LEGENDS AND TALES
OF THE
HARZ MOUNTAINS.

TOOFIE LAUDER,
(Maria Elise Turner Lauder)

AUTHOR OF "EVERGREEN LEAVES."

London:
HODDER AND STOUGHTON,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW,
MDCCCLXXXI.

UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, CHILWORTM AND LONDON.

Dedicated
(BY SPECIAL PERMISSION)
TO HER MAJESTY
MARGHERITA,
QUEEN OF ITALY.

CONTENTS.

[LEGEND OF THE ROSSTRAPPE]
[THE GOLDEN CROWN IN THE BODE KESSEL]
[THE SEVEN SPRINGS OF THALE]
[LEGENDS OF THE TEUFELSMAUER]
[THE WUNDERSTEIN]
[CHARLOTTE OF BLANKENBURG, PRINCESS OF WOLFENBÜTTEL]
[THE GRAVE UNDER THE LINDENS NEAR BLANKENBURG]
[LEGENDS OF THE REGENSTEIN]
[THE LOST SKETCH-BOOK OF THE REGENSTEIN CHAPEL]
[THE FLOWER OF THE LAUENBURG]
[THE WHITE STAG]
[THE FISHERMAN OF TRESEBURG]
[LEGEND OF VOLKMARSKELLER]
[REINHILDE OF THE KÖNIGSBURG]
[THE TWELVE KNIGHTS IN THE SCHÖNEBURG]
[THE GEGENSTEINE]
[THE THREE CRYSTAL GOBLETS AND THREE GOLDEN BALLS OF SCHLOSS FALKENSTEIN]
[TIDIAN'S HÖHLE, OR CAVE]
[THE MÄGDESPRUNG AND MÄGDETRAPPE]
[SAGE OF SCHLOSS QUESTENBERG]
[BARBAROSSA AND THE KYFFHÄUSER]
[THE BURGFRÄULEIN OF OSTERODE]
[THE KEY-FAIRY OF THE GÜNTERSBURG]
[LEGEND OF THE DEVIL'S MILL]
[THE ORIGIN OF THE RAMMELSBERG MINE, NEAR GOSLAR]
[LEGEND OF THE HOPPELBERG]
[THE WHITE LADY]
[THE CHAPEL OF ROSES]
[PRINCESS ILSE]
[PRINCESS ILSE AND THE DELUGE]
[THE ILSENSTEIN]
[A DREAM UNDER PRINCESS ILSE'S FIRS]
[THE RED-HAIRED TRUDE]
[THE WILD HUNTSMAN]
[THE ORIGIN OF THE PHILIPPINE]
[GRAF ARNO'S CAPTURE]
[THE PEBBLE]
[THE MONK AND THE SPRING]
[HILDEGARD AND THE HAINERBURG]
[THE THREE STONE PARTRIDGES]
[THE FORESTER AND THE ENCHANTED CASTLE]
[THE STEINKIRCHE AND THE HERMIT]
[THE NYMPH RUMA AND THE WEINGARTEN HÖHLE]
[LEGEND OF THE SCHILDBERG]
[LEGEND OF SILBERHOHL]
[LAUTENTHAL]
[EVA VON TROTTA]
[THE WEINGARTEN HÖHLE AND THE THREE MEN]
[THE BELL-FOUNDER OF STOLBERG]
[THE COLT'S CAVE]
[LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER]
[THE MAIDEN'S CAVE IN THE SPATENBERG]
[THE THREE BROTHERS OF ZELLERFELD]
[THE RAVEN OF CLAUSTHAL]
[THE BERGMÖNCH AND WILDER MANN]
[THE NIMROD OF THE REHBERGERKLIPPE]
[THE TANZTEICH BEI ZORGE]
[THE DWARFS OF THE SACHSENTEIN]
[THE BURGGEIST OF THE HAARBURG]
[THE THREE WOOD-FAIRIES]
[THE SHEPHERDS' TOWERS]
[THE TREASURE-HUNTERS OF THE SIEBERTHAL]
[THE ENCHANTED MAIDEN OF THE ZORGE]
[THE ACCURSED MAIDEN OF LICHTENSTEIN]
[THE GREAT HALL IN THE PETERSBERG]
[SPAR-DIE-MÜH]
[THE DWARF-KING HIBICH]
[THE KING OF TIPPLERS]
[THE NEEDLE'S EYE]
[LEGEND OF ST. HUBERTUS]
[BATHILDE VON BALLENSTEDT]

LEGENDS AND TALES.

Legend of the Rosstrappe.[[1]]

[[1]] Ross, a steed; Trappe, a footprint.

Ages ago there ruled a king in Bohemia whose castle stood on a lofty mountain, where the thunder and the eagle found a home.

This king had a daughter, the golden-haired Brunhilda, the fame of whose marvellous beauty was spread far and wide.

Mighty rulers and the sons of kings sought the hand of the lovely royal maiden, and among the numerous wooers came the son of the king of the Harz, who won her heart; and after the lovers had sworn everlasting fidelity, the Harz Prince returned to his father to announce his betrothal and make arrangements for the nuptials.

After his departure, there arrived a new suitor for Brunhilda's hand, whom her father feared to reject. This was one of those terrible giants who inhabited North Europe. They were invincible, and wherever they appeared, all yielded with terror to their might.

This dreadful lover brought the Princess costly gifts of gold, amber, and precious stones. The father, after three days' Bedenkzeit, promises the Giant his daughter. Brunhilda throws herself horrified on her knees before her father, weeping and tearing her hair; but the king, though moved with pity, assures her the Giant has power to destroy him and his kingdom.

From this hour Brunhilda appeared composed. She neither wept nor complained, but met her destined bridegroom with a solemn dignity. Of a truly kingly character, she constrained her agony to silence, but hoped ever for deliverance through the return of her Harz lover; still he came not.

Now the Giant had two steeds—giant steeds—one white as the snows of the Northland, his eyes shining like stars; the other, the Giant's body-horse, black as the night, with eyes like the lightning, at whose running his hoofs resounded like thunder, and the earth trembled and shook. Both these steeds seemed in the chase to overtake the storm, and keep time with the lightning.

Brunhilda saw these giant steeds, and the thought of flight occurred to her.

Was success possible? She had never mounted the snowy steed.

Great was the Giant's joy when Brunhilda begged to ride with him. She mounted daily the terrible animal, and soon could ride a race with the Giant on the mountains.

At last the evening before the nuptials arrived, and Brunhilda, having arrayed herself in white robes, a golden crown, and a long white veil floating behind her, and the amber and diamonds, the Giant's gifts, welcomed the numerous guests who thronged the royal palace, and looked lovingly upon the Giant Bräutigam,[[2]] who was overwhelmed with an unheard of bliss at the lovely vision.

[[2]] Bräutigam, bridegroom. Used only during the engagement.

At length the Princess rose and retired, the Giant remained to drink of the costly wines. Suddenly he heard the snorting and stamping of his war-steeds! He sprang up and looked down into the courtyard.

