Chapter IV: Part 4

"You are too late, my young friend," cried Castiglione. "Your ideas have been carried out. You don't seem to have kept up with the history of events. Bismarck has set the Germans free, and cleansed the moral atmosphere of the whole empire, sent the Jesuits adrift, and put a bayonet into the hands of every eighty men in a hundred to keep them out."

Here a deep sigh was heard.

"Oh, I am tired with standing so long! Walking isn't half so fatiguing. Oh, how my back aches!"

"Who are you?" cried Castiglione.

"I am the Wandering Jew. They keep up the story of my wanderings, but I have stood here in this tree for ages, shivering or roasting."

I felt quite bewildered, and almost afraid in the midst of this odd _Gesellschaft_, and shuddered as I thought more dreadful additions would speedily be made to it.

Suddenly a radiant form stood before me. Such beauty no mortal eye ever beheld outside of a dream. It was the Princess Ilse. Her long golden curls fell nearly to her feet, over a silvery-like robe almost transparent.

Her eyes were deep violet with an expression none could describe.

Above her milk-white regal brow glittered a diadem of brilliants and sapphires. Bracelets and rings of diamonds and pearls adorned her fair arms.

Extending her swan-white hand, with a ravishing smile, she said, "Come, I will show thee my home, my palace, and thou shalt dine with me."

We entered the Ilsenstein under a gigantic arch of mountain crystal; a group of white-robed maidens met us, and attended us to the great throne-room.

This was an immense chamber, lighted by a chandelier of brilliants hung in the centre, and single lamp-shaped rubies and carbuncles hung along the sides and in the corners.

The floor was of white and red roses, which were not crushed by the tread, but remained ever in rich fulness.

On each side of this regal chamber were sixteen colossal Norman arches, through which one saw, on the right advancing up it, a garden of every sort of fruit-tree, all bearing ripe fruits.

At the left, flowers of every clime. Fountains played, white-robed maidens moved among the fruit and flowers, or reclined on banks of violets and roses.

Soft music floated around us. Between each arch was a seat. Every seat was a bank of flowers, each different from the other.

Above each seat was a statue of a fairy of the Harz, alternately in mountain crystal and snowy alabaster.

At the upper end, under a majestic arch, stood Princess Ilse's throne.

The throne was one ruby, the canopy a single pearl, the steps leading up to the throne were emeralds.

Near the throne, in front of an arch, stood a table of silver, and two chairs of mountain crystal beside it.

The service was of gold, filled with the viands of the fairy world, and the choicest fruits and flowers.

A group of fair maidens sat in a rose arbour playing harp, lute, and harpsichord, while others stood by the table in attendance.

A pearl plate was handed us, and Princess Ilse herself poured the crimson wine into gilded crystal goblets bearing her monogram in diamonds and sapphires, touched her glass to mine, and saying, "I drink to thy happiness," she pressed her own glass to my lips, when lo! I awoke, and there stood Josephine, poking a fern in my face.

"Oh, Josie!" I exclaimed, "you can never know of how much you have robbed me with that stupid fern!"

The Red-haired Trude

At a time when very few men lived upon the earth, when towns and villages were few and very widely separated, when there were no roads in the mountains, and before Romulus and Remus were rescued by the motherly wolf on the yellow Tiber, or Nausikaa fell in love with Odysseus, there stood a house on the site of Schloss Ilsenburg, inhabited by a widow and her daughter Trude.

Deeper in among the mountains stood an old stone Schloss, on the granite wall connecting the Ilsenstein and the opposite-lying Westerberg, which had been bought, and was inhabited by a father and his fair daughter Ilse.

Nobody knew who the father was, but it was supposed--as people do in many cases--that he was some fallen and deposed Prince.

During the absence of the Prince and Princess Ilse on a journey, a stranger, handsome and gay, without money, sack, or scrip, but rich in self-confidence and flattering words, sought hospitality of the widow and her daughter, and was warmly received and entertained.

Ralf "fell in love" with Trude, and a blissful summer was spent gathering wild fruits and flowers and hunting birds' nests among the mountains.

The nuptials were near, and the widow was busy with the bride's trousseau, when unexpectedly with Autumn arrived the foreign Prince and fair Ilse from their mysterious journey.

Ritter Ralf, it must be confessed, was very naughty. With an eagle-eye he perceived the radiant charms of Princess Ilse, and poor Trude was forsaken.

The widow reproached him with his perfidy, but he replied, "The eagle mates but with the eagle, and though I have fled from a severe father, I am of noble blood, and have found a Braut of my own rank."

The widow swore revenge, and consoled the weeping Trude, begging her only to wait till Walpurgisnacht[1] and her perfidious lover should be punished.

[1] Night before the first of May, when all evil spirits and witches, according to the legend, meet on the Brocken. See Goethe's "Faust."

She made a league with the evil spirits of the mountains and the air, and devoted herself to the unholy arts of a witch.

Walpurgisnacht arrived, the widow stood on the balcony of her house and invoked the demons and witches, who swept through the night, which rested black as destruction on the mountains, heavy as the day of wrath and vengeance.

From the Brocken broke a terrible tempest. Awful thunders rolled, lightnings in fiery serpents cut their way through the heavens and mountains, and a tremendous flood swept down from the Brocken, destroying all in its course.

