There certainly are authentic accounts of persons having slept for an extraordinary length of time, but I shall not mention any, as I believe the legend we are considering, not to have been an exaggeration of facts, but a Christianized myth of paganism. The fact of the number seven being so prominent in many of the tales, seems to lead to this conclusion. Barbarossa changes his position every seven years. Charlemagne starts in his chair at similar intervals. Olger Dansk stamps his iron mace on the floor once every seven years. Olaf Redbeard in Sweden uncloses his eyes at precisely the same distances of time. I believe that the mythological core of this picturesque legend is the repose of the earth through the seven winter months. In the North, Frederic and Charlemagne certainly replace Odin. The German and Scandinavian still heathen legends represent the heroes as about to issue forth for the defence of Fatherland in the hour of direst need. The converted and Christianized tale brings the martyr youths forth in the hour when a heresy is afflicting the Church, that they may destroy the heresy by their witness to the truth of the Resurrection. If there is something majestic in the heathen myth, there are singular grace and beauty in the Christian tale, teaching, as it does, such a glorious doctrine; but it is surpassed in delicacy by the modern form which the same myth has assumed--a form which is a real transformation, leaving the doctrine taught the same. It has been made into a romance by Hoffman, and is versified by Trinius. I may perhaps be allowed to translate with some freedom the poem of the latter:-- In an ancient shaft of Falun Year by year a body lay, God-preserved, as though a treasure, Kept unto the waking day. Not the turmoil, nor the passions, Of the busy world o'erhead, Sounds of war, or peace rejoicings, Could disturb the placid dead. Once a youthful miner, whistling, Hewed the chamber, now his tomb: Crash! the rocky fragments tumbled, Closed him in abysmal gloom. Sixty years passed by, ere miners Toiling, hundred fathoms deep, Broke upon the shaft where rested That poor miner in his sleep. As the gold-grains lie untarnished In the dingy soil and sand, Till they gleam and flicker, stainless, In the digger's sifting hand;-- As the gem in virgin brilliance Rests, till ushered into day;-- So uninjured, uncorrupted, Fresh and fair the body lay. And the miners bore it upward, Laid it in the yellow sun; Up, from out the neighboring houses, Fast the curious peasants run. "Who is he?" with eyes they question; "Who is he?" they ask aloud; Hush! a wizened hag comes hobbling, Panting, through the wondering crowd. O! the cry,--half joy, half sorrow,-- As she flings her at his side: "John! the sweetheart of my girlhood, Here am I, am I, thy bride.