This town contains a certain quantity of houses and a given number of inhabitants, among whom are divers and sundry souls, as may be ascertained in detail from Gottschalk’s “Pocket Guide-Book for Harz Travelers.”  Ere I struck into the highway, I ascended the ruins of the very ancient Osteroder Burg.  They consisted merely of the half of a great, thick-walled tower, which appeared to be fairly honeycombed by time.  The road to Clausthal led me again uphill, and from one of the first eminences I looked back once more into the dale where Osterode with its red roofs peeps out from among the green fir-woods, like a moss-rose from amid its leaves.  The sun cast a pleasant, tender light over the whole scene.  From this spot the imposing rear of the remaining portion of the tower may be seen to advantage.

There are many other ruined castles in this vicinity.  That of Hardenberg, near Noerten, is the most beautiful.  Even when one has, as he should, his heart on the left—­that is, the liberal side—­he cannot banish all melancholy feeling on beholding the rocky nests of those privileged birds of prey, who left to their effete descendants only their fierce appetites.  So it happened to me this morning.  My heart thawed gradually as I departed from Goettingen; I again became romantic, and as I went on I made up this poem: 

  Rise again, ye dreams forgotten;
    Heart-gate, open to the sun! 
  Joys of song and tears of sorrow
    Sweetly strange from thee shall run.

  I will rove the fir-tree forest,
    Where the merry fountain springs,
  Where the free, proud stags are wandering,
    Where the thrush, my darling, sings.

  I will climb upon the mountains,
    On the steep and rocky height,
  Where the gray old castle ruins
    Stand in rosy morning light.

  I will sit awhile reflecting
    On the times long passed away,
  Races which of old were famous,
    Glories sunk in deep decay.

  Grows the grass upon the tilt-yard,
    Where the all-victorious knight
  Overcame the strongest champions,
    Won the guerdon of the fight.

  O’er the balcony twines ivy,
    Where the fairest gave the prize,
  Him who all the rest had vanquished
    Overcoming with her eyes.

  Both the victors, knight and lady,
    Fell long since by Death’s cold hand;
  So the gray and withered scytheman
    Lays the mightiest in the sand.

After proceeding a little distance, I met with a traveling journeyman who came from Brunswick, and who related to me that it was generally believed in that city that their young Duke had been taken prisoner by the Turks during his tour in the Holy Land, and could be ransomed only by an enormous sum.  The extensive travels of the Duke probably originated this tale.  The people at large still preserve that traditional fable-loving train of ideas which is so pleasantly