The coalers clung to the rocky walls, but Princess Ilse looked calmly on the wild scene, saw the rocks rent on which her father's castle stood, and it, her lover, father, and servants all swept away; and as she too was about to perish, a tall manly form, with majestic head and black locks--probably the Fairy King--seized her in his strong arms, wrapped her in a white mantle, and vanished.

Poor Trude, from the balcony by her mother's side, saw her faithless Ralf carried down the torrent, threw herself over after him, and when the flood had subsided the widow found them in each other's arms, washed up on the banks of the river.

The Wild Huntsman.

Earl Eberhard von Wurtemberg rode one day alone into the forest to amuse himself with the chase. Suddenly he heard a loud roar and noise, as of a hunter riding furiously past; he was terrified, dismounted in haste from his horse, and approaching a tree, as if for defence, cried aloud to the imagined huntsman, asking if he intended violence.

"No," replied the now visible form of the hunter, "I am a man like thyself, and stand before thee quite alone. I too was formerly a noble.

"I found such pleasure in the chase, that I besought God to permit me to hunt until the judgment-day. Unhappily my sinful wish was granted, and for four hundred and fifty years I have hunted the same deer. But my race and name are known to no one."

Thereupon the ghostly hunter vanished.

Hans von Hackelberg, a master of the hunt in Brunswick, had an unhappy dream one night on the Harzburg; it seemed to him in his dream as if he struggled with a huge wild boar which conquered him after a long combat, and that he died of his wounds.

He could not drive this terrible dream from his mind. Shortly after he encountered a boar in the Harz similar to the one in his dream. He attacked him; the struggle remained long undecided; at length Hans conquered and slew the animal. Rejoiced to see the boar stretched at his feet, he kicked the tusk with violence, exclaiming, "Thou shalt not yet kill me!"

But he had struck with such force that the sharp tooth pierced his boot and wounded his foot.

At first Hackelberg paid no attention to the wound, but continued the chase. On his return, however, the foot was so swollen, that the boot had to be cut off. He hastened back to Wolfenbüttel, but the vehicle shook the foot so that he was obliged to stop on the way at Wülperode, where he died.

Before his death he expressed a wish that he might hunt for ever, and his rash desire was granted.

The Tut-Osel, or Tut-Ursel, always accompanies him.

At midnight, when in storm and rain, Hackelberg with horse and dogs tears through the Thuringian Forest, the Harz, and the Hackel Forest, the night or death owl flies before him, which the people call the Tut-Osel.

The wanderer, when he hears the ghostly hunt, listens in terror to the barking of dogs, and hears the hu! hu! of the chase, and the uhu of the death-owl.

In a Kloster in Thuringia lived, in the primeval days of convents, a nun called Ursel--Ursula--who always disturbed the choir of nuns by her howling singing; hence she was called Tut-Ursel. But after her death she disturbed them even more than in her lifetime, for at eleven every evening she poked her head through a hole in the church tower and _tooted_ dreadfully, and every morning at four she joined her voice in the matin-song.

For some days the holy sisters bore this lamentable disturbance; but at last one morning one of the nuns whispered in fear to her neighbour, "That is certainly the Ursel!"

Instantly the music ceased, their hair rose to mountains, and the nuns rushed out of the church screaming: "Tut-Ursel! Tut-Ursel!" And no punishment could induce a single nun to enter the church again until a Capuchin monk from a monastery on the Danube, noted for his sanctity, was summoned.

He condemned Tut-Ursel to banishment in the Harz, and to bear the form of a death-owl.

Here she encountered Hackelberg, and found as much delight in the hu, hu! of his eternal hunt as he in her uhu! and so they hunt for ever in company.

Another story is that the screech-owl is a nun who was false to her vows, and left her convent to follow Hackelberg.

The origin of this legend belongs to the ancient pagan days. It is even disputed that a person called Hackelberg existed, and if so, the legend is ages older than the sixteenth century, the time when he is said to have lived.

The Wild Hunter, the Wanderer, was Wodan himself in the pagan days.

At the introduction of Christianity we find a new development of the ancient myths. Wodan becomes the foul fiend, then the godless Hunter, and the Wandering Jew. In the Black Forest the eternal Hunter and the eternal Jew are regarded as the same person. They both always carry a groschen in the pocket. In some parts of Germany the harrows are placed in the fields with the teeth together, that the wanderer may rest himself. According to some authorities, he may only rest Christmas night, and then only when he finds a plough in the field; only on that may he sit down.

Every seven years the Huntsman passes over the seven mining towns of the Harz, and woe to him who calls after him.

According to one legend, the Wild Huntsman met Christ at a river where He sought to quench His thirst, and would not permit Him to drink; he also drove Him from a cattle trough, and when the Saviour found water in a horse's foot-print, and would drink there, he drove Him away. As a punishment, he is doomed to wander for ever, and eat only horse-flesh. This is the pagan legend Christianized. In West and South Germany we find the Wild Army. Odin, or Wodan, was the god, too, of armies, and always went out from Walhalla at the head of his ghostly array, while his nine Walküren conducted the fallen heroes back to Walhalla.

The Origin of the Philippine.

Once, long centuries ago, a Princess lived in Schloss Hohenstein who was very fond of almonds, but was firmly resolved never to marry, so she invented the following plan.

She caused every prince who came a-wooing--and her suitors were countless--to eat the half of a double almond, and she ate its twin half. And then she said, "If you can induce me to take anything from your hand without saying "_J'y pense_," I am ready for marriage with you; but if, on the other hand, I can lead you to receive any object from my hand without your repeating those saving words, you shall have your head shaved, and forthwith leave my dominions."

