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pleasure, he lulled that voice of conscience, which sometimes ventured to breathe its warning in his ear. The marriage of Count Miloknerr with the fair widow was celebrated four months after, at the lady’s castle. The most distinguished families from the surrounding country, were invited on that occasion; and according to the fashion of the times, every guest, as well as the vassals on both sides, brought presents to the bride; which, whether large or small, of greater or less value, were displayed on long tables in the hall, for the inspection of visitors. With his heart and eyes completely engrossed with the dazzling charms of his lately won Bertha, the Count hardly noticed this varied array, till at his bride’s earnest re quest, on the day subsequent to the ceremony, he accompanied her to the hall, where his greatest enjoyment lay in beholding Bertha’s delight, as she held up for inspection, some tasteful or costly article among the presents. Presently he was startled by beholding among them an alabaster lamp, so exactly resembling the one possessed by Ladika, that he exam ined it more carefully, and was astonished to find a perfect sac simile; nay ! he seemed struck by an electric shock, as he discovered the peculiar vein in the alabaster, which ran through eac]i of the seven sculptures, and which he had often watched, during whole hours, in Ladika’s lamp. Could nature have twice played the same freak ? Could there be two so precisely similar ? And if not, how was this one brought to the Castle ? With as an indifferent tone as he could assume, the Knight turned to his companion, enqui ring who had presented her this gift. “Ah !” cried Bertha, “lam glad you re called the circumstance to my mind ; this lamp belongs to you.” “To me'?” he repeated in alarm. “ Yes, to you, and you shall explain the matter to me,” she added, tapping him play fully on the cheek! “About midnight, and while our guests were engrossed in noise and merriment, a servant came to say that some one, bearing a marriage gift, desired to speak with me. On going to the great hall, there stood a maiden clad in white, and deadly pale, with this lamp in her hands. Present ing it to me, she said in a low, hollow voice, “this is for Count Miloknerr, he is now the possessor of the lamp then quickly disap peared. Now tell me, dear husband, who is the maiden, and how did she come by your property ?’ 1 Miloknerr became deadly pale, but seeking to recover himself, he muttered, “it is a jest which I will explain to you some other time.” “No!” said Bertha seriously, “let it be as you wish. Ourexistence begins from to-day ! What happened before belongs not to me, and from me you need fear no reproach.” “ But you shall hear the whole truth,” cried Miloknerr, “this evening I will tell you the story, even though it may be against me.” Throughout the morning the Count tor mented himself to decide, whether he should reveal to Bertha the real state of affairs, till when seated together in the evening, the bride placed the lamp on the table, playfully observing, “In the face of this you shall make your confession.” “ Nay! send it away,” rejoined Miloknerr; “ or, better yet, throw it out of the window.” “ That would be a pity,” cried his wife: “do you know I have taken a fancy to this singular article; so let it stand, and begin your story at once.” Fearful that Ladika, or even Bohoraz him self, might at some future time present them selves and place the matter in its true light, Miloknerr deemed it safest to employ no pre varication, and accordingly revealed every circumstance of his sickness; his ill-advised attachment and subsequent engagement, only resting the reason of his want of good faith, on the enchantment produced on his mind, by his bride’s loveliness. During his narra tion, Bertha regarded, him smilingly from §®©lFoaS[EKl Ha a?BIE AIE ¥ ®&8BT Ts G& • time to time, till when he had ended, she laid her white hand on his glowing cheek, and softly observed, “do not be anxious, Milok nerr, such things have happened a thousand times before, and as far as concerns me, I cannot reproach you, since it would be acting against my heart’s interest. And this is really a magical lamp,” she added, “handed down from Libussa herself. Wonderful! highly wonderful! I shall carefully preserve it, and will light it at once, so as to see, whether the statues will make faces at me or not.” With a merry laugh, Bertha applied a match to the wick, and scarcely did it flame up, when her companion, with a loud cry, sprang from his seat, and with the aspect of insanity shrieked, “ there! look there ! Ber tha, for Heaven's sake extinguish the lamp.” And even after she had done so, his limbs trembled, and he sat with his hands over his eyes. “Tell me what ails you?” was his wife’s anxious inquiry. “ Put away the lamp and I will tell you,” he rejoined in tones of exhaustion; and im mediately she locked it up in the cupboard. “No doubt, you will think me out of my senses, but it is the simple truth which I am