"No, my friend," said he, "it was an error of your heart, a human

weakness, which cannot last in the presence of death--the end of all

human joys and sorrows. What, did you intend to leave him alone in the

hardest trial of his life? Can you really doubt that he will be truly

miserable for the first time, when he loses you? The old disease has

attacked him again, but would he have instantly placed himself in your

care, if he had not felt that he could only be cured with the aid and

under the protection of the old, sacred, eternal powers of true love

and faith? And must he now find an empty house, a cold hearth, darkness

around him, and the threshold from which hostile spectres are wont to

recoil, no longer guarded by good household spirits? And will she, who

is about to inflict this pain upon him, attempt to delude herself and

him with the fancy that she is making a sacrifice for his sake? For her

own sake, she ought to say, for the sake of her pride, her jealous,

offended heart, that cannot endure the thought of not making this

beloved husband forget every thing beside itself.

"Forgive these harsh words, dear Leah," he pleaded, approaching her and

trying to take her hand. "If you were not the woman, whom I have so

heartily rejoiced that he obtained for a wife, a woman as high-hearted

and brave as himself, perhaps you would be right in what you are doing.

One would scarcely dissuade a woman of the ordinary stamp, from making

the attempt to bring her husband back to her, by leaving him for a

time. But you, dear Leah, ought not to allow any petty arts, any

sensitive pouting and reserve, to come between yourself and him. If he

has caused you pain, has he not suffered most bitterly himself? Would

he have left you again now, if he had not felt how it must torture you

to see his condition? He--that I know--feels that he could not be cured

anywhere so quickly as near you. If you had heard how he talked to me

about you--oh! dear Leah, no man has ever struggled more honestly

against the powers of evil, and shall his natural champion, from whose

presence he might draw new strength, desert her colors?

"Come. Compose yourself. Turn your eyes away from that glorified

face--it moves you too deeply. Oh! dearest Leah, you're not the first

who has learned from the dead, what we owe to the living. I've sat in

this very chair through many an hour of bitter conflict, when I knew

not what to do; and when it has sometimes happened that my dear wife

and I did not agree, we came quietly up here, first I, and ere long

she, and we soon saw clearly what we ought to do. You know yourself,

dear friend, every thing in life is not as plain as a sum in

arithmetic, where we only need to write down the fraction that is left

over. Therefore we must question our dead, our immortal ones, and they

will not leave us long in doubt about the answer."

He had taken both her hands, and was gazing down at her with a look of

the tenderest love. She suddenly rose and threw her arms around his

neck. "Dear--true--only friend," was all she could falter amid her

sobs.

After a time some one knocked gently at the door, and Reginchen's voice

said that her father was going and wanted to take leave of Reinhold. As

there was no sound from the attic room, the little wife then opened the

door and timidly entered.

Reinhold gently released himself from Leah, who was still clinging to

him in violent agitation. "Do you take charge of her now," he said to

Reginchen, "we shall keep her."

"I knew it, Reinhold," replied the little wife, smiling through her

tears; "you don't talk often, but when you do speak, you can move

mountains. Has he turned your heart, you naughty woman, when you

wouldn't be touched by my fondest words? Now I find her here on the

most affectionate terms with my own husband, and must get jealous of my

only friend forsooth, in my old age."

Long after Reinhold had left the house and was on his way to the

railway station with his father-in-law, who understood nothing about

the matter, the two friends remained clasped in each other's arms, Leah

seated in the lap of Reginchen, who often pressed her to her heart with

almost motherly tenderness. They said nothing, but leaned their heads

against each other and looked up to the bracket from which the dead

man's gentle face gazed down upon them in pure and calm majesty.

CHAPTER VII.

Meantime the two friends had spent their day in a somewhat grave mood.

It was easy to say and sing:

"How joyous he, who leaves his home,

To wander at his will,"

but difficult to realize it. After Mohr had sung all the verses in his

best style, and Edwin at the conclusion had only remarked absently,

that the air was very gay--a recognition the composer's husband did not

consider sufficiently warm--they walked on for an hour without

speaking, except in monosyllables. "You'll forgive my old uncivil

habit, Heinz," Edwin had said. "The morning hour to me has gold in its

mouth, and silence is golden."

"Hm!" muttered Mohr, "I don't know what we two should have to say to

each other."

Nor did aught of importance occur to him in the second or third hour.

The day was hot, the road through the forest cool and pleasant, but as

it led into the mountains, both men, who were usually such sturdy

pedestrians, seemed to find every step a burden.

The sun blazed hotly down, as they climbed a height overgrown with low

bushes, from which the ruins of a stately castle overlooked a broad

extent of country. They had hoped to find an inn here, but the little

house which had formerly been used for that purpose, was deserted, and

the tiny garden full of weeds and robbed of its summer fruits; only the

well was still ready to do its duty. When they had partially quenched

their thirst, they stretched themselves on the turf under the shadow of

the ruined barbican, and Mohr began to make a cigarette.

"If we could only have a rubber of whist or a game of piquet," he

sighed.

"In broad daylight, here on the green grass?" replied Edwin smiling.

"Incorrigible sinner."

Mohr looked askance at him and shrugged his shoulders. "My worthy

saint," he growled, "how often have I told you that this is one of your

limitations; you've no taste for play. But just wait till you've

written your book, completed your system. Then you'll have satisfied

your soul's longing, and your eyes will be opened to the fact that a

sensible man can take even play seriously."

"'There's often a deep meaning in children's games:' a wise man said

that."

"Yes indeed, and a philosopher by trade ought to be the last to scoff

at it. A game of whist, my dear fellow, is life in miniature, where one

has more luck than judgment, another more judgment than luck, a third

who holds the best trumps doesn't know what to do with them, while the

fourth, who would probably have made the most of them, loses the cards

at last by his partner's awkwardness, at the utmost counting only his

honors. I never take a hand at cards, without a certain feeling of

solemnity, as if we then compelled fate, which usually only allows

herself to be seen through a rift in the clouds, to sit down close

beside us and show her real colors. What, on the contrary, is a

melodrama, comedy, or tragedy, at which fate is separated from us by

the orchestra and prompter's box, and we can lose nothing except our

admission fee and faith in a new development of the German stage?

Instead of the 'stage,' we ought to talk of 'the cards' that parody the

world."

"A fine world, in which there are only knaves, kings, and queens, with

the exception of a few insignificant mutes; and all this for a few

penitents! No, my dear fellow, as I lack an appreciation of money, even

more than an appreciation of play--"

Mohr puffed huge clouds of smoke into the air. "If you only say that,

to avoid being compelled to acknowledge that I'm right, I'll forgive

you," he said calmly. "But if you really made such a worthless remark

in earnest, I pity you. You're generally clever, Edwin, or rather you

think it worth while, when we're talking together, not only to pour out

pure wine for me, but, as I'm a connoisseur, your best brands. Shall I

tell you why, at this moment, you don't care a straw what you say?

Because, for the last three hours, I've only rejoiced in your bodily

presence, your soul has been far away."

"And where has it taken up its abode, omniscient friend?"

"Hm! do you see the telegraph poles, which appear between the pines

yonder, and show that iron rails run through the forest beneath them?

If, for a few hours, you follow toward the East the wires which are

scarcely visible from here, in the direction from whence we have just

come, your worthy body will reach the spot where your honored soul is

at the present moment, and which it has not left five minutes today."

"You maybe right, my dear fellow," replied Edwin gravely. "I confess

I've been thinking all the morning, whether it was not ridiculous

nonsense to leave my little wife again, and without even a farewell

kiss. She cannot feel happy, and I'm very miserable, while you, poor

martyr to friendship, must be bored with me, whether you like it or

not. No"--and he sprang to his feet with sudden resolution--"we must

not carry anything too far, even want of consideration for our friends.

Do you think I don't know that by following the telegraph wire toward

the _West_, we shall in a few hours reach the spot where your heart

dwells, though your mind, even if not in its most brilliant mood, may

be beside me."

"Pray leave my insignificant self entirely out of the question. The

matter under discussion is what's best for you, and with all due

deference to Frau Leah's worldly wisdom, I think she made a mistake

this time."

"Do you think so too?" cried Edwin with beaming eyes. "Well, my

Socratic fiend has been saying the same thing, but the habit of

respecting superior wisdom--no, I'll emancipate myself, I frankly

declare that this distasteful bodily exercise, while the soul remains

immovable in one spot, is unworthy of a sensible man and does more harm

than good; in a word, I absolve you from the painful duty of acting as

bear leader, and will go back at full speed, until I see the smoke of

my own chimney."

"Stop," exclaimed Mohr, throwing his cigarette over the precipice.

"Praiseworthy as this hasty resolution appears, for this day you belong

to me; in the first place, because it will be salutary for your wife to

do without you again for a whole day, and secondly, because neither at

my home, nor during these last few days of travel, have we said

anything about your work. That book my friend, must eventually be

written. I should like to know how far you have progressed with the

system, or whether the old step-mother, Mathematics, has so maltreated

the tender little soul. Psychology, which cannot live without fancy,

that we must despair of its attaining any further growth. Who

knows when we shall see each other again. That we shall not write

very frequently is unfortunately more than probable, and besides,

now-a-days, letters contain nothing of any real importance. So be kind

enough to sit down beside me again and submit to an examination. Or

still better, let us drag ourselves to the next village, breakfast, and

then begin."

They did so. Mohr was well aware that next to the gentle but powerful

magic of Leah's presence, nothing could be so soothing to his friend's

agitated soul, as to resolve to do what in his modesty he had always

deferred, collect the work of the last few years in a large volume.

Now, for the first time, while sketching the outlines to his

sympathizing listener, Edwin felt that nothing essential was really

lacking, that he only needed to go to work with a firm purpose and a

good heart. Heinrich encouraged him in his resolve in every possible

way.

"If you want to wait till you have nothing more to learn, before you

begin to teach, you can write only posthumous books. I must preach very

nearly the same sermon with which I yesterday converted a much more

eccentric Christian; your head has reached its full growth, I think. It

may be refurnished in one way or another; have a window cut here or

there, but the foundations will not enlarge. And as it is tolerably

spacious and not ill planned, it will be useful for the world to know

how it (the world, I mean,) is reflected in this head. For my part, I

have a special interest in wishing the book to be written soon; in the

first place, because it must be dedicated to me and our ex-tribune of

the people; and secondly, because in my own unfruitfulness, it is a

satisfaction to have friends who can make themselves talked about and

accomplish something entire."

When, toward evening, they parted, and Mohr went to the station, to

return to his wife and child, both, though without showing it except by

a somewhat over-strained gayety, were very much agitated. They had

again shared what binds human beings most closely to each other, pure,

unselfish hours of grave meditation and quiet sympathy, in the

contemplation of the eternal verities. And moreover they felt

themselves bound more strongly to each other by a renewal of the old

friendship which may, even when the thoughts are unlike, and the

topmost branches as it were divide, forever entwine the roots of two

lives.

It was already dark, when Edwin also set out by rail to return to the

little city which he had left in the morning. The unconquerable longing

for home had increased to an actual fever, during the hour he was

obliged to wait at the station. When the train at last stopped in the

town, which now contained his world, he sprang hastily out, looking

neither to the right nor left, lest he should see some acquaintance who

might detain him. He did not notice the two men who had been waiting

for the arrival of the same train, Reinhold and Herr Feyertag, the

latter, being as we know, about to return to Berlin. They, also, were

too much engrossed in conversation, to heed the traveler in a suit of

grey, who rushed blindly past them and instantly turned toward the

city.

When at last, panting for breath and wiping the perspiration from his

brow, he reached his house, he was surprised to find the windows dark,

but instantly said to himself: "She's with Reginchen." The delay

annoyed him, it had never entered his mind that he should not find her

at home. He hastily entered resolved to send the maid-servant for her,

for he felt unable to see others to-day, even though they might be his

dearest friends. But when he opened the door of his room, the girl came

toward him with a light.

"Herr Doctor!" she exclaimed, almost dropping the lamp in her surprise.

"Good gracious, to-day! And my mistress--"

"Where's my wife? At the next house, I suppose?"

"Preserve us! Gone away entirely, an hour ago--you must have met her at

the railway station."

"At the station? What are you talking about, Kathrin? Where should she

go--alone--without me--"

"She's gone to Berlin with Herr Feyertag, and she said she didn't know

when she'd come back, but she'd write, and as the Herr Doctor wouldn't

return for a week--"

"Gone? To Berlin?"

