wo-fold silver heart,
suspended from the ceiling--their untutored minds were elevated into the
belief of a heavenly commune.

In a glass case above the altar, is deposited this far-famed effigy of
the Holy Galilean virgin--a hideous female negro, carved in wood, and
holding an infant Jesus in her arms of the same hue and material; and
exhibited in its extremity of ugliness by the reflected glare of the
silver and diamonds, and gems of every description, by which she is
surrounded. Chests, mimic altars, models of ships, crowns and sceptres,
chalices and crosses of gold and silver and enamel, and enriched with

Turkish blue and emerald green,

and every jewel of every land, lie amassed in gorgeous profusion in the
adjoining cases, and seemed to realize the fabled treasures of the
preadamite Sultans. Boasting themselves as gifts of gratitude or
invocation from emperors and popes, kings, princes, palsgraves, and all
the other minor thrones and dominions of the earth, these splendid
offerings form the most plausible illustration of the miraculous power
attributed to the image of the Black Lady, which has been deposited in
its actual abode since the year of Grace 696. In the course of the
Thirty Years' War, this important relic and its treasury were twice
removed into the city of Salzburg, for security from the Swedish
invaders; and twice brought back in solemn triumph to their ancient
sanctuary.

But a mightier charm than that of gems or metals, the most precious or
the most beautiful, connects itself with the chapel of Altenoetting--its
association with historical names of all ages, from Charlemagne and Otto
of Wittelsbach, whose monuments we find inscribed in Runic characters,
to Pius the Sixth, whose dedication, "O clemens, O pia Virgo
Oettingana!" is graven in a "fine Roman hand." It contains sepulchral
vaults of the families of Wallenstein, Tilly, Montecuculi, besides those
of divers electors, archbishops, and archdukes, whose titles speak far
less stirringly to the heart; altogether forming an illustration of the
past, which brings the dark ages in living majesty before our eyes.

Alternately dazzled and disgusted by this fruitless waste of splendour,
this still more fruitless waste of national credulity, I was pondering
over the domestic virtues of a certain "Franziska Barbara, Countess of
Tilly," as recorded over her grave, when the chants of the priests, who
had been engaged in the celebration of mass before