Marietta and the Sweet-briar.—Esus and Jesus.—A malgam— A Neophyte.—Prohibition to eat Horse-flesh.—Bishops in Arms.—Interruption.—Come Home, my Good Friend!—Prussia and the Myths of the Middle Ages.—Tybilimts, the Black God.—The little Blue Flower.
All who know me and esteem me will testify to my great natural modesty. Even when I have to do with fables, I would not venture to invent the smallest thing; I am incapable of committing such a crime. Nevertheless, some of my incredulous readers, when they see the marvelous nature of the poem, in which the triumph of Jesus and Mary over the allied pagan gods was celebrated, might possibly fancy it to be a product of my imagination. In self-defense I feel bound to quote here one of the countless traditions which allude to this great event. I once more borrow from the Muse of the Finns.
“There lived in those days a virgin who was so pure, so pure and chaste, that her eyes had never seen anything but the eyes of her sisters, that her hands had never yet touched a being in creation for the purpose of caressing it.
“She lived alone in her chamber, in company with her distaff, and ignorant of what happened even within the narrow circle of shadows which the sun traced around her house, and the image of a man was as foreign to her eyes as it was to her mind. Her thoughts and her eyes had alike kept their chastity perfect.
“She was called Marietta.
“One day, on a fine spring morning, Marietta felt a vague and incomprehensible desire to enjoy the beauties of Nature. Her heart rose within her with strange emotion. "Impelled rather by a desire of her own than by a command from on high, she opened her door and hastened to a meadow inclosed with a hedge, which was near the house.
“In this hedge a sweet-briar was in bloom. She drew near to inhale the fragrance; she touched the flower, and that was all that was needed. Marietta became a mother, and when her son was born she felt by the boundless pride that filled her heart, that she had given birth to a god.
“In the mean time the other gods of her own country and of the adjoining countries had been warned by their prophetesses that this child, born of a virgin and a flower, would one day drive them out of heaven; they assembled, fully armed and determined that mother and child must both die so as to prevent the threatened catastrophe.
“At the moment when they were holding their secret councils, Marietta appeared in their midst holding her infant in her arms, and all these gods, who had until now wielded such absolute power, fled in dismay to the far North, and the icy gates of the North Pole closed behind them.”
This is the story of Marietta and her child Jesus.
It would certainly seem as if this naÏve account, well known among the ancient legends of Finland, was nothing less than a slight sketch of that great epic poem which we have laid before our readers. We have only filled out the details by the aid of similar documents.
Henceforth Christianity enjoyed the results of that great day at Argentoratum. At a later period the conquered gods, it is true, showed once more signs of resistance on isolated points, but from the first, this triumph of Mary and Jesus, and perhaps also the victories obtained by King Clovis, changed the first dawn of Christianity in Germany into a kind of purifying conflagration, which spread rapidly from the Rhine to the Weser and from the Weser to the Danube.
Curious circumstances sometimes came to its assistance. Thus, many Teutons had been taught by their Druid teachers to acknowledge but one single God, and this primitive doctrine naturally reconciled them to the new creed. But, more than that, the particular god whom they thus acknowledged, was called Esus, almost Jesus! Others had followed the example of the Slaves and worshipped the handle of their swords, which bore the form of a cross; they naturally recognized in the Christian cross a familiar emblem of protection and safety. Even baptism was in no way distasteful to the followers of Odin. They readily adopted, it in memory of the regular and regenerative ablutions with water which their ancient creed prescribed. Odin had said to them in the Runic chapter of the Edda: “If I wish a man never to perish in combat, I sprinkle him with water soon after his birth?”
Finally, this just man, put to death by wicked men, this risen Christ, reminded them forcibly of their own god Balder. Evidently the predicted time had come. Balder, the ancient prisoner of Niflheim, was about to renew the world; in his new shape, the Bright God was no longer the son of Frigg; he was now Mary’s son and his name was Jesus.
This disposition, however, although plainly shown in many parts of Germany, was by no means unanimous.
At the table of King Clovis, the bishops, and Saint Reni himself, were compelled to sit by the side of Scandinavian Druids. When they intoned their Benedicite, the latter never failed to pour out their libations in honor of Asa-Thor and Asa-Freyr. In spite of all the heroic and indefatigable efforts of the priests, polytheism survived even among the new converts, who would walk devoutly in the processions of Christian worship, while they carried their idols and their fetishes under their arms, and who never failed to make the sign of the cross when they passed a tree or a spring that had been held sacred by their forefathers. What could be done to make them sincere and orthodox Christians? Liberty, in the sense in which we understand it now, and have good reason to understand it, would have appeared to a Teuton or a Slave as a beautiful woman, with a wooden yoke around her neck and all her limbs in chains. Germany had her laws, as well as every other Northern country her written or unwritten laws, but the dignity of a freeborn man consisted mainly in disregarding these laws. The free man left his country, to engage in war wherever he chose, and his family, to live in any country he might prefer. It was the same thing with religious matters; he reserved to himself his independent judgment, the right to worship as he chose and the privilege of combining such articles of creed as pleased him.