"Why yes, to see her father--and she made up her mind very suddenly.

Herr Feyertag said it would be a good opportunity, because he was going

himself this evening, but my mistress would not hear of such a thing at

first, but the other visitor had scarcely gone--"

"Another visitor? Who--don't make me drag the words out of you so--"

"But how should I know who it was? I never saw the lady in my life, she

didn't tell her name, and I could not hear what she said to my

mistress. She was very beautiful, and very elegantly dressed; after

she'd gone the room smelt of violets a long time, and my mistress paced

up and down, looking very pale and talking to herself. And then when I

brought her dinner she didn't touch a mouthful, and I didn't dare to

ask her any questions; she said nothing to me, except that she'd made

up her mind to go to Berlin. So about twilight she went out with a

little satchel, and didn't even allow me to go with her to the station.

When she'd gone, I felt very sad and anxious, though I didn't know why,

and I was just going to bed--but what ails you, Herr Doctor? Shall I

get you a glass of water?"

He had sunk down on the sofa and his eyes were closed as if a stroke of

apoplexy had benumbed his brain.

When, after some time, he opened his eyes again, he saw the

maid-servant, who had no idea what all this could mean, still standing

helplessly in the middle of the room. "What are you doing here,

Kathrin?" he said harshly. "Go to bed, leave me, I want nothing more

to-day. No, no light. I can see well enough. Good night."

The faithful servant glided silently out of the room, and he sank back

again in the corner of the sofa, helplessly giving himself up, in the

loneliness and darkness, to his bitter anguish.

CHAPTER VIII.

So he had lost her--his brave little wife, his good comrade, the friend

who sympathized with all his moods and thoughts, all his feelings and

wishes! The right hand must do without the left, the complete man had

become a pitiful fragment, a crumbling mass of ruin.

The blow was so sudden, so unexpected, that for the first hour his

bewilderment swallowed up all sense of pain. If anything earthly had

ever seemed positive and secure from loss, it had been the possession

of this heart. The secret fear (which sometimes blends with the joy of

passionate love,) that exuberance of feeling may fall from its

exaltation and undergo the common lot of change, he had never known. He

had never toiled in anxiety and doubt to win the woman's love; it had

been his long before he suspected it; why should he fancy that it could

ever change! And now she had deserted him!

No feeling of reproach or bitterness, that she failed him now when he

needed her more than ever, rose in his heart. He esteemed her too

highly to believe her capable of any petty irritability, any ordinary

feminine weakness, such as going "to make herself missed." If she could

feel that her place was no longer beside him, she must have had good

reasons for her belief, reasons which would bear the examination not

only of her sorely tried heart, but of her reason. What they might be,

well as he knew her, was not clear to him. Did she not know him too,

and know he would never leave her? But he also knew whom she had seen,

and that this visitor had been the cause of her sudden resolution he

was perfectly convinced.

But however that might be--he had lost her. True--in the midst of his

deep sorrow, a voice within whispered consolingly it was not possible,

not conceivable that he could have lost her forever. If she had

suspected that he would return to her to-day, how desolate the lonely

house would seem, how sleepless the night would be--perhaps she would

have remained. And it could have needed only one word, one look into

each other's eyes, to have banished all the ghosts that had come

between them. But even if she returned with him--he missed her to-day,

and had been longing all day to see her, as he had never done before,

and only endured the weary hours, because he knew the last would bring

him to her arms.

In the midst of the bitterest grief and regret, his mind suddenly grew

strangely clear and calm. For the strength of a noble love that really

fills a man's heart, is such, that in its glorious fervor it consumes

all other feelings, and even in the denial of the beloved object, the

renunciation of the joy of her presence and reciprocating love, renders

him happy whose being it pervades. All the happiness Edwin had enjoyed

during these four years of quiet possession, seemed like a pale

twilight in comparison with the radiant brightness that suddenly burst

upon him in this separation. For the first time, the inmost depths of

his being were pervaded by the feeling that he would give the whole

world to call this woman his again.

With the rapturous timidity of a young man in love, but far distant

from the object of his longing, and who meantime indemnifies himself

for all deprivations by the boldness of his waking dreams, he conjured

up the image of his beloved wife and murmured confusedly a thousand

happy, sweet, and sorrowful words. He sued for her heart as if she had

never granted him a kind word, and in imagination whispered his

yearning love in her ear and waited with a throbbing heart for some

sound from her lips that might seem to favor his suit. Her little work

basket stood on the table before the sofa, where he still lay in the

dark. Just as she had toyed with his book, his pen, he now took up one

after another, the skeins of silk, silver thimble, and little scissors;

the thimble he put on and pressed to his lips. It was such a

consolation to him to be permitted to touch the things that had

belonged to her, as if they were hostages she would ransom when he had

her again. "To Berlin," he said suddenly to himself. "Why should we not

go there?" He said "we," as if they were to set out on their journey

the next morning together. For the moment he had entirely forgotten

that she was not sitting beside him.

So he lay in his dark corner in a condition between sleeping and

waking, while visions of all his past and future happiness successively

rose before him. He was so absorbed in his reverie that he did not hear

the noise in the street outside, a strange humming and buzzing, as if a

great crowd had assembled, but were moving gently about with subdued

voices and light steps, in order not to betray some secret design. It

was about nine o'clock, an hour at which such a gathering, except in

case of fire, was utterly unprecedented. Now the gleam of several

wavering lights penetrated the dark room seemingly stationary before

the house. Still the dreamer's attention was not aroused. Not until the

street had again become perfectly silent and a duet began, softly sung

by two voices without, did Edwin start up. What was that? Who was

singing that beautiful, familiar melody, which he could never hear

without deep emotion, since it had been the last greeting of Balder's

friends, ere they left him to his eternal repose? _Integer vitae_--now

it rose again, sung before his house by young, fresh voices, a greeting

of life to the living. At first he listened without thinking how it

happened that the old tune was now heard outside. Its melody fell so

softly on his heart, and the words, with which he was perfectly

familiar, seemed like the friendly consolation of a good spirit,

closely allied to him. When the fourth verse began, he rose gently and

approached the closed window. The street was crowded with people, whose

faces were all turned toward him, though he was evidently not yet

perceived against the dark background of the room for the expression of

expectation, which rested on every countenance, did not alter as he

approached. In the centre stood the singers, pupils belonging to the

first classes of his school; his colleague, the singing-master, had

stationed himself before the semi-circle, and by the light of some

torches was beating time as intently as if some grand musical

exhibition were taking place in a hall. Among the bystanders Edwin

recognized many of the most prominent citizens in the place, the

president of the workmen's society and several friends and neighbors,

and could no longer doubt that the serenade was intended for him, a

discovery, which even in his dark hiding place, made him blush to his

temples.

What could have induced these good people, who as he well knew, were

his friends, to express their feelings to him on this particular day,

and in such a manner? Who had arranged this conspiracy so secretly,

that even Franzelius, who would certainly have prepared him, had heard

nothing of it? He was just resolving to choose the simplest way of

solving the mystery, by going out and inquiring, when the door was

cautiously opened and one of his younger colleagues, the teacher of

history, with an exclamation of joy, entered the dark room. "So you are

at home!" he cried, eagerly grasping Edwin's hand. "As the windows

still remained dark, we were afraid that the beadle, who positively

declared he saw you return by the evening train, might have been

mistaken. It was known that you went away early this morning, and the

serenade which had been appointed for this evening was of course

deferred. But when you came back, there was no restraining them; all

who were to take part were hastily assembled, and now nothing will save

you; you must leave your hiding place and show yourself to the people,

although so far as speech making is concerned, we can't under present

circumstances stick to the original programme."

He then hastily told his astonished hearer, how all this had come to

pass. Notwithstanding the secrecy with which the affair was managed,

the rumor that Edwin was to be dismissed on account of his lecture

before the workmen's society and the freethinking he had never denied,

had spread itself among the pupils, who were greatly attached to him,

and through this channel had reached the citizens and workmen.

Instantly the thought occurred to them of averting the danger of losing

their dear teacher and friend, by a solemn demonstration. If the city

manifested its unanimous desire not to let Edwin go, those occupying

high places would perhaps be startled. So an address had been secretly

prepared, which was to be carried to Edwin escorted by a torchlight

procession, and followed by a supper at the citizen's club. A partial

knowledge of this had reached the ears of the principal of the school,

who in his fear of offending both parties, could think of no wiser

course than to telegraph to his superiors and beg them to adopt

moderate measures. As soon as he had received an answer conceding his

petition, he sent for the ringleaders among the pupils and told them no

one had any intention of depriving them of their teacher, only that

every thing must be avoided which would make an uproar and irritate the

ecclesiastical authorities. There must be no torchlight procession nor

any satirical addresses, either verbal or written; this was the

condition of a mutual good understanding, which no one desired more

than he, since he himself felt the highest esteem for the honored

colleague in question.

"So we were obliged to content ourselves by merely singing a few songs

to you, my dear friend," the young man concluded. "It is possible that

even this course may destroy our pastor's rest. But why does he meddle

with our affairs and disturb our little circle? It was hard enough for

the lads to pledge themselves to do nothing more. Our little head boy

had prepared a speech, which would have borne witness that he had read

Thucydides to some purpose. And it seems as if I had never heard them

sing so before!"

Edwin's only reply was to press his friend's hands; he then accompanied

him into the street, where the last song was being sung. All present

bared their heads, when they saw him, and seemed to expect a speech.

But he only went up to the old music teacher, uttered a few cordial

words, shook hands with him, and then embraced the head boy. "We know

each other, my young friends," he said, "we will hold to each other in

future, and I shall ever treasure it as one of my greatest joys, that

you sang this particular song. I will tell you why another time. But

here are other friends I must thank. Dear Herr Wolfhart," he said,

addressing an old white-haired cabinet-maker, "you, too, have taken the

trouble to come here to do me honor, although as I know, you are not a

good walker. How shall I thank you for it--and you--and all of you!

Well, I think the charming singing of our gallant lads will repay you

for the trouble, better than I could do if I made a long speech. True,

I might say a great deal to you all, but the street is not a suitable

place for it, and we shall meet each other again at some more fitting

opportunity. For your confidence in me and belief in my honest

intentions, I thank you cordially; and now we will beg our singers to

rejoice our hearts with a few more songs."

While the singing began again, many pressed around Edwin to shake hands

with him and whisper how delighted they were to have this opportunity

of showing their esteem for him and how the thought of losing him had

alarmed them all. He accepted these proofs of friendship in his usual

straight forward manner, said very little in reply, and escaped the

most enthusiastic, as well as he could, by pretending to be completely

absorbed in the music. But at heart he was strangely agitated and

touched by this beautiful and affectionate ceremonial, and yet amid his

joy he was deeply saddened by the thought that he must witness it

without her, whose existence was most closely interwoven with his. He

became more and more absorbed in this grief, which made him insensible

to all that was passing around him. When the last notes had died in the

air, the dark crowd silently melted away; the singers took leave of

him, and those colleagues who ventured to share in the ovation,

accompanied him to the door of the house with a last good night; he

crossed the deserted threshold with a sense of sorrowful oppression, as

if instead of this pleasurable event, some heavy grief had befallen

him, and he felt actual horror at the thought that he must now remain

through the long night alone with his despair.

Again he threw himself on the sofa, but the blissful certainty of

happiness, in which he had just rested there, had fled. He had never

felt more clearly, that he had lost the capacity for enjoying any

pleasure, which she did not share with him, that his weal and woe were

so indissolubly connected with this other self, that the mere thought

of losing her palsied every aspiration of his soul.

Suddenly he fancied he heard a light foot coming along the street--now

it ascended the steps--seemed to pause a moment at the door, which was

ajar--and then to come through the dark entry--a footstep he knew so

well! but no, impossible! She is far away or could his thoughts have

had the power--? A hand is laid on the door knob; Edwin starts up with

a beating heart, is about to say: "Who is there?" and prepares to

reconcile himself to see a strange form enter, when the door opens, and

Leah who has witnessed every thing that has just taken place before the

house,--with what emotion! standing unnoticed among the crowd, not

daring to approach!--appears, trembling from head to foot, like a

criminal before her judge, on the threshold of the room she had left

with such an agitated soul.

