{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27499/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27499","id":"gutenberg_27499","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27499","summary":null,"tags":["Category: German Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folklore -- Germany","Legends -- Germany","Tales -- Germany"],"text":"Produced by Julie Barkley, Nannette Lewis and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n         FOLK-LORE\n\n            AND\n\n          LEGENDS\n\n          GERMANY\n\n\n        W. W. GIBBINGS\n  18 BURY ST., LONDON, W.C.\n            1892\n\n\n\n\nUNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.\n\n\"_These dainty little books._\"--STANDARD.\n\nFOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS.\n\n_FIRST SERIES._\n\n  1. GERMAN.\n  2. ORIENTAL.\n  3. SCOTLAND.\n  4. IRELAND.\n\n\n_SECOND SERIES._\n\n  1. ENGLAND.\n  2. SCANDINAVIAN.\n  3. RUSSIAN.\n  4. NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN.\n\n\"_They transport us into a romantic world._\"--TIMES.\n\n\n\n\nPREFATORY NOTE\n\n\nIt is proposed that this shall be the first of a series of little\nvolumes in which shall be presented in a handy form selections from\nthe Folk-lore and legends of various countries. It has been well said\nthat \"the legendary history of a nation is the recital of the elements\nthat formed the character of that nation; it contains the first rude\nattempts to explain natural phenomena, the traditions of its early\nhistory, and the moral principles popularly adopted as the rules for\nreward and punishment; and generally the legends of a people may be\nregarded as embodying the popular habits of thought and popular\nmotives of action.\" The following legends of Germany cannot, we think,\nfail to interest those who read them. Some of the stories are invested\nwith a charming simplicity of thought which cannot but excite\nadmiration. Others are of a weird, fantastic character fitted to a\nland of romantic natural features, of broad river, mountain, and deep\nforest. The humorous, the pathetic, the terrible, all find place in\nthe German folk-tales, and it would be difficult to rise from their\nperusal without having received both amusement and instruction. The\ngeneral lesson they convey is the sure punishment of vice and the\nreward of virtue; some way or another the villain always meets with\nhis desert. In future volumes we shall deal with the legends of other\ncountries, hoping that the public will bear us company in our\nexcursions.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                      PAGE\n\n  Gaffer Death,                                          1\n\n  The Legend of Paracelsus,                              6\n\n  Hans in Luck,                                          9\n\n  The Grey Mare in the Garret,                          17\n\n  The Water Spirit,                                     21\n\n  Peter Klaus,                                          31\n\n  The Legend of Rheineck,                               36\n\n  The Cellar of the Old Knights in the Kyffhauser,      48\n\n  The Fisherman and his Wife,                           53\n\n  The Mouse Tower,                                      62\n\n  The Dancers,                                          66\n\n  The Little Shroud,                                    70\n\n  The Arch Rogue,                                       72\n\n  Brother Merry,                                        82\n\n  Fastrada,                                            100\n\n  The Jew in the Bush,                                 104\n\n  The Elves,                                           110\n\n  The Conclave of Corpses,                             114\n\n  Legends of Rubezahl, or Number-Nip,                  120\n\n  The Hunter Hackelnberg and the Tut-Osel,             131\n\n  The Alraun,                                          136\n\n  The Goose-Girl,                                      140\n\n  Hans Jagenteufel,                                    149\n\n  The Waits of Bremen,                                 152\n\n  The Flaming Castle,                                  158\n\n  The Monks at the Ferry,                              161\n\n  Doctor All-Wise,                                     168\n\n  The White Maiden,                                    172\n\n  The Sturgeon,                                        176\n\n  St. Andrew's Night,                                  183\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe value of national stories and legends has in late years become\nvery widely recognised. Folk-lore has recently received a large amount\nof attention, and the thought and labour bestowed upon the subject\nhave been rewarded by results which prove that its investigators have\nentered upon no unfruitful, however long neglected, field.\n\nThis book, and its successors in the series which it is proposed to\nissue, may come into the hands of some who, having little opportunity\nafforded them to consider how the legends and tales it contains may be\nof the value we claim for them, may be glad to have the \"case\" for\nlegends and national stories presented to them in a few words.\n\nThe peasant's tale, the story preserved through centuries on the lips\nof old wives, the narrative which has come down to us having done duty\nas a source of amusement in the fireside groups of preceding\ngenerations, may seem to some to afford slight matter for reflection,\nand may even appear so grotesque in its incidents as to be fitted only\nto excite a smile of wonder at the simplicity of those among whom such\nstories could obtain reception, and surprise at the fantastic\nimagination in which such tales could find their origin. Modern\nthought has, however, been busy asking itself what is the meaning of\nthese stories, and it has done much to supply itself with an answer.\nThis, at least, it has done: it has discovered that these legends and\ntales, which so many have been inclined to cast aside as worthless,\nare of a singular value, as throwing a light which little else can\nafford upon the mind of primitive man. At first the collection of\nnational stories was undertaken merely for the purpose of affording\namusement. Folk-tales were diverting, so they found their way into\nprint, and were issued as curious literary matter fitted to supply\ndiversion for a vacant hour. Many of the tales are very beautiful, and\ntheir mere literary merit sufficed to make them sought for. But\nlegendary lore was soon observed to possess much more value than could\nattach to its merely amusing features. It was obvious that in these\nlegends were preserved the fragments of the beliefs of the ancient\nfolk. \"The mythology of one period,\" remarked Sir Walter Scott,\n\"would appear to pass into the romance of the next century, and that\ninto the nursery tale of the subsequent ages.\" \"Fiction,\" said Sir\nJohn Malcolm, \"resolves itself into its primitive elements, as, by the\nslow and unceasing action of the wind and rain, the solid granite is\ncrumbled into sand. The creations embodied by the vivid imagination of\nman in the childhood of his race incorporate themselves in his fond\nand mistaken faith. Sanctity is given to his daydreams by the altar of\nthe idol. Then, perhaps, they acquire a deceitful truth from the\ngenius of the bard. Blended with the mortal hero, the aspect of the\ngod glances through the visor of the helmet, or adds a holy dignity to\nthe royal crown. Poetry borrows its ornaments from the lessons of the\npriests. The ancient god of strength of the Teutons, throned in his\nchariot of the stars, the Northern Wain, invested the Emperor of the\nFranks and the paladins who surrounded him with superhuman might. And\nthe same constellation, darting down its rays upon the head of the\nlong-lost Arthur, has given to the monarch of the Britons the\nveneration which once belonged to the son of 'Uthry Bendragon,'\n'Thunder, the supreme leader,' and 'Eygyr, the generating power.' Time\nrolls on; faith lessens; the flocks are led to graze within the rocky\ncircle of the giants, even the bones of the warriors moulder into\ndust; the lay is no longer heard; and the fable, reduced again to its\noriginal simplicity and nudity, becomes the fitting source of pastime\nto the untutored peasant and the listening child. Hence we may yet\ntrace no small proportion of mystic and romantic lore in the tales\nwhich gladden the cottage fireside, or, century after century, soothe\nthe infant to its slumbers.\" The works of the brothers Grimm, the\nappearance of the _Kinder- und Haus-Maehrchen_, in 1812, and of the\n_Deutsche Mythologie_, in 1835, threw a new light on the importance of\nnational tales, and awoke the spirit of scientific comparison which\nhas made the study of Folk-lore productive of such valuable results.\n\nWith regard to the diffusion of national stories, it is remarkable\nthat we find substantially identical narratives flourishing in the\nmost widely separated countries, and this fact has given rise to\nseveral explanatory theories, none of which seems perfectly\nsatisfactory. The philological discovery of the original unity of all\nthe Aryan races may account for the possession by the Aryan peoples of\nsimilar stories. It may be, as Sir George Cox suggests, a common\ninheritance of such tales as were current when the Aryans \"still lived\nas a single people.\" We find, however, that these tales are also\ncurrent among people whom, accepting this theory, we should least\nexpect to find possessing them, and so the wide diffusion of the\nstories yet remains unsatisfactorily accounted for. Identity of\nimagination, inheritance, transmission, may each have played its part.\n\nAs to the origin of the tales much debate has arisen. It is obvious\nfrom the nature of the incidents of many of them that they could only\nhave originated in a most primitive state of man. \"Early man,\" says\nSir George Cox, \"had life, and therefore all things must have life\nalso. The sun, the moon, the stars, the ground on which he trod, the\nclouds, storms, lightnings were all living beings; could he help\nthinking that, like himself, they were all conscious beings also?\"\nSuch, according to this authority, was the origin of primary myths,\nsecondary and tertiary myths arising in the course of time from the\ngradual misunderstanding of phrases applied by primitive man to\npersonified objects. According to Professor Max Mueller, animism, or\nthe investing all things with life, springs not in the first place\nfrom man's thought, but from the language in which he clothes it. Man,\nhe says, found himself speaking of all things in words having \"a\ntermination expressive of gender, and this naturally produced in the\nmind the corresponding idea of sex.\" He thus came to invest all\nobjects with \"something of an individual, active, sexual, and at last\npersonal character.\" However hard it may be to discover the reason for\nthe origin of the tendency to animism, the fact is certain that the\ntendency is to be found generally existing among savage peoples, and\nit would seem that we must accept the national stories which have come\ndown to us embodying this tendency in grotesque incidents as relics\nhanded down from the savage days of the people with whom the tales\noriginated, as the expression of portions of their thought when they\nhad as yet only attained to such a degree of civilisation as exists\namong savages of the present day.\n\nStrange and grotesque as some of the national stories are, they may be\nregarded as embodying the fragments of some of man's most primitive\nbeliefs; and recognising this, it will be impossible to dismiss the\nfolk-tale as unworthy of careful consideration, nor may it be regarded\nas unfitted to afford us, if studied aright, very much more than\nmerely such amusement as may be derived from its quaint incident and\ngrotesque plot.\n\n                                                      C. J. T.\n\n\n\n\nGAFFER DEATH.\n\n\nThere was once a poor man who had twelve children, and he was obliged\nto labour day and night that he might earn food for them. When at\nlength, as it so happened, a thirteenth came into the world, the poor\nman did not know how to help himself, so he ran out into the highway,\ndetermined to ask the first person he met to be godfather to the boy.\n\nThere came stalking up to him Death, who said--\n\n\"Take me for a godfather.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" asked the father.\n\n\"I am Death, who makes all equal,\" replied the stranger.\n\nThen said the man--\n\n\"You are one of the right sort: you seize on rich and poor without\ndistinction; you shall be the child's godfather.\"\n\nDeath answered--\n\n\"I will make the boy rich and renowned throughout the world, for he\nwho has me for a friend can want nothing.\"\n\nSaid the man--\n\n\"Next Sunday will he be christened, mind and come at the right time.\"\n\nDeath accordingly appeared as he had promised, and stood godfather to\nthe child.\n\nWhen the boy grew up his godfather came to him one day, and took him\ninto a wood, and said--\n\n\"Now shall you have your godfather's present. I will make a most\nfamous physician of you. Whenever you are called to a sick person, I\nwill take care and show myself to you. If I stand at the foot of the\nbed, say boldly, 'I will soon restore you to health,' and give the\npatient a little herb that I will point out to you, and he will soon\nbe well. If, however, I stand at the head of the sick person, he is\nmine; then say, 'All help is useless; he must soon die.'\"\n\nThen Death showed him the little herb, and said--\n\n\"Take heed that you never use it in opposition to my will.\"\n\nIt was not long before the young fellow was the most celebrated\nphysician in the whole world.\n\n\"The moment he sees a person,\" said every one, \"he knows whether or\nnot he'll recover.\"\n\nAccordingly he was soon in great request. People came from far and\nnear to consult him, and they gave him whatever he required, so that\nhe made an immense fortune. Now, it so happened that the king was\ntaken ill, and the physician was called upon to say whether he must\ndie. As he went up to the bed he saw Death standing at the sick man's\nhead, so that there was no chance of his recovery. The physician\nthought, however, that if he outwitted Death, he would not, perhaps,\nbe much offended, seeing that he was his godfather, so he caught hold\nof the king and turned him round, so that by that means Death was\nstanding at his feet. Then he gave him some of the herb, and the king\nrecovered, and was once more well. Death came up to the physician with\na very angry and gloomy countenance, and said--\n\n\"I will forgive you this time what you have done, because I am your\ngodfather, but if you ever venture to betray me again, you must take\nthe consequences.\"\n\nSoon after this the king's daughter fell sick, and nobody could cure\nher. The old king wept night and day, until his eyes were blinded, and\nat last he proclaimed that whosoever rescued her from Death should be\nrewarded by marrying her and inheriting his throne. The physician\ncame, but Death was standing at the head of the princess. When the\nphysician saw the beauty of the king's daughter, and thought of the\npromises that the king had made, he forgot all the warnings he had\nreceived, and, although Death frowned heavily all the while, he turned\nthe patient so that Death stood at her feet, and gave her some of the\nherb, so that he once more put life into her veins.\n\nWhen Death saw that he was a second time cheated out of his property,\nhe stepped up to the physician, and said--\n\n\"Now, follow me.\"\n\nHe laid hold of him with his icy cold hand, and led him into a\nsubterranean cave, in which there were thousands and thousands of\nburning candles, ranged in innumerable rows. Some were whole, some\nhalf burnt out, some nearly consumed. Every instant some went out, and\nfresh ones were lighted, so that the little flames seemed perpetually\nhopping about.\n\n\"Behold,\" said Death, \"the life-candles of mankind. The large ones\nbelong to children, those half consumed to middle-aged people, the\nlittle ones to the aged. Yet children and young people have oftentimes\nbut a little candle, and when that is burnt out, their life is at an\nend, and they are mine.\"\n\nThe physician said--\n\n\"Show me my candle.\"\n\nThen Death pointed out a very little candle-end, which was glimmering\nin the socket, and said--\n\n\"Behold!\"\n\nThen the physician said--\n\n\"O dearest godfather, light me up a new one, that I may first enjoy my\nlife, be king, and husband of the beautiful princess.\"\n\n\"I cannot do so,\" said Death; \"one must burn out before I can light\nup another.\"\n\n\"Place the old one then upon a new one, that that may burn on when\nthis is at an end,\" said the physician.\n\nDeath pretended that he would comply with this wish, and reached a\nlarge candle, but to revenge himself, purposely failed in putting it\nup, and the little piece fell and was extinguished. The physician sank\nwith it, so he himself fell into the hands of Death.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF PARACELSUS.\n\n\nIt once happened that Paracelsus was walking through a forest, when he\nheard a voice calling to him by name. He looked around, and at length\ndiscovered that it proceeded from a fir-tree, in the trunk of which\nthere was a spirit enclosed by a small stopper, sealed with three\ncrosses.\n\nThe spirit begged of Paracelsus to set him free. This he readily\npromised, on condition that the spirit should bestow upon him a\nmedicine capable of healing all diseases, and a tincture which would\nturn everything it touched to gold. The spirit acceded to his request,\nwhereupon Paracelsus took his penknife, and succeeded, after some\ntrouble, in getting out the stopper. A loathsome black spider crept\nforth, which ran down the trunk of the tree. Scarcely had it reached\nthe ground before it was changed, and became, as if rising from the\nearth, a tall haggard man, with squinting red eyes, wrapped in a\nscarlet mantle.\n\nHe led Paracelsus to a high, overhanging, craggy mount, and with a\nhazel twig, which he had broken off by the way, he smote the rock,\nwhich, splitting with a crash at the blow, divided itself in twain,\nand the spirit disappeared within it. He, however, soon returned with\ntwo small phials, which he handed to Paracelsus--a yellow one,\ncontaining the tincture which turned all it touched to gold, and a\nwhite one, holding the medicine which healed all diseases. He then\nsmote the rock a second time, and thereupon it instantly closed again.\n\nBoth now set forth on their return, the spirit directing his course\ntowards Innsprueck, to seize upon the magician who had banished him\nfrom that city. Now Paracelsus trembled for the consequences which his\nreleasing the Evil One would entail upon him who had conjured him into\nthe tree, and bethought how he might rescue him. When they arrived\nonce more at the fir-tree, he asked the spirit if he could possibly\ntransform himself again into a spider, and let him see him creep into\nthe hole. The spirit said that it was not only possible, but that he\nwould be most happy to make such a display of his art for the\ngratification of his deliverer.\n\nAccordingly he once more assumed the form of a spider, and crept again\ninto the well-known crevice. When he had done so, Paracelsus, who had\nkept the stopper all ready in his hand for the purpose, clapped it as\nquick as lightning into the hole, hammered it in firmly with a stone,\nand with his knife made three fresh crosses upon it. The spirit, mad\nwith rage, shook the fir-tree as though with a whirlwind, that he\nmight drive out the stopper which Paracelsus had thrust in, but his\nfury was of no avail. It held fast, and left him there with little\nhope of escape, for, on account of the great drifts of snow from the\nmountains, the forest will never be cut down, and, although he should\ncall night and day, nobody in that neighbourhood ever ventures near\nthe spot.\n\nParacelsus, however, found that the phials were such as he had\ndemanded, and it was by their means that he afterwards became such a\ncelebrated and distinguished man.\n\n\n\n\nHANS IN LUCK.\n\n\nHans had served his master seven years, and at last said to him--\n\n\"Master, my time is up; I should like to go home and see my mother, so\ngive me my wages.\"\n\nAnd the master said--\n\n\"You have been a faithful and good servant, so your pay shall be\nhandsome.\"\n\nThen he gave him a piece of silver that was as big as his head. Hans\ntook out his pocket-handkerchief, put the piece of silver into it,\nthrew it over his shoulder, and jogged off homewards. As he went\nlazily on, dragging one foot after another, a man came in sight,\ntrotting along gaily on a capital horse.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Hans aloud, \"what a fine thing it is to ride on horseback!\nThere he sits as if he were at home in his chair. He trips against no\nstones, spares his shoes, and yet gets on he hardly knows how.\"\n\nThe horseman heard this, and said--\n\n\"Well, Hans, why do you go on foot, then?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said he, \"I have this load to carry; to be sure, it is silver,\nbut it is so heavy that I can't hold up my head, and it hurts my\nshoulder sadly.\"\n\n\"What do you say to changing?\" said the horseman. \"I will give you my\nhorse, and you shall give me the silver.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said Hans, \"but I tell you one thing: you will\nhave a weary task to drag it along.\"\n\nThe horseman got off, took the silver, helped Hans up, gave him the\nbridle into his hand, and said--\n\n\"When you want to go very fast, you must smack your lips loud and cry,\n'Jip.'\"\n\nHans was delighted as he sat on the horse, and rode merrily on. After\na time he thought he should like to go a little faster, so he smacked\nhis lips and cried \"Jip.\" Away went the horse full gallop, and before\nHans knew what he was about, he was thrown off, and lay in a ditch by\nthe wayside, and his horse would have run off if a shepherd, who was\ncoming by driving a cow, had not stopped it. Hans soon came to\nhimself, and got upon his legs again. He was sadly vexed, and said to\nthe shepherd--\n\n\"This riding is no joke when a man gets on a beast like this, that\nstumbles and flings him off as if he would break his neck. However,\nI'm off now once for all. I like your cow a great deal better; one can\nwalk along at one's leisure behind her, and have milk, butter, and\ncheese every day into the bargain. What would I give to have such a\ncow!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the shepherd, \"if you are so fond of her I will change my\ncow for your horse.\"\n\n\"Done!\" said Hans merrily.\n\nThe shepherd jumped upon the horse and away he rode. Hans drove off\nhis cow quietly, and thought his bargain a very lucky one.\n\n\"If I have only a piece of bread (and I certainly shall be able to get\nthat), I can, whenever I like, eat my butter and cheese with it, and\nwhen I am thirsty I can milk my cow and drink the milk. What can I\nwish for more?\" said he.\n\nWhen he came to an inn he halted, ate up all his bread, and gave away\nhis last penny for a glass of beer. Then he drove his cow towards his\nmother's village. The heat grew greater as noon came on, till at last\nhe found himself on a wide heath that it would take him more than an\nhour to cross, and he began to be so hot and parched that his tongue\ncleaved to the roof of his mouth.\n\n\"I can find a cure for this,\" thought he; \"now will I milk my cow and\nquench my thirst.\" So he tied her to the stump of a tree, and held his\nleathern cap to milk into, but not a drop was to be had.\n\nWhile he was trying his luck, and managing the matter very clumsily,\nthe uneasy beast gave him a kick on the head that knocked him down,\nand there he lay a long while senseless. Luckily a butcher came by\ndriving a pig in a wheelbarrow.\n\n\"What is the matter with you?\" said the butcher, as he helped him up.\n\nHans told him what had happened, and the butcher gave him a flask,\nsaying--\n\n\"There, drink and refresh yourself. Your cow will give you no milk;\nshe is an old beast, good for nothing but the slaughter-house.\"\n\n\"Alas, alas!\" said Hans, \"who would have thought it? If I kill her,\nwhat will she be good for? I hate cow-beef; it is not tender enough\nfor me. If it were a pig, now, one could do something with it; it\nwould at any rate make some sausages.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the butcher, \"to please you I'll change and give you the\npig for the cow.\"\n\n\"Heaven reward you for your kindness!\" said Hans, as he gave the\nbutcher the cow and took the pig off the wheelbarrow and drove it off,\nholding it by a string tied to its leg.\n\nSo on he jogged, and all seemed now to go right with him. He had met\nwith some misfortunes, to be sure, but he was now well repaid for all.\nThe next person he met was a countryman carrying a fine white goose\nunder his arm. The countryman stopped to ask what was the hour, and\nHans told him all his luck, and how he had made so many good bargains.\nThe countryman said he was going to take the goose to a christening.\n\n\"Feel,\" said he, \"how heavy it is, and yet it is only eight weeks\nold. Whoever roasts and eats it may cut plenty of fat off, it has\nlived so well.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" said Hans, as he weighed it in his hand; \"but my pig\nis no trifle.\"\n\nMeantime the countryman began to look grave, and shook his head.\n\n\"Hark ye,\" said he, \"my good friend. Your pig may get you into a\nscrape. In the village I have just come from the squire has had a pig\nstolen out of his sty. I was dreadfully afraid when I saw you that you\nhad got the squire's pig. It will be a bad job if they catch you, for\nthe least they'll do will be to throw you into the horse-pond.\"\n\nPoor Hans was sadly frightened.\n\n\"Good man,\" cried he, \"pray get me out of this scrape. You know this\ncountry better than I; take my pig and give me the goose.\"\n\n\"I ought to have something into the bargain,\" said the countryman;\n\"however, I'll not bear hard upon you, as you are in trouble.\"\n\nThen he took the string in his hand and drove off the pig by a side\npath, while Hans went on his way homeward free from care.\n\n\"After all,\" thought he, \"I have the best of the bargain. First there\nwill be a capital roast, then the fat will find me in goose-grease for\nsix months, and then there are all the beautiful white feathers. I\nwill put them into my pillow, and then I am sure I shall sleep\nsoundly without rocking. How happy my mother will be!\"\n\nAs he came to the last village he saw a scissors-grinder, with his\nwheel, working away and singing--\n\n    \"O'er hill and o'er dale so happy I roam,\n    Work light and live well, all the world is my home;\n    Who so blythe, so merry as I?\"\n\nHans stood looking for a while, and at last said--\n\n\"You must be well off, master grinder, you seem so happy at your\nwork.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the other, \"mine is a golden trade. A good grinder never\nputs his hand in his pocket without finding money in it--but where did\nyou get that beautiful goose?\"\n\n\"I did not buy it, but changed a pig for it.\"\n\n\"And where did you get the pig?\"\n\n\"I gave a cow for it.\"\n\n\"And the cow?\"\n\n\"I gave a horse for it.\"\n\n\"And the horse?\"\n\n\"I gave a piece of silver as big as my head for that.\"\n\n\"And the silver?\"\n\n\"Oh! I worked hard for that seven long years.\"\n\n\"You have thriven well in the world hitherto,\" said the grinder, \"now\nif you could find money in your pocket whenever you put your hand into\nit your fortune would be made.\"\n\n\"Very true, but how is that to be managed?\"\n\n\"You must turn grinder like me,\" said the other. \"You only want a\ngrindstone, the rest will come of itself. Here is one that is only a\nlittle the worse for wear. I would not ask more than the value of your\ngoose for it. Will you buy it?\"\n\n\"How can you ask such a question?\" said Hans. \"I should be the\nhappiest man in the world if I could have money whenever I put my hand\nin my pocket. What could I want more? There's the goose.\"\n\n\"Now,\" said the grinder, as he gave him a common rough stone that lay\nby his side, \"this is a most capital stone. Do but manage it cleverly\nand you can make an old nail cut with it.\"\n\nHans took the stone, and went off with a light heart. His eyes\nsparkled with joy, and he said to himself--\n\n\"I must have been born in a lucky hour. Everything I want or wish\ncomes to me of itself.\"\n\nMeantime he began to be tired, for he had been travelling ever since\ndaybreak. He was hungry too, for he had given away his last penny in\nhis joy at getting the cow. At last he could go no further, and the\nstone tired him terribly, so he dragged himself to the side of the\npond that he might drink some water and rest a while. He laid the\nstone carefully by his side on the bank, but as he stooped down to\ndrink he forgot it, pushed it a little, and down it went, plump into\nthe pond. For a while he watched it sinking in the deep, clear water,\nthen, sprang up for joy, and again fell upon his knees and thanked\nHeaven with tears in his eyes for its kindness in taking away his only\nplague, the ugly, heavy stone.