There sat Brunhilda in her glittering robes, the golden crown still upon her head, her white veil and golden hair fluttering in the wind, in her fearless courage and queenly beauty, upon the snowy steed before the open gates.

At sight of him she let loose her reins, and the mighty steed shot forth, swift as the storm-wind, like a streak of light, into the darkness of the night.

The Giant uttered a cry of fury that shook the castle to its foundations, seized his battle-axe, and mounted his war-horse, crying: "If she flee to the Nidhöggar[[3]] in the Schlangengrund[[4]] I will bring her hence!"

[[3]] Nidhöggar, the dragon in the old German water-hell.

[[4]] Schlangengrund, valley of serpents.

And now begins the fearful race. Through meadow and forest, over mountain and ravine, flee the pursuer and pursued, the white steed always in advance, fleeing swift as a meteor through the heavens; behind, the black steed, like a spirit from the eternal darkness.

All through the night lasted the terrible ride. The earth groaned and thundered, the forests trembled, the birds and beasts fled in terror, long streaks of fire swept through the grim darkness, and the snorting of the steeds was like the roar of the Northwind.

At length dawn reflects her rosy blush over mountain and wood. Brunhilda utters a cry of joy and triumph! There before her lies the Harz, her lover's mountain home and future kingdom! That distant peak is the Brocken!

She spurs on her noble steed till she reaches the Hexentanzplatz,[[5]] when suddenly he Stops, rears, and plunges, and refuses to advance. Before her yawns the terrible rocky abyss of the Bode Valley, behind she hears the deadly foe advancing, uttering the most dreadful curses!

[[5]] Hexentanzplatz, witches' dancing-floor.

What shall she do? Forward over the wild abyss? Backward is to fall into the arms of the enemy.

The choice is not difficult. She turns his head to the fearful chasm, and spurs him on.

Like an eagle, the noble animal leaps the yawning abyss, lands safely on the other side, and impressing its giant hoof-print in the granite, sinks exhausted, but the Princess loses her goldene Krone in the gulf beneath the Bode Kessel!

The Giant in rage and fury spurs on his dusky steed to leap after her, but falls and is broken on the rocks, and ever since, transformed into a hell-hound, he guards the golden crown in the Bode Kessel.

The Princess, saved, dances for joy, and her footprints are still to be seen in the solid granite.

The mountain has ever since been called the Rosstrappe, and the Giant Bodo[[6]] gave his name to the valley and river.

[[6]] Bodo—the final o has been corrupted into e, Bode.

The Golden Crown in the Bode Kessel.

"Seht ihr die alte Lauenberg
Hoch auf dem Harze schimmern?
Durch Wildniss geht der Weg hindurch
Zu ihren wüsten Trümmern."

The legend of the Gold-Krone in the Bode Kessel is connected with a Countess of the Lauenburg.

In the days of the Crusades there dwelt here a fair maiden, the daughter of the Earl von Lauenburg, whose lover, Conrad von Regenstein, was a Crusader.

Instead of his speedy return, came tidings of his fall in the bloody combat. The broken-hearted Braut refused all other lovers, and to secure peace and freedom declared she would bestow her hand only on the knight who could rescue Brunhilda's crown from the fearful gulf, the Bode Kessel.

The news spread through all the plains of Germany, from the North Sea to the Alps, and knights and princes flocked to the banks of the Bodethal to learn the extent of the danger in such an attempt, but no man was even able to approach the brink of the fearful chasm.[[1]]

[[1]] It must be remembered that the Bodethal was unapproachable, no path whatever existing, until von Bülow caused the path to be constructed in 1818, past the Rosstrappe to the Devil's Bridge overlooking the Bode Kessel.

The object of the maiden seemed gained, but, alas! she knew not what anguish destiny had assigned her.

Years had fled, and the Graf von Lauenburg held a fête in his castle.

Suddenly the notes of the warder's horn resound proclaiming the arrival of a guest.

The young Countess looks out of a Gothic window into the court, turns pale and trembles, as her straining eyes gaze upon the entering knight.

Yes! She is not deceived; that is the figure, the noble bearing of her lost Crusader!

"Conrad! my Conrad!" she cries, and rushes, frantic with joy, into the arms of her returned lover. "Thou dost yet live! Thou liest not in the cold arms of death!"

"I live, am in thy arms!"

No word more—a long embrace.

The aged Earl has followed his daughter, and amid their astonishment and joy, Conrad explains how he was severely wounded and taken prisoner, and had not for long years been able to escape.

The father leads the happy pair into the great hall, and announces to the assembled guests the betrothal of his daughter, and an early wedding-day.

Many crowd forward to offer their congratulations, but, in the background of the hall one sees a group of knights with frowning brows.

At last one of the group approaches the Earl in the centre of the hall, and cries: "You are in haste to announce the betrothal and wedding-day. Has the Regensteiner then brought up the Gold-Krone? or are you playing with so many nobles? You are surrounded by many who will demand that the bridegroom fulfil the conditions you yourself have named, or they will accuse you of treachery, and renounce your allegiance."

Applause followed this stern address. The Earl, surprised, glanced around the circle and met grim looks and frowning faces.

But Conrad raised high his proud form, struck his sword upon the floor, so that the hall rang with the clans;, and cried in a voice of thunder: "Who dares speak of treachery to Graf Lauenburg? Those conditions were not made in jest or scorn; his knightly word is irreproachable. I will undergo the test, and will not lead my beloved home until I have redeemed it."

Silence and astonishment filled the hall. But the maiden, pale with terror, exclaimed: "What! thou will'st face the Terrible? plunge thyself into certain destruction, and me into fresh despair?"

Conrad assures her the danger is not so great as it appears; that he is protected by an amulet, a cross made from the true cross of the Saviour, that has defended him from ocean perils, and rescued him from the swords and dungeons of the Saracens, and immediately prepares for the perilous rescue.

The day arrived, the Bode was bridged with ice, hundreds of anxious spectators lined the rocks above, the black flag floated from the Lauenburg and the Regenstein.

Extreme unction had been administered in Kloster Wenthusen, and armed with a dagger for the combat with the transformed Giant Bodo, and an iron chain to bind him, with a look toward heaven, Conrad plunged into the yawning gulf.

The waves closed over him and drew him down into their shimmering bosom.

A long and anxious stillness—then a horrible howl burst forth from the gulf, drowning the roar and hiss of the waterfall, growing every minute louder and more terrible, as if a thousand wolves were engaged in a death-grapple; and the waters rose in mighty billows, as if a storm-wind raged beneath.

Then a ray of sunshine bursts forth, making the colossal rocks glitter like silver towers, and the waterfall like dropping diamonds, and through the pearly foam appeared a hand holding the Golden Crown; the howlings became weaker, and the whisper went round, "He has conquered!" And a loud voice rose above the raging waves, "The Hell-dog lies in chains! The Crown and the Beloved are mine!"

Hark! What is that?

The terrible howlings begin afresh, the hand trembles and vanishes with the Gold-Krone, soon all grows fearfully still, drops of blood rise to the surface, then a whole stream—the brave Crusader never returns.