Another instant and she was clasped in his arms. As if beside himself

in the exuberance of this unprecedented happiness, he raised the

tottering form and carried, rather than led her to the sofa.

"Leah!" he exclaimed, "is it you?--you in bodily form clasped to my

heart again? I hold, I feel you, come, speak one word, compose

yourself--oh! you do not know what you have done for me in not going

away!"

Meantime she had recovered from her bewilderment, but was still

incapable of uttering a word. But he--all that he had just said in

imagination, his newly awakened, passionate love, his wooing for her

heart, the doubts and fears of a lover, he now poured forth aloud,

while again and again seeking with his quivering lips her hands, her

cheeks, the quiet mouth for which he had so ardently longed. "And you

are here," he cried, "you have not fled from me, have not left a poor

defenceless mortal alone in his need; no, my brave, faithful wife, now

for the first time wholly mine and fairer and happier than ever, and

all the idols which I had beside you, have crumbled into ruin forever."

"Oh Edwin," she whispered, "you make me both happy and miserable. You

do not know, I am a bad wife--mean and cowardly, and not worthy to have

you idolize me so. Oh! that this must be said now, but I must not allow

any falsehood to come between us--you must see me as I am, even if you

take back the treasure you have just poured into my lap."

"Speak out, if it must be told," he said with his brightest smile. "I

am curious to see how far a person who has just saved another's life,

can succeed in appearing odious."

He held her hands firmly clasped in his, but she glided down on the

carpet before him, and on her knees, like a grievous sinner, confessed

all that we already know. He let her talk on only interrupting now and

then by an ironical word or saucy laugh. "Have you finished?" he

asked, when she paused. She nodded, but made no effort to rise.

"Your sins are heavy," said he. "Above all, that of having given

another man, even though he be a friend, to whom I do not grudge any

good thing, the kiss which I myself so shamefully neglected to take

with me, when I set out early this morning. However, in consideration

that I too did not escape from the magic castle entirely unscathed, the

only penance imposed upon you shall be, that in the future, if you want

to kiss your own husband, you must never suppose that such folly does

not beseem thinking beings, who have made a sensible marriage, but

allow your heart every sweet absurdity--as in this hour. Leah, were

there ever two happier mortals?"

"I fear I shall not survive the joy--" she murmured. Then withdrawing

from his embrace she continued: "You are crushing me,--and you must be

very gentle with me now--not for my own sake--Edwin, you do not yet

know--I--I bear another life--"

This earth has joys that no heavenly joy can surpass, and which can be

described by no human tongue.

CHAPTER IX.

This night was succeeded by days, whose radiance and joy exceeded even

the far famed happiness of the honeymoon. And in fact many drops of

gall had mingled with the honey of our lovers' first days of wedlock;

the daughter's sorrowful parting from her beloved father, whose future

at that time seemed far more lonely and joyless, because there was not

the faintest thought of a marriage with his first love; the young

wife's many household cares, and for Edwin himself numerous annoyances

in his new position, where the reputation of being a philosopher who

believes neither in religion nor in God, had preceded him.

They had passed honestly through all troubles hand in hand. But much as

these trials aided in strengthening the foundation upon which their

home was to be built, the happy rapture of joy, the unrestrained,

tumultuous delight with which young couples usually enter upon a new

life, had been lacking in them. Now all this was bestowed in

overflowing measure, when as Leah smilingly said, "they had really been

married too long to be so childishly happy."

True, they did not allow, the outside world to see much of the treasure

they had so suddenly found under their own hearthstone, and he who had

entered the sitting room on the following day would hardly have taken

the quiet young teacher, who was writing the first chapter of his

philosophical work, and the young wife, who was painting a study in

water colors from a bouquet of fresh roses, for two newly married

people, in whose hearts amazement at all the wonders of happy love was

still burning with a bright flame. But the first chapter did not

progress very rapidly, or the bouquet bloom speedily on the paper.

Every ten minutes the writer had something to ask the artist, and the

question generally concerned some childish folly, such as is usually

discussed gravely and thoroughly only in the nursery; or the artist,

who had gone out of the room a moment, could not as usual, on

returning, find the way directly back to her own window, but being

obliged to pass the other, her dress, with all its appurtenances would

catch on something which was no rose bush, but two arms extended toward

her like a sign post, that would not let her go until she had paid a

suitable toll for crossing the boundary line.

"Since we have discovered that we are in love with each other, like

ordinary foolish mortals, we can no longer abide within the same four

walls!" said Edwin laughing. "It is fortunate that we shall soon need a

larger dwelling at any rate. At least the neighbors will not notice it,

if we, from pure love, cannot continue beside each other."

He threw his pen aside, gave his arm to his little wife, and went to

the printers with her. Reginchen received them with eyes sparkling with

delight, but Reinhold, after yesterday's rare expenditure of eloquence,

was as monosyllabic as if he were compelled to make up for his

unprecedented lavishness by redoubled parsimony. But the quiet smile

that gleamed through his bushy beard was enough to tell his friends how

the sun of their happiness warmed his heart. They must come again in

the evening he said; but Edwin instantly declined--they were going into

the country, or to the shooting match, or somewhere--in short, they did

not know what wise or foolish thing they might undertake, but two such

frivolous young people could not enter into any positive engagement.

The remainder of this last week of vacation passed in the same way.

They were only seen for very short periods, when they talked in a

courteous, but abstracted manner, smiled at vacancy, and suddenly

departed again, as if they had some important business to transact, and

at hours when no staid citizen would think of going to walk, would be

met on the wall of the town or in the neighboring forest, strolling

along hand in hand, or sitting on some bench engaged in eager

conversation or absorbed in happy silence.

Yet despite all this, the first chapter did make considerable

progress--more than the picture of the bouquet of roses, since the

original of the latter did not expand so quietly as Edwin's thoughts,

which had long before been bound into a beautiful wreath. "I know now,"

said he, "why I never could write the book before. Certain things

cannot be done by reason and calm judgment. A hazardous enterprise,

like the final expression of thought, can be undertaken only when, like

a somnambulist, we wander over the heights of life, intoxicated by the

winged flight of a rapturous happiness, or the march of a grand, solemn

fate, with a courage which helps us to surmount all heights and depths.

No can can be so bold, except he who has shaken off all the burdens of

mortality and escaped into eternity. When I woke last night, my

darling, and gazed at your sleeping face--the moon was still shining

brightly--you had a saucy smile on your lips, while your grave

brow--will you believe, that a light suddenly dawned upon that passage

in Kant, over which I have racked my brains so long? now my third

chapter need not end with an interrogation point."

Thus passed the bright time of this most cloudless summer. On Sunday,

the last day of vacation, they walked to a neighboring village and

passed the little church, just as the service was over. A flood of

melody from the organ floated solemnly through the open door, like an

invisible stream, which was bearing the church-goers into the world

again. The two lovers stood still and let the congregation pass slowly

by. A portion of it was composed of peasants with their wives and

children. Many residents of the city, who were spending the summer in

the country, had joined it, principally ladies, who nodded to Leah as

they passed, but owing to the religious views which the pair were known

to entertain, did not approach them at the moment.

"The pastor of this village is famed for his toleration and oratorical

talent," said Leah. "Does it not seem as if all these faces bore

witness, that a beautiful and noble gospel has just been preached, a

religion of love and charity? How differently the people look, when

they come from our city church, where your zealous opponent enters the

pulpit every Sunday with a heart full of hatred and desire for

persecution! These people have really been benefited; they have

sanctified their holiday, and we ought to thank them for secretly

pitying us, because they do not suspect we are doing so too, in our own

way."

"Certainly," replied Edwin, "so long as they confine themselves to

secret pity, and do not allow their acts to be affected by it, so long

as they do not force upon us the consciousness that we have other wants

and satisfy them in a different way. For after all the ultimate and

most common standard of a man's value is, whether he is capable of

devotion or not, whether he can raise his thoughts above the dust of

workday life and produce and worthily enjoy a holiday stillness. In

this alone men differ and foolishly wrangle about how it happens. Those

who only in dense crowds can succeed in remembering their common

humanity, their universal weakness, their need, and all that binds them

under the universal law, consider those persons arrogant and

presumptuous, who can only feel the presence of the eternal powers,

when communing with their own hearts in the deepest solitude, or with

their most intimate friends. Nothing alien and fortuitous must touch

me, if I am to approach what people have agreed to call God. The voice

of a good man, who wants to obtrude upon me his little well meant

passages from Scripture, the faces of his innocent hearers, to whom

each word is a revelation, baffle and destroy my best efforts to rise

above earthly appearances into the one and all. That which now speaks

to us from the open house of God, is a feeling so strangely made up of

memories of our childhood, universal philanthropy, the summer air, and

the notes of the organ, that we gladly allow it to produce its effect

upon us. But when we seriously reflect, it leads us away from, rather

than into ourselves. It draws us toward natures which have little in

common with us. We have often said, dearest, that mankind might be

divided into two great classes, those who strive toward what is

steadfast, calm, and limited, and those who never forget that every

thing is fleeting, and are only satisfied when they themselves are in

the current of the eternal stream. How could the piety of these two

classes be the same? When the former pass from the restless, ever

moving world, through a church door into their Sunday, where every

thing has remained the same from time immemorial, the inexpressible

appears before them confined within set forms, and for all new wants

and sorrows the same consolations are ready, which have soothed their

ancestors for a thousand years. How can it surprise us, that people who

find their salvation in remaining ever the same and prefer to stifle

certain instincts of the soul and mind, rather than be allured into the

illimitable, cannot understand us, whose piety is rooted in the

strength and boldness which in moments of enthusiasm, enable us to

burst the barriers that confine us, in order through presentments and

intuition, to grasp all space?"

"They do not know," said Leah gently, after a short pause, "how much

more courage and humility it requires, to confess that we cannot

recognize God, then to believe ourselves his pet children, in whose

ears He whispers the secret of the world, and thereby relieves from all

future care."

When they returned home in the evening and entered their cosy room,

they espied a letter lying on the desk. "I don't know why it is," said

Edwin, "but I fear this stranger which has crept in, will destroy the

pleasure of the last hours of vacation."

"Don't read it until to-morrow," pleaded Leah.

But Edwin had already opened the letter, and a smaller note fell out.

As Leah picked it up, he glanced at the signature of the large one.

"Doctor Basler," he read, and his light tone instantly grew sad. "A

letter from there--six closely written pages--strange, how far distant

it seems, all that transpired there, as if years had intervened; so

greatly does happiness harden us to the sorrows of others! And now once

more it appears like yesterday. Poor creature, to be so quickly

forgotten, even by your only friend! Perhaps though it may not contain

a word about her. Come we will sit down on the sofa and read the letter

together."

Leah had become perfectly silent. Without exactly concealing the note

she had picked up, she held it in her hand, so that for the instant

Edwin forgot it. They seated themselves near the lamp and read:

"Dear Sir and Friend!

