Front matter (continued 4)

St. Christopher once walked from Goslar to Halberstadt and Harzburg, and on the way shook on the ground a pea which had got into his shoe.

The pea grew, and became the sandstone rock called the Clus.

The interior of the rock was hewn into a chapel to the Virgin, which was a shrine of great celebrity.

A Schloss once stood on the Clus, traces of which are still to be seen.

The Maiden's Cave in the Spatenberg, near where once stook the Spatenburg.

A young citizen of Sondershausen had, although honest, industrious, and skilful, fallen into great embarrassment.

Merciless creditors threatened with seizure; entire ruin stared him in the face; he saw himself already in fancy with wife and children abandoned to bitter want.

He took a walk into the country in order to seek relief for his oppressed heart for a few short hours.

Soon he was alone with his sorrow in the wood solitude.

He climbed the Göldner, till he had reached the summit of the Spatenberg, where the green-grass carpet and the shade of the old beeches invited him to a short repose.

He might have perhaps given expression to his trouble in loud lamentations.

However that may be, he at last prepared to go further, when suddenly he observed a lovely maiden, who, clad in mourning garments and weeping, sat on a moss-grown stone at the entrance to the Jungfernloch, or Maiden's Cave.

His sympathy at this sight was awakened in proportion to his own melancholy. He could not restrain himself from approaching the graceful figure, and inquiring the cause of her grief.

She, however, was of opinion that her sorrow was much too great to permit of her troubling any one else with it, and declared she could only find a mitigation of her woe in drying up the tears of others.

She told him she had, unseen, perceived what troubled him, and it afforded her soul sweet comfort to know that she could help him.

After she had made this statement to the astonished man, she bade him follow her into the cave.

When they had gone through several dark, gloomy passages, they entered a wonderfully lighted chamber, in the centre of which stood a chest filled with gold and treasures, from which the maiden's companion, at her command, must take as many pieces of money as were sufficient for relief from his embarrassment.

At the same time he must solemnly promise that at the expiration of a year, at a certain hour, he will return the same sum to the same place, because, as a result of his failing to do so, she herself would suffer great injury.

He promised, and the maiden dismissed him.

Of course he was now freed from his anxiety and distress, and from this day everything he undertook prospered.

Not only was he able to satisfy all the demands of his creditors, but also at the stated time, agreeably with his promise, to return the received loan.

But he could not go in his every-day dress to his benefactress, and the untruthful tailor neglected to deliver the red Sunday coat as promised.

At last he determined, though he had failed to reach the spot at the fixed hour, not to fail in the day.

As he climbed the Burgweg—castle road—it seemed to him that the tops of the beeches sighed mournfully. He drew near to the cave with painful apprehensions.

No maiden was to be seen. He entered the cave, and found himself at last in the lighted chamber.

But what must he see? The benevolent maiden lay on the ground dying, her countenance distorted with sorrow and pain.

Dreadful gloom enveloped the frightened man. Only the treasure in the chest glittered dismally.

A long-drawn sigh trembled through the chamber. He threw the too-late-brought money, at the same time crossing himself, into the trunk, which immediately closed, and with the dead maiden disappeared.

An awful roaring arose. Benumbed with terror, he fled from the chamber, that fell in behind him, and through the passages, that seemed to him suddenly falling into ruins.

A tumbling stone struck him so violently on the heel that he was always obliged to wear slippers after, and from that day he never recovered his spirits.

The Three Brothers of Zellerfeld.

There once lived three brothers in Zellerfeld who were hunters. They went together one day hunting to the Schalk, when the youngest saw three partridges, and shot at one of them.

He thought he had struck the bird, but it flew away, and he followed it to the top of the mountain where it disappeared.

The young hunter searched the spot carefully where the bird had vanished, and found an opening, which he marked, and then went back and called his two brothers.

All three entered the opening, and came soon to a large room containing a well-served meal on the table, and chairs placed ready.

The three seated themselves, ate, drank, and found all excellent.

After they had partaken of the repast, three beautiful ladies in rich attire entered, and told the brothers they were accursed and doomed to remain for ever under the earth. But if they would remain there three years without seeing the light of day, they would be released.

