[1] _Rehbergerklippe_--cliff of the stag mountain.
A legend of this gloomy wild mountain, at the base of which one
drives from Clausthal to St. Andreasburg, lingers still with a poetic
charm on and around its rocky walls, and is in harmony with its
decorations.
In the grey primeval days dwelt in this savage wilderness a mighty
hunter, hard and rough as the rocks on which his house stood.
Hunting was his pleasure and passion, and daily he ranged, with his
men, the wood, which resounded with the barking of dogs and the notes
of the horn, which filled the clefts and caves of the rocks and
mountains with a thousand-voiced echo.
Not even the peace of the Sabbath could check the delight of the
huntsman in the chase, or restrain him from his continued persecution
of the animals of the woods.
A pious hermit admonished him frequently, and entreated him not to
disturb God's peace of the holy day with his tumult and noise; but
the sportsman closed his ears to the warnings of the old man, and the
hermit returned to his hermitage accompanied by the scornful derision
of the ungodly hunter.
The evening of an October Sunday fell softly over the mountains; the
tops of the fir-trees, rocks, and mountains were bathed in the golden
splendour of sunset; on the whole scene lay deep silence, only the
waves of the Oder murmured in the distance their eternal song; only
the timid game left its secure hiding-place, stole cautiously with
light, slow steps out of the thickets, and sought the spicy plants or
the cooling spring.
Then resounded suddenly the noise of the hunt in the distance; the
game so peacefully refreshing itself fled in terror, and the tumult
increased every instant.
A snow-white stag flew with the rapidity of the wind over the
mountains, pursued by the hunters on foot and on horseback, and
surrounded by the barking pack of hounds.
The ground thundered beneath the horse-hoofs, and the mountains rang
with the wild "hallohs!" of the riders, the cracking of whips, and
the clashing of weapons.
The hunted stag groaned, and escaped his pursuers with his last
strength.
The noble animal stood breathless on the brink of the abyss which is
called after him the Stag Cliff, and started back in fear and
trembling from the black gulf.
And louder and nearer thundered the wild call of the hunters, the
hunting horns came fearfully near, and as the hounds would seize
their prey, the stag, in deathly terror, made the leap into the
frightful deeps.
And there arose a singular light, a dazzling splendour shone around
the hunted animal, and unseen hands bore it softly below into the
secure valley.
But the hunters, with horse and hound, were driven by magical power
to follow the stag.
From the rocky cliff the whole company leaped into the depths, and
huge blocks of granite and high pines sank after them and buried
their mangled bodies in eternal night.
From that time it has been a haunted spot, full of untold horrors,
and the wanderer hastens by in fear when darkness is closing in on
the mountains.
And at midnight, when the death-owl hoots and soars over the vale on
heavy wing, and the fantastic moonlight transforms the dry trunks of
the trees into grey spirits of the night, the giant forms of hunters
brush past, and the firs whisper, then roar, and a smothered crash
rushes on like the swelling waves of the sea.
The Tanzteich[1] bei Zorge.
[1] _Tanzteich_--dance pond.
On the spot now covered by the Tanzteich once stood a stately Schloss
with lofty walls and battlements.
A rich knight, whose name has been drowned in the stream of time,
dwelt in it in luxury and splendour.
Every dawn brought a new festival, and even night was turned into
day; but neither discipline nor virtue ruled in the brilliant
assemblages of his numerous guests.
Once the lord of the castle gave a brilliant entertainment. The
merriment of the guests rang out into the night; in the wildest dance
mingled men and women, youths and maidens, and loud music smothered
the rolling thunder which could be heard in the distance.
And the night grew darker, and the waves of the Zorge murmured with a
hollow moan, and the flowers grew wet with dew.
The heavens gathered blackness, the water of the river seemed to sing
a death-song, and the flowers on its banks to weep.
Then the lightnings covered the mountains with flames, making the
darkness still more terrible.
An old man stole softly and slowly up to the castle. His garments
betrayed the greatest poverty, but his countenance was noble, and his
thin locks were dripping with the rain.
He entered, but the servants paid no attention to him, but sat
drinking.
He mounted the stone stairway, and reached the ball-room, where
knights and ladies whirled in the dance regardless of the storm.
He did not venture to enter, but stood timidly near the door, hoping
that some one might take pity on his condition. He did not stand
long unobserved.
The master himself perceived him, but his heart was not touched with
pity.
With a countenance red with anger, he pounced upon the trembling man,
thrust him out of his humble posture, and cried in a voice of
thunder, "Insolent beggar! how couldst thou dare to enter my castle?