"_I should consider it my duty, even without the count's express

command, to relate to my dear friend's son, the particulars of an event

extremely sad in its nature, and which if it should reach him in its

bare outlines through the medium of the press, would be doubly

agitating._

"_So_--sine ambagibus--_for so-called preparation in such cases only

increases anxiety and dread, and men, dear Herr Doctor, know that fate

strides rapidly--we have lost our beautiful young mistress, the

countess, in a manner as sudden as it is distressing._

"_You are already aware, that the writer of this letter did not enjoy

any special favor or regard from the lady who has died so young. Yet I

do not need to assure you, that the brevity of this account, which is

garnished by no expression of feeling, is due solely to the haste

imposed upon me by the pressure of circumstances, and not by any lack

of sympathy in my master's misfortune. Such a thing would not only be

inhuman in general, but ungrateful in particular, in so far as the

noble lady at last did justice to the good will of her faithful servant

and honored him with a priceless token of her confidence._

"_To tell everything in due order, the countess, during the first few

days after you left us, made no change in her mode of life, but on the

third or fourth day--Monday, if I am not mistaken--remained shut up in

her own room, allowing no one but her maid to attend her. On Thursday

she again appeared at dinner, and to her husband's evident joy, seemed

gayer and more cordial than was her habit in the family circle. The

Italian tour of the prince and his wife, introduced the subject of

traveling, and the countess jestingly remarked that she had become, so

to speak_, blase _through descriptions of travel in most foreign

countries, but if any thing could please her, it would be to go alone

to the promised land. This remark was taken seriously, both by Count

Gaston and the count himself, and the following day nothing was talked

of except rides through the desert, Jordan water, the infidels, and the

holy sepulchre. Therefore it afforded me special pleasure, that the

countess should be the first to say: 'of course we must not leave the

doctor--my insignificant self--at home.'_

"_Amid all this, it could not escape one familiar with the

circumstances, that the noble lady's feelings toward her husband had

softened, a fact which I could not help secretly attributing to your

influence, my worthy friend. Old diagnosticians, like ourselves, are

not deceived in such matters; the tone of the voice and the expression

of the eyes, which accompanied even the most insignificant words,

plainly showed me that her former harshness was softening, and I was

already cherishing the brightest expectations of a complete

reconciliation, expectations now unfortunately forever baffled, by this

terrible catastrophe._

"_A hunting party was arranged for Thursday, at which in addition to

the members of the household, no one was present except the barons

Thaddaeus and Matthaeus, who, however, were only spectators, as, since

the accident to the fat landed-proprietor, though the wound is healing,

the furrow made by the ball suppurating properly, and his general

health admirable, they have vowed not to touch a gun, except in defence

of their native land._

"_I, as usual, remained at home, and did not even see the party ride

away, but learned from the steward that Her Excellency had been

particularly gay and blooming, and in unusually good spirits, so that

the count really seemed to grow younger and the company moved off amid

jests and laughter._

"_The occupants of the castle were therefore the more alarmed, when,

soon after noon, the noble party entered the courtyard very quietly at

a walk, the countess lying in a carriage with a very pale face. Count

Gaston riding beside her on horseback, and her husband on the box. We

heard, that in the exuberance of her delight in hunting, Her Excellency

had proposed a steeplechase to the gentlemen, in which her English

chestnut horse instantly took the lead; but in leaping a high fence the

animal unfortunately fell, and though the countess was apparently

unhurt, the fright brought on a long fainting fit. The horse, which had

broken one of its fore legs, was instantly relieved from its sufferings

by a bullet from Count Gaston's pistol, at the express desire of its

mistress, who, however, as soon as the deed was done, burst into

violent sobs and afterwards did not utter a single word._

"_Leaning on her husband's arm, she ascended the stairs, greeting the

terrified servants only with a silent bend of the head and went at once

to her own rooms, where she shut herself up for several hours,

declaring that she was not hurt, and that she only needed rest. It was

not a matter of surprise, that she did not consult me, as I have

already told you, I was not in her favor, either as a physician or as a

man. But to my no small surprise, about six o'clock I was called to the

noble patient by the maid herself._

"_I found her attired in an elegant_ neglige, _sitting at a writing

table, as if nothing had happened; she was unusually pale however, and

her manner of receiving me was also surprising, for she was not in the

habit of treating me with so much kindness and condescension. While

sealing a letter and writing the address with a steady hand, she said

in reply to my question about her health, that she was sure she had

received no internal injury, but the dizziness which had recently

attacked her--you remember how she stumbled the morning after your

arrival, my dear sir--constantly hovered about her, and she wanted me

to bleed her. At first I hesitated, from scientific reasons, which it

would occupy too much space to explain here; but as I knew her, and

knew that if I refused, she would send for the village barber, I did

what she desired; it was the first time I had been permitted to touch

her arm or render her any medical service. 'What do you think of my

blood, Doctor?' she said, as it flowed into the silver basin. 'It is

healthy isn't it? With such blood one might live to be a hundred years

old!'_

"_When I put on the bandage, she expressly told me to fasten it

securely, she was often restless in her sleep she said, and it might,

easily become displaced. 'Well,' said I, 'in any case I will beg

permission to watch through the night with the maid in the ante-room.'

'If you want me not to close my eyes,' she replied, 'my nerves are so

irritated, that the slightest noise, even the mere vicinity of a man,

keeps me awake.' No, if I wished to do her a favor, I would not omit

the ride to the city I always took every Thursday, and I would carry

with me to mail, the letter she had just written._

"_You knew her, dear Herr Doctor, and therefore you know how difficult

it would have been to have refused her any thing, especially a first

service. So I bowed in silence, put the letter in my pocket, and gave

her all sorts of directions for the night. Then she held out her hand,

which I respectfully kissed, and at that moment it seemed as if no ill

feeling had ever existed between us. 'Goodnight, dear Doctor'--those

were the last words I ever heard her utter._

"_In the hall below I met the count, who asked how I had found her. I

told him, and also said I was going to the city--but did not mention

the letter_ (_although my motto has always been 'frankness and

honesty,' there are cases where discretion becomes a duty._) _The count

positively forbade me to ride to the city. If the countess asked about

the matter in the morning, he would be responsible for my disobedience.

Then he went to her himself remained in her apartments about half an

hour and returned in a mood I had scarcely ever remarked in him

before--gentle and kind, as if he felt all would now be well. Dear me

it was the first time for years, that he had been allowed to sit by her

bedside for half an hour._

"_Then night closed in. No one in the castle noticed anything unusual,

the supper was a little more quiet, and there was no card playing

afterwards, which greatly vexed the chevalier, who does not know how to

amuse himself without it. At eleven the count again sent to inquire

about his wife's health; the maid, who was to spend the night on the

sofa in the adjoining room, replied that the countess seemed to be

asleep, and she could not get in. Her Excellency had locked the door._

"_So all went to bed. What was to be feared? The symptoms were not

alarming; rest, sleep, and a Utile bleeding could only be beneficial._

"_But I was roused from, my sleep at five o'clock in the morning by the

maid, who was standing beside my bed. I must come up at once, she had

been aroused by a strange moan, had knocked at the countess' door and

called her and at last with the help of a servant, burst the lock;

there lay the poor countess weltering in her blood, with the bandage

stripped from her arm, unconscious but still alive._

"_Dear friend, you may suppose that our trade hardens us, but such a

sight!--the count like a madman--the grief of the whole household--and

I stood by, whose duty it was to help, and saw that all was useless!_

"_Had I not been convinced that the bandage--but why should I speak of

that--the change in her feelings for the previous few days, instantly

removed the supposition that otherwise might have arisen--besides no

amount of reasoning can restore her to life._

"_Suddenly I thought of the letter, which I still had in my pocket, and

I told the count about it, for all discretion was then superfluous. He

hastily seized it, for a moment I thought he would open it to see if it

contained any intimation that--but then he read the address aloud and

was gentleman enough to return it to me; 'take care of it,' said he,

'and write him about--' here his voice failed, and he sank down in a

chair beside the bed of his beautiful dead wife._

"_Here is the letter entrusted to me; I feel sure it will furnish no

new disclosures, none that could be new to me. I know what I know, and

voices from the grave even, could not change my conviction._

"_I have been very prolix, but you, as an intimate friend of the

departed, will not find these details too minute. Remember me to your

honored wife; I regret that there is so little prospect of a

continuance of our recent acquaintanceship, but the count leaves in a

few days for the East, and I accompany him. So with sincere regards, my

dear friend, I remain,_

"_Yours_

"Dr. Basler.

"_Address to the castle as before; all correspondence will be

forwarded!_"

The note enclosed in the doctor's letter ran as follows:

"_You will be alarmed, my dear friend, that I already write you again.

But fear nothing, it is for the last time, and means little more than

the card inscribed P. P. C. which we leave with our friends before a

long separation, I am going away on a journey, dear friend, far enough

away to enable you to feel perfectly secure from any molestation on my

part. How this has come about is a long story. Suffice it to say,

that it is not envy of the laurels won by my beautiful fair-haired

sister-in-law--_I_ mean those she will undoubtedly win as a high-born,

intellectual, and pious traveler--that induces me also to seek a change

of air. If that which I breathe were but conducive to my health, if I

could but sleep and wake, laugh and weep like other men and women, I

certainly would not stir from the spot. But even my worst enemy could

hardly fail to understand that matters can not go on any longer as they

are; so I prefer to go. The 'promised land' has long allured me. I

should have set out for it before, if I had not had much to expect, to

hope, and to wait for, and been hindered by a multitude, as I now see,

of very superfluous scruples, which are at least successfully

conquered._

"_Do you know that since I saw you I have made the acquaintance of your

dear wife? A very, very pleasant acquaintance; if I had only made it a

few years sooner, it might have been very useful to me. Well, even now

it is not too late to rejoice, that you have what you need, the

happiness you desire, in such a noble, wise, and loving life companion.

Give my kindest remembrances to her. In my incognito I may have behaved

strangely. But the idea of assuming it flashed upon me so suddenly,

and, with the help of my faithful maid, it was carried so quickly into

execution, that I had no time to consider what role I should play. So

every thing was done on the spur of the moment. To be sure, I had at

first a vague idea of proposing that you should accompany me on the

great journey. But one glance into your home quickly told me, that you

must be happiest there, that your 'promised land' is the room, where

your desk and the artist table of your wife stand so quietly and

peacefully side by side._

"_Farewell, 'dear friend!' I should like to talk with you still

longer--to philosophize as we used to call it; but what would be the

use? Or has any sage ever given a satisfactory answer to the question,

of how the commandment that the sins of the fathers must be visited on

the children, can be made to harmonize with the idea of a just

government of the world? Why should a freak of nature, an abnormal

creation, be expected to fulfil all the grave normal demands we are

justified in making upon ordinary human beings? Or why are we usually

punished by the gratification of our wishes, and allowed to perceive

what we ought to have desired, only when it cannot be attained?_

"_A fool, you know, can propound more questions than ten philosophers

can answer. Perhaps I shall receive special enlightenment in the

'promised land.' My memory is stored with much that is beautiful; even

many a trial that I have experienced in the grey twilight of this

strange, cold, inhospitable world, was not borne wholly without

recompense. I would not give up even my sorrows, for the dull happiness

of commonplace wiseacres, who in their limited sphere think all things

perfectly natural and cling closely to their clod._

"_Farewell, my dear friend. Let me hope that you will always wherever I

may be, remember me with as much sympathy as the great and pure

happiness you enjoy will allow, and that you will wish a pleasant

journey to_

"Toinette."

CHAPTER X.

Two winters and two summers have passed since the evening when the

honeymoon happiness of the newly united pair was so deeply shadowed.

The blow, however, left very different traces on each. While Edwin,

after the first sudden pang, almost felt a satisfaction in knowing that

the sad confusion of this noble life was ended by a heroic death, Leah

was assailed by a strange melancholy, which caused her constantly to

reflect whether she herself was not partly to blame for this terrible

death. If she had not stood between them, if, in that first and only

interview, she had treated the well known stranger differently,--! And

again, even if the living woman would have had no further power over

Edwin's heart, how the image of this wonderful creature, who had turned

away from a lost life with such calm dignity now transfigured by death,

must haunt his memory and overshadow every bodily form. Then a secret

pride rebelled against the thought, that this voluntary departure might

have been a favor bestowed upon, a sacrifice made for _her_; as if the

generous Toinette had said to herself: "so long as I breathe, this

woman cannot be sure of her happiness and peace; one of us must step

aside."

She carefully concealed this restless succession of thoughts from

Edwin, and as his profession and the now steady labor on his book gave

him enough to do, he did not continually watch Leah, and attributed

certain dark moods, which did not wholly escape his notice, to her

changed condition and the anxiety natural to one about for the first

time to become a mother. In fact, the fulfilment of this most ardent

wish appeared to instantly transform her nature, and when the child lay

in its cradle, all shadows of the past seemed driven from the house by

perpetual sunlight. Thus a second year passed away.

When we again meet our friends it is once more vacation; but this time

we do not find them among mountains and valleys, or within the cosy

precincts of their new home. Leah, with pardonable maternal pride,

unable to resist her own desires and the pressing invitation of her

parents, has taken her rosy little girl, "who is already so sensible

and gives no trouble at all," with her to Berlin. They arrived

yesterday evening at the pretty little house in the Thiergarten suburb,

where papa Koenig, since he left the lagune, has built his modest but

comfortable nest. Here, amid the green trees and under the care of his

faithful companion, the old gentleman has fairly blossomed again, and

the pleasure of embracing his daughter and grandchild has even made him

strip off the chains, with which in the shape of cloths, bandages, and

felt shoes, the gout usually makes his feet helpless. He came running

up to the carriage, far in advance of his much more active and still

charming wife, and would not be prevented from carrying the sleeping

infant, with all its pillows and wrappings through the garden into the

house, and then the rest of the day ran up and down stairs unweariedly,

to ask for the hundredth time if the children were comfortable and

wanted nothing, though his clever wife had provided every thing in the

most loving manner. "Oh! it is so pleasant to come home again," Leah

exclaimed, her eyes full of tears, and with grateful affection threw

herself into the arms of the new mother, whom she had secretly dreaded

to meet.

