At a time when very few men lived upon the earth, when towns and
villages were few and very widely separated, when there were no roads
in the mountains, and before Romulus and Remus were rescued by the
motherly wolf on the yellow Tiber, or Nausikaa fell in love with
Odysseus, there stood a house on the site of Schloss Ilsenburg,
inhabited by a widow and her daughter Trude.
Deeper in among the mountains stood an old stone Schloss, on the
granite wall connecting the Ilsenstein and the opposite-lying
Westerberg, which had been bought, and was inhabited by a father and
his fair daughter Ilse.
Nobody knew who the father was, but it was supposed--as people do in
many cases--that he was some fallen and deposed Prince.
During the absence of the Prince and Princess Ilse on a journey, a
stranger, handsome and gay, without money, sack, or scrip, but rich
in self-confidence and flattering words, sought hospitality of the
widow and her daughter, and was warmly received and entertained.
Ralf "fell in love" with Trude, and a blissful summer was spent
gathering wild fruits and flowers and hunting birds' nests among the
mountains.
The nuptials were near, and the widow was busy with the bride's
trousseau, when unexpectedly with Autumn arrived the foreign Prince
and fair Ilse from their mysterious journey.
Ritter Ralf, it must be confessed, was very naughty. With an
eagle-eye he perceived the radiant charms of Princess Ilse, and poor
Trude was forsaken.
The widow reproached him with his perfidy, but he replied, "The eagle
mates but with the eagle, and though I have fled from a severe
father, I am of noble blood, and have found a Braut of my own rank."
The widow swore revenge, and consoled the weeping Trude, begging her
only to wait till Walpurgisnacht[1] and her perfidious lover should
be punished.
[1] Night before the first of May, when all evil spirits and witches,
according to the legend, meet on the Brocken. See Goethe's "Faust."
She made a league with the evil spirits of the mountains and the air,
and devoted herself to the unholy arts of a witch.
Walpurgisnacht arrived, the widow stood on the balcony of her house
and invoked the demons and witches, who swept through the night,
which rested black as destruction on the mountains, heavy as the day
of wrath and vengeance.
From the Brocken broke a terrible tempest. Awful thunders rolled,
lightnings in fiery serpents cut their way through the heavens and
mountains, and a tremendous flood swept down from the Brocken,
destroying all in its course.
The coalers clung to the rocky walls, but Princess Ilse looked calmly
on the wild scene, saw the rocks rent on which her father's castle
stood, and it, her lover, father, and servants all swept away; and as
she too was about to perish, a tall manly form, with majestic head
and black locks--probably the Fairy King--seized her in his strong
arms, wrapped her in a white mantle, and vanished.
Poor Trude, from the balcony by her mother's side, saw her faithless
Ralf carried down the torrent, threw herself over after him, and when
the flood had subsided the widow found them in each other's arms,
washed up on the banks of the river.
The Wild Huntsman.
Earl Eberhard von Wurtemberg rode one day alone into the forest to
amuse himself with the chase. Suddenly he heard a loud roar and
noise, as of a hunter riding furiously past; he was terrified,
dismounted in haste from his horse, and approaching a tree, as if for
defence, cried aloud to the imagined huntsman, asking if he intended
violence.
"No," replied the now visible form of the hunter, "I am a man like
thyself, and stand before thee quite alone. I too was formerly a
noble.
"I found such pleasure in the chase, that I besought God to permit me
to hunt until the judgment-day. Unhappily my sinful wish was
granted, and for four hundred and fifty years I have hunted the same
deer. But my race and name are known to no one."
Thereupon the ghostly hunter vanished.
Hans von Hackelberg, a master of the hunt in Brunswick, had an
unhappy dream one night on the Harzburg; it seemed to him in his
dream as if he struggled with a huge wild boar which conquered him
after a long combat, and that he died of his wounds.
He could not drive this terrible dream from his mind. Shortly after
he encountered a boar in the Harz similar to the one in his dream.
He attacked him; the struggle remained long undecided; at length Hans
conquered and slew the animal. Rejoiced to see the boar stretched at
his feet, he kicked the tusk with violence, exclaiming, "Thou shalt
not yet kill me!"
But he had struck with such force that the sharp tooth pierced his
boot and wounded his foot.
At first Hackelberg paid no attention to the wound, but continued the
chase. On his return, however, the foot was so swollen, that the
boot had to be cut off. He hastened back to Wolfenbüttel, but the
vehicle shook the foot so that he was obliged to stop on the way at
Wülperode, where he died.
Before his death he expressed a wish that he might hunt for ever, and
his rash desire was granted.
The Tut-Osel, or Tut-Ursel, always accompanies him.
At midnight, when in storm and rain, Hackelberg with horse and dogs
tears through the Thuringian Forest, the Harz, and the Hackel Forest,
the night or death owl flies before him, which the people call the
Tut-Osel.
The wanderer, when he hears the ghostly hunt, listens in terror to
the barking of dogs, and hears the hu! hu! of the chase, and the uhu
of the death-owl.
In a Kloster in Thuringia lived, in the primeval days of convents, a
nun called Ursel--Ursula--who always disturbed the choir of nuns by
her howling singing; hence she was called Tut-Ursel. But after her
death she disturbed them even more than in her lifetime, for at
eleven every evening she poked her head through a hole in the church
tower and _tooted_ dreadfully, and every morning at four she joined
her voice in the matin-song.
For some days the holy sisters bore this lamentable disturbance; but
at last one morning one of the nuns whispered in fear to her
neighbour, "That is certainly the Ursel!"
Instantly the music ceased, their hair rose to mountains, and the
nuns rushed out of the church screaming: "Tut-Ursel! Tut-Ursel!"
And no punishment could induce a single nun to enter the church again
until a Capuchin monk from a monastery on the Danube, noted for his
sanctity, was summoned.
He condemned Tut-Ursel to banishment in the Harz, and to bear the
form of a death-owl.
Here she encountered Hackelberg, and found as much delight in the hu,
hu! of his eternal hunt as he in her uhu! and so they hunt for ever
in company.
Another story is that the screech-owl is a nun who was false to her
vows, and left her convent to follow Hackelberg.
The origin of this legend belongs to the ancient pagan days. It is
even disputed that a person called Hackelberg existed, and if so, the
legend is ages older than the sixteenth century, the time when he is
said to have lived.
