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describable longing for my friends, a homesickness inexplicable even to my self, took possession of me, and threatened to destroy my health, so that at length your good father thought it advisable to let me go home for some time, that I might convince myself that all was well there. The year was already far advanced, and winter was approaching with rapid strides, but my inward uneasiness would not suffer me to wait for the return of spring-I set out, despite of storms and tempests, so soon as I received your father's permission.

The day before I reached Lichtenhouse, I was assailed by a furious hurricane, such as had not been witnessed by the oldest people of the present century. The tempest uprooted the mightiest trees, snow and rain were mingled together, whilst the forked lightning thickly flashing, rent asunder the low black clouds, and seemed to announce the destruction of all living, Excessive anxiety overpowered me-it was not the natural terror occasioned by such an uproar of the elements that affected me, it was a deep presentiment of an approaching misfortune, the precursor whereof I beheld in this storm. With a painfully beating heart I descended from the carriage at Lichtenhouse; yet how different I found all there from what my fretted imagination had previously represented them.

My father came to meet me more joyfully than I had ever before seen him. Theodore's eyes beamed with inward happiness, and my sisters and other friends pressed around me with loud and joyful exclamations. In the midst of this dear circle I observed one stranger, of more than earthly beauty; such a lovely, delicate form, or a countenance with such an expression of heavenly purity and goodness, my eyes had never before witnessed. Theodore led her forward to embrace mehe bid me greet her as a sister, and called her his own Amelia, now for some hours his affianced bride! I almost sank under the joy that poured upon me from all sides.

I had never before seen my brother's bride. She belonged to a family with which we had no intercourse, although their castle lay but a few hours' journey distant from our's, on the opposite side of the forest, in a valley of exquisite beauty. Amelia's mother had received it as a present, upon the marriage of the crown prince, with whom she had

previously lived in an improper intercourse, but which was now abandoned. Amelia was the prince's daughter-her mother had afterwards married some one else; and there was so much infamy told of her and her way of living, that all proper persons avoided her society, and shunned coming at all in contact with her.

Amelia, however, was of a nobler nature. As a child she had respected and loved her mother, whose irregularities gave her much distress; and when she grew up, and her mother continued to plunge deeper in extravagancies of all kinds, she withdrew herself into the strictest solitude in a secluded wing of the castle, which was assigned for her occupation, and never appeared to the boisterous company, by whom, too, her presence was gladly dispensed with. Solitary walks in the neighbouring woods were her daily and only recreation. There it was that she and Theodore found each other— and now scarcely a day passed in which both did not meet in some silent lonely valley. No person knew the secret of their intercourse, except poor Margaret, and she preserved it faithfully and in silence. Yet what she may have felt in consequence of it, is known to God only, who beheld her

tears.

My poor brother was not to be blamed for these tears. He had no idea of what was passing in her mind, and always continued attached to her with a brother's love; but his love for Amelia was different-her he loved as his life-as the apple of his eye-as his future happiness-as poor Margaret loved him!

The coarse, dissipated life which Amelia's mother led in the castle, bad reached such a pitch, that her pureminded daughter could no longer endure it not only because she was daily persecuted by those who despised her for her loftier notions, but because she saw herself exposed to dangers, of which your innocence, Francesca, can form no idea. Theodore once found her in tears, on the brink of despair-she declared to him that she was resolved to fly as far as her feet could bear her, and that she would rather meet death itself than return to that abode of vice, where there was no longer any security for her. Thereupon Theodore placed her on his horse, and by wide circuits, succeeded in leading her unseen into his father's house. The castle was large and spacious, and

although our family was numerous, yet there was a suite of rooms entirely uninhabited. In one of these Theodore might easily have kept his love concealed for weeks, or even monthsnone of the domestics whose assistance he might require, would have betrayed him to my father! such was their inconceivable love and attachment to himself. This bold measure was his first idea; he wished to gain time, in order by degrees to make his father acquainted with his relations with Amelia, and to dispose him favourably to his love. But Amelia most indignantly rejected such a proposal-every sort of secrecy was hateful to her soul, and she had already suffered enough from being heretofore forced by her unhappy circumstances to see my brother at all in secret. She insisted, therefore, that Theodore should lead her that same hour to my father's presence, to intreat his protection for her. My father at first was furious-he called the step on which she had ventured rash and reprehensible; yet her enchanting loveliness and winning grace, her warm and humble supplications that he would not plunge her again into destruction, disarmed him. He promised her his protection, and consigned her to the care of my aunt, who since my mother's early death, had filled her place towards me and my sisters. He now endeavoured as soon as possible to gain more accurate intelligence of Amelia's mother, and of her mode of living. What he learned on that head, convinced him that Amelia was but too well justified in the extraordinary course she had adopted; and he hastened to the Crown Prince, by whom he was well known, to inform him of his daughter's present abode, and to request his permission for detaining her.