Edwin was also very gay. Meeting with these excellent people had done

him good. But in the depths of his soul there still lingered a gentle

melancholy, a quiet depression, which even the following morning, with

all its sunlight and the twittering of the birds before the windows,

could not dispel. Leah instantly understood his feelings, when, without

waiting for the early breakfast, he prepared to go out.

"Go, dearest," she said. "It must be done. I would accompany you, but

the baby is not yet dressed. Remember me to all."

She kissed him and waving her hand, looked after him as he walked

through the garden into the park. She knew that he would have no rest,

until he had revisited the places around which his dearest memories

clustered. He did not, however, as she anticipated, first turn his

steps toward the cemetery where Balder reposed. He had not even taken

any special interest in adorning the grave or providing a headstone,

and when long ago Leah had asked him about the inscription--her father

had quietly attended to every thing else--he had looked at her with an

almost bewildered expression, and merely replied: "whatever you think

best will suit me entirely," and then he had not gone there again. He

confessed that his dead never seemed farther from him, than when he was

near their graves, where he had never seen them while alive, and that

the beloved images there paled to shadows among other shadows. But now,

when in the quiet morning sunlight, he wandered across the deserted

Thiergarten, it suddenly seemed even in broad daylight, as if a

glorified spirit, that wore Balder's features, were walking close

beside him, till he closed his eyes in order not to destroy the waking

dream. All the events of the past, all the love and pleasure of their

young lives together crowded upon his mind, and as he involuntarily

stretched out his hand, for one moment he actually again experienced

the feeling he had had in former days, when he had gently stroked his

brother's soft hair.

Absorbed in these thoughts, he reached the neighborhood where the park

stopped and where new streets and houses, which had sprung from the

ground as if by magic, reminded him how many years he had been away. He

knew that Marquard lived here, nay he even fancied that at one of the

lofty windows, supported by caryatides, he recognized a face which

reminded him of Adele.

He turned away, that he might not be recognized. He did not desire to

meet old acquaintances this first morning. He soon reached the bank of

the Spree, turned to the right, and walked down along the quay,

watching the sparkling water. He thought how strange it was, that the

only thing in which he perceived no alteration, was that which was

constantly moving. While the firm brick and mortar had not resisted the

inroads of time, and house after house seemed to have been renovated,

the old Spree, on the contrary, showed the same face, the floating

houses on it had kept the form and color, and their occupants the

costume and customs they had had on the day, when with the little

artist, he first made his Canaletto studies.

He knew that he would find new buildings erected over the lagune and on

the site of the Venetian palace, and yet something attracted him first

to this part of the Schiffbauerdamm. But when he approached the spot

and saw every trace of the old scene effaced, a wide gateway in place

of the canal, and on the timber yard a tall, sombre building with

glittering windows, he stood still, overpowered by a sudden emotion of

sadness, and feeling as if he had found, on visiting the spot where he

had buried a treasure only a heap of valueless stones. Then he could

not help smiling at the vehemence of his feeling. "So it is that we

cling to tangible things!" he said to himself. "We may fancy ourselves

ever so secure in our idealism, the senses demand their share. What was

this wretched old barrack to me! And now, since I can no longer see it

with my bodily eyes, I feel as if barbarians had ransacked a temple

which contained the most beautiful images and where I had often been

disposed to devotion."

He slowly turned toward Friedrichstrasse, intending to go to the house

in Dorotheenstrasse, look around the old "tun," and then deliver the

messages Reginchen and Franzelius had sent to their mother. They could

send no remembrances to the father; the worthy shoemaker was no longer

among the living. The last autumn had torn this modest leaf from the

tree of humanity, before it showed any signs of withering. The latter

part of his life, in which, following Heinrich Mohr's counsel, he had

eagerly striven for progress in his own sphere of action and studied

the questions relating to the culture of humanity in the closest

proximity, had been the most enjoyable and richest of his life. To be

sure, he was at first very angry that "mother" could not be induced to

accompany him on his journeys of discovery through Berlin. But by

degrees he seemed to become reconciled to this obstinacy, nay he

confessed to his friends in the society, that the full depths of

certain abysses of modern civilization can be measured only when men

venture into them "without ladies." As he talked continually about

these "abysses," certain wags endeavored to persuade him to deliver a

lecture upon them. For a long time he modestly refused, but at last

consented, and to the great astonishment of his faithful wife, who saw

her husband become an author in his old age, he spent many weeks in

filling a few sheets with extremely strange, extraordinarily worded

sentences, in which he forgot eating, drinking, sleeping, walking, and

even his workshop, but was as happy as a student composing his first

love song in honor of a lady, to whom he had never spoken a word. When

he delivered this wonderful composition, under the title of "studies of

social abysses," before one of the informal meetings, as a sort of

rehearsal, he was rewarded for his trouble by great and universal

merriment, a form of applause, which as he had scattered through it the

spice of a few puns and anecdotes, seemed very flattering. To be sure,

the president, for very plausible reasons, did not think the subject of

the lecture judicious for a large audience, but thanked the assiduous

shoe-maker in the warmest manner for the interesting communication, so

that the old man, in an exalted mood which he had never experienced

before, ordered champagne, and broke the neck of more than one bottle

to the welfare of progress and the education of the people.

The following morning he was found dead in his bed from a stroke of

apoplexy, a triumphant smile still resting on his lips, which seemed to

ask the survivors whether his being so suddenly snatched away, when a

wider influence seemed about to be allotted to him, might not perhaps

have been destined to show that he possessed more than mediocre

ability.

But Edwin was not thinking of this worthy friend, as he walked down the

long street, and plucking up his courage, turned the corner. Here the

narrow little house with the steep roof and bright flesh colored paint

had formerly appeared at a distance. To-day--what has happened, that

his eyes at first failed to distinguish it? Had it been unwilling to

outlast its old master? No, it was still standing in its place, but its

appearance was completely transformed. The cheerful pink paint, which

contrasted too strongly with the feelings of its present owner, had

disappeared under a gloomy stone grey, with black stripes, so that it

seemed to be in mourning for its old master. The sign over the shop

door had been altered also, for a melancholy change had taken place in

the firm, whose name now read as follows: "Gottfried Feyertag's Widow &

Co.," which appendix of course meant none other than George, the head

journeyman.

All the windows on the first floor were wide open. In former days such

a thing had never been known to happen even in midsummer. But the

little old couple had left this peaceful dwelling several years ago, to

occupy that still more quiet last lodging, where protected from every

draught of air, we rest on our earthly laurels. Edwin had scarcely

exchanged a dozen words with these fellow lodgers, yet he now felt as

if they too had been a necessary part of his life, and that not to find

them again would be a real sorrow.

He approached the house with hesitating feet, ascended the few door

steps and went into the entry. Through the glass panes of the inner

door he could look into the shop, where Madame Feyertag, completely

attired in black with a large crepe cap, sat in the corner behind the

show case, sewing. He could not make up his mind to enter and deliver

Reginchen's message; an iron band seemed to compress his chest, he

feared that he should be unable to control his words. He glided

cautiously past with noiseless steps and opened the door leading into

the courtyard. He had intended to go up to the tun, an uncontrollable

longing drew him toward the old room. Every thing here was the same;

the bare, grey back building, the arbor overgrown with bean vines, the

shade loving plants, the acacia tree, which it is true was now wholly

dead, and did not even put forth one puny leaf--but what was that lying

among the dry branches like a little heap of last winter's snow? A cat?

Was it she herself, Balder's old friend, sunning her weary limbs on

this lofty perch, or was it a descendant, which bore such a striking

resemblance to its ancestress? He could not decide, his eyes grew dim

with tears and his feet seemed paralysed; in spite of his longing, he

could not cross the courtyard and mount the steep stairs. So he stood

leaning against the door post with closed eyes. Just at that moment

voices became audible in the workshop, and starting as if he feared to

be caught here like a thief, he tore himself away and with a beating

heart fled back into the street.

For a long time he walked on like a drunken man. He took no heed of the

people who passed by, the glittering shops, the throng of carriages,

the motley stir and bustle of life around him. But by degrees the

painful agitation of his soul subsided, isolated words recurred to his

mind involuntarily blended together, before he remembered that they

composed an old song of Balder's, which suddenly echoed from the depths

of his memory and soothed him with its mysterious magic:

Soul how thou roamest!

On wings of the wind,

Through high and through low,

Thy way thou dost find.

Though thou art poor,

What riches are thine!

Ceaselessly restless

What calmness divine!

Free above all,

Close, close thou art bound;

Soul, say, where hast thou

Thy resting place found?

Among stars and suns,

Thy wing circleth wide,

Yet with rapture,

Mid violet beds doth abide.

Where the lightning is cradled

Thy home thou hast made;

To the cloud's ample dwelling

As well hast thou strayed.

Yet in narrowest circle,

By joy art possessed,

And dost tenderly, timidly

Pensively rest.

As the ivy that creepeth

By lowly abodes,

On a thousand weak tendrils

Thou climb'st to the Gods.

Where memory glancing

The cleft ruins through,

As the sun to the vine

Giveth warm life anew.

Murmuring the last words aloud just as he turned into the Unter den

Linden, he suddenly felt his arm seized, and turning saw a face which

had been far from his thoughts.

The old Livonian baron, the enthusiastic connoisseur and friend of art,

who had formerly helped the worthy zaunkoenig to his short-lived dignity

of court painter, stood before him wearing an expression of the

greatest delight.

"Well," he cried, shaking Edwin's hand with boyish impetuosity, "this

is what I call 'talking of a wolf and seeing the tip of his tail.' Only

yesterday evening I was speaking of you for at least two hours, first

condemning and then defending you when others undertook to condemn; and

to-day, my dear fellow, you appear before me just as I was considering

whether I should go to your father-in-law, to get your address; you see

I wanted to write to you. I don't know how the worthy Herr Zaunkoenig

feels toward me, since that stupid piece of business; for gloriously as

he behaved in the matter, just as I expected him to do, I was at any

rate mixed up in it, and the wager--"

"You ought to know him better, my dear Baron," said Edwin, interrupting

the torrent of words. "True, he is by no means such a weak dove as not

to have been very much enraged against your prince at the first moment

of discovery, but it was less from offended personal dignity, than

indignation at the cold blooded frivolity, with which such noble

Maecenas' treat an insignificant artist. But then he grew quiet and

thoughtful, collected his studies and the few pictures he had finished,

and spread them before him. When I asked what he was doing, he replied:

'I am disgusting myself with my work. Let us be just: these things have

emanated from an aberration of the artistic instinct.' The next day

they had disappeared, and as I afterwards learned, were nailed up in a

chest, loaded with brick-bats, and sunk in the lagune."

"Oh! oh! oh!" said the old man, shaking his head, "then we have really

deprived him of the greatest pleasure of his life. I shall never look

at the Luini I won from the prince, without a pang of conscience. Oh!

oh!"

"Cheer up, dear Baron. You have only helped to prove his favorite

saying, that to those who love God all things are for the best. His

passion for art really emerged again, rejuvenated and vigorous, from

the lagune where he had expected to bury it. Since he has lived in the

suburbs, where in spite of his new and easier circumstances, he

continues his old modest mode of life and industriously pursues his

engraving, he has, it is true, made no attempt to return to his former

'specialty.' He says that now, when he daily sees the green fields, he

perceives for the first time the full extent of the frivolous boldness,

with which he daubed these wonders of God on his miserable canvass. To

make amends, since what is denied always charms the soul and excites

the fancy, he has how set up a new kind of _genre_ picture; he paints

views of the Spree and the green ditches, bridges, and steps leading to

the water, not without skill, as it seems to me. You may suppose that

he is more successful in reproducing the straight lines and grey tone,

than the succulent weeds and bright sky of his former zaunkoenigs. If

you would come out to his house--he has just finished something--"

"_Col sommo piacere!_ With the greatest pleasure. You take a hundred

pound weight from my heart. But what was I going to say--what were we

talking about just now? My head is growing old, friend, and nothing

makes one more confused and forgetful, than intercourse with silent

pictures."

