other. The
crusader exercised a strong influence upon the literature of medieval
Europe, and that influence we find in a very marked degree in the
legends of the Rhine. Again, a number of these tales undoubtedly consist
of older materials not necessarily mythical in origin, over which a
later medieval colour has been cast. Unhappily many of these beautiful
old legends have been greatly marred by the absurd sentimentality of
the German writers of the early nineteenth century, and their dramatis
personae, instead of exhibiting the characteristics of sturdy medieval
German folk, possess the mincing and lackadaisical manners which
mark the Franco-German novel of a century ago. This contrasts most
ludicrously in many cases with the simple, almost childlike, honesty
which is typical of all early Teutonic literature. Had a Charles Lamb,
a Leigh Hunt, or an Edgar Allan Poe recast these tales, how different
would have been their treatment! Before the time of Schiller and Goethe
French models prevailed in German literature. These wizards of the pen
recovered the German spirit of mystery, and brought back to their haunts
gnomes, kobolds, and water-sprites. But the mischief had been done ere
they dawned upon the horizon, and there were other parts of Germany
which appeared to them more suitable for literary presentment than the
Rhine, save perhaps in drama. Moreover, the inherent sentimentality
of the German character, however fitted to bring out the mysterious
atmosphere which clings to these legends, has weakened them
considerably.

[Footnote 1: See author's Dictionary of Medieval Romance (London, 1913),
preface, and article 'Romance, Rise and Origin of.']

The Poetry of the Rhine

Robert Louis Stevenson, exiled in the South Pacific islands, used to
speak with passionate fondness of the rivers of his native Scotland, the
country he loved so dearly, but which the jealous fates forbade him to
visit during fully half his life. Garry and Tummel, Tweed and Tay--he
used to think of these as of something almost sacred; while even the
name of that insignificant stream, the Water of Leith, sounded on his
ear like sweet music, evoking a strangely tender and pathetic emotion.
And this emotion, crystallized so beautifully by Stevenson in one of
his essays in Memories and Portraits, must have been felt, too, by many
other exiles wandering in foreign parts; for surely an analogous feeling
has been experienced sometimes by every traveller of