Thou shalt pay dearly for thy impudence, and go down more quickly
than thou camest up!"
And he seized him, dragged him to a window, and threw him, amid the
laughter of the guests, into the depths below the castle.
But the beggar stood suddenly in the midst of a wonderful light, and
cried in an awful voice, before which all merriment died, and the hot
blood turned to ice: "Cursed are ye who despise the poor, and give
him over to death; cursed be this spot with all your pleasure and
luxury; ye shall sink this very hour in night and darkness!"
And lo! scarcely were the words uttered, when a hissing flash of
lightning, like a fiery serpent, pierced the castle, a fearful clap
of thunder followed, the earth opened, the castle sank in the hidden
deeps, and was seen no more.
Only the lonely wanderer hears in the stillness of the night a gloomy
noise like distant merriment and shouting, mingled with smothered
groans and a horrible dirge.
The Dwarfs of the Sachsenstein.
On the spot where the few houses forming Dorf Neuhof now stand lay,
centuries ago, a farmhouse built of stone and ornamented with
oddly-twisted chimneys.
A green meadow valley lay before the house, on which fat,
comfortable-looking cows were grazing; well-scoured milk-pails hung
on the garden fence, fruit-trees were trained on the house-walls, a
powerful dog lay basking in the glowing sunshine before the door;
from the well-populated barn-yard one heard an animated conversation
among the feathered tribes, where a peacock was chairman, and made
short emphatic speeches, and a turkey-cock filled the office of
crier; in short, all bore the stamp of wealth and comfort.
And yet the owner of all, Herr Adam Neubauer, walked discontentedly
up and down his room.
His sharp eye had long observed that pilfering hands had laid hold of
his field-products, and it had pained him excessively that one would
steal from him, for he had never permitted the needy to depart with
empty hands; but in the last night so much had been stolen from his
pea-field that his hitherto silent displeasure broke forth in
expressions of anger.
"Anna," said he to his wife, a blonde of perhaps thirty years, with
soft features and gentle dove eyes, "thou knowest I am patience
itself, but that is too bad--that is too bad. The people take
advantage of my forbearance and kindness, and it is time to let them
see that I can also be angry. The first one I catch stealing, if he
has only taken one ear, shall be so punished that he will forget to
come again, thou mayest depend on it!"
"But, dear husband," replied Frau Anna, in a gentle voice, for she
had not seen her husband so excited for a long time, "do not excite
thyself so. Certainly it is vexatious when wicked men lay hands on
our property; but as all the people of the earth are not purely
honourable, if thou wilt appoint guards, thou wilt soon have the
pleasure of seeing the thieves face to face."
"It is just that that makes me so angry," answered Neubauer--"that
all the appointed sentinels do not help in the least. Since eight
days, our servants, well hidden, have watched; but no one has shown
himself, and nevertheless as much has been stolen as before. What is
to be done?"
Anna heard with surprise this puzzling communication, and after many
suppositions on the subject she went out shaking her head, to direct
household matters, and Adam remained alone with his vexation.
The evening of the same day the heavens had greatly changed. It had
been sultry all day, and now dark, silver-bordered clouds rose over
the Harz, united and formed a colossal black wall.
It grew darker and darker. Hollow rolled the distant thunder, the
dazzling lightnings flamed, and great drops fell. Fearfully raged
the storm in the tops of the firs and beeches, and drove dust and
gravel in wild whirls up the mountain path, on which now a wanderer,
with hair wildly blowing in the wind and fluttering garments,
descended.
Not a ray of light pierced the clouds save the fire of the lightning,
followed ever more quickly by the deafening claps of thunder; in
torrents the clouds now poured their streams on the mountains, the
firm rocks seemed to quake to their foundations; it was as if the
_Dies Iræ_ were come.
Shivering with the cold rain, the wanderer hastened to the house of
Adam Neubauer, which, by the flashes of the lightning, he had long
perceived in the distance.
He had to wait long before his knocking was heard, for the storm
turned the weathercock with a rattling noise, shook the tiles of the
roof, and threw at intervals an open-hanging shutter violently to and
fro.
At last the hospitable door was opened, and the honest house-father
received the stranger--a perhaps sexagenarian of lofty stature,
powerful frame, with a shrewd countenance and snow-white hair--with
the greatest readiness; and Frau Anna hurried away to look out dry
garments from her husband's wardrobe, and to order from larder and
cellar a strengthening, refreshing repast.
