kept on till twilight, when I reached a large solitary building standing by the road. It was inhabited by some forest superintendent or other functionary, and is the second highest dwelling in the Hartz. As the office of landlord was also included in the occupant's duties, I determined at once to spend the night there. The only residents were the landlord and his wife, two servants and a young man of polished manners, yet of quiet and reserved appearance, who seemed to be living there as much for the solitude of the place as any other cause. After supper he was more communicative, and by drawings and descriptions gave me a very good idea of the remaining eight miles to the summit of the Brocken, which I was to try alone on the morrow. All night the winds howled around the house as if all the witches were abroad. It was the second of May, the night after their yearly conclave. I have related elsewhere my ascent through snowdrifts and snow-clouds-up rocky ravines and over mountain marshes-till I reached the Brocken House drowned with rain, a most woful-loooking traveler. After drying beside a stove like a furnace, and a dinner which sent the blood warm and tingling through my limbs, I put the Brocken-nosegay of moss and lichens in my knapsack and passing the witches' cauldron, took the path for Schierke. It led down the southern side of the mountain, and the Brocken host (Herr Nese, who for fifty years past has introduced his Spectre to poets, peasants, philosophers and princes) showed me a pile of rocks just under the summit, where a few weeks before, his dogs had found a handwerker buried in a snow-drift and on the point of perishing. A half-hour's walk brought me below the region of snow, but not that of rain, for the clouds were gathered over the mountains to the right. As I reached the first forests they rolled up black and swift and the drops began to fall hard and heavily. Observing a little thicket of scrubby pines, I lay down on the ground and crawled under it, where I coiled myself up in the close and fragrant covert, just as the floodgates were opened. A perfect deluge succeeded; the trees roared and battled in the wind; the gullies on either side were full of foaming water and the air was nearly as dark as night. But scarcely a drop found its way through my shelter. I lay there warm and snug in the midst of a wild and dreary storm, and never shall I forget my exquisite sense of happiness while it lasted. Just before sunset I came out upon a slope of rich green pasture where several boys were tending a flock of cattle. The sky was then partially clear but cold, and as I was anxious to reach a village before dark, 1 left the road to ask them my nearest way. One question succeeded another, and having told them to what country I belonged, I must needs stay with them awhile and tell them about it. We sat on a rock and talked until the shadow of the opposite mountain fell over us, when I left them. They had friends in America, and one of them thought he might visit them when he grew older. They delayed me so long that the foot-path I had taken, through a deep and rocky hollow, was very gloomy, and in the dim light, almost fearful. Vast masses of rock clung to the side of the mountain, "Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour, over and through the crevices were twisted the bony See the uniting boughs entwine- I thought of this ghostly passage and remembered the caution given me by the old herdsman. But no wrinkled hag, coursing on her he-goat the haunted paths of the Brocken interrupted my progress, and the cheerful lights of Elbingerode soon glimmered through the wood. The next day I set out for the Rosstrappe, but again went astray and came to a village on the river Bode, deep down under steep mountains and the abode of miners. The people told me of two noted caves within half an hour's walk, but the rain had again set in, and I hastened forward toward the Rosstrappe, the greatest wonder of the Hartz. The scenery was no longer so lonely and exciting in its character. Open, upland plains, with occasional forests, skirted the road, and the men and women at work in their scanty fields and gardens saluted me with many a shout of laughter as I trudged along through the wood. Roads branched off in all directions from the main one, and left to my own judgment as to the proper course, I continued on till I reached the river, and saw a little hamlet on its banks. At the only inn-a hut with two rooms-an old grandam told me I had missed the way. The Rosstrappe was two hours distant, and I could not find it without a guide. The men were all away in the woods, but a neighbor of hers would go with me if I would give her a few groschen. To this I willingly consented, and the kind old woman dried my blouse carefully by the fire and brought me a dinner of bread and milk. After dinner the neighbor made her appearance, with a large empty basket and announced herself ready to start. My landlady rolled up in a paper a large slice of bread and thrust it into my pocket, charging me two groschen (6 cents) for my dinner. I was about to shoulder my knapsack, when my guide asked for it, saying she had brought her basket on purpose for it. I hesitated at first; the thought of walking unencumbered, with a woman carrying my baggage seemed unchivalric, to say the least. I made a rapid comparison between my weakness and fatigue and the distance still to be traversed, and