Amelia's princely father, being drawn away by other connexions and other inclinations, had almost entirely forgotten his former love, and his daughter's existence. He was now first, after a long while, reminded of the latter, and that in a way which awakened his most lively sympathy. He immediately ordered a great hunting party in the forest, which was under my father's surveillance, and made use of it as a pretext for visiting my father at Lichtenhouse, and for becoming acquainted with his daughter, whom he had scarcely ever seen. In the midst of the storm which overtook me on the road, and which was, indeed, of more fatal im

port than even I myself could then anticipate, the Prince arrived at Lichtenhouse. What shall I tell you farther, Francesca! Theodore's pure and deepfelt love, and the touching resignation wherewith Amelia left her destiny to her father's heart, overcame prejudices of many kinds, which at first rendered both parents unfavourable to the marriage of the youthful pair. Amelia and Theodore were solemnly affianced to each other. Amelia herself was protected from all pursuit on the part of her incensed mother, and attended by the blessings of his children, the Crown Prince left my father's mansion a few hours before my arrival.

Happy, happy times now followed. Oh God, how unutterably happy we were all then!-how joyous were our hearts!-how calm, how free from all apprehensions of the fatal, withering, calamity that impended over us!

My brother's nuptials were appointed for St. John's day, when he completed his one-and-twentieth year. My husband gave me leave to remain until then with this circle of beloved friends. The long-expected day arrived. In pursuance of an old family custom, the marriage was to be performed at midnight. On a large open space in the forest there were tents erected for us, and the inhabitants of the country round, that we might there enjoy with our friends the pleasures of this gay occasion. The air was sultry, and the sun intensely hot; the bridal pair walked out alone into the shadow of the cool wood; the rest remained in the pavilions. Oh my Francesca! a storm that had long been threatening at a distance, suddenly burst over our heads, the rain poured down in torrents, the lightning gleamed, flash on flash, succeeded by incessant peals of thunder. Of a sudden the universe appeared to be in flames-we all trembled in silent awe- And now all was once more still-quite still.

"The wood is on fire," exclaimed one of the huntsmen. The people rushed out of the tents: a few paces off, the lightning had shivered the oldest and tallest oak of the forest! and oh, more still, far, far more!-the young bridal pair lay leaning against its trunk, in the highest bloom of happiness-God had called them to a better world!"

My mother having ceased speaking, dried the tears which slowly trickled down her cheeks, and proceeded before me in silence. I saw well her efforts

to subdue recollections too vividly excited, and would not dare to interrupt her, even if I could; but I myself was unable to speak a word-deep melancholy and secret awe oppressed me. At length we reached the forester's dwelling-a neat little cottage, with green jalousies, surrounded with woodbine, roses, and jessamine.

The forrester, who was sitting at the door, stood up on our approach, and saluted us respectfully. My mother looked closely at him for a moment, and then went up to him, and kindly offered him her hand.

“Antonio Hubert !" said she, "don't you recollect Clara von Lichtenhaws?" "It is she, indeed!" cried Antonio, surprised; "yes, it is yourself, lady. You are still the same, good and kind as you ever were. When I heard your name mentioned, I supposed that it was our own formerly loved and respected Miss Clara. Twenty times I was in the act of going to see youbut it could not be it might have been very well-but it could not possibly be; and now you come of your self, and just to-day too," added he with an half-suppressed sigh.

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My mother seated herself on the bank before the door, and compelled the forester to sit down beside her. She asked him to tell her something of Margaret, and of her intermediate life, before she should visit her herself. My children," said she, "have already formed her acquaintance, and love her with an affection inherited perhaps from me. I heard that she was not very well yesterday. How is she to-day?"

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"Well! surely very well!" replied the forester, with solemn earnestness; and after a short pause added, "her history since that awful day is told in a few words. You may, perhaps, recollect, lady, that even some time before it, Margaret used to glide about pale and silent as a shadow, and at last never left her chamber, without still complaining of her peculiar weakness. The people said she was grow ing deep-sensed. What they meant by it I do not well know-before time there was always a deeper sense in whatever Margaret said or did but I knew well that she was good and virtuous, and continued so, even though she seemed more reserved than formerly, and at times said things which all did not understand. I, however, always knew her meaning.