But there was a trick in the stipulation, namely, the etiquette of the royal court forbade any person, on pain of death, to hand anything direct to the Princess, but rather to the lady-in-waiting, who presented it to her mistress.

But if the Kaiser's daughter chose herself to hand any one anything, who was there to forbid it?

Thus it was for the luckless wooers a bitter sport, for let them exert themselves as they would to beguile the royal maiden into taking anything from their hands, the inevitable lady-in-waiting spoiled their sport.

But when Princess Huldigunde determined to get rid of a certain adorer, she grew so engaging that he became perfectly enchanted, and as he sat beside her, intoxicated with joy, she seized either a pomegranate, or an egg near her, and handed it to him, saying softly, "Keep that as a souvenir."

As soon as the wooer took the object, it sprang open, and a frog, or a hornet, or bat flew into his hair or face, and in his fright he forgot to say, "_J'y pense!_" And then he was shaved on the spot, and away with him.

This went on for years, and in all kings' houses princes wore wigs. It happened at last that a foreign prince saw Huldigunde, and found her fair, and saw through the trick.

A friendly fairy had given him an apple, which he was to smell once a year, when a prudent idea should occur to him.

Just at the time when he first saw Huldigunde, it was time to smell the apple; he smelt, and it occurred to him that if he would win the game through give and take, he must neither give himself nor take anything from her.

He caused his hands to be bound to his girdle, went with his marshal to court, and declared his wish to eat almonds.

Huldigunde liked this Prince, and commanded almonds to be handed him. Then his marshal took them and put them in his mouth.

The Princess inquired why he carried his hands in his girdle.

He replied that the etiquette of his court was still more severe than at hers; it was not permitted him to take anything with his hands, only with his feet or head.

"In that way," cried Huldigunde, "we shall never settle the game."

Prince Otto only shrugged his shoulder, and replied, "Only when you graciously condescend to take something from my boots."

And the court stood aghast at the bold idea.

"Why did you come to Schloss Hohenstein with such a stupid etiquette?" cried the Almond Princess.

"Because you are so beautiful," cried Otto; "and, if I cannot win you I can look at you."

So Otto remained at the castle, and Huldigunde liked him better every day. She tried daily to beguile him into setting a hand free with offerings of fruit, flowers, even her bracelet, but Otto nodded to his marshal, who received them.

Then she dropped her handkerchief; but Otto lifted it with the toe of his boot, and swung it carelessly to and fro, and she stooped and took it from his boot.

So a whole year passed away, and the Princess said to herself, "An end must be made of this matter." So she told Otto she had the best garden in the world, and proposed to show it to him the next day.

It was time for the Prince to smell the apple again, and a brilliant idea came to him.

As they entered the garden, Otto exclaimed, "It is wonderfully beautiful here; and in order that we may accompany each other without any disturbing element, I pray my Princess to adopt the etiquette of my court, and permit her hands to be bound one hour; then we shall both be secure, and nothing disagreeable can happen to either of us."

Huldigunde consented, and they walked side by side with their hands bound.

The birds sang, the sun shone warm and clear, and from the trees the red cherries hung down to their cheeks.

Huldigunde looked wishfully at the ripe fruit and cried, "What a pity you cannot pluck me any."

But Otto replied, "Want knows no law," took a cherry in his mouth and offered it to her. The Princess could only put her mouth to his to take the cherry, and when she had the fruit between her lips--and his kiss with it--could not at the moment say, "_J'y pense_."

And Otto cried, "Good morning, Philippine!" drew his hands from his girdle, and threw them around her her neck.

Graf Arno's Capture.

Arno, the wildest and most powerful robber knight of the Harz, dwelt securely enthroned in his strong Burg, the Arnstein, which lay on the Felsberg like an eagle's nest, from whose strong walls the old eagle flew daily forth for robbery and murder. He and his castle were inaccessible; frequently, when the inhabitants of the neighbourhood had united to storm his nest, he had sent them home with bleeding heads, and each time punished them by making worse disturbance than before.

The citizens of the near-situated Aschersleben suffered most by these raids; for when in the sweat of the brow they had cultivated their fields, and rejoiced in view of the approaching harvest, Arno would swoop down like a bird of prey, and gather the rich grains and fruits into his barns; and when the wealthy merchants of Magdeburg, Ascherslebeh, and Nordhausen, reckoning how they could make what was worth fifty per cent. bring a hundred, travelled past, he took pity on their problem-solving souls, and relieved their weary brains of the difficult calculations and the burden of sales by carrying off their goods to his castle--sometimes, indeed, the merchants themselves, whose friends redeemed them with heavy sums.

Often he kidnapped maidens, and it was not at all unwelcome to him, as one day, while he lay in vain in wait for booty, a troop of young girls showed itself near the wood where he lay hidden.

It was then, and is still in some Harz villages, the custom on the wedding-day of a youthful pair to lead the bride out upon a mountain or a meadow, where her friends seek to take from her the bridal wreath. Dancing and singing they follow the fleeing bride, who strives to keep her treasure as long as possible, hides behind hedges and underbrush, till at last they rob her of her wreath and carry it in triumph to the bridegroom. It was such a bridal party that issued this day from the gates of Aschersleben, to enjoy the fun after the fashion of their ancestors, for the fairest flower of Askania, Ida, a merchant's daughter, celebrated her wedding.

