called the Schuldheiss, in which the history of every castle, town, or object of importance is carefully preserved. The young peasant reads it with enthusiastic delight, the old man reflects upon it with silent pride, and to any traveller, searching for antiquarian lore, its venerable pages are most liberally opened, and the simple information they contain generously and gratuitously bestowed.

On inquiring for the history of this beautiful tree, I was introduced to a sort of doomsday book about as large as a church Bible, and when I compared this volume with a little secluded spot so totally unknown to the world as the valley or glen of Frauenstein, I was surprised to find that the autobiography of the latter could be so bulky,-in short, that it had so much to say of itself. But it is the common error of man, and particularly of an old man, to fancy that all his thoughts as well as actions are of vast importance to the world; why therefore should not the humble Frauenstein be pardoned for an offence which we are all in the habit of committing?

In this ancient volume, the rigmarole history of the tree was told with so much eccentric German genius, it displayed such a graphic description of highborn sentiments and homely life, and altogether it formed so curious a specimen of the contents of these strange sentimental village histories, that I procured the following literal translation, in which the German idiom is faithfully preserved at the expense of our English phraseology.

LEGEND OF THE GREAT PLANE TREE OF FRAUENSTEIN.

THE Old Count Kuno seized with a trembling hand the pilgrim's staff-he wished to seek peace for his soul, for long repentance consumed his life. Years ago he had banished from his presence his blooming son, because he loved a maiden of ignoble race. The son marrying her, secretly withdrew. For some time the Count remained in his castle in good spirits-looked cheerfully down the valleyheard the stream rush under his windows-thought little of perishable life. His tender wife watched over him, and her lovely daughter renovated his sinking life; but he who lives in too great security is marked in the end by the hand of God, and while it takes from him what is most beloved, warns him that here is not our place of abode.

The "Haus-frau" (wife) died, and the Count buried the companion of his days; his daughter was solicited by the most noble of the land, and because he wished to ingraft this last shoot on a noble stem, he allowed her to depart, and then solitary and alone he remained in his fortress. So stands deserted upon the summit of the mountain, with withered top, an oak! moss is its last ornament, the storm sports with its last few dry leaves.

A gay circle no longer fills the vaulted chambers of the castle-no longer through them does the cheerful goblet's "clang" resound. The Count's nightly footseps echo back to him, and by the glimmer of the chandeliers the accoutred images of his ancestors appear to wreath and move on the wall as if they wished to speak to him. His armour, covered by the web of the vigilant spider, he

could not look at without sorrowful emotion. Its gentle creaking against the wall made him shudder. "Where art thou," he mournfully exclaimed, "thou who art banished? oh my son, wilt thou think of thy father, as he of thee thinks-or.... are thou dead? and is that thy flitting spirit which rustles in my armour and so feebly moves it? Did I but know where to find thee, willingly to the world's end would I in repentant wandering journey --so heavily it oppresses me, what I have done to thee-I can no longer remain-forth will go to the God of Mercy, in order, before the image of Christ, in the Garden of Olives, to expiate my sins."

So spoke the aged man-enveloped his trembling limbs in the garb of repentance-took the cockle hat and seized with the right hand (that formerly was accustomed to the heavy war sword) the light long pilgrim's staff. Quietly he stole out of the castle, the steep path descending, while the porter looked after him astounded, without demanding "Whither?"

For many days the old man's feet bore him wide away; at last he reached a small village, in the middle of which, opposite to a ruined castle, there stands a very ancient plane tree. Five arms, each resembling a stem, bend towards the earth, and almost touch it. The old men of former times were sitting underneath it, in the still evening, just as the Count went by; he was greeted by them, and invited to repose. As he seated himself by their side, "You have a beautiful plane tree, neighbours," he said.

"Yes," replied the oldest of the men, pleased with the praise bestowed by the pilgrim on the tree, "it was nevertheless PLANTED IN BLOOD!"

"How is that?" said the Count.

"That will I also relate," said the old man. "Many years ago there came a young man here, in knightly garb, who had a young woman with him, beautiful and delicate, but, apparently from their long journey, worn out. Pale were her cheeks, and her head, covered with beautiful golden locks, hung upon her conductor's shoulder. Timidly he looked round-for from some reason he appeared to fear all men, yet, in compassion for his feeble companion, he wished to conduct her to some secure hut, where her tender feet might repose. There, under that ivy-grown tower, stands a lonely house belonging to the old lord of the castle; thither staggered the unhappy man with his dear burden, but scarcely had he entered the dwelling, than he was seized by the Prince, with whose niece he was clandestinely eloping. Then was the noble youth brought bound, and where this plane tree now spreads its roots flowed his young blood! The maiden went into a convent; but before she disappeared, she had this plane tree planted on the spot where the blood of her lover flowed: since then it is as if a spirit life were in the tree that cannot die, and no one likes a little twig to cut off or pluck a cluster of blossom, because he fears it would bleed."

"God's will be done!" exclaimed suddenly the old Count, and departed.

"That is an odd man," said the most venerable of the peasants, eyeing the stranger who was hastening away; "he must have something that heavily oppresses his soul, for he speaks not, and hastens away; but, neighbours, the evening draws on apace, and the evenings in spring are not warm;

I think in the white clouds yonder, towards the Rhine, are still concealed some snow-storms—let us come to the warm hearth."

The neighbours went their way, while the aged Count, in deep thought, passed up through the village, at the end of which he found himself before the churchyard. Terrific black crosses looked upon the traveller-the graves were netted over with brambles and wild roses-no foot tore as under the entwinement. On the right hand of the road there stands a crucifix, hewn with rude art. From a recess in its pedestal a flame rises towards the bloody feet of the image, from a lamp nourished by the hand of devotion.

"Man of sorrow," thus ascended the prayer of the traveller, "give me my son again-by thy wounds and sufferings give me peace-peace!"

He spoke, and turning round towards the mountain, he followed a narrow path which conducted him to a brook, close under the flinty, pebbly grape hill. The soft murmurs of its waves rippling here and there over clear, bright stones, harmonized with his deep devotion. Here the Count found a boy and a girl, who, having picked flowers, were watching them carried away as they threw them into the current.

When these children saw the pilgrim's reverend attire, they arose-looked up-seized the old man's hand, and kissed it. "God bless thee, children!" said the pilgrim, whom the touch of their little hands pleased. Seating himself on the ground, he said, "Children, give me to drink out of your pitcher."

"You will find it taste good out of it, strangerman," said the little girl; "it is our father's pitcher