The Trumpeter of Sakkingen Part 5

Hollow, like a mournful wailing, Sounds the strange speech of the pilgrims, Sound their prayers, and cries of sailors.

'Tis the ancient Celtic language From the Emerald Isle of Erin; And the vessel bears the pious Missionary Fridolinus.

"Cease thy grieving, dearest mother; Not with sword nor with the war-axe Shall thy son gain fame and honour: Other ages, other weapons-- Faith and Love are my sole armour.

For the love I bear my Saviour I go forth unto the heathen; Celtic blood impels me onward.

And in dreams I've seen a vision-- A strange land and pine-clad mountains, A clear stream with a green island, Most as fair as my own country; Thither points the Lord His finger, Thither sails now Fridolinus."

With a few choice Irish comrades, Filled with earnest, calm devotion, Fridolin sailed o'er the ocean; Came into the Frankish Empire, Where at Paris reigned King Clovis.

Smiling spake he to the pilgrims: "I had never great affection For the saints and monkish orders; Since, however, the accursed Allemanic lances whistled Nearer me than I thought pleasant On the battlefield of Zulpich, I have changed my mind entirely-- Even kings will pray in danger.

Where you wander I'll protect you.

And unto your special notice Recommend the Allemanni: They are stubborn and thick-headed, They are still most dogged heathen; Try to make them good and pious."

Farther on the little band went, To the land of the Helvetians; There began their serious labour, And the holy cross was planted At the foot of snow-clad Santis, Planted by the Bodensee.

When descending from the Jura Fridolinus saw the ruins Of Augusta Rauracorum-- Roman walls--there still projected From the rubbish mighty columns Of the Temple of Serapis.

But the Altar and the Cella Were o'ergrown with tangled brambles; And the ox-head of Serapis Had been built in o'er the stable By an Allemanic peasant, Whose forefathers had most likely Killed the last priest of Serapis.

Seeing this then, Fridolinus Crossed himself and travelled onward, By the green banks of the river.

Evening came, and far already Had the pious man now wandered.

There beheld he, how the river Flowed in two divided branches; And in the green waters smiling Rose before him a small island, Sack like lying in the river.

(Hence the peasants, who are never Over squeamish in comparing, Called the isle Sacconium.) Evening came; the larks were singing Fish sprang snapping from the water; Through the heart of Fridolinus Thrilled a thankful pious gladness.

On his knees he sank down praying, For he recognised the island As the vision of his dreaming-- And he praised the Lord in Heaven.

Oft, 'tis true, have many of us Mortals in these modern ages Also dreamt of tranquil islands, Where we happily might nestle, And the weary heart refresh with Forest calm and Sabbath quiet.

Many also go with ardent Longing on the journey, but when Nearing as they hope their island, Suddenly it fades before them, As in southern climes the airy Image of the fay Morgana.

Full of wonder, a wild native Sculled the stranger to the island, On a raft made of rough pine logs.

Wild the island: limes and alders In low marshes here were growing; On the sh.o.r.e with pebbles covered, Also stood huge ancient willows; And some scattered huts with thatched roofs.

Here in summer, when the salmon Are migrating up the river, Eager fishermen stand waiting With their long sharp pikes to spear them.

Unremitting to his labour Went the saint--soon stood his log-house On the solid ground erected; Near the house the cross he planted.

When the bell at dusk of evening Rang out far, Ave Maria!

And he prayed devoutly kneeling; From the Rhine vale, many people Timidly looked at the island.

Fierce and stubborn were these Almains.

Once the Roman G.o.ds they hated; Now Franconia's G.o.d they hated, Who at Zulpich, like a tempest, Had o'erthrown their mighty host.

When the lazy master idly Took his rest on winter evenings, And, with eager zest, the women Set their tongues in busy motion, And of this and that they gossiped-- How the jug of milk had curdled, How the hut was struck by lightning, How a youth was badly injured By a boar's sharp tusk when hunting-- Then in warning spoke the crafty Aged Allemanic grandam: "No one else have we to blame but Him who dwells on yonder island-- That old pallid, praying stranger.

Trust ye not, I pray, the new G.o.d Of the Franks, nor false King Clovis!"

And they feared the pious stranger.

Once, upon the summer solstice, They all came unto his island, Drank there--after ancient custom-- Mead from their enormous tankards; And they tried to seize the stranger, But he had gone down the river.

"We will leave this pallid man, then, Tokens that we've held our feast here!"

Soon some lighted brands were flying In the hut of Fridolinus; And they sprang rejoicing through the Flames in singing, "Praised be Woden!"

From the distance gazed with pleasure The old grandam, and her face shone Ghastly in the lurid light.

Fridolinus, when returning, Saw his hut laid waste in ashes; And he said, then smiling sadly: "Lord, I thank thee for these trials, As they but increase my courage."

