evil, and, sure enough, a few days later he found his death upon the battle-field of Aspern. Even the great Napoleon, whose superstition was generally thought to be confined to his faith in his "star," would not lodge in the rooms haunted by the White Lady, and when he reached Baireuth in 1812, a suite of rooms was prepared for him in another wing of the palace. It was, however, noticed that even there his night's rest must have been interrupted, for on the next morning he was remarkably nervous and out of humor, murmuring repeatedly "_Ce maudit château_," and declaring that he would never again stay at the place. When he returned to that neighborhood in 1813, he refused to occupy the rooms that had been prepared for him, and continued his journey far into the night, rather than remain at Baireuth. The town was, however, forever relieved of its ill-fame after 1822. It is not without interest that in the same year the steward of the royal palace died, and report says in his rooms were found a number of curiosities apparently connected with the White Lady's costume; if this be so, his ardent patriotism and fierce hatred of the French might well furnish a cue to some of the more recent apparitions. The White Lady continued to appear in Berlin, and the terror she created was not even allayed by repeated discoveries of most absurd efforts at imposture. Once she turned out to be a white towel agitated by a strong draught between two windows; at another time it was a kitchen-maid on an errand of love, and a third time an old cook taking an airing in the deserted rooms. She appeared once more in the month of February, 1820, announcing, as many believed, the death of the reigning monarch, which took place in June; and quite recently (1872) similar warning was given shortly before the emperor's brother, Prince Albrecht, died in his palace. White ladies are, however, by no means an exclusive privilege of the house of Brandenburg; Scotland has its ancient legends, skillfully used in novel, poem and opera, and Italy boasts of a Donna Bianca, at Colalta, in the Marca Trivigiana, of whom Byron spoke as if he had never doubted her existence. Ireland has in like manner the Banshee, who warns with her plaintive voice the descendants of certain old families, whenever a great calamity threatens one of the members. Curiously enough she clings to these once powerful but now often wretchedly poor families, as if pride of descent and attachment to old splendor prevailed even in the realms of magic.