How her bridal veil and ribbons fluttered and shimmered in the wind and sun, as she in the joy of her heart, light of foot as a fawn, flew over the meadow, pursued by her laughing companions.

Shouts of merriment and scraps of song rang over the laughing landscape to the wood where Arno lay concealed, watching the charming scene.

"Little maiden!" thought he, "if no train of waggons comes that I prefer, I can take thee; that is not difficult, and costs no blood."

And as the train came near, and the bride, ever in advance, would hide in the thicket, he seized her and bore her pitilessly away. The other maidens searched long in vain, till at last they caught sight of the fleeing robber with his booty.

What consternation! what lamentations! Breathless they fled back to the town, proclaiming the dreadful news with loud cries.

All became uproar, women ran moaning through the streets, girls locked themselves in their rooms, as if the robber were behind them, the older citizens talked and reasoned, the younger swore revenge, and the members of the town council moved with solemn steps and imposing mien toward the town hall, where the walls of the dark council chamber should become silent witnesses of all the wisdom of their puffed-up pride and self-importance.

Evening came on, the council chamber was lighted; the palate of each worthy member of the council rebelled against the fatigue of a longer sitting, and at last the Bürgermeister raised his voice and addressed his colleagues: "It is necessary, honourable gentlemen, that we come to a decision, and as it has been proved, through reliable witnesses, that the robber of the bride is our dangerous neighbour, the Earl von Arnstein, and the crime has been committed within the territory of our town, and as such a crime is punishable with death, we sentence the said Arno to death by the hangman, do we not?"

"Yes, your Worship!" cried the chamberlain.

"Of course!" said the syndic.

"Certainly!" echoed the town clerk.

"Certainly!" agreed every member of the council unanimously.

"If we take into consideration," continued the Bürgermeister, "how much damage the said Arno of Arnstein has caused, death by the sword is too mild. Shall he not die on the wheel, or be quartered?"

"Of course!" said the chamberlain, with a knowing nod.

"Certainly!" agreed the syndic.

"How wise!" cried one part of the councillors; "How just!" another.

"I am of opinion," resumed the Bürgermeister, "that the execution should take place immediately, before the said Arno does any more mischief."

"Of course! of course!" cried the assembly.

"But--but--a--" resumed his Worship, hesitating and undecided, "we must first have the criminal in our power, and that is--not--so--easy a matter. Can any one offer advice as to what is to be done?"

Silence! All were dumb. At last one cried, "We must take him prisoner!"

"Quite right," voted the councillors; "he must be taken prisoner."

"That is also my opinion," said the Bürgermeister. "Nevertheless it--is--no--easy matter--to accomplish. We could march out at once with all the armed men we possess, and storm----"

"Yes, yes," cried the syndic, "we will storm the nest!"

"We will storm it!" exclaimed the town clerk, with a look intended to be brave.

"How wise! how heroic!" was the praise on every lip, while the Bürgermeister continued his interrupted address: "But we have already experienced the fact that the Arnstein is not easy to seize. _By force nothing can be done._"

"No, by force nothing can be done!" echoed the assembly as one man.

"We might attempt to take him by strategy," continued the orator; "but Arno is cunning as a fox, and we should probably only expose our town to more robbery if he discovered that we were trying to waylay him."

"Certainly! certainly!" agreed every mouth.

"Hence I give it as my opinion," concluded the Bürgermeister, "that as force and stratagem would only bring upon us expense and danger, and the result is uncertain, that--that--a--that we allow the matter to rest as it is, and leave the criminal to the punishment of Heaven. Do you not think so, gentlemen?"

"Certainly, your Worship, certainly! How wise! how mild! how forbearing!" shouted the assembly.

The Bürgermeister rose with official dignity, dismissed his colleagues with a wave of the hand, and the exhausted councillors were in the act of retiring, when the unhappy bridegroom rushed breathless into their midst.

"What is decided?" he cried hastily, and seized the syndic by the arm.

"What's that to you?" growled that dignitary, who felt himself insulted by such familiarity. "How do you dare to force yourself unbidden into the council chamber?"

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," stammered the bridegroom, surprised. "I come to give you a capital piece of advice--the idea just occurred to me."

Every face grew long from assumed dignity.

"What! you will give advice? You--to us?"

But as the young man entreated them to hear him, the Bürgermeister permitted him to speak, provided he would be short.

The bridegroom unfolded his plan, which, though unwillingly, was approved of.

Meanwhile, Arno concluded that his robbery of the bride was undiscovered, and was strengthened in this idea, as some days after he saw a group of maidens, decked in bridal array, issue forth from the town to the same meadow.

Suddenly he resolved to carry off one of them, and when they had danced themselves weary and had thrown themselves down on the grass to rest, he rushed out of the wood, and, like a vulture, swooped down upon his prey.

But, to his astonishment, the maiden, instead of resisting, held him fast, and the others drew forth daggers and attacked and killed his retainers. Resistance was useless; he could not free himself from the powerful arms of the disguised soldier. They dragged him to Aschersleben, and shut him up in a cage, where he starved to death.

The bridegroom put on Arno's armour, and the troop, concealed in loaded wagons, were conducted to the Arnstein by the disguised bridegroom. The warder saw the train approaching, and at once opened the gates to admit it.

Too late, when all were within the walls, he discovered his error. Soon they had possession of the stronghold, and the bride was restored to the bridegroom.

