Barbarossa and the Kyffhäuser.
On this mountain that overlooks the Golden Plain, amid the beech and oak woods that clothe it, stand the ruins of a square tower built of red sandstone, broken walls, and arches of the ancient gateway, gables, and the remains of the chapel of the fortress, where the first Electors and Emperors of Germany held their court.
Tradition and romance linger with an irresistible fascination around these lonely ruins.
Tradition tells us that Barbarossa never died, but remains enchanted in the heart of the Kyffhäuser.
He sits in an ivory chair by a marble table, his head resting upon his arm, and his long red beard has overgrown the whole table like moss. He wears the imperial mantle, and the knightly forms of his old courtiers, like spectres, come forth from their rocky chambers and place upon his aged uncovered head the oldest crown of Germany glittering with diamonds. His innocent daughter is his only attendant, or, according to other legends, a dwarf.
The Kaiser's eyes are closed, but at times he seems to awake from his enchanted slumber, and new life seems to animate the stiffened limbs. But he cannot awake, nor rise from his seat, nor leave the enchanted chamber until Germany's enemies are fallen and she is free. He seemed about to throw off the enchanted fetters in the days of Maximilian, again in Luther's time.
At the time of the Rhine Treaty, and when the first Napoleon won the brilliant victories of Ulm, Austerlitz, and Jena, the eyes of the old Redbeard sparkled with anger and grief, and at his cry of rage, lightnings flashed through the dark chambers of the Kyffhäuser, thunders rolled through its rocky caverns, and Barbarossa slumbered again till the great victory of the Allies in the "Battle of the Nations"[[1]] awaked him, and at the death of Napoleon on St. Helena he broke the enchantment, and Napoleon sits in his place.
[[1]] Völkerschlacht—battle of Leipzig.
There are many versions of this legend.
One holy day, a miner rambling to the Kyffhäuser, to rest under the trees and indulge in devotional reflections, saw, as he reached the ruined tower, a monk with a long grey beard, who addressed him, saying, "Come! I have long expected thee; thou shalt see the enchanted Kaiser. Graumannel has brought me the Springwurzel,[[2]] and I must have a mortal to accompany me; no evil shall befall thee."
[[2]] See Tidian's Cave.
The monk leads him to a green spot surrounded with walls, forms with the staff which he carries a circle around him and his companion, takes from his pocket a gold-coloured velvet book, and begins to murmur and read, no word of which the miner understands.
Suddenly there is a terrible clap of thunder. The mountain cracks, the circle on which they stand becomes loose, and sinks slowly into the mountain; the miner, in terror, clings to the cowl of the monk. At last they reach firm ground.
Now they go through a long dark passage to great brass gates. The monk touches them with the Springwurzel, and immediately they open. They enter an aisle, lighted by a brilliant lamp, and again stand before a door.
The monk cries, "Hephata!" and the door opens.
They enter a large, brilliantly lighted, magnificent chapel; the walls are of marble; the altar is of beaten gold, and its eternal lamp bathes all in a wondrous light.
The miner cannot gaze enough at the marvellous sight, crosses and recrosses himself; the monk kneels at the golden altar and says an Ave Maria. Then he rises, commands his companion to remain standing in the middle of the chapel, and approaches the door opposite the one by which they had entered.
At his mighty word this door opens also.
The imperial chamber, or throne-room, is brilliantly lighted; on the glittering golden throne, in imperial robes, sits Barbarossa, sad and silent.
The monk approaches the enchanted sovereign and bows reverently.
The Kaiser returns the greeting graciously, and the monk lifts with great solemnity some object from the ground, again bows low before the monarch, and retires slowly to the door, seizes the hand of the astonished miner, who has gazed as in a dream at the splendour of the enchanted chamber, leads him to the green circle, which begins at once to rise, and soon reaches the summit of the mountain.
The miner draws a long breath, receives two small metal rods from the monk, who exclaims, "Gelobt sei Jesus Christ!" and before the bewildered man can respond, "In Ewigkeit!" the mysterious monk has vanished.
The Burgfräulein[[1]] of Osterode.
[[1]] Burgfräulein—castle fairy.
One Sunday morning early, a poor linen weaver was walking to Osterode.