They found the amulet thrown up from the unfathomable deeps, and carried it to the unhappy maiden, who without a tear turned her steps to the holy retreat of Kloster Wenthusen, and was never seen again.

The Seven Springs of Thale.

Between the red-roofed Thale and Dorf Neinstedt, one sees several low, round hills, here and there overgrown with thorns and thickets, sometimes bare of all vegetation save short grass.

These mounds are graves of primeval days, in which urns and bones have been found.

At the foot of these hills, in a semicircle, are seven small springs, which unite themselves in one tiny brooklet, over which the train passes.

On the summit of one of these hills once stood seven trees called the Seven Brothers, of which now no trace remains.

Seven royal brothers came from England to woo the seven daughters of the king of the Harz mountains, the fame of whose beauty had penetrated even to the English court. These princesses were called the Sunbeams of the mountains; and when the English princes arrived in the Felsenburg of their royal father, they found assembled there princes and nobles from Saxony and Thuringia, Franconia and Bohemia, from the banks of the Danube and the amber coasts of the sea.

But the Sunbeams loved the English princes, and promised to go with them to their father's court.

Then the German wooers were enraged, and said, "Not without combat will we permit these strangers to rob us of the glory of our land."

The brothers seized sword and shield, but the princesses rushed into their arms and hindered the combat. At midnight, when the full moon shone, each brother, with his affianced bride behind him on his fleet steed, fled toward the rocky shores of England.

Suddenly the affrighted maidens see the glitter of arms in the faint moonlight.

"What is that that glitters below on the plain?" they cry.

"Fear not," said the youths, "'tis the waves of the Bode."

"What is that whistling in the forest?"

"The thrushes sing in the shadows of the foliage."

"Do you hear the rustling in the thicket?"

"'Tis but the frightened deer."

"What is that murmur?"

"The spring gushing out of the rocks."

"And that whispering?"

"The wind!"

"You deceive us. Your eyes burn like the lightning, you have seized both sword and shield!"

"Fear not! We are with you; our arm will defend you!"

Out of the thicket rush the concealed rivals; a furious combat follows; the English princes are all slain, their bodies burnt and the ashes buried.

The princesses returned to their father's castle, but hated the murderers of their English lovers. Every day they went with the dawn to the spot where the brothers lay in their deep slumber, and night found them still there in tears.

Each princess planted a tree by her lover's grave, and when seven moons were passed away, one evening, as they sat by the graves, suddenly they felt a great joy spring up within them; they wiped away their tears, but from them seven springs bubbled up sparkling and clear. Smiling, they gave each other the hand, feeling the hour of reunion was come, and in the morning they were found dead, hand in hand.

Legends of the Teufelsmauer.

On the plain, stretching away westward from the once imperial Quedlinburg, is the Devil's Wall, which rises in ragged rocks in the most fantastic shapes and forms, sometimes a hundred feet in height, mostly bare, but nearer to Blankenburg adorned with foliage.

This is the backbone of a mountain chain once extending from Blankenburg to Ballenstedt, which has been mostly washed away by the tempests of untold ages.

These rocks are a firm sandstone with a vein of iron, containing impressions of fossils, shells, and plants, and are sometimes in such forms as to resemble the ruins of castles or human figures.

These rent and torn rocks could not fail to possess their legends.

In the time of Charlemagne there lived in Blanka a maiden called Thusnelda. The report of her charms attracted the attention of the brave Egbert, who had built on the Klus near Halberstadt a strong castle. He won her affections, of course.

Just at this period the doctrines of the Christian faith had penetrated into the Harz; Egbert had become a convert, and had won Thusnelda also for the new faith.

But the lovers were betrayed to Thusnelda's father, the wild and savage Luitprand, and he, in fury, having promised her to a companion in arms, shut her up in a gloomy room, deaf to all her entreaties, and laid in wait for Egbert; but Egbert assembled all the Christians of the neighbourhood, and set off in the night to storm Luitprand's castle.

Suddenly a wall of rock rose before them, and they were obliged to wait till morning, when lo! as far as they could see, only this formidable barrier that blocked up their way.

Egbert encouraged his braves to climb it; but when half way up, the giant rocks fell upon them and crushed every daring knight to atoms.

This wall the devil had built to prevent the spread of the new faith.

The other legend says the devil wished to divide with Christ the empire of the world, and therefore began this wall as the border between the two kingdoms; but the work was not finished at the time agreed upon by the contracting parties, and the contract was broken. The devil, in wrath at having laboured so much for nought, broke in pieces his partly built defence.

There is a tradition that the holy Vehm,[[1]] or Fehm, formerly held her court also in the Teufelsmauer, not far from the majestic Reinstein.

[[1]] Vehm, or Fehm, old German for punishment.

This celebrated tribunal had its origin in Westphalia, the land of the Red Earth, and was one of the most remarkable institutions of the middle ages.

The Fehm is said to have been instituted by Charlemagne to prevent Saxony, which had been forced by his arms to embrace Christianity, from returning to Paganism. Others claim for it a much greater antiquity.[[2]]

[[2]] See "History of the Fehm Tribunal; or, Secret History of Westphalia." By Fr. P. Usener. Frankfort, 1832.

The Wunderstein.

The vast plain north of the Harz mountains has been the scene of countless knightly feuds and battles.

In 1115 the battle of Welfsholz—not far from the village of Warnstedt, nestling in the shadow of the Devil's Wall—was fought between the Kaiser and the allied princes of Saxony, in which the imperial forces were routed. There is a legend that the battle was lost through the Count von Mannsfeld, who seeing his men flee, exclaimed, placing his hand on a rock at his side, "This rock shall turn into wax before I move from the spot!" when immediately the soft wax yielded to the pressure, and took the print of his hand, and he fled in terror and fell under the Saxon swords.

There is another version of the story.

Before the battle, the Earl von Mannsfeld called his men in a circle around him, and addressed them thus: "My friends! fear not because the enemy outnumbers us; let the rebels come, we will be their death-angel, for, listen all of you, and doubt not of victory, for so sure as my hand presses itself into this rock as if it were dough, so sure will the victory rest with our flag as long as I fight with you."

And before a thousand eager eyes he thrust his hand into the stone, leaving a deep rut.

Enthusiasm inspired the souls of the soldiers at the sight, and shouts of joy went through the ranks.

It is a fact that the brave Mannsfeld, impatient of victory, rushed on before his men and fell.

In the old Kloster of Wenthusen in Dorf Thale—pronounced Talé—is still preserved a mysterious Wonderstone, which is said to protect the estate and family from misfortune. By some mishap this stone was once carried off, and disaster followed disaster till it was brought back.

Charlotte of Blankenburg, Princess of Wolfenbüttel.

On the north side of the Harz mountains lies the town of Blankenburg, the origin of which is long prior to the time of Charlemagne, probably during that of the Sassens. It existed during the stone and bronze age, as has been proved by the discovery of warlike implements which have been dug up in the neighbourhood.

