The Betrothed by Walter Scott (most read books in the world of all time .TXT) 📖

the occasion, informed the honest gentleman, that, walking one day alone by the banks of the infant river, a human form arose from a deep eddy, still known and termed Tweed-pool, who deigned to inform her that he was the tutelar genius of the stream, and, bongre malgre, became the father of the sturdy fellow, whose appearance had so much surprised her husband. This story, however suitable to Pagan times, would have met with full credence from few of the baron's contemporaries, but the wife was young and beautiful, the husband old and in his dotage; her family (the Frazers, it is believed) were powerful and warlike, and the baron had had fighting enough in the holy wars. The event was, that he believed, or seemed to believe, the tale, and remained contented with the child with whom his wife and the Tweed had generously presented him. The only circumstance which preserved the memory of the incident was, that the youth retained the name of Tweed, or Tweedie. The baron, meanwhile, could not, as the old Scotch song says, "Keep the cradle rowing," and the Tweed apparently thought one natural son was family enough for a decent Presbyterian lover; and so little gall had the baron in his composition, that having bred up the young Tweed as his heir while he lived, he left him in that capacity when he died, and the son of the river-god founded the family of Drummelzier and others, from whom have flowed, in the phrase of the Ettrick Shepherd, "many a brave fellow, and many a bauld feat."

The tale of the Noble Moringer is somewhat of the same nature—it exists in a collection of German popular songs, entitled, Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807; published by Messrs. Busching and Von der Hagen. The song is supposed to be extracted from a manuscript chronicle of Nicholas Thomann, chaplain to St. Leonard in Wissenhorn, and dated 1533. The ballad, which is popular in Germany, is supposed from the language, to have been composed in the fifteenth century. The Noble Moringer, a powerful baron of Germany, about to set out on a pilgrimage to the land of St. Thomas, with the geography of which we are not made acquainted, resolves to commit his castle, dominions, and lady, to the vassal who should pledge him to keep watch over them till the seven years of his pilgrimage were accomplished. His chamberlain, an elderly and a cautious man, declines the trust, observing, that seven days, instead of seven years, would be the utmost space to which he would consent to pledge himself for the fidelity of any woman. The esquire of the Noble Moringer confidently accepts the trust refused by the chamberlain, and the baron departs on his pilgrimage. The seven years are now elapsed, all save a single day and night, when, behold, a vision descends on the noble pilgrim as he sleeps in the land of the stranger.

"It was the noble Moringer, within an orchard slept, When on the Baron's slumbering sense a boding vision crept, And whispered in his ear a voice,' 'Tis time. Sir Knight, to wake— Thy lady and thy heritage another master take. "'Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds another rein, And stoop them to another's will, thy gallant vassal train; And she, the lady of thy love, so faithful once and fair, This night, within thy father's hall, she weds Marstetten's heir.'"

The Moringer starts up and prays to his patron St. Thomas, to rescue him from the impending shame, which his devotion to his patron had placed him in danger of incurring. St. Thomas, who must have felt the justice of the imputation, performs a miracle. The Moringer's senses were drenched in oblivion, and when he waked he lay in a well-known spot of his own domain; on his right the Castle of his fathers, and on his left the mill, which, as usual, was built not far distant from the Castle.

"He leaned upon his pilgrim's staff, and to the mill he drew— So altered was his goodly form that none their master knew. The baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor pilgrim, in your land, what tidings may there be?' "The miller answered him again—'He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose; Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word, His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy lord. "'Of him I held the little mill, which wins me living free— God rest the baron in his grave, he aye was kind to me! And when St. Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll, The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole.'"

The baron proceeds to the Castle gate, which is bolted to prevent intrusion, while the inside of the mansion rung with preparations for the marriage of the lady. The pilgrim prayed the porter for entrance, conjuring him by his own sufferings, and for the sake of the late Moringer; by the orders of his lady, the warder gave him admittance.

"Then up the hall paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow; It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed their lord to know. He sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed with wo and wrong; Short while he sat, but ne'er to him seemed little space so long. "Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour, The time was nigh when new made brides retire to nuptial bower, 'Our Castle's wont,' a bride's man said, 'hath been both firm and long— No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall chant a song.'"

When thus called upon, the disguised baron sung the following melancholy ditty:—

"'Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 'twas thus the pilgrim sung, 'Nor golden mead, nor garment gay, unlocks his heavy tongue. Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine, And by my side as fair a bride, with all her charms, was mine. "'But time traced furrows on my face, and I grew silver hair'd, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this brow and beard; Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage, And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.'"

The lady, moved at the doleful recollections which the palmer's song recalled, sent to him a cup of wine. The palmer, having exhausted the goblet, returned it, and having first dropped in the cup his nuptial ring, requested the lady to pledge her venerable guest.

"The ring hath caught the lady's eye, she views it close and near, Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 'The Moringer is here!' Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in torrents fell, But if she wept for joy or wo, the ladies best can tell. "Full loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every saintly power, That had restored the Moringer before the midnight hour; And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride, That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried. "'Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said, 'to constant matrons due, Who keep the troth, that they have plight, so stedfastly and true; For count the term howe'er you will, so that you count aright, Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night.' "It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew, He kneeled before The Moringer, and down his weapon threw; 'My oath and knightly faith are broke,' these were the words he said; 'Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take thy vassal's head. "The noble Moringer, he smiled, and then aloud did say, 'He gathers wisdom that hath roamed seven twelvemonths and a day, My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair; I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir. "'The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old, Whose faith were kept till term and tide so punctually were told. But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate, For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.'"

There is also, in the rich field of German romance, another edition of this story, which has been converted by M. Tieck (whose labours of that kind have been so remarkable) into the subject of one of his romantic dramas. It is, however, unnecessary to detail it, as the present author adopted his idea of the tale chiefly from the edition preserved in the mansion of Haighhall, of old the mansion-house of the family of Braidshaigh, now possessed by their descendants on the female side, the Earls of Balcarras. The story greatly resembles that of the Noble Moringer, only there is no miracle of St. Thomas to shock the belief of good Protestants. I am permitted, by my noble friends, the lord and lady of Haighhall, to print the following extract from the family