\n\n\"How happy am I!\" cried he; \"no mortal was ever so lucky as I am.\"\n\nThen he got up with a light and merry heart, and walked on, free from\nall his troubles, till he reached his mother's house.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREY MARE IN THE GARRET.\n\n\nIn the portal of the Church of the Apostles, near the new market in\nCologne, hung a picture, the portraits of a certain Frau Richmodis von\nAducht and her two children, of whom the following singular story is\nrelated. The picture was covered with a curtain which she worked with\nher own hands.\n\nHer husband, Richmuth von Aducht, was, in the year of grace 1400, a\nrich burgomaster of Cologne, and lived at the sign of the Parroquet in\nthe New Marckt. In that year a fearful plague desolated all quarters\nof the city. She fell sick of the pest, and, to all appearance, died.\nAfter the usual period had elapsed she was buried in the vaults of the\nApostles' Church. She was buried, as the custom then was, with her\njewelled rings on her fingers, and most of her rich ornaments on her\nperson. These tempted the cupidity of the sexton of the church. He\nargued with himself that they were no use to the corpse, and he\ndetermined to possess them. Accordingly he proceeded in the dead of\nnight to the vault where she lay interred, and commenced the work of\nsacrilegious spoliation. He first unscrewed the coffin lid. He then\nremoved it altogether, and proceeded to tear away the shroud which\ninterposed between him and his prey. But what was his horror to\nperceive the corpse clasp her hands slowly together, then rise, and\nfinally sit erect in the coffin. He was rooted to the earth. The\ncorpse made as though it would step from its narrow bed, and the\nsexton fled, shrieking, through the vaults. The corpse followed, its\nlong white shroud floating like a meteor in the dim light of the lamp,\nwhich, in his haste, he had forgotten. It was not until he reached his\nown door that he had sufficient courage to look behind him, and then,\nwhen he perceived no trace of his pursuer, the excitement which had\nsustained him so far subsided, and he sank senseless to the earth.\n\nIn the meantime Richmuth von Aducht, who had slept scarcely a moment\nsince the death of his dear wife, was surprised by the voice of his\nold manservant, who rapped loudly at his chamber door, and told him to\nawake and come forth, for his mistress had arisen from the dead, and\nwas then at the gate of the courtyard.\n\n\"Bah!\" said he, rather pettishly, \"go thy ways, Hans; you dream, or\nare mad, or drunk. What you see is quite impossible. I should as soon\nbelieve my old grey mare had got into the garret as that my wife was\nat the courtyard gate.\"\n\nTrot, trot, trot, trot, suddenly resounded high over his head.\n\n\"What's that?\" asked he of his servant.\n\n\"I know not,\" replied the man, \"an' it be not your old grey mare in\nthe garret.\"\n\nThey descended in haste to the courtyard, and looked up to the window\nof the attic. Lo and behold! there was indeed the grey mare with her\nhead poked out of the window, gazing down with her great eyes on her\nmaster and his man, and seeming to enjoy very much her exalted\nstation, and their surprise at it.\n\nKnock, knock, knock went the rapper of the street gate.\n\n\"It is my wife!\" \"It is my mistress!\" exclaimed master and man in the\nsame breath.\n\nThe door was quickly unfastened, and there, truly, stood the mistress\nof the mansion, enveloped in her shroud.\n\n\"Are you alive or dead?\" exclaimed the astonished husband.\n\n\"Alive, my dear, but very cold,\" she murmured faintly, her teeth\nchattering the while, as those of one in a fever chill; \"help me to my\nchamber.\"\n\nHe caught her in his arms and covered her with kisses. Then he bore\nher to her chamber, and called up the whole house to welcome and\nassist her. She suffered a little from fatigue and fright, but in a\nfew days was very much recovered.\n\nThe thing became the talk of the town, and hundreds flocked daily to\nsee, not alone the lady that was rescued from the grave in so\nremarkable a manner, but also the grey mare which had so strangely\ncontrived to get into the garret.\n\nThe excellent lady lived long and happily with her husband, and at her\ndeath was laid once more in her old resting-place. The grey mare,\nafter resting in the garret three days, was got down by means of\nscaffolding, safe and sound. She survived her mistress for some time,\nand was a general favourite in the city, and when she died her skin\nwas stuffed, and placed in the arsenal as a curiosity. The sexton went\nmad with the fright he had sustained, and in a short time entered that\nbourn whence he had so unintentionally recovered the burgomaster's\nwife.\n\nNot only was this memorable circumstance commemorated in the Church of\nthe Apostles, but it was also celebrated in _bassi relievi_ figures on\nthe walls of the burgomaster's residence--the sign of the Parroquet in\nthe New Marckt. The searcher after antiquities will, however, look in\nvain for either. They are not now to be found. Modern taste has\ndefaced the porch where stood the one, and erected a shapeless\nstructure on the site of the other.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATER SPIRIT.\n\n\nAbout the middle of the sixteenth century, when Zuendorf was no larger\nthan it is at present, there lived at the end of the village, hard by\nthe church, one of that useful class of women termed midwives. She was\nan honest, industrious creature, and what with ushering the new-born\ninto life, and then assisting in making garments for them, she\ncontrived to creep through the world in comfort, if not in complete\nhappiness.\n\nThe summer had been one of unusual drought, and the winter, of a\nnecessity, one of uncommon scarcity, so that when the spring arrived\nthe good woman had less to do than at any period in the preceding\nseven years. In fact she was totally unemployed. As she mused one\nnight, lying abed, on the matter, she was startled by a sharp, quick\nknock at the door of her cottage. She hesitated for a moment to answer\nthe call, but the knocking was repeated with more violence than\nbefore. This caused her to spring out of bed without more delay, and\nhasten to ascertain the wish of her impatient visitor. She opened the\ndoor in the twinkling of an eye, and a man, tall of stature, enveloped\nin a large dark cloak, stood before her.\n\n\"My wife is in need of thee,\" he said to her abruptly; \"her time is\ncome. Follow me.\"\n\n\"Nay, but the night is dark, sir,\" replied she. \"Whither do you desire\nme to follow?\"\n\n\"Close at hand,\" he answered, as abruptly as before. \"Be ye quick and\nfollow me.\"\n\n\"I will but light my lamp and place it in the lantern,\" said the\nwoman. \"It will not cost me more than a moment's delay.\"\n\n\"It needs not, it needs not,\" repeated the stranger; \"the spot is\nclose by. I know every foot of ground. Follow, follow!\"\n\nThere was something so imperative, and at the same time so\nirresistible, in the manner of the man that she said not another word,\nbut drawing her warm cloak about her head followed him at once. Ere\nshe was aware of the course he had taken, so dark was the night, and\nso wrapt up was she in the cloak and in her meditations, she found\nherself on the bank of the Rhine, just opposite to the low fertile\nislet which bears the same name as the village, and lies at a little\ndistance from the shore.\n\n\"How is this, good sir?\" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise and\nalarm. \"You have missed the way--you have left your road. Here is no\nfurther path.\"\n\n\"Silence, and follow,\" were the only words he spoke in reply; but\nthey were uttered in such a manner as to show her at once that her\nbest course was obedience.\n\nThey were now at the edge of the mighty stream; the rushing waters\nwashed their feet. The poor woman would fain have drawn back, but she\ncould not, such was the preternatural power exercised over her by her\ncompanion.\n\n\"Fear not; follow!\" he spoke again, in a kinder tone, as the current\nkissed the hem of her garments.\n\nHe took the lead of her. The waters opened to receive him. A wall of\ncrystal seemed built up on either side of the vista. He plunged into\nits depths; she followed. The wild wave gurgled over them, and they\nwere walking over the shiny pebbles and glittering sands which strewed\nthe bed of the river.\n\nAnd now a change came over her indeed. She had left all on earth in\nthe thick darkness of a starless spring night, yet all around her was\nlighted up like a mellow harvest eve, when the sun shines refulgent\nthrough masses of golden clouds on the smiling pastures and emerald\nmeadows of the west. She looked up, but she could see no cause for\nthis illumination. She looked down, and her search was equally\nunsuccessful. She seemed to herself to traverse a great hall of\nsurpassing transparency, lighted up by a light resembling that given\nout by a huge globe of ground glass. Her conductor still preceded\nher. They approached a little door. The chamber within it contained\nthe object of their solicitude. On a couch of mother-of-pearl,\nsurrounded by sleeping fishes and drowsy syrens, who could evidently\nafford her no assistance, lay the sick lady.\n\n\"Here is my wife,\" spake the stranger, as they entered this chamber.\n\"Take her in hand at once, and hark ye, mother, heed that she has no\ninjury through thee, or----\"\n\nWith these words he waved his hand, and, preceded by the obedient\ninhabitants of the river, who had until then occupied the chamber,\nleft the apartment.\n\nThe midwife approached her patient with fear and trembling; she knew\nnot what to anticipate. What was her surprise to perceive that the\nstranger was like any other lady. The business in hand was soon\nfinished, and midwife and patient began to talk together, as women\nwill when an opportunity is afforded them.\n\n\"It surprises me much,\" quoth the former, \"to see such a handsome\nyoung lady as you are buried down here in the bottom of the river. Do\nyou never visit the land? What a loss it is to you!\"\n\n\"Hush, hush!\" interposed the Triton's lady, placing her forefinger\nsignificantly on her lips; \"you peril your life by talking thus\nwithout guard. Go to the door; look out, that you may see if there be\nany listeners, then I will tell something to surprise you.\"\n\nThe midwife did as she was directed. There was no living being within\nearshot.\n\n\"Now, listen,\" said the lady.\n\nThe midwife was all ear.\n\n\"I am a woman; a Christian woman like yourself,\" she continued,\n\"though I am here now in the home of my husband, who is the spirit of\nthese mighty waters.\"\n\n\"God be praised!\" ejaculated her auditor.\n\n\"My father was the lord of the hamlet of Rheidt, a little above\nLuelsdorf, and I lived there in peace and happiness during my girlish\ndays. I had nothing to desire, as every wish was gratified by him as\nsoon as it was formed. However, as I grew to womanhood I felt that my\nhappiness had departed. I knew not whither it had gone, or why, but\ngone it was. I felt restless, melancholy, wretched. I wanted, in\nshort, something to love, but that I found out since. Well, one day a\nmerry-making took place in the village, and every one was present at\nit. We danced on the green sward which stretches to the margin of the\nriver; for that day I forgot my secret grief, and was among the gayest\nof the gay. They made me the queen of the feast, and I had the homage\nof all. As the sun was going down in glory in the far west, melting\nthe masses of clouds into liquid gold, a stranger of a noble mien\nappeared in the midst of our merry circle. He was garbed in green from\nhead to heel, and seemed to have crossed the river, for the hem of his\nrich riding-cloak was dripping with wet. No one knew him, no one cared\nto inquire who he was, and his presence rather awed than rejoiced us.\nHe was, however, a stranger, and he was welcome. When I tell you that\nstranger is my husband, you may imagine the rest. When the dance then\non foot was ended, he asked my hand. I could not refuse it if I would,\nbut I would not if I could. He was irresistible. We danced and danced\nuntil the earth seemed to reel around us. I could perceive, however,\neven in the whirl of tumultuous delight which forced me onward, that\nwe neared the water's edge in every successive figure. We stood at\nlength on the verge of the stream. The current caught my dress, the\nvillagers shrieked aloud, and rushed to rescue me from the river.\n\n\"'Follow!' said my partner, plunging as he spoke into the foaming\nflood.\n\n\"I followed. Since then I have lived with him here. It is now a\ncentury since, but he has communicated to me a portion of his own\nimmortality, and I know not age, neither do I dread death any longer.\nHe is good and kind to me, though fearful to others. The only cause of\ncomplaint I have is his invariable custom of destroying every babe to\nwhich I give birth on the third day after my delivery. He says it is\nfor my sake, and for their sakes, that he does so, and he knows best.\"\n\nShe sighed heavily as she said this.\n\n\"And now,\" resumed the lady, \"I must give you one piece of advice,\nwhich, if you would keep your life, you must implicitly adopt. My\nhusband will return. Be on your guard, I bid you. He will offer you\ngold, he will pour out the countless treasures he possesses before\nyou, he will proffer you diamonds and pearls and priceless gems,\nbut--heed well what I say to you--take nothing more from him than you\nwould from any other person. Take the exact sum you are wont to\nreceive on earth, and take not a kreutzer more, or your life is not\nworth a moment's purchase. It is forfeit.\"\n\n\"He must be a cruel being, indeed,\" ejaculated the midwife. \"God\ndeliver me from this dread and great danger.\"\n\n\"See you yon sealed vessels?\" spake the lady, without seeming to heed\nher fright, or hear her ejaculations.\n\nThe midwife looked, and saw ranged on an upper shelf of the apartment\nabout a dozen small pots, like pipkins, all fast sealed, and labelled\nin unknown characters.\n\n\"These pots,\" pursued she, \"contain the souls of those who have been,\nlike you, my attendants in childbirth, but who, for slighting the\nadvice I gave them, as I now give you, and permitting a spirit of\nunjust gain to take possession of their hearts, were deprived of life\nby my husband. Heed well what I say. He comes. Be silent and\ndiscreet.\"\n\nAs she spake the water spirit entered. He first asked his wife how she\ndid, and his tones were like the rushing sound of a current heard far\noff. Learning from her own lips that all was well with her, he turned\nto the midwife and thanked her most graciously.\n\n\"Now, come with me,\" he said, \"I must pay thee for thy services.\"\n\nShe followed him from the sick-chamber to the treasury of the palace.\nIt was a spacious crystal vault, lighted up, like the rest of the\npalace, from without, but within it was resplendent with treasures of\nall kinds. He led her to a huge heap of shining gold which ran the\nwhole length of the chamber.\n\n\"Here,\" said he, \"take what you will. I put no stint upon you.\"\n\nThe trembling woman picked up a single piece of the smallest coin she\ncould find upon the heap.\n\n\"This is my fee,\" she spake. \"I ask no more than a fair remuneration\nfor my labour.\"\n\nThe water spirit's brow blackened like a tempestuous night, and he\nshowed his green teeth for a moment as if in great ire, but the\nfeeling, whatever it was, appeared to pass away as quickly as it\ncame, and he led her to a huge heap of pearls.\n\n\"Here,\" he said, \"take what you will. Perhaps you like these better?\nThey are all pearls of great price, or may be you would wish for some\nmemento of me. Take what you will.\"\n\nBut she still declined to take anything more, although he tempted her\nwith all his treasures. She had not forgotten the advice of her\npatient.\n\n\"I desire nothing more from you, great prince as you are, than I\nreceive from one of my own condition.\" This was her uniform answer to\nhis entreaties--\n\n\"I thank you, but I may not take aught beside my due.\"\n\n\"If,\" said he, after a short pause, \"you had taken more than your due,\nyou would have perished at my hands. And now,\" proceeded the spirit,\n\"you shall home, but first take this. Fear not.\"\n\nAs he spake he dipped his hand in the heap of gold and poured forth a\nhandful into her lap.\n\n\"Use that,\" he continued, \"use it without fear. It is my gift. No evil\nwill come of it; I give you my royal word.\"\n\nHe beckoned her onward without waiting for her reply, and they were\nwalking once again through the corridors of the palace.\n\n\"Adieu!\" he said, waving his hand to her, \"adieu!\"\n\nDarkness fell around her in a moment. In a moment more she awoke, as\nfrom a dream, in her warm bed.\n\n\n\n\nPETER KLAUS.\n\n\nPeter Klaus, a goatherd of Sittendorf, who tended herds on the\nKyffhauser mountain, used to let them rest of an evening in a spot\nsurrounded by an old wall, where he always counted them to see if they\nwere all right. For some days he noticed that one of his finest goats,\nas they came to this spot, vanished, and never returned to the herd\ntill late. He watched him more closely, and at length saw him slip\nthrough a rent in the wall. He followed him, and caught him in a cave,\nfeeding sumptuously upon the grains of oats which fell one by one from\nthe roof. He looked up, shook his head at the shower of oats, but,\nwith all his care, could discover nothing further. At length he heard\noverhead the neighing and stamping of some mettlesome horses, and\nconcluded that the oats must have fallen from their mangers.\n\nWhile the goatherd stood there, wondering about these horses in a\ntotally uninhabited mountain, a lad came and made signs to him to\nfollow him silently. Peter ascended some steps, and, crossing a\nwalled court, came to a glade surrounded by rocky cliffs, into which a\nsort of twilight made its way through the thick-leaved branches. Here\nhe found twelve grave old knights playing at skittles, at a\nwell-levelled and fresh plot of grass. Peter was silently appointed to\nset up the ninepins for them.\n\nAt first his knees knocked together as he did this, while he marked,\nwith half-stolen glances, the long beards and goodly paunches of the\nnoble knights. By degrees, however, he grew more confident, and looked\nat everything about him with a steady gaze--nay, at last, he ventured\nso far as to take a draught from a pitcher which stood near him, the\nfragrance of which appeared to him delightful. He felt quite revived\nby the draught, and as often as he felt at all tired, received new\nstrength from application to the inexhaustible pitcher. But at length\nsleep overcame him.\n\nWhen he awoke, he found himself once more in the enclosed green space,\nwhere he was accustomed to leave his goats. He rubbed his eyes, but\ncould discover neither dog nor goats, and stared with surprise at the\nheight to which the grass had grown, and at the bushes and trees,\nwhich he never remembered to have noticed. Shaking his head, he\nproceeded along the roads and paths which he was accustomed to\ntraverse daily with his herd, but could nowhere see any traces of his\ngoats. Below him he saw Sittendorf; and at last he descended with\nquickened step, there to make inquiries after his herd.\n\nThe people whom he met at his entrance to the town were unknown to\nhim, and dressed and spoke differently from those whom he had known\nthere. Moreover, they all stared at him when he inquired about his\ngoats, and began stroking their chins. At last, almost involuntarily,\nhe did the same, and found to his great astonishment that his beard\nhad grown to be a foot long. He began now to think himself and the\nworld altogether bewitched, and yet he felt sure that the mountain\nfrom which he had descended was the Kyffhauser; and the houses here,\nwith their fore-courts, were all familiar to him. Moreover, several\nlads whom he heard telling the name of the place to a traveller called\nit Sittendorf.\n\nShaking his head, he proceeded into the town straight to his own\nhouse. He found it sadly fallen to decay. Before it lay a strange\nherd-boy in tattered garments, and near him an old worn-out dog, which\ngrowled and showed his teeth at Peter when he called him. He entered\nby the opening, which had formerly been closed by a door, but found\nall within so desolate and empty that he staggered out again like a\ndrunkard, and called his wife and children. No one heard; no voice\nanswered him.\n\nWomen and children now began to surround the strange old man, with\nthe long hoary beard, and to contend with one another in inquiring of\nhim what he wanted. He thought it so ridiculous to make inquiries of\nstrangers, before his own house, after his wife and children, and\nstill more so, after himself, that he mentioned the first neighbour\nwhose name occurred to him, Kirt Stiffen. All were silent, and looked\nat one another, till an old woman said--\n\n\"He has left here these twelve years. He lives at Sachsenberg; you'll\nhardly get there to-day.\"\n\n\"Velten Maier?\"\n\n\"God help him!\" said an old crone leaning on a crutch. \"He has been\nconfined these fifteen years in the house, which he'll never leave\nagain.\"\n\nHe recognised, as he thought, his suddenly aged neighbour; but he had\nlost all desire of asking any more questions. At last a brisk young\nwoman, with a boy of a twelvemonth old in her arms, and with a little\ngirl holding her hand, made her way through the gaping crowd, and they\nlooked for all the world like his wife and children.\n\n\"What is your name?\" said Peter, astonished.\n\n\"Maria.\"\n\n\"And your father?\"\n\n\"God have mercy on him, Peter Klaus. It is twenty years since we\nsought him day and night on the Kyffhauser, when his goats came home\nwithout him. I was only seven years old when it happened.\"\n\nThe goatherd could no longer contain himself.\n\n\"I am Peter Klaus,\" he cried, \"and no other,\" and he took the babe\nfrom his daughter's arms.\n\nAll stood like statues for a minute, till one and then another began\nto cry--\n\n\"Here's Peter Klaus come back again! Welcome, neighbour, welcome,\nafter twenty years; welcome, Peter Klaus!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF RHEINECK.\n\n\nGraf Ulric Von Rheineck was a very wild youth. Recklessly and without\nconsideration did he plunge into every excess. Dissipation grew to be\nthe habit of his life, and no sensual indulgence did he deny himself\nwhich could be procured by any means whatever. Amply provided for as\nhe was, the revenues of his wide possessions, which comprehended Thal\nRheineck, and the adjacent country, to the shore of the Rhine, and as\nfar as the mouth of the Aar, were soon discovered to be insufficient\nfor all his absorbing necessities. One by one his broad lands were\nalienated from him, piece after piece of that noble possession fell\nfrom his house, until finally he found himself without a single inch\nof ground which he could call his own, save the small and unproductive\nspot on which Rheineck stood. This he had no power to transfer, or\nperhaps it would have gone with the remainder. The castle had fallen\nsadly into disrepair, through his protracted absence from home, and\nhis continual neglect of it,--indeed there was scarcely a habitable\nroom within its precincts, and he now had no means to make it the\nfitting abode of any one, still less of a nobleman of his rank and\nconsequence. All without, as well as all within it, was desolate and\ndreary to the last degree. The splendid garden, previously the pride\nof his ancestors, was overrun with weeds, and tangled with parasites\nand creepers. The stately trees, which once afforded shelter and\nshade, as well as fruits of the finest quality and rarest kinds, were\nall dying or withered, or had their growth obstructed by destroying\nplants. The outer walls were in a ruinous condition, the\nfortifications were everywhere fallen into decay, and the alcoves and\nsummer-houses had dropped down, or were roofless, and exposed to the\nweather. It was a cheerless prospect to contemplate, but he could not\nnow help himself, even if he had the will to do so. Day after day the\nsame scene of desolation presented itself to his eyes, night after\nnight did the same cheerless chamber present itself to his view. It\nwas his own doing. That he could not deny, and bitterly he rued it. To\ncrown his helplessness and misery, his vassals and domestic servants\nabandoned him by degrees, one after another, and at last he was left\nentirely alone in the house of his fathers--a hermit in that most\ndismal of all solitudes, the desolate scene of one's childish, one's\nhappiest recollections.\n\nOne evening about twilight, as he sat at the outer gate, looking\nsadly on the broad, bright river which flowed calmly beneath, he\nbecame aware of the presence of a stranger, who seemed to toil wearily\nup the steep acclivity on the summit of which the castle is situated.\nThe stranger--an unusual sight within those walls then--soon reached\nthe spot where Ulric sat, and, greeting the youth in the fashion of\nthe times, prayed him for shelter during the night, and refreshment\nafter his most painful journey.\n\n\"I am,\" quoth the stranger, \"a poor pilgrim on my way to Cologne,\nwhere, by the merits of the three wise kings--to whose shrine I am\nbound--I hope to succeed in the object of my journey.\"\n\nGraf Ulric von Rheineck at once accorded him the hospitality he\nrequired, for though he had but scant cheer for himself, and nought of\ncomfort to bestow, he had still some of the feeling of a gentleman\nleft in him.\n\n\"I am alone here now,\" said he to the pilgrim, with a deep sigh. \"I am\nmyself as poor as Job. Would it were not so! My menials have left me\nto provide for themselves, as I can no longer provide for them. 'Twas\never the way of the world, and I blame them not for it. The last\ndeparted yesterday. He was an old favourite of my father's, and he\nonce thought that he would not leave my service but with his life. We\nmust now look to ourselves, however,--at least so he said. But that\nhas nothing to do with the matter, so enter, my friend.\"\n\nThey entered. By their joint exertions a simple evening meal was soon\nmade ready, and speedily spread forth on a half-rotten plank, their\nonly table.\n\n\"I have no better to offer you,\" observed the young Count, \"but I\noffer you what I have with right goodwill. Eat, if you can, and be\nmerry.\"\n\nThey ate in silence, neither speaking during the meal.\n\n\"Surely,\" said the pilgrim, when it was over,--\"surely it may not be\nthat the extensive cellars of this great castle contain not a single\ncup of wine for the weary wayfarer.\"\n\nThe Count was at once struck by the idea. It seemed to him as if he\nhad never thought of it before, though in reality he had ransacked\nevery corner of the cellars more than once.\n\n\"Come, let us go together and try,\" continued the pilgrim; \"it will go\nhard with us if we find nought to wash down our homely fare.\"\n\nAccompanied by his persuasive guest, the Count descended to the\nvaults, where the wines of Rheineck had been stored for ages. Dark and\ndreary did they seem to him. A chill fell on his soul as he strode\nover the mouldy floor.\n\n\"Here,\" said the pilgrim, with great glee,--\"here, here! Look ye, my\nmaster, look ye! See! I have found a cup of the best.\"\n\nThe Count passed into a narrow cellar whither the pilgrim had\npreceded him. There stood his companion beside a full butt of\nburgundy, holding in his hand a massive silver cup, foaming over with\nthe generous beverage, and with the other he pointed exultingly to his\nprize. The scene seemed like a dream to Ulric. The place was wholly\nunknown to him. The circumstances were most extraordinary. He mused a\nmoment, but he knew not what to do in the emergency.\n\n\"We will enjoy ourselves here,\" said the pilgrim. \"Here, on this very\nspot, shall we make us merry! Ay, here, beside this noble butt of\nburgundy. See, 'tis the best vintage! Let us be of good cheer!\"\n\nThe Count and his boon companion sat down on two empty casks, and a\nthird served them for a table. They plied the brimming beakers with\nright goodwill; they drank with all their might and main. The Count\nbecame communicative, and talked about his private affairs, as men in\nliquor will. The pilgrim, however, preserved a very discreet silence,\nonly interrupting by an occasional interjection of delight, or an\nopportune word of encouragement to his garrulous friend.\n\n\"I'll tell you what,\" began the pilgrim, when the Count had concluded\nhis tale,--\"I'll tell you what. Listen: I know a way to get you out of\nyour difficulties, to rid you of all your embarrassments.\"\n\nThe Count looked at him incredulously for a moment; his eye could not\nkeep itself steady for a longer space of time. There was something in\nthe pilgrim's glance as it met his that greatly dissipated his\nunbelief, and he inquired of him how these things could be brought\nabout.