Curious Myths of the Middle Ages

The Sangreal, Pope Joan, The Wandering Jew, and Others

Sabine Baring-Gould

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780486123523
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Folklore & Mythology
• Index: Social Sciences

One of the most brilliant, eclectic thinkers in Victorian England, the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould (1834-1924) was intrigued by the grotesque and often savage history of the Middle Ages. The noted author and folklorist’s fascination with the period resulted in this absorbing compilation of vintage tales surrounding such figures as William Tell and the Man in the Moon.
Twenty-four legendary figures—among others, Saint Patrick, the Pied Piper, knights of the Holy Grail, and St. George—are rejuvenated in this collection for a new audience. In addition to outlines of the myths, the author provides an objective analysis of their origins, relevance, and the extent of their basis in fact. Fascinating sources include Christian adaptations of prehistoric legends, misinterpretations of actual events, and outright fabrications. Accompanying illustrations provide a visual appreciation for these timeless classics. A marvelous introduction to age-old stories, this oft-cited work will be of value and interest to students, scholars, and other readers.

XVII. THE PIPER OF HAMELN

HAMELN TOWN was infested with rats, in the year 1284. In their houses the people had no peace from them; rats disturbed them by night and worried them by day—

“They fought the dogs, and kill’d the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And lick’d the soup from the cook’s own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,

And even spoil’d the women’s chats,

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.”

One day, there came a man into the town, most quaintly attired in parti-coloured suit. Bunting the man was called, after his dress. None knew whence he came, or who he was. He announced himself to be a rat-catcher, and offered for a certain sum of money to rid the place of the vermin. The townsmen agreed to his proposal, and promised him the sum demanded. Thereupon the man drew forth a pipe and piped.

“And ere three shrill notes the pipe utter’d,

You heard as if an army mutter’d;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling,

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling:

And out of the town the rats came tumbling.

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers;

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,

Follow’d the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing,

Until they came to the river Weser,

Wherein all plunged and perish’d.”

No sooner were the townsfolk released from their torment, than they repented of their bargain, and, on the plea that the rat-destroyer was a sorcerer, they refused to pay the stipulated remuneration. At this the piper waxed wrath, and woved vengeance. On the 26th June, the feast of SS. John and Paul, the mysterious Piper reappeared in Hameln town—

“Once more he stept into the street,

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;

And, ere he blew three notes (such sweet,

Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning

Never gave to the enraptured air),

There was a rustling, that seem’d like a bustling

Of merry crowds justling, at pitching and hustling,

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering:

And, like fowls in a farmyard where barley is scattering,

Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes, and teeth like pearls,

Tripping, skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.”

The Piper led the way down the street, the children all following, whilst the Hameln people stood aghast, not knowing what step to take, or what would be the result of this weird piping. He led them from the town towards a hill rising above the Weser—

“When, lo! as they reach’d the mountain’s side,

A wondrous portal open’d wide,

As if a cavern were suddenly hollow’d;

And the piper advanced, and the children follow’d;

And when all were in, to the very last,

The door in the mountain side shut fast.”

No! not all. Two remained: the one blind, and the other dumb. The dumb child pointed out the spot where the children had vanished, and the blind boy related his sensations when he heard the piper play. In other accounts, the lad was lame, and he alone was left; and in after years he was sad. And thus he accounted for his settled melancholy—

“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left;

I can’t forget that I’m bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the piper also promised me;

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town, and just at hand,

Where waters gush’d, and fruit-trees grew,

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And every thing was strange and new;

And sparrows were brighter than peacocks here

And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey bees had lost their stings,

And horses were born with eagle’s wings;

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopp’d, and I stood still,

And found myself outside the hill,

Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country more.”

The number of children that perished was one hundred and thirty. Fathers and mothers rushed to the east gate, but when they came to the mountain, called Koppenberg, into which the train had disappeared, nothing was observable except a small hollow, where the sorcerer and their little ones had entered.

The street through which the piper went is called the Bungen-Strasse, because no music, no drum (Bunge), may be played in it. If a bridal procession passes through it, the music must cease until it is out of it. It is not long since two mossgrown crosses on the Koppenberg marked the spot where the little ones vanished. On the wall of a house in the town is written, in gold characters—

“Anno 1284 am dage Johannis et Pauli war der 26. Junii dorch einen piper mit allerlei farve bekledet gewesen 130 kinder verledet binnen Hameln gebon to Calvarie, bi den Koppen verloren.”

On the Rathhaus was sculptured, in memory of the event—

“Im Jahr 1284 na Christi gebert

Tho Hamel worden uthgevert

hundert und dreiszig kinder dasülvest geborn

durch einen Piper under den Köppen verlorn.”

And on the new gate—

“Centum ter denos cum magus ab urbe puelios

Duxerat ante annos CCLXXII condita porta fuit.”

For long, so profound was the impression produced by the event, the town dated its public documents from this calamity.¹

Similar stories are told of other places. A man with a violin came once to Brandenburg, and walked through the town fiddling. All the children followed him: he led them to the Marienberg, which opened and admitted him and the little ones, and, closing upon them, left none behind. At one time, the fields about Lorch were devastated with ants. The Bishop of Worms instituted a procession and litanies to obtain the deliverance of his people from the plague. As the procession approached the Lake of Lorch, a hermit came to meet it, and offered to rid the neighbourhood of the ants, if the farmers would erect a chapel on the site, at the cost of a hundred gulden. When they consented, he drew forth a pipe and piped so sweetly that all the insects came about him; and he led them to the water, into which he plunged with them. Then he asked for the money, but it was refused. Whereupon he piped again, and all the pigs followed him: he led them into the lake, and vanished with them.

Next year a swarm of crickets ate up the herbage; the people were in despair. Again they went in procession and were met by a charcoal-burner, who promised to destroy the insects, if the people would expend five hundred gulden on a chapel. Then he piped, and the crickets followed him into the water. Again the people refused to pay the stipulated sum, thereupon the charcoal-burner piped all their sheep into the lake. The third year comes a plague of rats. A little old man of the mountain this time offers to free the land of the vermin for a thousand gulden. He pipes them into the Tannenberg; then the farmers again button up their pockets, whereupon the little man pipes all their children away.²

In the Hartz mountains once passed a strange musician with a bagpipe. Each time that he played a tune a maiden died. In this manner he caused the death of fifty girls, and then he vanished with their souls.³

It is singular that a similar story should exist in Abyssinia. It is related by Harrison, in his “Highlands of Æthiopia,” that the Hadjiuji Madjuji are dæmon pipers, who, riding on a goat, traverse a hamlet, and, by their music, irresistibly draw the children after them to destruction.

The soul, in German mythology, is supposed to bear some analogy to a mouse. In Thuringia, at Saalfeld, a servant-girl fell asleep whilst her companions were shelling nuts. They observed a little red mouse creep from her mouth ...