writer of history disdains such stories as unworthy
of his pen; but they are not the less credible. When recounted on the
spot, such as on the heights of Lichtenstein, where the Duke came every
night at a stated hour to the castle, and when the place is pointed out
on the bridge of Koengen, whence the undaunted man took the fearful leap
into the deep waters below for life or death, we listen to the details
with believing ears.

The old castle of Lichtenstein has long since fallen into ruin. A
huntsman's house now occupies its foundations, light and airy, like a
castle in the air, which imagination builds upon the ruins of
antiquity. Wuertemberg's fields spread themselves before the enchanted
eye, rich and blooming as formerly, when Bertha by the side of her
lover gazed upon them, and the most unhappy of her princes cast a
farewell glance on his country from Lichtenstein's windows. The
subterranean apartments of the castle, which received the exile, are
still to be seen, in all their pride and glory; and the murmuring
streams, gushing through the mysterious depths at the foot of the rock,
would seem to relate events long since buried in oblivion.

It is a delightful custom of the inhabitants of the country, and also
of the stranger from distant parts, to visit Lichtenstein and Ulerich's
cavern on Whitsunday. Many hundreds of Swabia's children are attracted
to these mountains on that day. They descend into the heart of the
earth, whose crystal walls, lighted up by thousands of wax tapers, are
made to reflect their sparkling beauties in numberless fantastic forms;
they fill the cavern with the sound of the merry song, and listening to
its echoes, which are accompanied by the melodious murmur of the
running streams in the depth below, enjoy the wonders of nature's handy
work. Having satisfied their curiosity, they return to the light of
day, more pleased than ever with the glories of sunshine and the
comfort of earth's blessings. Ascending the road leading to the heights
of Lichtenstein, they arrive on its summit, where the men, surrounded
by their wives and families, with the glass in the hand, overlook the
distant fields, displayed to their view in all the lovely colours of
the setting sun, and, with grateful hearts, thank heaven for the
blessings of their father-land. The halls of Lichtenstein resound again
with music, dancing, and the merry song, and the echo from its rocks
seems to inspire the jovial guests with reco