(_For the Mirror_.)
"Still the boar held on his way
Careless through what toils it lay,
Down deep in the tangled dell--
Or o'er the steep rock's pinnacle.
Staunch the steed, and bold the knight
That would follow such a flight!"
The night was fast closing in, and the last retiring beams of the sun
shed a mournful light over an extensive tract of forest bordering upon
the district of the Hartz, just as (but I must not forget the date,
somewhere about the year 1547,) the Baron Rudolf found himself in the
very disagreeable predicament of having totally lost his companions and
his way, amidst an almost interminable region of forest and brushwood.
"Hans," addressing himself to his noble steed, "my old veteran, I must
trust to thee, since thy master's wit is at a stand, to extricate us
from this dilemma."
The animal finding his head free, moved forward as fast as bush and
brake would permit him. They had proceeded in this way for half an hour
longer, when the Baron at last bethought himself of his bugle, and wound
a long and powerful blast; but the echo was the only answer he received.
He repeated the sound with the like effect. Again the Baron lost his
patience, and "Der terefel--" when all at once his steed made a dead
stop, and pricked up his ears as at some well known sound. The Baron
listened attentively, and distinctly heard the blast he had sounded ten
minutes before, responded by one so exactly similar, though apparently
at a great distance, that he could scarcely believe the "evidence" of
his ears. "By the mass but that must be the work of Mynheer von
Heidelberger himself, for no one in my own broad barony can wind that
blast save Rudolf Wurtzheim." He shrunk within himself at the very
thought; for to any one it was rather appalling to meet this being at
such a place and hour. The recollection of an adventure in these wilds
which occurred on this very eve, twelve-months previous, now rushed
vividly to his mind. The concurrence in the date was startling. In
short, on reflection, he began to think there was witchcraft throughout
the affair.
He had lost his companions of the chase in rather a singular manner; on
this afternoon, being unusually unsuccessful, the Baron, while hunting
a brace of favourite stag-hounds in a dell apart from the rest of the
field, suddenly struck upon a boar of remarkable size; attracted by the
cries of the dogs, the Baron spurred Hans to the pursuit, and did not
reflect that he was pursuing a route apart from the other hunters; and
trusting to his knowledge of the wilds he so often traversed, he bore
on with undiminished speed. The boar seemed to have a pair of wings in
addition to his legs. Suffice it to say, that though Hans chased him in
gallant style, yet the Baron eventually lost his way in the pursuit,
partly owing to the doubling of the animal, till both dogs and boar
completely disappeared from sight.
Entangled in the forest, the evening rapidly approached, a general hush
prevailed, and all endeavours to recover his track seemed fruitless.
The sun had now gone down for a considerable time, and a mist was
arising that obscured the little light which the luminary of night
afforded.
"Mein Gott," exclaimed the Baron, "mortal or devil, he has involved me
in a very disagreeable predicament, and to avoid him is, I fear,
impossible." He once more sounded a long blast; again the blast was
re-echoed after a short lapse of time, though seemingly at an extreme
distance. "Ah, there it comes again! what if my ears should deceive me,
and this should be the answering bugle of my faithful Wildstein." The
thought infused some fresh vigour into him; the low night wind murmuring
through the trees, reminded him of the importance of every moment, Hans
and his master pushed onwards through brake and dell.
It will be necessary, however, that we should leave the Baron for
awhile, and detail some occurrences germane to our tale, and which are
necessary for its developement. And now as Mark Antony says, "Lend me
your ear."
Some years before the preceding events took place, there dwelt in a spot
of the most romantic description, a personage known by the designation
of Mynheer von Heidelberger. No one had either heard or could recollect
when or whence he came. Strange rumours were afloat respecting this
person, and the peasantry crossed themselves with fright if they were
led near the spot where his dwelling was said to be; and if his name
was casually mentioned in the circle round the winter's hearth, all
involuntarily drew their seats into a closer space. Impelled by
adventurous curiosity, many individuals were said to have visited him,
for the purpose of obtaining some insight into futurity; for his
knowledge of the future, and the "things that none may name," was
reputed to be great. It was also rumoured that some of his visitants
had never returned.
About this time, by the sudden death of her father, the Baron Ernest,
who was killed, it was believed, by a fall from his horse while hunting,
Agatha von Keilermann was left sole and undisputed heiress of his vast
domains. A prize so great, united to a fair person, caused many suitors
to be on the alert; but they all met with ill success, being generally
dismissed rather summarily.