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rence crushed her entirely. It was, indeed, no wonder-it almost cost my aged father his life, and he did not recover the shock for a long time, for he had been standing quite close to the unlucky tree. You yourself, lady, were dangerously ill; and altogether things were so mournful through the whole castle, that in comparison we considered ourselves fortunate; and so we found it natural enough that none of you could think of caring for poor Margaret, who meanwhile lay motionless upon her bed between life and death. After two months, she recovered, indeed, so far, as to move about again; she saw after little matters in the house, and resumed her lace-making once more; but no entreaties, no questions, no representations, could gain a single word from her. Deep sighs, and plaintive looks, full of inward sorrow, were her only speech; and the deadly paleness that overspread her face when she heard the shocking tidings, never left it since. Never since that day have I seen her cheeks blushing with a trace of her once lovely complexion.

"In order to tear my sister from a place where each stone and tree served but to awaken the most painful recollections, I offered myself for a huntsman's place in a remote district-I obtained it, and Margaret willingly removed with me, as she always cheerfully did whatever I desired her. I got married in my new residence ; my excellent wife paid every kindness to poor Margaret, and relieved her of every domestic task, in order to spare her health, which was growing every day more delicate. God sent us a pair of healthy children, that rendered our little circle more lively. The entire alteration of her mode of life, and the sight of things completely strange to her, had such a favorable effect on Margaret, that at last she began to speak, and even to evince some interest on what was passing. People who did not know her well, said she had not recovered her senses properly; but I understood well the meaning of her words, which were not by any means so confused as they seemed to those who did not know as I did, her heart and her sad story. She often spoke, sometimes with the birds of the forest, but oftener still with inanimate objects, with the flowers and the clouds. This, however, she had done from childhood. All nature scemed alive to her, as well as to him

also, who grew up in familiar intercourse with her, and won her heart's affections from her. The people however, never considered that; as for the rest she continued ever calm and gentle. It was only when there was a storm in the air, that we saw her moved by painful and restless anxiety. Who could censure her for that? In order to renove her from unpleasant remarks and inquisitive looks, I accepted some years after the situation offered me here, where I hoped to live in greater solitude. I thought too that a warmer climate and a prettier country than where we had been living, would be of use to Margaret, whose health visibly suffered in that cold bleak territory. I never dreamed, lady, that by such a resolution we should also come into your neighbourhood."

"My good Antonio!" said my mother, "hasten to prepare your sister for my presence. I long to see her again, and yet would not wish to give her a shock. I will weep with her, and console her. I will love her, and cherish her as a dear sister."

"You are very kind, lady!" said the forester, visibly affected. "You may see her now. There is no occasion for preparation," added he somewhat hesitatingly; "but to comfort poor Margaret is no longer in your power, my dear lady! God has already comforted

her; at midnight she departed softly without any pain."

He opened the house door-my mother followed gently into the chamber. There lay Margaret on her snowwhite bed, dressed as I had always seen her, with her hands folded and her eyes closed-a smile upon her countenance, and looking more beautiful than ever. The wreath of "everlasting flowers" which she wove the day before, adorned her hair.

I wept aloud, and would have thrown myself upon her, but Antonio held me back.

"Disturb not," said he, "by loud lamentations, the calm quiet of the dead."

My mother drew me towards herwe knelt down together by the bedside. Antonio also sunk upon his knees opposite to us. In this holy position we prayed low, and long, and fervently.

My mother caused a simple cross of white marble, with Margaret's name engraved, to be erected to her memory above the grassy mound, which was her favorite seat. It is still standing. Of an evening I often sit there and watch the clouds passing over the wood, and think of poor Margaret. I think, too, of my dear and excellent mother, and of all the beloved friends who have gone before me to eternity.

THE STUDENT OF LEIPSIC.

Die Burschen sind frey.