The stranger soon found himself comfortable, and Herr Adam took so
much pleasure in his guest that he became confidential by the first
glass, and speedily related to him his losses in the fields with all
particulars.
The guest listened attentively, and then went out for a few minutes
to look at the neighbourhood.
He shortly returned, took his staff, thanked Neubauer for the
hospitable reception, and said: "Ye were to me as to a near relative,
me a perfect stranger; hence, hear as a reward my counsel. If ye
would discover the thieves who rob your fields, go out at midnight
and strike about in the air with a willow rod, and ye will soon see
the cunning rascals. And now farewell!"
He disappeared through the door and left his host in the greatest
amazement at his odd advice.
True, his astonishment gave place to scornful laughter, and Adam
concluded to himself not to permit himself to be made a fool of; but
as he found, several hours afterwards, that a new robbery had been
committed, he decided, nevertheless, to follow the stranger's advice.
It was a glorious still night. In the shadows sang the queenly
nightingale. The full moon shone in the cloudless heavens.
The precipitous wall of the Sachsenstein stood in shadowy contrast
against the star-powdered blue, and seemed in the magical moonlight
as if silvered.
Herr Adam stood early in his peafield watching, and as the bell in
the neighbouring Sachsa rang out the midnight hour, he struck, as the
stranger had advised, with the willow rod he had brought with him up
and down in the air, and soon saw, with the greatest amazement, two
tiny beings, who, with folded hands and terrified mien, looked up to
him.
If they had taken advantage of Adam's surprise, they might have made
their escape; but fear and terror rooted them to the spot till he had
recovered himself, seized them with a firm hand, and asked in a stern
voice who they were, and where they came from.
"Ah!" replied one of the little creatures, "we are poor dwarfs, who
house there in the Sachsenstein, and never do anybody any harm. But
hunger drove us this time to take some peas from your field. We beg
you to forgive us, and we will make good the damage we have done."
"Of course you will," answered Herr Neubauer, who observed closely
the little men, of whose acts and deeds he had already heard so much;
"but the reckoning will be large, for you have long done mischief to
my property. First of all, tell me how it happened that my watchers
did not discover you, nor I myself till I struck with the willow rod?"
"We possess _Nebelkappen_,"[1] said one of the two dwarfs, "which
render us invisible to the human sight. You knocked them off our
heads with the willow rod, and then we became visible. Will you
permit us to look for them?"
[1] _Nebelkappen_--magical caps; literally, fog caps.
"Certainly not," returned Adam. "Do you fancy I shall be so stupid
as to put the means into your hands of escaping? No, no; you follow
me into my house, and will not regain your freedom till you have paid
me!"
The dwarfs wept, and pleaded so pitifully to be released, that Adam's
mild heart grew soft; but a glance at his field hardened it again,
and he took his trembling prisoners home with him.
The next morning the two guilty dwarfs were examined, who related
that they, governed by a king, had dwelt for untold ages in the caves
of the Harz, more especially in the Sachsenstein, and had been happy;
but now subterranean floods and landslips had caused them heavy
losses, so that they had been compelled to appropriate the
possessions of men for their necessities.
They would, however, never again venture to do so, and once more
expressed their willingness to pay for the damages they had caused,
and begged to know the sum demanded of them.
"If I should reckon all the mischief you have caused," said Herr
Adam, "a pretty long account would be the result; but I demand only
the value of the peas, and if you pay me three Gulden I will set you
at liberty."
The dwarfs were well satisfied with this demand, but protested that
they had neither money nor articles of value with them, and begged
permission to go and bring the money.
But Adam could not be induced to permit this. Even to keep one as
hostage, and allow the other to depart, he absolutely refused.
"Well, then, give us a rose-leaf and a pin," begged the dwarfs. "We
will write to our king, and he will undoubtedly at once release us
from our painful positions."
After some reflection, Adam permitted his wife, who looked at him
with beseeching eyes, to bring the required objects.
As soon as the dwarfs had bescribbled the rose-leaf, they handed it
to him with directions to carry it to the Sachsenstein, and blow it
in through one of the crevices, and a reply would speedily follow.
The features of the little creatures grew cheerful as they heard that
their odd letter had been posted as directed, and they became merry
and contented, although the day passed without anything happening for
their release.
But when night came on, and the moon and stars shone in a clear sky,
the door of the room opened suddenly in which Adam sat with his
prisoners, and a troop of handsome dwarfs, neatly dressed, entered.
At their head walked the king himself, in gold and purple, and
wearing a sparkling crown.
