

    “No! no!’ cried Electra, starting to her feet, with her hands upraised — “not without an effort! O, no! I shall struggle be sure. If Sir Pascal comes, thinking to find in the heiress of Deckendorf a willing victim, he will find instead, I fear, a vixen. I will show him what an injured, indignant maiden can do towards defending herself. If he will take me for his wife as I shall appear to him, he must be something different from the majority of men. No! no, Irene! I shall not surrender without an effort!”

    “Good! Good!” exclaimed the maiden of the cot, with enthusiasm. “You will have time for thought. Of course Sir Arthur will help you all he can.”

    “Yes bless his dear old heart! He will do all that he is able to do: but that, I fear, will not be much. He is very weak, and his mental powers are not what they were. Alas! poor uncle is terribly shattered. Ha! What was that?”

    The girls were at that moment startled by what sounded like a painful moan, or cry of some one in distress. The dog at the same time came to his feet, gave a single sniff in the direction of the point whence the sound had come, and then bounded away.

    “Ah there it. is again!” said Irene, as a low wail of distress was plainly borne to their ears.

    Before Electra could answer the stag-hound came bounding back in quest of help. He stopped before his mistress, gave her a look which she plainly understood, and then turned to lead the way as he desired her to follow.

    “Fritz has found something for us to do,” Electra said, as the dog looked back with an entreating whine. “Let us follow him and see what it is.”

    “Do you feel it safe to do so?”

    “Yes. Fritz would not ask me to go where there was danger — be sure of that. Hark! It is a man in dire distress. Come! Who can tell what the need may be?”

    Irene hesitated no more. “Go on!” Electra said to the dog; and with a glad cry he set forth. They followed him across the open space beside the cot, and into the dark wood of mountain firs beyond followed, both of them, to their fate. What was to come to them of that forest search not the wildest fancy could have pictured to their imagination.

    Notes

    • cot: cottage/hut
    • “a thing of beauty, and a joy forever”: “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” John Keats, “Endymion”.

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0

  • Cobb’s The False Knight

    Cobb’s The False Knight

    Give me them good ol’ days of guns, of snakes, an’ gapin’ jaws
    Of wolves an’ ragin’ catamounts, with blood upon their paws;
    W’en six-foot heroes courted girls that they had snatched away
    From out a bloody bandit’s clasp, an’ tramped him into clay.

    I wish we had some writers now who understand the job,
    Some writers who can sling themselves like ol’ Sylvanus Cobb!

    Sam Walter Foss, “Uncle Seth on the Modern Novel”

    Outstanding popular novelist of nineteenth century America, Sylvanus Cobb Jr (1823-87) was famous for contributions to the New York Ledger. From 1856 until his death in 1887 the Ledger published his short stories and serialised novels, adding up to 89,544 pages of manuscript. During his whole career he produced 120 novels, over 800 short stories, and over 90,000 manuscript pages of short pieces for weeklies.

    Sylvanus Cobb Jr.
    Sylvanus Cobb Jr.

    Cobb was a scrupulous researcher, and three years’ experience as a seafarer in the United States Navy provided him with plenty of material. But in addition to his own name, he found it advantageous to employ several pseudonyms. Under “Colonel Walter B. Dunlap,” he cultivated notoriety as an adventurer and expert on the East.

    “Colonel Dunlap,” wrote his publisher:

    has travelled through Asia and Africa, and has had considerable experience in fighting elephants, lions, tigers, boa constrictors, cannibals and other tough customers …

    At the same time that Cobb’s own novels were appearing in the Ledger, so did seventy-two of the Colonel’s “Forest Adventures” and several “Sketches of Adventure.” His publisher spruiked one of the Colonel’s serialised novels, Lorinda the Princess; or, The Sultana’s Diadem as

    a new story of Eastern life, with which Colonel Dunlap is so familiar. He has travelled a great deal, and, judging from his thrilling sketches in the Ledger, he has had more adventures than almost any other living man.

    The Colonel grew into such a vivid figure that the Ledger received countless inquiries about him, and one man claimed to have met him out West.

    Cobb’s brilliant writing reached Australian shores in the 1880s. The False Knight appeared serialized far and wide, creating a sensation from the Nepean, through Horsham, to out beyond the black stump. It is to this medieval story of love, mystery, and adventure set in the Black Forest of Germany that we now turn in our quest for gems of penny and dime novels that would otherwise remain buried. The serial begins next week.

    Context and commentary by Oliver Raven will accompany each instalment. An acute observer and entertaining writer, Oliver is expert in German history, culture and language, and has trodden among some of the very scenes and castles where the adventure takes place.

    Perhaps he will be able to keep Cobb honest. I doubt it.