\n\n\"But, mayhap,\" continued the pilgrim, apparently disregarding the\nmanifest change in his companion's impressions regarding him,--\"mayhap\nyou would be too faint-hearted to follow my advice if I gave it you.\"\n\nThe Count sprang on his feet in a trice, and half-unsheathed his sword\nto avenge this taunt on his manhood, but the pilgrim looked so\nunconcerned, and evinced so little emotion at this burst of anger,\nthat the action and its result were merely momentary. Ulric resumed\nhis seat, and the pilgrim proceeded--\n\n\"You tell me that you once heard from your father, who had it from his\nfather, that your great-grandfather, in the time when this castle was\nbeleaguered by the Emperor Conrad, buried a vast treasure in some part\nof it, but which part his sudden death prevented him from\ncommunicating to his successor?\"\n\nThe Count nodded acquiescence.\n\n\"It is even so,\" he said.\n\n\"In Eastern lands have I learned to discover where concealed treasures\nare hidden,\" pursued the pilgrim; \"and----\"\n\nThe Count grasped him by the hand.\n\n\"Find them,\" he cried,--\"find them for me, and a full half is thine!\nOh, there is gold, and there are diamonds and precious stones of all\nkinds. They are there in abundance. My father said so! 'Tis true, 'tis\ntrue! Find them, find them, and then shall this old hall ring once\nmore with the voice of merriment. Then shall we live! ay, we shall\nlive! that we shall.\"\n\nThe pilgrim did not attempt to interrupt his ecstasies, or to\ninterpose between him and the excess of his glee, but let him excite\nhimself to the highest pitch with pictures of the pleasing future,\nuntil they had acquired almost the complexion of fact and the truth of\nreality for his distracted imagination. When he had exhausted himself,\nthe wily tempter resumed--\n\n\"Oh yes, I know it all. I know where the treasure is. I can put your\nfinger on it if I like. I was present when the old man buried it in\nthe----\"\n\n\"You present!\" exclaimed Ulric, his hair standing on end with horror,\nfor he had no doubts of the truth of the mysterious stranger's\nstatements,--\"you present!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" resumed the pilgrim; \"I was present.\"\n\n\"But he is full a hundred years dead and buried,\" continued the Count.\n\n\"No matter for that, no matter for that,\" replied the guest abruptly;\n\"many and many a time have we drunk and feasted and revelled together\nin this vault--ay, in this very vault.\"\n\nThe Count knew not what to think, still less what to reply to this\ninformation. He could not fail to perceive its improbability, drunk as\nhe was, but still he could not, for the life of him, discredit it.\n\n\"But,\" added the pilgrim, \"trouble not yourself with that at present\nwhich you have not the power to comprehend, and speculate not on my\nproceedings, but listen to my words, and follow my advice, if you will\nthat I should serve you in the matter.\"\n\nThe Count was silent when the stranger proceeded.\n\n\"This is Walpurgis night,\" he said. \"All the spirits of earth and sea\nand sky are now abroad on their way to the Brocken. Hell is broke\nloose, you know, for its annual orgies on that mountain. When the\ncastle clock tolls twelve go you into the chapel, and proceed to the\ngraves of your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and your\ngreat-great-grandfather; take from their coffins the bones of their\nskeletons--take them all, mind ye. One by one you must then remove\nthem into the moonlight, outside the walls of the building, and there\nlay them softly on the bit of green sward which faces to the south.\nThis done, you must next place them in the order in which they lay in\ntheir last resting-place. When you have completed that task, you must\nreturn to the chapel, and in their coffins you will find the\ntreasures of your forefathers. No one has power over an atom of them,\nuntil the bones of those who in spirit keep watch and ward over them\nshall have been removed from their guardianship. So long as they rest\non them, or oversee them, to the dead they belong. It is a glorious\nprize. 'Twill be the making of you, man, for ever!\"\n\nUlric was shocked at the proposal. To desecrate the graves of his\nfathers was a deed which made him shudder, and, bad as he was, the\nthought filled him with the greatest horror, but the temptation was\nirresistible.\n\nAt the solemn hour of midnight he proceeded to the chapel, accompanied\nby the pilgrim. He entered the holy place with trembling, for his\nheart misgave him. The pilgrim stayed without, apparently anxious and\nuneasy as to the result of the experiment about to be made. To all the\nsolicitations of the Count for assistance in his task he turned a deaf\near; nothing that he could say could induce him to set foot within the\nchapel walls.\n\nUlric opened the graves in the order in which they were situated,\nbeginning with the one first from the door of the chapel. He proceeded\nto remove the rotting remains from their mouldering coffins. One by\none did he bear their bleached bones into the open air, as he had been\ninstructed, and placed them as they had lain in their narrow beds,\nunder the pale moonbeams, on the plot of green sward facing the south,\noutside the chapel walls. The coffins were all cleared of their\ntenants, except one which stood next to the altar, at the upper end of\nthe aisle. Ulric approached this also to perform the wretched task he\nhad set himself, the thoughts of the treasure he should become\npossessed of but faintly sustaining his sinking soul in the fearful\noperation. Removing the lid of this last resting-place of mortality,\nhis heart failed him at the sight he beheld. There lay extended, as if\nin deep sleep, the corpse of a fair child, fresh and comely, as if it\nstill felt and breathed and had lusty being. The weakness Ulric felt\nwas but momentary. His companion called aloud to him to finish his\ntask quickly, or the hour would have passed when his labour would\navail him. As he touched the corpse of the infant the body stirred as\nif it had sensation. He shrank back in horror as the fair boy rose\ngently in his coffin, and at length stood upright within it.\n\n\"Bring back yon bones,\" said the phantom babe,--\"bring back yon bones;\nlet them rest in peace in the last home of their fathers. The curse of\nthe dead will be on you otherwise. Back! back! bring them back ere it\nbe too late.\"\n\nThe corpse sank down in the coffin again as it uttered these words,\nand Ulric saw a skeleton lying in its place. Shuddering, he averted\nhis gaze, and turned it towards the chapel door, where he had left\nhis companion. But, horror upon horror! as he looked he saw the long,\nloose, dark outer garment fall from the limbs of the pilgrim. He saw\nhis form dilate and expand in height and in breadth, until his head\nseemed to touch the pale crescent moon, and his bulk shut out from\nview all beyond itself. He saw his eyes firing and flaming like globes\nof lurid light, and he saw his hair and beard converted into one mass\nof living flame. The fiend stood revealed in all his hideous\ndeformity.\n\nHis hands were stretched forth to fasten on the hapless Count, who,\nwith vacillating step, like the bird under the eye of the basilisk,\ninvoluntarily, though with a perfect consciousness of his awful\nsituation, and the fearful fate which awaited him, every moment drew\nnearer and nearer to him. The victim reached the chapel door--he felt\nall the power of that diabolical fascination--another step and he\nwould be in the grasp of the fiend who grinned to clutch him. But the\nfair boy who spoke from the grave suddenly appeared once more, and,\nflinging himself between the wretched Count and the door, obstructed\nhis further progress.\n\n\"Avaunt, foul fiend!\" spake the child, and his voice was like a\ntrumpet-note; \"avaunt to hell! He is no longer thine. Thou hast no\npower over him. Your hellish plot has failed. He is free, and shall\nlive and repent.\"\n\nAs he said this he threw his arms around Ulric, and the Count became,\nas it were, at once surrounded by a beatific halo, which lighted up\nthe chapel like day. The fiend fled howling like a wild beast\ndisappointed of its prey.\n\nThe remains of his ancestors were again replaced in their coffins by\nthe Count, long ere the morning broke, and on their desecrated graves\nhe poured forth a flood of repentant tears. With the dawn of day he\nquitted the castle of Rheineck. It is said that he traversed the land\nin the garb of a lowly mendicant, subsisting on the alms of the\ncharitable, and it is likewise told that he did penance at every holy\nshrine from Cologne to Rome, whither he was bound to obtain absolution\nfor his sins. Years afterwards he was found dead at the foot of the\nancient altar in the ruined chapel. The castle went to ruin, and for\ncenturies nought ever dwelt within its walls save the night-birds and\nthe beasts of prey.\n\nOf the original structure the ruins of one old tower are all that now\nremain. It is still firmly believed by the peasants of the\nneighbourhood, that in the first and the last quarter of the moon the\nspirit of Ulric, the last of the old lords of Rheineck, still sweeps\naround the ruin at the hour of midnight, and is occasionally visible\nto belated wanderers.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CELLAR OF THE OLD KNIGHTS IN THE KYFFHAUSER.\n\n\nThere was a poor, but worthy, and withal very merry, fellow at\nTilleda, who was once put to the expense of a christening, and, as\nluck would have it, it was the eighth. According to the custom of the\ntime, he was obliged to give a plain feast to the child's sponsors.\nThe wine of the country which he put before his guests was soon\nexhausted, and they began to call for more.\n\n\"Go,\" said the merry father of the newly baptized child to his eldest\ndaughter, a handsome girl of sixteen,--\"go, and get us better wine\nthan this out of the cellar.\"\n\n\"Out of what cellar?\"\n\n\"Why, out of the great wine-cellar of the old Knights in the\nKyffhauser, to be sure,\" said her father jokingly.\n\nThe simple-minded girl did as he told her, and taking a small pitcher\nin her hand went to the mountain. In the middle of the mountain she\nfound an aged housekeeper, dressed in a very old-fashioned style,\nwith a large bundle of keys at her girdle, sitting at the ruined\nentrance of an immense cellar. The girl was struck dumb with\namazement, but the old woman said very kindly--\n\n\"Of a surety you want to draw wine out of the Knights' cellar?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the girl timidly, \"but I have no money.\"\n\n\"Never mind that,\" said the old woman; \"come with me, and you shall\nhave wine for nothing, and better wine too than your father ever\ntasted.\"\n\nSo the two went together through the half-blocked-up entrance, and as\nthey went along the old woman made the girl tell her how affairs were\ngoing on at that time in Tilleda.\n\n\"For once,\" said she, \"when I was young, and good-looking as you are,\nthe Knights stole me away in the night-time, and brought me through a\nhole in the ground from the very house in Tilleda which now belongs to\nyour father. Shortly before that they had carried away by force from\nKelbra, in broad daylight, the four beautiful damsels who occasionally\nstill ride about here on horses richly caparisoned, and then disappear\nagain. As for me, as soon as I grew old, they made me their butler,\nand I have been so ever since.\"\n\nThey had now reached the cellar door, which the old woman opened. It\nwas a very large roomy cellar, with barrels ranged along both sides.\nThe old woman rapped against the barrels--some were quite full, some\nwere only half full. She took the little pitcher, drew it full of\nwine, and said--\n\n\"There, take that to your father, and as often as you have a feast in\nyour house you may come here again; but, mind, tell nobody but your\nfather where you get the wine from. Mind, too, you must never sell any\nof it--it costs nothing, and for nothing you must give it away. Let\nany one but come here for wine to make a profit off it and his last\nbread is baked.\"\n\nThe girl took the wine to her father, whose guests were highly\ndelighted with it, and sadly puzzled to think where it came from, and\never afterwards, when there was a little merry-making in the house,\nwould the girl fetch wine from the Kyffhauser in her little pitcher.\nBut this state of things did not continue long. The neighbours\nwondered where so poor a man contrived to get such delicious wine that\nthere was none like it in the whole country round. The father said not\na word to any one, and neither did his daughter.\n\nOpposite to them, however, lived the publican who sold adulterated\nwine. He had once tasted the Old Knights' wine, and thought to himself\nthat one might mix it with ten times the quantity of water and sell it\nfor a good price after all. Accordingly, when the girl went for the\nfourth time with her little pitcher to the Kyffhauser, he crept after\nher, and concealed himself among the bushes, where he watched until\nhe saw her come out of the entrance which led to the cellar, with her\npitcher filled with wine.\n\nOn the following evening he himself went to the mountain, pushing\nbefore him in a wheelbarrow the largest empty barrel he could procure.\nThis he thought of filling with the choicest wine in the cellar, and\nin the night rolling it down the mountain, and in this way he intended\nto come every day, as long as there was any wine left in the cellar.\n\nWhen, however, he came to the place where he had the day before seen\nthe entrance to the cellar, it grew all of a sudden totally dark. The\nwind began to howl fearfully, and a monster threw him, his barrow, and\nempty butt, from one ridge of rocks to another, and he kept falling\nlower and lower, until at last he fell into a cemetery.\n\nThere he saw before him a coffin covered with black, and his wife and\nfour of her gossips, whom he knew well by their dress and figures,\nwere following a bier. His fright was so great that he swooned away.\n\nAfter some hours he came to himself again, and saw, to his horror,\nthat he was still in the dimly lighted vaults, and heard just above\nhis head the well-known town clock of Tilleda strike twelve, and\nthereby he knew that it was midnight, and that he was then under the\nchurch, in the burying-place of the town. He was more dead than alive,\nand scarcely dared to breathe.\n\nPresently there came a monk, who led him up a long, long flight of\nsteps, opened a door, placed, without speaking, a piece of gold in his\nhand, and deposited him at the foot of the mountain. It was a cold\nfrosty night. By degrees the publican recovered himself, and crept,\nwithout barrel or wine, back to his own home. The clock struck one as\nhe reached the door. He immediately took to his bed, and in three days\nwas a dead man, and the piece of gold which the wizard monk had given\nhim was expended on his funeral.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE.\n\n\nThere was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a ditch close by\nthe seaside. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing, and\none day as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the shining\nwater and watching his line, all of sudden his float was dragged away\ndeep under the sea. In drawing it up he pulled a great fish out of the\nwater. The fish said to him--\n\n\"Pray let me live. I am not a real fish. I am an enchanted prince. Put\nme in the water again and let me go.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the man, \"you need not make so many words about the matter.\nI wish to have nothing to do with a fish that can talk, so swim away\nas soon as you please.\"\n\nThen he put him back into the water, and the fish darted straight down\nto the bottom, and left a long streak of blood behind him.\n\nWhen the fisherman went home to his wife in the ditch, he told her how\nhe had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an\nenchanted prince, and that on hearing it speak he had let it go\nagain.\n\n\"Did you not ask it for anything?\" said the wife.\n\n\"No,\" said the man; \"what should I ask it for?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the wife, \"we live very wretchedly here in this nasty\nmiserable ditch, do go back and tell the fish we want a little\ncottage.\"\n\nThe fisherman did not much like the business; however, he went to the\nsea, and when he came there the water looked all yellow and green. He\nsat at the water's edge and said--\n\n          \"O man of the sea,\n          Come listen to me,\n          For Alice my wife,\n          The plague of my life,\n    Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!\"\n\nThen the fish came swimming to him and said--\n\n\"Well, what does she want?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" answered the fisherman, \"my wife says that when I had caught\nyou, I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go\nagain. She does not like living any longer in the ditch, and wants a\nlittle cottage.\"\n\n\"Go home, then,\" said the fish; \"she is in the cottage already.\"\n\nSo the man went home, and saw his wife standing at the door of a\ncottage.\n\n\"Come in, come in,\" said she. \"Is not this much better than the\nditch?\"\n\nThere was a parlour, a bedchamber, and a kitchen; and behind the\ncottage there was a little garden with all sorts of flowers and\nfruits, and a courtyard full of ducks and chickens.\n\n\"Ah,\" said the fisherman, \"how happily we shall live!\"\n\n\"We will try to do so, at least,\" said his wife.\n\nEverything went right for a week or two, and then Dame Alice said--\n\n\"Husband, there is not room enough in this cottage, the courtyard and\ngarden are a great deal too small. I should like to have a large stone\ncastle to live in, so go to the fish again and tell him to give us a\ncastle.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" said the fisherman, \"I don't like to go to him again, for\nperhaps he will be angry. We ought to be content with the cottage.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said the wife, \"he will do it very willingly. Go along and\ntry.\"\n\nThe fisherman went, but his heart was very heavy, and when he came to\nthe sea it looked blue and gloomy, though it was quite calm. He went\nclose to it, and said--\n\n          \"O man of the sea,\n          Come listen to me,\n          For Alice my wife,\n          The plague of my life,\n    Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!\"\n\n\"Well, what does she want now?\" said the fish.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the man very sorrowfully, \"my wife wants to live in a\nstone castle.\"\n\n\"Go home, then,\" said the fish; \"she is standing at the door of it\nalready.\"\n\nAway went the fisherman, and found his wife standing before a great\ncastle.\n\n\"See,\" said she, \"is not this grand?\"\n\nWith that they went into the house together, and found a great many\nservants there, the rooms all richly furnished, and full of golden\nchairs and tables; and behind the castle was a garden, and a wood half\na mile long, full of sheep, goats, hares, and deer; and in the\ncourtyard were stables and cow-houses.\n\n\"Well,\" said the man, \"now will we live contented and happy for the\nrest of our lives.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we may,\" said the wife, \"but let us consider and sleep upon\nit before we make up our minds;\" so they went to bed.\n\nThe next morning when Dame Alice awoke it was broad daylight, and she\njogged the fisherman with her elbow, and said--\n\n\"Get up, husband, and bestir yourself, for we must be king of all the\nland.\"\n\n\"Wife, wife,\" said the man, \"why should we wish to be king? I will not\nbe king.\"\n\n\"Then I will,\" said Alice.\n\n\"But, wife,\" answered the fisherman, \"how can you be king? The fish\ncannot make you king.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" said she, \"say no more about it, but go and try. I will be\nking.\"\n\nSo the man went away quite sorrowful, to think that his wife should\nwant to be king. The sea looked a dark grey colour, and was covered\nwith foam, as he called the fish to come and help him.\n\n\"Well, what would she have now?\" asked the fish.\n\n\"Alas!\" said the man, \"my wife wants to be king.\"\n\n\"Go home,\" said the fish, \"she is king already.\"\n\nThen the fisherman went home, and as he came close to the palace he\nsaw a troop of soldiers, and heard the sound of drums and trumpets;\nand when he entered, he saw his wife sitting on a high throne of gold\nand diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head, and on each side of\nher stood six beautiful maidens.\n\n\"Well, wife,\" said the fisherman, \"are you king?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said she, \"I am king.\"\n\nWhen he had looked at her for a long time, he said--\n\n\"Ah! wife, what a fine thing it is to be king! now we shall never have\nanything more to wish for.\"\n\n\"I don't know how that may be,\" said she. \"Never is a long time. I am\nking, 'tis true; but I begin to be tired of it, and I think I should\nlike to be emperor.\"\n\n\"Alas! wife, why should you wish to be emperor?\" said the fisherman.\n\n\"Husband,\" said she, \"go to the fish. I say I will be emperor.\"\n\n\"Ah! wife,\" replied the fisherman, \"the fish cannot make an emperor;\nand I should not like to ask for such a thing.\"\n\n\"I am king,\" said Alice; \"and you are my slave, so go directly.\"\n\nSo the fisherman was obliged to go, and he muttered as he went along--\n\n\"This will come to no good. It is too much to ask. The fish will be\ntired at last, and then we shall repent of what we have done.\"\n\nHe soon arrived at the sea, and the water was quite black and muddy,\nand a mighty whirlwind blew over it; but he went to the shore, and\nrepeated the words he had used before.\n\n\"What would she have now?\" inquired the fish.\n\n\"She wants to be emperor,\" replied the fisherman.\n\n\"Go home,\" said the fish, \"she is emperor already.\"\n\nSo he went home again, and as he came near, he saw his wife sitting on\na very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a crown on her head, full\ntwo yards high; and on each side of her stood her guards and\nattendants in a row, ranged according to height, from the tallest\ngiant to a little dwarf, no bigger than one's finger. And before her\nstood princes, and dukes, and earls; and the fisherman went up to\nher, and said--\n\n\"Wife, are you emperor?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said she, \"I am emperor.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the man, as he gazed on her, \"what a fine thing it is to be\nemperor!\"\n\n\"Husband,\" said she, \"why should we stay at being emperor? We will be\npope next.\"\n\n\"O wife, wife!\" said he. \"How can you be pope? There is but one pope\nat a time in Christendom.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" said she, \"I will be pope this very day.\"\n\n\"But,\" replied the husband, \"the fish cannot make you pope.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" said she. \"If he can make an emperor, he can make a\npope; go and try him.\"\n\nSo the fisherman went; but when he came to the shore the wind was\nraging, the sea was tossed up and down like boiling water, and the\nships were in the greatest distress and danced upon the waves most\nfearfully. In the middle of the sky there was a little blue; but\ntowards the south it was all red, as if a dreadful storm was rising.\nThe fisherman repeated the words, and the fish appeared before him.\n\n\"What does she want now?\" asked the fish.\n\n\"My wife wants to be pope,\" said the fisherman.\n\n\"Go home,\" said the fish; \"she is pope already.\"\n\nThen the fisherman went home, and found his wife sitting on a throne,\nwith three crowns on her head, while around stood all the pomp and\npower of the Church. On each side were two rows of burning lights of\nall sizes; the greatest as large as a tower, and the smallest no\nlarger than a rushlight.\n\n\"Well, wife,\" said the fisherman, as he looked at all this grandeur,\n\"are you pope?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said she; \"I am pope.\"\n\n\"Well,\" replied he, \"it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you must\nbe content, for you can be nothing greater.\"\n\n\"I will consider about that,\" replied the wife.\n\nThen they went to bed; but Dame Alice could not sleep all night for\nthinking what she should be next. At last morning came, and the sun\nrose.\n\n\"Ha!\" thought she, as she looked at it through the window, \"cannot I\nprevent the sun rising?\"\n\nAt this she was very angry, and wakened her husband, and said--\n\n\"Husband, go to the fish, and tell him I want to be lord of the sun\nand moon.\"\n\nThe fisherman was half asleep; but the thought frightened him so much\nthat he started and fell out of bed.\n\n\"Alas! wife,\" said he, \"cannot you be content to be pope?\"\n\n\"No,\" said she, \"I am very uneasy, and cannot bear to see the sun and\nmoon rise without my leave. Go to the fish directly.\"\n\nThen the man went trembling for fear. As he was going down to the\nshore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the rocks shook,\nthe heavens became black, the lightning played, the thunder rolled,\nand the sea was covered with black waves like mountains, with a white\ncrown of foam upon them. The fisherman came to the shore, and said--\n\n          \"O man of the sea,\n          Come listen to me,\n          For Alice, my wife,\n          The plague of my life,\n    Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!\"\n\n\"What does she want now?\" asked the fish.\n\n\"Ah!\" said he, \"she wants to be lord of the sun and moon.\"\n\n\"Go home,\" replied the fish, \"to your ditch again.\"\n\nAnd there they live to this very day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOUSE TOWER.\n\n\nTo the traveller who has traversed the delightful environs of the\nRhine, from the city of Mentz as far as Coblentz, or from the clear\nwaves of this old Germanic stream gazed upon the grand creations of\nNature, all upon so magnificent a scale, the appearance of the old\ndecayed tower which forms the subject of the ensuing tradition forms\nno uninteresting object. It rises before him as he mounts the Rhine\nfrom the little island below Bingen, toward the left shore. He listens\nto the old shipmaster as he relates with earnest tone the wonderful\nstory of the tower, and, shuddering at the description of the\nfrightful punishment of priestly pride and cruelty, exclaims in strong\nemotion--\n\n\"The Lord be with us!\"\n\nFor, as the saying runs, it was about the year of Our Lord 968, when\nHatto II., Duke of the Ostro-franks, surnamed Bonosus, Abbot of Fulda,\na man of singular skill and great spiritual endowments, was elected\nArchbishop of Mentz. He was also a harsh man, and being extremely\navaricious, heaped up treasure which he guarded with the utmost care.\n\nIt so happened, under his spiritual sway, that a cruel famine began to\nprevail in the city of Mentz and its adjacent parts, insomuch that in\na short time numbers of the poorer people fell victims to utter want.\nCrowds of wretches were to be seen assembled before the Archbishop's\npalace in the act of beseeching with cries and prayers for some\nmitigation of their heavy lot.\n\nBut their harsh lord refused to afford relief out of his own\nsubstance, reproaching them at the same time as the authors of their\nown calamity by their indolence and want of economy. But the poor\nsouls were mad for food, and in frightful and threatening accents\ncried out--\n\n\"Bread, bread!\"\n\nFearing the result, Bishop Hatto ordered a vast number of hungry souls\nto range themselves in order in one of his empty barns under the\npretence of supplying them with provisions. Then, having closed the\ndoors, he commanded his minions to fire the place, in which all fell\nvictims to the flames. When he heard the death shouts and shrieks of\nthe unhappy poor, turning towards the menial parasites who abetted his\ncrime he said--\n\n\"Hark you! how the mice squeak!\"\n\nBut Heaven that witnessed the deed did not permit its vengeance to\nsleep. A strange and unheard of death was preparing to loose its\nterrors upon the sacrilegious prelate. For behold, there arose out of\nthe yet warm ashes of the dead an innumerable throng of mice which\nwere seen to approach the Bishop, and to follow him whithersoever he\nwent. At length he flew into one of his steepest and highest towers,\nbut the mice climbed over the walls. He closed every door and window,\nyet after him they came, piercing their way through the smallest nooks\nand crannies of the building. They poured in upon him, and covered him\nfrom head to foot, in numberless heaps. They bit, they scratched, they\ntortured his flesh, till they nearly devoured him. So great was the\nthrong that the more his domestics sought to beat them off, the more\nkeen and savagely, with increased numbers, did they return to the\ncharge. Even where his name was found placed upon the walls and\ntapestries they gnawed it in their rage away.