As soon as the prisoners beheld their sovereign they knelt reverently
before him, and remained in that humble position until the monarch
motioned to them to rise. The presence of the pygmean ruler was
indeed so commanding, that Herr Neubauer himself involuntarily
uncovered his head before him.
At last the king broke the silence, and said: "Ye have made two of my
subjects prisoners, and I am come to interest myself on their behalf,
for they are otherwise good men, who now only through pressure of
circumstances have been led astray to do you damage. Moreover, that
ye may see that I approve of your demand, I will cause ten times as
much to be paid."
His Majesty signed to one of his suite, who immediately approached,
and counted from a bag which he carried under his arm thirty shining
new Gulden, and laid them on the table.
Adam opened his eyes on seeing so much money. He had already decided
in his mind to set the delinquents free without ransom, as soon as he
had frightened them a little.
Surprised at the royal generosity, he at once proclaimed to the
prisoners their liberation, who sprang up with eyes shining with joy,
fell at the feet of the Dwarf King, and thanked him for their freedom
in the most touching expressions of gratitude.
After the king had graciously raised them from their knees, he turned
again to Adam, and said: "I thank you that you have not harmed these
poor people, and notify you that in future you have nothing to fear
from us, for on St. John's Eve I shall march from this place over the
bridge with my subjects. Already for a long period the subterranean
water-floods have threatened to drive us from the Sachsenstein, which
we have inhabited so long, and I shall leave only a few of my people,
in order not to wholly lose this ancient possession; from them,
however, you will suffer no molestation."
The sovereign bowed graciously and departed, attended by his train.
The two released prisoners followed with joyful gestures, hand in
hand.
St. John's Eve, Frau Anna and her husband, full of curiosity,
together with the servants, hid themselves near the bridge to see the
dwarfs march over.
Scarcely had the darkness come on, when the procession appeared in
sight, a well-ordered company, and the concealed heard their march
till the rising of the sun, and the noise thereof was like the light
trampling of a flock of sheep.
Since that time nothing has been seen or heard of the dwarfs, and not
only here but everywhere they are vanished; but their memory lives in
the mouth of the people, and when the icy north wind blows, and the
snow beats against the windows, young men and maidens gather around
the fire in confidential chat, and to the rattling of the wheel tell
of the deep clefts of the mountains, where in eternal night the
dwarfs once held their weddings, and where gnomes and nymphs and
fairies in darkness dwell.
The Burggeist[1] of the Haarburg.
[1] _Burggeist_--patron spirit.
The mountain called the Haarburg, which has a summit of only small
circumference, bore in a long-forgotten time a fortress, which, like
most ancient castles, consisted of a single strong tower.
In its walls were housed the first lords of Wernigerode. But the
mountain on which the present Schloss Wernigerode stands was adorned
only with the primeval forest.
For centuries the occupants of the Haarburg felt themselves happy in
the grey giant tower, until a Graf Bodo dwelt in it. He was the
father of a numerous progeny, and the tower grew too small for all
the children and domestics, and he often felt a wish to have a more
capacious dwelling.
An addition to the tower was not to be thought of, in consequence of
the small space on the mountain summit; and one evening, as he sat
with his wife before the entrance to the Haarburg, and looked out on
the beautiful landscape, he said to her, pointing toward the mountain
where the present castle stands:
"What thinkest thou? Would it not be well if we could live yonder?
The mountain has plenty of space; and there would be room to build
spacious salons and chambers, and even a chapel, and a single moat
around the whole; then we should be able to entertain our friends, as
many as could come. What is thy opinion?"
The lady of the castle quite agreed with her husband. They conversed
long on the subject, and only separated as darkness began to settle
over the vales and mountains, and the benevolent Luna hung out her
silver lamp.
The night was lovely, and the Countess could not rest or sleep. She
opened the window, and gazed at the shining moon, sank in thought,
and did not observe that the moments fled swiftly, and midnight and
the owls already hovered over her head.
Then, out of a corner of the chamber, with light, noiseless steps,
issued an odd being, a little man, with an old, wrinkled face, a long
grey beard, but with not disagreeable features.
His attire consisted of a grey coat and a pointed hat, and he carried
a staff.
Silently the figure approached the thinking, dreaming Countess, on
whose form the soft moonlight fell, and then twitched gently her
garment with his tiny hand.
Alarmed, the Countess turned round, but lost all fear so soon as she
beheld the form of the grey man.
She had recognised the Burggeist, who appeared seldom, but always
brought happiness with him, and inquired in a gentle voice:
"What wilt them from me, thou good spirit?"
