of ghosts, piled one syllogism on another, and concluded with the logical proof that there are absolutely no ghosts. Meanwhile the cold sweat ran down my back, my teeth clattered like castanets, and from very 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; And in winter we are always Deeply buried in the snow. "And I'm such a timid creature, And I'm frightened like a child At the evil mountain spirits, Who by night are raging wild" Silent falls the winsome maiden, Frightened by her own surmise, Little hands, so white and dimpled, Pressing on her sweet blue eyes.