The cage they still show in Aschersleben, and the meadow is still called the Dance meadow.

There is a tradition of another knight of Arnstein, who, cold and cruel to all who in the least displeased him, was buried in the now ruined chapel. His ghost still haunts the ruins.

His second wife, a cruel step-mother, who oppressed her beautiful step-daughter, keeps him company. She is the spinner of the Arnstein, doomed to spin on till her web breaks, when her spirit will be set free.

Whether the ghostly monk bore relation to this cruel pair we are not told. He visits the ruins, probably nightly, but can only be seen every seven years by those who were born on St. John's Eve. His duty is to chastise idle and deceitful servants.

The Pebble.

An old, poor, but honest man left his cottage to gather sticks and healing herbs in the wood for sale in the neighbouring town.

He soon had a huge bundle of sticks bound together for his weary, bent back--bent from the burden of toil and of years--and a luxuriance of the healing woodroofs made gathering them a light task; but when he reached the town everybody said, "What's the need of wood now, when it is summer?"

And the apothecary declared, "It is June, and the blossoms have already absorbed all the strength of the plants. You must bring them henceforth in May."

No one had an ear for the entreaties of the distressed man, and he set off for home hopeless and discouraged. He saw no way of deliverance out of his deplorable condition, no relief for his suffering wife. "Yes," he sighed, "if the bell in Wimmelburg had not been melted in the last fire, the bell through which God, the good Father, cured every sick person who heard its tones, there might be help for my poor wife; or, if it is not all a fable, of the great treasure which the monks buried in Sittichenbach, and we could find it; or, if it is true about the hidden treasure in Eisleben, that only he can find who can watch four-and-twenty days and nights without closing his eyes. Oh! I could watch the time, for sorrow keeps me awake every night. But all these tales must be only fancies, and the benevolent fairies in these mountains, who used to help the poor when they were near despair, are most likely long since gone, or else my trouble would have brought them to my relief. And with men, oh! with men there is no pity!"

It seemed to him by these reflections as if a long, giant, shadowy form brushed past him in the twilight, whispering in his ear, "Do not despair."

He looked up, but saw nothing but the shadow of the oak under which he sat, heard nothing save the sighing of the evening wind in its branches.

With a tear in his eye, he took the bundle of wood on his back and went on. A moment after he saw a shining object on his path. "Ei! what a beautiful pebble!" he thought. "I will take it home for the children to play with."

It was already late when he reached his cottage, and mother and children were asleep. The thought of their distress when they awoke caused him to try what he could do in the village, but all were deaf to his entreaties. It was a very dark night, and returning home from the village and opening the cottage door he almost sank down from terror, for it was light as if the house were on fire. He opened the door leading into the court; there it was as if all were in flames. He stood astonished, and gazed at the wonderful light, observed the direction whence it came, and perceived it came from the little room in which he had laid the pebble on the window bench.

He recollected the stone he had picked up, and the belief in a good mountain spirit, and hurried to the room.

The varied splendid colours of the pebble quite dazzled his eyes; he wrapped it in a cloth, and hastened to his neighbour Bergmann, who knew all the stones of the Harz, and showed it to him.

Bergmann examined it well, and said, "I don't know this stone, but it must be worth money. Come with me to-morrow to the town, and if you only get a Thaler for it, it is some help."

The following day they went to a jeweller, a Jew, and offered him the stone. Hardly had he cast eyes on it than he started, and cried, "Wonderful! How did you come by the stone?"

The poor man was so frightened he was unable to reply; but Bergmann, who had more experience, said, "It does not matter where the stone comes from; you need only tell us how much you will give for it."

"Well!" replied the Jew, "shall I have it for a hundred Thaler?"

"How much?" cried the finder, who could hardly believe his ears. "I am not in a mood for jokes; say honestly how much you will give."

"What, did I say a hundred Thaler?" replied the Jew, for he thought the apparent anger of the seller had another cause. "I beg pardon; I meant to say a thousand Thaler."

The two friends were speechless with astonishment; Bergmann, however, answered, "How could you make us such an offer? Give us the stone, for you will not pay what it is worth."

"Indeed you are right," said the Jew with a low bow. "You must be joking with poor Levi, for you must know I could not command a sufficient sum to buy so costly a jewel."

The amazement of the two friends increased every moment, for the Jew was known to be one of the richest men in the place. Bergmann, however, replied with caution, "You have guessed it; we only made a joke of the matter, and came really to beg you to recommend a purchaser."

"Why should I not?" replied the jeweller. "But as true as I am an honest Jew, there is only one person in the whole German Empire that could purchase the jewel, and that is Fugger in Augsburg."

"And how high do you value it?"

"Well," said Levi, after having put his spectacles again on his nose, and examining the stone carefully, "if I am to give my honest opinion, it is worth three kingdoms."

The finder almost lost his equilibrium, while Bergmann put his hand to his head to see if it stood in the right place. "Three kingdoms, did you say?"

"Three kingdoms; and the purchaser could make money in the transaction."

An hour after, the two friends stood before the treasurer of the Prince, for the finder could not make up his mind to undertake the journey to Augsburg until he had provided for his wife and children, and asked him if he would advance a hundred thousand Thaler on the jewel, till they could sell it to Fugger.