"I saw thee at such a late hour sitting in troubled thought," replied
the patron spirit, in a melodious voice, "and came to ask the cause
of thy sorrow. What trouble lies so heavily at thy heart?"
"No sorrow troubles me," said the Countess, smiling. "Only a wish
moved my soul."
"And what might that be?" inquired the spirit, with strained
attention.
"My husband," replied the Countess, "would wish this fortress on that
spacious mountain opposite. He declares that we cannot live longer
here; and I must say, after due reflection, he is perfectly right."
"Does it no longer please thee here?" asked the dwarf, with a
quick-clouding face. "Ye men are right difficult to please! Thy
ancestors have dwelt here for ages, happy and contented, and now ye
would forsake the tower that has sheltered thy race so long. Ye are
very ungrateful. If I had known that that was all that troubled
thee, I should not have left my hiding-place. But it is already
late; seek thy couch and rest well!"
The spirit vanished, and the Countess followed his advice; but
troubled dreams sported around the head of the sleeping lady, and
fantastic scenes passed before her fancy.
It seemed as if she saw the dwarf from her window go out at the
entrance of the tower, large as a giant, striking in the air with his
hands all sorts of odd signs and motions, and with a powerful voice
she heard him cry: "Slide on! Slide on!"[2]
[2] "_Rücke dich! Rücke dich!_"
And hardly were these words out of his mouth when the Haarburg was
raised on unseen hands from its foundations high in the air, so high
that the Countess was seized with giddiness, and awoke in terror.
As she opened her eyes it was already light; but the sun had not yet
risen above the mountains, so she could only have slept a short time,
but felt so much strengthened and refreshed that she rose, dressed,
and went to the window to enjoy the fresh morning. But who shall
describe her amazement when she saw the town of Wernigerode directly
beneath, and on closer observation found that the old tower Haarburg
had been moved in the night to the mountain where her husband had so
earnestly desired to have it.
As soon as her first astonishment had passed, the Countess hastened
to her still slumbering husband, led him to the window, and feasted
her eyes on his boundless astonishment and joy.
Filled with gratitude, she called the benevolent dwarf, to thank him;
but he did not answer the summons, and has never been seen in the new
Schloss.
The Three Wood-fairies.
The great plain north of the Harz mountains was not always the
smiling, fruitful tract of land the eye now beholds.
A great lake covered a large portion of it; the ground around this
lake was swampy and unfruitful, and dense forests shut out the
sunlight.
But the deep shadows of these woodlands, where the foot of man seldom
wandered, this sacred stillness, undisturbed by the noise and bustle
of human life, was notwithstanding peopled.
Creatures of tender form and rare beauty--not so ethereal as the air,
not so material as man--danced lightly, as if borne by the breezes,
through the woods, which were their possession, intimately interwoven
with their existence, for they grew with the trees which they
inhabited, and drooped and died with them.
When the moon mounted her blue throne, and cast her pure silvery
glance over the silent and noble forests, it was as if a light shiver
fell on the trees, as if they became animated, and assumed the forms
of maidens, who in the pale light skipped upon the mountains, or
descended to the lake or the Bode, to visit their neighbours the
mermaids, still and innocent as themselves, who swam the light waves
radiant in the smile of Queen Luna.
But as time went on these pleasant reunions were interrupted by the
human race, which penetrated the forests, mercilessly cut down
everything that stood in the way of its selfish ends, and made these
peaceful regions the stage of its vain ambitions and aims, never
dreaming that with every tree that was hewn down a life more pure and
beautiful than its own was destroyed.
Soon the joy at these nightly assemblies was changed to sorrow, and
when the moonlight called the fairy forms of wood-nymphs and mermaids
into life, they wept together over their vanished sisters and
friends, and not one was sure that the following day the same sad
fate would not be her destiny.
A powerful Kaiser was come into the district with a vast retinue and
an army, had built himself a Burg on the banks of the Bode, and
bestowed the land on his followers, who were to cut down trees, drain
swamps, and transform the wilderness into a fruitful plain.
The woods gave place speedily to a bare tract, and the maiden circle
grew ever smaller. There, on the mountain west of Thale, where in
its bosom the antediluvian giant animal skeletons were found, an old
warrior had received permission from the Kaiser to clear the land.
He toiled unweariedly, dug the soil, felled the trees one after the
other, till of the sacred grove only three trees were left standing.
"Now, only these three trees left," thought he to himself, stretched
himself wearily in the grass to rest a minute and strengthen himself
for the last stroke; but fatigue overcame him, so that he sank into a
deep sleep, and only awoke when the moon and stars shone in the
heavens.