The Wild Hunter, the Wanderer, was Wodan himself in the pagan days.
At the introduction of Christianity we find a new development of the
ancient myths. Wodan becomes the foul fiend, then the godless
Hunter, and the Wandering Jew. In the Black Forest the eternal
Hunter and the eternal Jew are regarded as the same person. They
both always carry a groschen in the pocket. In some parts of Germany
the harrows are placed in the fields with the teeth together, that
the wanderer may rest himself. According to some authorities, he may
only rest Christmas night, and then only when he finds a plough in
the field; only on that may he sit down.
Every seven years the Huntsman passes over the seven mining towns of
the Harz, and woe to him who calls after him.
According to one legend, the Wild Huntsman met Christ at a river
where He sought to quench His thirst, and would not permit Him to
drink; he also drove Him from a cattle trough, and when the Saviour
found water in a horse's foot-print, and would drink there, he drove
Him away. As a punishment, he is doomed to wander for ever, and eat
only horse-flesh. This is the pagan legend Christianized. In West
and South Germany we find the Wild Army. Odin, or Wodan, was the
god, too, of armies, and always went out from Walhalla at the head of
his ghostly array, while his nine Walküren conducted the fallen
heroes back to Walhalla.
The Origin of the Philippine.
Once, long centuries ago, a Princess lived in Schloss Hohenstein who
was very fond of almonds, but was firmly resolved never to marry, so
she invented the following plan.
She caused every prince who came a-wooing--and her suitors were
countless--to eat the half of a double almond, and she ate its twin
half. And then she said, "If you can induce me to take anything from
your hand without saying "_J'y pense_," I am ready for marriage with
you; but if, on the other hand, I can lead you to receive any object
from my hand without your repeating those saving words, you shall
have your head shaved, and forthwith leave my dominions."
But there was a trick in the stipulation, namely, the etiquette of
the royal court forbade any person, on pain of death, to hand
anything direct to the Princess, but rather to the lady-in-waiting,
who presented it to her mistress.
But if the Kaiser's daughter chose herself to hand any one anything,
who was there to forbid it?
Thus it was for the luckless wooers a bitter sport, for let them
exert themselves as they would to beguile the royal maiden into
taking anything from their hands, the inevitable lady-in-waiting
spoiled their sport.
But when Princess Huldigunde determined to get rid of a certain
adorer, she grew so engaging that he became perfectly enchanted, and
as he sat beside her, intoxicated with joy, she seized either a
pomegranate, or an egg near her, and handed it to him, saying softly,
"Keep that as a souvenir."
As soon as the wooer took the object, it sprang open, and a frog, or
a hornet, or bat flew into his hair or face, and in his fright he
forgot to say, "_J'y pense!_" And then he was shaved on the spot,
and away with him.
This went on for years, and in all kings' houses princes wore wigs.
It happened at last that a foreign prince saw Huldigunde, and found
her fair, and saw through the trick.
A friendly fairy had given him an apple, which he was to smell once a
year, when a prudent idea should occur to him.
Just at the time when he first saw Huldigunde, it was time to smell
the apple; he smelt, and it occurred to him that if he would win the
game through give and take, he must neither give himself nor take
anything from her.
He caused his hands to be bound to his girdle, went with his marshal
to court, and declared his wish to eat almonds.
Huldigunde liked this Prince, and commanded almonds to be handed him.
Then his marshal took them and put them in his mouth.
The Princess inquired why he carried his hands in his girdle.
He replied that the etiquette of his court was still more severe than
at hers; it was not permitted him to take anything with his hands,
only with his feet or head.
"In that way," cried Huldigunde, "we shall never settle the game."
Prince Otto only shrugged his shoulder, and replied, "Only when you
graciously condescend to take something from my boots."
And the court stood aghast at the bold idea.
"Why did you come to Schloss Hohenstein with such a stupid
etiquette?" cried the Almond Princess.
"Because you are so beautiful," cried Otto; "and, if I cannot win you
I can look at you."
So Otto remained at the castle, and Huldigunde liked him better every
day. She tried daily to beguile him into setting a hand free with
offerings of fruit, flowers, even her bracelet, but Otto nodded to
his marshal, who received them.
Then she dropped her handkerchief; but Otto lifted it with the toe of
his boot, and swung it carelessly to and fro, and she stooped and
took it from his boot.
So a whole year passed away, and the Princess said to herself, "An
end must be made of this matter." So she told Otto she had the best
garden in the world, and proposed to show it to him the next day.
It was time for the Prince to smell the apple again, and a brilliant
idea came to him.
As they entered the garden, Otto exclaimed, "It is wonderfully
beautiful here; and in order that we may accompany each other without
any disturbing element, I pray my Princess to adopt the etiquette of
my court, and permit her hands to be bound one hour; then we shall
both be secure, and nothing disagreeable can happen to either of us."
Huldigunde consented, and they walked side by side with their hands
bound.
The birds sang, the sun shone warm and clear, and from the trees the
red cherries hung down to their cheeks.
Huldigunde looked wishfully at the ripe fruit and cried, "What a pity
you cannot pluck me any."
But Otto replied, "Want knows no law," took a cherry in his mouth and
offered it to her. The Princess could only put her mouth to his to
take the cherry, and when she had the fruit between her lips--and his
kiss with it--could not at the moment say, "_J'y pense_."
And Otto cried, "Good morning, Philippine!" drew his hands from his
girdle, and threw them around her her neck.
Graf Arno's Capture.
Arno, the wildest and most powerful robber knight of the Harz, dwelt
securely enthroned in his strong Burg, the Arnstein, which lay on the
Felsberg like an eagle's nest, from whose strong walls the old eagle
flew daily forth for robbery and murder. He and his castle were
inaccessible; frequently, when the inhabitants of the neighbourhood
had united to storm his nest, he had sent them home with bleeding
heads, and each time punished them by making worse disturbance than
before.
The citizens of the near-situated Aschersleben suffered most by these
raids; for when in the sweat of the brow they had cultivated their
fields, and rejoiced in view of the approaching harvest, Arno would
swoop down like a bird of prey, and gather the rich grains and fruits
into his barns; and when the wealthy merchants of Magdeburg,
Ascherslebeh, and Nordhausen, reckoning how they could make what was
worth fifty per cent. bring a hundred, travelled past, he took pity
on their problem-solving souls, and relieved their weary brains of
the difficult calculations and the burden of sales by carrying off
their goods to his castle--sometimes, indeed, the merchants
themselves, whose friends redeemed them with heavy sums.
