The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 338, November 1, 1828

THE NOVELIST

A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ

(For the Mirror.)

 
"Still the boar held on his way
Careless through what toils it lay,
Down deep in the tangled dell—
Or o'er the steep rock's pinnacle.
Staunch the steed, and bold the knight
That would follow such a flight!"
 

The night was fast closing in, and the last retiring beams of the sun shed a mournful light over an extensive tract of forest bordering upon the district of the Hartz, just as (but I must not forget the date, somewhere about the year 1547,) the Baron Rudolf found himself in the very disagreeable predicament of having totally lost his companions and his way, amidst an almost interminable region of forest and brushwood. "Hans," addressing himself to his noble steed, "my old veteran, I must trust to thee, since thy master's wit is at a stand, to extricate us from this dilemma."

The animal finding his head free, moved forward as fast as bush and brake would permit him. They had proceeded in this way for half an hour longer, when the Baron at last bethought himself of his bugle, and wound a long and powerful blast; but the echo was the only answer he received. He repeated the sound with the like effect. Again the Baron lost his patience, and "Der terefel—" when all at once his steed made a dead stop, and pricked up his ears as at some well known sound. The Baron listened attentively, and distinctly heard the blast he had sounded ten minutes before, responded by one so exactly similar, though apparently at a great distance, that he could scarcely believe the "evidence" of his ears. "By the mass but that must be the work of Mynheer von Heidelberger himself, for no one in my own broad barony can wind that blast save Rudolf Wurtzheim." He shrunk within himself at the very thought; for to any one it was rather appalling to meet this being at such a place and hour. The recollection of an adventure in these wilds which occurred on this very eve, twelve-months previous, now rushed vividly to his mind. The concurrence in the date was startling. In short, on reflection, he began to think there was witchcraft throughout the affair.

He had lost his companions of the chase in rather a singular manner; on this afternoon, being unusually unsuccessful, the Baron, while hunting a brace of favourite stag-hounds in a dell apart from the rest of the field, suddenly struck upon a boar of remarkable size; attracted by the cries of the dogs, the Baron spurred Hans to the pursuit, and did not reflect that he was pursuing a route apart from the other hunters; and trusting to his knowledge of the wilds he so often traversed, he bore on with undiminished speed. The boar seemed to have a pair of wings in addition to his legs. Suffice it to say, that though Hans chased him in gallant style, yet the Baron eventually lost his way in the pursuit, partly owing to the doubling of the animal, till both dogs and boar completely disappeared from sight.

Entangled in the forest, the evening rapidly approached, a general hush prevailed, and all endeavours to recover his track seemed fruitless.

The sun had now gone down for a considerable time, and a mist was arising that obscured the little light which the luminary of night afforded.

"Mein Gott," exclaimed the Baron, "mortal or devil, he has involved me in a very disagreeable predicament, and to avoid him is, I fear, impossible." He once more sounded a long blast; again the blast was re-echoed after a short lapse of time, though seemingly at an extreme distance. "Ah, there it comes again! what if my ears should deceive me, and this should be the answering bugle of my faithful Wildstein." The thought infused some fresh vigour into him; the low night wind murmuring through the trees, reminded him of the importance of every moment, Hans and his master pushed onwards through brake and dell.

It will be necessary, however, that we should leave the Baron for awhile, and detail some occurrences germane to our tale, and which are necessary for its developement. And now as Mark Antony says, "Lend me your ear."

Some years before the preceding events took place, there dwelt in a spot of the most romantic description, a personage known by the designation of Mynheer von Heidelberger. No one had either heard or could recollect when or whence he came. Strange rumours were afloat respecting this person, and the peasantry crossed themselves with fright if they were led near the spot where his dwelling was said to be; and if his name was casually mentioned in the circle round the winter's hearth, all involuntarily drew their seats into a closer space. Impelled by adventurous curiosity, many individuals were said to have visited him, for the purpose of obtaining some insight into futurity; for his knowledge of the future, and the "things that none may name," was reputed to be great. It was also rumoured that some of his visitants had never returned.