Ambition was always the ruling passion of Rudolf Wurtzheim, whose
domains adjoined those of the Baron Ernest, and before the death of
the latter it had also been allied to jealousy of his great power and
wealth. Not daunted by the ill success of his predecessors, he became a
suitor of the fair Agatha. He met with a summary repulse. Burning with
rage and mortified ambition, the Baron bethought himself of Mynheer von
Heidelberger, of whose fame he had sometimes heard.
At the close of a day far advanced in autumn, he set off to visit this
being. The howling of the wind as it came in fitful gusts through the
openings of the forest, formed no bad accompaniment to his thoughts;
while the indistinct twilight received little aid from the moon, which
waded through heavy masses of clouds. The Baron, however, was a man of
daring spirit. He had often been led past the spot, whilst engaged in
the chase, near which the _solitaire_ was said to dwell:--
"Vague mystery hangs on all these desert places!
The fear which hath no name hath wrought a spell,
Strength, courage, wrath, have been, and left no traces!
They came--and fled; but whither? who can tell!"
He several times, on account of the uncertain light, lost his track.
At length he emerged into the rocky scenery of the mountain side, and
an indistinct light in the distance served to guide his steps. He now
entered between two rocks of great height; till a magnificent waterfall
almost blocked up the way. The Baron stepped cautiously forward,
and after apparently passing through a cavern, the scene opened and
displayed (for, to his surprise, the light was greatly increased,)
a wild view, in which nature had piled rock, cavern, and mountain
together, till the whole seemed lost and blended in one general chaos.
At the foot, and a short distance before him, were seen a number of
persons of venerable aspect, grouped on the turf around the vast
amphitheatre of rocks, and a noise as of many hammers, greeted his
ears. Attracted onwards by the now distinct glittering light, the Baron
proceeded boldly to the mouth of what seemed a natural grotto. He loudly
demanded admittance, the entrance being blocked up with a large stone.
He was at first answered by a scornful laugh; indeed, as he afterwards
found, he had entered by the wrong path, and observed a scene, perhaps,
never displayed to mortal eyes. The stone was at last removed, and in
the interior he found the object of his search:--
He, like the tenant
Of some night haunted ruin, bore an aspect
Of horrors, worn to habitude.
What passed will appear in the sequel, and the Baron returned just at
nightfall; while his ghastly demeanour and unquiet eye betokened the
nature of his visit. It is said many a wild and unearthly peal of
laughter resounded that night through the mountains.
In three months from that time the lady Agatha became his wife. She had
suddenly disappeared from her grounds a short time before, and to the
amazement and wonder of all, returned with the Baron Wurtzheim, to whom
she was united the same evening. Rumour was busy upon this occasion, but
the mystery which enveloped it was never dispersed. The lady Agatha,
however, seemed oppressed with a ceaseless gloom; in a short time she
devoted herself entirely to seclusion, and in a year after her marriage,
expired in giving birth to a son. The demeanour of Rudolf was most
strange on this occasion. He had apparently a weight on his mind, which
seemed to increase with dissipation, when he devoted his time to hunting
and nightly revels, with a band of choice friends and dependents. Time,
however, which blunts the edge of the keenest misfortunes, seemed to
restore him to his former self.
Years passed away. Some time before the commencement of this legend, the
Baron lost his path whilst hunting, and was benighted in the forest.
After much fatigue, he was attracted by a light amongst trees which he
found to proceed from a low building. It was in a state of extreme
dilapidation, though a sort of wing appeared to have been recently
tenanted. His knocks for admittance not having been answered, he lifted
up the latch and boldly entered. Nothing greeted his sight save the
almost extinguished remains of a fire. The apartment was lone and
destitute of furniture. Having bestowed Hans as well as he could,
he laid himself on the floor; while he felt an extreme chillness of
spirits, which he endeavoured in vain to shake off; he was soon buried
in sleep.
He was awakened by a noise resembling the strokes of many hammers.
He conceived his senses must be wandering, for he found that he was
at the entrance of the amphitheatre of rocks near the dwelling of the
_solitaire_. The same group of figures appeared, and it was not long
before a voice, which he knew to be that of Heidelberger, slowly
repeated the following chant:--
Woe to him who dares intrude
Upon our midnight solitude!
Woe to him whose faith is broken--
Better he had never spoken.
'Ere twelve moons shall pass away,
Thou wilt he beneath our sway.
Drear the doom, and dark the fate
Of him who rashly dares our hate!
Deceive me once, I tell thee never
Shall thy soul and body sever!
Under the greenwood wilt thou lie,
Nor shall thou there unheeded die.
Mortal, thou my vengeance brave,
Thou had'st better seen thy grave.
Drear the doom, and dark the fate
Of him who rashly dares our hate!
Meanwhile the Baron had sunk into a state of insensibility. When he
awoke from his trance it was broad daylight, and the birds were singing
merrily around the ruin.