Often he kidnapped maidens, and it was not at all unwelcome to him,
as one day, while he lay in vain in wait for booty, a troop of young
girls showed itself near the wood where he lay hidden.
It was then, and is still in some Harz villages, the custom on the
wedding-day of a youthful pair to lead the bride out upon a mountain
or a meadow, where her friends seek to take from her the bridal
wreath. Dancing and singing they follow the fleeing bride, who
strives to keep her treasure as long as possible, hides behind hedges
and underbrush, till at last they rob her of her wreath and carry it
in triumph to the bridegroom. It was such a bridal party that issued
this day from the gates of Aschersleben, to enjoy the fun after the
fashion of their ancestors, for the fairest flower of Askania, Ida, a
merchant's daughter, celebrated her wedding.
How her bridal veil and ribbons fluttered and shimmered in the wind
and sun, as she in the joy of her heart, light of foot as a fawn,
flew over the meadow, pursued by her laughing companions.
Shouts of merriment and scraps of song rang over the laughing
landscape to the wood where Arno lay concealed, watching the charming
scene.
"Little maiden!" thought he, "if no train of waggons comes that I
prefer, I can take thee; that is not difficult, and costs no blood."
And as the train came near, and the bride, ever in advance, would
hide in the thicket, he seized her and bore her pitilessly away. The
other maidens searched long in vain, till at last they caught sight
of the fleeing robber with his booty.
What consternation! what lamentations! Breathless they fled back to
the town, proclaiming the dreadful news with loud cries.
All became uproar, women ran moaning through the streets, girls
locked themselves in their rooms, as if the robber were behind them,
the older citizens talked and reasoned, the younger swore revenge,
and the members of the town council moved with solemn steps and
imposing mien toward the town hall, where the walls of the dark
council chamber should become silent witnesses of all the wisdom of
their puffed-up pride and self-importance.
Evening came on, the council chamber was lighted; the palate of each
worthy member of the council rebelled against the fatigue of a longer
sitting, and at last the Bürgermeister raised his voice and addressed
his colleagues: "It is necessary, honourable gentlemen, that we come
to a decision, and as it has been proved, through reliable witnesses,
that the robber of the bride is our dangerous neighbour, the Earl von
Arnstein, and the crime has been committed within the territory of
our town, and as such a crime is punishable with death, we sentence
the said Arno to death by the hangman, do we not?"
"Yes, your Worship!" cried the chamberlain.
"Of course!" said the syndic.
"Certainly!" echoed the town clerk.
"Certainly!" agreed every member of the council unanimously.
"If we take into consideration," continued the Bürgermeister, "how
much damage the said Arno of Arnstein has caused, death by the sword
is too mild. Shall he not die on the wheel, or be quartered?"
"Of course!" said the chamberlain, with a knowing nod.
"Certainly!" agreed the syndic.
"How wise!" cried one part of the councillors; "How just!" another.
"I am of opinion," resumed the Bürgermeister, "that the execution
should take place immediately, before the said Arno does any more
mischief."
"Of course! of course!" cried the assembly.
"But--but--a--" resumed his Worship, hesitating and undecided, "we
must first have the criminal in our power, and that is--not--so--easy
a matter. Can any one offer advice as to what is to be done?"
Silence! All were dumb. At last one cried, "We must take him
prisoner!"
"Quite right," voted the councillors; "he must be taken prisoner."
"That is also my opinion," said the Bürgermeister. "Nevertheless
it--is--no--easy matter--to accomplish. We could march out at once
with all the armed men we possess, and storm----"
"Yes, yes," cried the syndic, "we will storm the nest!"
"We will storm it!" exclaimed the town clerk, with a look intended to
be brave.
"How wise! how heroic!" was the praise on every lip, while the
Bürgermeister continued his interrupted address: "But we have already
experienced the fact that the Arnstein is not easy to seize. _By
force nothing can be done._"
"No, by force nothing can be done!" echoed the assembly as one man.
"We might attempt to take him by strategy," continued the orator;
"but Arno is cunning as a fox, and we should probably only expose our
town to more robbery if he discovered that we were trying to waylay
him."
"Certainly! certainly!" agreed every mouth.
"Hence I give it as my opinion," concluded the Bürgermeister, "that
as force and stratagem would only bring upon us expense and danger,
and the result is uncertain, that--that--a--that we allow the matter
to rest as it is, and leave the criminal to the punishment of Heaven.
Do you not think so, gentlemen?"
"Certainly, your Worship, certainly! How wise! how mild! how
forbearing!" shouted the assembly.
The Bürgermeister rose with official dignity, dismissed his
colleagues with a wave of the hand, and the exhausted councillors
were in the act of retiring, when the unhappy bridegroom rushed
breathless into their midst.
"What is decided?" he cried hastily, and seized the syndic by the arm.
"What's that to you?" growled that dignitary, who felt himself
insulted by such familiarity. "How do you dare to force yourself
unbidden into the council chamber?"
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," stammered the bridegroom, surprised.
"I come to give you a capital piece of advice--the idea just occurred
to me."
Every face grew long from assumed dignity.
"What! you will give advice? You--to us?"
But as the young man entreated them to hear him, the Bürgermeister
permitted him to speak, provided he would be short.
The bridegroom unfolded his plan, which, though unwillingly, was
approved of.
Meanwhile, Arno concluded that his robbery of the bride was
undiscovered, and was strengthened in this idea, as some days after
he saw a group of maidens, decked in bridal array, issue forth from
the town to the same meadow.
Suddenly he resolved to carry off one of them, and when they had
danced themselves weary and had thrown themselves down on the grass
to rest, he rushed out of the wood, and, like a vulture, swooped down
upon his prey.
But, to his astonishment, the maiden, instead of resisting, held him
fast, and the others drew forth daggers and attacked and killed his
retainers. Resistance was useless; he could not free himself from
the powerful arms of the disguised soldier. They dragged him to
Aschersleben, and shut him up in a cage, where he starved to death.