Then he saw three maidens sitting under the green roof of a maple
tree, silent and mournful; their eyes were wet as if dewdrops hung in
the drooping eyelashes; they uttered complaining words in soft tones
like the rustling of the night wind in the leaves.
"Let us take leave of each other," lisped softly the voice of one;
"our time is come. When the rosy dawn awakes he will come who cut
down our sisters; and as they are fallen, so must we. Desolate will
be the spot that saw us so oft united in joy, lonely the moonlight
that shone on our dance. The nymphs of the lake and the mountain
stream will look out for us, longing for our coming, and ask, 'Where
are our friends of the mountain? Why do they not descend when the
queen of the stars illuminates our palace?' Happy sisters, ye are as
yet safe from our mournful fate, for ye are secure in your retreat
from the barbarian!"
"Weep not, sister!" said another, with light moaning; "weep not over
our inevitable destiny. To see that we must die grieves me not, for
all our beloved are gone on before us; but that we are the last of
our race, and our line becomes with us extinct, that it is that fills
my heart with woe.
"That our race might continue I would live on, and if I could appear
in person to him who will come in the morning with his axe to
annihilate us, I would entreat him for the blessing of life, and he
would not refuse my entreaty.
"But only night gives us being comprehensible to men; the day
confines us stiff and without form in our narrow house."
"Ah! if we could only appear to him!" added the third; "if we could
only appear and beg him for life, we should not plead in vain; I have
seen him mourn too, have heard him lament the beautiful forest.
"And what benefit would it be to him to destroy us also? What
benefit has it been to him that he has destroyed our sisters? Will
the products of this soil repay the labour of tillage? But we would
gladly, though invisible, help him to cultivate the land during the
hours when we have a form, if he would take pity and spare the last
of a great race."
The old soldier, who had listened in surprise to this singular
conversation, could contain himself no longer. "By the sword of my
Kaiser!" he cried, springing to his feet, "cursed be the hand that
should do you an injury, ye innocent beings; destroy you I will not,
no, but protect and defend you with my goods, blood, and life.
"But who are ye? Was it a dream that charmed my senses?"
Terrified, the maidens had vanished at his first words.
Now their voices resound from the trees as they reply to his question.
"No dream has deceived thee. Thou hast seen the last of the
wood-nymphs who adorn this mountain. If thou wilt protect them, so
spare the trees of the wood that still stand; they will thank thee."
Dawn broke over the mountains, the voices were silent; they sighed in
the morning wind, but the soldier could not understand the tones; at
first he was inclined to hold all for a dream, but what he had heard
stood so clear in his mind that he finally doubted no longer, and
zealously defended the three trees.
On his dying bed he commended them to his sons, and charged them
never to sell the land.
Long the fields near the three trees thrived above all others, and at
night three maiden forms could be seen following the plough in the
moonlight.
But alas! the trees and land came into the hands of an owner who held
the story of the three wood-fairies for a fable, and he cut the trees
down.
Since then the mountain has been barren and fruitless, and the three
sisters have never been seen with the plough again.
The Shepherds' Towers.
Two shepherds in Quedlinburg, father and son, poor but honest people,
were once watching their flocks on the green meadows.
It was a lovely morning; the lambs played with the wild flowers, the
birds sang so joyfully in the neighbouring wood, the breezes were so
mild and odorous, that the hearts of the shepherds were filled with
an unusual gladness, and they both began to play a sacred air on
their reed pipes.
The bells of the royal convent began to ring, and their melodious
harmonies penetrated the heart, powerful and irresistible as a voice
from heaven.
"There is something glorious in such a solemn chime," said the elder
shepherd to his son, who sat near him. "The tones seem to come down
to us from the eternal heights, and remind us of our duty and our
better home."
"It is indeed true," replied the younger. "The chimes possess an
incomprehensible power over the mind, and awake the inner life to
devotion and holy reflections; and I never look across to the towers
whence those bold and fearless tones rise on the air, without seeing
in them landmarks pointing to heaven."
"Oh, what a pity!" added the father, "that our new church in the New
Town must stand so long without either tower or bells. What a pity
that a work to God's honour must remain unfinished, while the rich
build palaces and heap up treasures. How willingly every poor person
in the town would contribute, if thereby the edifice could only be
completed. But without a special blessing from God, many years may
pass away before the church is finished."
