their followers and their retainers, are vanished from the knightly halls; their ashes are mingled with the elements, and their names and their deeds live only in vague and uncertain tradition! And these fortresses, these towers, and courts, and chapels, and princely banqueting rooms-the ruthless hand of war has kindled the fiery element within; storms and tempests have beat fiercely upon them without, rending their massive walls and undermining their deep foundations, while, as century after century has rolled by, the silent tooth of time itself has imperceptibly gnawed them away, until they but remain-what they are now!

It is the picture of the ruins of an ancient feudal castle, upon which I am now gazing,—a castle reared early in the middle ages, and which for many centuries played a somewhat distinguished role in the history of the times. It was named TRIFELS, an application it derived from the three mountain peaks on whose summits it was reared, and where its ruins still remain. The favorite residence of the German Emperors in times of warfare as well as in the gayer seasons of the banquet and the chase, it was the scene of many and strange vicissitudes. As history and tradition paint it,massive, stupendous, impregnable in its fastnesses, and magnificent in all its appointments,—a right

royal pile was Trifels. Its principal and grandest portion stood on the northern peak, directly overlooking the valley of the Rhine, and there, as travellers assert, and as the picture I have before me represents, a massive quadrangular tower, formed of huge, square blocks of a dark-colored granite, still stands, apparently as perfect in its exterior, as when, more than eight centuries ago, it first surmounted its rocky base. Near this tower, surrounded by a deep and wide moat, hewn out of the living rock, and draped with dark green ivy, stands another, whose crumbling walls have long since begun to strow the ground with their fragments. In this, the regalia of the kingdom, the precious baubles of the throne, were treasured, as securely when the footsteps of the castellan and his small band of men-at-arms alone woke the echoes of the castle, as when its hundred halls and chambers rung with the shouts of royal and knightly revellers.

The view from these ruins is grand and beautiful. Luxurious valleys, hounded by noble forests, and the numerous spires of the Vosges mountains, still crowned with ancient ruins, and intersected, on the one hand, by the far flowing Rhine, and on the other by an humbler, but not less lovely river, altogether present a coup-d'œil as magnificent as it is picturesque.

This memorial of the olden days is now rarely

visited, save by the curious few in whom natural romance and enthusiasm for the vague and the old have not yet wholly given place to the spirit of utilitarianism and modern improvement. It is no longer of importance to any save them; its destiny was accomplished centuries ago, and, like many a kindred relic, has come down to us, a link which time, not man, has preserved, binding us to the dark and legendary past. Many strange histories are connected with this fortress of Trifels, one of the most beautiful of which, borrowed from the tongue of tradition, I have embodied in the following tale.

The crusades for the recovery from the Infidel, of the Holy Land, have been so favorite a theme with the historian, as well as the writer of romance, that few, even of the most superficial readers, are now ignorant of their history. The grand and gorgeous romances of the holy wars, as chronicled by the great magician of Scotland, are no doubt at this moment in the minds of most of my readers; yet they will pardon me, if, for the sake of the full development of my true and romantic narrative, I venture to trouble them with a brief outline of certain events connected with their commencement and progress, thereby touching upon ground already

shining with the foot-prints of the Scottish novelist.

It was in the year 1189 that King Richard of England, stimulated partly by a love of adventure, partly by a thirst for glory, and partly by a veneration for the true cross, uniting with Philip Augustus of France, vowed himself to a crusade to Palestine. Never was there a braver, a more heroic prince, than Richard. His personal courage, which no danger could daunt, the enormous strength of his arm, his gallant and chivalrous nature, the ready and disinterested protection which on all occasions he afforded the weaker sex, and his enthusiastic love of adventure, all combined to make him what he was the mirror of knighthood and flower of chivalry.

To this crusade Frederick Barbarossa, Emperor of Germany, with many of the princes and nobles of his empire, had also leagued himself. The Christian world was in a state of the utmost alarm. The bold, brave Sultan Saladin, had again conquered Jerusalem. Frederick had already hastened for. ward with his army, and struggled nobly against the Sultan. Victory crowned his arms, and the hosts of the Saracen were step by step retiring, when Frederick was drowned in a river, into whose deep and rapid current horse and rider had unfortunately plunged. New courage arose among the

Saracens.

The shouts of Allah! il Allah!' profaned anew the echoes of the Holy sepulchre, when Richard and Philip suddenly appeared, hemming their further progress. The citadel of Acre was besieged by the crusaders, and, after a bloody contest, taken. The eagle of victory had perched upon the banners of the allied sovereigns, when, unhappily, discord stepped in between them, and Philip with his forces returned to France. But Richard still valorously continued the strife. Battle after battle was gained by his prowess, and he at length stood menacing before the walls of Jerusalem. The splendor of his deeds had already cast the fame of Saladin into the shade. It was now that the well known title of Coeur-de-Lion' was bestowed upon him, tradition asserts on account of his having slain a lion with his own hand, and torn out its heart while the monster was still struggling in the deathagony. But this origin of the title is undoubtedly fabulous. It was probably won, rather by the general bravery and heroism of the adventurous prince.

But the restless Saladin yielded not so easily to what seemed to be his fate. He gathered new and uncounted hosts of Saracens around him, bravely disputing every inch of his rival's progress, until finally a treaty was entered into between them, which gave the Syrian coast to the Christians, and the remainder of Palestine to the Sultan. The