THE BURIED ARMIES OF POLAND.
THE turn of Fortune's wheel has brought Poland once again to the forefront of interest ; she is once more a "living State." The moment may therefore not be inopportune for us to call to mind how her unquenchable "will to live" has, ever since her gradual dismemberment, been most eloquently proclaimed through all those countless legends that still survive among her dauntless people—legends of her buried armies ; of her heroes, sleeping, sword in hand, their deathless sleep, awaiting but the summons that shall herald "The Day " ; tales passed from mouth to mouth, as the best tales always are—aye, heard most frequently among those people who, bereft of language and nationality, ousted from the land that was their fathers', have served the Prussian overlord, never doubting but that a new dawn would bring that Day. Posen, or, to give this portion of Polish soil its rightful name, Poznin, teems with such legends ; while a few go further back and refer to a time when the coast was constantly raided by the Swedes. From "what folk tell," indeed, Poland's buried armies would seem almost to jostle each other "underground," and the legends related here— belonging only to such districts as the writer has frequently visited—can represent but a fraction of the sum total.
Many of our soldiers have had occasion to remember the Prisoners' Camp at Schneidemiihl. Well, near there is a small village called Marzewo, with a hill in the vicinity known as Zale, or the Hill of Mourning. There in olden times, it is said, the heathen inhabitants of Poznan were wont to cremate their dead, and urns are still found confirming this rumour. The peasants of later days aver that on certain nights a light appears upon the hill. At first no more than a faint glimmer, yet, increasing, it soon assumes the proportions of a great flaming pile. Then do dim figures, rising from the ground about the Hill of Mourning, move round it with measured tread, faintly chanting some weird and melancholy song. Then, as the flames burn lower, the song too dies away, and of a sudden all is still and dark again. In the same district, too, lies the Hill of Death called Posmiert- nice, where the Swedes gave battle, committing, it is said, great cruelties. In punishment for their misdeeds these men have been condemned to rise from their graves once a year in order to do penance. No peasant dare pass that way on the Anni- versary Night ; yet it is told how a man once did, having stayed too long abroad, and just as he came to the hill he heard the ghostly reveille being sounded. Next he beheld the trumpeter, and a moment later heard the "neighing of the horses, the rattling of sabres, and shrill shouts above the blasts." Then the whole troop of unearthly warriors sped past, their black cloaks and long locks flying wildly in the wind. Sword met sword, groans and shrieks resounded, followed by exultant shouts—and of a sudden all was still and the whole concourse had vanished.
A very similar tale comes from the hamlet near the town of Czarnikau, while a curious story is told about Trzebnice, the present-day Trebnitz of Silesia. The Tartars, who had made incursions into Poland, had got as far as the Silesian frontier, although the Poles, who were in vastly inferior numbers, had fought heroically. All had fallen except their leader, and even he was wounded. Then Jadwiga, the saintly Queen of Poland, implored the Virgin Mother to turn the heroes death to a mere sleep, and that they might rest the better they were laid in a grotto beneath the church of Trzebnice. There do they lie in seeming death, their leader alone being left on guard telling his beads. A girl once managed—so runs the tale—to get a glimpse of the interior, and was terrified when she beheld all the knights. Then the leader gave her permission to walk through the grotto, but told her not to touch the bell that hangs at the entrance. Yet she did touch it—since when the leader and his troop have had to take refuge at a greater depth, whence they have not yet been unearthed. But at midnight a bell is still heard to toll, so runs the tale, from the subterranean depths of this church at Trzebnice.
Another tale of Poland's slumbering army comes from Krusch- wits, or rather it has to do with a hill that can be seen from the high road running from Montwy to Kruschwitz. And here it is the saintly Jadwiga, herself who keeps the vigil over her sleeping warriors. Shepherds are confident that beneath this hill men still watch and wait for "The Day," for the release of Poland. There is "ghostly marching and exercising," they say, and a man once passing " found in the hillside an opening, like a vast door," but when he attempted to slip in a sentry in a strange and out-of-date uniform sprang forward, barring the way and saying : "The time is not yet ! " Montwy has been the scene of mush fighting, and here one more army is said "to sleep." It sleeps beneath the mea.dowland, whither the warriors had retreated before the onslaughts of the Russians. Herethe Poles could get no further because of the treacherous ground ; "but the meadow parted" and gave them ingress, "so there they sleep till to-day."
And lastly, in the subterranean apartments of the castle of Shubin lies a Polish Queen surrounded by a vast sleeping army, warriors all clad in armour with their breastplates on, with lances in their hands, all ready and awaiting the signal which shall mean the day of their deliverance. In good time, it is said, the senior knight will "give the sign " ; then a great bell will peal and Poland's knights will rush forth to free their land. Then, when the battle has been won, their Queen will mount a white charger, and, riding at the head of her brave army, enter the well-known church of St. Martin at Shubin, to return thanks
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