"Father!" cried the son, interrupting the conversation, "where are
our dogs? I don't see them by the flock, and still the faithful
creatures have never yet left their post without our commands. What
can have started them and allured them away? Where shall we find
them again?"
"Yonder, my son!" said the father, whose eye had swept exploringly
the neighbourhood, pointing toward the near forest. "I see them
running as fast as possible toward the wood; they scent game, no
doubt, and are on the track."
And they both whistled, and called the dogs by name, but in vain, for
the hitherto so obedient animals only turned their heads slightly at
the sound of the well-known voices, and then continued their wild
race.
Astonished at the unwonted disobedience, and anxious lest they might
lose the dogs, the shepherds decided to follow them to the borders of
the wood. The flock was feeding quietly in a meadow, and there was
no danger of its wandering away.
The border of the wood was soon reached, but no trace of the dogs was
to be seen. They had already penetrated the thick underbrush, and a
stripe in the dewy grass showed the way they had taken.
"Wilt thou remain here, father, and watch that no wolf come out of
the wood and scatter the flock?" said the son, and hurried on in the
direction the dogs had taken.
The father remained standing, keeping his eyes on the lambs; but it
was not long before he heard the missing dogs bark, and fancied he
heard also the voice of his son.
He listened. He was not mistaken. The son called with all his might
his father's name, who, terrified lest something dreadful had
happened, hastened after the voice.
The way he had to take was perfectly strange to him, although he had
often been in the same wood before; also the forest seemed very much
altered; in the place of the young, slender trees, stood primeval,
mighty oaks, and under their deep shades, through an opening in the
trees, rose the grey dilapidated walls of a ruined church.
At the entrance to this church, half hidden by wild briars, trees,
and ivy, he saw his son standing with a look of amazement and with an
uncertain air, for he too had never discovered these ruins, and
curiosity and fear of enchantment fought a sharp contest in his
breast.
The arrival of the father, however, put an end to all fear, and after
a short consultation, whether they should enter the desolate,
ghost-like ruins, curiosity triumphed, so much the more, since they
observed that the track of the dogs led through the bushes into the
wall. With considerable effort they made their way through the rank
weeds and thorns, and reached a high portal, fallen in on one side.
They went through it, and saw themselves surrounded by a dim
twilight, since the openings in the arch ceiling were insufficient to
light the interior, and the slender arched windows were so overgrown
with ivy and other plants that they stood in a green night.
They could scarcely distinguish the spot where the altar had stood,
and where masses of broken, scattered stones betrayed the fury of the
storm that had destroyed it.
Approaching the spot, they were seized with trembling as they
discovered an old crucifix in the wall, and, bending the knee,
murmured a prayer.
A noise startled them; looking around they perceived the dogs behind
a portion of the broken altar, scratching and digging, without
troubling themselves at the presence of their masters, as if they had
been fastened by enchantment to the spot.
The shepherds approached the corner where they were scraping and
pawing, and looked attentively at the hole growing every moment
larger and deeper in the ground, and soon a sheet-iron chest became
visible.
The dogs barked as if for joy at the discovery, stopped their work,
and sprang barking from one shepherd to the other.
The shepherds set to work to lift out the chest, which they found
tremendously heavy. It contained a mass of gold and silver coins
with a stamp of a time long past.
Before they could recover from their astonishment, the dogs began
again to scratch the ground in the same spot, and soon a second chest
came to view, in which the shepherds found golden goblets,
candlesticks, and other sacred vessels of immense value.
Not till now were the dogs satisfied, but as the second chest was
opened they hurried back to the flock, and displayed an unwonted zeal
to fulfil their duty.
The two shepherds repaired to the Abbess of the St. Servatius Convent
in Quedlinburg, related what had occurred, and expressed a wish that
two towers should be built on the new Nikolai[1] church with the
found treasure.
[1] _Nikolai_--St. Nicholas.
At the news of the wonderful discovery, half the town went out to the
wood to see the spot where the treasure had been found. But no ruin
was to be discovered; all was vanished without leaving a trace, and
even the shepherds could not find the spot again.
If the treasure in their possession had not proved to the contrary,
they would have held the whole thing for a dream.
The Nikolai church still stands, shaded by old lindens, and at its
west end the shepherds' two towers.
The figures of the two shepherds and their dogs, hewn in the stone,
still look down upon the ancient, imperial city from these towers,
where they were placed so many centuries ago as memorials of a
somewhat unusual unselfishness.
The Treasure-hunters of the Sieberthal.
Many centuries ago there lay in the valley of the little river
Sieber, where now is the Long Meadow, copper-works.
