Henceforth the scene of the tragedy was called the ‘Wolf’s Spring,’ and the legend is enshrined there to this day.

The Jester of Heidelberg

Considering the wide fame of Rhenish vintages, it is perhaps not surprising that wine should enter as largely into the Rhine legends as the ‘barley bree’ is supposed to enter into Scottish anecdote.  In truth there runs through these traditions a stream of Rhenish which plays almost as important a part in them as the Rhine itself.  We are told that the Emperor Wenzel sold his crown for a quantity of wine; in the tale connected with Thann, in Alsace, mortar is mixed with wine instead of water, because of the scarcity of the latter commodity during the building of a steeple; while in the legends of “The Devil’s Vineyard,” and “The Cooper of Auerbach” the vintage of Rhineland provides the main interest of the plot.  The following quaint little story, attaching to the castle of Heidelberg, is a ‘Rhenish’ tale in every sense of the word.

In the days when the Schloss Heidelberg was in its most flourishing state the lord of the castle numbered among his retainers a jester, small of stature and ugly of feature, whose quips and drolleries provided endless amusement for himself and his guests.  Prominent among the jester’s characteristics was a weakness for getting tipsy.  He was possessed of an unquenchable thirst, which he never lost an opportunity of satisfying.

Knowing his peculiarity, some youthful pages in the train of the nobleman were minded to have some amusement at his expense, and they therefore led him to a cellar in which stood a large vat filled with fragrant wine.  And there for a time they left him.

The jester was delighted at the propinquity of his favourite beverage and decided that he would always remain in the cellar, regaling himself with the vintage.  His thirst increased at the prospect, so he produced a gimlet, bored a hole in the vat, and drank and drank till at length he could drink no more; then the fumes of the wine overcame him and he sank down in a drunken stupor.  Meanwhile the merry little stream flowed from the vat, covered the floor of the cellar, and rose ever higher.

The pages waited at the top of the stairs, listening for the bursts of merriment which were the usual accompaniments of the jester’s drinking bouts; but all was silent as the grave.  At last they grew uneasy and crept below in a huddled group.  The fool lay quite still, submerged beneath the flood.  He had been drowned in the wine.

The joke now seemed a sorry one, but the pages consoled themselves with the thought that, after all, death had come to the jester in a welcome guise.

The Passing Bells

There is a legend connected with the town of Speyer in which poetic justice is meted out to the principal characters, although not until after they have died.