But the treasurer was a vicious and avaricious man, who resolved to have the stone at any price, even by force if necessary, and as the friends would leave him, he threatened to throw them into prison if the stone were not delivered to him as his property for the hundred thousand Thaler.

To prevent unpleasantness they consented, and went home laden with gold.

Mother and children were provided with every comfort, and soon after they went to live in Aschersleben, for they could not be happy among people who had refused assistance in their need but fawned upon them now they were become rich.

The Jew received a handsome sum, and Bergmann was independent for life through his grateful friend.

But how did matters go with the dishonourable treasurer? His punishment was swift and terrible.

The next day he broke a piece from the stone, the tenth part of it, and presented himself before the Prince.

"Your Highness has given me a command to purchase jewels, as precious and costly as were to be found, that you might present them to the Princess of the adjoining dominions, and thereby win her hand and realm.

"I have not been able to find anything costly enough, and hence only one thing remains to be done. I possess a stone of priceless value, an heirloom of my family, which one of my ancestors took from a Mahomedan Sultan. I will resign it, however painful it may be. Only look at it and judge if any female heart could withstand such splendour. The Princess will bestow her hand upon your Highness, and I only ask in payment a few towns and villages, and a thousand acres of forest, and a thousand acres of arable land. Judge if I am unreasonable."

"Thou shalt have it; thou shalt have more than thy demand!" cried the Prince, as he beheld the glittering jewel, and embraced the treasurer, called him friend and brother, and commanded his secretary to draw up the documents giving the treasurer the half of his kingdom.

The treasurer went joyfully home, dreaming of princely honours, for had he not still a greater part of the stone in his possession?

Meanwhile the Prince called his favourite courtiers, and showed them the stone. No one spoke for astonishment. At last one of the surveyors of the mines remarked how wonderful it was that many pebbles possessed such brilliant colours, and it was to be regretted that they faded in a few days.

"What? a pebble?" cried the Prince.

"Yes, your Highness, only a pebble."

"A pebble? Not a precious stone? Then I have been deceived."

"Has your Highness bought it at a high price? Such stones are found in the earth, but the sunlight soon fades the colours."

"I have promised the treasurer half my kingdom for the stone."

Command was given to arrest the treasurer, but a friend had given him warning, and he had fled. They pursued him, the Prince at their head, found the unhappy man, deceived as well as deceiving, in a tree, and shot him dead on the spot.

The Monk and the Spring.

It was at Whitsuntide of the year 1292, as tradition tells us, that the town council of the free, imperial Möhlhausen issued a proclamation, that whoever could discover and conduct a spring into the upper town, which suffered much from fires through want of water, should be richly rewarded; and in case he had committed a crime, he should be pardoned.

At that time a monk of Kloster Reifenstein sat in the dungeon of the Rabenthurm[1]--now called the Adlerthurm[2]---under sentence of death.

[1] _Rabenthurm_--raven tower.

[2] _Adlerthurm_--eagle tower.

In the days of his freedom, when he had gone on affairs concerning his convent from Pfaffenrode to St. Daniel, he had often seen a spring among the hills.

The proclamation of the council penetrated to his criminal cell, and he recalled this spring to his memory, and felt a wild longing through it to regain his freedom.

But the spring bubbled up in a deep valley, and a long chain of hills lay between it and the town.

And the monk thought and studied, for before his soul stood the fragrant dishes of his convent and the costly wines, as attractive as the fleshpots of Egypt to the Jews; but with this vision stood the hangman, hand-in-hand with the impossibility of moving this spring through these hills, grinning in diabolical glee. He tossed restless on his bed of straw, longing for the dawn.

Now he sank into an uneasy slumber, disturbed by the most frightful dreams. The Rabenthurm seemed to quake and tremble, he heard distant thunder, and saw the glare of the lightning.

Now the foul fiend stood by his miserable bed tempting him.

In exchange for his soul, he promised to conduct the water of the spring to the upper town, and produced a roll of parchment containing a plan of the work.

At length the unhappy man consented to the proposals.

Again he dreamed of his childhood, of his dead mother, of the fields and woods where he gathered the first daisies and violets of spring; and now again he listened to the raging storm.

At break of day the monk opened the fatal roll. Judge of his astonishment and joy, as he saw the way marked out over hills and through ravines, by which the spring could be conducted with little difficulty to the place required.

He immediately made his proposals to the council.

His freedom was promised him if the work succeeded, and a body of labourers was given him for the carrying out of his plan.

And soon the crystal stream gladdened the thirsting upper town with an abundance of water.

But the monk, so soon as he had fulfilled his contract, disappeared, and even gratitude could find no trace of him. He was never seen again.

Hildegard and the Hainerburg.

In the thirteenth century there lived in Mühlhausen a respectable locksmith, who was also an alderman.

This Herr Adam had six sons and an only daughter, Hildegard, who was the loveliest maiden of all the plains of Germany.

The father's pride and joy were in these children, but his happiness was doomed to annihilation.

A wild and lawless knight of the Castle Hainerburg surprised Hildegard alone at home, her father and brothers being absent in the terrors of a fire in the city, and carried her off in a deadly swoon to his castle. Inexpressible rage filled the hearts of the citizens at the news of this violence, and they agreed to unite the coming week for the destruction of the castle.

But the father, distracted with grief, determined at once to rescue his child.

The very next night, the Ritter of the Hainerburg being absent on some villainous scheme, the father with his six sons knelt in the church of the Virgin, and besought her aid in his bold project.

