Elizabeth of Hungary,-loveliest of saints, perhaps all the more attractive for her naive insincerities, in which, according to the story, Heaven was her ally. There are these associations, and others as interesting, none finer, however, than this: That the court here of the Landgrave Hermann, in the Hohenstauffen days, more than any spot of that world perhaps, was a centre of light; the castle hall ringing ever with the sound of minstrelsy, the portcullis ever rising to admit the wandering singer, the hospitable roof sheltering many a busy brain, elaborating lyric and romance. In my pilgrimage I climbed the path to the castle, magnificent to-day as ever, for its princely owner has restored it entirely in the ancient taste. I stood in the hall in which the knights banqueted, where so much of the medieval poetry had its first rehearsal, after the flagons were filled, the landgrave and his knights sitting attentive. On the wall was painted the strife of the Minnesingers, of which, says the legend, the hall was the scene, -the song-battle, in which the conquered were to suffer death, — the figures of the Hungarian minstrel Klingsor, of Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and Wolfram von Eschenbach looking from the fresco into the broad spaces that had really known their figures in life. Where was it among the nooks of the castle that Wolfram dreamed and dictated? No one can tell the precise spot, but I could be sure, as from the castle height my eye went forth over Thuringia, the wooded hills heaving high, now and then from the valley a flash of light from a blue

stream, upon isolated peaks here and there a crumbling tower, that it was this landscape which refreshed him, and which he wrought into his poem.

I climbed down from the castle by a mountain road into the pleasant Anna-thal, crossing the Coburg highway; then through the ravine of the dragon, into the woodlands beyond. Turning among the thickets, I got my farewell glimpse of the Wartburg, at a distance of several miles. The foliage was dense, but through a circular break appeared, high in the air, the summit of the rock, and the Wartburg, rising from it, relieved against the heavens. The green in which the view was framed cut off from the vision all connection with the earth; the distance was great enough to soften all outlines, veiling with summer haze the lofty walls, till they seemed mysterious and almost spiritual. Buttress, bastion, and high-soaring tower,— held for the moment in the blue bosom of the heavens, indistinct through a league of intervening vapory atmosphere, seen when the heart was touched by the multitude of memories! So upon Montsalvage, before the eye of some aspiring knight, might have towered the shrine of the Holy Grail, and the home of that troop of chivalry who were set apart, through pure-minded manhood, to be its guardians!

CHAPTER VI.

DEVELOPMENT OF PROSE.

There is no spot in Germany where a pilgrim feels so strongly the might and majesty of the mediæval emperors as in the cathedral of Speyer. Its corner-stone was laid in 1030, by the Emperor Konrad I., and it became in succeeding years the scene of a large part of what was most brilliant and important in the world. Here kings plighted faith to their queens; here Peter the Hermit preached the Crusade; here came popes from Rome to give dignity to coronations. In its crypts were buried eight emperors. Their graves, to be sure, have been desecrated, and the roof above them burned, by the vandal armies of Louis XIV.; but in our century an art-loving king has restored the ruin to more than its old splendor.

One day I passed into the city of Speyer through a picturesque gateway, high above which rose an ancient watch-tower, then along a modern street, at the end of which was the cathedral front. Through the rounded arch that formed the portal I stepped into the vestibule, and found myself in an august presence-chamber. Before me rose, in imposing presentment, the forms of the emperors who were here laid to rest. They stood in the armor of their

time, or girt about by robes of state,- majestic figures, with faces of power. From here opened the long perspective of the nave, beautiful indeed! The columns followed one another in a gigantic line, arching over at the top into mighty circles. Upon the walls were thrown frescoes made splendid with scarlet and gold. The light streamed in abundantly, till I was bewildered with the multiplied scenes and the glory of the color. Passing onward, I stood presently in the main choir, treading upon a pavement inlaid with the "Reichs-adler "the imperial eagle. Two statues were on either hand; the one to the right represented Rudolph of Hapsburg, sitting throned and crowned, with the insignia of rule in his hand, his face turned toward the high altar; the one to the left was Adolph of Nassau rior in complete armor, kneeling with folded palms, the face also turned toward the high altar. It is said that he lost his life in battle because he refused to wear his helmet; so in the marble figure the head is bared, with countenance full of manly grace. Right and left swept the arms of the transept, between them the gorgeous depth of the chancel, the spaces among the lofty pillars everywhere aflame with the utmost the painter's hand could work, — not a panel wtihout its adoring figure, the wings of angels spread abroad in the vaults of the lofty ceiling. Below, in the crypt, I saw the effigy of Rudolph of Hapsburg, cut six hundred years ago, by an artist who took face and figure from life.

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And now I stood with a congregation of hundreds gathered for the vesper service. Through the flash

ing arches sounded the music of the organ; the priest intoned his prayers, and knelt in his rich robes; from the censers arose the smoke of incense. At one side knelt a company of nuns, their heads bent toward the altar, and their hands folded; just in front, the figure of Adolph of Nassau, with its folded palms, seemed to be at one with the worshippers. From the doorway, at length, I cast a parting glance backward. The fume of the incense still made dim the vaults of the ceiling; the low afternoon sun still shone on the halos of the martyrs and the white robes of the virgins; in the vestibule towered the great figures of the emperors, some mailed and sworded, some crowned and sceptred,the stamp of power on the brow, a fine energy in every limb. So stand the great kaisers of the past in the spot that once knew their forms so well, to which, after their wild battle with the elements of disorder about them, they were borne at last for the final rest.

In the cathedral at Speyer the student of history asks himself the question whether the men whose figures rise before him, -- tenfold more impressive in the great awakening which his soul has undergone, touched by all the superb surrounding circumstance, whether they really were so great, deserving of such splendid commemoration. Looking attentively at the story of their deeds, many of them deserve to be represented to us clothed with majesty, Karl the Great, Henry the Fowler, some of his descendants in the great Saxon line that followed him, several of the Franconian line, the Hohen