we spent at Jena, Hans. Ida has made me give up all my old vices. I am a tame tiger, and soon docility will be quite natural to me. told you I should reform." I always "Tell us something of yourself, Hans," said Ida. "We must congratulate you on your new-gained honour." I bowed an acknowledgment, and said, "I am waiting now for a short interval before I enter on the profession I have chosen. I have already had many pleasing visions of medicines and compounds." "It always was incomprehensible to me how anybody could be persuaded to become a doctor," said Rosenthal. "The profession need not necessarily be adopted from choice. There are many motives which would lead one to seek it." "What may they be, Hans ?" said he. "Let us have a learned dissertation on the thoughts and feelings of a doctor. Ida and I wish to be instructed in the mystery." "Become one and then you will need no teaching," I said, rather tartly. "You have not half admired my baby," said Ida, anxious to change the conversation. "Is he not a splendid boy? Take him in your arms, Hans, and feel how heavy he is." I flinched. "Take his baby in my arms! How could I?" was the thought that flashed through my brain. My eye encountered Ida's, a world of tender solicitude beamed from her clear eyes; it was impossible to doubt their meaning, and, stooping down, I took the child in my arms. It looked up at me at first with a perplexed stare, then raising its little hands it gave a kick with its legs, and the small face contracted itself into an expression of extreme disgust, while the voice gave utterance to the feeling in a succession of lusty yells. I delivered the excitable little gentleman back to his mother, with a sensation of awe. Ida laughed merrily. I was glad, and yet vexed, to hear her laugh. Why should I grudge her happiness? In my heart of hearts I did so, for I remembered the year of anguish I had spent, and man is very selfish; he does not like to suffer alone. It was not till I had given back the child to its mother that I discovered we were alone. Rosenthal had quitted the room during this little episode. I felt greatly embarrassed, and scarcely heard Ida's careless question, how it happened I had become a baby-frightener? She was not slow in observing the change in my demeanour, and a shadow crossed her brow. We were both silent, and seemed to hesitate who should speak first. At last Ida broke the painful pause, and the tone of her voice thrilled through my heart. I almost wished the chasm circumstances had made between us could have engulphed me, hidden me for ever; yet it was sweet to listen to her again, though, alas! I had not learned to forget what we had once been to each other. "Perhaps it would have been better not to speak of bygone times," she said, slowly, and with evident pain. "We ought to forget them now, but it is difficult to do so." "Impossible!" I muttered, between my teeth. She looked up half frightened, half imploring. "You bear no malice to my husband, Hans? Tell me that you rest the whole blame on me, and I am content." "Do you wish me so much to dislike you?" I asked, coldly. "Hans!" Ida exclaimed-and her tone startled me; it was so full of suppressed pain, the word sounded almost like a cry-" your own sufferings will tell you in some degree what mine have been," she added, regaining her self-possession. "You know what I mean, Hans-you know what our position is. I feared that you might cherish some angry feelings towards my husband. Say you regard him in the light you have always done-say that, after this first painful interview, you will feel no reluctance to be his-our friend, and I shall be content-nay, more than content-happy." “You would not have me tell an untruth, Ida. How is it possible that I can look upon your husband as I did my college friend? I cannot; but I bear no malice either to him or to you." "Thanks a thousand times. You give me hope; for where there is no unkindly feeling, all things may be hoped for and expected. Friendship will return if you let it; we are able to mould the future by self-tuition." I sighed slightly as I said, with some bitterness, "Yes, the long, blank future is there staring at me, and pointing out all my shipwrecked hopes one by one. It is like a hot desert without one oasis or refreshing stream, and it has to be lived out, endured; there is no turning aside.” "That may appear true now, Hans, but you will find that it is not so. The desert is a phantom which comes before you when you are in low spirits; but be assured there is no reality in its barrenness. The future of a well-directed life has always its oasis." “And is mine a well-directed life ?" I mused, partly addressing myself, though I uttered the words loud enough to catch Ida's attentive ear. "It may be one, and I know that you wish it to be so. You have always loved the right path, Hans, though, like the rest of the world, you have not always found it "And sometimes I did not try to find it," I said, interrupting her. She thought I alluded to the subject of the last despairing letter I had ever written to her, in which I had offered her her freedom from one whose belief was so wavering. "It was very generous of you to tell me what you once did, and if you had seen the burning shame it caused me, you would at least have pitied me, Hans. I do not know how it happened, but your last letter did not reach me till long after it was dated, and my fate was then sealed; I had acted ungenerously by you, and your noble letter, stating how unsettled you were and how unworthy you thought yourself of becoming my husband, was almost more than I could bear. I did not believe all the accusations you uttered against yourself, and I saw only how bitter a sacrifice you felt you were making. I pictured to myself your just indignation on receiving the news I had to impart, and I was crushed, too miserable to think, or act, as I ought to have done. But if error can be expiated by suffering, mine must be washed away by my tears. You will consider it very presumptuous in me to give you advice when I have committed so many grievous faults, but I feel that I have been guilty of robbing you of a happy youth, and this makes me more desirous than I can say to be instrumental in restoring to you what I took away. We have both suffered for our mutual error. "Very true, and the pain appears greater than we deserved," I said, وو hurriedly, for her words had roused all my old feelings. "Is it so heinous a crime to love? You know that you love me still, and I affirm as freely that the flame which once burnt so brightly is, as it were, renewed by this meeting; it was but dormant, it can never be quenched; and why should it ?” Your "Hans!" said Ida, almost sternly, "you forget who I am. language is an insult; if I thought you meant what you say, my duty would be to bid you depart and never enter this house again. I am Rosenthal's wife, and, as such, I must