And the petition was heard, for midnight was hardly past before the knights left behind in the Burg had been overpowered by the strong arms of the avengers of innocence, and thrust in the deepest dungeon.

They prayed again for strength, and now the walls and towers fell thundering into the moat, for the Virgin had appeared on the battlements encouraging them, and their strength had become superhuman.

And when morning dawned, the sun illuminated only a shapeless mass of ruins, and on the ruins the conquerors knelt and thanked heaven for the given strength.

Great were the jubilee and gratitude of the citizens when they saw the fallen fortress, and great their praise of the victors.

The fair Hildegard retired to the Brücken Kloster, where she died; and still the maidens of Mühlhausen sing many a song of her beauty and singular fate at the joyful dance of the _Kirchweihfest_.[1]

[1] In Germany an annual festival is held in commemoration of the dedication of the church of the place, called the _Kirchweihfest_--dedication festival. Feasting, dancing, and universal merriment are the order of the day. Friends are invited from far and near, and it is an occasion of general re-union in the parish.

The Three Stone Partridges.

On a flying buttress of the colossal Marienkirche, in Mühlhausen, are three stone partridges, and I am about to explain to you how they came there.

At the time when Germany was in the middle of the great Reformation contest, two prelates sat together with their well-filled--for the empty ones were speedily filled--wine-cups before them, and discussed the pros and cons of the Reformed doctrines, and whether Mühlhausen was likely to adopt the Lutheran creed.

At last one of the reverend prelates grew angry and exclaimed: "Those three partridges now turning on the spit in the kitchen will fly, before the faith of the heretical Augustine monk will gain power in this good city."

But, lo! scarcely were the haughty words uttered, when a cooing and a fluttering of wings were heard.

The prelates fled in a fright, seeing themselves robbed of their dinner; the partridges flew forth and settled on a buttress, where they were turned to stone, and remained as heralds of the dawn of a better day.

The Forester and the Enchanted Castle.

The forester of Scharzfels, with his gun on his shoulder, was one day sauntering through the wood, when, as he turned a corner, he saw three men in a young plantation digging, and thereby doing much mischief.

Already a strong oath was on his lips as the figures turned round and, through their odd, foreign appearance, frightened back every expression of anger.

One was a tall, from the weight of years not much bent, grey-headed old man. His bald head, from which on each side short silver locks hung down, a long white beard falling over his breast, the lean, stern features, and the black robe, gave him the appearance of an anchorite.

The second was a strong, powerful youth with flaming eyes. An odd-shaped, pointed hat rested on his curly black hair, and an uncultivated beard covered the lower part of his face.

The third was a noble, imposing form, the fearless countenance framed in a thousand auburn locks of curly hair; the eye was full of fire and courage, the bold lips full of power.

All three looked at the approaching huntsman with so much firmness and composure that he was only able to inquire, "What are you doing here, gentlemen? You are trampling under foot the young growths, and with your scraping and digging you will destroy many a thriving tree."

One of the strangers replied to this address mildly, regretted that they certainly had caused a little damage, but that was unfortunately not to be prevented, since they sought just on this very spot certain stones which were absolutely necessary to them, and that they were come from a great distance to make the search.

They expressed themselves, however, willing to make indemnification, if the forester would only make his demands.

A further conversation betrayed to the forester that the strangers were Venetians, and the result of it was that he permitted them to depart without hindrance, or without accepting the smallest indemnity.

Several years passed away; but every St. John's Day the forester saw and spoke with the same three strangers.

At last, one sultry summer afternoon, he threw himself down under a tree, and soon sank into a deep sleep.

How long he had slept he could not tell; as he opened his eyes he saw himself in a perfectly strange place, in which directly before him rose a stately, wonderful castle, surrounded by a high wall.

Terrified, the forester gazed around. It was certain that he had never before seen the neighbourhood, and that he had been transplanted from Scharzfels to the spot by enchantment.

In the anguish of his spirit he said the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, the _Ave Maria_, prayers for storms, and all the others he could think of, all mingled in the wildest confusion, like one who had taken leave of his senses.

But whether it was that he had left out a word, or was not earnest and devotional enough, the castle and its enclosing walls stood immovable.

The terrified man knew of nothing better to do than to resign himself to his fate, and to observe more closely his surroundings.

Dark cypresses rose behind the stone walls, and fig trees thrust their wonderfully crooked fingers forward, as if they would draw him in; shining lizards crept up the wall, glanced at him with their glittering eyes, and then wriggled hurriedly into the garden, which he could see through a grated gate under a great arch.

Behind and among the shrubbery and trees he could see all sorts of marble figures; goat-footed heathen gods, making awful faces; small hump-backed dwarfs with cocked hats; hunters with puffed-out cheeks blowing the horn; ladies with farthingales and horse-heads; urns around which salamanders, dragons, and other poisonous worms, with open jaws and red tongues, dragged their slimy lengths; and many other indescribable, diabolical objects.

Among all these grinning creatures strutted a peacock, in which certainly pride made a most ridiculous figure, as he craned his beautiful neck in the brilliant sunlight, and dragged his gorgeous tail--alas! by means of the ugliest feet and legs ever made.

Suddenly the gilded, grated door flew open, an old Moor came out, bowed low before the forester with his hands meekly crossed before him, invited him by a wave of the hand to follow him, and both entered the garden.

Intoxicating clouds of perfume floated toward him from every bush and hedge.