about to unfold,” said the Count; “hardly had you lit the lamp, when out of a light cloud, which seemed to overshadow it, ap peared anew sculpture, resembling Ladika, with her eyes closed, her features rigid, and her whole expression like that of a corpse.” “ Impossible!” cried Bertha, as her husband ceased speaking. “ What you saw was only the effect of fancy-” “ Never! it was too real; I pray you, Bertha, if you love me, throw away that lamp.” “ How foolish ! Miloknerr, unless lit, it can produce in you no disquiet.” But again he pleaded so earnestly, that, seizing it, she tossed it from the window on the cliff below, where no doubt could be en tertained, but that it was shattered to pieces. What was their surprise, when, on the next morning, it was seen uninjured, on the table, and in answer to their enquiries, a servant said, “ that he had found it in a cleft among the rocks, where it had been probably secre ted by some thief, who had stolen it from the Castle.” “ Ah! the Slipper of Abul Kasem,” ob served the Count playfully, as the reader laid aside the manuscript. “ Fair Cousin, your tale deals rather too much in the marvellous to he interesting to me. Such may do for a legend, but according to my notion, a . tale should possess some historical ground-work ; at least the principal circumstances should be possible.” “My dear Cousin !” rejoined the lady, riv etting her dark eyes on her companion’s face, “ even if you regard the matter as somewhat allegorical, yet the chief incidents of my story take place daily. You shake your head; you say that there was never such a magical lamp ; but I reply, that every man possesses such a one, and although not always kept burning, yet, when once kindled, its wick of ten flames up in a startling and mysterious way. This lamp, my lord, is named con science. Ladislaw tried to laugh, but could not suc ceed ; and still looking steadfastly at him, she continued, “ Only renounce the marvel lous in my story, and surely you will allow that it is not a strange one. For instance, a young man from the world of fashion, meets in some rural seclusion, with an unso phisticated maiden, who, accepting all his flatteries as real coin, yields to him the affec tions of her innocent heart, and even enters into an engagement, which he at first intends fully to ratify. Soon, however, objections force themselves on his mind, and he ques tions whether, with her obscure birth and un fashionable manners, he can venture to in troduce her into his little world; till, to get rid of her, he marries another. No doubt that her image will force itself sometimes on his memory, if the lamp of conscience be not altogether extinguished: and at such time, if he be not thoroughly worthless, can he es cape the well-deserved pangs of a troubled conscience? till ” “Till which, cousin?” exclaimed Ladis law, while his brow became damp and chill ed from depressed agitation. “ Till he becomes miserable, and causes misery to another. Here lies the moral that forms the ground-work of my tale, and such things happen every day. Yes! depend up on it, Count, you cannot enter a churchyard, beneath whose tombstones could not be found some heart which was wounded and broken in this way. But let me continue my read ing “ Miloknerr’s marriage with Bertha proved anything but a happy one. The latter knew too well the worth of her beauty and wealth, not to be elevated by them beyond her femi nine rights; and, not long after her union, she gave her husband to understand that nothing but momentary caprice had caused her to prefer him among the crowd of noble admirers, who had sued for her hand, and that, therefore, she. had a right to expect the utmost deference and compliance with all her wishes. In spite of his endeavours to gratify her every whim, the hapless Count soon dis covered that Bertha's authoritative temper could brook no opposition or restraint; and one day, particularly, when, on being tried beyond all bounds of patience, he loudly de clared that he was determined not to yield, his wife sprang up angrily, exclaiming: “ I know one way by which to bend you to my will;” and commenced lighting the magical lamp. With a cry of anguish he rushed out of the chamber; when, finding that absence afforded no relief, so long as the lamp contin ued to burn, he was obliged to return and en treat her to extinguish it. Such scenes be came of daily occurrence, and in the course of a few months, the strong, active and for merly light-hearted Count fell into a deep melancholy, which only ended with his life. ‘The lamp will soon be yours,’ he sorrowful ly observed to his wife, a few minutes before his decease; and a fearful gift did it prove to the haughty woman, whose a'fter life was em bittered by its mysterious influence, till, in a fit of delirum, she threw herself from the tow er of her own castle.” Theodora here laid aside the manuscript, and a pause of some moments ensued. “Yes! even if its ornaments are fanciful, there lies an inner truth at its ground-work. Have you never met with such instances, Count?” she