Rothenburg, lives, the doer of a single deed, the quaffer of a potion so historic that it has gained for him the (local) immortality of Juliet herself.

II.

Leaving then all comparisons ("odorous" and otherwise) aside, come with me to Rothenburg for Whitsuntide and share in the romantic pleasure of a Franconian holiday. You shall enjoy yourself to the full, if the society of simple-minded and warm-hearted people, the atmosphere of the most perfectly preserved medieval town in Europe, the cleanest of hotels, the plainest of good fare, the sincerest of historical pageants, are to your liking. You must expect no Ritz Hotels nor restaurants as in Paris, nor those that frequent them; no pageantry such as you have seen at Oxford or at Fulham; no music to compare with Bayreuth; no lavish display of wealth to dazzle or amaze you. These things I tell you before hand, for I will not have you deceived nor shall you be disappointed.

On the day after leaving London you will reach Würzburg at 9 A. M. and change there into a train which brings you to Steinach, where you join a little local railway whose destination is Rothenburg. In front of you rises the city, built upon a crescent-shaped rock whose horns retreat from you-a hive of red-tiled roofs, of towers and spires, dominated by the Rath-haus and the Cathedral, and all encircled by a wall of indescribable age and beauty. As we walk up the hill together, I may as well tell you that the Jews of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries believed, from its general situation and appearance, that Rothenburg bore a very near resemblance to Jerusalem; and for that reason a considerable settlement of the chosen race lived there until, according to tradition, a conspiracy was discovered which had for its object the poisoning of the wells,

the assassination of the Town Guard and the capitulation of Rothenburg to the children of the tribes.

I do not know to what town of your acquaintance you may liken Rothenburg, for I have seen none quite like it in Europe or elsewhere. It has something of Quebec in it, if the old French town were clustered round the citadel; something of the proud aloofness of Edinburgh Castle, but without a modern city for its footstool; much of Nuremberg in architecture and feeling, yet unspoiled by factory chimneys and other hateful indications of industrial activity. Now pass within the walls and surrender yourself, a willing victim, to the spell of Rothenburg. Its wayward streets all cobble-stoned, its half-timbered houses, its lovely wrought-iron balconies and carved turret windows, the stencilled motto and cunningly wrought trade-sign over every dwelling-house and shop; these things must arrest your eager footsteps and prove an effectual barrier to progress. It matters nothing which street you choose to follow; each one is an avenue of architectural loveliness, decked out at Whitsuntide with gay flowers in the latticed windows and young birch saplings making a green portico for every door. And the joy of it all lies here that your every walk leads you through, or to, something worth your admiration: to a fountain or a statue or a blossomladen garden or a gorgeous view across the valley of the Tauber. Mark, too, how unconsciously and yet how perfectly all things living harmonize with these artistic scenes: the old yellow mail cart, driven by an ancient in the blue and silver livery, glossy hat and spotless breeches, of earlier and cleaner days; the shaky cabriolet that brings the farmer and his wife into town; the wandering bands of lighthearted students in Tyrolese attire, singing their songs in chorus as they

swing down the street like a regiment; the wrinkled old burgher standing in his doorway and smoking his longstemmed pipe as he watches the weary oxen drawing the tumbril home from the fields outside the walls. Nor will you be in the least astonished if you see the watchman on the lofty tower of the Rath-haus keeping a sharp lookout for fires within the city; nor if you hear, from the same lofty eminence, German chorales being trumpeted at noonday. On the contrary, you would expect just such sights and customs as these in a place like this; but you might perhaps be a little taken aback if, on the occasion of your wedding, gentle reader, the door of your abode was assailed with old pots and pans, and if your street was made to re-echo with the sound of verses sung or recited in your praise. Yet this is a ritual which, possibly, you may come across whilst walking in Rothenburg, and it ends with the presentation of a wedding wreath and veil to the prospective bride from her friends.

So much for our lesser occupations without doors; but, if you would shelter from the rain, there is still plenty for you to do: fine churches to visit, whose window-glass and wood-carvings are likely to surprise you; a very charming local museum, full of antiquities from early Franconian times, and no lack of delightful little inns whose vine-trellised exteriors are not more fascinating than the panelled parlors within. Such is but a sketchy impression of the dear city to which I have brought you, as a stranger; you will leave it as friend.