On a low mountain above the town stands Blankenburg[[1]] Schloss, white and shining in the summer's sun, and looks out on the vast plain, the Devil's Wall, and the mountains. Its long suites of bright and homelike apartments are adorned with many costly works of art, the most precious of which being the wondrously carved ivory crucifix in the chapel, by Michael Angelo. With all this we have at present nothing to do, but rather with the singular destiny of a lady who was born here, whose portrait hangs in the drawing and billiard room.

[[1]] Blankenburg, the shining castle.

Duke Ludwig Rudolph, second son of Duke Anton Ulrich of Brunswick, was presented by his father with the Earldom of Blankenburg. He lived with his wife, Princess Christine Louise von Oettingen, thirty years in Schloss Blankenburg.

They were the parents of three princesses, noted as well for goodness of heart as for grace and beauty. The eldest was Elizabeth Christine, born in 1691. The second, Charlotte Christiane Sophie, was a year younger. The youngest, Antoinette Amalie, was born in 1696.

The eldest, Elizabeth, was chosen at the age of thirteen, by Kaiser Leopold, as consort of his son Carl III., king of Spain, later Carl VI. of Germany. She was the mother of the great Maria Theresa. The young princess went over to the Romish faith, and met her royal bridegroom in Barcelona, where they were married. In consequence of this alliance with the Imperial family, the Earldom was raised to a Principality by Joseph I. It now belongs to the Duchy of Brunswick.

The second, Princess Charlotte, was chosen by the Czar, Peter the Great, who spent some time here, as consort for his son and throne-heir, Alexis.

The third, Antoinette, the loveliest of the three sisters, married Duke Ferdinand Albert of Brunswick-Bevern. She is the ancestress of the now reigning family of Brunswick.

It is the history of the second sister, Princess Charlotte, with which we have to do. Her marriage with the Czarewitch Alexis took place in 1711, in the great hall in Torgau.

The savage, vulgar Prince had made his character still more degraded by a dissipated life. An unconquerable aversion to the amiable and refined Princess led him to the horrible decision of poisoning her. He made three attempts, all of which failed.

The inhuman treatment of this monster increased daily, and no courtier dared to defend the unhappy Princess against his brutality. He so far forgot his manhood as frequently to strike, and even kick her.

At length, one day, the Czar and Catherine being on a distant journey, Alexis rushed into Charlotte's presence, made the most brutal demands, struck her with his fists, kicked her repeatedly, and left her lying insensible.

Directly after this revolting scene the raging monster set off on a journey, without troubling himself to learn the result of his barbarous and fiendish cruelty. A premature birth was the result.

But now the friends of the Princess united for her rescue; the opportunity was too favourable to let slip.

A courier was despatched to the Czar, and also to Alexis, with the news of Charlotte's sudden death. In his terror of the Czar, Alexis ordered an immediate interment. The funeral followed as had been commanded, but the coffin contained only a wooden doll.

While all the courts of Europe put on mourning, and the father wept for his untimely loss, and caused a commemorative coin to be struck, Charlotte, with the aid of confidential friends, especially the famous Aurora von Königsmark, escaped, weak and ill, from her palace. With gold and jewels, and as much money as could be commanded in the hurry, the Princess left St. Petersburg with a single femme de Chambre and a faithful man-servant, reached Paris unrecognized, sailed for America, and lived many years in Louisiana.

Here she made the acquaintance of the Chevalier d'Aubert—or d'Auban—who had been in St. Petersburg. One day, when alone with Charlotte, he fell on his knees and confessed his recognition of her.

The Princess took from him the most solemn promise of the strictest secrecy.

Not long after the papers brought the news of the tragical end of Alexis, the probability of his having been beheaded.

Charlotte, however, resolved to remain as dead. The death of her devoted man-servant, who had been of such service, caused her many tears, and d'Aubert devoted himself to her, became her chief prop and stay, and at length the royal widow rewarded him with her hand.

D'Aubert finally fell ill, and they returned to his native France, where his recovery was her reward.

They were in the habit of walking in the gardens of the Tuileries. One day, sitting there conversing in German, chance led the celebrated Marshal Moritz von Saxony past them. Surprised to hear his mother tongue so purely spoken by Americans, as he imagined, he approached them, addressed the lady, started, and instantly recognized the Princess Charlotte of Blankenburg, whom he had long years reckoned among the dead.

Madame d'Aubert conjured him not to betray her secret, told him her story, and how it had been chiefly through his mother she had succeeded in escaping from Russia.

Delighted at the double discovery, Moritz promised to keep the secret three months, at the expiration of which time he declared it to be his duty to communicate the fact to the King of France, Louis XV.

D'Aubert being recovered, they sailed for l'ile Bourbon. At the end of three months Moritz revealed the secret to the French sovereign, and the governor of the island of Bourbon received forthwith the command to treat Madame d'Aubert with royal honours. The King wrote to Maria Theresa, acquainting her with the fabulous history of her cousin. The Empress wrote to Madame d'Aubert, beseeching her to leave her husband and repair to the Austrian Court. This the Princess refused to do, and remained on the island till d'Aubert's death, in 1754. After the death of both husband and daughter, she returned to Paris, settled the affairs of her husband, and retired to Brussels, where she received an annual pension from the Austrian Empress. Charlotte lived a retired life, no one but the now aged waiting-woman who had fled with her having the remotest idea of her high rank and astounding fate. Charlotte died in 1770.

The portraits of the three sisters and the great Maria Theresa hang in Blankenburg Schloss.

The Grave under the Lindens near Blankenburg.

"Sie ruhen bei einander kühl,
Waldvöglein sangen droben,
Grün Laub herunter fiel."

Many hundred years ago there lived a rich Earl in the Unterharz, who was once seized with a severe illness; he made a vow that if he should recover, he would consecrate his daughter to a convent life.

He recovered, and the young Countess, in the first bloom of her youth, entered the convent north of and near Blankenburg, where now two large lindens stand close by the bleaching-place.

The maiden obeyed her father's command with a heavy heart, for a young knight contested with heaven his claim on the bride; and however much the novice knelt before the altar in burning tears and hand-wringing, and besought heavenly aid in renouncing all she had hitherto held dear, still her thoughts would wander beyond the dark convent walls and lonely cell to her lover. Nobis pacem only awakened a more bitter pain, and the Ave, the Laudamus, the Gloria, and all the Penitential Psalms only called up his image before her soul.

Lindor was not less unhappy; in vain he sought to approach his Braut, wandered round and round the convent walls, climbed the trees, and watched to catch a glimpse of her, all in vain. The Abbess knew of the love of the young novice, and watched her with Argus eyes, not out of holy zeal, for the convent had long been ill-renowned for the impure life of its inmates, but out of hatred to the maiden whose father she had loved, but with an unrequited affection. She rejoiced in the deep sorrow of the daughter of the now hated Earl, whose pure, pious, unsoiled character enraged her still more, in striking contrast to her own depravity and corruption. One day the sorrowing novice, unhappily, by accident discovered how unworthily the Abbess filled her sacred office, and how great the immorality of the nuns had become, and the Abbess, to render Lina powerless to injure her, resolved to destroy her.

