"What did ye, to deserve such doom in life?

What

may your crime be, that deserves such dole and sorrow after death?"

Even as he asked these questions, the earth shook under him, and a crowd of skeletons uprose from a range of graves which yawned suddenly at his feet. The fleshless sockets of each skull glared at the ancient men who sat at the table — the bony fingers were pointed at them-the bare arms were shook in their horrified faces. It was dreadful to see.

"they

"These were our victims," answered the old monk; suffered at our hands: the Lord has avenged them. We suffer now while they are at peace, and shall suffer."

"For how long?" interposed his interrogator. "For ever and ever!" was the reply.

"For ever and ever-ever and ever-ever and ever-ever— ever!" died along the vault, in moaning cadences.

66

May God have mercy on us!" was all the monk could exclaim, when the skeletons disappeared, the graves closing at once over them; the aged men vanished from his view-the corses fell back in their coffins with a hollow sound-the light fled, and the den of death was once more enveloped in its appropriate darkness.

On his revival, he found himself lying at the foot of the altar; and when he arose and made search for evidence to corroborate his vision, he could perceive no trace of the trap-door having been removed, or the sanctuary of the departed brotherhood having been violated.

The gray dawn of a spring morning surprised him in the performance of this operation, and he was fain to retire to his cell as secretly as he could, for fear he should be discovered.

"From thenceforth he eschewed vain philosophy," so says the legend; "and, devoting his time to the pursuit of true knowledge, and the extension of the power, and greatness, and glory of the church, he died in the odour of sanctity, and was buried in that holy vault, where his body is still visible." Requiescat in pace!

RAMERSDORF.

THE DOOMED DANCERS.

Where the abbey of Ramersdorf now stands, stood also, in the beginning of the eleventh century, a considerable village. In those days there were saints on earth, or, at all events, there were those who were considered such by the popular belief; and the Abbot of Ramersdorf was one of them—perhaps the most celebrated of all the others in his vicinity for they were always in plenty in those places where the faithful resided. The following tradition, in connexion with one branch of belief in his sanctity-the power of working miracles for evil purposes to his fellow-creatures is still current among the simple and romantic inhabitants of the neighbourhood of the Seven Mountains.

The sabbath-day drew to a close in the summer tide of the year of grace one thousand and one, and the rustics of Ramersdorf amused them with a dance, as was their wont to do, in the courtyard of the monastery. It was a privilege which they had enjoyed time immemorial, and it had never been gainsayed by the the abbots who were dead and gone: but Anselm von Lowenberg, the then superior of the convent, an austere, ascetic man, who looked with disdain and dislike on all popular recreations, had long set his face against it; and had, moreover, tried every means, short of actual prohibition, to put an end to the profane amusement. The rustics, however, were not to be debarred by his displeasure from pursuing, perhaps, their only pleasure; and though the pious abbot discountenanced their proceedings, their acquiescence was not one bit the more, or their enjoyment one atom the less. Thus stood things at the time in question, when the following occurrence took place.

The day had been very beautiful, and the evening was, if possible, more so. Gaily garbed maidens of the villagery, and stalwart rustics, filled the courtyard of the convent; the rural Orpheus, a blind fiddler, who had fiddled three generations off the stage, sat in front of a group of elders of either sex, who, though too old and too stiff to partake in the active and exciting

VOL. I.

P

amusement, were still young enough to enjoy it heartily. A few shaven crowns-those of the liberal-minded monks-peered from the latticed casements which looked out on to the merry scene. The music struck up the dance begun. Who approaches? Why are so many anxious glances cast in yonder direction? It is the Abbot.

"Cease your foolery!" he spake to them, in a solemn tone; "profane not the place, nor the day, with your idle mirth. Go hence, and pray in your own homes, for the grace of the Lord to govern ye, for ye are wicked, and wilful, and hard of heart, as the stones."

He waved his hand, as if to disperse them; but his words and his action were equally unheeded by the dancers and the spectators.

"Forth, vile sinners !" he pursued ; will curse ye with the curse!"

"forth these walls, or I

Still they regarded him not, to obey his behest; although they so far noticed his words as to return menacing look for look, and muttered threats for threat with him. The music played on with the most impassive liveliness; the dancers danced as though they did it for a wager, or characteristically of their class

thought to win renown,

By holding out to tire each other down."