This curious freedom of religion, this curious amalgamation of creeds, produced the strange result, that the neophytes especially remained half pagan and half Christian, and preferred generally to “ride on the fence” between the two creeds.
In the Nibelungen Lied, which we look upon as nothing more than a great epic poem of the Scandinavians, pagan at first but Christianized at a later period, men are represented as going devoutly to church after having consulted the Nix of the river as to their future fate. This is, no doubt, a true picture of the Germany of the early Christian days. Some looked upon baptism, with its magnificent and pompous ceremonies, as a pleasure; others submitted to it for a consideration. Ozanam, who is exceedingly well informed about everything that refers to this curious period of transition in point of religion, tells the following anecdote:—
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One day there was a crowd of candidates for baptism; each one of them was, as usual, dressed in white, as emblematic of purity. This symbolic dress, made of a suitable material, was a present from the Church to the neophyte, which he had carefully to preserve as an evidence of his conversion.
Now, on that day, all the available robes had been given away, when one more candidate for baptism presented himself; the priest found at last a robe of light color, but unfortunately in wretched condition.
“What do you mean?” exclaimed the neophyte, angrily drawing back; “have I not a right to claim a white robe as well as the others, and one of fine wool?” and looking furiously at the priest he added: “Do you think I am a man to be taken in? This is the twentieth time that I am baptized, and I have never been offered such rags before!”
The naÏve candor of this good Teuton could make me almost believe that he misunderstood the nature of the ceremony altogether, and looked upon it only as a gratuitous distribution of wearing apparel.
Other more painful mistakes were made when the Christian missionaries, crossing rivers and seas at the risk of their lives, went to the uttermost confines of Germany, and there encountered half savage nations who were still worshipping the Scandinavian gods.
The patient zeal, the gentleness, and the eloquence of these holy men, succeeded finally in overcoming the convictions of these barbarians, and in introducing among them not only the Gospel, but also the worship of saints. The people received baptism, and not only welcomed the saints with great eagerness and enthusiasm, but in their desire to do them all the honor in their power, they hastened to turn every one of them into a god! They erected altars to these new gods, and on these altars they offered them human sacrifices.
These same missionaries had been instructed to prohibit the use of horseflesh among the new converts; but they found it very difficult to overcome a custom which at that time was very general. We can hardly, at the present day, understand the importance which the Church attached to this abstinence, since now-a-days the best of people are perfectly willing to allow their horses to be taken from their stables for the purpose of being served up at table!
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The most serious difficulty in all such critical periods is this, that while the true and faithful clergymen by their prodigious labors and admirable self-devotion succeeded in converting and disciplining great multitudes, false priests appeared among them, taking forcible possession of parishes and bishoprics, often without waiting till they became vacant. Pepin of Heristal and Charles Martel, his son, had just compelled the pagan Saxons to take refuge behind the Weser. When the war was over and they proceeded to dismiss the commanders of this numerous army till the beginning of another campaign, as was the custom in those days, the majority among them claimed, as a reward for services rendered, the right to exchange the sword for the crozier and the helmet for the mitre. They evidently thought that the profession was an easy one to practice and rich in rewards.
Pepin and Charles resisted, but they had to give way.
To the great disgust of the newly converted populations and to the great injury of the holy cause, which they professed to have served, these warrior-priests brought with them into the Church the manners of the camp and the fortress. They surrounded themselves with squires, falconers, and riding-masters, with horses and hounds; they hawked, they hunted, they lived high, giving themselves up to all kinds of excesses, and drawing the sword against any one who should venture to reproach them.
When war began once more, they almost all returned to arms, without, on that account renouncing their ecclesiastic duties. Gerold, Bishop of Mayence, perished in a battle against the Saxons; his son succeeded him on the episcopal throne, and had hardly been consecrated when he proceeded to avenge his father. He rushes into battle, challenges Gerold’s murderer, kills him, and quietly returns to Mayence for the purpose of officiating there at Mass and of returning thanks to God for his success.