"You were saying that you had been scolding about me yesterday for two

hours. I am curious--"

"Yes, that was it: your book was the subject of conversation, everybody

is talking about it now, so that I was at last ashamed of not having

read it, though I don't exactly feel compelled to be familiar with all

the new books that are talked about, not even those written by my

friends. But, my dear fellow, what have you done?"

"Nothing very bad, I hope. At the worst only written a bad book."

"Something far worse, my friend--a good book, a book which in all main

points is perfectly right and has the great majority of thinking men on

its side. You laugh. Oh! these young people! You think it is easy to be

in the right in this world. As if there could be any thing more

repulsive, uncomfortable, and contrary to police regulations, than

a person who looks neither to the right nor left, knows neither

caution nor discretion, but calls things by their right names. Such a

fool-hardy man had better go into the Theban wilderness and deliver his

wisdom to the stones; but if he supposes that he will be tolerated in a

society founded upon mutual cloaking and palliation of faults, feigned

respect for rotten rubbish, and the superficial varnish coated over old

cracks, where people do not even have the courage to lay aside the

humbug of false names in the catalogues of museums, let alone calling

other idols by their right names--you see, my friend, gall enters into

the construction of my sentences, and I no longer know how I began. But

this I do know, that if you acknowledge the authorship of such books,

you will never have any prospect of making a career in our dear native

land, and I sincerely regret it."

"I thank you for this regret," replied Edwin with a quiet smile. "Nay I

even share it in a certain sense, though not on my own account! I am

happy where I am, and offices and titles have as little charm for me,

as a heap of money, which at any rate if I were a little more careful,

I might procure by lecturing or writing. But in the interest of public

welfare, the health and morality of our political life, I can only

think with regret how far we still are, from possessing the much

praised and much scouted freedom of thought. So long as the patriarchal

delusion still exists, that the state has the right or even the duty,

of watching over the theoretical opinions of its members, while only

their acts belong to its tribunal, we shall not emerge from a dreamy

and trifling minority. And this rests upon a deeper error, against

which my whole book is directed, although it apparently turns upon an

objectless pyschological problem--the error that metaphysics and

morality are closely connected, nay are in a constant interchange of

influence."

"Freedom of thought!" cried the eager old gentleman, standing still and

baring his shinging bald head, as if his hat heated it, "as if it would

be of any special consequence to you to obtain, this miserable

acquisition, which you possess as much as the Spaniards themselves did

in the darkest ages. What you want and will not obtain for a long time,

is _freedom to teach_, freedom to transplant your thoughts into other

heads, not merely by books, which will only be read by a small number,

but by lectures in public halls, just as your colleague instils into

his hearers the condensed milk of piety carefully tested and proved

harmless. But you are wrong, my dear friend, in asking this, and that

is why I blamed you, because I regret that by a premature expression of

your secret thoughts, you render your own work difficult, if not

impossible. Dear me, the field of philosophy is so terribly barren,

people would be glad to foster and cherish a new power; but if it deals

such blows to the right and left, loosens with its roots the soil on

which tame kitchen vegetables have hitherto peacefully slept their

nourishing plant-sleep--you have too clear a head, dear Herr Doctor,

not to understand that the time has not yet come when we can need you

among us."

"Not yet _come_, certainly, but it is near, nearer perhaps than those

in high places suppose. Or how long do you think it will be, before

shame at the incompleteness and artificially fostered self-deception,

which is palliated by pedagogical considerations, will flush the faces

of the leaders of the public, and compel them to openly acknowledge

what has long since been secretly perceived and recognized? It is true

that hitherto we have had other tasks to solve, questions of existence,

of defence in peril, and then of our power and honor. But after we have

advanced tolerably far in these, do you suppose that we, who have to

support our moral dignity before other nations, will continue in this

traditional track, and thereby allow the noblest intellectual

possessions to be endangered? For all the canonized myths and

metaphysical legends have also produced an ethical effect, not

according to the measure of their truth, but by the degree of veracity

in the author and hearer of the composition. And must the degree of

veracity no longer be the standard of the allowableness and moral power

of a lesson? Or is it not a great immorality, out of mere external

considerations relating to the political education of children, to give

us for the corner stone of our happiness, fairy tales and legends,

which all cultivated minds believe as little, as the Greeks of

Aristotle's time credited the fables of Homer and Hesiod. Of course we

must not pour away the dirty water before we have fresh; but who will

answer for it that we shall ever draw from the deepest, purest

fountain? And who would not quench his thirst with the wild fruit that

grows by the way side, rather than drink the water, which in spite of

all filtering, has constantly become darker and more slimy? Oh! my dear

friend, I see in your face the reply you wish to make, that the great

masses are not so particular, and are satisfied with the foul stream in

which weak minded theologians have washed their dirty linen for

centuries, while we educated people could support ourselves on the

fruits that philosophy and natural philosophy pluck from the tree of

knowledge. I, too, once held the same aristocratic notions. But I can

no longer reconcile myself to them. For--let alone every thing else--I

do not believe that it would be dangerous for the masses, if they were

educated to the truth instead of to a conventional fable, such as our

histories of dogmas offer them. But even if certain village and city

churches should become still more empty, than is now the case in

consequence of the deadness and constantly decreasing reality in our

forms of worship, has the state duties to perform only toward the

uneducated? Can it, without danger, lose in the eyes of the educated

that credit for veracity, which it might so easily maintain, if it did

not take sides, and venture to decide questions of conscience by state

institutions? Has it not also responsibilities toward the great strata

_between_ the educated and the simple people, those who will be

strengthened and almost confirmed in their own frivolity by all these

partly known, partly unknown things? The evil of shallowness and

secularization in its worst sense existing in these circle, the

preponderance of thoughtless pleasure, the whole despicable materialism

of our times--do you really suppose, my friend, that all this is to be

remedied by throwing up a dam composed of the crumbling ruins of a

faith, which for centuries the elements have shaken, disintegrated, and

scarcely left one stone upon another? I cannot believe it, even if I

desired to do so, and the patching and mending of the tottering

structure seems to me more wicked and dangerous, than erecting a new

dam--or at least measuring and marking out the foundations, on which

our children's children may put up the structure."

"Our children's children already? Oh! you sanguine mortal!"

"You are right. Who can tell? And yet how quickly intellectual

transitions take place now, in comparison with former days, when the

intercourse between minds was effected with so much greater difficulty!

Has a century elapsed since the time when Lessing's Nathan was a fact,

a challenge, a single burning need of that great heart, until now, when

his timid gospel of toleration for all religions has become a

commonplace, and honest toleration even of the irreligious ripened to

the silent need of countless numbers?"

"I hope your book will be introduced into German seminaries, but at any

rate Nathan will be turned into flesh and blood, so that a Jew may be

permitted, without hesitation, to read logic and metaphysics before

grown men."

"I hope the latter also," replied Edwin smiling. "The former would be a

sad token of the small progress science had made in a hundred years.

One of us will then I hope be a conquered station."

"No," exclaimed the old man with a solemnity which moved Edwin

strangely, and seizing both his companion's hands, while he looked him

steadily in the eyes, he continued: "I must tell you here, though it

probably will not signify much from an old enthusiast in art, in the

new building of which you speak, even though it too, after thousands of

years will become mouldy and tottering, and have to be rebuilt, the

foundation will remain, and among other mementoes of these days, which

will deserve to be placed in the corner stone, your book will find a

place. I bought it and wrote on the first page averse of the old poet

enlightened by divine frenzy the poet Holderlin:

"With shield divine, oh genius of the brave,

Desert not innocence, but swift to save

Ever be nigh; inspire and win to thee

The heart of youth with joy of victory.

Arouse, conquer, punish; do not delay,

The majesty of truth secure alway.

Till time's mysterious cradle shall release,

The child of Heaven, eternal peace.

"And may this peace be with you, my dear fellow. Farewell."

He embraced his silent companion and in spite of the throng of

pedestrians, kissed him on both cheeks, then hastily turned the nearest

street corner and vanished from Edwin's sight.

LAST CHAPTER.

This conversation echoed in Edwin's soul like a strong and solemn

harmony, as he continued his walk along the Unter den Linden.

But he was not to be permitted to return to his family in this exalted

mood. As he approached the Brandenbourg Gate, he saw a light elegant

carriage, drawn by two beautiful horses, pass through the central

portal and turn up the Unter den Linden. A gentleman with a carefully

trimmed beard, and regular, but shallow, vacant features, drove the

fiery animals, occasionally addressing a word to the young lady, who

sat beside him, leaning negligently back and casting smiling glances at

the passers by from under her pink parasol. Edwin had just noticed her

face in a photographer's show window, and beneath it the name of a well

known ballet dancer. Behind this couple, with his arms folded across

his breast in true jockey insolence, sat a tall, fair lad, in a green

livery embroidered with silver, with a stiff shirt collar reaching to

his ears, and the round glassy eyes in his beardless, boyish face, were

upturned with a saucy, yet wearied expression to the sky.

Neither of the three had noticed the unpretending pedestrian, who

remained rooted to the spot, as if he could not believe his eyes. A

feeling of repugnance, such as one experiences when rudely awakened

from enthusiastic dreams to a prosaic reality, where hopeless

commonplace or shallow every day life prevails or occupies the largest

place, overpowered Edwin and accompanied him as he walked through the

shady paths of the Thiergarten to his father-in-law's house. Even there

the painful impression did not instantly leave him. He was grave and

silent, and as the others knew, or fancied they knew, where he had been

that morning, they respected his feelings and did not trouble him with

questions.

In the afternoon he asked Leah to drive with him. She was unwilling to

leave the child, though it was well taken care of by the grandmother

and nurse, for in spite of her philosophy, she was the most anxious and

unreasonably careful of mothers. But she felt that Edwin needed to be

alone with her, and instantly prepared to accompany him.

They had driven quite a distance in the direction of Charlottenburg,

when he first broke the silence, and holding her hand in his, and now

and then gently pressing it, he told her the events and experiences of

his morning. When he mentioned his meeting with the count, he said: "I

do not understand why it moved me so deeply. To return from the

pilgrimage to the 'Promised Land,' and then fill the empty seat in the

carriage with such a creature--many of the most trivial natures could

not bring their hearts to it. But I did not know him, was not aware

what a 'perfect gentleman' he was, to be able to console himself by

'noble passions' for what he might have suffered in the higher

emotions. And yet I instantly felt as if I owed her memory a silent

ceremonial, to conciliate her insulted shade. The Catholics have the

clever invention of their silent masses. We must help ourselves in our

own way."

Meantime having reached the entrance to the park of Charlottenburg they

alighted from the carriage. Silence surrounded them; the atmosphere was

balmy, and the earth bathed in sunshine; not a leaf was stirring, and

scarce a bubble rose to the surface of the carp pond as a frog leaped

croaking from the hot grass into the water. There are hours when even

nature seems to be gazing at her reflection, conscious of her beauty,

as if in a dream.

The two, who walked arm in arm through the shaded avenue, felt the

magic of the midsummer noon in their own souls, which grew more and

more agitated, as if secret fountains were welling up within them

without overflowing at their lips. Thus silent, they at last reached

the mausoleum, which in the bright sunlight, looked specially grave and

solemn under the dark trees.

"I wanted to come here," said Edwin. "It was on this spot that she said

to me: 'There is but one real nobility: to be true to ourselves.' The

poor, brave, free-born heart--it has been true to its nobility,

faithful unto death. Let us enter the little temple, where beauty is

high priestess and conquers death by perpetuating the forms of noble

humanity. But we know that for that, marble is not necessary; for have

not we in our grief, engraved the transfigured image indefaceably upon

our hearts till we ourselves shall enter eternity?"

They passed into the silent chamber. When, after a considerable lapse

of time, they again emerged into the open air, the eyes of both were

dim with tears. They paused in the next deserted avenue, and as they

silently embraced each other, Leah gave free course to her grief.