Aurora showed her gaily laughing and blushing face above the green mountains, a balsamic freshness floated over the valleys and streams, the peaks of the woody heights swam in the blue ether, and the dew-bathed mountain flowers sparkled in the sun's golden splendour. The songs of the birds rang out of the thickets, and soft chimes rose from the villages summoning to worship and praise—-a mild, blissful peace hovered over the entire scene.
It was long before the wanderer noticed these surrounding beauties of the morning, for a heavy sorrow lay at his heart. A beloved wife lay at home ill, six hungry children waited with her anxiously for his return, and he must return with empty hands.
His rich cousin, from whom he had hoped for assistance, had repulsed him with cruel words, and now his future lay dark and hopeless before him.
But as the sun rose higher, as all Nature bloomed and sent forth her frankincense of praise, and the streams murmured of peace, he grew more composed.
"How glorious! how wonderful!" he thought, as he stood still and gazed around him; "and what a mystery it is that only man is so often shut out from the universal enjoyment of creation. Why should he be crushed to the earth, and provide in sorrow and pain for his bodily sustenance, while the birds sing and the flowers bloom free from care? Doth He not clothe the lilies, and give the rose and violet their perfume and exquisite hues? Can the Eternal Father care less for an immortal soul? No, no, never!"
He began again to move forward, singing that noblest hymn in the German language, which has been so perfectly translated by John Wesley, beginning—
"Befiehl Du Deine Wege."[[2]]
[[2]] "Commit thou all thy ways."
When he came to the lines—
"Auf! auf! Gib Deinem Schmerze
Und Sorgen gute Nacht.
Lass fahren, was das Herze
Betrübt und traurig macht!"—
he quickened his pace with a firmer tread and lighter heart.
Perhaps he would have sung on to the end of the hymn, had not a voice, clear as a silver bell, greeted him with "Guten Morgen!"
The singer looked in the direction of the voice, and stood like one transfixed at the sight of the vision before him.
On the banks of the brook which flowed past his path sat a lovely maiden clad in white, and bathed her marble-white feet in the crystal water.
Before he could recover from his astonishment, the figure rose and approached him, saying in a voice of the most delicious melody—
"Thou sangst just now a beautiful song, that was made for the troubled. May help be as near every one who sings it as to thee; for know, thou art come at a most happy hour. It is only permitted me once a year to be at this spot; and whoever meets me here and deserves it as thou, him I make happy—if wealth can make him happy. Listen, then: when the bells ring midnight, leave thy cottage, and climb the mountain in silence to the ruins of Burg Osterode. Between the sunken walls thou wilt find a flower; pluck it, and instantly all the treasures of the heart of the mountain will be revealed to thine eye, from which thou mayst take as much as thou wilt. Go now thy way, and carry comfort and hope to thy wife. My time is expired."
The slender form, the pale, loving face, transparent as moonlight, the long golden hair, were in a twinkling vanished.
Wonderfully cheered, the weaver hastened home and related his vision to his suffering wife and little children, and they waited with impatience for the appointed hour. At last the leaden-footed hours had passed—it was midnight.
The weaver kissed his wife and hastened forth. It was a glorious night. The full moon shone, the quail sang her nightly song. The picturesque ruin contrasted wonderfully in its dark grey masses with the cloudless blue of the heavens and the silver moonlight.
A peculiar light shone out of an arched chamber; he followed it, and there sat the pale maiden, adorned with a wreath of white roses in her hair. She raised her jasper-blue eyes, looked kindly on him, and beckoned him to approach and gather the shining flower.
The weaver obeyed and tremblingly plucked the lily.
Hardly had he the flower in his hand when a fearful, rumbling sound arose in the heart of the mountain, the ground close to his feet sank crashing into the depths, and a huge cauldron rose in flame, filled to the brim with glittering gold pieces. The maiden bade him take what he would, for he was so overcome with astonishment and terror that he could not move.
At her friendly voice he recovered from his fear, filled pockets and hat with the coins, bowed low and reverently, left the magic chamber, and hurried back to his cottage—and the sun rose on two happy people. Every anniversary of the day they went to the ruins to thank the fairy, who, however, ever afterward remained invisible.