Wonderful, never-before-seen flowers nodded to him in greeting from their slender stalks, and bent before him their lovely heads.

Brilliant birds flew from branch to branch before him, and sang with almost human voice.

Then an ugly sea-cat threw itself down from some tree, with its winding tail twisted around some branch, ground the teeth with a horrid grin, and sprang back into the thick foliage.

From a side path a purple stork came forward with solemn gravity, twisted the long neck up and down to affected compliment, scraped with his thin legs behind him, and then walked resolutely before the forester and the conducting Moor, looking almost constantly back to see if they were following.

In one of the marble basins a stone vintager upset continually the cask, and the clear, foaming new wine that streamed from the bung-hole bubbled up in the face of the sipping boy; in another an idol, ending in a fish's tail, blew out of a shell the clear stream in the air, and the dust of drops shone in the light like diamonds and rubies. White temples with ivy-entwined pillars glittered behind the hedges.

The forester followed like one in a dream, resisting, yet drawn on by an irresistible, enchanting power, until they reached a colossal castle, built in a style perfectly unknown to him.

He climbed a marble flight of steps, and went on over costly carpets, so soft and smooth that he could not hear his own steps.

The fragrance of balsamic spices floated delightfully on the air from censers in every chamber.

Richly-worked tapestry covered the walls, the softest cushions invited to repose, the light, like a soft twilight, fell through green windows, and composed the spirit to a sweet calmness and peace.

From the lofty ceiling rare birds warbled their delicious melodies in golden cages, and a grey parrot sat on his perch and pecked with his crooked bill the golden wires of his hated cage.

Here the Moor stood still, threw open a folding-door and pushed the benumbed forester into a great salon.

In the vast chamber he stood fascinated, like one under enchantment, and gazed upon the extraordinary objects on every side. Around the costly chamber, near the magnificent walls, stood all sorts of animals in life-size, in beaten gold, a perfect imitation of nature. Amazed, the forester gazed at the beautiful forms. He never could have satisfied his eyes with looking; and who knows how long he might have stood there, if through another door the three men had not entered whom he had so often seen near Scharzfels?

They approached him, pressed his hand in the most friendly manner, and inquired how the chamber pleased him, and which piece he would choose.

After he had expressed his astonishment at the way he had been introduced into the castle, the forester, in reply to the question as to what object he should prefer if permitted to choose, said he would unhesitatingly select the stag with his beautiful antlers.

After some conversation, the eldest of the three said: "You have known us many years, and are aware that we went frequently to Scharzfels to search for metals and stones, which you stupid Germans do not prize, but which are, notwithstanding, of great value. We have now sufficient wealth, but we would wish to thank you for your forbearance, and entertain you as an honoured guest."

The forester was conducted to a _salle à manger_ glittering with gold, silver, and crystal. The rarest exotics beautified the table, and stood in graceful baskets and vases in every part of the apartment.

The most delicious viands and oldest wines were served, and not till a late hour did the merry party seek repose. The forester sank, in his silken couch, quickly into the arms of friendly sleep.

On awaking, he looked in surprise around him, for he lay under the shady beach in full view of Schloss Scharzfels.

"What a droll dream!" he cried, springing up and brushing the grass and moss from his clothes. But he stood as if transfixed, as he beheld the stag he wished for--the golden stag with great diamond eyes--lying in the grass beside him! The three men he never saw again, not even on St. John's Day.

The Steinkirche[1] and the Hermit.

[1] _Steinkirche_--stone church.

In the grey days long ago, when paganism ruled the land, there stood on the hills near the cave called the Steinkirche--altars to the gods.

Bright were the fires to Krodo in the darkness of the night, and on the opposite cliffs rose the fire pillar in honour of the goddess Ostera.[2]

[2] From _Ostera_ we have the name Easter.

The crackling flames illuminated the country and the mountains, and invited the inhabitants of the near-lying vales and heights to the wild customs, the bloody sacrifices, and the raving dance of heathenism.

Then came from a southern land a hermit to this district. He beheld the smoking sacrificial altars, he heard the songs of the reeling, staggering heathen, and with a slow and solemn tread he climbed the mountain.

The peculiar, reverence-awaking appearance of the stranger produced quiet among the raging throng. One seated himself here, another there, another leaned on his spear, and all listened in silence and attention to what the strange figure might have to say to them.

And as the tempest with hollow moans and wails sweeps over the tree-tops, so the aged stranger lifted up his voice, and preached to the assembly the Christian faith with ever-increasing enthusiasm.

At first they heard quietly his earnest words; but as he began to condemn the gods so dear to them, and challenged them to break in pieces their idols, and turn to the worship of the only true God, their rage kindled.

They sprang to their feet, forced him to silence, and after a short consultation voted unanimously that the blasphemer of their gods must die.

In a few moments the trembling old man was seized by the giant forms, led down from the summit of the mountain to a place suitable for the execution.

The hermit sent up a petition to the Almighty for strength and courage in the trying moment, released himself from their arms with a Samson strength, seized from one standing next him a wooden battle-axe, and thus addressed the bloodthirsty multitude:

"So sure as I with this weak tool split this firm rock, so sure as this wood produces a temple for the worship of the one eternal God in this immovable mass of stone, so true is the word, the gospel, which I proclaim to you."

When he had uttered these words, he struck with trembling arm the rough cliff, and lo! the firm rock yielded like soft clay to the weak blow of the wooden axe!