The bridegroom put on Arno's armour, and the troop, concealed in
loaded wagons, were conducted to the Arnstein by the disguised
bridegroom. The warder saw the train approaching, and at once opened
the gates to admit it.
Too late, when all were within the walls, he discovered his error.
Soon they had possession of the stronghold, and the bride was
restored to the bridegroom.
The cage they still show in Aschersleben, and the meadow is still
called the Dance meadow.
There is a tradition of another knight of Arnstein, who, cold and
cruel to all who in the least displeased him, was buried in the now
ruined chapel. His ghost still haunts the ruins.
His second wife, a cruel step-mother, who oppressed her beautiful
step-daughter, keeps him company. She is the spinner of the
Arnstein, doomed to spin on till her web breaks, when her spirit will
be set free.
Whether the ghostly monk bore relation to this cruel pair we are not
told. He visits the ruins, probably nightly, but can only be seen
every seven years by those who were born on St. John's Eve. His duty
is to chastise idle and deceitful servants.
The Pebble.
An old, poor, but honest man left his cottage to gather sticks and
healing herbs in the wood for sale in the neighbouring town.
He soon had a huge bundle of sticks bound together for his weary,
bent back--bent from the burden of toil and of years--and a
luxuriance of the healing woodroofs made gathering them a light task;
but when he reached the town everybody said, "What's the need of wood
now, when it is summer?"
And the apothecary declared, "It is June, and the blossoms have
already absorbed all the strength of the plants. You must bring them
henceforth in May."
No one had an ear for the entreaties of the distressed man, and he
set off for home hopeless and discouraged. He saw no way of
deliverance out of his deplorable condition, no relief for his
suffering wife. "Yes," he sighed, "if the bell in Wimmelburg had not
been melted in the last fire, the bell through which God, the good
Father, cured every sick person who heard its tones, there might be
help for my poor wife; or, if it is not all a fable, of the great
treasure which the monks buried in Sittichenbach, and we could find
it; or, if it is true about the hidden treasure in Eisleben, that
only he can find who can watch four-and-twenty days and nights
without closing his eyes. Oh! I could watch the time, for sorrow
keeps me awake every night. But all these tales must be only
fancies, and the benevolent fairies in these mountains, who used to
help the poor when they were near despair, are most likely long since
gone, or else my trouble would have brought them to my relief. And
with men, oh! with men there is no pity!"
It seemed to him by these reflections as if a long, giant, shadowy
form brushed past him in the twilight, whispering in his ear, "Do not
despair."
He looked up, but saw nothing but the shadow of the oak under which
he sat, heard nothing save the sighing of the evening wind in its
branches.
With a tear in his eye, he took the bundle of wood on his back and
went on. A moment after he saw a shining object on his path. "Ei!
what a beautiful pebble!" he thought. "I will take it home for the
children to play with."
It was already late when he reached his cottage, and mother and
children were asleep. The thought of their distress when they awoke
caused him to try what he could do in the village, but all were deaf
to his entreaties. It was a very dark night, and returning home from
the village and opening the cottage door he almost sank down from
terror, for it was light as if the house were on fire. He opened the
door leading into the court; there it was as if all were in flames.
He stood astonished, and gazed at the wonderful light, observed the
direction whence it came, and perceived it came from the little room
in which he had laid the pebble on the window bench.
He recollected the stone he had picked up, and the belief in a good
mountain spirit, and hurried to the room.
The varied splendid colours of the pebble quite dazzled his eyes; he
wrapped it in a cloth, and hastened to his neighbour Bergmann, who
knew all the stones of the Harz, and showed it to him.
Bergmann examined it well, and said, "I don't know this stone, but it
must be worth money. Come with me to-morrow to the town, and if you
only get a Thaler for it, it is some help."
The following day they went to a jeweller, a Jew, and offered him the
stone. Hardly had he cast eyes on it than he started, and cried,
"Wonderful! How did you come by the stone?"
The poor man was so frightened he was unable to reply; but Bergmann,
who had more experience, said, "It does not matter where the stone
comes from; you need only tell us how much you will give for it."
"Well!" replied the Jew, "shall I have it for a hundred Thaler?"
"How much?" cried the finder, who could hardly believe his ears. "I
am not in a mood for jokes; say honestly how much you will give."
"What, did I say a hundred Thaler?" replied the Jew, for he thought
the apparent anger of the seller had another cause. "I beg pardon; I
meant to say a thousand Thaler."
The two friends were speechless with astonishment; Bergmann, however,
answered, "How could you make us such an offer? Give us the stone,
for you will not pay what it is worth."
"Indeed you are right," said the Jew with a low bow. "You must be
joking with poor Levi, for you must know I could not command a
sufficient sum to buy so costly a jewel."
The amazement of the two friends increased every moment, for the Jew
was known to be one of the richest men in the place. Bergmann,
however, replied with caution, "You have guessed it; we only made a
joke of the matter, and came really to beg you to recommend a
purchaser."
"Why should I not?" replied the jeweller. "But as true as I am an
honest Jew, there is only one person in the whole German Empire that
could purchase the jewel, and that is Fugger in Augsburg."
"And how high do you value it?"
"Well," said Levi, after having put his spectacles again on his nose,
and examining the stone carefully, "if I am to give my honest
opinion, it is worth three kingdoms."
The finder almost lost his equilibrium, while Bergmann put his hand
to his head to see if it stood in the right place. "Three kingdoms,
did you say?"
"Three kingdoms; and the purchaser could make money in the
transaction."
An hour after, the two friends stood before the treasurer of the
Prince, for the finder could not make up his mind to undertake the
journey to Augsburg until he had provided for his wife and children,
and asked him if he would advance a hundred thousand Thaler on the
jewel, till they could sell it to Fugger.
But the treasurer was a vicious and avaricious man, who resolved to
have the stone at any price, even by force if necessary, and as the
friends would leave him, he threatened to throw them into prison if
the stone were not delivered to him as his property for the hundred
thousand Thaler.
To prevent unpleasantness they consented, and went home laden with
gold.
Mother and children were provided with every comfort, and soon after
they went to live in Aschersleben, for they could not be happy among
people who had refused assistance in their need but fawned upon them
now they were become rich.
The Jew received a handsome sum, and Bergmann was independent for
life through his grateful friend.
But how did matters go with the dishonourable treasurer? His
punishment was swift and terrible.