\n\nIn this frightful predicament the Bishop, finding that he could obtain\nno help on land, bethought of taking himself to the water. A tower was\nhastily erected upon the Rhine. He took ship and shut himself up\nthere. Enclosed within double walls, and surrounded by water, he\nflattered himself that the rushing stream would effectually check the\nrage of his enemies. Here too, however, the vengeance of offended\nHeaven gave them entrance. Myriads of mice took to the stream, and\nswam and swam, and though myriads of them were swept away, an\ninnumerable throng still reached the spot. Again they climbed and\nclattered up the walls. The Bishop heard their approach. It was his\nlast retreat. They rushed in upon him with more irresistible fury than\nbefore, and, amidst stifled cries of protracted suffering, Bishop\nHatto at length rendered up his cruel and avaricious soul.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DANCERS.\n\n\nThe Sabbath-day drew to a close in the summer-tide of the year of\ngrace one thousand and one, and the rustics of Ramersdorf amused\nthemselves with a dance, as was their wont to do, in the courtyard of\nthe monastery. It was a privilege that they had enjoyed time\nimmemorial, and it had never been gainsaid by the abbots who were dead\nand gone, but Anselm von Lowenberg, the then superior of the convent,\nan austere, ascetic man, who looked with disdain and dislike on all\npopular recreations, had long set his face against it, and had,\nmoreover, tried every means short of actual prohibition to put an end\nto the profane amusement. The rustics, however, were not to be\ndebarred by his displeasure from pursuing, perhaps, their only\npleasure; and though the pious abbot discountenanced their\nproceedings, they acquiesced not in his views, and their enjoyment was\nnot one atom the less.\n\nThe day had been very beautiful, and the evening was, if possible,\nmore so. Gaily garbed maidens of the village and stalwart rustics\nfilled the courtyard of the convent. A blind fiddler, who had fiddled\nthree generations off the stage, sat in front of a group of elders of\neither sex, who, though too old and too stiff to partake in the active\nand exciting amusement, were still young enough to enjoy looking on. A\nfew shaven crowns peered from the latticed casements which looked out\non to the merry scene. The music struck up, the dance began. Who\napproaches? Why are so many anxious glances cast in yonder direction?\nIt is the Abbot.\n\n\"Cease your fooling,\" he spake to them, in a solemn tone; \"profane not\nthe place nor the day with your idle mirth. Go home, and pray in your\nown homes for the grace of the Lord to govern ye, for ye are wicked\nand wilful and hard of heart as the stones!\"\n\nHe waved his hand as if to disperse them, but his words and his action\nwere equally unheeded by the dancers and the spectators.\n\n\"Forth, vile sinners!\" he pursued. \"Forth from these walls, or I will\ncurse ye with the curse.\"\n\nStill they regarded him not to obey his behest, although they so far\nnoticed his words as to return menacing look for look, and muttered\nthreats for threat with him. The music played on with the same\nliveliness, the dancers danced as merrily as ever, and the spectators\napplauded each display of agility.\n\n\"Well, then,\" spake the Abbot, bursting with rage, \"an ye cease not,\nbe my curse on your head--there may ye dance for a year and a day!\"\n\nHe banned them bitterly; with uplifted hands and eyes he imprecated\nthe vengeance of Heaven on their disobedience. He prayed to the Lord\nto punish them for the slight of his directions. Then he sought his\ncell to vent his ire in solitude.\n\nFrom that hour they continued to dance until a year and a day had\nfully expired. Night fell, and they ceased not; day dawned, and they\ndanced still. In the heat of noon, in the cool of the evening, day\nafter day there was no rest for them, their saltation was without end.\nThe seasons rolled over them. Summer gave place to autumn, winter\nsucceeded summer, and spring decked the fields with early flowers, as\nwinter slowly disappeared, yet still they danced on, through coursing\ntime and changing seasons, with unabated strength and unimpaired\nenergy. Rain nor hail, snow nor storm, sunshine nor shade, seemed to\naffect them. Round and round and round they danced, in heat and cold,\nin damp and dry, in light and darkness. What were the seasons--what\nthe times or the hour or the weather to them? In vain did their\nneighbours and friends try to arrest them in their wild evolutions; in\nvain were attempts made to stop them in their whirling career; in vain\ndid even the Abbot himself interpose to relieve them from the curse he\nhad laid on them, and to put a period to the punishment of which he\nhad been the cause. The strongest man in the vicinity held out his\nhand and caught one of them, with the intention of arresting his\nrotation, and tearing him from the charmed circle, but his arm was\ntorn from him in the attempt, and clung to the dancer with the grip of\nlife till his day was done. The man paid his life as the forfeit of\nhis temerity. No effort was left untried to relieve the dancers, but\nevery one failed. The sufferers themselves, however, appeared quite\nunconscious of what was passing. They seemed to be in a state of\nperfect somnambulism, and to be altogether unaware of the presence of\nany persons, as well as insensible to pain or fatigue. When the\nexpiration of their punishment arrived, they were all found huddled\ntogether in the deep cavity which their increasing gyrations had worn\nin the earth beneath them. It was a considerable time before sense and\nconsciousness returned to them, and indeed they never after could be\nsaid to enjoy them completely, for, though they lived long, they were\nlittle better than idiots during the remainder of their lives.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE SHROUD.\n\n\nThere was once a woman who had a little son of about seven years old,\nwho was so lovely and beautiful that no one could look upon him\nwithout being kind to him, and he was dearer to her than all the world\nbeside. It happened that he suddenly fell ill and died, and his mother\nwould not be comforted, but wept for him day and night. Shortly after\nhe was buried he showed himself at night in the places where he had\nbeen used in his lifetime to sit and play, and if his mother wept, he\nwept also, and when the morning came he departed. Since his mother\nnever ceased weeping, the child came one night in the little white\nshroud in which he had been laid in his coffin, and with the chaplet\nupon his head, and seating himself at her feet, upon the bed, he\ncried--\n\n\"O mother, mother, give over crying, else I cannot stop in my coffin,\nfor my shroud is never dry because of your tears, for they fall upon\nit.\"\n\nWhen his mother heard this she was sore afraid, and wept no more. And\nthe babe came upon another night, holding in his hand a little taper,\nand he said--\n\n\"Look, mother, my shroud is now quite dry, and I can rest in my\ngrave.\"\n\nThen she bowed to the will of Providence, and bore her sorrow with\nsilence and patience, and the little child returned not again, but\nslept in his underground bed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ARCH ROGUE.\n\n\nThere once lived, years ago, a man known only by the name of the Arch\nRogue. By dint of skill in the black art, and all arts of imposition,\nhe drove a more flourishing trade than all the rest of the sorcerers\nof the age. It was his delight to travel from one country to another\nmerely to play upon mankind, and no living soul was secure, either in\nhouse or field, nor could properly call them his own.\n\nNow his great reputation for these speedy methods of possessing\nhimself of others' property excited the envy of a certain king of a\ncertain country, who considered them as no less than an invasion of\nhis royal prerogative. He could not sleep a wink for thinking about\nit, and he despatched troops of soldiers, one after another, with\nstrict orders to arrest him, but all their search was in vain. At\nlength, after long meditation, the king said to himself--\n\n\"Only wait a little, thou villain cutpurse, and yet I will have thee.\"\n\nForthwith he issued a manifesto, stating that the royal mercy would\nbe extended to so light-fingered a genius, upon condition that he\nconsented to appear at court and give specimens of his dexterity for\nhis majesty's amusement.\n\nOne afternoon, as the king was standing at his palace window enjoying\nthe fine prospect of woods and dales, over which a tempest appeared to\nbe then just gathering, some one suddenly clapped him upon the\nshoulder, and on looking round he discovered a very tall, stout,\ndark-whiskered man close behind him, who said--\n\n\"Here I am.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" inquired the king.\n\n\"He whom you look for.\"\n\nThe king uttered an exclamation of surprise, not unmixed with fear, at\nsuch amazing assurance. The stranger continued, \"Don't be alarmed.\nOnly keep your word with me, and I will prove myself quite obedient to\nyour orders.\"\n\nThis being agreed on, the king acquainted his royal consort and the\nwhole court that the great sleight-of-hand genius had discovered\nhimself, and soon, in a full assembly, his majesty proceeded to\nquestion him, and lay on him his commands.\n\n\"Mark what I say,\" he said, \"nor venture to dispute my orders. To\nbegin, do you see yon rustic, not far from the wood, busy ploughing?\"\n\nThe conjurer nodded assent.\n\n\"Then go,\" continued the king,--\"go and rob him of his plough and\noxen without his knowing anything about it.\"\n\nThe king flattered himself that this was impossible, for he did not\nconceive how the conjurer could perform such a task in the face of\nopen day,--and if he fail, thought he, I have him in my power, and\nwill make him smart.\n\nThe conjurer proceeded to the spot, and as the storm appeared to\nincrease, the rain beginning to pour down in torrents, the countryman,\nletting his oxen rest, ran under a tree for shelter, until the rain\nshould have ceased. Just then he heard some one singing in the wood.\nSuch a glorious song he had never heard before in all his life. He\nfelt wonderfully enlivened, and, as the weather continued dull, he\nsaid to himself--\n\n\"Well, there's no harm in taking a look. Yes; I'll see what sport is\nstirring,\" and away he slipped into the wood, still further and\nfurther, in search of the songster.\n\nIn the meanwhile the conjurer was not idle. He changed places with the\nrustic, taking care of the oxen while their master went searching\nthrough the wood. Darting out of the thicket, in a few moments he had\nslashed off the oxen's horns and tails, and stuck them, half hid, in\nthe ploughman's last furrow. He then drove off the beasts pretty\nsharply towards the palace. In a short time the rustic found his way\nback, and looking towards the spot for his oxen could see nothing of\nthem. Searching on all sides, he came at last to examine the furrow,\nand beheld, to his horror, the horns and tails of his poor beasts\nsticking out of the ground. Imagining that a thunderbolt must have\nstruck the beasts, and the earth swallowed them up, he poured forth a\nmost dismal lamentation over his lot, roaring aloud until the woods\nechoed to the sound. When he was tired of this, he bethought him of\nrunning home to find a pick and a spade to dig his unlucky oxen out of\nthe earth as soon as possible.\n\nAs he went he was met by the king and the conjurer, who inquired the\noccasion of his piteous lamentation.\n\n\"My oxen! my poor oxen!\" cried the boor, and then he related all that\nhad happened to him, entreating them to go with him to the place. The\nconjurer said--\n\n\"Why don't you see if you cannot pull the oxen out again by the horns\nor by the tail?\"\n\nWith this the rustic, running back, seized one of the tails, and,\npulling with all his might, it gave way and he fell backward.\n\n\"Thou hast pulled thy beast's tail off,\" said the conjurer. \"Try if\nthou canst succeed better with his horns. If not, thou must even dig\nthem out.\"\n\nAgain the rustic tried with the same result, while the king laughed\nvery heartily at the sight. As the worthy man now appeared excessively\ntroubled at his misfortunes, the king promised him another pair of\noxen, and the rustic was content.\n\n\"You have made good your boast,\" said the king to the conjurer, as\nthey returned to the palace; \"but now you will have to deal with a\nmore difficult matter, so muster your wit and courage. To-night you\nmust steal my favourite charger out of his stable, and let nobody know\nwho does it.\"\n\nNow, thought the king, I have trapped him at last, for he will never\nbe able to outwit my master of the horse, and all my grooms to boot.\nTo make the matter sure, he ordered a strong guard under one of his\nmost careful officers to be placed round the stable court. They were\narmed with stout battle-axes, and were enjoined every half-hour to\ngive the word, and pace alternately through the court. In the royal\nstables others had the like duty to perform, while the master of the\nhorse himself was to ride the favourite steed the whole time, having\nbeen presented by the king with a gold snuff-box, from which he was to\ntake ample pinches in order to keep himself awake, and give signal by\na loud sneeze. He was also armed with a heavy sword, with which he was\nto knock the thief on the head if he approached.\n\nThe rogue first arrayed himself in the master of the bedchamber's\nclothes, without his leave. About midnight he proceeded to join the\nguards, furnished with different kinds of wine, and told them that the\nking had sent him to thank them for so cheerfully complying with his\norders. He also informed them that the impostor had been already\ncaught and secured, and added that the king had given permission for\nthe guards to have a glass or two, and requested that they would not\ngive the word quite so loudly, as her majesty had not been able to\nclose her eyes. He then marched into the stables, where he found the\nmaster of the horse astride the royal charger, busily taking snuff and\nsneezing at intervals. The master of the bedchamber poured him out a\nsparkling glass to drink to the health of his majesty, who had sent\nit, and it looked too excellent to resist. Both master and guards then\nbegan to jest over the Arch Rogue's fate, taking, like good subjects,\nrepeated draughts--all to his majesty's health. At length they began\nto experience their effects. They gaped and stretched, sank gradually\nupon the ground, and fell asleep. The master, by dint of fresh\npinches, was the last to yield, but he too blinked, stopped the horse,\nwhich he had kept at a walk, and said--\n\n\"I am so confoundedly sleepy I can hold it no longer. Take you care of\nthe charger for a moment. Bind him fast to the stall--and just keep\nwatch.\"\n\nHaving uttered these words, he fell like a heavy sack upon the floor\nand snored aloud. The conjurer took his place upon the horse, gave it\nwhip and spur, and galloped away through the sleeping guards, through\nthe court gates, and whistled as he went.\n\nEarly in the morning the king, eager to learn the result, hastened to\nhis royal mews, and was not a little surprised to find the whole of\nhis guards fast asleep upon the ground, but he saw nothing of his\ncharger.\n\n\"What is to do here?\" he cried in a loud voice. \"Get up; rouse, you\nidle varlets!\"\n\nAt last one of them, opening his eyes, cried out--\n\n\"The king! the king!\"\n\n\"Ay, true enough, I am here,\" replied his majesty, \"but my favourite\nhorse is not. Speak, answer on the instant.\"\n\nWhile the affrighted wretches, calling one to another, rubbed their\nheavy eyes, the king was examining the stalls once more, and,\nstumbling over his master of the horse, turned and gave him some\nhearty cuffs about the ears. But the master only turned upon the other\nside, and grumbled--\n\n\"Let me alone, you rascal, my royal master's horse is not for the like\nof you.\"\n\n\"Rascal!\" exclaimed the king, \"do you know who it is?\" and he was just\nabout to call his attendants, when he heard hasty footsteps, and the\nconjurer stood before him.\n\n\"My liege,\" he said, \"I have just returned from an airing on your\nnoble horse. He is, indeed, a fine animal, but once or so I was\nobliged to give him the switch.\"\n\nThe king felt excessively vexed at the rogue's success, but he was\nthe more resolved to hit upon something that should bring his fox skin\ninto jeopardy at last. So he thought, and the next day he addressed\nthe conjurer thus--\n\n\"Thy third trial is now about to take place, and if you are clever\nenough to carry it through, you shall not only have your life and\nliberty, but a handsome allowance to boot. In the other case you know\nyour fate. Now listen. This very night I command you to rob my queen\nconsort of her bridal ring, to steal it from her finger, and let no\none know the thief or the way of thieving.\"\n\nWhen night approached, his majesty caused all the doors in the palace\nto be fast closed, and a guard to be set at each. He himself, instead\nof retiring to rest, took his station, well armed, in an easy chair\nclose to the queen's couch.\n\nIt was a moonlight night, and about two in the morning the king\nplainly heard a ladder reared up against the window, and the soft step\nof a man mounting it. When the king thought the conjurer must have\nreached the top, he called out from the window--\n\n\"Let fall.\"\n\nThe next moment the ladder was dashed away, and something fell with a\nterrible crash to the ground. The king uttered an exclamation of\nalarm, and ran down into the court, telling the queen, who was half\nasleep, that he was going to see if the conjurer were dead. But the\nrogue had borrowed a dead body from the gallows, and having dressed it\nin his own clothes, had placed it on the ladder. Hardly had the king\nleft the chamber before the conjurer entered it and said to the queen\nin the king's voice--\n\n\"Yes, he is stone dead, so you may now go quietly to sleep, only hand\nme here your ring. It is too costly and precious to trust it in bed\nwhile you sleep.\"\n\nThe queen, imagining it was her royal consort, instantly gave him the\nring, and in a moment the conjurer was off with it on his finger.\nDirectly afterwards the king came back.\n\n\"At last,\" he said, \"I have indeed carried the joke too far. I have\nrepaid him. He is lying there as dead as a door nail. He will plague\nus no more.\"\n\n\"I know that already,\" replied the queen. \"You have told me exactly\nthe same thing twice over.\"\n\n\"How came you to know anything about it?\" inquired his majesty.\n\n\"How? From yourself to be sure,\" replied his consort. \"You informed me\nthat the conjurer was dead, and then you asked me for my ring.\"\n\n\"I ask for the ring!\" exclaimed the king. \"Then I suppose you must\nhave given it to him,\" continued his majesty, in a tone of great\nindignation; \"and is it even so at last? By all the saints, this is\none of the most confounded, unmanageable knaves in existence. I never\nknew anything to equal it.\"\n\nThen he informed the queen of the whole affair, though before he\narrived at the conclusion of his tale she was fast asleep.\n\nSoon after it was light in the morning the wily conjurer made his\nappearance. He bowed to the earth three times before the queen and\npresented her with the treasure he had stolen. The king, though\nexcessively chagrined, could not forbear laughing at the sight.\n\n\"Now hear,\" said he, \"thou king of arch rogues. Had I only caught a\nsight of you through my fingers as you were coming, you would never\nhave come off so well. As it is, let what is past be forgiven and\nforgotten. Take up your residence at my court, and take care that you\ndo not carry your jokes too far, for in such a case I may find myself\ncompelled to withdraw my favour from you if nothing worse ensue.\"\n\n\n\n\nBROTHER MERRY.\n\n\nIn days of yore there was a war, and when it was at an end a great\nnumber of the soldiers that had been engaged in it were disbanded.\nAmong the rest Brother Merry received his discharge, and nothing more\nfor all he had done than a very little loaf of soldier's bread, and\nfour halfpence in money. With these possessions he went his way. Now a\nsaint had seated himself in the road, like a poor beggar man, and when\nBrother Merry came along, he asked him for charity to give him\nsomething. Then the soldier said--\n\n\"Dear beggar man, what shall such as I give you? I have been a\nsoldier, and have just got my discharge, and with it only a very\nlittle loaf and four halfpence. When that is gone I shall have to beg\nlike yourself.\"\n\nHowever, he divided the loaf into four parts, and gave the saint one,\nwith a halfpenny. The saint thanked him, and having gone a little\nfurther along the road seated himself like another beggar in the way\nof the soldier. When Brother Merry came up the saint again asked alms\nof him, and the old soldier again gave him another quarter of the loaf\nand another halfpenny.\n\nThe saint thanked him, and seated himself in the way a third time,\nlike another beggar, and again addressed Brother Merry. Brother Merry\ngave him a third quarter of the loaf, and the third halfpenny.\n\nThe saint thanked him, and Brother Merry journeyed on with all he had\nleft--one quarter of the loaf and a single halfpenny. When he came to\na tavern, being hungry and thirsty, he went in and ate the bread, and\nspent the halfpenny in beer to drink with it. When he had finished, he\ncontinued his journey, and the saint, in the disguise of a disbanded\nsoldier, met him again and saluted him.\n\n\"Good day, comrade,\" said he; \"can you give me a morsel of bread, and\na halfpenny to get a drop of drink?\"\n\n\"Where shall I get it?\" answered Brother Merry. \"I got my discharge,\nand nothing with it but a loaf and four halfpence, and three beggars\nmet me on the road and I gave each of them a quarter of the loaf and a\nhalfpenny. The last quarter I have just eaten at the tavern, and I\nhave spent the last halfpenny in drink. I am quite empty now. If you\nhave nothing, let us go begging together.\"\n\n\"No, that will not be necessary just now,\" said the saint. \"I\nunderstand a little about doctoring, and I will in time obtain as\nmuch as I need by that.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Brother Merry, \"I know nothing about that, so I must go and\nbeg by myself.\"\n\n\"Only come along,\" replied the saint, \"and if I can earn anything, you\nshall go halves.\"\n\n\"That will suit me excellently,\" replied Brother Merry.\n\nSo they travelled on together.\n\nThey had not gone a great distance before they came to a cottage in\nwhich they heard a great lamenting and screaming. They went in to see\nwhat was the matter, and found a man sick to the death, as if about to\nexpire, and his wife crying and weeping loudly.\n\n\"Leave off whining and crying,\" said the saint. \"I will make the man\nwell again quickly enough,\" and he took a salve out of his pocket and\ncured the man instantly, so that he could stand up and was quite\nhearty. Then the man and his wife, in great joy, demanded--\n\n\"How can we repay you? What shall we give you?\"\n\nThe saint would not, however, take anything, and the more the couple\npressed him the more firmly he declined. Brother Merry, who had been\nlooking on, came to his side, and, nudging him, said--\n\n\"Take something; take something. We want it badly enough.\"\n\nAt length the peasant brought a lamb, which he desired the saint to\naccept, but he declined it still. Then Brother Merry jogged his side,\nand said--\n\n\"Take it, you foolish fellow; take it. We want it badly enough.\"\n\nAt last the saint said--\n\n\"Well, I'll take the lamb, but I shall not carry it. You must carry\nit.\"\n\n\"There's no great hardship in that,\" cried Brother Merry. \"I can\neasily do it;\" and he took it on his shoulder.\n\nAfter that they went on till they came to a wood, and Brother Merry,\nwho was very hungry, and found the lamb a heavy load, called out to\nthe saint--\n\n\"Hallo! here is a nice place for us to dress and eat the lamb.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" replied his companion; \"but I don't understand\nanything of cooking, so do you begin, and I will walk about until it\nis ready. Don't begin to eat until I return. I will take care to be\nback in time.\"\n\n\"Go your ways,\" said Brother Merry; \"I can cook it well enough. I'll\nsoon have it ready.\"\n\nThe saint wandered away, while Brother Merry lighted the fire, killed\nthe lamb, put the pieces into the pot, and boiled them. In a short\ntime the lamb was thoroughly done, but the saint had not returned; so\nMerry took the meat up, carved it, and found the heart.\n\n\"That is the best part of it,\" said he; and he kept tasting it until\nhe had finished it.\n\nAt length the saint came back, and said--\n\n\"I only want the heart. All the rest you may have, only give me that.\"\n\nThen Brother Merry took his knife and fork, and turned the lamb about\nas if he would have found the heart, but of course he could not\ndiscover it. At last he said, in a careless manner--\n\n\"It is not here.\"\n\n\"Not there? Where should it be, then?\" said the saint.\n\n\"That I don't know,\" said Merry; \"but now I think of it, what a couple\nof fools we are to look for the heart of a lamb. A lamb, you know, has\nnot got a heart.\"\n\n\"What?\" said the saint; \"that's news, indeed. Why, every beast has a\nheart, and why should not the lamb have one as well as the rest of\nthem?\"\n\n\"No, certainly, comrade, a lamb has no heart. Only reflect, and it\nwill occur to you that it really has not.\"\n\n\"Well,\" replied his companion, \"it is quite sufficient. There is no\nheart there, so I need none of the lamb. You may eat it all.\"\n\n\"Well, what I cannot eat I'll put in my knapsack,\" said Brother Merry.\n\nThen he ate some, and disposed of the rest as he had said. Now, as\nthey continued their journey, the saint contrived that a great stream\nshould flow right across their path, so that they must be obliged to\nford it. Then said he--\n\n\"Go you first.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Brother Merry; \"go you first,\" thinking that if the\nwater were too deep he would stay on the bank where he was. However,\nthe saint waded through, and the water only reached to his knees; but\nwhen Brother Merry ventured, the stream seemed suddenly to increase in\ndepth, and he was soon up to his neck in the water.\n\n\"Help me, comrade,\" he cried.\n\n\"Will you confess,\" said the saint, \"that you ate the lamb's heart?\"\n\nThe soldier still denied it, and the water got still deeper, until it\nreached his mouth. Then the saint said again--\n\n\"Will you confess, then, that you ate the lamb's heart?\"\n\nBrother Merry still denied what he had done, and as the saint did not\nwish to let him drown he helped him out of his danger.\n\nThey journeyed on until they came to a kingdom where they heard that\nthe king's daughter lay dangerously ill.\n\n\"Holloa! brother,\" said the soldier, \"here's a catch for us. If we\ncan only cure her we shall be made for ever.\"\n\nThe saint, however, was not quick enough for Brother Merry.\n\n\"Come, Brother Heart,\" said the soldier, \"put your best foot forward,\nso that we may come in at the right time.\"\n\nBut the saint went still slower, though his companion kept pushing and\ndriving him, till at last they heard that the princess was dead.\n\n\"This comes of your creeping so,\" said the soldier.\n\n\"Now be still,\" said the saint, \"for I can do more than make the sick\nwhole; I can bring the dead to life again.\"\n\n\"If that's true,\" said Brother Merry, \"you must at least earn half the\nkingdom for us.\"\n\nAt length they arrived at the king's palace, where everybody was in\ngreat trouble, but the saint told the king he would restore his\ndaughter to him. They conducted him to where she lay, and he commanded\nthem to let him have a caldron of water, and when it had been brought,\nhe ordered all the people to go away, and let nobody remain with him\nbut Brother Merry. Then he divided the limbs of the dead princess, and\nthrowing them into the water, lighted a fire under the caldron, and\nboiled them. When all the flesh had fallen from the bones, the saint\ntook them, laid them on a table, and placed them together in their\nnatural order. Having done this, he walked before them, and said--\n\n\"Arise, thou dead one!\"\n\nAs he repeated these words the third time the princess arose, alive,\nwell, and beautiful.\n\nThe king was greatly rejoiced, and said to the saint--\n\n\"Require for thy reward what thou wilt. Though it should be half my\nempire, I will give it you.\"\n\nBut the saint replied--\n\n\"I desire nothing for what I have done.\"\n\n\"O thou Jack Fool!\" thought Brother Merry to himself. Then, nudging\nhis comrade's side, he said--\n\n\"Don't be so silly. If you won't have anything, yet I need somewhat.