Such acts of violence and such worldly enjoyments were incomprehensible to the faithful; gradually the Church of the Apostles began to fear the Church of the Soldiers. The Saxons, having vastly increased their numbers by an alliance with the Scythians and Scandinavians, appeared once more in the field.
“But,” exclaims the reader, whom I fancy I hear at this distance, “but this is history, church history moreover, and you told us you would tell us all about gods!”
I confess I did, sir; and that is the reason why I have traced out, on this historical ground, the narrowest and shortest possible path, on which I can safely return to my own domain.
“Well, then, let us return, my good friend.”
I beg your pardon, sir, but before we return, allow me at least to glorify three men, who were called upon at that time to save Christianity, and with it civilization, by the pen, the word, and the sword. These equally great and equally heroic men are now three of our saints.
“Saints again!”
Yes, sir, the first is Pope Gregory, the second Saint Boniface the missionary, and the third the Emperor Charlemagne. Do not be afraid; I shall do no more than mention them, for fear of going again out of my way and of speaking of forbidden subjects, against which you have warned me. Allow me, however, to add that if the struggle which the great Emperor undertook, was a long and ter-tible one, it was also glorious far beyond all. Was it not marvelous, I ask you, to see this nation of Franks, which but just now consisted of a mixture of barbarians, go forth under the command of their young king, to become the protector of Rome, of civilization, and of Christianity? The mace had become a shield, the siege-ram a wall and a rampart.
“Of course! Everybody knows that!”
But, did you know this, sir: When the Saxons, conquered for the tenth time, had received baptism, together with their king Witikind, when the Rhine, also baptized, had become a French river and a Christian river, when the whole of Germany bowed low before the cross, one of the nations of that country, the Borussians (Pruszi, or Prussians), refused to give up their old gods, and continued to refuse for several centuries to come? And yet it was so. The proscribed gods, finding a refuge on the banks of the Oder and the Spree, paid frequent visits, as was quite natural, to their former followers. It was thus that the old pagan creed was long preserved in the remote regions of Germany. You see, sir, I have returned to my subject. Let us rapidly conclude this first part of our task, so as to reach at last the modern gods, who were as popular as the others, and in their way neither less strange nor less curious.
During the time of the Middle Ages, Germany had been filling up with towns and castles, feudal dungeons bearing aloft a helmet and a cross. The cross arose wherever two streets met in a city and at every cross-road in the country; the most beautiful cathedrals in the world and the most magnificent monasteries were reflected in her broad river; and still, in field and forest, in city and country, and along the banks of the Rhine, the false gods were worshipped in secret.
As the church taught that they were to be looked upon as demons, the people dared not treat them badly. Demons are not guests to be turned out rudely.
“From the eighth century of our Christian era,” says one of our erudite authorities, “the Saxons and Sarmatians heard the Christian missionaries speak so continually of the formidable power of Satan, that they thought it best to worship him secretly in order to disarm his wrath and perhaps to win his favor. They called him the Black God or Tybilinus; the Germans call him, even now, Dibel or Teufel.”
This Black God now became for all the German nations the army leader of their proscribed gods, an army which was presently to be largely increased.
The princes and knights, followed by their vassals, departed in large numbers, on the Crusades, but they brought back from the Crusades, together with holy relics, traditions of Gnomes, Peris, and Undines.
The Rhine, disgusted at the loss of his royal dignity, and determined to take his vengeance on the warrior-bishops, received these last arrivals as he had those who came before. In his healing waters the Undines mingled with the Tritons and the Naiads; the Gnomes found shelter under the rocks, where they were hospitably received by the Dwarfs, and in the evening twilight the Nymphs, the Elves, and the Dryads danced once more merrily in company with Sylphs, Fairies, and Peris.
No doubt Christian Germany looked afterwards at all this more in the light of food for the imagination than of trouble for the conscience, but in that happy land, where people believe and dream at the same time, and where the words of the poet are as true as the Gospel, the imagination easily gets the better of conscience. Thus the search after the little blue flower led many a learned man astray, far off into half satanic paths. Besides, it lies in the nature of the German mind, which has always a tendency towards idealism, its magnetic pole, to oppose to the orthodox religion another more secret and more mysterious creed.
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This was the case already in the fourteenth and fifteenth century; it is the case still in this, the nineteenth century, especially among the country people, who have passed through the age of witchcraft in which the Black God ruled supreme, and, completely modifying their pagan notions, have transferred their Olympus to the Brocken, the mountain of the Witches’ Sabbath.
Let us now see what the dwellers on the banks of the Rhine have done with all their old gods and demi-gods of every denomination.
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