The next day he broke a piece from the stone, the tenth part of it,
and presented himself before the Prince.
"Your Highness has given me a command to purchase jewels, as precious
and costly as were to be found, that you might present them to the
Princess of the adjoining dominions, and thereby win her hand and
realm.
"I have not been able to find anything costly enough, and hence only
one thing remains to be done. I possess a stone of priceless value,
an heirloom of my family, which one of my ancestors took from a
Mahomedan Sultan. I will resign it, however painful it may be. Only
look at it and judge if any female heart could withstand such
splendour. The Princess will bestow her hand upon your Highness, and
I only ask in payment a few towns and villages, and a thousand acres
of forest, and a thousand acres of arable land. Judge if I am
unreasonable."
"Thou shalt have it; thou shalt have more than thy demand!" cried the
Prince, as he beheld the glittering jewel, and embraced the
treasurer, called him friend and brother, and commanded his secretary
to draw up the documents giving the treasurer the half of his kingdom.
The treasurer went joyfully home, dreaming of princely honours, for
had he not still a greater part of the stone in his possession?
Meanwhile the Prince called his favourite courtiers, and showed them
the stone. No one spoke for astonishment. At last one of the
surveyors of the mines remarked how wonderful it was that many
pebbles possessed such brilliant colours, and it was to be regretted
that they faded in a few days.
"What? a pebble?" cried the Prince.
"Yes, your Highness, only a pebble."
"A pebble? Not a precious stone? Then I have been deceived."
"Has your Highness bought it at a high price? Such stones are found
in the earth, but the sunlight soon fades the colours."
"I have promised the treasurer half my kingdom for the stone."
Command was given to arrest the treasurer, but a friend had given him
warning, and he had fled. They pursued him, the Prince at their
head, found the unhappy man, deceived as well as deceiving, in a
tree, and shot him dead on the spot.
The Monk and the Spring.
It was at Whitsuntide of the year 1292, as tradition tells us, that
the town council of the free, imperial Möhlhausen issued a
proclamation, that whoever could discover and conduct a spring into
the upper town, which suffered much from fires through want of water,
should be richly rewarded; and in case he had committed a crime, he
should be pardoned.
At that time a monk of Kloster Reifenstein sat in the dungeon of the
Rabenthurm[1]--now called the Adlerthurm[2]---under sentence of death.
[1] _Rabenthurm_--raven tower.
[2] _Adlerthurm_--eagle tower.
In the days of his freedom, when he had gone on affairs concerning
his convent from Pfaffenrode to St. Daniel, he had often seen a
spring among the hills.
The proclamation of the council penetrated to his criminal cell, and
he recalled this spring to his memory, and felt a wild longing
through it to regain his freedom.
But the spring bubbled up in a deep valley, and a long chain of hills
lay between it and the town.
And the monk thought and studied, for before his soul stood the
fragrant dishes of his convent and the costly wines, as attractive as
the fleshpots of Egypt to the Jews; but with this vision stood the
hangman, hand-in-hand with the impossibility of moving this spring
through these hills, grinning in diabolical glee. He tossed restless
on his bed of straw, longing for the dawn.
Now he sank into an uneasy slumber, disturbed by the most frightful
dreams. The Rabenthurm seemed to quake and tremble, he heard distant
thunder, and saw the glare of the lightning.
Now the foul fiend stood by his miserable bed tempting him.
In exchange for his soul, he promised to conduct the water of the
spring to the upper town, and produced a roll of parchment containing
a plan of the work.
At length the unhappy man consented to the proposals.
Again he dreamed of his childhood, of his dead mother, of the fields
and woods where he gathered the first daisies and violets of spring;
and now again he listened to the raging storm.
At break of day the monk opened the fatal roll. Judge of his
astonishment and joy, as he saw the way marked out over hills and
through ravines, by which the spring could be conducted with little
difficulty to the place required.
He immediately made his proposals to the council.
His freedom was promised him if the work succeeded, and a body of
labourers was given him for the carrying out of his plan.
And soon the crystal stream gladdened the thirsting upper town with
an abundance of water.
But the monk, so soon as he had fulfilled his contract, disappeared,
and even gratitude could find no trace of him. He was never seen
again.
Hildegard and the Hainerburg.
In the thirteenth century there lived in Mühlhausen a respectable
locksmith, who was also an alderman.
This Herr Adam had six sons and an only daughter, Hildegard, who was
the loveliest maiden of all the plains of Germany.
The father's pride and joy were in these children, but his happiness
was doomed to annihilation.
A wild and lawless knight of the Castle Hainerburg surprised
Hildegard alone at home, her father and brothers being absent in the
terrors of a fire in the city, and carried her off in a deadly swoon
to his castle. Inexpressible rage filled the hearts of the citizens
at the news of this violence, and they agreed to unite the coming
week for the destruction of the castle.
But the father, distracted with grief, determined at once to rescue
his child.
The very next night, the Ritter of the Hainerburg being absent on
some villainous scheme, the father with his six sons knelt in the
church of the Virgin, and besought her aid in his bold project.
And the petition was heard, for midnight was hardly past before the
knights left behind in the Burg had been overpowered by the strong
arms of the avengers of innocence, and thrust in the deepest dungeon.
They prayed again for strength, and now the walls and towers fell
thundering into the moat, for the Virgin had appeared on the
battlements encouraging them, and their strength had become
superhuman.
And when morning dawned, the sun illuminated only a shapeless mass of
ruins, and on the ruins the conquerors knelt and thanked heaven for
the given strength.
Great were the jubilee and gratitude of the citizens when they saw
the fallen fortress, and great their praise of the victors.
The fair Hildegard retired to the Brücken Kloster, where she died;
and still the maidens of Mühlhausen sing many a song of her beauty
and singular fate at the joyful dance of the _Kirchweihfest_.[1]
[1] In Germany an annual festival is held in commemoration of the
dedication of the church of the place, called the
_Kirchweihfest_--dedication festival. Feasting, dancing, and
universal merriment are the order of the day. Friends are invited
from far and near, and it is an occasion of general re-union in the
parish.
The Three Stone Partridges.
On a flying buttress of the colossal Marienkirche, in Mühlhausen, are
three stone partridges, and I am about to explain to you how they
came there.
