A German legend.
Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.8 #195 (03 Apr 1852).
There was a poor, but very honest, contented, and merry kind of man, in the village of Tilleda, who happened to be giving a christening treat, for about the eighth time, to some of his neighbours. Desirous of showing all respect to the party at the christening, he set before them the best country wine he possessed, which being quickly despatched, his guests seemed to be looking for a little more. "Go, then," said the father to his eldest daughter, a young girl about sixteen years old, "go, and bring us some better wine from the cellar."
"From what cellar, father?" inquired his daughter.
"What cellar, child?" repeated her father, merely in jest. "Why, the great wine-cellar belonging to the old knights, upon the Kyffhâusen.
With perfect simplicity, the young maiden took a firkin in her hand, and proceeded towards the mountain. About middle way, seated in an old deserted path leading down towards the spot, she found an aged house-keeper, dressed in a singular quaint fashion, with a large bunch of keys hanging at her side. The young woman paused, not a little surprised at the sight; but the old lady inquired of her very kindly, whether she had not come to fetch wine from the knights' cellar?
"Yes, I am," replied the timid girl; "but I have got no money."
"Come with me," said the old housekeeper, "you shall have it for nothing; and better wine than your father ever bought in his life."
They both then proceeded along an old deserted road, the old lady inquiring very particularly, by the way, what the appearance of things then was in Tilleda--who was alive, and who was dead?
"Once," said she, "I was as young and pretty as thou art, before I was kidnapped and carried under ground by the knights, or rather night-riders, who stole me away from the very house that now belongs to thy father. Shortly before this they had also seized four young ladies of these parts, who were often afterwards seen about here, on their four richly caparisoned steeds. They were entrapped, and carried off in open day, by these mountain knights, as they were coming from church at Kelbra. They made me, as I grew older, into the house-keeper, and entrusted me with the keys of the cellar, which you see I still wear."
By this time they had reached the collar door, which the old house-keeper unlocked. It was a fine spacious cellar, and on both sides it was well laid out with rows of vats and butts. Most of them were either quite or more than half full; and broaching one of them with great dexterity, she took the little firkin and filled it up to the brim.
"There," she said, "take that to your father, and whenever he may happen to be giving a treat, you may come again; only see that you tell no one, besides your father, where you have it from. And, moreover, take heed that you sell none of it, nor give it away, for in neither case will it be worth anything at all. If any one venture hither to obtain wine for sale, let him be warned: his last bread has been baked:--now go!"
So the girl returned with the wine to her father; and the guests found it excellent without knowing anything as to whence it came. Henceforward, as often as there was a party invited to the house, Isabel went to fetch wine in the little kilderkin, from the Kyffhâusen. They did not, however, long continue to enjoy the benefit of it: the neighbours began to wonder where the poor gentleman met with such excellent wine; none equal to it in the country. The father would inform nobody, nor would Isabel betray the secret.
Unluckily, just opposite to them lived the landlord of the village inn, who dealt as largely as he could in adulterated spirits. He, among others, had also had a taste of the knights' wine; and thought he to himself, "My friend, you might mix this with ten times its body of water, and sell it for good wine still. Where can you contrive to get it from?"
He resolved to watch; and he followed the daughter as she went for about the fourteenth time, with her little firkin, towards the Kyffhâusen hills. He hid himself, and saw her come the exact way from the old cellar, with her firkin quite full, shortly afterwards. Accordingly, next evening, he set out himself, having first rolled into a little cart one of the largest empty barrels he could find, intending to fill it with the same precious kind of liquor. He thought it would be easy to convey it down hill; and he made a vow to return every night until the cellar became empty. As he approached the spot where he had marked the path the day before, the sky suddenly began to grow dark and lowering.
The wind rose, and whistled portentously of the gathering rain, which soon fell in torrents. The tempest carried him and his hollow tub from one side of the road to the other. At last, down the hill he went, and continued to fall deeper and deeper, until he finally found himself lodged in a burial vault. Here there appeared an awful procession before his eyes--a regular funeral, with a bier hung with black, and hung with black, and his wife and four neighbours, whom he recognised easily enough by their gait and garments, following in its wake. At this sight he very naturally fainted away; and on recovering some hours afterwards, he still found himself in the dimly-lighted vault, and heard right over his head the old familiar steeple-bell of Tilleda striking twelve. Now he knew that it was the witching hour, and that he was there lying under the church and the burial-ground of the village in a gloomy vault.
He was certainly more dead than alive, and scarcely ventured to breathe. But see! a monk now approaches him slowly down the narrow steps, opens the vault-door, and in perfect silence puts some money into his hand, and then taking him in his arms, he laid him down at the foot of the mountain. It was a cold frosty night. By degrees the good host came a little to himself, and crept, without either wine or wine-cask, as far as home. It struck one just as he reached it; and he felt himself so unwell, that he found he must take to his bed. In the course of three days he died, and the money which he had brought home, given him by the ghostly monk, was just sufficient to defray his funeral expenses; his wife and the four neighbours, as he had seen them, following him to the grave.