asked, with a serious and pene trating glance. “Oh! my friend!” he exclaimed, unable to preserve the assumed indifference, beneath which he sought to conceal his own feelings, “I cannot help confessing that I have had a personal share in a circumstance somewhat similar. That, through an unfortunate suc cession of events, I was perhaps unjust to ” “Sophia?” enquired the Baroness in anx ious tones. “Gracious heavens! you know ” “Every thing.” “Then I entreat you to speak. I would learn how great has been my offence; wheth er I have been deceived, or caused sorrow to the innocent. But listen first to my story. — As you are aware, my aunt, the rich Count ess 8., took such a fancy to the little Sophia, as not only to direct her education at her own expense but even to chose her for a compan ion. Having no children of her own she had, from my birth, declared me her only heir; and when, on obtaining a furlough, I was absent from the regiment for several months, my whole time was past in the soci ety of the maiden, who had grown up grace ful, accomplished and very beautiful. Fa miliar with her from my earliest years, our friendly intercourse soon ripened into love; and before my return to the regiment, I had declared my attachment, and learned that it was fully reciprocated. Earlier than we in tended, my aunt discovered the state of af fairs, and, in the first excitement of passion, she turned Sophia out of her house and up braided me violently; when I openly declared that I was positively engaged, and that noth ing should prevent me from marrying the maiden. Tears, prayers, and threats of an alteration in her will, all failed in turning me from my purpose; and a constant intercourse by letter was kept up with my betrothed, who was now living at some distance. In the course of time Sophia’s epistles became few er and colder in their tone. I reproached her for the same, to which she made no reply in her answers; and, vexed by her treatment, I too, in time, wrote less frequently, particular ly as I heard several persons remark, on the light and frivolous manner in which she had behaved, after my departure. One day my aunt entered my chamber, (I was then on a visit at her country seat,) with an open letter in her hand, which I yet possess. It was from a lady who had been formerly her house keeper, and with whom Sophia was now hoarding. In it she asserted that her lodger’s manners had become so flighty, and her be haviour so reprehensible, as to cause her to fear that she would be obliged to request her to leave her house. Greatly excited and as tonished by this account, I immediately wrote to Sophia, urging her, in perhaps a rather harsh manner, to explain away these reports ; hut received no answer, and thus all commu nication ceased. Several years elapsed, when accident led me to the old neighborhood, where I one day heard the maiden’s name in cidentally mentioned. Without revealing our intimacy, I made careful inquiry concerning her; and, on hinting my suspicions respect ing her, the person indignantly declared that I had been totally misinformed, since he was certain that she was universally respected— and was then conducting a school for young ladies. I could not venture to intrude on her, but hastened to seek out the woman with whom she had formerly boarded, but was dis appointed to find that she was dead. Since then, dear friend, I have heard nothing more of Sophia, until I learned from you that she was in this neighborhood. What would 1 not give to know whether I have been un just towards her, or whether she has proved unworthy of my love ? I have ever feared the latter, since she has returned no answer to my letter.” “All shall soon be explained,” observed the Baroness with a serious expression, when leaving the room for a moment. She soon returned with a letter, which Ladislaw eag erly received. It was from the lady with whom Sophia had formerly boarded, and was directed to her, as from a dying person, who sought her forgiveness. The writer declared that her benefactress, Countess 8., had one day summoned her to her presence, to inform her of the engagement, which, as she said, would bring such distress to the whole fami ly, that she had determined to use every means to prevent it, and at length induced the writer, not only to intercept their mntuai letters, but also to address the one to herself, which had been the means of casting a shade over the maiden’s blameless conduct. On her death-bed, however, she could not be happy without revealing the whole truth, and be seeching Sophia’s forgiveness. “ You see Count,” said the Baroness, “how readily you fell into the net, and how entire ly you were deceived. When I lately met Sophia at the bathing place, where she leads a very retired life, and supports herself by giving private lessons, I was struck with the expression of melancholy which rested on her formerly animated face; and after repeated interviews, in which I succeeded in unfolding the deep interest which I really felt, she open ed to me her heart, and accidentally revealed t 19