At the time when Germany was in the middle of the great Reformation
contest, two prelates sat together with their well-filled--for the
empty ones were speedily filled--wine-cups before them, and discussed
the pros and cons of the Reformed doctrines, and whether Mühlhausen
was likely to adopt the Lutheran creed.
At last one of the reverend prelates grew angry and exclaimed: "Those
three partridges now turning on the spit in the kitchen will fly,
before the faith of the heretical Augustine monk will gain power in
this good city."
But, lo! scarcely were the haughty words uttered, when a cooing and a
fluttering of wings were heard.
The prelates fled in a fright, seeing themselves robbed of their
dinner; the partridges flew forth and settled on a buttress, where
they were turned to stone, and remained as heralds of the dawn of a
better day.
The Forester and the Enchanted Castle.
The forester of Scharzfels, with his gun on his shoulder, was one day
sauntering through the wood, when, as he turned a corner, he saw
three men in a young plantation digging, and thereby doing much
mischief.
Already a strong oath was on his lips as the figures turned round
and, through their odd, foreign appearance, frightened back every
expression of anger.
One was a tall, from the weight of years not much bent, grey-headed
old man. His bald head, from which on each side short silver locks
hung down, a long white beard falling over his breast, the lean,
stern features, and the black robe, gave him the appearance of an
anchorite.
The second was a strong, powerful youth with flaming eyes. An
odd-shaped, pointed hat rested on his curly black hair, and an
uncultivated beard covered the lower part of his face.
The third was a noble, imposing form, the fearless countenance framed
in a thousand auburn locks of curly hair; the eye was full of fire
and courage, the bold lips full of power.
All three looked at the approaching huntsman with so much firmness
and composure that he was only able to inquire, "What are you doing
here, gentlemen? You are trampling under foot the young growths, and
with your scraping and digging you will destroy many a thriving tree."
One of the strangers replied to this address mildly, regretted that
they certainly had caused a little damage, but that was unfortunately
not to be prevented, since they sought just on this very spot certain
stones which were absolutely necessary to them, and that they were
come from a great distance to make the search.
They expressed themselves, however, willing to make indemnification,
if the forester would only make his demands.
A further conversation betrayed to the forester that the strangers
were Venetians, and the result of it was that he permitted them to
depart without hindrance, or without accepting the smallest indemnity.
Several years passed away; but every St. John's Day the forester saw
and spoke with the same three strangers.
At last, one sultry summer afternoon, he threw himself down under a
tree, and soon sank into a deep sleep.
How long he had slept he could not tell; as he opened his eyes he saw
himself in a perfectly strange place, in which directly before him
rose a stately, wonderful castle, surrounded by a high wall.
Terrified, the forester gazed around. It was certain that he had
never before seen the neighbourhood, and that he had been
transplanted from Scharzfels to the spot by enchantment.
In the anguish of his spirit he said the Creed, the Lord's Prayer,
the _Ave Maria_, prayers for storms, and all the others he could
think of, all mingled in the wildest confusion, like one who had
taken leave of his senses.
But whether it was that he had left out a word, or was not earnest
and devotional enough, the castle and its enclosing walls stood
immovable.
The terrified man knew of nothing better to do than to resign himself
to his fate, and to observe more closely his surroundings.
Dark cypresses rose behind the stone walls, and fig trees thrust
their wonderfully crooked fingers forward, as if they would draw him
in; shining lizards crept up the wall, glanced at him with their
glittering eyes, and then wriggled hurriedly into the garden, which
he could see through a grated gate under a great arch.
Behind and among the shrubbery and trees he could see all sorts of
marble figures; goat-footed heathen gods, making awful faces; small
hump-backed dwarfs with cocked hats; hunters with puffed-out cheeks
blowing the horn; ladies with farthingales and horse-heads; urns
around which salamanders, dragons, and other poisonous worms, with
open jaws and red tongues, dragged their slimy lengths; and many
other indescribable, diabolical objects.
Among all these grinning creatures strutted a peacock, in which
certainly pride made a most ridiculous figure, as he craned his
beautiful neck in the brilliant sunlight, and dragged his gorgeous
tail--alas! by means of the ugliest feet and legs ever made.
Suddenly the gilded, grated door flew open, an old Moor came out,
bowed low before the forester with his hands meekly crossed before
him, invited him by a wave of the hand to follow him, and both
entered the garden.
Intoxicating clouds of perfume floated toward him from every bush and
hedge.
Wonderful, never-before-seen flowers nodded to him in greeting from
their slender stalks, and bent before him their lovely heads.
Brilliant birds flew from branch to branch before him, and sang with
almost human voice.
Then an ugly sea-cat threw itself down from some tree, with its
winding tail twisted around some branch, ground the teeth with a
horrid grin, and sprang back into the thick foliage.
From a side path a purple stork came forward with solemn gravity,
twisted the long neck up and down to affected compliment, scraped
with his thin legs behind him, and then walked resolutely before the
forester and the conducting Moor, looking almost constantly back to
see if they were following.
In one of the marble basins a stone vintager upset continually the
cask, and the clear, foaming new wine that streamed from the
bung-hole bubbled up in the face of the sipping boy; in another an
idol, ending in a fish's tail, blew out of a shell the clear stream
in the air, and the dust of drops shone in the light like diamonds
and rubies. White temples with ivy-entwined pillars glittered behind
the hedges.
The forester followed like one in a dream, resisting, yet drawn on by
an irresistible, enchanting power, until they reached a colossal
castle, built in a style perfectly unknown to him.
He climbed a marble flight of steps, and went on over costly carpets,
so soft and smooth that he could not hear his own steps.
The fragrance of balsamic spices floated delightfully on the air from
censers in every chamber.
Richly-worked tapestry covered the walls, the softest cushions
invited to repose, the light, like a soft twilight, fell through
green windows, and composed the spirit to a sweet calmness and peace.
From the lofty ceiling rare birds warbled their delicious melodies in
golden cages, and a grey parrot sat on his perch and pecked with his
crooked bill the golden wires of his hated cage.
Here the Moor stood still, threw open a folding-door and pushed the
benumbed forester into a great salon.
In the vast chamber he stood fascinated, like one under enchantment,
and gazed upon the extraordinary objects on every side. Around the
costly chamber, near the magnificent walls, stood all sorts of
animals in life-size, in beaten gold, a perfect imitation of nature.