She called together those nuns who were in her full confidence, represented to them how they had to fear betrayal from the novice Lina, and to defend themselves they must destroy her.

This would be most easily accomplished by permitting a meeting with her lover after she had assumed the veil, surprise her, accuse her of breaking her vow, and then wall her up alive.

The reprobates approved of this diabolical plan, and as soon as Lina's novitiate was ended, and she had taken the final vows, they embraced the first opportunity, when Lindor was seen in the convent grounds, by giving Lina permission to walk in the garden.

It was a sultry Saturday evening, the sun had set, and had left, instead of a golden twilight, only a grey, cloudy veil, which, increased by the mountain mists, spread gradually over the entire heavens, proclaiming a coming thunder-storm.

Lina, although she had long languished for fresh air, found no relief. She glanced toward heaven, but both moon and stars were hidden behind the dark clouds; the flowers hung sadly their drooping heads, as if in sympathy with the maiden doomed to a convent life. She sat down much shaken on a seat of turf shaded by two lindens, and the tears streamed from her eyes. Suddenly she felt herself embraced. A cry of delighted surprise escaped her, for it was Lindor, her beloved. All sorrow and pain were forgotten in the bliss of the meeting, and Lindor kissed the tears from her burning cheeks.

A blissful moment the lovers embraced each other; then came a feeling of duty, of assumed vows before the soul of the bride of heaven like a fiend of darkness. She tore herself from his arms.

"Lindor! Lindor!" she moaned, "I am lost to thee; our embrace is sin! O God! God of Love! have mercy on the sinner! Lindor! Lindor! have thou also pity! Leave me."

"Leave thee! Nevermore!" cried passionately the youth; "now thou art mine for ever. Thou shalt flee with me, and no power on earth shall tear thee from me. Thou art mine, mine till death!"

"And my oath," cried Lina—"the oath I have taken?"

Lindor turned pale. "So thou hast already taken the vows, art no longer novice? Art irrevocably chained to the convent?" he cried in horror, for even love started back from the gulf that such an oath had made between them, opposing their union. "Then I am lost, my life-happiness is annihilated!"

"And mine too!" sobbed Lina in his arms.

"Or wilt thou flee with me? We will hide ourselves far from our native land, where no searcher can find us, and undisturbed we will be happy."

But Lina refused, "My oath, my oath, would it leave us peace? Would I not draw down thy soul to perdition? See, my anguish will soon be over, and I will wait for thee above. Give me up for this life, that God may grant us a blessed future, Lindor."

He gazed on the ground and was silent. At last he gave her the hand. "Let it be so," he said, struggling for firmness. "Thou art still mine; if not here, there above."

Meanwhile the storm-clouds had blackened, and a loud clap of thunder rolled over the heads of the parting lovers. Both looked up, but did not see the Abbess, who was watching them for their destruction.

"Now let us part for this life," said Lina, who felt her soul elevated and strengthened.

"Must it be so? Must I lose thee, when I have just found thee?"

As they gave each other a parting embrace, Lina could not tear herself from her lover's arms, and cried, "O Father in heaven! give me strength in this parting hour, and forgive me if my love is sin; but if it is not sin, bless our union."

"Bless our union!" repeated Lindor. At this moment the Abbess with her nuns came forward, when lo, a flash of lightning lit up the darkness; the lovers stood in a sea of dazzling light; it seemed to them they saw heaven open. Arm-in-arm, struck by the stroke, they sank lifeless to the ground. Almost unhurt in appearance, they found them under the lindens, heavenly joy painted on their faces, and there they made their grave.

The terrified Abbess had scarcely sprung back into the convent when a stream of fire, after a terrific thunder-clap, dashed the building to ruins, out of which arose a pillar of dust and flame.

Only a few of the nuns were rescued. The Abbess and her plotting nuns were found awfully disfigured; and now, it is said, the Abbess appears in form of a serpent every seven years near the grave under the lindens.

Legends of the Regenstein.

Who that has visited the romantic Harz has not climbed the lordly sandstone mountain, the Reinstein, wondered at its vast chambers hewn in solid rock, and gazed in silent rapture on a prospect more beautiful than that from the Brocken?

In the year 479, according to the chroniclers, the sharp contest between the tribes of Thuringia and the Sassen[[1]] took place for the possession of the Harz mountains. McIverich, King of Thuringia, with his army thirsting for war, crossed the mountains to repulse the Sassen then dwelling on the north borders of the Harz.

[[1]]Saxons.

Near Wernigerode a bloody battle was fought, in which the Thuringians were defeated, and five thousand left dead on the field.

Perhaps the Hun Stones still standing between Heimburg and Benzingerode have reference to this fiery collision, and the ancient burial-places discovered in the vicinity were the graves of those fallen in this contest.

After the battle the Sassen recognized the fact that to their leader, Hatebolt, they owed the victory; and to prove their gratitude they offered to build him a castle on the north borders of the Harz, in any spot he might choose. So Hatebolt rode till he came to a stone mountain, which was, as if by nature, formed for a stronghold. It rose rugged and steep from the sandy heath to a mighty rock, and formed a row of impassable cliffs, the western summits of which widened into a table-land sufficiently broad for the site of a castle.

And Hatebolt pointed to the row of rocks and cried in the language of the Sassen, "On this Regenstein[[2]] my Burg shall stand!"

[[2]] Regenstein, or Reinstein, row of rocks.

That is the fortress whose magnificent position still delights us, at whose ruins we gaze in amazement, in whose halls and chambers, almost entirely hewn in the rocks, we see the work of a far distant time, when comfort and luxury were unknown in this region.

From these grey ruins, from the grim vaults, the half-fallen tower, and the deep dungeon, breathes the spirit of the past, and whispers many a legendary note in the ear. Is it the mysterious Devil's Hole in an ancient vault, with the date 1090, near which house spectres, whose employment it is ever to fill this four feet deep and wide hole with stones; or the opening in one of the largest rock walls, which proclaims a conquest of the castle; or the ruinated chapel, with its tiny Gothic door and two windows, and the aumbry still in the wall at the right on entering, the over-grown moat to the east and south, the arched entrance, the many half-broken flights of stone steps? All this has an untold mystic charm.

The opening in the wall was made at a seizure of the castle, which tradition tells us was accomplished by stratagem.

The besiegers had lain long before the stronghold in vain, had stormed the walls and the stronger rocks without success, and finally, evidently convinced that the fortress was impregnable, had raised the siege. And now there were feasting and joy, and the Earl von Regenstein commanded the best wine to be brought. But for security, in case of another attack, he resolved to lay in fresh provisions, and accordingly sent a messenger to the surrounding villages with an order to the people forthwith to bring the needful supplies.