\"\n\nThe saint, however, would take nothing, but as the king saw that his\ncompanion would gladly have a gift, he commanded the keeper of his\ntreasures to fill his knapsack with gold, at which Brother Merry was\nright pleased.\n\nAgain they went upon their way till they came to a wood, when the\nsaint said to his fellow-traveller--\n\n\"Now we will share the gold.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the soldier, \"that we can.\"\n\nThen the saint took the gold and divided it into three portions.\n\n\"Well,\" thought Brother Merry, \"what whim has he got in his head now,\nmaking three parcels, and only two of us?\"\n\n\"Now,\" said the saint, \"I have divided it fairly, one for me, and one\nfor you, and one for him who ate the heart.\"\n\n\"Oh, I ate that,\" said the soldier, quickly taking up the gold. \"I\ndid, I assure you.\"\n\n\"How can that be true?\" replied the saint. \"A lamb has no heart.\"\n\n\"Ay! what, brother? What are you thinking of? A lamb has no heart?\nVery good! When every beast has why should that one be without?\"\n\n\"Now that is very good,\" said the saint. \"Take all the gold yourself,\nfor I shall remain no more with you, but will go my own way alone.\"\n\n\"As you please, Brother Heart,\" answered the soldier. \"A pleasant\njourney to you, my hearty.\"\n\nThe saint took another road, and as he went off--\n\n\"Well,\" thought the soldier, \"it's all right that he has marched off,\nfor he is an odd fellow.\"\n\nBrother Merry had now plenty of money, but he did not know how to use\nit, so he spent it and gave it away, till in the course of a little\ntime he found himself once more penniless. At last he came into a\ncountry where he heard that the king's daughter was dead.\n\n\"Ah!\" thought he, \"that may turn out well. I'll bring her to life\nagain.\"\n\nThen he went to the king and offered his services. Now the king had\nheard that there was an old soldier who went about restoring the dead\nto life, and he thought that Brother Merry must be just the man.\nHowever, he had not much confidence in him, so he first consulted his\ncouncil, and they agreed that as the princess was certainly dead, the\nold soldier might be allowed to see what he could do. Brother Merry\ncommanded them to bring him a caldron of water, and when every one had\nleft the room he separated the limbs, threw them into the caldron, and\nmade a fire under it, exactly as he had seen the saint do. When the\nwater boiled and the flesh fell from the bones, he took them and\nplaced them upon the table, but as he did not know how to arrange them\nhe piled them one upon another. Then he stood before them, and said--\n\n\"Thou dead, arise!\" and he cried so three times, but all to no\npurpose.\n\n\"Stand up, you vixen! stand up, or it shall be the worse for you,\" he\ncried.\n\nScarcely had he repeated these words ere the saint came in at the\nwindow, in the likeness of an old soldier, just as before, and said--\n\n\"You impious fellow! How can the dead stand up when you have thrown\nthe bones thus one upon another?\"\n\n\"Ah! Brother Heart,\" answered Merry, \"I have done it as well as I\ncan.\"\n\n\"I will help you out of your trouble this time,\" said the saint; \"but\nI tell you this, if you ever again undertake a job of this kind, you\nwill repent it, and for this you shall neither ask for nor take the\nleast thing from the king.\"\n\nHaving placed the bones in their proper order, the saint said three\ntimes--\n\n\"Thou dead, arise!\" and the princess stood up, sound and beautiful as\nbefore. Then the saint immediately disappeared again out of the\nwindow, and Brother Merry was glad that all had turned out so well.\nOne thing, however, grieved him sorely, and that was that he might\ntake nothing from the king.\n\n\"I should like to know,\" thought he, \"what Brother Heart had to\ngrumble about. What he gives with one hand he takes with the other.\nThere is no wit in that.\"\n\nThe king asked Brother Merry what he would have, but the soldier durst\nnot take anything. However, he managed by hints and cunning that the\nking should fill his knapsack with money, and with that he journeyed\non. When he came out of the palace door, however, he found the saint\nstanding there, who said--\n\n\"See what a man you are. Have I not forbidden you to take anything,\nand yet you have your knapsack filled with gold?\"\n\n\"How can I help it,\" answered the soldier, \"if they would thrust it\nin?\"\n\n\"I tell you this,\" said the saint, \"mind that you don't undertake such\na business a second time. If you do, it will fare badly with you.\"\n\n\"Ah! brother,\" answered the soldier, \"never fear. Now I have money,\nwhy should I trouble myself with washing bones?\"\n\n\"That will not last a long time,\" said the saint; \"but, in order that\nyou may never tread in a forbidden path, I will bestow upon your\nknapsack this power, that whatsoever you wish in it shall be there.\nFarewell! you will never see me again.\"\n\n\"Adieu,\" said Brother Merry, and thought he, \"I am glad you are gone.\nYou are a wonderful fellow. I am willing enough not to follow you.\"\n\nHe forgot all about the wonderful property bestowed upon his knapsack,\nand very soon he had spent and squandered his gold as before. When he\nhad but fourpence left, he came to a public-house, and thought that\nthe money must go. So he called for three pennyworth of wine and a\npennyworth of bread. As he ate and drank, the flavour of roasting\ngeese tickled his nose, and, peeping and prying about, he saw that the\nlandlord had placed two geese in the oven. Then it occurred to him\nwhat his companion had told him about his knapsack, so he determined\nto put it to the test. Going out, he stood before the door, and said--\n\n\"I wish that the two geese which are baking in the oven were in my\nknapsack.\"\n\nWhen he had said this, he peeped in, and, sure enough, there they\nwere.\n\n\"Ah! ah!\" said he, \"that is all right. I am a made man.\"\n\nHe went on a little way, took out the geese, and commenced to eat\nthem. As he was thus enjoying himself, there came by two labouring\nmen, who looked with hungry eyes at the one goose which was yet\nuntouched. Brother Merry noticed it, and thought that one goose would\nbe enough for him. So he called the men, gave them the goose, and bade\nthem drink his health. The men thanked him, and going to the\npublic-house, called for wine and bread, took out their present, and\ncommenced to eat. When the hostess saw what they were dining on, she\nsaid to her goodman--\n\n\"Those two men are eating a goose. You had better see if it is not one\nof ours out of the oven.\"\n\nThe host opened the door, and lo! the oven was empty.\n\n\"O you pack of thieves!\" he shouted. \"This is the way you eat geese,\nis it? Pay for them directly, or I will wash you both with green hazel\njuice.\"\n\nThe men said--\n\n\"We are not thieves. We met an old soldier on the road, and he made us\na present of the goose.\"\n\n\"You are not going to hoax me in that way,\" said the host. \"The\nsoldier has been here, but went out of the door like an honest fellow.\nI took care of that. You are the thieves, and you shall pay for the\ngeese.\"\n\nHowever, as the men had no money to pay him with, he took a stick and\nbeat them out of doors.\n\nMeanwhile, as Brother Merry journeyed on, he came to a place where\nthere was a noble castle, and not far from it a little public-house.\nInto this he went, and asked for a night's lodging, but the landlord\nsaid that his house was full of guests, and he could not accommodate\nhim.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Brother Merry, \"that the people should all come to\nyou, instead of going to that castle.\"\n\n\"They have good reason for what they do,\" said the landlord, \"for\nwhoever has attempted to spend the night at the castle has never come\nback to show how he was entertained.\"\n\n\"If others have attempted it, why shouldn't I?\" said Merry.\n\n\"You had better leave it alone,\" said the host; \"you are only\nthrusting your head into danger.\"\n\n\"No fear of danger,\" said the soldier, \"only give me the key and\nplenty to eat and drink.\"\n\nThe hostess gave him what he asked for, and he went off to the castle,\nrelished his supper, and when he found himself sleepy, laid himself\ndown on the floor, for there was no bed in the place. He soon went to\nsleep, but in the night he was awoke by a great noise, and when he\naroused himself he discovered nine very ugly devils dancing in a\ncircle which they had made around him.\n\n\"Dance as long as you like,\" said Brother Merry; \"but don't come near\nme.\"\n\nBut the devils came drawing nearer and nearer, and at last they almost\ntrod on his face with their misshapen feet.\n\n\"Be quiet,\" said he, but they behaved still worse.\n\nAt last he got angry, and crying--\n\n\"Holla! I'll soon make you quiet,\" he caught hold of the leg of a\nstool and struck about him.\n\nNine devils against one soldier were, however, too much, and while he\nlaid about lustily on those before him, those behind pulled his hair\nand pinched him miserably.\n\n\"Ay, ay, you pack of devils, now you are too hard for me,\" said he;\n\"but wait a bit. I wish all the nine devils were in my knapsack,\"\ncried he, and it was no sooner said than done.\n\nThere they were. Then Brother Merry buckled it up close, and threw it\ninto a corner, and as all was now still he lay down and slept till\nmorning, when the landlord of the inn and the nobleman to whom the\ncastle belonged came to see how it had fared with him. When they saw\nhim sound and lively, they were astonished, and said--\n\n\"Did the ghosts, then, do nothing to you?\"\n\n\"Why, not exactly,\" said Merry; \"but I have got them all nine in my\nknapsack. You may dwell quietly enough in your castle now; from\nhenceforth they won't trouble you.\"\n\nThe nobleman thanked him and gave him great rewards, begging him to\nremain in his service, saying that he would take care of him all the\ndays of his life.\n\n\"No,\" answered he; \"I am used to wander and rove about. I will again\nset forth.\"\n\nHe went on until he came to a smithy, into which he went, and laying\nhis knapsack on the anvil, bade the smith and all his men hammer away\nupon it as hard as they could. They did as they were directed, with\ntheir largest hammers and all their might, and the poor devils set up\na piteous howling. When the men opened the knapsack there were eight\nof them dead, but one who had been snug in a fold was still alive, and\nhe slipped out and ran away to his home in a twinkling.\n\nAfter this Brother Merry wandered about the world for a long time; but\nat last he grew old, and began to think about his latter end, so he\nwent to a hermit who was held to be a very pious man and said--\n\n\"I am tired of roving, and will now endeavour to go to heaven.\"\n\n\"There stand two ways,\" said the hermit; \"the one, broad and\npleasant, leads to hell; the other is rough and narrow, and that leads\nto heaven.\"\n\n\"I must be a fool indeed,\" thought Brother Merry, \"if I go the rough\nand narrow road;\" so he went the broad and pleasant way till he came\nat last to a great black door, and that was the door of hell.\n\nHe knocked, and the door-keeper opened it, and when he saw that it was\nMerry he was sadly frightened, for who should he be but the ninth\ndevil who had been in the knapsack, and he had thought himself lucky,\nfor he had escaped with nothing worse than a black eye. He bolted the\ndoor again directly, and running to the chief of the devils, said--\n\n\"There is a fellow outside with a knapsack on his back, but pray don't\nlet him in, for he can get all hell into his knapsack by wishing it.\nHe once got me a terribly ugly hammering in it.\"\n\nSo they called out to Brother Merry, and told him that he must go\naway, for they should not let him in.\n\n\"Well, if they will not have me here,\" thought Merry, \"I'll e'en try\nif I can get a lodging in heaven. Somewhere or other I must rest.\"\n\nSo he turned about and went on till he came to the door of heaven, and\nthere he knocked. Now the saint who had journeyed with Merry sat at\nthe door, and had charge of the entrance. Brother Merry recognised\nhim, and said--\n\n\"Are you here, old acquaintance? Then things will go better with me.\"\n\nThe saint replied--\n\n\"I suppose you want to get into heaven?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, brother, let me in; I must put up somewhere.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the saint; \"you don't come in here.\"\n\n\"Well, if you won't let me in, take your dirty knapsack again. I'll\nhave nothing that can put me in mind of you,\" said Merry carelessly.\n\n\"Give it me, then,\" said the saint.\n\nBrother Merry handed it through the grating into heaven, and the saint\ntook it and hung it up behind his chair.\n\n\"Now,\" said Brother Merry, \"I wish I was in my own knapsack.\"\n\nInstantly he was there; and thus, being once actually in heaven, the\nsaint was obliged to let him stay there.\n\n\n\n\nFASTRADA.\n\n\nBy the side of the \"Beautiful Doorway,\" leading into the cloisters of\nthe cathedral at Mainz, stands, worked into the wall, a fragment of\nthe tomb of Fastrada, the fourth wife of the mighty monarch\nCharlemagne according to some authorities, the third according to\nothers. Fastrada figures in the following tradition related by the\nauthor of the Rhyming Chronicle.\n\nWhen the Kaiser, Karl, abode at Zurich, he dwelt in a house called\n\"The Hole,\" in front of which he caused a pillar to be erected with a\nbell on the top of it, to the end that whoever demanded justice should\nhave the means of announcing himself. One day, as he sat at dinner in\nhis house, he heard the bell ring, and sent out his servants to bring\nthe claimant before him; but they could find no one. A second and a\nthird time the bell rang, but no human being was still to be seen. At\nlength the Kaiser himself went forth, and he found a large serpent,\nwhich had twined itself round the shaft of the pillar, and was then in\nthe very act of pulling the bell rope.\n\n\"This is God's will,\" said the monarch. \"Let the brute be brought\nbefore me. I may deny justice to none of God's creatures--man or\nbeast.\"\n\nThe serpent was accordingly ushered into the imperial presence; and\nthe Kaiser spoke to it as he would to one of his own kind, gravely\nasking what it required. The reptile made a most courteous reverence\nto Charlemagne, and signed in its dumb way for him to follow. He did\nso accordingly, accompanied by his court; and the creature led them on\nto the water's edge, to the shores of the lake, where it had its nest.\nArrived there, the Kaiser soon saw the cause of the serpent's seeking\nhim, for its nest, which was full of eggs, was occupied by a hideous\ntoad of monstrous proportions.\n\n\"Let the toad be flung into the fire,\" said the monarch solemnly, \"and\nlet the serpent have possession of its nest restored to it.\"\n\nThis sentence was carried at once into execution. The toad was burnt,\nand the serpent placed in possession. Charlemagne and his court then\nreturned to the palace.\n\nThree days afterwards, as the Kaiser again sat at dinner, he was\nsurprised at the appearance of the serpent, which this time glided\ninto the hall unnoticed and unannounced.\n\n\"What does this mean?\" thought the king.\n\nThe reptile approached the table, and raising itself on its tail,\ndropped from its mouth, into an empty plate which stood beside the\nmonarch, a precious diamond. Then, again abasing itself before him,\nthe crawling creature glided out of the hall as it had entered, and\nwas speedily lost to view. This diamond the monarch caused to be set\nin a costly chased ring of the richest gold; and he then presented the\ntrinket to his fair wife, the much-beloved Fastrada.\n\nNow this stone had the virtue of attraction, and whoso received it\nfrom another, so long as they wore it, received also the intensest\nlove of that individual. It was thus with Fastrada, for no sooner did\nshe place the ring on her finger than the attachment of Charlemagne,\ngreat before, no longer knew any bounds. In fact his love was more\nlike madness than any sane passion. But though this talisman had full\npower over love, it had no power over death; and the mighty monarch\nwas soon to experience that nothing may avert the fiat of destiny.\n\nCharlemagne and his beloved bride returned to Germany, and, at\nIngelheim palace, Fastrada died. The Kaiser was inconsolable. He would\nnot listen to the voice of friendship, and he sorrowed in silence over\nthe dead body of his once beautiful bride. Even when decay had\ncommenced, when the remains, late so lovely, were now loathsome to\nlook on, he could not be induced to leave the corpse for a moment, or\nto quit the chamber of death in which it lay. The court were all\nastounded. They knew not what to make of the matter. At length\nTurpin, Archbishop of Rheims, approached the corpse, and being made\naware of the cause, by some supernatural communication contrived to\nengage the emperor's attention while he removed the charm. The magic\nring was found by him in the mouth of the dead empress, concealed\nbeneath her tongue.\n\nImmediately that the talisman was removed the spell was broken, and\nCharlemagne now looked on the putrid corpse with all the natural\nhorror and loathing of an ordinary man. He gave orders for its\nimmediate interment, which were at once carried into execution, and he\nthen departed from Ingelheim for the forest of the Ardennes. Arrived\nat Aix-la-Chapelle, he took up his abode in the ancient castle of\nFrankenstein, close by that famous city. The esteem, however, that he\nhad felt for Fastrada was now transferred to the possessor of the\nring, Archbishop Turpin; and the pious ecclesiastic was so persecuted\nby the emperor's affection that he finally cast the talisman into the\nlake which surrounds the castle.\n\nAn immediate transference of the royal liking took place, and the\nmonarch, thenceforth and for ever after during his lifetime, loved\nAix-la-Chapelle as a man might love his wife. So much did he become\nattached to it, that he directed that he should be buried there; and\nthere accordingly his remains rest unto this day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JEW IN THE BUSH.\n\n\nA faithful servant had worked hard for his master, a thrifty farmer,\nfor three long years, and had been paid no wages. At last it came into\nthe man's head that he would not go on thus any longer, so he went to\nhis master and said--\n\n\"I have worked hard for you a long time, and without pay, too. I will\ntrust you to give me what I ought to have for my trouble, but\nsomething I must have, and then I must take a holiday.\"\n\nThe farmer was a sad miser, and knew that his man was simple-hearted,\nso he took out three crowns, and thus gave him a crown for each year's\nservice. The poor fellow thought it was a great deal of money to have,\nand said to himself--\n\n\"Why should I work hard and live here on bad fare any longer? Now that\nI am rich I can travel into the wide world and make myself merry.\"\n\nWith that he put the money into his purse, and set out, roaming over\nhill and valley. As he jogged along over the fields, singing and\ndancing, a little dwarf met him, and asked him what made him so\nmerry.\n\n\"Why, what should make me down-hearted?\" replied he. \"I am sound in\nhealth and rich in purse; what should I care for? I have saved up my\nthree years' earnings, and have it all safe in my pocket.\"\n\n\"How much may it come to?\" said the mannikin.\n\n\"Three whole crowns,\" replied the countryman.\n\n\"I wish you would give them to me,\" said the other. \"I am very poor.\"\n\nThen the good man pitied him, and gave him all he had; and the dwarf\nsaid--\n\n\"As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes--one for\neach crown,--so choose whatever you like.\"\n\nThe countryman rejoiced at his luck, and said--\n\n\"I like many things better than money. First, I will have a bow that\nwill bring me down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will\nset every one dancing that hears me play upon it; and, thirdly, I\nshould like to be able to make every one grant me whatever I ask.\"\n\nThe dwarf said he should have his three wishes, gave him the bow and\nthe fiddle, and went his way.\n\nOur honest friend journeyed on his way too, and if he was merry\nbefore, he was now ten times more so. He had not gone far before he\nmet an old Jew. Close by them stood a tree, and on the topmost twig\nsat a thrush, singing away most joyfully.\n\n\"Oh what a pretty bird!\" said the Jew. \"I would give a great deal of\nmy money to have such a one.\"\n\n\"If that's all,\" said the countryman, \"I will soon bring it down.\"\n\nHe took up his bow, off went his arrow, and down fell the thrush into\na bush that grew at the foot of the tree. The Jew, when he saw that he\ncould have the bird, thought he would cheat the man, so he put his\nmoney into his pocket again, and crept into the bush to find the\nprize. As soon as he had got into the middle, his companion took up\nhis fiddle and played away, and the Jew began to dance and spring\nabout, capering higher and higher in the air. The thorns soon began to\ntear his clothes, till they all hung in rags about him, and he himself\nwas all scratched and wounded, so that the blood ran down.\n\n\"Oh, for heaven's sake!\" cried the Jew. \"Mercy, mercy, master! Pray\nstop the fiddle! What have I done to be treated in this way?\"\n\n\"What hast thou done? Why, thou hast shaved many a poor soul close\nenough,\" said the other. \"Thou art only meeting thy reward;\" and he\nplayed up another tune yet merrier than the first.\n\nThen the Jew began to beg and pray, and at last he said he would give\nplenty of his money to be set free. He did not, however, come up to\nthe musician's price for some time, so he danced him along brisker and\nbrisker. The higher the Jew danced, the higher he bid, till at last he\noffered a round hundred crowns that he had in his purse, and had just\ngained by cheating some poor fellow. When the countryman saw so much\nmoney, he said--\n\n\"I agree to the bargain,\" and, taking the purse and putting up his\nfiddle, he travelled on well pleased.\n\nMeanwhile the Jew crept out of the bush, half naked, and in a piteous\nplight, and began to ponder how he should take his revenge and serve\nhis late companion some trick. At length he went to a judge, and said\nthat a rascal had robbed him of his money, and beaten him soundly into\nthe bargain, and that this fellow carried a bow at his back, and had a\nfiddle hanging round his neck. The judge sent out his bailiffs to\nbring up the man whenever they should find him. The countryman was\nsoon caught, and brought up to be tried.\n\nThe Jew began his tale, and said he had been robbed of his money.\n\n\"Robbed, indeed!\" said the countryman; \"why, you gave it me for\nplaying you a tune, and teaching you to dance.\"\n\nThe judge said that was not likely; that the Jew, he was sure, knew\nbetter what to do with his money; and he cut the matter short by\nsending the countryman off to the gallows.\n\nAway he was taken, but as he stood at the foot of the ladder, he\nsaid--\n\n\"My Lord Judge, may it please your worship to grant me but one boon?\"\n\n\"Anything but thy life,\" replied the other.\n\n\"No,\" said he; \"I do not ask my life. Only let me play upon my fiddle\nfor the last time.\"\n\nThe Jew cried out--\n\n\"Oh, no! no! no! for heaven's sake don't listen to him! don't listen\nto him!\"\n\nBut the judge said--\n\n\"It is only for this once, poor fellow! He will soon have done.\"\n\nThe fact was he could not say no, because the dwarf's third gift\nenabled the countryman to make every one grant whatever he asked.\n\nThen the Jew said--\n\n\"Bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake!\"\n\nThe countryman seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune, and at\nthe first note judge, clerks, and jailer were set agoing. All began\ncapering, and no one could hold the Jew. At the second note the\nhangman let his prisoner go and danced also, and by the time the first\nbar of the tune was played all were dancing together--judge, court,\nJew, and all the people who had followed to look on. At first the\nthing went merrily and joyously enough, but when it had gone on a\nwhile, and there seemed to be no end of either playing or dancing, all\nbegan to cry out and beg the countryman to leave off. He stopped,\nhowever, not a whit the more for their begging, till the judge not\nonly gave him his life, but paid him back the hundred crowns.\n\nThen the countryman called the Jew, and said--\n\n\"Tell us now, you rogue, where you got that gold, or I shall play on\nfor your amusement only.\"\n\n\"I stole it,\" replied the Jew, before all the people. \"I acknowledge\nthat I stole it, and that you earned it fairly.\"\n\nThen the countryman stopped his fiddling, and left the Jew to take his\nplace at the gallows.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELVES.\n\n\nThe happy day at length arrived on which Count Hermann von Rosenberg\nwas married to his beloved Catherine, a princess of the house of\nGonzaca. The event was celebrated by a magnificent banquet and\nfestival, and it was late before the Count and Countess could leave\ntheir guests. The young Countess was already asleep, and Hermann was\nsinking into a slumber, when he was aroused by hearing the sounds of\nsoft and gentle music, and, the door of his apartment flying open, a\njoyous bridal procession entered the room. The figures engaged in this\nextraordinary scene were not more than two or three spans high. The\nbride and bridegroom were in the centre of the procession, and the\nmusicians preceded it.\n\nHermann rose up in bed, and demanded what brought them there, and why\nthey had aroused him, whereupon one of the company stepped up to him,\nand said--\n\n\"We are attendant spirits of that peaceful class who dwell in the\nearth. We have dwelt for many years beneath this thy birthplace, and\nhave ever watched over thy dwelling to preserve it from misfortune.\nAlready have we taken good care of the ashes of your forefathers that\nthey should not fall into the power of hostile and evil spirits, and\nas faithful servants we watch over the welfare of your house. Since\nthou hast this day been married for the continuance of thy name and\nancient race, we have represented to you this bridal ceremony, in\nhopes that you will grant us full permission to keep and celebrate\nthis joyous festival, in return for which we promise to serve you and\nyour house with the greatest readiness.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Hermann, laughing; \"make yourselves as merry in my\ncastle as you please.\"\n\nThey thanked him, and took their departure. Hermann could not,\nhowever, banish from his mind this remarkable scene, and it was\ndaybreak before he fell asleep. In the morning his thoughts were still\noccupied with it, yet he never mentioned one word of the occurrence to\nhis wife.\n\nIn the course of time the Countess presented him with a daughter.\nScarcely had Hermann received intelligence of this event before a very\ndiminutive old crone entered the apartment and informed him that the\nelfin bride, whom he had seen in the miniature procession on the night\nof his nuptials, had given birth to a daughter. Hermann was very\nfriendly to the visitor, wished all happiness to the mother and child,\nand the old woman took her departure. The Count did not, however,\nmention this visit to his wife.\n\nA year afterwards, on the approach of her second confinement, the\nCountess saw the elves on the occasion of her husband receiving\nanother of their unexpected visits. The little people entered the\nchamber in a long procession in black dresses, carrying lights in\ntheir hands, and the little women were clothed in white. One of these\nstood before the Count holding up her apron, while an old man thus\naddressed her--\n\n\"No more, dear Hermann, can we find a resting-place in your castle. We\nmust wander abroad. We are come to take our departure from you.\"\n\n\"Wherefore will you leave my castle?\" inquired Hermann. \"Have I\noffended you?\"\n\n\"No, thou hast not; but we must go, for she whom you saw as a bride on\nyour wedding-night lost, last evening, her life in giving birth to an\nheir, who likewise perished. As a proof that we are thankful for the\nkindness you have always shown us, take a trifling proof of our\npower.\"\n\nWhen the old man had thus spoken, he placed a little ladder against\nthe bed, which the old woman who had stood by ascended. Then she\nopened her apron, held it before Hermann, and said--\n\n\"Grasp and take.\"\n\nHe hesitated. She repeated what she had said. At last he did what she\ntold him, took out of her apron what he supposed to be a handful of\nsand, and laid it in a basin which stood upon a table by his bedside.\nThe little woman desired him to take another handful, and he did once\nmore as she bade him. Thereupon the woman descended the ladder; and\nthe procession, weeping and lamenting, departed from the chamber.\n\nWhen day broke, Hermann saw that the supposed sand which he had taken\nfrom the apron of the little woman was nothing less than pure and\nbeautiful grains of gold.