Amazed, the forester gazed at the beautiful forms. He never could
have satisfied his eyes with looking; and who knows how long he might
have stood there, if through another door the three men had not
entered whom he had so often seen near Scharzfels?
They approached him, pressed his hand in the most friendly manner,
and inquired how the chamber pleased him, and which piece he would
choose.
After he had expressed his astonishment at the way he had been
introduced into the castle, the forester, in reply to the question as
to what object he should prefer if permitted to choose, said he would
unhesitatingly select the stag with his beautiful antlers.
After some conversation, the eldest of the three said: "You have
known us many years, and are aware that we went frequently to
Scharzfels to search for metals and stones, which you stupid Germans
do not prize, but which are, notwithstanding, of great value. We
have now sufficient wealth, but we would wish to thank you for your
forbearance, and entertain you as an honoured guest."
The forester was conducted to a _salle à manger_ glittering with
gold, silver, and crystal. The rarest exotics beautified the table,
and stood in graceful baskets and vases in every part of the
apartment.
The most delicious viands and oldest wines were served, and not till
a late hour did the merry party seek repose. The forester sank, in
his silken couch, quickly into the arms of friendly sleep.
On awaking, he looked in surprise around him, for he lay under the
shady beach in full view of Schloss Scharzfels.
"What a droll dream!" he cried, springing up and brushing the grass
and moss from his clothes. But he stood as if transfixed, as he
beheld the stag he wished for--the golden stag with great diamond
eyes--lying in the grass beside him! The three men he never saw
again, not even on St. John's Day.
The Steinkirche[1] and the Hermit.
[1] _Steinkirche_--stone church.
In the grey days long ago, when paganism ruled the land, there stood
on the hills near the cave called the Steinkirche--altars to the gods.
Bright were the fires to Krodo in the darkness of the night, and on
the opposite cliffs rose the fire pillar in honour of the goddess
Ostera.[2]
[2] From _Ostera_ we have the name Easter.
The crackling flames illuminated the country and the mountains, and
invited the inhabitants of the near-lying vales and heights to the
wild customs, the bloody sacrifices, and the raving dance of
heathenism.
Then came from a southern land a hermit to this district. He beheld
the smoking sacrificial altars, he heard the songs of the reeling,
staggering heathen, and with a slow and solemn tread he climbed the
mountain.
The peculiar, reverence-awaking appearance of the stranger produced
quiet among the raging throng. One seated himself here, another
there, another leaned on his spear, and all listened in silence and
attention to what the strange figure might have to say to them.
And as the tempest with hollow moans and wails sweeps over the
tree-tops, so the aged stranger lifted up his voice, and preached to
the assembly the Christian faith with ever-increasing enthusiasm.
At first they heard quietly his earnest words; but as he began to
condemn the gods so dear to them, and challenged them to break in
pieces their idols, and turn to the worship of the only true God,
their rage kindled.
They sprang to their feet, forced him to silence, and after a short
consultation voted unanimously that the blasphemer of their gods must
die.
In a few moments the trembling old man was seized by the giant forms,
led down from the summit of the mountain to a place suitable for the
execution.
The hermit sent up a petition to the Almighty for strength and
courage in the trying moment, released himself from their arms with a
Samson strength, seized from one standing next him a wooden
battle-axe, and thus addressed the bloodthirsty multitude:
"So sure as I with this weak tool split this firm rock, so sure as
this wood produces a temple for the worship of the one eternal God in
this immovable mass of stone, so true is the word, the gospel, which
I proclaim to you."
When he had uttered these words, he struck with trembling arm the
rough cliff, and lo! the firm rock yielded like soft clay to the weak
blow of the wooden axe!
And at this moment the sun shone forth from behind thick clouds,
bathing rocks and wood with a warm, rosy light, and the birds in a
thousand voices sang the praises of Creator and Father.
And the hearts of the wild Sassen[3] were opened; with one mind they
sank on their knees in reverence and adoration before the God of the
white-headed old man who had received the power to work such a
miracle.
[3] _Sassen_--Old German for Saxon.
They vowed to a man henceforth to forsake the worship of Krodo, to
remain true to the new faith, followed the venerable hermit to the
banks of the Oder, and were baptized into Christ's death and
resurrection, and from every side the people flocked to hear the
words of the apostle.
Thus was formed in the rugged, steep cliff the primeval cave, the
Steinkirche, the meeting-place of the first Christians of this
neighbourhood.
The Nymph Ruma and the Weingarten Höhle.
In the middle of fruitful fields and green meadows not far from
Scharzfels rises the ball-shaped alabaster Romerstein, on whose
summit ragged cliffs rise in the air resembling the ruins of a castle.
In the days before authentic history a race of giants dwelt
hereabout, who, fearing the mountain-spirit,[1] piled up these cliffs
and constructed thus a giant fortress, of which these cliffs are the
proud remains.
[1] _Berggeist._
Romar, a blooming youth of this race, was once hunting in the
neighbouring forest for deer or wild boar.
The soft air fanned gently his glowing face, the birds sang in the
thicket, and the gentle influence of the hour led him to slacken his
pace.
Suddenly he stood still before a maiden asleep on a mossy bank under
the rustling trees.
Silently admiring, Romar gazed at the sleeping beauty, and the
sweetest emotions filled his breast, till the stranger opened her
eyes and beheld him, uttered a scream of terror, sprang up, and fled
into the thickest of the forest.
A moment Romar stood rooted to the ground; then coming to his senses,
he followed the fleeing maiden, and, soon overtaking her, quieted her
fears by kind and honest words; and this first meeting gave rise to
many others. All suspicion, every fear vanished, and love speedily
filled the maiden's heart.
Romar inquired after the descent of his beloved, and turned pale as
he discovered that she was a nymph, and the daughter of the
Berggeist, so hostile to his race, and a river goddess, and dwelt in
the neighbouring mountain lake.
The nymph reassured him, told him she was her father's favourite, and
he had never refused her a single request, and certainly would not
refuse his consent to their union.
Accordingly, during the absence of the Berggeist, they were married.
A long time had passed, and Romar slept one day under an oak near
Ruma, who held a lovely boy in her arms. Her father, returning from
his journey, stepped out of the thicket, and came suddenly upon them.