In a short time a troop of peasants, men and women, appeared, half-bent from the weight of baskets on their backs, and tubs of butter and cheese under the arm. The great gates were opened, the drawbridge lowered, and the troop entered. But once inside, they threw baskets and tubs to the winds, seized their arms, drove back the surprised guard, and at the same time a party in ambush rushed over the drawbridge. They cut down all that opposed them, but the Earl was nowhere to be found. When he saw himself outwitted, and that all opposition was useless, and every issue from the fortress in possession of the enemy, he caused himself to be sewed up in a bed, and let down on the north and perpendicular side of the rocks with ropes. The opening is still shown in one of the rocky chambers through which he is said to have escaped.

Another legend is connected with the dungeon, which is hewn deep down in the rocks. A captured maiden had been imprisoned here, and had sat long in the darkness of constant night, hearing no sound save that of the raging storms that beat against the rocks. Escape was impossible. One day she lay on her bed of straw, and sought comfort in fervent prayer. And there dawned a distant hope in her mind. She listened to the storm, and heard the hail beat against the rock walls of the dungeon, hence they must be thin. Might she perhaps break through the rocks? They are only very porous sandstone. It is a bold thought, no sooner awakened in her mind than put in execution. She used the ring of the dungeon to break away bits of the rock, and worked many moons till she had an opening large enough to creep through. But what was her despair to find she stood on a dizzy height, and the fearful depth yawned beneath her. Still she did not hesitate, but began climbing down the smooth rocks, which offered only here and there a crevice to her aid. But Tradition, who believeth all things and never faileth, says she reached the foot of the mountain and her father's castle in safety.

Another legend relates how a wealthy countryman had lent an Earl von Regenstein a large sum of money, but when he came to demand payment was repulsed with scorn and derision. Soon after the Earl did not return from a predatory excursion, and many singular reports were circulated concerning his death. The countryman hoped for payment from the Earl's heir, but he treated him more roughly than his predecessor had done. The creditor, on his way home, heard suddenly a loud noise like the crackling of flames. He looked around and saw a cleft in the mountain, from which issued smoke. He went and looked in. It was the mouth of a cave, in the deeps of which pitch and sulphur flames with loud hissing enveloped each other, and in the midst of this fire-gulf he saw a human form, over which the flames swept without consuming it, and which sought, wailing and moaning, to escape, but fell ever back into the boiling heat, with wringing of hands and tearing of hair.

He soon recognized the Earl, who after some minutes saw the creditor whom he had cheated at the entrance to the cave, and broke out in lamentations and entreaties.

"Oh! see how I must suffer for my injustice. Have pity on my anguish, forgive my crime. Take my signet ring, go to my successor, tell him what you have seen, warn him not to act as I have done, and to pay my debt, that I may escape from this bed of flames."

The countryman hastened to fulfil the commission, showing the signet ring. He was at once paid with heavy interest, and the castle chaplain received orders to read a mass for the suffering soul.

On his way home the countryman looked again into the cave, but nothing more was to be seen either of the flames or the guilty Earl.

The Spectre Maiden of the Regenstein still haunts the ruins.

How solemnly the old ruinated fortress looks down upon the plain bathed in the rich lights of sunset. And around the walls and the tower sighs a spirit, and sighs the storm.

Let thy stay there be short and cautious, for the ruins are haunted by night. A maiden form rises from the dark vault, and wanders to the tower, and to the great gates, and an innocent countenance smiles upon thee. Guard thyself well, O wanderer; gaze not so deep in the mournful eyes; it is the Spectre-Maiden. She bows to thee in graceful greeting, she offers thee the full lips to kiss, she beckons, she spreads out the arms. Oh, follow her not! Her breath is poison! If thou grant her the kiss, thou wilt fall an irrecoverable prey to death. Her greeting, her beckon, are not for thee; she waits here for her lover.

As Crusader, he marched to the Holy Sepulchre. She is gazing after him from the tower, waiting for his return by the broken drawbridge, and wanders ever in search of him.

If she meet thee, she will fancy thou art her fallen hero-lover. If thou dost follow when she beckons, she will draw thee into an open grave with ice-cold arms.

Oh! guard thyself well when in her sight,
For she haunts the Regenstein by night!

The Lost Sketch-Book of the Regenstein Chapel.

The Baronin von Felsen had led her young English friend, May Rosenmore, through the ruins of Schloss Regenstein, the authentic history of which begins with Kaiser Henry the Fowler, till at last they wandered to the tiny roofless chapel.

As May entered it through the Gothic door, scarcely high enough to pass under without stooping, the first object on which her eyes fell was a crimson morocco sketch-book, closing like a pocket-book, nearly filled with sketches.

The last two sketches were—first, an arbour, in which a lady and gentleman are seated; the lady is arranging roses from a basket before her, while her companion reads to her. The last sketch is the empty arbour; the book lies open upside-down on the table, the roses are fallen on the ground. In the pocket was a photo of a lady and gentleman together, the latter in officer's uniform.

"What a contrast to these grim ruins, with all their legendary memories, is this elegant scrap of modern art!" exclaimed May. "I am sure there is some sad history associated with this little book. Perhaps I may find the owner."

"Warum nicht?" replied the Baronin. "The woman in the Bible found her piece of silver, the shepherd his lost sheep, Saul found his father's ass, Jochebed found her baby, Joseph found his brethren, poor old Jacob found his long-lost Joseph, and the loser of this sketch-book may be as fortunate."

A few days after this event the Baronin gave a Kaffee to a large Gesellschaft, in the park of Schloss Stolzstein. The company sat grouped here and there under the clumps of old beeches and oaks, the deer cast their shadows in the clear lake, graced with swans, and somewhere in the background the music of a military Capelle floated softly on the air.

May Rosenmore amused herself with a study of the varied characters present, and with German manners, which were new to her.

A maiden lady, the Baronin von Schattenthal, who was staying at the Castle with her young orphan niece, interested her with her quaint humour and sound common sense.

Little Amalia came out with her attendant to her aunt. She was a lovely child, with long auburn curls, and a dash of the French character, for her mother was a Pole.

Finding that her aunt paid no attention to her toilette nor her curls, Amalia finally whispered, "See, Tante, Gretchen has curled my hair."

"I see, my dear," said the Baronin; "but it will do you no harm if your hair does curl, if you are a good little girl."

Amalia's crestfallen, puzzled look as she walked away were amusing enough.

Soon after she came back with a very knotty question.

"Tante, could all our family ride on an elephant at once? Gretchen says they could."

"Yes, child, several small families could ride on an elephant at once."

But May was not left long at leisure to amuse herself with the pretty child.

Her hostess brought and introduced to her Baron von Stammnitz, fresh from the Heidelberg University. She soon found, however, that he was possessed of much finer cultivated hair and moustache than mind. He had dipped a little into the natural sciences, and learned a smattering of some of the absurdities of German Pantheism, and held himself competent to solve the mysteries of creation, and moral relations, of the universe and of mind, much better than the old-fashioned Moses and the Prophets, or St. Paul.

It is this false moral training of the students of Germany that will prove one of her greatest dangers in the future.

Baron von Stammnitz had studied English, and began at once to edify May by airing it. She expressed her admiration of the Harz, its history and legends.