decided by placing the knapsack in her basket and assisting her to lift it upon her head. Off we went, under a clear sky, for the first time since I entered the Hartz. Through fine open forests and along precipices overhanging the Bode-past the huntinggrounds of the Dukes of Brunswick and across dells fragrant with spring flowers-so we walked, for nearly two hours, till the cottage-inn of the Rosstrappe was visible through a vista of trees. Here I took the knapsack and dismissed my guide with a ten-groschen-piece, which I had been told was the usual fee. It was evidently much more than she expected. After I had seen the Rosstrappe, and hung over the fearful chasm where the Bode thunders and foams seven hundred feet below, not forgetting to note the marvelous giant hoof-mark in the rock, I went back to the inn. The landlady gave me the whole story of the Rosstrappe while she brought and uncorked a bottle of birken saft, or birch sap, for which the Hartz is celebrated. This beverage, which is made in no other part of the world, consists of the sap of the birch tree, sweetened and suffered to ferment slightly. It is of a bright pink color and delicious taste. I had the table brought to the door, where I could see the savage defile below, while the landlady seated herself opposite with her knitting and gave her tongue full play. Such a tongue! the words came in an everlasting stream, and the faster she talked the harder she knit; so that one yarn kept pace with the other, and my visit increased the growth of her stocking considerably. "There was once a pack of wild students here," said she, among the other marvelous stories she related; "though all students are wild enough, as is quite natural; but these fellows (I remember every one of them) made a terrible noise all afternoon, with their songs and their wine-bottles, and what not. They climbed down the rocks to the Bode and up again, and I must needs tell them the story of the Rosstrappe twice over. When night came they were still here under the trees, drinking, and as it began to rain and they were not able to find their way, the dear Lord knows, what was to be done but keep them? We have no rooms for so many here, you see; so I told them to take this chamber where we are sitting and sleep as they best might. But no sleep had I nor my good man; there was nothing but singing and yelling the whole night. About midnight there was a terrible rap on my door. 'Himmel!' I cried, 'what is the matter?' and I started up in great fright. O mein Gott!' said one of the students, there are wolves at the door.' Now there never was a wolf near the house, but I feared it might be a spirit, or something as frightful, so I put on my gown as quick as I could and lit my lamp, for they had overturned theirs in their fright. When I came into the room I found them all in one corner, looking very wild and pale. There are no wolves here,' said I. Just then a night-owl among the trees began to hoot. There it is, there it is again!' they cried, but I laughed, although I was very angry, to be called up for an owl. Go to sleep, you fools! I said to them, do you not know better than to be frightened by a hoo-hoo! The next morning they were very much ashamed, as they truly might be, for I tell about their fright to every body who comes here." At the Rosstrappe, I had reached the eastern extremity of the Hartz, and after I descended the mountain my way was enlivened by bloomy orchards and springing grain. At sunset I was so far out in the plain of the Elbe that I could see the snowy top of the Brocken, free from clouds. This was my last view of the bleak and spectral mountain. After a night of terror at Halberstadt, (an account of which the reader will find in my narrative of travel,) I took the cars for Leipsic, which I reached the next night, and where I found a companion waiting for me. So ended my Lonely Week of Travel in Northern Germany. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. BY MRS. HARRIET 8. HANDY. On the bright and sunny days that long, long since were ours, Will they ne'er return again, with their wealth of sum- The sweet approving smile-the low, soft gentle tone, Oh! deeply have I trusted, while I listened to thy vow, But well unto my heart the bitter lesson has been taught That oft love's words, when sweetest, with deceitfulness are fraught Then ask me not thy love and faithlessness so coldly to Or that our early destinies have once so sadly met. Or the caged bird forget the haunts where first it built its The wildest storm that rocks the one, gives place to stars again, And though the captive bird sings on, 't is a loved green- The ocean-shell forgets not its low, sweet plaintive moan, And though the slighted heart may hide its bitterness of An echo-tone of memory-an unforgotten sound- There is yet a fount of sorrow, the world may never know. And though the chords be broken-its glad music at an end, With its murmured melody, a strain of other years will blend! FOR AND AGAINST. FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ. I, believing you true, May have learned to love you, yield not one feeling, I think would be scorned. When a lover I find I DON'T think I ever really loved but once; fancies I have had, and fond ones, too; but now when the cold, gray twilight of age is dimming the visions of the past, memory still recalls, with wonderful power, one bright face from the fair picture gallery of