III.

a

But you may say that all the foregoing is only a rhapsodical parenthesis in praise of Rothenburg, and that you are not yet the wiser on the score of the Whitsun festivities. So be it; but believe me, you cannot fully appreciate

the revels until you have entered into the spirit of the town and have attuned your temperament to the key of your surroundings. Come now; it is the vigil of Whitsunday, and by the time your full afternoon of sightseeing is passed, you will have noticed unmistakable signs that something unusual is afoot. A sort of municipal springcleaning is going on everywhere: sweeping, scrubbing, brushing-up in every hole and corner, until the streets and houses look more than ever like an important exhibit of "Old Germany" at Olympia or the White City. Then, as you return to your hotel for supper, you will hear a procession of farm-carts rumbling up the old Schmiedgasse, each laden with children and their mothers laughing and singing in anticipation of their annual treat. You will perhaps see a few patrols of Bavarian boy-scouts marching from the station to their allotted quarters with banners flying and drums beating., You will certainly encounter scores of men and boys carrying upon their arms doublets and hose and jerkins, feathered slouch hats and other finery, and shouldering pikes or halberds with an air as who should say "Brave deeds shall be performed by me on Monday." Clearly Rothenburg is pre-occupied: and you will also note the wheelbarrow loads of ancient armour, bridles, saddles, and other fierce accoutrements of war passing down the streets and lanes of the venerable city.

On Sunday morning all is early astir. The little church of St. John is packed with the faithful for High Mass at 9 o'clock, and at a later hour the Protestant community (which by far outnumbers the Catholic) attend St. James' Church for the Whitsunday service. Both of these buildings are interesting specimens of early Gothic architecture and are thronged with sight-seers from morning to night. At

noon the whole town seems to foregather in the market-place to gossip and to watch the automatic figures of General Tilly and Burgomaster Nusch as they appear at the casement windows above the ancient Drinking Hall to perform their peculiar movements when the clocks of the city strike twelve. This rite ended we disperse for luncheon to the hostel of our choice: it may be to the pretty little "Meister-trank" in the Kapellen Platz, or to The Bear; but I shall take you, on this particular Sunday, to The Lamb Inn, on the market-place itself. This is the headquarters of the Shepherds, a guild that has been held in high esteem in Rothenburg since the days of the Peasant War, when their prowess in arms excelled that of all other sections of the population. To commemorate their valor there is annually held a Shepherds' Dance on Whitsunday afternoon in the centre of the town, and it is "at the sign of The Lamb" that they assemble in their picturesque costumes for a midday meal before the carnival. By two o'clock the balconies and steps of the Town Hall are densely occupied by a large and expectant audience who have paid a small sum to gain reserved seats, and a still larger crowd throngs round the roped-off enclosure in the Square. An hour later a brave procession of nymphs and swains issues from The Lamb, headed by a band of musicians in costume and a number of City worthies in black cloaks and large white ruffs, looking for all the world as though they had stepped straight out of a canvas by Frans Hals. Hard upon their heels follow two shepherds, one leading a fine white sheep decorated with pink roses round her neck, and the other carrying under his arm a fat goose, whose behavior all through the ceremony is surprisingly good. Then come the performers proper: a score of couples whose grace

ful country dances, lightly tripped to the lilt of flutes and drums, engage us charmingly for the best part of the afternoon. What a real Mayday revel! the youths in their three-cornered hats, black jackets, flowered waistcoats and green breeches, with white stockings and silver-buckled shoes; the girls in dainty muslins of diverse colors, wearing garlands of flowers in their hair and lace mittens on their hands. All are dancing for the sheer joy of it; yet they are none the less delighted at the rapturous applause which greets them alike from their friends and from the strangers within their gates.

Alas! how quickly the afternoon passes: a walk round the city walls, so admirably preserved that we can promenade on them from end to end, peeping through the countless loopholes pierced for musket-fire and getting a peerless glimpse from each; a visit to the old-world garden at one extremity of the city and a gorgeous view of the sunset over the distant hills, and the day is done. But our entertainment is not quite ended yet; for, as night falls, the populace saunters out to the green slopes below the walls for a "grand illumination," and thence we see the whole city of Rothenburg, spires, towers, and roofs, glowing red as though some merciless conqueror had decreed that it should perish in the flames. . chance to sleep.

And so to bed, perBut this is difficult; for on such a night of nights the homes of the people are in the street of the city. The crowds linger, the troops of students march up and down singing to their guitars and mandolins, and the revels continue until it must almost be dawn.

IV.

It is Whitmonday. . . and you awake to the sound of distant guns. The city, which has joined the Leip

zig League (1631) against the forces of the Emperor, is being attacked for its temerity by General Tilly, the Commander-in-Chief of the Catholic League. You spring from your bed and fling open your window to cheer the mere handful of Swedish troops that Gustavus Adolphus has sent to stiffen the citizen army as they march swiftly with pike and musket to the walls. In a few minutes you hear a clatter of hoofs, and a squadron of ragged cavalry, mounted on horses taken straight from the plough and armed with falchions and firelocks, trot up the Schmiedgasse beneath you. More soldiery, on horse and afoot, cannon and ammunition-wagons, officers in brave attire and their retinue in tatters, all pour into the city through the Spital bastion and hurry to their appointed posts. It is now seven o'clock and the sun is already high on this May morning. The citizens are all abroad; the men have said farewell to home, perhaps for ever, since Tilly is known to be advancing with 30,000 well-armed men against a paltry thousand of peasants. The women and children alone are to be seen in the streets, and you set forth in haste and wonderment, convinced that you are indeed in the heart of a beleaguered city, sharing in its fears for the fortunes of the day. You reach the main gate of the town; there, at the inner wall, beside the drawbridge, lie menat-arms in casque and breastplate, their horses standing beside them. There, round the city walls, at every tower and loophole you catch the gleam of spear and pike and cannon and a glimpse of soldiers in colored doublet and hose behind them. You walk on down the road that leads to Würzburg, towards the advancing army whose cannon-fire grows ever more distinct in your ears. Here you meet a few rascally looking Croatians, quarelling over cards in their laager, LIVING AGE VOL. LX. 3143