He replied, "Yes, the Harz is highly interesting, but chiefly so through its old leg-ends."

But let us not be too hard on the Baron in this respect, for the English often make as ludicrous errors in German. The writer heard a young lady in Cologne order Himmelfleisch, meaning Hammelfleisch. She intended to ask for mutton, but in reality ordered heaven's meat. And the waiter, with his solemn, impenetrable face, replied, "I regret we have not that dish."

A gentleman in Leipzig ordered Kinderbraten and Pantoffel—child roast and slippers! He wanted Rinderbraten and Kartoffel—roast beef and potatoes!

People who drop their H's in English do the same in German. An English girl driving away from Ballenstedt, cried out, "Farewell, Arz!"

At the hotel by the Radau waterfall an old man ordered the Kellner to bring beer, and called after him, "Aber ell!" Hell he meant—clear or white in contrast to brown beer.

He had been parading about and ordering the Kellner as if he owned the whole place, which made his missing h all the more amusing.

But to return to the Baron. May spoke of the towered village church nestling so confidingly in the rich foliage, and regretted she had not yet seen the interior, but hoped to the following Sunday.

"Pray, Miss Rosenmore, you do not keep up that absurd idea of going to church? I have not been in a church for five years. While they insist on preaching the old fables that nobody believes any more, I shall not go. I can attend to my religion much better in my own room, or in the woods, where the trees form nobler Gothic arches than any cathedral, from Köln and Halberstadt down. Even meine Mutter told me not to trouble myself about the Bible, for there was no truth in it."

"Woe to any mother who could give such advice!" cried May, in great excitement. She spoke of some of the strongest proofs of the Divine origin of the Bible, and asked the Baron if he could explain why it was that Christian nations were the most elevated, those without the light of revelation being the degraded ones.

"Oh!" said he, "such a view has something beautiful in it; but it is only a delusion, a transition period in the history and development of mind, I might say, the Raupenkleid—chrysalis—of education, out of which the splendid and brilliant butterfly of free thought breaks forth, and Science unfolds her golden wings, and in her commanding presence, the old orthodox Bible-faith can never again lift its head.

"There is an endless primeval matter, I may say the Urkraft—first cause—of all things, which is scattered in countless atoms in eternal space.

"From this primeval matter, during the course of millions on millions of ages, slowly and gradually unfolded beings, from the most insignificant to the highest. From a scrap of mud, through the effect of light and heat, perhaps by contact with some other body, a frog was produced. Nearest related to the frog stands the Labyrinthodonten, whose hand-like foot-tracks have been found in the sandstone, and which is decidedly the transition between these animals and the higher species of the ape; and from the ape, during impossible-to-comprehend ages, man has sprung, at first rough and animal, as we see to-day in savage races, from step to step unfolding and rising, till we have the Mensch of our present civilization and refinement."

All this was said with a foppish, self-satisfied air, as if he were a personification of wisdom. May looked at him in amazement, wondering at his shallowness.

At length she said, "Concerning origin and ancestors I will not now dispute. If you deny the Bible, we have no common ground of argument; and if your argument be true, we have after this life—nothing. Let proud Science beware lest she scorch her 'golden wings' in the avenging fire of Divine wrath.

"If you are content with the doctrine of man's descent from an ape, originally, according to your own argument, from a frog! I deny its truth, and claim mine from an eternal, omnipotent and holy Creator, and personal Father, not simply an eviges Sein—eternal state of being—but something infinitely and incomprehensibly more exalted."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of the Baronin, accompanied by a tall noble-looking lady attired in black.

May started, for it was the lady in the photo of the lost sketch-book. Her friend introduced the stranger as the Countess von Omnesky, a lady of Russian birth, but who had been partly educated in England, her father having long filled an official position there under the Russian Government.

The Countess was still young, only five-and-twenty, of a pale, melancholy, but highly intelligent countenance, and her sapphire blue eyes had a mournful, far-away look in them, that touched one deeply.

Their conversation turned on the beauties of Harz scenery, and its romantic ruins, and the Countess remarked she had only the other day visited the Regenstein, and during the day had lost an object, to her of great value—a sketch-book, filled by her late husband, with the exception of the last sketch, which she had herself sketched after his death.

May drew forth the sketch-book, which she had purposely carried in her pocket, and handed it to her, remarking she had recognized her from the photo at the first glance, and explained how it had come into her possession.

The Countess turned to the sketch in the arbour, remarking, "We were sitting thus, when Karl was summoned to join his regiment at the breaking out of the last war between France and Germany. We had only been married three weeks when France declared war, and my joy was broken for ever. If you will not be wearied, I will tell you the history."

May assured her of her deep interest and sympathy, and they seated themselves under a magnificent oak near the lake.

"My sister Olga and I were married on the same day to two brothers, German officers, just three weeks before the commencement of the war. We were in Switzerland at the time of the mobilization of the German army, and hastening to obey the call, we repaired to Berlin, where we took leave of one another, never again all to meet in this world.

"Olga and I remained a short time in Berlin, but after the reports of the battle bei Worth we grew too excited to stay so far from the scene of action; and accordingly went to Baden, taking only our maid with us, and not wishing to go to an hotel, we took apartments in a private pension kept by a family from Edinburgh, two old maids and their brother, Mac Stab by name; and though I have travelled over nearly all Europe their equal I have never met, and have reason to believe Scotland or Germany could produce few such creatures.

"You may imagine the difficulties of travelling in time of war, with soldiers being transported to active service, and the sick and wounded to hospitals; and we lost our luggage, consisting only of two trunks.

"We explained to the elder Miss Mac Stab, who wore a couple of pig-tail curls each side of her face, that our trunks were lost, but we hoped would be found in a day or two.

"The second day passed, but our missing trunks did not appear—in fact never did—and the third morning, as poor Olga was descending the stairs for breakfast, Miss Mac Stab attacked her crying out, 'See the painted Jezebel! with her curls and diamond rings! The impostor seeks to deceive honest folk with her pretended wedding ring and tales of lost luggage!'

"Olga in perfect terror, pale as marble, came rushing to meet me. She could not speak, and did not need to, for I had heard what had passed. I took Olga by the arm and walked firmly to the breakfast-room. Miss Mac Stab was arranging our breakfast-table as we entered. I inquired if any letters were come.

"Miss Mac Stab glowered at us with an awful face, and replied savagely, in coarse tones, 'Yes, here is a letter; but you wrote and sent it to the post yourselves; nobody would write to the likes of you. Such grand pretensions, with your crests! You'll not get no more letters here; I'll intercept them, and expose your falsehoods.'

"We hastened to our rooms, and sent Paulina to call a carriage. I knew there was an English clergyman in the place, the Rev. William Samper, and we thought it better to acquaint him with our embarrassment, as we were alone, and ask his advice.

"Olga went, taking Paulina with her, and I remained alone. There were two or three strangers staying in the house who had also gone out, hence there was no one but the family at home.