His first glance at the pair told him what had happened, and a
smothered tone of anger forced itself from his trembling lips.
Terrified, the nymph sprang up, and as she saw her secret discovered,
and her father so enraged, she rushed toward him and entreated him to
be calm. Romar now came forward and sought from the old mountain god
reconciliation; but the latter only became more enraged.
A wave of his hand called whole troops of well-armed dwarfs together,
who were commanded to lead away mother and child; while others so
maltreated Romar, that he only escaped covered with wounds to the
Giant Castle.
The Berggeist now tormented his unhappy daughter every hour to give
up her husband. But her love for Romar only increased, and her
father in his insane rage seized the child, broke it in pieces on the
rocks, cursed and swore because he could not take the same measures
with his mother, created with a wave of his hand the cave, the
Weingarten Höhle, banished her into it, and left her with a laugh of
scorn.
Banished into the earth, shut up in a cave, the entrance guarded by
malicious cobolds, the wretched Ruma sought to reach Romar, and a
succession of cavings in proves her efforts to set herself free; but
her watchful father always thrust her back into the depths of the
earth.
At last, after long years, she succeeded, by a subterranean way, in
escaping from her father's dominions, as a full stream to spring into
the light of day, and at a time when he, by the decree of an
inscrutable destiny, had been attacked by a sort of torpor, she
reached her old residence, the Nymph's lake, and was reunited to her
faithful husband.
The river which springs from the mountain on the border of the Gyps
mountains is called, in honour of the faithful, loving nymph, the
Ruma. Still its waters redden with the blood of her innocent child.
The cliffs of the ruinated Giant Castle wear mourning still, and bear
the name of the hero, the Romerstein, or Romar's rock.
Legend of the Schildberg.
Not far from the Lautenthal there existed in the pre-historic times
the Schloss Schiltberg, or Schildberg, of whose builders, destroyers,
and history we know next to nothing. All we know is that the Kaiser
Frederic I., in war against Henry the Lion, took the castle in 1180.
On the rugged, precipitous rocks stand the ruins of a dilapidated
tower, now half veiled by clouds and mists, now echoing the roar of
the savage tempest.
Beneath, in the still valley, is a half-sunken grave, and a weeping
willow spreads sadly her branches over it. Above, on the wild rocks,
once stood a strong castle, whose walls hid many a deed of horror and
crime. Below, in the peaceful vale, there was a small, simple
hermitage, where an old hermit had dwelt alone long years.
From the high fortress the robber-band of knights rode down the
mountain, for they perceived the long-desired prey in the distance.
Beneath, by the quiet hermitage, appeared the pious old hermit,
looked reprovingly upon them, and shook his silver-white locks.
"Ye wild knights!" he cried, "ye shall no longer bring disgrace and
shame upon the honour of knighthood. No longer shall ye march forth
to rob and plunder. Know, thou leader of thy robber-troop, thy time
is expired. Enter my hermitage, confess, and take the communion, for
thou shalt never again ride living into the valley."
But the proud knight fell in a rage at the solemn admonition.
"Punish the old bird of ill omen!" he cried in a fury, and rode away.
Now the hermitage chapel is wrapped in flames, and the aged hermit
sinks to the ground from many wounds.
Dying, he stretches forth his hands in pain, and cries after the
retreating knight, "Ride on, ride till the judgment day; ride every
night through the forests, till thy horse sinks exhausted under thee,
and may no pious one meet thee, but only the foul fiend of perdition!"
Mourning, the robber-band rode back to the high castle, for their
leader had fallen with his horse and broken his neck.
They laid him in the still vault, but he cannot enjoy the peace of
the grave. When the moonbeams fall soft and pale on castle and
rocks, he tears in a wild gallop on his black horse below into the
quiet valley.
To the grave of the hermit is the ghostly ride, and there, a grey,
bleeding shadow, stands the murdered old man.
And a ghostly voice whispers, "Ride on, wicked knight, till the day
of eternal retribution; but do not terrify the good, only the wicked.
And where the stumbling of thy horse once brought thee death, there
shall thy ride end, there shalt thou stumble every night."
Already long the castle has laid in ruins; but the knight rides ever,
without rest, on a wild black steed from its lonely tower to the
hermit's weeping-willow-shaded grave; and the enchantment can only be
broken when the robber-knight, on his night ride, meets one more
wicked than himself.
Legend of Silberhohl.
In the neighbourhood of Leesen lies a spot called Silberhohl. It is
almost round, and several feet deeper than the ground around it, and
quite overgrown with swamp-moss. People go by with a shudder, for
there is something the matter with the place.
Centuries ago a stately castle stood on the spot, in which there was
always much drinking, gambling and wild merriment.
The nobles of the castle acted as if they owned the whole world; and
everything did belong to them that they could take by force, for they
lived by robbing, and were guilty of much violence and cruelty.
One could say with truth, there was not a single good heart in the
Burg except the young girl Jutta. Everybody loved her, and often,
when the robbers had marched out to plunder, she would visit the poor
and the sick, and even the robbed, giving them food and the money she
had saved. The suffering and poor called her Saint Jutta.
Once the robbers had committed a monster crime. Covered with the
blood of those they had robbed, they returned laden with booty to the
castle.
Soon the goblets stood on the oaken tables, and the unholy, lawless
revel began.
Suddenly the most terrible thunder rolled, a mighty flash of
lightning swept the hall, the earth quaked and opened, the walls
trembled, the tower shook and fell with an awful noise that was heard
miles away. All sank in the gulf, which closed again, and nothing
was left of the castle but a deep round spot where it had stood.
Many came to see the place so marked by a Divine vengeance, and every
one said, "Poor Jutta!"
Not long after the destruction of the Burg, a poor woman in a
neighbouring village fell ill. She wept sore, for her three little
children cried for bread, and she could work no longer.
The mother folded her hands and prayed. Then she said to herself,
"Oh! if the dear Jutta were only alive!"
Then the door was opened softly; a light form wrapped in a white
veil, with a gleaming diadem in her hair, came forward to the bed.
"Jutta!" cried the poor mother.
The figure waved the hand, glanced kindly at the sleeping children,
set down a peculiar shaped basket on a table, drew a cross over the
mother, and vanished.
A deep sleep fell on the poor woman, and when she awoke the next
morning she found the basket full of gold pieces.