In Germany, Charles von Moor, the gallant, nobly-intellectual, generous thief, became the object of such literary idolatry that a number of green young undergraduates incontinently forsook their homes and their college halls, and went forth into the byways and forests to levy contributions from the rich, to relieve the poor, to address distant castles and fair landscapes in eloquent soliloquy, to apostrophize the silent rising of the silver moon, to drink goodly flasks of Rhenish in shadowy cavern or in the crumbling cloisters of some ancient hermitage, to lead a band of loyal lion-hearted comrades, to be acclaimed as heroes in drama and in song. Actual experience, however, wonderfully cooled their courage; they found that the rough robbers of everyday life must be very different fellows from the conventional bandits of the novel or the stage, and that the grim inside of a prison, although very well to read about in poetry and in play, was a vastly different matter when they came sadly to investigate it in their own proper persons.
Although it is to be hoped that few will go to these wild extremes, it is not to be denied that we all of us indulge a sneaking sympathy with the great and successful thieves of history and romance. It may be the daring and ingenuity of their depredations, it may be the interest ever awakened by the record of perilous adventure, it may be that we realize that they are fighting gamely against tremendous odds, these fellows interest us in spite of ourselves, and we can none of us but feel a thrill of joy when they make good their escape. Almost every country in Europe has its traditional thief. What English boy is there who is not proud of his Robin Hood, Claude Duval, Dick Turpin, Jack Sheppard, and the rest of those knights of the forest and the heath, the country road and the town, who were both the dread and delight of England during the good old eighteenth century? As a matter of sober fact John Sheppard and Richard Turpin were vile ruffians, and Heaven forbid we should meet the blackguards or their like outside the pages of romance. But in Harrison Ainsworth's Jack Sheppard and Rookwood, or in the Newgate Calendar, or in Half-Hours with the Highwaymen, I, for my part, am always ready to afford them hearty welcome. The immense popularity of our detective stories, of Raffles and The Ringer upon the stage, shows that we are, all of us, of one heart and mind.
Names and costumes change, but, just below the surface, taste does not. A century ago there were no two more popular plays in the London theatre than The Miller and his Men and The Brigand. The Miller and his Men, by Isaac Pocock, which was first produced at Covent Garden on October 21, 1813, with Farley, Liston, Mrs. Egerton, and Miss Booth in the cast, met with a brilliant reception. The scene is laid on "the Banks of a River on the Borders of a Forest in Bohemia." It was certainly written under German influence, and I suspect a direct German origin. The plot is unusually combustible; Grindoff, the miller, is, in fact, a robber chief, and the millers in their floury frocks are his band. Their captain, when at home in his forest lair, dons your true thief's unmistakable attire: "salmon-coloured pantaloons; dark tunic, with large brass plates and studs down the front; short russet ankle-boots, with small tops turned over; a long dark cloak; dark brown cap, and small feather." If only it had been a large funereal plume!
The Brigand, by J. R. Planché, was produced at Drury Lane in November, 1829. James Wallack played the hero, Alessandro Mazzaroni, "with song Gentle Zitella." At the Surrey, with T. P. Cooke as Mazzaroni; at Sadler's Wells, with George Almer; at the Coburg, with Thomas Cobham, "the Kemble of the minor theatres"; at the Garrick, with Charles Freer--The Brigand was performed to thronging houses. So popular, indeed, has The Brigand proved, that it was taken as the libretto of an opera produced in Dublin in 1894, whilst the original Miller and his Men was still being acted at the Britannia Theatre, Hoxton, some thirty years ago. Both The Brigand and The Miller and his Men I have seen performed with great applause, in which I heartily joined, upon the stages of my good friend Mr. Pollock.