"Weep your sorrow away, love," said Edwin at last. "Ought we to feel

ashamed of the best gift mother nature has bestowed upon us? With what

strange foresight she has arranged that the fountain of tears flows

whenever the greatest joys or the bitterest sorrows fall upon our

hearts! And is it not the same with all that is tragic in human

destiny? Are not the weal and woe of all lives inseparably interwoven

and blended in supreme moments into an emotion which lifts us above our

petty selves, and makes us smile at grief when we are too awed by its

solemnity to rejoice? Oh! dearest, a world in which we are permitted to

achieve such a triumph over fate, and not only over our own fate but

over that of our loved ones also, in which the tragic element is

glorified by a sense of beauty, and in the midst of our horror of death

we are thrilled with the comprehension of the highest earthly bliss,

till only tears can relieve our hearts--such a world is not utterly

cheerless. Come! Let us return to life, to our child, to our friends.

What does my old friend Catullus say?"

"Beloved, let us live and love!"

END.

WORTHINGTON COMPANY'S

CATALOGUE

of Standard Books that every one ought to have; they are all handsome

and attractive, and will be a valuable addition to any one's library.

* * * * *

NEW EDITION, NEW PLATES.

ALICE ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND.--12mo. $1.25.

Above are the most charming fairy tales of the 19th Century.

Exquisitely amusing, deliciously illustrated. Nursery classics

translated into most of the languages of Europe.

AYTOUN.--Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers. By Wm. E. Aytoun, late Prof.

of Literature and Belles-Lettres in Univ. of Edinburgh, and Editor of

_Blackwood's Magazine_. 16mo, extra cloth, $1.00.

BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES.--_Festus_: A Poem. (New Aldine Edition.) 16mo,

vellum cloth, $1.00; do., do., three-quarter calf, extra, $2.50; do.,

do., flexible, or tree-calf, $3.50.

This great dramatic poem exhibits a soul gifted, tried, buffeted,

beguiled, stricken, purified, redeemed, pardoned, and triumphant. It is

interspersed with delightful songs. Has been praised by Bulwer,

Thackeray and Tennyson as a remarkable poem of great beauty. The

present edition is very handsome, the type is large and elegant, the

paper is excellent, and the steel engravings are of exceeding grace.

BON GAULTIER'S BOOK OF BALLADS. By W. E. Aytoun and Theodore Martin. A

new edition, including "Firmilian." Cloth, $1.00.

In all his poems Prof. Aytoun has put forth a sustained power and

beauty of expression which have placed him in the foremost rank of the

poets of his time. "His Lays" have all the historic truth and force of

Macaulay, expressing noble thought by a delineation of generous and

lofty natures stated with fluency, vigour and movement. His ballad

themes are selected from striking incidents and from stirring scenes of

Scottish history, and he has thrown over them the light of an

imagination at once picturesque and powerful.

BURTON (Dr. J. Hill).--The Book Hunter, with Memoir and Index. New

Edition, With Portrait and Engraving of Interior of Library. Crown 8vo,

Roxburgh style, $3.00.

Burton's "Book Hunter" is indispensable to every owner of a library; it

will be found of incalculable aid in classifying, studying, collecting

and the preservation of books. It abounds in reminiscences of noted

Bibliophiles and Book Hunters. We offer in this edition a volume that

for general excellence of typography and binding will delight the heart

of every book hunter.

CAMPBELL (Sir George, M. P.).--White and Black. The Outcome of a Visit

to the United States. By Sir George Campbell, M.P. Being a Bird's-eye

View of the Management of the Colored Races, with the Contents of my

Journal. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, $1.75.

We have in this work the views of a prominent Englishman on the

relative positions occupied by the Black and White Races in the United

States. Several suggestions and opinions are given toward solving the

Race Problem that will be read with lively interest by all who desire

the caste question amicably settled.

CARROLL (Lewis).--Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found

There. With fifty illustrations by John Tenniel. 1 vol. 12mo. $1.25.

CHILD'S OWN BOOK OF FAIRY TALES.--Containing Aladdin or the Wonderful

Lamp, Beauty and the Beast, Children in the Wood, Goody Two-Shoes,

Gulliver, Jack the Giant Killer, Jack and the Beanstalk, Puss in Boots,

Robin Hood, Tom Thumb, White Cat, Yellow Dwarf, and others. With

upwards of one hundred illustrations, after designs by eminent American

artists. Square 16mo, cloth. $1.50.

The best collection of the famous old-fashioned Fairy Tales contained

in any one volume, many of which can only be found in this edition.

CHILD'S TREASURY OF FAIRY TALES. For Little Folks. Containing The Six

Swans, Little Hunch-Back, Hop-O-My Thumb, Blanch and Rosalind, Dummling

and the Toad, Fortunio, The Fox's Brush, The Three Wishes, Cinderella,

Whittington and his Cat, and many others. Printed with extra large

type. Illustrated with 60 engravings by the American artists, Twaites

and others. Cloth, black and gold, square 16mo, $1.50.

This edition of the more popular and best known Fairy Tales is

especially commended for the profusion and beauty of its illustrations.

CHILDREN'S BIBLE PICTURE AND STORY BOOK.--With sixty full-page

illustrations. Square 16mo, beautifully printed and bound in cloth

extra, $1.50.

A real beautiful book--one that ought to be placed into the hands of

all, even the youngest children. It is a complete history of the

principal events or stories in the Old and New Testaments, written in

remarkably clear, simple, unaffected language, extremely well

illustrated. It brings out into bold relief the singular charm of the

book of books, and leads on to the study of the scriptures.

CRAIG'S DICTIONARY.--A Pronouncing Dictionary of the English Language.

Based upon the Works of Webster, Worcester, etc., etc. Containing

30,000 Words and 750 Engravings. Edited by C. H. Craig, LL.D. 12mo,

cloth, $1.00.

"Every one ought to own a dictionary,"----and the low price at which we

offer this edition places it within the reach of all. It is,

undoubtedly, the best cheap dictionary made: it contains all the words

in general every-day use, with their most standard definitions and

pronunciations.

CRAIG (A.R., M.A.). YOUR LUCK'S IN YOUR HAND; or, The Science of Modern

Palmistry, with some Account of the Gypsies. Numerous illustrations.

12mo, cloth, gilt extra, $1.25.

A recent revival of interest in this fascinating study has certainly

proven the fact that Prof. Craig's Palmistry is the most complete and

satisfactory work on the subject extant--it shows the careful work of a

master hand. Should there be a single "doubting Thomas" who does not

believe "your luck's in your hand," let him read the convincing

arguments in this work and be converted.

CYCLOPEDIA OF BIBLE ILLUSTRATIONS, being a storehouse of Similes,

Allegories, and Anecdotes. Edited by Rev. R. Newton, D.D. 12mo, cloth,

$1.25.

A treasury of spiritual riches borrowed from nature, art, history,

biography, anecdote, and simile, by Christian authors of all countries

and ages. A book full of wisdom and of the happiest illustrations of

points of doctrine and morals.

CYCLOPAEDIA OF THE ARTS AND SCIENCES: Botany, Zoology, Mineralogy,

Geology, Astronomy, Geometry, Mathematics, Mechanics, Electricity,

Chemistry, etc., etc. Illustrated with over 3,000 wood engravings, 1

vol., 4to, cloth extra, $6.00; sheep, $7.50; or, in half morocco extra,

$10.00.

This popular Encyclopaedia is more than a first-class book of reference,

it is a library of popular scientific treatises each one complete in

itself, which places into the hands of the reader the means to procure

for himself a thorough technical self-education. The several topics are

handled with a view of a thorough instruction of these particular

branches of knowledge, and all statements are precise and

scientifically accurate.

DANA (R. H., Jr.). Two Years Before the Mast, 1 vol., 12mo, $1.50.

One of the most fascinating and instructive narratives of the sea ever

written for young folks. The reader's sympathies are enlisted with the

hero from first to last, but the hardships and hair-breadth escapes he

meets with would prevent most boys from emulating his example.

DUFFERIN.--Letters from High Latitudes. A Yacht Voyage to Iceland, Jan

Mayen, and Spitzbergen. By his Excellency the Earl of Dufferin,

Governor-General of the Dominion of Canada. Authorized edition. With

portrait and several illustrations. 8vo, cloth extra, $1.50.

The titled author has given us in this work a narrative of a voyage

replete with incident in the yacht "Foam." His impressions of the

countries and people visited in the far North are written in a fresh

and original style, in the purest English, and the account of the whole

voyage is as pleasing and interesting as a work of fiction.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING'S POEMS.--The most satisfactory American

edition issued, printed from excellent type on paper of superior

quality, with introductory essay by Henry T. Tuckerman. 3 vols., 8vo,

gilt tops, $5.25; half calf extra, $10.50.

The highest place among modern poetesses must be claimed for Mrs.

Browning. In purity, loftiness of sentiment, feeling and in

intellectual power she is excelled only by Tennyson, whose works it is

evident she had carefully studied. Nearly all her poems bear the

impress of deep and sometimes melancholy thought, but show a high and

fervid imagination. Her _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, are as

passionate as Shakespeare's, all eminently beautiful. Of her _Aurora

Leigh_, Ruskin said "that is the greatest poem which this century has

produced in any language."

FESTUS.--A Poem by Philip James Bailey. With choice steel plates, by

Hammett Billings. Beautifully printed. 4to, cloth, gilt, $3.00; do.,

do., full gilt and gilt edges, $5.00.

GAUTIER (Theophile). One of Cleopatra's Nights and Other Fantastic

Stories. Translated from the French by Lafcadio Hearn. 8vo, cloth

extra, gilt top, $1.75.

A brilliant and intensely fascinating collection of stories from the

pen of the inimitable Gautier, they are excellent specimens of his work

in his brightest and happiest vein; the scenes are audaciously limned,

and distinguished for their conscientious fidelity to nature.

GRAY.--The works of Thomas Gray, _in Prose and Verse_. Edited by Edmund

Goose, Lecturer of English Literature at the University of Cambridge.

With portraits, fac-similes, etc. 4 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top,

$6.00; half calf, $12.00.

"Every lover of English literature will welcome the works of Gray, the

author of the immortal 'Elegy written in a Country Churchyard,' from

the hands of an editor so accomplished as Mr. Gosse. His competency for

the task has been known for some time to students of poetry, and the

present edition is now considered to be the most careful and complete

ever published."--_London Athenaeum_.

GUNNING (William D.).--Life History of Our Planet. Illustrated with 80

illustrations by Mary Gunning. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt extra, $1.50.

From this work, more so than any other, we probably gain a clearer idea

of the almost incredible changes Nature has wrought on our planet and

still more wonderful changes we may expect in the future. We are given

several interesting pages--with illustrations--on the mammoth creatures

of pre-historic times, whose mummified bones alone remain to tell their

story. It should be read by every one who desires to know more about

the world we live in.

HARDY (Lady Duffus). Through Cities and Prairie Lands. A most

interesting book of Travels in America, 1 vol., crown 8vo, cloth, gilt

top, $1.75.

Recollections of a most pleasant trip made by this distinguished lady

through America. She has many warm words for the kind manner in which

she was treated, and altogether the work is a most pleasing and

pronounced contrast to the average hastily written English impressions

of America.

HISTORY AND ANTIQUITIES OF FREEMASONRY, as Connected with Ancient Norse

Guilds, and the Oriental and Mediaeval Building Fraternities, to which

is added the Legend of Prince Edward, etc., by George F. Fort. A New

Edition. 1 vol., 8vo, $1.75.

This work is the result of years of labor on the part of the author,

whose original and persistent design has been to arrive at the _truth_,

and, at the same time, supply a want long felt by members of the

Masonic Fraternity, as well as the uninitiated. That he has fully

accomplished his purpose is demonstrated by the fact that it is now

looked upon as the most standard and authentic history of Freemasonry

in existence.

HOW? or, Spare Hours Made Profitable for Boys and Girls. By Kennedy

Holbrook. Profusely illustrated by the author. 8vo, cloth, gilt, $2.00.

do., do., full gilt extra, $2.50.

The most interesting and instructive work of the kind ever issued. By

the help of their plainly worded and fully illustrated instructions,

any bright boy or girl may devise unlimited entertainment and fashion

many acceptable and useful presents for playmates and friends. The

directions are for working with wood, paper, chemicals and paints,

with knife, pencil, brush and scissors, and for the performance of

sleight-of-hand tricks.

JERROLD (Blanchard). Days with Great Authors. Dickens, Scott,

Thackeray, Douglas Jerrold. Selections from their Works, and

Biographical Sketches and Personal Reminiscences. Numerous

illustrations. 8vo, cloth, gilt extra, $2.00.

