ical science. The former proclaims to the scholars that while they are going through the prescribed course, the noblest organs of their frame are suffering irreparable injury; the other speaks to the teachers in the accents of experience, that of their scholars some will sink under the weight of the excessive burden, for that they are, and will remain, too weak to bear it; some will receive your gifts one after another, but when the storms of life come, they will all be swept away, for that even in a fertile soil too many trees cannot take deep root; others receive and retain, so that you can search in them for what you want as in an Encyclopædia, — but they are also as void of character, mere lumps of animated clay; while lastly a few, some three or four, thrive in head and heart, not however in consequence, but in spite of your system. Not the poor scholars are to blame for this, nor the poor teachers, but rather the parents; and yet neither are they individually to blame. But the question is not, "who is to blame?" but "what is to be done?" In Prussia the question has been officially addressed to the provincial school-committees, whether the amount of studies is really injurious to the physical health of the scholars; the answer was that on the whole their state of health is satisfactory. Indeed! but are those committees competent to judge? Of acute diseases during school-time, they might know something; but that is not at all the question; it is, what is the state of health after the school-time has elapsed. Let the question be proposed to families, to the sanatory commission, recruiting department, and the replies would furnish the same lamentable result which they lately did in the kingdom of Saxony. In Bavaria royal benevolence has ordered, as a preventive of short-sightedness, that the walls of all school-rooms shall be colored green, but without any good result; the small cheap Tauchnitz editions have also been interdicted, but the Munich booksellers have been the only gainers, while the purses of the poor scholars have suffered in proportion. If schoolmasters are requested to solve this problem, strange oracular responses may sometimes be heard. One set declaim against variety, dogmatically condemn the newly introduced subjects, and are for retaining only the little which was taught in schools in the good old times. Am thod which reminds one of Dr. Eisenbart's infallible remedy for the tooth-ache: if any one has the tooth-ache he cuts his head off; the tooth-ache is certainly cured, but-? It is the same with our children. But let us hear another party; one thing at a time, is their maxim. But there are three things which they overlook: first, time; could a conqueror take possession of an entire country in as short a time, if he led his armies along a single narrow path? secondly, the nature of sciences; - we cannot leave a single field, as for instance the Latin language, uncultivated during six months or a year, without a deficiency in the produce, -- and lastly, the nature of children. There is a third set, who are for studying a great many things, not one at a time, but all together and in connection with one-another. And they who have thoroughly comprehended this theory, who teach every branch separately, but in so doing economically combine them, so as to teach language while they instruct in every science,--for language is connected with all, so as to impart instruction in mathematics, while teaching natural sciences, - for mathematics are the grammar of natural science, these, we say, have conceived a great and fertile idea, that, namely, of the compression of knowledge, which may in part solve our problem, but cannot solve it entirely. There is yet a fourth class, whose universal specific is method. It is certainly true, that by means of method some saving of time may be effected. If grammar is taught in a school on so senseless a plan, that the scholars know of no other mark of distinction between the different verbs, than that for irregular verbs they are regularly flogged and for regular verbs only occasionally, they will, it is certain, learn the language at last, but they will not have much time left for other studies. But even if we suppose that every branch of knowledge is taught by the best possible method, still the objections raised by medical and psychological science will not be obviated, the problem will not be solved. The question therefore still remains, "what is to be done?" I know but of one solution, and that is, "Prolong the period of education." This appears to me so clearly the true solution, that I shall not adduce any long arguments to prove its correctness. If you demand of a boy at the age of sixteen years what you now require of one at the age of fourteen, then, and then only, can you diminish the number of studies, then the combination of studies will be possible and beneficial, then method will be able to give to the whole growth deep and strong roots. The realization, the practical solution of this problem must not be expected from the school, the poor