An evergreen attraction in the theatre, in fiction the romantic robber held even greater sway. The vagabond literature of England is famous. The Elizabethans were never tired of describing contemporary rogues and rascals; Francis Kirkham won an extraordinary success with his English Rogue, wherein are comprehended "the most eminent Cheats of both Sexes"; there is a Scotch Rogue, and an Irish Rogue too, but these are dull folk. The library of knaves and padders is enormous; with Defoe and Fielding's immortal Jonathan Wild we are upon the heights. Banditti frequently make their appearance in the castles and forests of Mrs. Radcliffe: perhaps the most interesting chapter in Lewis's The Monk is that which describes the adventures of Don Raymond with the robbers in the wood near Strasbourg. Lewis also, it may be remembered, adapted Zschokke's famous Abällino, der grosse Bandit, as The Bravo of Venice. Robbers revel and carouse in Henry Guy's Angelina, or, Mystic Captives; in Isaac Crookenden's The Italian Banditti; in Vincent's The Castle of the Apennines; in The Sicilian Pirate; in The Black Monk, and in scores of similar romances. And, as if England had not sufficient store of thieves of her own, Germany supplied us with amplest contributions, for the German robber romances are many as the sands of the sea. Some half a dozen names will give the cue to many hundreds. Sensation is at its reddest and most lurid in tales such as: Lorenzo, the Wild Man of the Forest, or, The Robber-Maid; Coronato the Terrible, or, Abällino among the Calabrians; Lutardo, or, the Robber-Chief; Karl Strahlheim, or, the Grateful Robber; Angelica, Daughter of the Great Robber Odoardo, Prince of Pechia; A Tale of Murderer Martin, the Peasant. It is even said that several chapters of the most famous of them all, Rinaldo Rinaldini by Vulpius, are from the pen of Goethe.
The Necromancer of the Black Forest may, I think, be taken as a romance of this type which is far above the average. Peter Teuthold, the translator of the novel, was probably one of the Germans living in England, whose literary activity has already been commented upon and described. He himself apologizes for the defects of his rendering, and indeed in the edition of 1794 there are some few awkwardnesses of phrase, not to say grammatical errors and mistakes, which a re-issue very justly emended. Since these solecisms could only jar on the English reader and interfere with the interest of the narrative, the corrections have been duly accepted in the present reprint. Lawrence Flammenberg is the pseudonym of K. F. Kahlert. It seems probable that various local legends of the Black Forest have been woven together to form a single narrative. This might perhaps have been managed more skillfully, but seemingly the author was too much absorbed in his several episodes to trouble overmuch about the unity of the whole. The incidents are often violent and even extravagant, but so desperate, wild, and lawless were the times, that it is not impossible they may have had some foundation in fact. A bare fifteen years before the publication of this novel by the Minerva Press an end had been put to a vast secret society known as the "Buxen," who from 1736 to 1779 ravaged the whole district of Limburg, parts of Lorraine and the province of Treves. Their wonted proceeding was to assemble after nightfall in some remote and haunted spot, when a Satanic Mass was celebrated, during which horrid ceremonies young recruits were initiated into the gang. It is said that no less than three ruined sanctuaries were thus desecrated--S. Rose near Sittardt, S. Leonard near Roldyck, and a lone chapel at Oermond on the Maas. They then sallied forth plundering manors and farms, and even burning down the smaller villages. Terror reigned throughout the whole countryside. They could not be exterminated until the sternest measures were taken. Permanent gallows were set up in large numbers and the beam was seldom empty. But that was not enough. Between 1772 and 1774 over a hundred Buxen were burned alive or broken on the wheel, since hanging was considered too easy a fate. At length, Leopold Leeuwerk, their chaplain, as he was dubbed, a Satanist who laid claim to occult powers, and Abraham Nathan, one of the chief leaders, an atrocious villain, were captured, and put to death at Haeck on the moor of Graed, on September 24, 1772. Their organization was singularly complete, and perhaps Kahlert had Leeuwerk in view when he described Volkert. However that may be, and in spite of a certain looseness of construction, the episodes in the romance are relate
d with a sombre forcefulness and power, which even now is able to command our interest and compel our attention. It would hardly be possible to select a more typical specimen of its kind, and, as such, which no doubt Jane Austen intended, it is now once again set forth, tendered, and presented.
MONTAGUE SUMMERS.
PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR
The wonderful Incidents related in the following Sheets, not being made up of tiresome Love Intrigues, repeated again and again in almost every new Book of Amusement, will, as I flatter myself, not be quite displeasing to the reader, on account of the Novelty of the Subject. The strange mysterious Events which occur in this little Performance are founded on Facts, the authenticity of which can be warranted by the Translator, who has lived many Years not far from the principal Place of Action.
If the Subject of the following Tale should be thought interesting and amusing, the Public may expect a speedy Publication of a still more intricated and wonderful one, exhibiting a long Series of similar Frauds, perpetrated under the mysterious Veil of pretended supernatural Aid.
The Publisher being sensible of the manifold Defects of his Translation, will acknowledge with Gratitude the gentle Corrections of the dread Arbiters of Literary Death and Life, and Promises carefully to avoid, in a future Publication, the repetition of any slips the Critick's Eagle Eye shall discover in the following Sheets.
THE NECROMANCER:
OR
THE TALE OF THE BLACK FOREST
PART I
The hurricane was howling, the hailstones beating against the windows, the hoarse croaking of the raven bidding adieu to autumn, and the weather-cock's dismal creaking joined with the mournful dirge of the solitary owl;--such was the evening when Herman and Elfrid, who had been united by the strongest bonds of friendship from their youthful days, were seated by the cheering fireside. Thirty long years had elapsed since they were separated by different employments; Herman having been called to distant countries, whilst Elfrid (leaving the University where their mutual friendship had begun) hastened home to his parents, to ease the burden of their old age, and to cheer the tempestuous evening of his dear progenitor's life.
On his journey homewards, he rambled over some of the most charming parts of Germany; yet he sought in vain after pleasure, separated as he was from the dear companion of his youthful days. At length he found in the circle of his family, what he had been seeking in vain abroad. The pleasure which his venerable parents felt, in again beholding the offspring of their mutual love, soothed the disquiet of his mind; the joy sparkling in their eyes at the sight of the supporter of their declining years, tinged his cheeks with the rosy hue of contentment, and filled his soul with inward bliss. After ten years of congenial happiness, his aged father died, closing a well spent life in his seventy-second year. The guardian angel of virtue carried his unspotted soul to the cheerful mansion of everlasting peace; the gentle smile of a good conscience sat still on his wan lips, when his sainted spirit arrived in heaven, hailed by millions of holy angels.
Twelve years longer Elfrid soothed the sorrows of his mother, and supported her under the heavy load of ever-increasing infirmities, until she was re-united to the dear companion of all her earthly joys and cares. He dropped a tear of filial affection on her tomb, and now directed all his care and tenderness towards the promoting his only sister's happiness; who as well as himself remained unmarried; and some years after, in order to disperse the clouds of gloomy fancies, the usual companions of bachelors, he determined on taking a journey, and left the care of his house to his maiden sister.
He was so fortunate as to meet on his journey with many friends of his earlier days, companions of his academical studies; at length he also traced out his dear Herman, the most beloved among his youthful friends.
He found his worthy friend a favourite of fortune, blessed in the lap of sweet contentment and unmixed happiness.--A loving wife crowned the favours which fortune had so abundantly blessed him with; providence had also surrounded him with a circle of promising children, two of whom were happily married, and had blessed him with two granddaughters and three grandsons--Heaven's greatest blessings smiled upon him wherever he went, contentment and joy sat upon his reverend brow, and peace of mind had taken her abode within his heart.
"Good God!" exclaimed he, as soon as he could find words to give vent to the rapture of his soul, "do I then behold, once more before I die, the dear companion of my youthful days? Heaven be praised for that unexpected happiness! Now all my wishes are fulfilled--Oh, Elfrid! The separation from thee, the apprehension of seeing thee no more, was the only bitterness mixed in the cup of bliss which providence has kindly administered to thy friend. Thou art alive--I have nothing else to wish than that my end may be as happy as this hour."