my early loves-the face of Edla Fane, the schoolmaster's daughter. Beautiful she was not, and yet II loved her, as I learned too late. She seemed to bind me by some spell of witchery that I could not with- I will give up my heart in return for his vow; stand, and yet against which I rebelled, because it appealed not to my outer senses. I understand it now; she bound me by the might of a lofty, spiritual love; and I blindly cast aside that gem of countless price to grasp the dross of earth. High-toned, and pure-minded, tender, and confiding as a child, yet with a sweet womanly pride, and withal a dash of quiet humor, Edla Fane kept me vacillating near her for a many months. At one time feeling as though I could fall at her feet and worship her, at another fearing I had expressed too much, and withdrawing in cold reserve. One evening a cold mood came over me; I feared 1 had committed myself in my ardent protestations to Edla, and now spoke with the calmness of friendship or platonic affection. She listened with a slight curve of her expressive lip, and assented to my proposal of affectionate friendship so readily, that my self-love was aroused, and with characteristic variableness my feelings gained immediate force again. But Edla remained unmoved. The next day I received the following lines in a blank envelop. You say that you love me, yet are not a lover; And think there is danger, That when you are weary, and wish to depart, Who knows his own mind! I must have all or none, You at once must restrain all expression of feeling, For I bid you beware, Cupid's a sly, little mischievous elf, When you think your heart free And make you prove constant in spite of yourself. I'll turn proudly away, And will calmly say nay, (While I look on you coldly, not seeming to see,) That is all you desire Think well of me always, but never love me! Provoking! thus to have my own words turned against me, at the close of these unexpected verses. I saw Edla frequently after this; but my evanescent vows, were never after tolerated even for a moment, and thus, when too late, her prophecy was fulfilled -I loved her. But Edla Fane is now a happy wife and mother, and I-a Bachelor. MY STUDY. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day I LOVE the circuit of thy narrow bounds A quiet nook for revery thou art In the dim hour of shade, When that wild, wondrous instrument, the heart, My books-old friends that know not frigid change- Unfold their lettered treasures, rich and strange, While Folly wastes in lust and midnight wine, True wisdom seeketh jewels in the mine Of intellectual wealth. Haunt, sacred to retirement and thought! Within thy hallowed precincts I have caught Where the soul harbors when this life is o'er, THE BIRTH PLACE OF BENJAMIN WEST. [SEE ENGRAVING.] WE present our readers with an engraving of the birth-place of the celebrated American painter, Benjamin West, from an original drawing made by Mr. Croome, in the year 1845. The house is situated in the township of Springfield, Pennsylvania, about four miles north of Chester, on a considerable farm belonging to Mr. Peter Stewart. It will be perceived that the house is in rather a dilapidated condition, one of the posts of the portico being deficient. The house is substantially built of brick, and, at the time of its erection, must have been considered rather an elegant country residence; but its antiquity and state of decay will probably prevent any future attempt to put it in repair. The spot, however, will always be interesting to Americans, from its having been the scene of West's childhood, to which are referred those delightful afid well known anecdotes, of his early life, which display the dawnings of that bril liant genius which was destined to astonish the world by its achievements in the graphic art. DREAMS OF HEAVEN. BY M. E. THROPP. IRREGULAR LINES. FROM Orient climes to the lands that glow In the last red light of even, Indian, Paynim, Moslem, Jew All have their dreams of Heaven. The Mostem dreams of a green, fair clime, Lit up by the sun's broad beams, Where flowers gaze down at their own bright forms Where soft winds sigh, and gay birds sing, Where palm groves rustle cool and still, Where the banquet waits, with its viands crowned, Such is the vision of future bliss A land whose giant lakes and streams, Where forests wave, and mountains tower- 'Tis his dream, as he calmly looks abroad A hunting-ground, where that sun sinks down, Is the Indian's dream of Heaven. The Jew of his New Jerusalem dreams, Still dreams, that Judah's harps shall sound, Zion rebuilt, and the land restored, To his forefathers given, Is the Hebrew exile's guerdon high, His earnest here of Heaven. The Norseman chief, in the olden time, Sprang up, with Valkyriur calls Ringing shrill and clear in his dreaming ear"Up! come to Valhalla's Halls!'"' Would ye know how the chieftain sought those halls? The warrior sleeps on the ghastly heaps, Visions of blood, in that dying hour, The Greek had high, ambitious dreams, The Druid too-ah, many and strange How will those dreams accord with thee, Now, shines the gospel sun, the mists And earth, from pole to central zone, Like some tired wanderer of the deep, Dreams he of sensual joys? the chase? Some ruined city, lone? Of feasts and battle-fields? Not soHis is a spirit-home. To Him, who formed yon glorious sky, This green enameled sod, The Christian trusts his future homeHis architect-is God. |