About this time, by the sudden death of her father, the Baron Ernest, who was killed, it was believed, by a fall from his horse while hunting, Agatha von Keilermann was left sole and undisputed heiress of his vast domains. A prize so great, united to a fair person, caused many suitors to be on the alert; but they all met with ill success, being generally dismissed rather summarily.

Ambition was always the ruling passion of Rudolf Wurtzheim, whose domains adjoined those of the Baron Ernest, and before the death of the latter it had also been allied to jealousy of his great power and wealth. Not daunted by the ill success of his predecessors, he became a suitor of the fair Agatha. He met with a summary repulse. Burning with rage and mortified ambition, the Baron bethought himself of Mynheer von Heidelberger, of whose fame he had sometimes heard.

At the close of a day far advanced in autumn, he set off to visit this being. The howling of the wind as it came in fitful gusts through the openings of the forest, formed no bad accompaniment to his thoughts; while the indistinct twilight received little aid from the moon, which waded through heavy masses of clouds. The Baron, however, was a man of daring spirit. He had often been led past the spot, whilst engaged in the chase, near which the solitaire was said to dwell:—

 
"Vague mystery hangs on all these desert places!
The fear which hath no name hath wrought a spell,
Strength, courage, wrath, have been, and left no traces!
They came—and fled; but whither? who can tell!"
 

He several times, on account of the uncertain light, lost his track. At length he emerged into the rocky scenery of the mountain side, and an indistinct light in the distance served to guide his steps. He now entered between two rocks of great height; till a magnificent waterfall almost blocked up the way. The Baron stepped cautiously forward, and after apparently passing through a cavern, the scene opened and displayed (for, to his surprise, the light was greatly increased,) a wild view, in which nature had piled rock, cavern, and mountain together, till the whole seemed lost and blended in one general chaos. At the foot, and a short distance before him, were seen a number of persons of venerable aspect, grouped on the turf around the vast amphitheatre of rocks, and a noise as of many hammers, greeted his ears. Attracted onwards by the now distinct glittering light, the Baron proceeded boldly to the mouth of what seemed a natural grotto. He loudly demanded admittance, the entrance being blocked up with a large stone. He was at first answered by a scornful laugh; indeed, as he afterwards found, he had entered by the wrong path, and observed a scene, perhaps, never displayed to mortal eyes. The stone was at last removed, and in the interior he found the object of his search:—

 
He, like the tenant
Of some night haunted ruin, bore an aspect
Of horrors, worn to habitude.
 

What passed will appear in the sequel, and the Baron returned just at nightfall; while his ghastly demeanour and unquiet eye betokened the nature of his visit. It is said many a wild and unearthly peal of laughter resounded that night through the mountains.

In three months from that time the lady Agatha became his wife. She had suddenly disappeared from her grounds a short time before, and to the amazement and wonder of all, returned with the Baron Wurtzheim, to whom she was united the same evening. Rumour was busy upon this occasion, but the mystery which enveloped it was never dispersed. The lady Agatha, however, seemed oppressed with a ceaseless gloom; in a short time she devoted herself entirely to seclusion, and in a year after her marriage, expired in giving birth to a son. The demeanour of Rudolf was most strange on this occasion. He had apparently a weight on his mind, which seemed to increase with dissipation, when he devoted his time to hunting and nightly revels, with a band of choice friends and dependents. Time, however, which blunts the edge of the keenest misfortunes, seemed to restore him to his former self.

Years passed away. Some time before the commencement of this legend, the Baron lost his path whilst hunting, and was benighted in the forest. After much fatigue, he was attracted by a light amongst trees which he found to proceed from a low building. It was in a state of extreme dilapidation, though a sort of wing appeared to have been recently tenanted. His knocks for admittance not having been answered, he lifted up the latch and boldly entered. Nothing greeted his sight save the almost extinguished remains of a fire. The apartment was lone and destitute of furniture. Having bestowed Hans as well as he could, he laid himself on the floor; while he felt an extreme chillness of spirits, which he endeavoured in vain to shake off; he was soon buried in sleep.