To the hosts of admirers of these great authors this work will prove of

absorbing interest, as it contains many reminiscences never before in

print. Considerable space has also been devoted to their public

speeches, and short, characteristic selections are given from their

best works.

LA FONTAINE'S FABLES.--Translated from the French by Elizur Wright, Jr.

Illustrations by Grandville. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, $1.50.

_La Fontaine's Fables_--there is magic as well as music in the name;

they have been deservedly popular for years, and they will be read with

ever increasing pleasure by young and old, "as long as the world rolls

round." This is the only moderate priced translation of these charming

fables published.

LE BRUN (Madame Vigee).--Souvenirs of. With a steel portrait, from an

original painting by the author. 2 vols. in 1, crown 8vo, red cloth,

gilt top, $1.75.

"An amusing book, which contains a great deal that is new and strange,

and many anecdotes which are always entertaining." It is written in a

reminiscent and chatty style, and relates many "choice tid-bits" of the

distinguished historical personages with whom the authoress was

acquainted.

LOUDON'S COTTAGE, FARM AND VILLA Architecture and

Furniture.--Containing numerous Designs for Dwellings, from the Villa

to the Cottage and the Farm, each design accompanied by analytical and

critical remarks. Illustrated by upwards of 2,000 engravings. In one

very thick vol., 8vo, $7.50.

One of the most useful books on architecture ever issued. Gives

valuable hints to anyone contemplating building either villas,

cottages, or outhouses, and may save thoughtful and practical men

hundreds of dollars.

MACAULAY'S LAYS of Ancient Rome.--With all the antique illustrations

and steel portrait. Beautifully printed. 4to, cloth, extra gilt, $3.50;

do., do., full gilt and gilt edges, $5.00; do., do., 12mo, cloth extra,

$1.00.

When the famous historian issued these lays, which have since become

classics, it was a literary surprise, for no one thought that he was

also a poet of such high degree. His poetry is the rythmical outflow of

a vigorous and affluent writer, given to splendor of diction and

imagery in his flowing prose. Stedman said of this volume, "the lays

have to me a charm, and to almost every healthy young mind are an

immediate delight."

NAPOLEON.--Las Cases' Napoleon. Memoirs of the Life, Exile, and

Conversations of the Emperor Napoleon. By the Count de Las Cases, with

8 steel portraits, maps, and illustrations. 4 vols., 12 mo, 400 pages

each, cloth, $5.00; half calf extra, $10.00.

With his son the Count devoted himself at St. Helena to the care of the

Emperor and passed his evenings in recording his remarks. Commenting in

a letter to Lucian Bonaparte on the treatment to which Napoleon was

subjected, he was arrested by the English authorities and sent away and

imprisoned.

NAPOLEON.--O'Meara's Napoleon in Exile; or A Voice from St. Helena.

Opinions and Reflections of Napoleon on the Most Important Events in

his Life and Government in his own words. By Barry E. O'Meara, his late

Surgeon. Portrait of Napoleon, after Delaroche, and a view of St.

Helena, both on steel. 2 vols., 12mo, cloth, $2.50; half calf extra,

$5.00.

Mr. O'Meara's works contains a body of the most interesting and

valuable information--information the accuracy of which stands

unimpeached by any attacks, made against its author. The details in Las

Cases' work and those of Mr. O'Meara mutually support each other.

NAPIER'S PENINSULA WAR.--The History of the War in the Peninsula. By

Major-Gen. Sir W. F. P. Napier. With 55 maps and plans of battles, 5

portraits on steel, and a complete index. An elegant Library Edition. 5

vols., 8vo, $7.50; half calf, $18.00.

Acknowledged to be the most valuable record of that war which England

waged against the power of Napoleon. The most ample testimony has been

borne to the accuracy of the historian's statements, and to the

diligence and acuteness with which he has collected his materials.

NELL GWYN, The Story of, and the Sayings of Charles the Second, related

and collated by Peter Cunningham, F.S.A. With fine portrait and 11

extra engravings, 8vo, cloth extra, $3.50.

An exceedingly interesting memoir relating to the times of Charles II.

Pepys in writing about Nell Gwyn called her "Pretty witty Nell," was

always delighted to see her, and constantly praises her excellent

acting. Cunningham states that had the King lived he would have created

her Countess of Greenwich, and his dying wish to his brother,

afterwards James II., was: "Do not let poor Nelly starve."

PICTURESQUE IRELAND, Descriptive and Historical.--Comprising 50

full-page engravings on steel of its picturesque scenery, remarkable

antiquities and present aspects, from original drawings by W. H.

Bartlett, and a complete account of its cities, towns, mountains,

waters, ancient monuments, and modern structures by Markinfield Addey.

2 vols., 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, $10.00; or in half morocco

extra, gilt edges, $20.00.

These two handsome volumes will make the reader better acquainted with

the picturesque features of the "Emerald Isle" than any work that has

ever preceded it. Only by a combination of both pen and pencil was it

possible to give an idea of the beauty of Ireland, its marvelous lakes,

mountains and valleys, romantic streams, mysterious round towers,

giant's causeway, waterfalls, stately castles, magnificent religious

and public edifices, etc., etc.

PURITANS, History of the Puritans and Pilgrim Fathers. By Professor

Stowell and Daniel Wilson, F.S.A. In 1 vol., 8vo, cloth, $1.75.

Stowell and Wilson's history is acknowledged everywhere to be the best

and most exhaustive history of the Pilgrim fathers. A full and complete

account of the rise of the Puritans under the Tudors to their

settlement in New England, which is herein given, makes this a most

valuable work of reference and study.

STAUFFER (Frank H.). The Queer, The Quaint, The Quizzical. A Cabinet

for the Curious. With full index. 8vo, cloth extra, $1.75.

"Oddities and wonders,

Antiquities and blunders,

And omens dire;

Strange customs, cranks and freaks,

With philosophy in streaks"

are all to be found between the covers of this book. It certainly is

the completest collection of odd and curious events ever made.

TAINE. H. A.--History of English Literature. Translated by H. Van Laun,

with Introductory Essay and Notes by R. H. Stoddard. 4 handsome

volumes. Cloth, white labels, $7.50.

It is the book on the subject, the more wonderful that, written

by a French critic, it should be accepted by English-speaking

people--everywhere--as _the_ authority on the literature of their own

language, universally prized for its clearness, terseness and

comprehensiveness, and yet as interesting as a work of fiction.

THE APOCRYPHAL NEW TESTAMENT, _Being all the Gospels, Epistles, and

Other Pieces now extant attributed in the First Centuries to Jesus

Christ, His Apostles_ and their Companions, and not included in the New

Testament by its compilers. Translated from the original tongues, and

now first collected into one volume. With numerous quaint

illustrations, 1 vol., 8vo, cloth, red edges, $1.25.

As a literary curiosity this work has excited the greatest attention

all over the Christian world. There is nothing in it contradictory of

those truths which have been accepted as _revealed_, but every chapter

and verse goes to confirm the undoubted writings of the apostles and

evangelists.

WALT WHITMAN.--Leaves of Grass. Original edition. Year 85 of the State.

Foolscap 8vo, cloth extra, $3.75.

We offer here the Fine Original Edition of Whitman's Poems. Recognition

of the wonderful power and charm in his rugged verse has been freely

given by all who appreciate the grand and beautiful in poetry. The

"Good, Gray Poet" is gaining admirers daily; his _Leaves of Grass_ is

destined to live forever as a representative classic of a bold and

rythmic style of versification peculiarly his own.

WATERS (Robert). William Shakespeare Portrayed by Himself. A Revelation

of the Poet in the Career and Character of one of his own Dramatic

Heroes. By Robert Waters, 1 vol., $1.25.

In this able and exceedingly interesting book on Shakespeare, the

author shows how the great poet has revealed himself, his life, and his

character, besides refuting conclusively the ciphers of Donnelly and

other Baconian theories. Altogether the best life of Shakespeare,

remarkably well written in vigorous English. "An original, wholesome,

scholarly, and plainly sincere book on Shakespeare. It is after all

something new about Shakespeare, which Lowell feared could not be

said."--E. C. Stedman.

WILSON'S NOCTES AMBROSIANAE.--The Noctes Ambrosianae, by Prof. Wilson, J.

G. Lockhart, James Hogg, and Dr. Maginn. A revised edition, with Steel

Portraits, and Memoirs of the authors, and copiously annotated by R.

Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L. 6 vols., crown 8vo, including "Christopher

North," A Memoir of Prof. Wilson, from family papers and other sources.

By his daughter, Mrs. Gordon. Cloth $9.00; half calf $18.00.

This series of imaginary conversations were supposed to have taken

place between Christopher North (Wilson), the Ettrick Sheperd (Hogg)

and others in the parlour of a tavern kept by one Ambrose in Edinburgh,

hence the title Noctes Ambrosianae. A too literal interpretation is not

to be given to the scene of these festivities, however, but the true

Ambrose's must be looked for only in the realms of the imagination. It

is one of the most curious and original works in the English language,

a most singular and delightful outpouring of criticism, politics and

descriptions of feeling, character and scenery of verse and prose, of

eloquence and especially of wild fun. It breathes the very essence of

the Bacchanalian revel of clever men. Prof. Wilson is a writer of the

most ardent and enthusiastic genius whose eloquence is as the rush of

mighty waters.

YOUNG FOLKS' HISTORY OF THE REBELLION. By William M. Thayer.

Illustrated. 4 vols., 12mo, cloth, $5.00.

Fort Sumter to Roanoke Island. | Murfreesboro' to Fort Pillow.

Roanoke Island to Murfreesboro'. | Fort Pillow to the End.

A faithful history of the late war, which by its attractive

presentation is especially adapted to youthful readers. Its narrative

is full of dash and adventure, the military events are recited vividly

and thrillingly, it is interspersed with individual heroism, suffering

and daring, and on the whole renders a better account of the war and

its causes than any other book that we are acquainted with. The

author's style is perfect at all times, either delicate, pathetic, or

picturesque, but always in simple language that any young reader can

fully understand.

CLASSICS FOR CHILDREN.

AESOP'S FABLES. New edition, profusely illustrated. 8vo, cloth, gilt,

$2.00; do., do., full gilt extra, $2.50.

AEsop, born in the sixth century before Christ, while traveling through

Greece, recited himself his home-truths, which in the shape of fables

are full of wisdom that will teach and live forever. He did not collect

or write them down, but they were easily remembered, became universally

popular and were passed on from mouth to mouth, and from generation to

generation.

ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES.--By Hans Christian Andersen. New plates, large,

clear type, handsomely printed and illustrated. 12mo, cloth, black and

gold, $2.00; do., do., full gilt, $2.50.

The most charming fairy tales of the world, full of earnestness, humor,

pathos, and fresh inventiveness, written in a style of carefully

studied simplicity. They have become familiar to children in all

countries.

ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS.--New edition. Edited by E. O. Chapman.

Profusely illustrated. 8vo, cloth extra, $2.00; do., do., full gilt,

$2.50.

A very pleasing edition, with most attractive illustrations of the

oriental fairyland over which Queen Shehrazad reigns. It is now and

always will remain a classic.

BARON MUNCHAUSEN.--The Life, Travels, and Extraordinary Adventures of.

By the Last of his Family. 1 vol., cloth, gilt, $2.00; do., do., full

gilt extra, $2.50.

The original Munchausen was an officer in the Russian service, who

served against the Turks. He told the most extravagant stories about

the campaign till his fancy completely got the better of his memory,

and he believed his own extravagant fictions. The wit and humor of

these tales are simply delightful.

BOY'S OWN BOOK.--A Complete Encyclopaedia of all Athletic, Scientific,

Recreative, Out-door and In-door Exercises and Diversions. Beautifully

illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt, $1.50.

The best present anyone can make to bright boys. One ought always bear

in mind the adage "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The word _koenig_ signifies "king."]

[Footnote 2: The German word for "fence" is _zaun_, and zaun-koenig

means "hedge-sparrow."--Tr.]

[Footnote 3: Commission paid a person who arranges marriages. Tr.]

[Footnote 4: Fee paid a marriage broker.]

[Footnote 5: The equivalent for "mitten." Tr.]

[Footnote 6: Epsom salts.]

[Footnote 7: Truffles are found by means of dogs which have an

unusually keen scent.]

[Footnote 8: A less ceremonious form of the pronoun you.]

[Footnote 9: The German phrase for being hen-pecked.]