The ladies promised them the best table during the time, and conducted them to see their treasures, and pointing out three casks filled with gold, promised each one.

They also told them they must now become black, and would only visit them once a year, exhorted the brothers to firmness, and left them.

At the end of the first year they returned; they were become somewhat whiter.

At the next visit, at the end of the second year, they were grown still whiter. They exhorted the brothers earnestly to perseverance and again left them.

The first half of the third year passed happily, but in the last half the eldest brother grew impatient, and asked: "Why should we remain here any longer?"

But the younger reminded them of their promise. At last the second brother became undecided and restless, and finally the two resolved to remain no longer.

They threatened to murder the youngest if he would not accompany them, and to save his life he yielded to their entreaties.

At the proposal of the eldest, they took as much of the gold as they could carry with them.

They reached Zellerfield with their wealth, agreed to keep all a secret, and began to live in luxury, each taking to himself a wife.

The two elder brothers soon squandered all, but the youngest avoided their extravagance.

The two elder, having lost all, determined to return to the treasure in the mountains, and compelled the youngest to go with them.

They entered the familiar chamber with the table and chairs, but all was changed.

Every object was draped in black, and on the table stood three mourning lamps.

The three ladies entered, now coal-black, and silent, and sad; they were followed by three men, who cried, pointing to the eldest brother, "Thou perjured rascal!" seized him, quartered him, and packed him in a barrel, likewise the second.

The youngest looked on in terror; but the ladies exclaimed, "Thou art a true friend, and innocent. Take what thou wilt and go home. But we must remain here until we find three rescuers."

The Raven of Clausthal.

A gentleman in Clausthal had a raven and a maid-servant.

The raven carried off all the silver spoons, and suspicion fell on the poor girl. She was tried, and under torture confessed she had stolen them.

She was executed, but before her death declared her innocence.

Soon after new eave-troughs were put on the gentleman's house, and the spoons were all found where the raven had hidden them.

The Bergmönch[1] and Wilder Mann.[2]

There are numerous traditions of the Bergmönch in the mining districts.

He is always seen in the dress of a master-miner, with a silver mine-lamp in his hand.

It is said he was a master-miner, and begged to be permitted to inspect the mines until the Judgment Day. The Monk's valley—Mönchsthal—near Clausthal, was his favourite retreat.

In St. Andreasberg the tradition is, he was a monk who sought to open the mines there, but failed.

According to this tradition, he completed nearly the entire canal at the base of the Rehberg,[3] called the Rehberger Graben, which conveys all the water to St. Andreasberg for the working of the Samson mine, but became bankrupt through the undertaking.

Many wild tales are told of his bringing aid to the miners, and to the poor and distressed, and of his severity toward the wrong-doer.

In the mining town Wildemann there is a tradition of a wild man who gave the place its name.

Once a robber from the Thuringian Forest lived here in a cave with a wild woman; they were clothed with moss and the branches of fir-trees.

The knight Claus, founder of Clausthal, once saw this wild man on the Wildmann's Cliffs, with a fir-tree, torn up by the roots, in his hand, and a bear on his. back.

The Nimrod of the Rehbergerklippe.[1]

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.

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?"

"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.

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]

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.

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.

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]

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.

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.

Spar-die-Müh.[1]

At the north end of the Bergstadt[2] Lautenthal lies the Bielstein.

Below, at the north-west end of the town, the little river Innerste flows northward towards the Bielstein, and along its base.

Above this bend in the stream, where it turns to flow along the base, only a few steps from the stream, is a cave called the Zwergloch, or Dwarf-cave.

The level place at the foot of the Bielstein bears the name of Spar-die-Müh.

In the cave dwelt in earlier times three dwarfs, who often lent the people of Lautenthal money, and also gold and silver plate for weddings and baptisms.

Now it happened once that these borrowed objects were not returned. So when the people came again to borrow, they heard a voice call, "Spar-die-Müh!"

And from that time the dwarfs declined to oblige the neglectful citizens in any way, and since then the place has been called Spar-die-Müh.