IN the ancient and far-famed city of Leipsic, there lived a certain Jew, Isaac Eldersohn by name. By a long and unremitting life of industry in the various and conjoined occupations of banker, bookseller, merchant and usurer, he succeeded in accumulating an enormous fortune, which continued to increase, not only by the great gains of his business, but also by the strictest parsimony and avarice on his part. He inhabited a large mansion in a deserted and neglected suburb of the city; it had formerly been the residence of one of the nobles of the land, and had come into his possession as payment of a debt. A high court-yard wall separated the house from the street; and within that dark enclosure no friendly step ever trod. Not even one brother of

Student's Lied,

the faithful tribe entered to greet the owner of this melancholy mansion, or gladden the hour of his solitude by social intercourse. Every morning at a certain hour the low wicket of the massive entrance-gate would open to permit the exit of the old man as he went forth to his daily occupations. Then might he be seen with the tail calpak of the Polish Jew upon his head, a coarse garment of Mohair girt around the waist by a broad black leather belt, from which hung an ink bottle and a purse; his hands crossed upon his breast, half concealed by the folds of his squalid raiment, and half by the long and glossy beard; while his dark and deep set eyes glanced rapidly from the ground to cast a scrutinizing look at the passing stranger, with a mixed

expression of duplicity, aversion, and fear.

If the old usurer neglected no opportunity of increasing that wealth which he worshipped, and scrupled at no means provided he attained the accursed mammon, yet, on the other hand, was he profuse and lavish to excess on one point—the education of an only daughter-he spared no expense in procuring for her the best masters of the University; and, although debarred, both by religion and rank, from partaking in the pleasures and amusements of the better classes of the city, he provided her with the most costly jewels and dresses which could be bought. As for her, she was no less amiable than beautiful; and the same fame which gave to the father the reputation of being the most cruel and inexorable miser, proclaimed the daughter as the benefactress of the poor, and the comforter of the wretched inhabitants of the miserable suburb where she resided, and thus rescued from total execration the name of her parent.

She but rarely if ever appeared in the city; but when she did so, the crowds of young nobles and students who followed her steps, or anxiously got before her to catch a passing glance at her dark eyes, proclaimed her as the most beautiful of the daughters of Israel; while the immense wealth, which it was naturally supposed she would inherit, made her no mean object of attraction in a land where the very highest ranks of the nobility are not over-burthened with riches.

Her only friend and acquaintance was an old Jewess, a distant relation of her father; in her company she always made her excursions into the city; with her too, occasionally, she was permitted, by way of relaxa tion and amusement, to walk on the ramparts, where the bands of the Jager regiments usually played every evening; and once her duenna, who was, indeed, doatingly fond of her young charge, and greatly compassionated her for the melancholy seclusion she was condemned to, ventured on bringing her to one of those gardens outside the town, where the young, the gay, and the fashionable resorted every evening. Rachel had often listened with delighted ears to the accounts of these pleasant retreats; and 'twas now with a beating heart and elastic step that she entered the garden of the Leopoldstadt,

then the most brilliant and fashionable in Leipsic.

Wherever she turned, groups of well dressed and happy-looking people met her eye; some were waltzing under the shade of the linden trees, others sat at supper within the cool and shady arbours, dimly lighted by lamps of various colors, tastefully suspended from the branches; and many, too, sat in little knots and coteries around the beautiful fountains which are every where to be met with in these gardens. All was gaiety, pleasure, and enjoyment; and, unaccustomed as she had been through life to scenes of this nature, she believed it to be a perfect Elysium.

While wandering thus through the garden, each moment discovering to her delighted mind some new and hitherto unknown source of pleasure and amusement, she unexpectedly approached a part where a large party were resting themselves after dancing. Desirous of witnessing a waltz, she took her place among the crowd of spectators who stood around in a large circle, and who, from her apparent eagerness and anxiety, made way for her to the front rank, to which place she gladly advanced, perfectly unaware of the etiquette on these occasions, which forbids any one to occupy such a position who is not desirous of dancing.

The music at length began; and while she observed the ceremony with which each cavalier led out his partner, she was surprised when a lady approached where she was standing and introduced a partner to her for the ensuing waltz; so amazed was she at the occurrence, she could not find words to reply, and fearing that to decline might be cousidered a breach of those laws of bon ton of which she knew nothing, with a deep blush she accepted the proffered hand of her partner, and stood among the circle of the dancers. The courtly address, the elegant, but unassuming demeanour of her partner at once, however, divested her of the embarrassment she had at first felt, and made her feel at ease with herself in this novel situation.

The dance was over; and scarcely had he led her back to her place beside her friend, when several students presented themselves, cap-in-hand, to claim the honour of dancing with her the next waltz. To this request she gave a firm but modest refusal, and

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