"The day before, on going out for a drive, we had locked our door, and the Mac Stabs denied our right to lock any door, or even to keep any door-key. No sooner was Olga gone than Miss Mac Stab, accompanied by her brother and sister, came upstairs and entered my room without knocking. Mr. Mac Stab demanded the keys. I told him I should not deliver up the keys till I had done with the apartments, and expressed my surprise at the insolence in thus entering my room unbidden, and the cowardice of such conduct when no one was there to see or hear. Miss Mac Stab, with one sweep of her hand, brushed all my writing materials on the floor, and her no less amiable brother seated himself, saying he should wait till he had the keys. 'You will wait, then,' I said, 'until my sister and maid return.'

"'My maid'! cried Miss Mac Stab. Just then a loud ring hurried them all away.

"I locked my door till Olga returned. She had seen Mr. Samper, and shown our letters, and he would be with us in a few moments. He came and insisted on our going with him, perfect strangers though we were, at once to his house; assuring us Mrs. Samper was expecting us, breakfast was being made ready, and our rooms awaited us.

"The very atmosphere of their house was peace, and Mrs. Samper was like a mother to us, and the noble Christian pair have the warmest place in my memory and heart. The following day Mr. Samper received a letter from the Mac Stabs, claiming damages for a broken Sèvres vase and an injured piano, amounting to four pounds—all, of course, absolutely false. Mr. Samper wrote declining any further correspondence, and informed them the post and the law were open.

"Karl and Franz, on hearing our story, sent them a solicitor's letter, demanding an explanation of their infamous conduct to two defenceless ladies. The reply to this letter was absolute silence, and the sudden disappearance of the Mac Stabs from the town. We found they had treated many badly, and had sought in various instances, by driving people to leave before the expiration of the time already paid for, or by involving them in law proceedings, to gain money.

"We stayed a few days with the good minister, but in a state of feverish excitement, watching the descriptions of succeeding battles, and reading the lists of wounded, dead, and missing with a horrible fascination.

"At last we could bear the uncertainty no longer, and assuming the dresses of nuns, we joined several actual nuns and a couple of surgeons, who were going to France to follow the second army, in which Franz and Karl served, to nurse the wounded, seeking them out on the battle-field, which was very necessary, for there were not nurses and surgeons sufficient for the need, and many died for the lack of nursing in time.

"At length came the terrible battle of Mars la Tour—St. Hilaire, or Vionville—in the burning heat of August—the 16th it was—and Major Franz Omnesky was among the missing. Olga set off alone in her wild grief, to search on the battle-field, knowing we would not let her go; and when we first missed her, we had no idea how long she had been gone.

"Oh! how shall I attempt to depict that dreadful night-scene among the dead and dying on the field of Mars la Tour? The pale, ghastly faces looking up to God's pure, blue heavens so fearfully calm above all this human woe and anguish.

"Among the heaps of the slain, stumbling over horse and rider, we searched till night grew pale before the dawn, and then we found what we sought—and dreaded to find—Franz dead, and Olga lying with her head on his breast, in a deathly swoon, her garments wet with dew, and her long beautiful hair falling over her dead husband's face.

"Olga never rallied; the grief, exposure, and fatigue were too much for her delicate frame and passionate love for Franz. We laid them both in one grave, on a knoll, under a clump of limes—the two brave hearts so true and noble.

"Then came the 18th of August, that most murderous of all the engagements of the war, the battle of Gravelotte, in which the Kaiser commanded in person, with a brilliant staff, Prinz Friedrich Karl, Steinmetz, Moltke, Roon, Bismarck being on it.

"Colonel Karl Omnesky was among the wounded, and I hastened on to nurse him, as I hoped, to renewed life and vigour, but the moment I saw him all hope died for ever. Death was written on his noble brow, but his great, deep violet eyes looked bravely and tenderly as ever into mine. Oh those precious days! Golden is their memory, though so unspeakably sad.

"He was ready to go, awaiting eagerly the change to the better land, but full of a tender sympathy and sorrow for me and his unborn child.

"He never was weary of hearing that wonderful prayer of our Saviour, the seventeenth of St. John, and the fifteenth of the First Epistle to the Corinthians.

"Often, accompanied by the harp he so loved, I sang his favourite lines, my heart frantic with grief, but outwardly calm, for God lent me strength.

"'Bleibe bei mir vom Morgen bis Abend,
Denn ohne Dich kann ich nicht leben.
Bleibe bei mir denn die Nacht ist dunkel,
Und ohne Dich darf ich nicht sterben.'

"'Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live.
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I cannot die.'

"The noble-hearted Kaiser honoured my dying husband, before the second army moved on, with a visit, and the tear his Majesty brushed away did honour to the Sovereign so deservedly beloved.

"In peace my poor Karl died, and I closed the loving eyes—and my heart died.

"I buried him beside Olga and Franz, and am building a chapel over them.

"Five months after Karl's death my golden-haired Tatjana was born. For her sake I strive to reconcile myself to life.

"But, alas! my wealth and joy are—a grave!

"Sitting the other day in the enchanting valley of the graceful Ilse, leaping proudly and gaily in a thousand tiny waterfalls over the moss-grown stones, as if conscious of her royal origin, I wrote the following lines, which express faintly my feelings, and which I beg you to keep as a souvenir of our first meeting.

ALONE.

"The sun has set, the evening brightness fades,
The gloom increases in the forest glades;
And a deep sadness all my soul pervades:
I am alone.

"A wild bird here and there still sings to cheer
His mate that nestles in the thicket near;
But ah! no voice of love falls on my ear:
I am alone.

"The gentle air plays with the rustling leaves,
Sweet with the fragrant odours it receives;
My bosom with no whispered incense heaves:
I am alone.

"A distant horn the evening silence breaks,
The mountain in soft echoes answer makes;
No heart responsive to my voice awakes:
I am alone.

"O'er rocky heights the Ilse, wild and free,
Hastes like an eager lover to the sea;
But whither shall I turn for love? Ah me!
I am alone.

"Still dreaming dreams I can to none impart,
I live with Nature and my own sad heart;
Whatever comes of joy or suffering's smart,
I bear alone."

The following is the German translation:—

Des Abends ros'ger Glanz erbleicht, das Land
Wird dunkel, dunkel wird's am Waldesrand;
In mir auch nachtel's, einsam ist die Hand:
Ich bin allein.

Ein Vogel hier und dort dem Weibchen singt,
Das nestlos nähe lauscht, wie's zu ihm klingt;
Zu meinem Ohr kein Ruf der Liebe dringt:
Ich bin allein.

Die Blätter lispeln, sie umkost die Luft
Mit sanftem Spiel, einathmend ihren Duft;
Wer flüstert Balsam mir in's Herz hinein?
Ich bin allein.

Ein fernes Horn ertönt mit sanftem Schall,
Der Berg antwörtet ihm im Wiederhall;
Auf meinen Laut erwacht kein Herz im All:
Ich bin allein.

Es stürzt die Ilse sich vom Felsbett her
In hast'gem Liebeslauf hinab zum Meer;
Doch ich? wohin? die Welt ist liebeleer:
Ich bin allein.