After the first ecstasy of meeting was over, Elfrid related how anxiously he had ever been inquiring after his dear friend; told him how many letters he had written to get information of his abode, and was going to chide him for his negligence, when Herman fetched a letter from an old acquaintance of his, who had written to him, that "Elfrid had left the service of the Muses, enlisted under the banners of Mars during the Seven Years" War, and had fallen a victim to his martial spirit."
Elfrid was satisfied with this explanation.
"Brother," he exclaimed, "let us forget our age and live together, as long as I can remain with thee, as if the thirty years since we have seen each other had never passed, and be as merry as we have been in our youthful days."
Herman's cheek glowed with pleasure, and he squeezed Elfrid's hand. Six days passed in mutual joy. Herman resided at a country seat, situated on the banks of the Elbe, and enclosed by an ancient forest, which made it a pleasant abode to Elfrid, who was passionately fond of hunting. Every morning they rambled through the woods, and the two friends pursued the fleet game with almost juvenile ardour, till the dinner bell summoned them to a substantial meal and a bottle of old Rhenish wine. When the cloth was removed, the goblet went cheerfully round, and the two happy friends drank and talked of the achievements of their younger days, and what had happened during their separation. Thus days rolled on like hours, and Elfrid did not yet think of departing.
The gloominess of the weather, on the day when this narrative opens, gave their conversation a serious turn. They began to discourse on the calamities of war; of the dangers they had formerly undergone, and of the many distresses and sufferings they had experienced in the early part of their lives. As night advanced, the tempest grew more furious, the flame in the chimney was wafted to and fro, and began to die away by degrees, when Herman fed it with dry wood, stirred the ashes, and it began again to blaze.
"Brother," said Elfrid, "brother, dost thou believe in apparitions? Dost thou believe in spirits?"
Herman, smiling, shook his head.
"I also," Elfrid went on, "do not believe in apparitions; yet, when travelling through Germany, I have met with adventures which I still am unable to unriddle."
Upon Herman's requesting an explanation, Elfrid began as follows:--
"The great fair was just beginning when I arrived at F----; the bustle of the buyers and vendors, the meeting with a number of dear friends, and the many different amusements, promised to afford me a great deal of pleasure, and I resolved to stop a few weeks at that town.
"The inn where I had taken lodging was crowded with travellers: an aged hoary man amongst them was particularly noticed by every one, on account of his remarkable appearance. His looks were reverend; his dress, though very plain, was costly; he appeared to be a rich nobleman, and occupied the best apartments. A coach and six, with four servants richly dressed, carried him frequently out; he was seen at all the public places, was present at all amusements, yet, what raised my curiosity, he was constantly alone and in profound meditation. I often remarked, that wherever he was, he did not take the least notice of what was doing around him, and, as if a prey to grief and inward sufferings, seemed to be insensible of all the objects that surrounde
d him. He was also continually alone when in his apartment, the door of which was always bolted. He rode out as soon as dinner was over, and commonly returned very late at night.
"I questioned the landlord about this strange man, but he shrugged up his shoulders and could tell me nothing. "But," exclaimed I peevishly, "you certainly know where he comes from, could not you ask his servants?"--"The servants," answered he, "are as mute as their master. He is supposed to be an English lord, that is all I know."
"I was of the same opinion when I first saw him; having met, on my travels, with many Englishmen who had behaved in the same sullen and reserved manner. His melancholy mood I fancied to be the effect of the spleen, and I did not trouble myself any more about him.
"I had not been above three days at F---- when I lost my purse. At first I fancied I had dropped it somewhere in a shop, or my pocket had been picked in the street, and determined to be more careful in future; but, in spite of all my precaution and care, I suffered a second loss the next day, missing a diamond ring, with a miniature picture of my deceased mother; I was sure that the preceding night I had pulled that ring from my finger and put it on the table when I went to bed; I questioned the waiters, but they appeared to be offended at my inquiries--in short, the ring was gone.
"A few days after, I went to the play; I had a snuff-box, of very little value, in the right pocket of my coat; a gentleman who was sitting by me, at the left, begged me to give him a pinch of snuff, but I could not find my box. That insignificant theft made me smile. I was only glad that I had left my purse at home.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 116