After this adventure, the Baron resumed many of his old habits; and
sought by deeper dissipation to dispel the visions of the past. His son
was now grown up a sickly youth, and his father's inquietude about him
was so great that he would not suffer him for a moment to be out of the
sight of his attendants.
The year rolled on without any harm befalling the Baron, and his
spirits lightened as the time advanced. He had almost forgotten the
circumstance, when on the day preceding that of the anniversary of the
adventure just related, a grand hunting party was proposed, it being the
birth-day of his son. We now return to the situation in which we left
the Baron at the beginning of this legend.
The forest seemed to the exhausted Rudolf, almost interminable, and
this provoking horn perplexed him sadly. On this night the dreaded
twelve-months expired. The bare thought made him redouble his speed.
The darkness seemed increasing, and the flapping of the bats and hoarse
croaking of the night birds, disturbed by his progress through the
branches, did not add to his comfort; when to his great joy, he felt a
strong current of air, and found that he had at last apparently emerged
from the thickest of the forest. The moon was now beginning to cast her
"peerless light" over the scene, and Rudolf perceived he was in an
extensive amphitheatre or opening of the trees, which he could not
recollect ever having seen before, bounded at a short distance by what
seemed a small lake, near the centre of which grew a large and solitary
pine.
The moon had now fully risen. Hans who had been flagging for some time,
fell suddenly lame. From this fresh misfortune the Baron was aroused by
the well known baying of his gallant stag-hounds. "Aiglette and Caspar
are not baying after nothing," thought he. He was not long in suspense.
To his extreme amazement, the identical boar which had caused all his
trouble and fatigue, appeared closely followed by both the dogs.
"Donner et blitzen," exclaimed the Baron, using the first oath that came
uppermost, "but this exceeds belief." The boar no sooner perceived
him than he turned upon him with the utmost fury. The Baron hastily
dismounted under the aged tree, though he was stiff and fatigued, for
Hans was now utterly incapable of exertion. His sword quickly glanced in
the moonshine--"Time was" said he, "when this had been the very pastime
I desired." The murderous animal attacked him with such impetuosity that
his well-tried skill failed him, and he was the next moment thrown under
its feet. The struggle now became desperate, for the animal had no
common foe to contend with. Before it could wound him with its tusks,
which seemed of unusual size, it required not an instant's thought in
Rudolf to draw his dagger from his belt, and the next instant it was
buried to its hilt in the throat of his adversary. At the same moment
the tusks of the boar entered his side. Rudolf breathed a few words of
an almost forgotten prayer, when the animal, uttering a dreadful yell,
gave a convulsive spring into the air, and fell lifeless, half
smothering the Baron with its gore.
Life was now fast ebbing from the side of Rudolf, when he was aroused by
the sound of a voice, whose tones even at this dreadful moment thrilled
through his soul with horror. Enveloped in a thick fog which had been
gradually spreading around the scene of the combat, he could discern the
fiend Heidelberger and his charmed circle; with an air of triumph they
chanted the following lines:--
Mortal vain, thy course is run,
Thou hast seen thy setting sun--
Told I not true when I saw thee last,
That 'ere the circling year had passed,
Under the greenwood thou should'st be dying,
On the bloody greensward lying!
Deceived once, I tell thee never
Shall my victim from me sever--
Thou hast dared to brave our hate,
Rashly run upon thy fate!
Thou art on the greensward dying,
Underneath the greenwood lying!
The hounds bayed. The moon entered a dark cloud; and, when it emerged,
its pale beams fell upon the green amphitheatre and the aged tree; but
there was no one under its shade.
The following tradition is still related amongst the surrounding
peasantry:--The Baron Rudolf, it is said, was enticed to sign over the
bodies and souls of his future offspring to the fiend, Heidelberger, on
condition that the latter would enable him to gain the person and
possessions of the Lady Agatha. The contract, however, was obliged to be
renewed at the birth of each child. Should he violate this convocation
(which he signed with his own blood,) he granted similar power over
himself; and the legend goes on to relate, that the whole of the members
of the charmed circle were persons similarly enticed, who were doomed to
a sort of perpetual labour, being compelled to chisel out their coffins
in stone, which as soon as finished, were broken in pieces, when they
were obliged to begin afresh.
The consequence of the Baron's non-fulfilment of his convocation have
already been seen; his son is related to have died childless, and the
property to have been dispersed into the hands of others, having never
remained since his death more than two generations in one family;
apparently blighting all its possessors. And the peasantry aver that the
noise made by the continual labour of its victims, may still be heard by
the adventurous at the close of day.