He was awakened by a noise resembling the strokes of many hammers. He conceived his senses must be wandering, for he found that he was at the entrance of the amphitheatre of rocks near the dwelling of the solitaire. The same group of figures appeared, and it was not long before a voice, which he knew to be that of Heidelberger, slowly repeated the following chant:—

 
Woe to him who dares intrude
Upon our midnight solitude!
Woe to him whose faith is broken—
Better he had never spoken.
'Ere twelve moons shall pass away,
Thou wilt he beneath our sway.
Drear the doom, and dark the fate
Of him who rashly dares our hate!
 
 
Deceive me once, I tell thee never
Shall thy soul and body sever!
Under the greenwood wilt thou lie,
Nor shall thou there unheeded die.
Mortal, thou my vengeance brave,
Thou had'st better seen thy grave.
Drear the doom, and dark the fate
Of him who rashly dares our hate!
 

Meanwhile the Baron had sunk into a state of insensibility. When he awoke from his trance it was broad daylight, and the birds were singing merrily around the ruin.

After this adventure, the Baron resumed many of his old habits; and sought by deeper dissipation to dispel the visions of the past. His son was now grown up a sickly youth, and his father's inquietude about him was so great that he would not suffer him for a moment to be out of the sight of his attendants.

The year rolled on without any harm befalling the Baron, and his spirits lightened as the time advanced. He had almost forgotten the circumstance, when on the day preceding that of the anniversary of the adventure just related, a grand hunting party was proposed, it being the birth-day of his son. We now return to the situation in which we left the Baron at the beginning of this legend.

The forest seemed to the exhausted Rudolf, almost interminable, and this provoking horn perplexed him sadly. On this night the dreaded twelve-months expired. The bare thought made him redouble his speed. The darkness seemed increasing, and the flapping of the bats and hoarse croaking of the night birds, disturbed by his progress through the branches, did not add to his comfort; when to his great joy, he felt a strong current of air, and found that he had at last apparently emerged from the thickest of the forest. The moon was now beginning to cast her "peerless light" over the scene, and Rudolf perceived he was in an extensive amphitheatre or opening of the trees, which he could not recollect ever having seen before, bounded at a short distance by what seemed a small lake, near the centre of which grew a large and solitary pine.

The moon had now fully risen. Hans who had been flagging for some time, fell suddenly lame. From this fresh misfortune the Baron was aroused by the well known baying of his gallant stag-hounds. "Aiglette and Caspar are not baying after nothing," thought he. He was not long in suspense. To his extreme amazement, the identical boar which had caused all his trouble and fatigue, appeared closely followed by both the dogs.

"Donner et blitzen," exclaimed the Baron, using the first oath that came uppermost, "but this exceeds belief." The boar no sooner perceived him than he turned upon him with the utmost fury. The Baron hastily dismounted under the aged tree, though he was stiff and fatigued, for Hans was now utterly incapable of exertion. His sword quickly glanced in the moonshine—"Time was" said he, "when this had been the very pastime I desired." The murderous animal attacked him with such impetuosity that his well-tried skill failed him, and he was the next moment thrown under its feet. The struggle now became desperate, for the animal had no common foe to contend with. Before it could wound him with its tusks, which seemed of unusual size, it required not an instant's thought in Rudolf to draw his dagger from his belt, and the next instant it was buried to its hilt in the throat of his adversary. At the same moment the tusks of the boar entered his side. Rudolf breathed a few words of an almost forgotten prayer, when the animal, uttering a dreadful yell, gave a convulsive spring into the air, and fell lifeless, half smothering the Baron with its gore.