The Dwarf-King Hibich.

The Hibichenstein, near Grand, consists of two colossal limestone cliffs leaning against each other, which are said to have been formed in the distant days when giants lived in the Hercynia Sylva,[1] from a pebble which a giant threw out of his shoe.

In the Hibichenstein dwelt dwarfs, who often attended the children in Grund.

Their King Hibich was ages old, with shaggy hair like a bear, a very wrinkled face, and a long ice-grey beard, which possessed magical power.

He always carried a silver miner's lamp that shone clear as the sun, and wore a golden crown.

Although so small, he could stretch himself much larger.

Formerly his dwarf majesty was allowed to appear in the upper world every five hundred years, but he is no longer permitted to leave his subterranean abode.

He protected the forests, and played serious jokes upon those who did them any injury. But he was benevolent and kind to those in distress who complained to him of their trouble.

Once a miner's wife, whose husband had long lain ill, went from Grund into the wood to gather cones for the baker, who gave her bread for them.

When she had entered the forest, Hibich came to her and asked: "What seekest thou here?"

Then she told him all her want and distress, whereupon he gave her a plant to cure her husband, and pointed out to her a spot where she would find plenty of cones.

Arrived there, she could at first find none, but directly the cones began to fall in showers from the trees, not striking her, however, but all falling into the basket.

When she lifted the basket to put it on her back, she found it much heavier than the cones had ever been before.

Returning to the spot where the King had first met her, he asked her if she had found cones. Then she told him what had happened, and the Dwarf-King revealed to her that his people had done it, and added the cones were pure silver.

He told her she was to take a sufficient number of them to make herself and her sick husband comfortable, and to provide for her children, and with the rest she was to build a church in Grund; but by no means to forget the healing plant.

The sick man became "healthy as a fish" from the hour when he made use of this powerful herb.

In the forester's house in Grund lived in the olden days a forester who had lost his wife early, and had an only son, a good-hearted youth, only somewhat over-inquisitive and indiscreet.

One Sunday afternoon the forester's son, with his friend, the son of a miner, went into the wood for a walk.

As they reached the Hibichstein they fell into a conversation concerning its height, and the miner's son said he should like to see the person who could climb to the top.

The other said that was nothing, he would do it; but his friend endeavoured to dissuade him from his purpose, saying no one who had climbed up could ever get down again, but was always found the next day broken to pieces at the base.

He was not be dissuaded, and climbed to the summit, where he found a large level space, and began to dance and shout for joy, and called to his friend to climb up. But the other shook his head, and told him not to forget he had to come down.

Finally, when his joy had cooled, the forester's son decided to descend, but could not leave the spot, for the Dwarf-King Hibich held him enchanted to the rock for his presumption.

He called to his friend and entreated him to go and tell his father.

Then the forester came with his gun and would shoot his son down.

But as he was about to fire, came Hibich and demanded what he was going to do; and as he replied he was going to shoot his son down from the mountain, the King advised him not to attempt anything so foolish.

Again he took aim, when it began to thunder and lighten, and the rain poured down in torrents.

Night came on, and the forester was obliged to go home till morning.

Hardly had he gone when the dwarfs arrived, all in miners' dress, and each carrying a mine-lamp.

They had the most skilful ladders, which they placed one on the other, and now they held together as if they had been glued.

As soon as this ladder was ready, and reached the top of the Hibichenstein, a dwarf stood at each side and lighted the way.

The forester's son must now seat himself on the shoulders of the dwarf on the topmost rung of the ladder; and see! the ladder is wide enough to permit them to descend between the thick line of lamp-bearing dwarfs on either hand.

No sooner had they reached the base than dwarfs, lights, and ladder had vanished.

Then came the old Hibich, took him by the hand, and said: "As thou hast been on the summit of the Hibichenstein, and hast suffered so much anxiety and terror, thou shalt also see the Dwarf-King's castle."

Then they entered through a great arched door into the mountain, and the King conducted him to a large room, where stood chairs and a table.