insist on a promise from you that this shall never be repeated." I strode up and down the room, greatly agitated; then checking myself, I came up to her and said, in a subdued voice: " Forgive me. Love still clings to my heart; it has not yet learned to forget that it was once a cherished gift. I crave your pardon, I am not worthy of the pure offer of friendship you have just made me; let me go. Do not seek my society. When I can command myself, I will come here as you asked me; till then I cannot look upon you as a friend. I need time." "And you have had it. Absence has failed to make you forget the old Ida, who is now dead; you will soon cease to think of her, except as a departed friend, if you learn to associate with Rosenthal and his wife. Come here, as you would naturally have done to the house of an old acquaintance; it would be better for all that should command yourself to the task, though it may be a painful one at first. My husband knows nothing of our engagement prior to my marriage: he must not suspect it, for I would not have his peace disturbed." you "I will not stand between you and your domestic happiness, bringing jealousy and mistrust where all ought to be pure. No, Ida, we once loved each other. I cannot shake off the old, long-cherished love: it was a fountain of joy formerly, but now its water springs in bitterness." "Forgive me for speaking as I feel I must, but this is weakness on your part; a strong will could overcome all such feelings. To-day, at this first meeting, it was natural an old wound should be opened afresh. I am sensible of it myself, but time and custom change everything; it will effectually heal the sore, and in after years we shall even be able to talk with indifference." "Do not say that word," I exclaimed, passionately. "Yes, Hans, indifference is the word I ought to use in that place." "You speak with such cold determination." "And ought I not? I appeal to your own heart, to your sense of right and wrong; if you let this guide you, I have no fear that you will judge me harshly." I did not speak, and she continued pleadingly: "Forget the Ida of those days; the love you bore her is buried; let affection for her outward form spring up on the grave of the dead Ida, and my former self will bless you." "You speak in enigmas, but what you say is just and true. I would fain not believe it to be so," I said, despondingly. "You will forgive me the rash words I uttered in my bitter disappointment. I was half wild when I really lost you." "I can freely forgive when I have so much to be forgiven. This must be the last conversation we ever hold on this topic; but it is well we have said these things; thoughts are more easily combated when they have been expressed. We must learn to look upon each other as friends from childhood. I, more especially, must do so, for I am a debtor to Rosenthal for much love, and you owe no one any; but it will be a happy day for me when I see you married, and married for love." Rosenthal entered at this juncture with a friend, or I know not what rash words I might not have said; but as it was, I swallowed my emotion as best I could, and prepared to take my leave. Ida held my hand in hers for an instant as I bid her good-by, saying, "You will come and see us again when you are able: this has been a somewhat distressing visit, the next will not be so." A walk in the ducal gardens after this interview did me good. I was vexed with myself for having behaved as I had done, when I had entered with so firm an intention to conduct myself very differently. I did not like to confess, even to my own self, that I had been weak, so I did not put the self-accusation into words, but I felt that this had been the case, and I resolved manfully to conquer it in future. It is a pity we so often require the impetus of shame at the error committed to give us energy and resolution to try and correct a similar fault for the future, but so it is. I met Count von P. and my aunt whilst walking, which vexed me, for I would rather have been alone. They were full of court gossip; our little capital is as rife with scandal as even the Prussian metropolis, with the debauched King Frederick-William II. at its head. They spoke of Goethe's liaison with Christiane Vulpius (an old story now); they disapproved highly of his conduct, though they had never thought of questioning it before, and wondered at so great a man finding pleasure in the society of a person so far beneath him in every way. To peep into a circle above one's own is always amusing, and although I never envied the frivolous, jealous circle about court, I have always been interested in hearing the comments, tittle-tattle, and earnest nonsense which engages so much of their time. My aunt persuaded me to accompany them to an evening gathering of some of the literati. I enjoyed myself much, and heard a great deal of learned matter discussed, which, in spite of its leading me somewhat out of my depth, left a pleasant impression on the mind. "The news of the death of Frederick-William of Prussia reached us in November. No one but his favourites, and those who suffer by a change of masters, can regret his death. The Prussian kingdom, had he lived much longer, would have been utterly ruined. His life was a disgrace. His subjects must look forward with hope to the succession of his son, the new king. It is rumoured that he was heard to say, 'I shall fulfil my duty.' The Prussians can only wish for the confirmation of this promise, and they will surely be content, though, from all I have heard, he will have many to please." Written in my journal, December, 1797. A DREAMER'S EPITHALAMIUM. BY W. CHARLES KENT. CELESTIAL Concord tunes our bridal bells I listen vaguely to their gentle sound, I hear a voice more tender breathed around- Thine, loved as loving, fairest, dearest, best, Mine by yon golden round religion-blest, My beautiful, my bride! Mine by those cream-white blooms, that virgin prize Mine by emotions whose inaudible sighs Hark! softly stealing through my whispered words- (As oft through rustling boughs the twilight birds See! thawed by April, Springtime's floral floods Sweet milk of verdure curdling in buds As twilight droops, revealing star on star As through the darkening hush from deeps afar Floats down the myriad dew— Fragrance like incense floats to heaven from these Prayers growing up to God among the trees, As erst in Eden's days. Around our home here nestling deep in leaves- Dear home, with promise rife- Its natural garland, lo the garden weaves For thee, O maiden-wife! A natural cincture, fraught with holy charm, The nuptial zone of a sustaining arm So through Life's Garden loitering side by side (God's holy heaven above!) The bridegroom Adam led sweet Eve his bride Down shadowy paths of love. Then bloomed the earth, as now, in floral pride (God's sacred stars above!), When bridegroom Adam led sweet Eve his bride |