Then he built anew his dwelling, And soon found an entrance open To the rough hearts of his neighbours.

First the children, then the women, Listened to his gentle language; And some of the stubborn fellows Looked approval, when he showed them How in Erin, his own country, They could spear the salmon better; When he sang them ancient legends-- How, upon the Caledonian Cliffs, had raged a mighty battle With the Romans; and how Fingal Overthrew young Caracalla.

Then they said: "A strong and mighty G.o.d has sent this man here to us; And a good G.o.d, for this stranger Bringeth blessing on our fishing."

And in vain the grandam warned them: "Trust ye not, I pray, the new G.o.d Of the Franks and false King Clovis!"

Yes, he touched these hearts so rugged Taught to them the Christian doctrine; And they understood that giving Is more blessed than receiving; That it was the Son of G.o.d who On the cross for men did suffer.

Hardly had a year pa.s.sed over-- 'Twas Palm-Sunday--when descended, From the slopes of all the mountains, A great throng, who then rowed over To the isle of Fridolinus.

Peacefully there on the island, Sword, and shield, and axe they laid down; And the children gaily gathered For themselves the willow blossoms And sweet violets by the river.

From his hut came Fridolinus, Fully robed in priestly vestments; By his side walked his companions Who had come from distant places: Gallas from Helvetia; also From the Bodensee Columban.

And they led down to the sh.o.r.e then The great throng of the converted, And baptised them in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

She alone did not come with them To the isle of Fridolinus, She the old and stubborn grandam; And she said: "No new G.o.ds need I, As my life is fast declining.

I'm contented with the old ones, Who to me are kind and gracious, Who once gave me my dear husband-- My good, n.o.ble Siegebert.

When'er Death from here should take me, I could never hope to find him; And for him my heart is yearning.

In the woods I must be buried, Where the mandrake grows 'neath fir-trees Which with mistletoe are covered.

I don't wish a cross on my grave, Shall not envy it to others."

On that very day, however, Fridolin laid the foundations Of the cloister and the city; And his work waxed ever greater, And afar throughout the country Was the holy man revered.

When again he paid a visit To King Clovis' court, in Paris, On his right the king did place him, And then solemnly donated The whole island to his cloister, And, besides, large tracts of country; Even a great saint became he.

Have ye never heard the legend Of the court-day, and Count Ursus, Which the statues o'er the church door Have preserved e'en to the present?

A great saint, indeed, became he, And is still the Rhineland's patron.

To this day prevails the custom That the peasants have their first-born By the name of Fridli christened.

On the sixth of March young Werner Gaily parted from the glebe-house; Gratefully he shook the hand of The good pastor, who sincerely Wished him a most pleasant journey.

And the old cook was completely Reconciled unto the stranger; Bashfully she cast her eyes down To the ground, while deeply blushing, When young Werner, out of mischief, Kissed his hand to her, when leaving.

Barking ran the two St. Bernards A long distance with our rider.

Bright and warm the sun was shining On the town of Fridolinus; Solemn peals afar resounded, From the organ of the minster, As young Werner through the gate rode.

Quickly found he first good shelter For his horse, and then he walked on To the crowded lively market, Went up to the old Cathedral, And he stood with head uncovered By the portal, where was pa.s.sing Then the festive long procession.

Through the war the precious relics Of the Saint had been well hidden In old Laufenburg's strong castle.

They had often in the city Missed their presence with much sorrow.

Now that peace once more was settled, They were striving with fresh ardour To do honour to their saint.

At the head of the procession Came gay troops of merry children.

But when they too loudly prattled, Then their old and gray-haired teacher Pulled them by the ear and scolded: "Keep quite still, my little people!

Take great care, for Fridolinus May be listening to your gabbling.

He, a Saint severe and holy, Will complain of you in Heaven."

Twelve young men came next, who bore the Coffin, rich with gold and silver, Which enclosed the Saint's remains.

Bearing it they chanted softly:

Thou who dwellest high in Heaven, Bless thy people and thy city, Stretch o'er us thy arms of mercy, Fridolinus, Fridolinus!

Grant us further thy protection; From all danger mayst thou guard us, War and pestilence keep from us, Fridolinus, Fridolinus!

Then the Dean and all the Chaplains Followed after--bearing tapers Came the youthful Burgomaster, Came the town's wise Corporation And the other dignitaries: Bailiff, Revenue-receiver, Syndic, Notary, Attorney, And the old Chief Ranger also.

(He came only for decorum, For with Mother Church and Saints' Days He was not upon good footing, Prayed much rather in the forest.) E'en the Messenger and Sergeant Did not then, as was their custom, Take a morning draught together, But joined gravely the procession.

Then in dusky Spanish mantles, Ornamented with white crosses, Came the great Teutonic Order, All the Knights and their Commander.