\n\nBut what happened? On that very day he lost his Countess in\nchildbirth, and his new-born son. Hermann mourned her loss so bitterly\nthat he was very soon laid beside her in the grave. With him perished\nthe house of Rosenberg.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONCLAVE OF CORPSES.\n\n\nSome three hundred years since, when the convent of Kreutzberg was in\nits glory, one of the monks who dwelt therein, wishing to ascertain\nsomething of the hereafter of those whose bodies lay all undecayed in\nthe cemetery, visited it alone in the dead of night for the purpose of\nprosecuting his inquiries on that fearful subject. As he opened the\ntrap-door of the vault a light burst from below; but deeming it to be\nonly the lamp of the sacristan, the monk drew back and awaited his\ndeparture concealed behind the high altar. The sacristan emerged not,\nhowever, from the opening; and the monk, tired of waiting, approached,\nand finally descended the rugged steps which led into the dreary\ndepths. No sooner had he set foot on the lowermost stair, than the\nwell-known scene underwent a complete transformation in his eyes. He\nhad long been accustomed to visit the vault, and whenever the\nsacristan went thither, he was almost sure to be with him. He\ntherefore knew every part of it as well as he did the interior of his\nown narrow cell, and the arrangement of its contents was perfectly\nfamiliar to his eyes. What, then, was his horror to perceive that this\narrangement, which even but that morning had come under his\nobservation as usual, was altogether altered, and a new and wonderful\none substituted in its stead.\n\nA dim lurid light pervaded the desolate abode of darkness, and it just\nsufficed to give to his view a sight of the most singular description.\n\nOn each side of him the dead but imperishable bodies of the\nlong-buried brothers of the convent sat erect in their lidless\ncoffins, their cold, starry eyes glaring at him with lifeless\nrigidity, their withered fingers locked together on their breasts,\ntheir stiffened limbs motionless and still. It was a sight to petrify\nthe stoutest heart; and the monk's quailed before it, though he was a\nphilosopher, and a sceptic to boot. At the upper end of the vault, at\na rude table formed of a decayed coffin, or something which once\nserved the same purpose, sat three monks. They were the oldest corses\nin the charnel-house, for the inquisitive brother knew their faces\nwell; and the cadaverous hue of their cheeks seemed still more\ncadaverous in the dim light shed upon them, while their hollow eyes\ngave forth what looked to him like flashes of flame. A large book lay\nopen before one of them, and the others bent over the rotten table as\nif in intense pain, or in deep and fixed attention. No word was said;\nno sound was heard; the vault was as silent as the grave, its awful\ntenants still as statues.\n\nFain would the curious monk have receded from this horrible place;\nfain would he have retraced his steps and sought again his cell; fain\nwould he have shut his eyes to the fearful scene; but he could not\nstir from the spot, he felt rooted there; and though he once succeeded\nin turning his eyes to the entrance of the vault, to his infinite\nsurprise and dismay he could not discover where it lay, nor perceive\nany possible means of exit. He stood thus for some time. At length the\naged monk at the table beckoned him to advance. With slow tottering\nsteps he made his way to the group, and at length stood in front of\nthe table, while the other monks raised their heads and glanced at him\nwith a fixed, lifeless look that froze the current of his blood. He\nknew not what to do; his senses were fast forsaking him; Heaven seemed\nto have deserted him for his incredulity. In this moment of doubt and\nfear he bethought him of a prayer, and as he proceeded he felt himself\nbecoming possessed of a confidence he had before unknown. He looked on\nthe book before him. It was a large volume, bound in black, and\nclasped with bands of gold, with fastenings of the same metal. It was\ninscribed at the top of each page\n\n\"_Liber Obedientiae._\"\n\nHe could read no further. He then looked, first in the eyes of him\nbefore whom it lay open, and then in those of his fellows. He finally\nglanced around the vault on the corpses who filled every visible\ncoffin in its dark and spacious womb. Speech came to him, and\nresolution to use it. He addressed himself to the awful beings in\nwhose presence he stood, in the words of one having authority with\nthem.\n\n\"_Pax vobis_,\" 'twas thus he spake--\"Peace be to ye.\"\n\n\"_Hic nulla pax_,\" replied an aged monk, in a hollow, tremulous tone,\nbaring his breast the while--\"Here is no peace.\"\n\nHe pointed to his bosom as he spoke, and the monk, casting his eye\nupon it, beheld his heart within surrounded by living fire, which\nseemed to feed on it but not consume it. He turned away in affright,\nbut ceased not to prosecute his inquiries.\n\n\"_Pax vobis, in nomine Domini_,\" he spake again--\"Peace be to ye, in\nthe name of the Lord.\"\n\n\"_Hic non pax_,\" the hollow and heartrending tones of the ancient monk\nwho sat at the right of the table were heard to answer.\n\nOn glancing at the bared bosom of this hapless being also the same\nsight was exhibited--the heart surrounded by a devouring flame, but\nstill remaining fresh and unconsumed under its operation. Once more\nthe monk turned away and addressed the aged man in the centre.\n\n\"_Pax vobis, in nomine Domini_,\" he proceeded.\n\nAt these words the being to whom they were addressed raised his head,\nput forward his hand, and closing the book with a loud clap, said--\n\n\"Speak on. It is yours to ask, and mine to answer.\"\n\nThe monk felt reassured, and his courage rose with the occasion.\n\n\"Who are ye?\" he inquired; \"who may ye be?\"\n\n\"We know not!\" was the answer, \"alas! we know not!\"\n\n\"We know not, we know not!\" echoed in melancholy tones the denizens of\nthe vault.\n\n\"What do ye here?\" pursued the querist.\n\n\"We await the last day, the day of the last judgment! Alas for us!\nwoe! woe!\"\n\n\"Woe! woe!\" resounded on all sides.\n\nThe monk was appalled, but still he proceeded.\n\n\"What did ye to deserve such doom as this? What may your crime be that\ndeserves such dole and sorrow?\"\n\nAs he asked the question the earth shook under him, and a crowd of\nskeletons uprose from a range of graves which yawned suddenly at his\nfeet.\n\n\"These are our victims,\" answered the old monk. \"They suffered at our\nhands. We suffer now, while they are at peace; and we shall suffer.\"\n\n\"For how long?\" asked the monk.\n\n\"For ever and ever!\" was the answer.\n\n\"For ever and ever, for ever and ever!\" died along the vault.\n\n\"May God have mercy on us!\" was all the monk could exclaim.\n\nThe skeletons vanished, the graves closing over them. The aged men\ndisappeared from his view, the bodies fell back in their coffins, the\nlight fled, and the den of death was once more enveloped in its usual\ndarkness.\n\nOn the monk's revival he found himself lying at the foot of the altar.\nThe grey dawn of a spring morning was visible, and he was fain to\nretire to his cell as secretly as he could, for fear he should be\ndiscovered.\n\nFrom thenceforth he eschewed vain philosophy, says the legend, and,\ndevoting his time to the pursuit of true knowledge, and the extension\nof the power, greatness, and glory of the Church, died in the odour of\nsanctity, and was buried in that holy vault, where his body is still\nvisible.\n\n_Requiescat in pace!_\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF RUBEZAHL, OR NUMBER-NIP.\n\n\nOnce upon a time a glazier who was travelling across the mountains,\nfeeling very tired from the heavy load of glass which he was carrying,\nbegan to look about to discover a place where he might rest it.\nRubezahl, who had been watching for some time, no sooner saw this than\nhe changed himself into a little mound, which the glazier not long\nafterwards discovered in his way, and on which, well pleased, he\nproposed to seat himself. But his joy was not of long continuance, for\nhe had not sat there many minutes before the heap vanished from under\nhim so rapidly, that the poor glazier fell to the ground with his\nglass, which was by the fall smashed into a thousand pieces.\n\nThe poor fellow arose from the ground and looked around him, but the\nmound of earth on which he had before seated himself was no longer\nvisible. Then he began bitterly to lament, and to sigh with heartfelt\nsorrow over his untoward fate. At length he started once more on his\njourney. Upon this Rubezahl, assuming the appearance of a traveller,\naccosted him, and inquired why he so lamented, and what was the great\nsorrow with which he was afflicted. The glazier related to him the\nwhole affair, how that, being weary, he had seated himself upon a\nmound by the wayside, how this had suddenly overthrown him, and broken\nto pieces his whole stock of glass, which was well worth eight\ndollars, and how, in short, the mound itself had suddenly disappeared.\nHe declared that he knew not in the least how to recover his loss and\nbring the business to a good ending. The compassionate mountain sprite\ncomforted him, told him who he was, and that he himself had played him\nthe trick, and at the same time bade him be of good cheer, for his\nlosses should be made good to him.\n\nUpon this Rubezahl transformed himself into an ass, and directed the\nglazier to sell him at the mill which lay at the foot of the mountain,\nand to be sure to make off with the purchase-money as quickly as\npossible. The glazier accordingly immediately bestrode the transformed\nmountain sprite, and rode him down the mountain to the mill, where he\noffered him for sale to the miller at the price of ten dollars. The\nmiller offered nine, and the glazier, without further haggling, took\nthe money and went his way.\n\nWhen he was gone the miller sent his newly purchased beast to the\nstable, and the boy who had charge of him immediately filled his rack\nwith hay. Upon this Rubezahl exclaimed--\n\n\"I don't eat hay. I eat nothing but roasted and boiled, and that of\nthe best.\"\n\nThe boy's hair stood on end. He flew to his master, and related to him\nthis wondrous tale, and he no sooner heard it than he hastened to the\nstable and there found nothing, for his ass and his nine dollars were\nalike vanished.\n\nBut the miller was rightly served, for he had cheated in his time many\npoor people, therefore Rubezahl punished in this manner the injustice\nof which he had been guilty.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the year 1512 a man of noble family, who was a very tyrant and\noppressor, had commanded one of his vassals or peasants to carry home\nwith his horses and cart an oak of extraordinary magnitude, and\nthreatened to visit him with the heaviest disgrace and punishment if\nhe neglected to fulfil his desires. The peasant saw that it was\nimpossible for him to execute the command of his lord, and fled to the\nwoods with great sorrow and lamentation.\n\nThere he was accosted by Rubezahl, who appeared to him like a man, and\ninquired of him the cause of his so great sorrow and affliction. Upon\nthis the peasant related to him all the circumstances of the case.\nWhen Rubezahl heard it he bade him be of good cheer and care not, but\ngo home to his house again, as he himself would soon transport the\noak, as his lord required, into his courtyard.\n\nScarcely had the peasant got well home again before Rubezahl took the\nmonstrous oak-tree, with its thick and sturdy boughs, and hurled it\ninto the courtyard of the nobleman, and with its huge stem, and its\nmany thick branches, so choked and blocked up the entrance that no one\ncould get either in or out. And because the oak proved harder than\ntheir iron tools, and could in no manner or wise, and with no power\nwhich they could apply to it, be hewn or cut in pieces, the nobleman\nwas compelled to break through the walls in another part of the\ncourtyard, and have a new doorway made, which was only done with great\nlabour and expense.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOnce upon a time Rubezahl made, from what materials is not known, a\nquantity of pigs, which he drove to the neighbouring market and sold\nto a peasant, with a caution that the purchaser should not drive them\nthrough any water.\n\nNow, what happened? Why these same swine having chanced to get sadly\ncovered with mire, what must the peasant do, but drive them to the\nriver, which they had no sooner entered than the pigs suddenly became\nwisps of straw, and were carried away by the stream. The purchaser\nwas, moreover, obliged to put up with the loss, for he could neither\nfind his pigs again, nor could he discover the person from whom he\nhad bought them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRubezahl once betook himself to the Hirschberg, which is in the\nneighbourhood of his forest haunts, and there offered his services as\na woodcutter to one of the townsmen, asking for his remuneration\nnothing more than a bundle of wood. This the man promised him,\naccepting his offer, and pointed out some cart-loads, intending to\ngive him some assistance. To this offer of help in his labours\nRubezahl replied--\n\n\"No. It is quite unnecessary. All that is to be done I can very well\naccomplish by myself.\"\n\nUpon this his new master made a few further inquiries, asking him what\nsort of a hatchet he had got, for he had noticed that his supposed\nservant was without one.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Rubezahl, \"I'll soon get a hatchet.\"\n\nAccordingly he laid hands upon his left leg, and pulled that and his\nfoot and all off at the thigh, and with it cut, as if he had been\nraving mad, all the wood into small pieces of proper lengths and sizes\nin about a quarter of an hour, thus proving that a dismembered foot is\na thousand times more effectual for such purposes than the sharpest\naxe.\n\nIn the meanwhile the owner (who saw plainly that mischief was\nintended) kept calling upon the wondrous woodcutter to desist and go\nabout his business. Rubezahl, however, kept incessantly answering--\n\n\"No, I won't stir from this spot until I have hewn the wood as small\nas I agreed to, and have got my wages for so doing.\"\n\nIn the midst of such quarrelling Rubezahl finished his job, and\nscrewed his leg on again, for while at work he had been standing on\none leg, after the fashion of a stork. Then he gathered together into\none bundle all he had cut, placed it on his shoulder, and started off\nwith it towards his favourite retreat, heedless of the tears and\nlamentations of his master.\n\nOn this occasion Rubezahl did not appear in the character of a\nsportive or mischievous spirit, but as an avenger of injustice, for\nhis employer had induced a number of poor men to bring wood to his\nhome upon the promise of paying them wages, which, however, he had\nnever paid them. Rubezahl laid at the door of each of these poor men\nas much of the wood he carried away as would repay them, and so the\nbusiness was brought to a proper termination.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt once happened that a messenger vexed or played some trick upon\nRubezahl, who thereupon revenged himself in the following manner, and\nso wiped out the score.\n\nThe messenger, in one of his journeys over the mountains, entered an\nhotel to refresh himself, and placed his spear as usual behind the\ndoor. No sooner had he done so than Rubezahl carried off the spear,\ntransformed himself into a similar one, and took its place.\n\nWhen the messenger, after taking his rest, set forth again with the\nspear, and had got some little way on his journey, it began slipping\nabout every now and then in such a manner that the messenger began\npitching forward into the most intolerable mire, and got himself sadly\nbespattered. It did this so often that at last he could not tell for\nthe soul of him what had come to the spear, or why he kept slipping\nforward with it instead of seizing fast hold of the ground.\n\nHe looked at it longways and sideways, from above, from underneath,\nbut in spite of all his attempts, no change could he discover.\n\nAfter this inspection he went forward a little way, when suddenly he\nwas once more plunged into the morass, and commenced crying--\n\n\"Woe is me! woe is me!\" at his spear, which led him into such scrapes,\nand did nothing to release him from them. At length he got himself\nonce more to rights, and then he turned the spear the wrong way\nupwards. No sooner had he done so than he was driven backwards instead\nof forwards, and so got into a worse plight than ever.\n\nAfter this he laid the spear across his shoulder like a pikeman, since\nit was no use to trail it upon the earth, and in this fashion he\nstarted on. But Rubezahl continued his tricks by pressing on the\nmessenger as though he had got a yoke on his back. He changed the\nspear from one shoulder to the other, until at last, from very\nweariness, he threw away the bewitched weapon, imagining that the Evil\nOne must possess it, and went his way without it.\n\nHe had not proceeded above a quarter of a mile, when, looking\ncarelessly about him, he was astounded to find his spear by his side.\nHe was sadly frightened, and little knew what to make of it. At last\nhe boldly ventured to lay hands upon it. He did so, and lifted it up,\nbut he could not conceive how he should carry it. He had no desire to\ntrail it any more on the ground, and the thought of carrying it on his\nshoulder made him shudder. He decided, however, to give it another\ntrial, carrying it in his hand. Fresh troubles now arose. The spear\nweighed so heavy that he could not stir it a foot from the spot, and\nthough he tried first one hand and then another, all his efforts were\nin vain.\n\nAt last he bethought him of riding upon the spear, as a child\nbestrides a stick. A wonderful change now came over the weapon. It ran\non as though it had been a fleet horse, and thus mounted the messenger\nrode on without ceasing until he descended the mountain and came into\nthe city, where he excited the wonder, delight, and laughter of the\nworthy burghers.\n\nAlthough he had endured some trouble in the early part of his\njourney, the messenger thought he had been amply compensated at the\nclose, and he comforted himself by making up his mind that in all\nfuture journeys he was destined to perform he would bestride his\nnimble spear. His good intentions were, however, frustrated. Rubezahl\nhad played his game, and had had all the amusement he desired with the\npoor knave. Accordingly he scampered away, leaving in his place the\nreal spear, which never played any more tricks, but, after the old\nfashion of other spears, accompanied its master in a becoming and\norderly style.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA poor woman, who got her living by gathering herbs, once went,\naccompanied by her two children, to the mountains, carrying with her a\nbasket in which to gather the plants, which she was in the habit of\ndisposing of to the apothecaries. Having chanced to discover a large\ntract of land covered with such plants as were most esteemed, she\nbusied herself so in filling her basket that she lost her way, and was\ntroubled to find out how to get back to the path from which she had\nwandered. On a sudden a man dressed like a peasant appeared before\nher, and said--\n\n\"Well, good woman, what is it you are looking for so anxiously? and\nwhere do you want to go?\"\n\n\"Alas!\" replied she, \"I am a poor woman who has neither bit nor sup,\nfor which reason I am obliged to wander to gather herbs, so that I\nmay buy bread for myself and my hungry children. I have lost my way,\nand cannot find it. I pray you, good man, take pity on me, and lead me\nout of the thicket into the right path, so that I may make the best of\nmy way home.\"\n\n\"Well, my good woman,\" replied Rubezahl, for it was he, \"make yourself\nhappy. I will show you the way. But what good are those roots to you?\nThey will be of little benefit. Throw away this rubbish, and gather\nfrom this tree as many leaves as will fill your basket; you will find\nthem answer your purpose much better.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said the woman, \"who would give a penny for them? They are but\ncommon leaves, and good for nothing.\"\n\n\"Be advised, my good woman,\" said Rubezahl; \"throw away those you have\ngot, and follow me.\"\n\nHe repeated his injunction over and over again in vain, until he got\ntired, for the woman would not be persuaded. At last, he fairly laid\nhold of the basket, threw the herbs out by main force, and supplied\ntheir place with leaves from the surrounding bushes. When he had\nfinished, he told the woman to go home, and led her into the right\npath.\n\nThe woman, with her children and her basket, journeyed on some\ndistance; but they had not gone far before she saw some valuable herbs\ngrowing by the wayside. No sooner did she perceive them than she\nlonged to gather them, for she hoped that she should obtain something\nfor them, while the leaves with which her basket was crammed were, she\nthought, good for nothing. She accordingly emptied her basket,\nthrowing away the rubbish, as she esteemed it, and having filled it\nonce more with roots, journeyed on to her dwelling at Kirschdorf.\n\nAs soon as she arrived at her home she cleansed the roots she had\ngathered from the earth which clung around them, tied them neatly\ntogether, and emptied everything out of the basket. Upon doing this,\nsomething glittering caught her eye, and she commenced to make a\ncareful examination of the basket. She was surprised to discover\nseveral ducats sticking to the wickerwork, and these were clearly such\nof the leaves as remained of those which she had so thoughtlessly\nthrown away on the mountains.\n\nShe rejoiced at having preserved what she had, but she was again\nsorely vexed that she had not taken care of all that the mountain\nspirit had gathered for her. She hastened back to the spot where she\nhad emptied the basket, in hopes of finding some of the leaves there;\nbut her search was in vain--they had all vanished.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HUNTER HACKELNBERG AND THE TUT-OSEL.\n\n\nThe Wild Huntsman, Hackelnberg, traverses the Hartz mountains and the\nThuringian forest, but he seems mostly to prefer the Hakel, from which\nplace he derives his name, and especially the neighbourhood of\nDummburg. Ofttimes is he heard at night, in rain and storm, when the\nmoonlight is breaking by fits and starts through the troubled sky,\nfollowing with his hounds the shadows of the wild beasts he slew in\ndays of yore. His retinue generally proceed from the Dummburg,\nstraight over the Hakel to the now desolate village of Ammendorf.\n\nHe has only been seen by a few children, who, having been born on a\nSunday, had the power of seeing spirits. Sometimes he met them as a\nlonely huntsman, accompanied by one solitary hound. Sometimes he was\nseen in a carriage drawn by four horses, and followed by six dogs of\nthe chase. But many have heard the low bellowing of his hounds, and\nthe splashing of his horse's feet in the swamps of the moor; many have\nheard his cry of \"Hu! hu!\" and seen his associate and forerunner--the\nTut-Osel, or Tooting Ursula.\n\nOnce upon a time three wanderers seated themselves in the\nneighbourhood of the Dummburg. The night was already far advanced. The\nmoon gleamed faintly through the chasing clouds. All around was still.\nSuddenly they heard something rush along over their heads. They looked\nup, and an immense screech-owl flew before them.\n\n\"Ha!\" cried one of them, \"there is the Tut-Osel! Hackelnberg, the Wild\nHuntsman, is not far off.\"\n\n\"Let us fly,\" exclaimed the second, \"before the spirits overtake us.\"\n\n\"We cannot fly,\" said the third; \"but you have nothing to fear if you\ndo not irritate him. Lay yourselves down upon your faces when he\npasses over us. But, remember, you must not think of addressing\nHackelnberg, lest he treat you as he treated the shepherd.\"\n\nThe wanderers laid themselves under the bushes. Presently they heard\naround them the rushing by, as it were, of a whole pack of hounds, and\nhigh in the air above them they heard a hollow sound like that of a\nhunted beast of the forest, and ever and anon they trembled at hearing\nthe fearful-toned voice of the Wild Huntsman uttering his well-known\n\"Hu! hu!\" Two of the wanderers pressed close to the earth, but the\nthird could not resist his inclination to have a peep at what was\ngoing on. He looked up slantingly through the branches, and saw the\nshadow of a huntsman pass directly over him.\n\nSuddenly all around was hushed. The wanderers rose slowly and timidly,\nand looked after Hackelnberg; but he had vanished, and did not return.\n\n\"But who is the Tut-Osel?\" inquired the second wanderer, after a long\npause.\n\n\"In a distant nunnery in Thuringia,\" replied the first, \"there once\nlived a nun named Ursula, who, even during her lifetime, tormented all\nthe sisterhood by her discordant voice, and oftentimes interrupted the\nservice of the church, for which reason they called her Tut-Osel, or\nTooting Ursula. If matters were bad while she lived, they became far\nworse when she died. At eleven o'clock every night she now thrust her\nhead through a hole in the convent tower and tooted most miserably,\nand every morning at about four o'clock she joined unasked in the\nmatin song.\n\n\"For a few days the sisterhood endured this with a beating heart, and\non bended knees; but on the fourth morning, when she joined in the\nservice, and one of the nuns whispered tremblingly to her neighbour--\n\n\"'Ha! it is surely our Tut-Osel!' the song ceased, the hair of the\nnuns stood on end, and they all rushed from the church, exclaiming--\n\n\"'Ha! Tut-Osel! Tut-Osel!'\n\n\"Despite the penances and chastisements with which they were\nthreatened, not one of the nuns would enter the church again until the\nTut-Osel was banished from the walls of the nunnery. To effect this,\none of the most celebrated exorcists of the day, a Capuchin friar,\nfrom a cloister on the banks of the Danube, was sent for; and he\nsucceeded, by prayer and fasting, in banishing Ursel in the shape of a\nscreech-owl to the far-distant Dummburg.\n\n\"Here she met Hackelnberg, the Wild Huntsman, and found in his\nwood-cry, 'Hu! hu!' as great delight as he did in her 'U! hu!' So they\nnow always hunt together; he glad to have a spirit after his own kind,\nand she rejoiced in the extreme to be no longer compelled to reside\nwithin the walls of a cloister, and there listen to the echo of her\nown song.\"\n\n\"So much for the Tut-Osel. Now tell us how it fared with the shepherd\nwho spoke to Hackelnberg.\"\n\n\"Listen to the marvellous adventure,\" said the third wanderer. \"A\nshepherd once hearing the Wild Huntsman journeying through the forest,\nencouraged the spirit hounds, and called out--\n\n\"'Good sport to you, Hackelnberg.'\n\n\"Hackelnberg instantly turned round and roared out to him, in a voice\nlike thunder--\n\n\"'Since you have helped me to set on the hounds, you shall have part\nof the spoil.'\n\n\"The trembling shepherd tried to hide himself, but Hackelnberg hurled\nthe half-consumed haunch of a horse into the shepherd's cart with such\nviolence that it could scarcely be removed.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE ALRAUN.\n\n\nIt is a well-known tradition near Magdeburg, that when a man who is a\nthief by inheritance,--that is to say, whose father and grandfather\nand great-grandfather before him, three generations of his family,\nhave been thieves; or whose mother has committed a theft, or been\npossessed with an intense longing to steal something at the time\nimmediately preceding his birth; it is the tradition that if such a\nman should be hanged, at the foot of the gallows whereon his last\nbreath was exhaled will spring up a plant of hideous form known as the\nAlraun or Gallows Mannikin. It is an unsightly object to look at, and\nhas broad, dark green leaves, with a single yellow flower. The plant,\nhowever, has great power, and whosoever is its possessor never more\nknows what it is to want money.\n\nIt is a feat full of the greatest danger to obtain it. If not taken up\nfrom the root, clean out of the soil, it is altogether valueless, and\nhe who makes the experiment wantonly risks his life. The moment the\nearth is struck with the spade, the bitterest cries and shrieks burst\nforth from it, and while the roots are being laid bare demons are\nheard to howl in horrid concert. When the preparatory work is done,\nand when the hand of the daring man is laid on the stem to pluck forth\nhis prize, then is it as if all the fiends of hell were let loose upon\nhim, such shrieking, such howling, such clanging of chains, such\ncrashing of thunder, and such flashing of forked lightning assail him\non every side. If his heart fail him but for one moment his life is\nforfeit. Many a bold heart engaged in this trial has ceased to beat\nunder the fatal tree; many a brave man's body has been found mangled\nand torn to pieces on that accursed spot.