and a band or two of the more intrepid youths of the city who have bivouacked all night outside the walls beside the watch-fires round which they are now singing their morning hymn, in eager anticipation of the death that certainly awaits them. Louder grows the cannonade and louder; a troop of cavalry clears the road of all but combatants, and you are driven back into the heart of the town where the City Fathers are assembled in the Rath-haus to take desperate counsel together in their extremity.

You find them in the Council Chamber, decorated by the coats of arms of all the Burgomeisters of Rothenburg since 1230, and hung with tattered flags that bear witness to the troubled history of this old Imperial town. There, upon a raised daïs, stands old Bezold the mayor, careworn and broken down in his anxiety, yet proudly wearing his robes of black and sable with his sword and chain of office. His fellow-councillors join him, and the vehement discussion which follows shows us the deep cleavage of opinion as to the wisest course to adopt. Some are for sparing the town any further suffering for God knows whether the tortures of Magdeburg may not be repeated here. Others are for holding out to the bitter end, not counting the cost. At last it is suggested that the Swedish Captains of the Guard be summoned to advise; these prove to be "no surrender" men, and so the word goes forth that Rothenburg will resist to the uttermost. But now, the murderous shock of battle breaks fiercely upon the stern tranquillity of the Council Chamber. The casements rattle to the musketry fire; the enemy's guns must be at the very gate of the city. In a brief interval of calm the sad chanting of a Litany of Intercession in St. James' Church reaches us, and blends strangely with the blithe war-song of a gallant band

of young bloods who pass by the Chamber on their road to the front.

come.

A

Has the fortune of war changed? Can the news be true? In bursts a messenger to tell us that he has discerned Swedish reserves in the distance hastening to our rescue! second later, and we learn of desperate assaults defiantly repelled in various quarters of the city, and of wives and children joining in the heroic defence. One more a body of Imperialists have dashed into the town, but have been driven back to meet death in the moat by the youths who marched past us but an hour since. At last a fierce roar, more devasting and terrific than any. sound hitherto, shakes the Town Hall to its foundations, and we feel that the end has A solemn hush now falls upon the assembly, and the councillors with native dignity await the expected But, even as a wounded sentinel is gasping out his story of the explosion in the powder-magazine and of the cruel breach in the walls, there is heard from the market-place another sound that rises in wrath and falls in anguish. Nearer and nearer yet comes the tramp of armed men; the door of the Chamber is burst open and Imperial troops surge in and make prisoners of us all. Tilly and his victorious generals, his pet Dominican and his gaunt halberdiers, stride boastfully to the table where the Senators remain seated, and demand from them the keys of the town. The anger of Tilly is terrible to behold; the passionate tone of his language makes us fear for the very worst:

news.

"Bring out these Councillors from their seats, and hang them in the Market-place for dogs to bark at. Go you, von Ossa, and fire the city at seven piaces that it shall be laid in ashes before nightfall. Let no inhabitants escape, and I will write the doom of Rothenburg in letters of flame that shall be read by all who plot re

sistance to the Catholic League of my Emperor."

or

Terrible words, terribly spoken by a man whom nothing could move to pity remorse. In vain the Senators pleaded for their people; in vain the women, now crowded into the Chamber, held up their children in their arms and cried for mercy. Not even Count Pappenheim, a favorite general, could alter the cruel decision when he begged that the brave garrison should not be hanged like criminals but shot at the walls like gentlemen. For answer, Tilly only turned to one of his captains and bade him remove poor old Burgomeister, who should find the town Executioner and bring him into the presence of his new master.

our

How changed the scene . . the broad oaken table, where but lately our councillors were deliberating, is now beset with military uniforms and men in armor with sword and buckler, whilst our poor representatives stand broken but unbent in a corner of the hall, awaiting their end with fortitude. There is silence for a moment; then it is broken by the lusty voice of our good cellarer, Reimer, whose native genius for hospitality will never forsake him nor any of his

race:

"May it please Your Excellency. I have a prisoner, hid deep in the cool vaults below where I am master. Shall I release him for your pleasure? Many years has he languished in his dungeon, doubtless awaiting the day of your coming. He is the offspring of the Sun-God; grant that I give him his freedom ere I die?"

With this parable, in praise of his best beloved vintage of rich Tauber wine, Reimer disappears, only to return immediately with a large and beautifully painted crystal chalice filled to the brim with the golden "prisoner." The loving cup passes round, and Tilly, once so fierce and for