agony of soul I nodded an unconditional assent to every assertion which
the phantom doctor alleged against the absurdity of being afraid of
ghosts, and which he demonstrated with such zeal that once, in a moment
of distraction, instead of his gold watch he drew a handful of
grave-worms from his vest-pocket, and remarking his error, replaced them
with a ridiculous but terrified haste. "Reason is the highest--!" Here
the clock struck _one_, but the ghost vanished.

The next morning I left Goslar and wandered along, partly at random, and
partly with the intention of visiting the brother of the Clausthal
miner. Again we had beautiful Sunday weather. I climbed hill and
mountain, saw how the sun strove to drive away the mists, and wandered
merrily through the quivering woods, while around my dreaming head rang
the bell-flowers of Goslar. The mountains stood in their white
night-robes, the fir-trees were shaking sleep out of their branching
limbs, the fresh morning wind curled their drooping green locks, the
birds were at morning prayers, the meadow-vale flashed like a golden
surface sprinkled with diamonds, and the shepherd passed over it with
his bleating flock.

* * * * *

After much circuitous wandering I came to the dwelling of the brother of
my Clausthal friend. Here I stayed all night and experienced the
following beautiful poem--

Stands the but upon the mountain
Where the ancient woodman dwells
There the dark-green fir-trees rustle,
Casts the moon its golden spells.

In the but there stands an arm-chair,
Richly carved and cleverly;
He who sits therein is happy,
And that happy man am I.

On the footstool sits a maiden,
On my lap her arms repose,
With her eyes like blue stars beaming,
And her mouth a new-born rose.

And the dear blue stars shine on me,
Wide like heaven's great arch their gaze;
And her little lily finger
Archly on the rose she lays.

Nay, the mother cannot see us,
For she spins the whole day long;
And the father plays the cithern
As he sings a good old song.

And the maiden softly whispers,
Softly, that none may hear;
Many a solemn little secret
Hath she murmured in my ear.

"Since I lost my aunt who loved me,
Now we never more repair
To the shooting-lodge at Goslar,
And it is so pleasant there!

"Here above it is so lonely,
On the rocks where cold winds blow;