dependent school, but from the state and from its rational members. The state must cease to demand, and to wear out in unrewarded service youthful energies, the old must cease from the fatal haste with which they urge forward little children, must cease from hurrying them prematurely away from the free and living | monsters, but rather and almost solely the Public ; instructions of nature into the dead world of the public which is ever demanding results, books; must let them play and sing for a some- results, and only results! what longer period among the buds and blossoms of the tree of life; and must not let themselves be dazzled by such precocious sages of thirteen years of age, as we have often seen paraded before their wondering eyes. It is not the school which is to blame for the production of such Do not make such preposterous demands of the school; give it freedom to act, and then it will gradually be able to approach the solution of those higher and more intricate problems which the world is on all sides requiring to be solved. — Minerva. "It's a long time since we last met, Herr divan, a couple of half-worn-out tables, and a Baron," said the apothecary's wife. "A long time, I am sorry to say,” replied the Petersburg dandy; " and I never expected that this journey of mine, which I undertook so unwillingly, would have afforded me so agreeable a surprise." "What surprise, Herr Baron?" "Good fortune, I meant to say the indescribable good fortune of meeting you again of once more renewing one of the pleasantest acquaintances of my youth." Here the Baron cast a doubtful and scrutinizing glance on the apothecary; but the latter only made a civil bow, as not seeming to understand the allusion. He, however, immediately afterwards invited the Baron to follow his wife into the sitting-room. Fuhrenheim entered the apartment with a sort of mysterious awe: varied reminiscences of the past rushed on his memory the professor's humble dwellingthose familiar evenings formerly spent in her society, and a certain indistinct visionary form that had once flitted round his bed of sickness all these pictures reproduced themselves in rapid succession on the ground of his re-awakened heart. But it was no longer a slender, halfformed girl, with bashful manners and downcast look, that stood before him; it was now a beautiful young woman, in the full bloom of her charms. Perhaps she might have lost somewhat of that expression of untroubled calmness and serenity that had heretofore surrounded her head like an "aureole;" but in its place an in small piano-forte near the window, in which a few flower-pots were symmetrically arranged. A glass-case in the corner exhibited a dozen china cups and saucers, arranged with German precision and neatness. This modest and thoroughly German decoration made a painful impression on the baron, and his thoughts wandered involuntarily to the gay boudoirs of the Petersburg ladies; this feeling was, however, only momentary-the longer he lived, the more indifferent had he become to the outward decorations of life. "I should never have dreamed of finding you here," said he, in a low tone. The apothecary's wife suppressed a sigh. "He is dead,” replied Charlotte. The Baron was embarrassed; he did not know what to say. Suddenly the habits of thinking of the fashionable world regained their ascendancy over him; a seductive idea presented itself to his mind, and recalled it from reminiscences of the past to the present. "The old father is dead (thought he to himself); her husband is a booby that can be easily cheated; and she loves me, and here in this solitude I am quite safe from rivalry; at all events it will help to dissipate ennui.” "You must be tired of this place," said he, in a tone of tender sympathy. "Sometimes I am," said Charlotte, a tear gathering in her eye; "my father died and left | the meanwhile. What a place it is, to be me alone in the world. Poor man, how often he used to speak of you! Since his death my whole destiny has been, as it were, shipwrecked. I see every thing in a different light. I don't know how I should have been able to survive that time, if the remembrance of happier hours had not remained to me." "Just as I thought (reasoned the baron to himself); that is an evident hint; she is ennuyée, therefore I may do as I please with her. I should be a very schoolboy to let such an opportunity slip." "But how came you to marry?" said he. "It was my father's wish that I should do so. He thought I would be happy with a man that loved me, and who, he knew, was incapable of deceiving me." "That is meant as a cut at me (remarked the Baron to himself). I was quite right—she loves me; and how beautiful she is! Our fashionable ladies are not fit to stand in the same room with her; and how much time, trouble, and money have I not thrown away for this foolish chatter." "It is not every one that can command their own destiny," continued he, aloud, with a sigh. "Your husband is a fortunate man; nothing stood in the way of his good luck; neither relations nor circumstances—not