“Zu Hirsau in den TrÜmmern

Da wiegt ein Ulmenbaum

FrischgrÜnend seine Krone

Hoch Überm Giebelsaum.”

—Uhland.

One of the loveliest spots in all WÜrtemberg is Hirsau. It lies deep down in a valley on the Nagold, over which is a pretty stone bridge. High around rise the noble pines of the Black Forest, whose impenetrable gloom contrasts with the tender green of spring meadows basking in the sunshine, and makes, with the fringe of elms and birches and willows along the banks of the stream, a most magical effect of light and shade.

Blessings on the one of us who first said, “Let us see the old cloister at Hirsau!” An ideal spring day, a particularly well-chosen few, a trip by rail to Alt-Hengstett, then a long, lovely tramp over the moss carpet of the Black Forest, inhaling the sweet breath of the pines, finding each moment a more exquisite flower, catching bewitching glimpses between the trees of silver streams hurrying along far down below us,—this is what it was like; but the softness, the sweetness, the exhilaration of it all is not easy to indicate. The name itself, “Black Forest,” sounds immensely gloomy and mysterious. Goblins and witches and shrieks and moans and pitfalls and all uncanny weird things haunted the Black Forest of which we used to read years ago. And what does it mean to us now? Magnificent old woods, paths that beckon and smile, softly whispering, swaying tree-tops, turf like velvet, sunlight playing fitfully among the stately pines, seeking entrance where it may, and air that must bring eternal youth in its caresses. It means forgetfulness of trammels and all sordid, petty things, and being in tune with the harmonies of nature. It means freedom and peace; a “temple,” indeed, with the pines continually breathing their sweet incense and singing their sacred chants. There were in our party a professor or two, more than one poet,—indeed, it is said every other man in Suabia is a poet,—and a world-renowned art scholar and critic. They shook the dust of every-day life from their feet, and were happy as boys; one of them lay among the daisies, smiling like a child with the pure delight of living in such air and amid such peaceful beauty.

At the little Gasthaus in Hirsau, with the sign of the swan, we refreshed ourselves after our tramp. It is remarkable that poets, like clergymen, must also eat. After a few merry, graceful toasts and cooling draughts of the pleasant Landwein, we went to the cloister ruins. The work of excavation is still going on, much that we saw being but recently brought to the light. There were a few massive old walls at wide distances apart; the pavement of the aisles quite grass-grown between the low, broad, gray stones; fair fields of tall grass bright with daisies and buttercups, and starry white flowers,—a fascinating mass of variegated brightness, catching the sunshine and swaying in the breeze; a row of fine old Gothic windows; a tower in the Romanisch style of the twelfth century, which we, I believe, call Norman; a deep cellar where the monks of old stored their wines. Up a flight of stairs is a great bare room, where against the walls stand heavy wooden cases with carved borders, and in the ceiling is the same quaint carving slightly raised on a darker ground.

The whole effect of the ruins conveys the idea of immense size. The church was, indeed, the largest in Germany except the cathedral at Ulm. It is here an unusually lovely, peaceful scene. The cloister ruins would be, anywhere, picturesque and interesting in themselves; lying as they do above the village, framed by the beautiful Schwarzwald, they form a picture not easily forgotten. No far-extending view, nothing grand or imposing, only the exquisite, peaceful picture shut in by the dark-green hills; quaint homes nestling among rosy apple-blossoms; the great gray stone BrÜnnen, where for years and years maidens have come to fill their buckets and chat in the twilight after the day's work is done; the Nagold, silver in the sunlight; the cloister, with its old-time traditions,—all so very, very far from the madding crowd.

And the sweet legend of the origin of the cloister should be sung or spoken as one sees the picture: How there was, in the year 645, a rich, pious widow, a relative of the knight of Calb, named Helizena, who was childless, and who had but one wish, namely, to devote herself to the service of God. She constantly prayed that God would open to her a way acceptable in his sight. Once in a dream she saw in the clouds a church, and below in a lovely valley three beautiful fir-trees growing from one stem; and from the clouds issued a voice telling her that her prayer was heard, and that wherever she should find the plain with the three fir-trees she was to erect a church, the counterpart of that which she saw in the clouds. Awaking, the good Helizena, with holy joy and deep humility, took a maid and two pages and ascended a mountain from whose summit she could see all the surrounding country, and presently espied the quiet plain and the three firs of her dream. Hurrying to the spot, weeping for joy, she laid her silken raiment and jewels at the foot of the tree, to signify that from that moment she consecrated herself and all she possessed to the work. In three years the beautiful cloud-church stood in stone in the fair valley, and afterwards, in 838, a cloister was erected with the aid of Count Erlafried of Calb. Under Abbot Wilhelm, in 1080, it was at the height of its prosperity, and was the model of peace and goodly living among all the other Benedictine monasteries. The abbot gathered so many monks about him that the cloister at last grew too narrow, and he resolved to build a more spacious one. This was indeed a labor of love, and the work was done entirely by his own people, his monks and laity. Noble lords and ladies helped to bring wood and stone and prepared mortar in friendly intercourse with peasants, their wives and daughters,—such zeal and Christian love did the abbot instil into the hearts of his flock. It is the ruins of this cloister which we see to day.

An old German chronicle represents the place as little less than an earthly paradise:—

“There was here a band of two hundred and sixty, full of love for God and one another. No discussion could be found there, no discontented faces. Everything was in common. No one had the smallest thing for himself; indeed, no one called anything his own. Each went about his work in sweet content; of disobedience no one even knew. Not only was there no rebuke and angry word, but also no idle, frivolous, mirth-provoking talk. Among this great mass of men within the cloister walls could be heard only the voices of the singers and of them who knelt in prayer, and the sounds that came from the busy workrooms.”

These monks used to write much about music and poetry, and many learned, strong men were gathered there. The cloister was full of pictures, and the Kreuzgang had forty richly painted windows, with biblical scenes. A story is told of an old monk, Adelhard, who was twenty-three years blind, and received in his latter days the gift of second-sight. He foretold the day and hour of his death three years before it occurred, and also the destruction of the monastery.

As KÖrner's poem says:—

“In the cells and apartments sit fifty brothers writing many books, spiritual, secular, in many languages,—sermons, histories, songs, all painted in rich colors.

“In the last cell towards the north sits a white-haired old man, leans his brow upon his hand, and writes, ‘The enemy's hordes will break in, in seven years, and the cloister walls will be in flames.’”

Whether the old gray monk was ever there or not, at least we know that the French, in 1692, destroyed the beautiful cloister, and its paintings and carvings and works of art were all lost, except some of the stained glass, a few of its painted windows being at Monrepos, near Ludwigsburg.

The famous Hirsau elm, about which half the German poets have sung, is the most significant, touching, poetical thing imaginable. You feel its whole life-story in an instant, as if you had watched its growth through the long years; how the young thing found itself, it knew not why, springing up in the damp cloister earth, surrounded by four tall, cold, gray walls, above which indeed was a glimpse of heaven; how it shot up and up, ever higher and higher, with the craving of all living things for sunlight and free air, never putting forth leaf or twig until it had attained its hope and could rest. Within the high walls is only the strong, tall, bare trunk, and far above, free and triumphant, the noble crown of foliage.

Brave, beautiful elm, that dared to grow, imprisoned in cruel stone; that did not faint and die before it reached the longed-for warmth and light and sweetness!

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