A mass of scoria, the greater part of which has been employed on the
_chaussée_, once marked the spot.
The owners of these works, who are said to have been very rich,
together with the works, vanished in a single night.
The following morning nothing remained to be seen but this huge heap
of scoria.
It was said the owners had buried their treasure in it before their
disappearance.
Soon after that event, a blue flame was seen every night between
eleven and twelve on this heap of scoria, which a black man
endeavoured to keep burning until midnight.
The report of a Goldfeuer[1] in the Sieberthal soon spread, and many
saw the flame, but no one was bold enough to attempt to gain the
treasure.
[1] _Goldfeuer_--Goldfire.
At last a man from Lonau, who had experience in treasure-seeking,
determined to attempt it, and engaged several workmen to assist him
in the undertaking.
On the way to the spot he commanded his men: "Let no one speak while
digging, or all is lost."[2]
[2] A search for all objects under enchantment must be conducted in
silence. If one speaks, the charm is immediately broken.
They all promised, and gave him the hand as pledge.
Meanwhile they arrived at the spot, the work began, and soon they
came to a huge cauldron filled with Holland ducats, which it was
necessary to raise.
Just as they had raised the vessel to the surface they heard wheels.
The workmen paused and listened, when lo! a carriage appeared drawn
rapidly by four doves.
The driver cried, "Guten Abend! Geht's gut?" But not a soul replied.
Directly after came a fellow in a trough along the same road, saying
hurriedly: "Shall I not also come?" and made the most desperate
efforts to reach the dove-drawn carriage.
One of the workmen laughing, cried mockingly: "The poor devil must
also drive!"
_Hutsch_! In an instant blue flame and cauldron had vanished!
The men stood gazing at each other with long faces, when instantly
their hair turned grey, and they all died soon of grief and vexation.
The Enchanted Maiden of the Zorge.
Like Princess Lise, she sometimes appears as a serpent. On the
Hohegeissberg, near the river Zorge, the White Maiden of the
Staufenburg[1] is seen every seven years with a bunch of keys.
[1] The Staufenburg bei Zorge.
Once came a shepherd from Kloster Walkenried and pastured his flock
in the vicinity of the mountain.
Early in the morning the White Maiden stood on the cliffs, making her
footprints in the rock, and sang gaily.
When she had finished her song she descended to the shepherd, and
asked him if he would rescue her from the enchantment.
He replied he would gladly if he could.
She told him she would return the next morning, at first in the same
form which he now saw, after which she would become a serpent. If he
would kiss her in her serpent form, she would be free.
The shepherd promised solemnly.
The next morning she appeared again on the cliffs and sang as before.
When the sheep had all filed past, the maiden descended from the
rocks, came to him as a serpent, and sprang upward toward him, that
he might give her the serpent-kiss; but he turned aside in horror.
The serpent suddenly vanished, with such a shriek of anguish that the
shepherd was ever afterward perfectly deaf.
She is seen on the Staufenburg bei Zorge every seven years at Easter,
with a bunch of keys and a Pomeranian dog white as snow.
She waits from eleven to twelve for a rescuer, and when the time is
expired the dog barks.
This dog is said to have been her lap-dog before the curse.
There is a Harz legend that the Ascension took place from the
mountain of the Staufenburg.
The Accursed Maiden of Lichtenstein.
Not far from Lichtenstein is a spring, where once a shepherd rested
always at noonday and watered his flocks.
One day, when he sat there as usual, a serpent came from under a
stone and looked kindly at him.
At first he was seized with terror, but at last felt quite at home
with her.
The second day she came again, from her head half in human form
addressed the shepherd, and told him he must take courage the next
day and kiss the serpent, when he would thereby become always
fortunate and happy.
She came the third day from under the stone, crept up to him, and
raised her head to kiss him.
At first he was filled with disgust, but taking courage he shut his
eyes and kissed her.
And there stood before him no longer a serpent, but a beautiful girl,
and more--a princess.
Then the shepherd forsook his sheep, went with the maiden to the
king, who gave him the Princess to wife.
The Great Hall in the Petersberg.
One day a child plucked a flower on the Petersberg near Goslar while
playing.
Then the mountain opened, and the child came into a great hall, where
many noble steeds neighed and tossed their proud heads, and the
viands were served on gold and silver.
All who sat there wore golden crowns, and a silver plate was given
the child to take home.
The parents of the child sought the _Wunderblume_, that they might
also see this chamber, but failed.
These guests of the mountain are the old Kaisers who once held their
Court in Goslar.