\n\nThere is, however, happily, only one day in the month, the first\nFriday, on which this plant appears, and on the night of that day only\nmay it be plucked from its hiding-place. The way it is done is this.\nWhoso seeks to win it fasts all day. At sundown he sets forth on his\nfearful adventure, taking with him a coal-black hound, which has not a\nsingle fleck of white on its whole body, and which he has compelled\nlikewise to fast for four-and-twenty hours previously. At midnight he\ntakes his stand under the gallows, and there stuffs his ears with wool\nor wax, so that he may hear nothing. As the dread hour arrives, he\nstoops down and makes three crosses over the Alraun, and then\ncommences to dig for the roots in a perfect circle around it. When he\nhas laid it entirely bare, so that it only holds to the ground by the\npoints of its roots, he calls the hound to him, and ties the plant to\nits tail. He then shows the dog some meat, which he flings to a short\ndistance from the spot. Ravenous with hunger, the hound springs after\nit, dragging the plant up by the root, but before he can reach the\ntempting morsel he is struck dead as by some invisible hand.\n\nThe adventurer, who all the while stood by the plant to aid in its\nuprooting should the strength of the animal prove insufficient, then\nrushes forward, and, detaching it from the body of the dead hound,\ngrasps it firmly in both hands. He then wraps it up carefully in a\nsilken cloth, first, however, washing it well in red wine, and then\nbears it homeward. The hound is buried in the spot whence the Alraun\nhas been extracted.\n\nOn reaching home the man deposits his treasure in a strong chest, with\nthree locks, and only visits it every first Friday in the month, or,\nrather, after the new moon. On these occasions he again washes it with\nred wine, and enfolds it afresh in a clean silken cloth of white and\nred colours.\n\nIf he has any question to ask, or any request to make, he then puts\nthe one or proffers the other. If he wish to know of things in the\nfuture, the Alraun will tell him truly, but he will only get one\nanswer in the moon, and nothing else will be done for him by the\nplant. If he desire to obtain some substantial favour, he has it\nperformed for him on making his request, but then the Alraun will\nanswer no inquiries as to the future until the next day of visitation\nshall arrive.\n\nWhoso has this wonder of the world in his possession can never take\nharm from his foes, and never sustain any loss. If he be poor, he at\nonce becomes rich. If his marriage be unblest by offspring, he at once\nhas children.\n\nIf a piece of gold be laid beside the Alraun at night, it is found to\nbe doubled in the morning, and so on for any sum whatsoever, but never\nhas it been known to be increased more than two pieces for each one.\n\nOn the demise of the owner only a youngest son can inherit the Alraun.\nTo inherit it effectually he must place a loaf of white bread and a\npiece of money in the coffin of his father, to be buried along with\nhis corpse. If he fail to do so, then is the possession, like many\nothers of great name in the world, of no value to him. Should,\nhowever, the youngest son fail before the father, then the Alraun\nrightfully belongs to the eldest, but he must also place bread and\nmoney in the coffin of his brother, as well as in that of his father,\nto inherit it to any purpose.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOOSE-GIRL.\n\n\nThe king of a great land died, and left his queen to take care of\ntheir only child. This child was a daughter, who was very beautiful,\nand her mother loved her dearly and was very kind to her. When she\ngrew up, she was betrothed to a prince who lived a great way off; and\nas the time drew near for her to be married, she got ready to set off\non her journey to his country. The queen, her mother, packed up a\ngreat many costly things--jewels, gold and silver trinkets, fine\ndresses, and, in short, everything that became a royal bride. She gave\nher a waiting-maid to ride with her and give her into the bridegroom's\nhands, and each had a horse for the journey. The princess' horse was\ncalled Falada, and could speak.\n\nWhen the time came for them to set out, the aged mother went into the\nprincess's bedchamber, took a knife, and having cut her finger till it\nbled, let three drops of the blood fall upon a handkerchief, and gave\nit to the princess, saying--\n\n\"Take care of it, dear child, for it is a charm that may be of use to\nyou on the road.\"\n\nThey all took a sorrowful leave of the princess, and she put the\nhandkerchief into her bosom, got upon her horse, and set off on her\njourney to her bridegroom's kingdom.\n\nOne day as they were riding along by a brook, the princess began to\nfeel very thirsty, and said to her maid--\n\n\"Pray get down, and fetch me some water in my golden cup out of yonder\nbrook, for I want to drink.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the maid, \"if you are thirsty, get off yourself and stoop\ndown by the water and drink. I shall not be your waiting-maid any\nlonger.\"\n\nThe princess got down, and knelt over the brook and drank, for she was\nfrightened, and dared not bring out her cup; and she wept, and said--\n\n\"Alas! what will become of me?\"\n\nThe three drops of blood answered her, and said--\n\n    \"Alas, alas! if thy mother knew it,\n    Sadly, sadly, would she rue it.\"\n\nThe princess was very gentle and meek, so she said nothing to her\nmaid's ill-behaviour, but got upon her horse again.\n\nThey all rode further on their journey, till the day grew so warm and\nthe sun so scorching that the bride began to feel very thirsty again;\nand at last, when they came to a river, she forgot her maid's rude\nspeech, and said--\n\n\"Pray get down, and fetch me some water to drink in my cup.\"\n\nBut the maid answered her, and even spoke more haughtily than before--\n\n\"Drink if you will, but I shall not be your waiting-maid.\"\n\nThen the princess got off her horse, and lay down, and held her head\nover the running stream, and cried and said--\n\n\"What will become of me?\"\n\nAnd the drops of blood answered her again as before. As the princess\nleaned down to drink, the handkerchief on which was the blood fell\nfrom her bosom and floated away on the water, but the princess was so\nfrightened that she did not notice it. Her maid, however, saw it, and\nwas very glad, for she knew the charm, and she saw that the poor bride\nwould be in her power now that she had lost the drops of blood. So\nwhen the bride had done drinking, and would have got upon Falada\nagain, the maid said--\n\n\"I will ride upon Falada, and you may have my horse instead;\" so the\nprincess was forced to give up her horse, and soon afterwards to take\noff her royal clothes and put on her maid's shabby ones.\n\nAt last, as they drew near the end of their journey, this treacherous\nservant threatened to kill her mistress if she ever told any one what\nhad happened; but Falada saw it all, and marked it well.\n\nThen the waiting-maid got upon Falada, while the real bride rode upon\nthe other horse, and they went on in this way until they came at last\nto the royal court. There was great joy at their coming, and the\nprince flew to meet them, and lifted the maid from her horse, thinking\nshe was the one who was to be his wife. She was led upstairs to the\nroyal chamber, but the true princess was told to stay in the court\nbelow.\n\nNow the old king happened just then to have nothing else to do, so he\nwas amusing himself by sitting at his window looking at what was going\non, and he saw her in the courtyard. As she looked very pretty, and\ntoo delicate for a waiting-maid, he went up into the royal chamber to\nask the bride who it was she had brought with her that was thus left\nstanding in the court below.\n\n\"I brought her with me for the sake of her company on the road,\"\nreplied she. \"Pray give the girl some work to do, that she may not be\nidle.\"\n\nThe king could not for some time think of any work for her to do, but\nat last he said--\n\n\"I have a lad who takes care of my geese, she may go and help him.\"\n\nNow the name of this lad, whom the princess was to help in watching\nthe king's geese, was Conrad.\n\nThe false bride said to the prince--\n\n\"Dear husband, pray do me one piece of kindness.\"\n\n\"That I will,\" said the prince.\n\n\"Then tell one of your knackers to cut off the head of the horse I\nrode upon, for it was very unruly, and plagued me sadly on the road.\"\n\nIn reality she was very much afraid lest Falada should some day or\nother speak, and tell all that she had done to the princess. She\ncarried her point, and the faithful Falada was killed. When the true\nprincess heard of it she wept, and begged the man to nail up Falada's\nhead over a large dark gate of the city, through which she had to pass\nevery morning and evening, that there she might see him sometimes. The\nslaughterer said he would do as she wished, and he cut off the head,\nand nailed it up under the dark gate.\n\nEarly the next morning, as the princess and Conrad went through the\ngate, she said sorrowfully--\n\n    \"Falada, Falada, there thou hangest!\"\n\nThe head answered--\n\n    \"Bride, bride, there thou goest!\n    Alas, alas! if thy mother knew it,\n    Sadly, sadly would she rue it.\"\n\nThen they went out of the city, and drove the geese on. When they were\ncome to a meadow she sat down upon a bank there, and let down her\nwaving locks of hair, which were like pure gold; and when Conrad saw\nit he ran up, and would have pulled some of the locks out, but the\nprincess cried--\n\n    \"Blow, breezes, blow!\n    Let Conrad's hat go!\n    Blow, breezes, blow!\n    Let him after it go!\n    O'er hills, dales, and rocks,\n    Away be it whirled,\n    Till my golden locks\n    Are all combed and curled.\"\n\nThen there came a wind so strong that it blew off Conrad's hat. Away\nit flew over the hills, and he was forced to turn and run after it, so\nthat when he came back she had done combing and curling her hair, and\nhad put it up again safely, and he could not get any of it. He was\nvery angry and sulky, and would not speak to her; but they watched the\ngeese until it grew dark, and then drove them homewards.\n\nThe next morning, as they were going through the dark gate, the poor\ngirl looked up at Falada's head, and cried--\n\n    \"Falada, Falada, there thou hangest!\"\n\nIt answered--\n\n    \"Bride, bride, there thou goest!\n    Alas, alas! if thy mother knew it,\n    Sadly, sadly would she rue it.\"\n\nThen she drove on the geese, and sat down again in the meadow, and\nbegan to comb out her hair as before, and Conrad ran up to her, and\nwanted to take hold of it. The princess repeated the words she had\nused the day before, when the wind came and blew away his hat, and off\nit flew a great way, over the hills and far away, so that he had to\nrun after it. When he returned, she had bound up her hair again, and\nall was safe. So they watched the geese until it grew dark.\n\nIn the evening, after they came home, Conrad went to the old king and\nsaid--\n\n\"I won't have that strange girl to help me to keep the geese any\nlonger.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said the king.\n\n\"Because instead of doing any good she does nothing but tease me all\nday long.\"\n\nThen the king made him tell what had happened, and Conrad said--\n\n\"When we go in the morning through the dark gate with our flock of\ngeese, she cries and talks with the head of a horse that hangs upon\nthe wall, and the head answers her.\"\n\nAnd Conrad went on telling the king what had happened in the meadow\nwhere the geese fed; how his hat was blown away, and how he was forced\nto run after it and leave his flock of geese to themselves. The old\nking told the boy to go out again the next day, and when morning came\nhe placed himself behind the dark gate, and heard how the princess\nspoke to Falada, and how Falada answered. Then he went into the field\nand hid himself in a bush by the meadow's side, and he soon saw with\nhis own eyes how they drove the flock of geese, and how, after a\nlittle time, she let down her hair that glittered in the sun. Then he\nheard her call the wind, and soon there came a gust that carried away\nConrad's hat, and away he went after it, while the girl went on\ncombing and curling her hair. All this the old king saw; so he went\nhome without having been observed, and when the goose-girl came back\nin the evening, he called her aside and asked her why she did so. She\nburst into tears, and said--\n\n\"That I must not tell you nor any man, or I shall lose my life.\"\n\nThe old king begged hard, but she would tell him nothing. Then he\nsaid--\n\n\"If you will not tell me thy story, tell thy grief to the iron stove\nthere,\" and then he went away.\n\nThen the princess crept into the stove, and, weeping and lamenting,\nshe poured forth her whole heart, saying--\n\n\"I am alone in the whole world, though I am a king's daughter. A\ntreacherous waiting-maid has taken my place and compelled me to put\noff my royal dress, and even taken my place with my bridegroom, while\nI have to work as a goose-girl. If my mother knew it, it would break\nher heart.\"\n\nThe old king, however, was standing by the stove, listening to what\nthe princess said, and overheard it all. He ordered royal clothes to\nbe put upon her, and gazed at her in wonder, she was so beautiful.\nThen he called his son, and told him that he had only a false bride,\nfor that she was merely the waiting-maid, while the true bride stood\nby. The young prince rejoiced when he saw the princess's beauty, and\nheard how meek and patient she had been, and the king ordered a great\nfeast to be got ready for all his court. The bridegroom sat at the top\nof the table, with the false princess on one side and the true one on\nthe other; but the waiting-maid did not recognise the princess, for\nher beauty was quite dazzling.\n\nWhen they had eaten and drunk, and were very merry, the old king said\nhe would tell them a tale. So he began, and told all the story of the\nprincess, as if it were a tale he had heard, and he asked the\nwaiting-woman what she thought ought to be done to any one who behaved\nso badly as the servant in the story.\n\n\"Nothing better,\" said the false bride, \"than that she should be\nthrown into a cask stuck round with sharp nails, and that two white\nhorses should be put to it, and should drag it from street to street\ntill she were dead.\"\n\n\"Thou art she,\" said the old king, \"and as thou hast judged thyself,\nso it shall be done to thee.\"\n\nThen the young prince was married to his true wife, and they reigned\nover the kingdom in peace and happiness all their lives.\n\n\n\n\nHANS JAGENTEUFEL.\n\n\nIt is commonly believed that if any person is guilty of a crime for\nwhich he deserves to lose his head, he will, if he escape punishment\nduring his lifetime, be condemned after his death to wander about with\nhis head under his arm.\n\nIn the year 1644 a woman of Dresden went out early one Sunday morning\ninto a neighbouring wood for the purpose of collecting acorns. In an\nopen space, at a spot not very far from the place which is called the\nLost Water, she heard somebody blow a very strong blast upon a\nhunting-horn, and immediately afterwards a heavy fall succeeded, as\nthough a large tree had fallen to the ground. The woman was greatly\nalarmed, and concealed her little bag of acorns among the grass.\nShortly afterwards the horn was blown a second time, and on looking\nround she saw a man without a head, dressed in a long grey cloak, and\nriding upon a grey horse. He was booted and spurred, and had a\nbugle-horn hanging at his back.\n\nAs he rode past her very quietly she regained her courage, went on\ngathering the acorns, and when evening came returned home undisturbed.\n\nNine days afterwards, the woman returned to that spot for the purpose\nof again collecting the acorns, and as she sat down by the\nForsterberg, peeling an apple, she heard behind her a voice calling\nout to her--\n\n\"Have you taken a whole sack of acorns and nobody tried to punish you\nfor doing so?\"\n\n\"No,\" said she. \"The foresters are very kind to the poor, and they\nhave done nothing to me--the Lord have mercy on my sins!\"\n\nWith these words she turned about, and there stood he of the grey\ncloak, but this time he was without his horse, and carried his head,\nwhich was covered with curling brown hair, under his arm.\n\nThe woman shrank from him in alarm, but the spirit said--\n\n\"Ye do well to pray to God to forgive you your sins, it was never my\ngood lot to do so.\"\n\nThereupon he related to her how that he had lived about one hundred\nand thirty years before, and was called Hans Jagenteufel, as his\nfather had been before him, and how his father had often besought him\nnot to be too hard upon poor people, how he had paid no regard to the\nadvice his father had given him, but had passed his time in drinking\nand carousing, and in all manner of wickedness, for which he was now\ncondemned to wander about the world as an evil spirit.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WAITS OF BREMEN.\n\n\nAn honest farmer had once an ass that had been a faithful hard-working\nslave to him for a great many years, but was now growing old, and\nevery day more and more unfit for work. His master therefore was tired\nof keeping him to live at ease like a gentleman, and so began to think\nof putting an end to him. The ass, who was a shrewd hand, saw that\nsome mischief was in the wind, so he took himself slily off, and began\nhis journey towards Bremen.\n\n\"There,\" thought he to himself, \"as I have a good voice, I may chance\nto be chosen town musician.\"\n\nAfter he had travelled a little way, he spied a dog lying by the\nroadside, and panting as if very tired.\n\n\"What makes you pant so, my friend?\" said the ass.\n\n\"Alas!\" said the dog, \"my master was going to knock me on the head,\nbecause I am old and weak, and can no longer make myself useful to him\nin hunting, so I ran away. But what can I do to earn my livelihood?\"\n\n\"Hark ye,\" said the ass, \"I am going to Bremen to turn musician. Come\nwith me, and try what you can do in the same way.\"\n\nThe dog said he was willing, and on they went.\n\nThey had not gone far before they saw a cat sitting in the middle of\nthe road, with tears in her eyes, and making a most rueful face.\n\n\"Pray, my good lady,\" said the ass, \"what's the matter with you? You\nlook quite out of spirits.\"\n\n\"Ah, me!\" said the cat. \"How can a body be in good spirits when one's\nlife is in danger? Because I am beginning to grow old, and had rather\nlie at my ease before the fire than run about the house after the\nmice, my mistress laid hold of me, and was going to drown me, and\nthough I have been lucky enough to get away from her, I know not how I\nam to live.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the ass, \"by all means go with us to Bremen. You are a good\nnight-singer, and may make your fortune as one of the waits.\"\n\nThe cat was pleased with the thought, and joined the party. Soon\nafterwards, as they were passing by a farmyard, they saw a cock\nperched upon a gate, screaming out with all his might and main.\n\n\"Bravo!\" said the ass. \"Upon my word, you make a famous noise. Pray,\nwhat is all this about?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the cock, \"I was just now telling all our neighbours that\nwe were to have fine weather for our washing-day; and yet my mistress\nand the cook don't thank me for my pains, but threaten to cut my head\noff to-morrow, and make broth of me for the guests that are coming on\nSunday.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid!\" said the ass. \"Come with us. Anything will be better\nthan staying here. Besides, who knows, if we take care to sing in\ntune, we may get up a concert of our own, so come along with us.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" replied the cock; so they all four went on\njollily together towards Bremen.\n\nThey could not, however, reach the town the first day, so when night\ncame on they turned off the high-road into a wood to sleep. The ass\nand the dog laid themselves down under a great tree, and the cat\nclimbed up into the branches; while the cock, thinking that the higher\nhe sat the safer he should be, flew up to the very top of the tree,\nand then, according to his custom, before he sounded his trumpet and\nwent to sleep, looked out on all sides to see that everything was\nwell. In doing this he saw afar off something bright, and calling to\nhis companions, said--\n\n\"There must be a house no great way off, for I see a light.\"\n\n\"If that be the case,\" replied the ass, \"we had better change our\nquarters, for our lodging here is not the best in the world.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" said the dog, \"I should not be the worse for a bone or\ntwo.\"\n\n\"And may be,\" remarked the cat, \"a stray mouse will be found\nsomewhere about the premises.\"\n\nSo they walked off together towards the spot where the cock had seen\nthe light; and as they drew near, it became larger and brighter, till\nthey came at last to a lonely house, in which was a gang of robbers.\n\nThe ass, being the tallest of the company, marched up to the window\nand peeped in.\n\n\"Well,\" said the cock, \"what do you see?\"\n\n\"What do I see?\" replied the ass. \"Why, I see a table spread with all\nkinds of good things, and robbers sitting round it making merry.\"\n\n\"That would be a noble lodging for us,\" said the cock.\n\n\"Yes,\" rejoined the ass, \"if we could only get in.\"\n\nThey laid their heads together to see how they could get the robbers\nout, and at last they hit upon a plan. The ass set himself upright on\nhis hind-legs, with his fore-feet resting on the window; the dog got\nupon his back; the cat scrambled up to the dog's shoulders, and the\ncock flew up and sat upon the cat. When all were ready the cock gave\nthe signal, and up struck the whole band of music. The ass brayed, the\ndog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock crew. Then they all broke\nthrough the window at once, and came tumbling into the room amongst\nthe broken glass, with a hideous clatter. The robbers, who had been\nnot a little frightened by the opening concert, had now no doubt that\nsome frightful hobgoblins had broken in upon them, and scampered away\nas fast as they could.\n\nThe coast once clear, the travellers soon sat down and despatched what\nthe robbers had left, with as much eagerness as if they had not hoped\nto eat again for a month. As soon as they had had enough they put out\nthe lights, and each once more sought out a resting-place to his\nliking. The donkey laid himself down upon a heap of straw in the yard;\nthe dog stretched himself upon a mat behind the door; the cat rolled\nherself up on the hearth before the warm ashes; the cock perched upon\na beam on the top of the house; and as all were rather tired with\ntheir journey, they soon fell fast asleep.\n\nAbout midnight, however, when the robbers saw from afar that the\nlights were out and that all was quiet, they began to think that they\nhad been in too great a hurry to run away; and one of them, who was\nbolder than the rest, went to see what was going on. Finding\neverything still, he marched into the kitchen, and groped about till\nhe found a match in order to light a candle. Espying the glittering\nfiery eyes of the cat, he mistook them for live coals, and held the\nmatch to them to light it. The cat, however, not understanding such a\njoke, sprang at his face, and spat, and scratched him. This\nfrightened him dreadfully, and away he ran to the back door, where the\ndog jumped up and bit him in the leg. As he was crossing over the yard\nthe ass kicked him; and the cock, who had been awakened by the noise,\ncrew with all his might.\n\nAt this the robber ran back as fast as he could to his comrades, and\ntold the captain that a horrid witch had got into the house, and had\nscratched his face with her long bony fingers--that a man with a knife\nin his hand had hidden himself behind the door, and stabbed him in the\nleg--that a black monster stood in the yard and struck him with a\nclub--and that the devil sat upon the top of the house, and cried\nout--\n\n\"Throw the rascal up here!\"\n\nAfter this the robbers never dared to go back to the house; but the\nmusicians were so pleased with their quarters, that they never found\ntheir way to Bremen, but took up their abode in the wood. And there\nthey live, I dare say, to this very day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLAMING CASTLE.\n\n\nUpon a high mountain in the Tyrol there stands an old castle, in which\nthere burns a fire every night, and the flashes of that fire are so\nlarge that they rise up over the walls, and may be seen far and wide.\n\nIt happened once that an old woman in want of firewood was gathering\nthe fallen twigs and branches upon this castle-crowned mountain, and\nat length arrived at the castle door. To indulge her curiosity she\nbegan peering about her, and at last entered, not without difficulty,\nfor it was all in ruins and not easily accessible. When she reached\nthe courtyard, there she beheld a goodly company of nobles and ladies\nseated and feasting at a huge table. There were, likewise, plenty of\nservants, who waited upon them, changing their plates, handing round\nthe viands, and pouring out wine for the party.\n\nAs she thus stood gazing upon them, there came one of the servants,\nwho drew her on one side, and placed a piece of gold in the pocket of\nher apron, upon which the whole scene vanished in an instant, and the\npoor frightened old woman was left to find her way back as well as\nshe could. However, she got outside the courtyard, and there stood\nbefore her a soldier with a lighted match, whose head was not placed\nupon his neck, but held by him under his arm. He immediately addressed\nthe old woman, and commanded her not to tell any one what she had seen\nand heard upon peril of evil befalling her.\n\nAt length the woman reached home, full of anguish, still keeping\npossession of the gold, but telling no one whence she had obtained it.\nWhen the magistrates, however, got wind of the affair, she was\nsummoned before them, but she would not speak one word upon the\nsubject, excusing herself by saying that if she uttered one word\nrespecting it great evil would ensue to her. When, however, they\npressed her more strictly, she discovered to them all that had\nhappened to her in the Fiery Castle, even to the smallest particular.\nIn an instant, almost before her relation was fully ended, she was\ncarried away, and no one could ever learn whither she fled.\n\nA year or two afterwards, a young nobleman, a knight, and one well\nexperienced in all things, took up his abode in those parts. In order\nthat he might ascertain the issue of this affair, he set out on foot\nwith his servant in the middle of the night on the road to the\nmountain. With great difficulty they made the ascent, and were on\ntheir way warned six times by an unknown voice to desist from their\nattempt.\n\nThey kept on, however, heedless of this caution, and at length\nreached the door of the castle. There again stood the soldier as a\nsentinel, and he called out as usual--\n\n\"Who goes there?\"\n\nThe nobleman, who was bold of heart, gave for answer--\n\n\"It is I.\"\n\nUpon this the spirit inquired further--\n\n\"Who art thou?\"\n\nThis time the nobleman made no answer, but desired his servant to hand\nhim his sword. When this was done, a black horseman came riding out of\nthe castle, against whom the nobleman would have waged battle. The\nhorseman, however, dragged him up upon his horse and rode with him\ninto the courtyard, while the soldier chased the servant down the\nmountain. The nobleman was never more seen.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MONKS AT THE FERRY.\n\n\nFrom time immemorial a ferry has existed from Andernach to the\nopposite side of the Rhine. Formerly it was more in use than at\npresent, there being then a greater intercourse between the two shores\nof the river, much of which might be traced to the Convent of St.\nThomas, once the most important and flourishing nunnery on the river.\n\nClose by this ferry, on the margin of the Rhine, but elevated somewhat\nabove the level of the water, stands a long, roofless, ruinous\nbuilding, the remains of the castle of Friedrichstein, better known,\nhowever, to the peasantry, and to all passengers on the river, as the\nDevil's House. How it came by this suspicious appellative there are\nmany traditions to explain. Some say that the Prince of Neuwied, who\nerected it, so ground down his subjects for its construction, that\nthey unanimously gave it that name. Others derive its popular\n_sobriquet_ from the godless revelries of the same prince within its\nwalls, and the wild deeds of his companions in wickedness; while a\nthird class of local historians insist upon it that the ruin takes\nits name from the congregation of fiendish shapes which resort there\non special occasions, and the riot and rout which they create in the\nroofless chambers, reeking vaults, and crumbling corridors of the\ndesolate edifice. It is to this ruin, and of the adjacent ferry, that\nthe following legend belongs.