The walls glittered with pure ore, the ceiling was a single piece of ponderous spar, white as the driven snow, and from it hung a chandelier of mountain crystal and precious stones.

The floor was strewed with branches of firs, and the panels shimmered with gold and jewels.

In the centre of this superb chamber stood a table of hematite; before it a silver chair, upon which the Dwarf-King seated himself, and commanded his companion also to sit down.

Then he struck with a silver rapier upon the table of hematite, which produced a tone the sweetness of which was never heard before.

A thousand tiny female forms appeared in answer to the summons, bearing strawberries and raspberries; and while the King and his guest partook of the fruit, the dwarf maidens played the most delicious music.

Afterward costly wine was brought in silver goblets.

When the repast was ended, Hibich led his young visitor into an adjoining chamber, on one side of which was silver, on the other gold, and at the royal command, "Silver!" "Gold!" the forester's son must take of the metal named till he was laden with wealth.

Then the Dwarf-King said: "Wilt thou do me a favour? Namely, never to permit any one to shoot at birds on the Hibichenstein; for in this way bits of the rock are broken off.

"As long as the great Hibichenstein remains the great, my crown is secure; but so soon as it becomes the little Hibichenstein, I lose my crown, and can never appear on the earth again."

The youth promised, and Hibich conducted him to another chamber, where stood a delicious bed of fragrant moss, wished him Gute Nacht, and promised to wake him early.

The forester's son had slept but a short time, as it seemed to him, when he was waked up suddenly. It was early dawn, and he shivered, exclaiming, "How cold it is!"

He lay under a bush at the foot of the Hibichenstein, but all the gold and silver that the Dwarf-King Hibich had given him was heaped up beside him.

The King of Tipplers.

A legend is told in Ellrich of an Earl von Klettenberg—not the devout founder of the Huy Wald Abbey, whose forsaken wife built Kloster Walkenried.

The Earl rode one Sunday morning to Ellrich, as an invited guest to a grand banquet, where all the guests were to drink for a wager, the reward being a chain of gold.

They drank for hours, till all were hors de combat save four knights.

Three of these leaned against the wall, and only the Earl von Klettenberg stood upright; to him, therefore, the victory was awarded.

He resolved to show himself to the people as the winner, and commanded his horse to be brought. Four of his attendants lifted the Earl into the saddle, and he rode through the village.

As he reached the St. Nicholas Church, he heard the chanting of vespers, rode through the open door into the church, and spurred on his horse till he had ridden through the congregation, whose vesper-chant changed to terror and dismay.

But as he reached the steps of the altar, all the four horse-shoes fell off, and the horse and his rider sank to the ground.

The four huge horse-shoes were nailed to the church door, where they remained for centuries, and the awful tale was oft related to trembling listeners.

At last a fire destroyed the church, and the four horse-shoes are unhappily lost.

The Needle's Eye

Near Kloster Ilfeld, close by the chaussée, stands on a mountain a huge boulder, which has a small hole through the centre.

All the servants from Nordhausen and the other surrounding places, when they drive into the forest the first time for wood, must creep three times through this hole—which is only done with difficulty; and as they creep in, and on the opposite side out, their comrades lash them with their whips.

If the new-comer will not indulge in this pastime, he must pay money.

The new pupils in the high school at Ilfeld must also, as a joke, creep through the Needle's Eye.

This stone a giant is said to have thrown out of his shoe.

Legend of St. Hubertus.

St. Hubertus, the Patron Saint of the House of Anhalt, was a passionate lover of the chase. One day, hunting in the old oak wood on the mountain Hubertushöhe, which lies between Gernrode and Ballenstedt, when about to shoot a deer, the Saint saw a cross rise from the head of the animal, when he immediately lost his passion for hunting, and, according to the legend, "his only game became eternity and heavenly bliss."

Bathilde von Ballenstedt.

In the Saxon Chronicles we are told that Ludwig, King of the Franks, took Schloss Ballenstedt, and carried away captive the fair daughter of the Earl of Askanien.

UNWIN BROTHERS, PRINTERS, CHILWORTH AND LONDON.