The spectators expressed their approbation of each tour de force, and each display of agility made by the saltatory antagonists.

"Well, then," spake the Abbot, bursting with rage; "an ye cease not, be my curse on your head; there may ye dance for a year and a day. God wills it!"

He banned them bitterly: with uplifted hands and eyes he imprecated the vengeance of heaven on their disobedience; he prayed to the Lord to punish them, for their slight of his directions; and he then sought his cell, to vent his ire in solitude.

"From that hour," continues the monkish legend, which furnishes forth this tale of wonder," they continued to dance until a year and a day had fully expired. Night fell, and they ceased not; day dawned, and they danced still; in the heat of

noon, in the cool of the evening: day after day there was no rest for them, their saltation was without end. The seasons rolled over them; summer gave place to autumn; winter succeeded to summer; and spring decked the fields with early flowers, as winter slowly disappeared; yet still they danced on, through coursing time and changing seasons, with unabated strength and unimpaired vigour. Rain nor hail, snow nor storm, sunshine nor shade, seemed to affect them. Round, and round, and round they danced, in heat and cold, in damp and dry, in light and darkness. What were the seasons-what the times, or the hour, or the weather, to them? In vain did their neighbours and friends try to arrest them in their wild evolutions; in vain were attempts made to stop them in their whirling career; in vain did even the Abbot himself interpose, to relieve them from the curse he had laid on them, and to put a period to the punishment which he had been the cause of inflicting. The strongest man in the vicinity held out his hand and caught one of them, with the intention of arresting his rotation, and tearing him from the charmed circle; but his own arm was torn from his body in the attempt, and clung to the dancer with the gripe of life, till his day was done. The man paid his life as the forfeit of his temerity. No effort was left untried to relieve them; but every one failed. The sufferers themselves appeared, however, quite unconscious of what passing-they seemed to be in a state of perfect somnambulism, and to be altogether unaware of the presence of any persons, as well as insensible to pain or fatigue. When the expiration of their punishment arrived, they were all found huddled together in the deep cavity which their unceasing saltation had worn in the earth beneath them. It was a considerable time before sense and consciousness returned to them, and indeed they never after could be said to have them complete; for though they lived long, they were little better than idiots during the remainder of their existence.

"So," concludes the legend, "the Lord punished disobedience: so," perhaps, will some among ourselves charitably add, "should be punished all sabbath-breakers." God forbid !

THE HOCH KREUTZ.

A HUSBAND'S VENGEANCE.

The Hoch Kreutz (High Cross), on the main road between Bonn and Godesberg, is a remarkable monument of the middle ages. It was erected, according to the best authorities, by Walram von Jülich, the second Archbishop of Cologne of that name (A.D. 1349-50), to commemorate the completion of the noble choir of the cathedral of that city.

The spirit of fiction has, however, consecrated it to itself. Though the cause and time of its erection are placed beyond doubt, still a legendary origin has been given to both, by the active imaginations of the dwellers in its vicinity. This is the tale; it is only a fragment.

"Nay, my Lord, an I hope for salvation, what I tell ye is the truth," spake an aged woman, to a dark-browed, swart knight, as they sat together in a small turret chamber of the castle of Drachenfels.

This knight was the head of his race-the lord of the castle. The aged woman was his nurse. He had but just returned from that disastrous crusade (the second), in which the flower of the German chivalry had so fearfully perished under the banners of the Emperor Conrad; and he bore on his aspect, and in his bowed form, the impress of the suffering which all engaged in that expedition had endured, from the emperor himself down to the meanest man at arms in the host. Pallid of look, bearded to the waist, and bent nearly double with toil, he wore the appearance of extreme age; yet was he still but little past the prime of life-the maturity of manhood.

"It cannot be-it may not be," he argued involuntarily with himself, as he hurriedly paced the narrow apartment; nay, nay, Bertha, you must be deceived! False to me! nay, confess that you were deceived! Faithless to her husband, even while he fought for the faith of Christ—while he carried the banner of the cross? Nay, nay, I may not credit even thee, my good Bertha! Confess, then, that thou art deceived!"

"The world is worth naught to me, now," replied the aged