\n\nIt was in the time when the celebrated Convent of St. Thomas over\nAndernach existed in its pristine magnificence, that late on an\nautumnal night the ferryman from that city to the Devil's House on the\nother side of the river, who lived on the edge of the bank below the\nruins of the ancient palace of the kings of Austrasia, was accosted by\na stranger, who desired to be put across just as the man was about to\nhaul up his boat for the day. The stranger seemed to be a monk, for he\nwas closely cowled, and gowned from head to foot in the long, dark,\nflowing garb of some ascetic order.\n\n\"Hilloa! ferry,\" he shouted aloud as he approached the shore of the\nriver, \"hilloa!\"\n\n\"Here, ahoy! here, most reverend father!\" answered the poor ferryman.\n\"What would ye have with me?\"\n\n\"I would that you ferry me across the Rhine to yonder shore of the\nriver,\" replied the monk. \"I come from the Convent of St. Thomas, and\nI go afar on a weighty mission. Now, be ye quick, my good friend, and\nrun me over.\"\n\n\"Most willingly, reverend father,\" said the ferryman. \"Most\nwillingly. Step into my boat, and I'll put you across the current in a\ntwinkling.\"\n\nThe dark-looking monk entered the boat, and the ferryman shoved off\nfrom the bank. They soon reached the opposite shore. The ferryman,\nhowever, had scarce time to give his fare a good-evening ere he\ndisappeared from his sight, in the direction of the Devil's House.\nPondering a little on this strange circumstance, and inwardly thinking\nthat the dark monk might as well have paid him his fare, or, at least,\nbade him good-night before he took such unceremonious leave, he rowed\nslowly back across the stream to his abode at Andernach.\n\n\"Hilloa! ferry,\" once more resounded from the margin of the river as\nhe approached, \"hilloa!\"\n\n\"Here, ahoy!\" responded the ferryman, but with some strange sensation\nof fear. \"What would ye?\"\n\nHe rowed to the shore, but he could see no one for a while, for it was\nnow dark. As he neared the landing-place, however, he became aware of\nthe presence of two monks, garbed exactly like his late passenger,\nstanding together, concealed by the shadow of the massive ruins.\n\n\"Here! here!\" they cried.\n\n\"We would ye would ferry us over to yonder shore of the river,\" said\nthe foremost of the twain. \"We go afar on a weighty errand from the\nConvent of St. Thomas, and we must onwards this night. So be up\nquick, friend, and run us over soon.\"\n\n\"Step in, then,\" said the ferryman, not over courteously, for he\nremembered the trick played on him by their predecessor.\n\nThey entered the boat, and the ferryman put off. Just as the prow of\nthe boat touched the opposite bank of the river, both sprang ashore,\nand disappeared at once from his view, like him who had gone before\nthem.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the ferryman, \"if they call that doing good, or acting\nhonestly, to cheat a hard-working poor fellow out of the reward of his\nlabour, I do not know what bad means, or what it is to act knavishly.\"\n\nHe waited a little while to see if they would return to pay him, but\nfinding that they failed to do so, he put across once more to his home\nat Andernach.\n\n\"Hilloa! ferry,\" again hailed a voice from the shore to which he was\nmaking, \"hilloa!\"\n\nThe ferryman made no reply to this suspicious hail, but pushed off his\nboat from the landing-place, fully resolved in his own mind to have\nnothing to do with any more such black cattle that night.\n\n\"Hilloa! ferry,\" was again repeated in a sterner voice. \"Art dead or\nasleep?\"\n\n\"Here, ahoy!\" cried the ferryman. \"What would ye?\"\n\nHe had thought of passing downwards to the other extremity of the\ntown, and there mooring his barque below the place she usually lay in,\nlest any other monks might feel disposed to make him their slave\nwithout offering any recompense. He had, however, scarcely entertained\nthe idea, when three black-robed men, clothed as the former, in long,\nflowing garments, but more closely cowled, if possible, than they,\nstood on the very edge of the stream, and beckoned him to them. It was\nin vain for him to try to evade them, and as if to render any effort\nto that effect more nugatory, the moon broke forth from the thick\nclouds, and lit up the scene all around with a radiance like day.\n\n\"Step in, holy fathers! step in! quick!\" said he, in a gruff voice,\nafter they had told him the same tale in the very same words as the\nthree others had used who had passed previously.\n\nThey entered the boat, and again the ferryman pushed off. They had\nreached the centre of the stream, when he bethought him that it was\nthen a good time to talk of his fee, and he resolved to have it, if\npossible, ere they could escape him.\n\n\"But what do you mean to give me for my trouble, holy fathers?\" he\ninquired. \"Nothing for nothing, ye know.\"\n\n\"We shall give you all that we have to bestow,\" replied one of the\nmonks. \"Won't that suffice?\"\n\n\"What is that?\" asked the ferryman.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said the monk who had answered him first.\n\n\"But our blessing,\" interposed the second monk.\n\n\"Blessing! bah! That won't do. I can't eat blessings!\" responded the\ngrumbling ferryman.\n\n\"Heaven will pay you,\" said the third monk.\n\n\"That won't do either,\" answered the enraged ferryman. \"I'll put back\nagain to Andernach!\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" said the monks.\n\nThe ferryman put about the head of his boat, and began to row back\ntowards Andernach, as he had threatened. He had, however, scarcely\nmade three strokes of his oars, when a high wind sprang up and the\nwaters began to rise and rage and foam, like the billows of a\nstorm-vexed sea. Soon a hurricane of the most fearful kind followed,\nand swept over the chafing face of the stream. In his forty years'\nexperience of the river, the ferryman had never before beheld such a\ntempest--so dreadful and so sudden. He gave himself up for lost, threw\ndown his oars, and flung himself on his knees, praying to Heaven for\nmercy. At that moment two of the dark-robed monks seized the oars\nwhich he had abandoned, while the third wrenched one of the thwarts of\nthe boat from its place in the centre. All three then began to\nbelabour the wretched man with all their might and main, until at\nlength he lay senseless and without motion at the bottom of the boat.\nThe barque, which was now veered about, bore them rapidly towards\ntheir original destination. The only words that passed on the occasion\nwere an exclamation of the first monk who struck the ferryman down.\n\n\"Steer your boat aright, friend,\" he cried, \"if you value your life,\nand leave off your prating. What have you to do with Heaven, or Heaven\nwith you?\"\n\nWhen the poor ferryman recovered his senses, day had long dawned, and\nhe was lying alone at the bottom of his boat. He found that he had\ndrifted below Hammerstein, close to the shore of the right bank of the\nriver. He could discover no trace of his companions. With much\ndifficulty he rowed up the river, and reached the shore.\n\nHe learned afterwards from a gossiping neighbour, that, as the man\nreturned from Neuwied late that night, or rather early the next\nmorning, he met, just emerging from the Devil's House, a large black\nchariot running on three huge wheels, drawn by four horses without\nheads. In that vehicle he saw six monks seated _vis-a-vis_, apparently\nenjoying their morning ride. The driver, a curious-looking carl, with\na singularly long nose, took, he said, the road along the edge of the\nriver, and continued lashing his three coal-black, headless steeds at\na tremendous rate, until a sharp turn hid them from the man's view.\n\n\n\n\nDOCTOR ALL-WISE.\n\n\nThere was a poor peasant, named Crab, who once drove two oxen, with a\nload of wood, into the city, and there sold it for two dollars to a\ndoctor. The doctor counted out the money to him as he sat at dinner,\nand the peasant, seeing how well he fared, yearned to live like him,\nand would needs be a doctor too. He stood a little while in thought,\nand at last asked if he could not become a doctor.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said the doctor, \"that may be easily managed. In the first\nplace you must purchase an A, B, C book, only taking care that it is\none that has got in the front of it a picture of a cock crowing. Then\nsell your cart and oxen, and buy with the money clothes, and all the\nother things needful. Thirdly, and lastly, have a sign painted with\nthe words, 'I am Doctor All-Wise,' and have it nailed up before the\ndoor of your house.\"\n\nThe peasant did exactly as he had been told; and after he had doctored\na little while, it chanced that a certain nobleman was robbed of a\nlarge sum of money. Some one told him that there lived in the village\nhard by a Doctor All-Wise, who was sure to be able to tell him where\nhis money had gone. The nobleman at once ordered his carriage to be\ngot ready and rode into the city, and having come to the doctor, asked\nhim if he was Dr. All-Wise.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" answered he, \"I am Doctor All-Wise, sure enough.\"\n\n\"Will you go with me, then,\" said the nobleman, \"and get me back my\nmoney?\"\n\n\"To be sure I will,\" said the doctor; \"but my wife Grethel must go\nwith me.\"\n\nThe nobleman was pleased to hear this, made them both get into the\ncarriage with him, and away they all rode together. When they arrived\nat the nobleman's house dinner was already prepared, and he desired\nthe doctor to sit down with him.\n\n\"My wife Grethel, too,\" said the doctor.\n\nAs soon as the first servant brought in the first dish, which was some\ngreat delicacy, the doctor nudged his wife, and said--\n\n\"Grethel, that is the first,\" meaning the first dish.\n\nThe servant overheard his remark, and thought he meant to say he was\nthe first thief, which was actually the case, so he was sore troubled,\nand said to his comrades--\n\n\"The doctor knows everything. Things will certainly fall out ill, for\nhe said I was the first thief.\"\n\nThe second servant would not believe what he said, but at last he was\nobliged, for when he carried the second dish into the room, the doctor\nremarked to his wife--\n\n\"Grethel, that is the second.\"\n\nThe second servant was now as much frightened as the first, and was\npleased to leave the apartment. The third served no better, for the\ndoctor said--\n\n\"Grethel, that is the third.\"\n\nNow the fourth carried in a dish which had a cover on it, and the\nnobleman desired the doctor to show his skill by guessing what was\nunder the cover. Now it was a crab. The doctor looked at the dish, and\nthen at the cover, and could not at all divine what they contained,\nnor how to get out of the scrape. At length he said, half to himself\nand half aloud--\n\n\"Alas! poor crab!\"\n\nWhen the nobleman heard this, he cried out--\n\n\"You have guessed it, and now I am sure you will know where my money\nis.\"\n\nThe servant was greatly troubled at this, and he winked to the doctor\nto follow him out of the room, and no sooner did he do so than the\nwhole four who had stolen the gold stood before him, and said that\nthey would give it up instantly, and give him a good sum to boot,\nprovided he would not betray them, for if he did their necks would pay\nfor it. The doctor promised, and they conducted him to the place\nwhere the gold lay concealed. The doctor was well pleased to see it,\nand went back to the nobleman, and said--\n\n\"My lord, I will now search in my book and discover where the money\nis.\"\n\nNow the fifth servant had crept into an oven to hear what the doctor\nsaid. He sat for some time turning over the leaves of his A, B, C\nbook, looking for the picture of the crowing cock, and as he did not\nfind it readily, he exclaimed--\n\n\"I know you are in here, and you must come out.\"\n\nThen the man in the oven, thinking the doctor spoke of him, jumped out\nin a great fright, saying--\n\n\"The man knows everything.\"\n\nThen Doctor All-Wise showed the nobleman where the gold was hidden,\nbut he said nothing as to who stole it. So he received a great reward\nfrom all parties, and became a very famous man.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE MAIDEN.\n\n\nIt is now centuries since a young noble of the neighbourhood was\nhunting in the valleys which lie behind the hills that skirt the Rhine\nopposite the ancient town of St. Goar. In the heat of the pursuit he\nfollowed the game to the foot of the acclivity on which are seated the\nruins of Thurnberg, and there it disappeared all at once from his\nview. It was the noon of a midsummer day, and the sun shone down on\nhim with all its strength. Despairing of being able to find the object\nof his pursuit, he determined to clamber up the steep hillside, and\nseek shelter and repose in the shadow of the old castle, or, mayhap,\nin one of its many crumbling chambers. With much labour he succeeded\nin reaching the summit, and there, fatigued with his toil, and parched\nwith a burning thirst, he flung himself on the ground beneath one of\nthe huge towers, some of whose remains still rear their heads on high,\nand stretched out his tired limbs in the full enjoyment of rest.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow,--\"now\ncould I be happy indeed, if some kind being would bring me a beaker of\nthe cool wine, which, they say, is ages old, down there in the cellars\nof this castle.\"\n\nHe had scarce spoken the words when a most beautiful maiden stepped\nforth from a cleft in the ivy-covered ruin, bearing in one hand a huge\nsilver beaker of an antique form, full to the very brim of foaming\nwine. In her other hand she held a large bunch of keys of all sizes.\nShe was clad in white from head to foot, her hair was flaxen, her skin\nwas like a lily, and she had such loving eyes that they at once won\nthe heart of the young noble.\n\n\"Here,\" said she, handing him the beaker, \"thy wish is granted. Drink\nand be satisfied.\"\n\nHis heart leaped within him with joy at her condescension, and he\nemptied the contents of the goblet at a single draught. All the while\nshe looked at him in such a manner as to intoxicate his very soul, so\nkindly and confidential were her glances. The wine coursed through his\nveins like liquid fire, his heart soon burned with love for the\nmaiden, and the fever of his blood was by no means appeased by the\nfurtive looks which ever and anon she cast upon him. She apparently\nread his state of mind, and when his passion was at its highest pitch,\nand all restraint seemed put an end to by the potent effects of love\nand wine, she disappeared in a moment by the way she came. The noble\nrushed after her in the hope of detaining the fugitive, or, at least,\nof catching a parting glimpse of her retreating form, but the\nivy-encircled cleft, through which she seemed to have flitted, looked\nas though it had not been disturbed for centuries, and as he tried to\nforce his way to the gloomy cavern below, a crowd of bats and owls and\nother foul birds of evil omen, aroused from their repose, rose\nupwards, and, amidst dismal hootings and fearful cries, almost flung\nhim backward with the violence of their flight. He spent the remainder\nof the afternoon in search of the lost one, but without success. At\nthe coming of night he wended his way homeward, weary, heart-sick, and\noverwhelmed with an indefinable sensation of sadness.\n\nFrom that day forth he was an altered man--altered in appearance as\nwell as in mind and in manners. Pleasure was a stranger to his soul,\nand he knew no longer what it was to enjoy peace. Wherever he went,\nwhatever pursuit he was engaged in, whether in the chase, in the hall,\nin lady's bower, or in chapel, his eye only saw one object--the White\nMaiden. At the board she stood in imagination always before him,\noffering to his fevered lips the cool, brimming beaker; and in the\nlong-drawn aisles of the chapel she was ever present, beckoning him\nfrom his devotions to partake of the generous beverage which she still\nbore in her right hand. Every matron or maiden he met seemed by some\nwondrous process to take her shape, and even the very trees of the\nforest all looked to his thought like her.\n\nThenceforward he commenced to haunt the ruins in which she had\nappeared to him, still hoping to see, once again, her for whom he felt\nhe was dying, and living alone in that hope. The sun scorched him, but\nit was nothing to the fever that burned within him. The rain drenched\nhim, but he cared not for it. Time and change and circumstance seemed\nall forgotten by him, everything passed by him unheeded. His whole\nexistence was completely swallowed up in one thought--the White Maiden\nof the ruined castle, and that, alas! was only vexation of spirit. A\ndeadly fever seized him. It was a mortal disease. Still he raved, in\nhis delirium, but of her. One morn a woodman, who occasionally\nprovided him with food, found him a corpse at the entrance of the\ncrevice in the wall whence the maiden had seemed to come, and where\nshe had disappeared. It was long rumoured that he had struggled\nbravely with death--or rather that he could not die, because the curse\nwas upon him--until the maiden, garbed in white as usual, appeared to\nhim once more. That then he stretched forth his hands--she stooped\nover him. He raised his head--she kissed his lips--and he died.\n\nThe White Maiden, tradition says, has not since been seen in the ruins\nof Thurnberg.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STURGEON.\n\n\nThe Convent of Schwartz-Rheindorf was founded in the year of our Lord\n1152 by the Bishop of Cologne, Arnold Graf von Wied, for the reception\nof noble ladies alone, and was placed by him under the strict rule of\nSt. Benedict. The prelate, who died in the year 1159, lies buried\nbeneath the high altar of the church.\n\nAmong the many other rights and privileges conferred on the convent by\nthe Bishop was the right of fishing in the river, within certain\nlimits above and below the convent's territorial boundaries. This was\na most valuable right for a long period.\n\nThe certainty of a profitable fishing was always heralded by the\nappearance of two immense sturgeon. They came at the commencement of\neach year, harbingers of good luck, and they were ever succeeded by\nshoals of river fish, in such numbers as to be absolutely\ninexhaustible until the expiration of the season. Of these sturgeon\nthe one, a huge male, always allowed himself to be taken by the\nfishermen, but the female was never captured. It was understood by\nthose who knew all about these matters that on her freedom depended\nthe fisher's success. This good fortune lasted for centuries.\n\nIt was, however, remarked that as the discipline of the convent became\nmore and more relaxed, and grace grew to be less and less among its\ninmates, the fishing became more and more unprofitable. The sturgeon,\nit is true, still made their appearance, but they were spent and thin,\nand altogether unlike those which had been wont of yore to visit the\nfishing-ground of the sisterhood. The abbess and the nuns, however,\neither could not or they would not perceive the cause of the falling\noff in the take, or the change in the appearance of the sturgeon, but\nthe common people who dwelt in the vicinity of the convent, and\nespecially those poor persons to whom the river had been heretofore a\nsource of support, were neither slow in seeing the cause nor in\npublishing the consequences to the world. Thus stood matters:\ndissoluteness of life on the one hand, distress on the other;\nprofligacy and poverty, extravagance and starvation, linked\ninseparably together.\n\nIt was midwinter. On the bank of the river stood the purveyor of the\nconvent, accompanied by the lady abbess herself and a great number of\nthe nuns. They waited to watch the first haul made by the fishermen on\nthe New Year's morning, according to the custom which had prevailed in\nthe convent for centuries. It was not usual for the river to be open\nat that time, but this year there was not a piece of ice on its\nsurface. The fishermen put out in their boats, and cast their nets\ninto the current; then, making the circuit of the spot, they returned\nto the bank and commenced to haul them in. Little difficulty was at\nfirst experienced by them in this operation. For several years\npreceding the supply of fish had scarcely sufficed to defray the\nexpense of catching. It would seem, however, as if fortune were\ninclined to smile on the sisterhood once more. The nets had not been\nmore than half drawn in when the fishermen began to perceive that they\ncontained something heavier than usual. The lady abbess and the nuns\nwere made acquainted with the circumstance, and they watched, in eager\nexpectancy, the landing of the fish. The nets were at length with much\ntrouble hauled on shore.\n\n\"Hilloa!\" said the principal fisherman, an aged man, to the purveyor\nof the convent, \"hast thou ever seen such monsters before? My soul!\nbut this will glad the hearts of the whole convent, and make many poor\nfolk happy, an it be but the harbinger of a return to the old times.\"\n\nWhile he spoke two immense sturgeon were landed. The abbess and her\ntrain approached the landing-place, and admired the strength and\nsuperior size of the fish.\n\n\"It would be but folly to set one of them free,\" she partially\nsoliloquised and partially spoke to the purveyor. \"The convent has\nnot had such a treat for years past, and we absolutely require some\nchange. I'll warrant me they will eat delightfully.\"\n\nThe purveyor, a wily Jewish-looking fellow, who passed for an Italian,\nat once assented to the observations of his mistress, and added a few\nremarks of his own in support of them. Not so, however, the old\nfisherman, who overheard the conversation, having approached the\nabbess with the purveyor to learn her will and pleasure as to the\ndisposal of the fish.\n\n\"Nay, nay, master,\" he interposed, in his rough way, \"not so fast, not\nso fast. My father fished on this river for full fifty years, and my\nfather's father did the same; and fifty years have I drawn net here\ntoo, all in the service of the noble ladies of Schwartz-Rheindorf.\nNever, in that time, knew I other than this done with these fish--the\none to be let free, the other to be given away among the poor. I'll do\nnought else with them.\"\n\nThe abbess and the purveyor were but ill-pleased to hear what the old\nman said.\n\n\"You must do as I bid you, Herman,\" said the former.\n\n\"You must obey my lady, your mistress,\" echoed the latter. \"She is too\ngood and gracious to ye.\"\n\n\"Not I,\" said the old man bluntly,--\"not I. For all the broad lands on\nthe Rhine I would not have hand, act, nor part in such a matter. Do as\nye list, but I'll be none your servant in the matter.\"\n\nThe old man walked away as he said these words, and neither the\nentreaties of the abbess, the threats of the purveyor, nor the\ninterposition of some of the nuns present could bring him back.\n\nOthers, however, were soon found among his companions who were less\nscrupulous; and the two fish were accordingly removed to the convent,\nand consigned to the care of the cook, to be served up for dinner that\nday.\n\nThe dinner-hour arrived--the sisterhood were all seated at table--the\nservitors, marshalled by the supple purveyor, made their appearance,\nbearing the expected banquet in large covered dishes. A hasty grace\nwas muttered, and then every eye was turned to the covers. The abbess\nhad ordered the sturgeon to be served up first.\n\n\"And now, sisters,\" she said, with a complacent look of benignant\ncondescension, \"I hope soon to know how you approve of our dinner. It\nis my constant study to make you happy, and my efforts are unceasing\nto afford you every gratification in my power. Let us begin.\"\n\nThe covers were removed in a twinkling by the servitors, the carvers\nclattered their knives and forks impatiently; but what was the\nsurprise of all, when every dish as it was uncovered was found to be\nempty. The wrath of the abbess rose at the sight, and the zeal of the\nnuns knew no bounds in seconding her indignation. The cook was\nhurriedly sent for. He stood before the excited sisterhood an abject,\ntrembling wretch, far more like one who expected to be made a victim\nof himself, than one who would voluntarily make victims of others.\n\n\"How is this, villain?\" exclaimed the abbess, her face reddening with\nrage.\n\n\"How's this, villain?\" echoed threescore female voices, some of them\nnot musical.\n\n\"Ay, how is this, hound?\" growled the purveyor.\n\n\"Do you mock us?\" continued the abbess, as the cook stood trembling\nand silent.\n\n\"Do you mock us?\" echoed the purveyor, with as much dignity as he\ncould impart into his thin, meagre figure.\n\n\"Speak!\" said the abbess in a loud voice, while the cook cast his eyes\naround as if seeking aid against the excited throng the room\ncontained,--\"speak!\"\n\nThus urged, the cook proceeded to explain--as far, at least, as he was\nable. He declared that he had cut up and cooked the sturgeon,\naccording to the directions he had received from the purveyor, and\nthat, when dinner was served up, he had sent them up dressed in the\nmanner that official had directed.\n\nThe abbess and her nuns were much puzzled how to explain this\nextraordinary occurrence, and each busied herself in conjectures\nwhich, as usual in such cases, never approached the fact. At this\njuncture the aged fisherman entered the room.\n\n\"My lady,\" he said to the abbess, when he learnt what had occurred,\n\"it is the judgment of Heaven. Even now I saw the fish in the river. I\nknew them well, and I'll swear to them if necessary. They floated\naway, swimming down the stream, and I am a much mistaken man if ever\nye see them any more.\"\n\nThe pleasurable anticipations of the day that the sisters had\nentertained were completely annihilated; but it would have been well\nfor them if the consequences of their avarice and gluttony had ended\nwith that hour. Never more did the sturgeon make their appearance, and\nthe part of the stream which pertained to the convent thenceforth\nceased to produce fish of any kind whatsoever.\n\nPeople say that the Reformation had the effect of wooing the finny\ntribe back to their old haunts. At all events, whatever may have been\nthe cause, it is the fact that there is not at present a less\nplentiful supply in this spot than there is in any other part of that\nrich river.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT ANDREW'S NIGHT.\n\n\nIt is commonly believed in Germany that on St. Andrew's night, St.\nThomas' night, and Christmas and New Year's nights, a girl has the\npower of inviting and seeing her future lover. A table is to be laid\nfor two persons, taking care, however, that there are no forks upon\nit. Whatever the lover leaves behind him must be carefully preserved,\nfor he then returns to her who has it, and loves her passionately. The\narticle must, however, be kept carefully concealed from his sight, for\nhe would otherwise remember the torture of superhuman power exercised\nover him which he that night endured, become conscious of the charms\nemployed, and this would lead to fatal consequences.\n\nA fair maiden in Austria once sought at midnight, after performing the\nnecessary ceremonies, to obtain a sight of her lover, whereupon a\nshoemaker appeared having a dagger in his hand, which he threw at her\nand then disappeared. She picked up the dagger which he had thrown at\nher and concealed it in a trunk.\n\nNot long afterwards the shoemaker visited, courted, and married her.\nSome years after her marriage she chanced to go one Sunday about the\nhour of vespers to the trunk in search of something that she required\nfor her work the next day. As she opened the trunk her husband came to\nher, and would insist on looking into it. She kept him off, until at\nlast he pushed her away, and there saw his long-lost dagger. He\nimmediately seized it, and demanded how she obtained it, because he\nhad lost it at a very particular time. In her fear and alarm she had\nnot the power to invent any excuse, so declared the truth, that it was\nthe same dagger he had left behind him the night when she had obliged\nhim to appear to her. Her husband hereupon grew enraged, and said,\nwith a terrible voice--\n\n\"'Twas you, then, that caused me that night of dreadful misery?\"\n\nWith that he thrust the dagger into her heart.\n\n\n    Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty,\n    _at the Edinburgh University Press_.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\nHyphenation has been made consistent.\n\nArchaic and variable spelling is preserved as printed.\n\nThe advertising material has been moved to follow the title page.\n\nThe last two stories were omitted from the Table of Contents in the\noriginal. These have been added.","title":"Folk-lore and Legends: German","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":41465}