even you yourself, for-you loved him.” The apothecary's wife smiled sadly, and replied "My husband is an excellent, good creature; he is truly attached to me in his way, and I should be very ungrateful not to appreciate his good qualities." "The usual tactics (continued the Baron, speaking to himself); difficulties must be inventedpangs of conscience, and all that sort of thing; so that when the sacrifice has been made, there may be a greater claim for gratitude, and a better ground for reproaches." A prey to such base feelings, he turned towards her again, and said, with an appearance of emotion-"Your husband is the happiest man in the world always near you, always with you; he can pay you every tender attention; he may clasp you to his heart, and forget the whole world, whilst he suns himself in the rays of your beauty." sure!" "But why do you remain here?" demanded the Baron; "I should think it would be much better if you went into some large town- to St. Petersburg, for instance." "Yes, that would not be bad; but it is too expensive there for a married man. To be sure, if I had a place." "Oh, perhaps that can be managed." "Pray do not trouble yourself about it; your time must be too precious. You live altogether in the higher circles of society, and amongst such people you could not think of an humble apothecary." "You do me injustice in thinking so-I am always most happy to be able to serve a friend." "You do me a great honor, Herr Baron." "I hope to show you that I deserve the name of friend." "But you must find this place very stupid, Herr Baron?" "Oh, not at all—quite the contrary." "You men of the world have always something to say; but it is quite impossible that you could. find this place agreeable. We have no amusement to offer you; there is no theatre; we know nothing of balls. A hearty welcome, and a glass of wine, is all we can offer." "And I shall certainly avail myself of your kind offer." "Well, then, Herr Baron, come and dine with us on Wednesday. It will be the first time in your life that you have dined at an apothecary's." "I accept your kind invitation with pleas Charlotte became visibly affected. At this capitulated in his memory every immoral novel instant her husband entered the room. that he had previously read, and he determined | in his own mind to assume the character, and "What an infernal place this is!" said he, angrily; "there is no standing it. One cus-practise all the heartless stratagems of a profestomer bargains and cheapens, another takes on credit; just imagine, they are not ashamed to offer me fifty per cent., and then I must even wait for that till the new year your most obedient as if one could live on air in sional seducer. The Wednesday came, and the Baron could scarcely await the arrival of the hour of dinner. He selected his most becoming coat and vest, forced himself into his Parisian surtout, and made his way to the apothecary's dwelling. Franz Iwanowitsch met him at the door to welcome him, shook hands with him cordially, and led him into the same room as before. In the centre of this room stood a table with four corners. Every thing bespoke poverty, it is true, but, at the same time, every thing was neat and clean. The ci-devant landed proprietor in the frogged coat sat in a corner, whetting his appetite with a pipe. "And your wife, where is she?" demanded the Baron. "My wife is still busy in the kitchen about the dinner; we cannot afford to keep a cook, and she is obliged to look after every thing herself." The Baron was much displeased that the person whom he intended to honor with his love should be busied amongst the saucepans, or employed in roasting a fowl wherewithal to regale the object of her early passion. "Your most obedient," said the provincial dandy, emerging from his corner; "how do you manage to live here amongst us?" “Oh, very well.” "You are always dressed in the pink of the fashion. Was that waistcoat made at St. Petersburg?" "No-in Paris." had entered the house since he had been proprietor. Wishing to receive his guest with all possible splendor, he had ventured on this extreme piece of luxury. The exterior of the bottle and the foam of the wine resembled champagne, but the liquor itself was warm, and of a dubious flavor. "Our guest's health, and long life to him," said the apothecary. "And the rank of a general," added the befrogged dandy." "And every happiness," whispered the apothecary's wife. "Another glass!" said the host, becoming excited with his own hospitality. The bottle was soon empty, and the company rose from the table. It was already four o'clock, and the men smoked their pipes for a while; but at length the conversation came to a standstill. The apothecary seemed to be meditating on something important—perhaps the sale of his establishment, or its transference to another town. The Baron looked at his watch impatiently. Charlotte was flushed and restless. The ci-devant proprietor alone seemed at his ease; he lay stretched on the divan, yawning with the greatest nonchalance, and appeared to be busily engaged in counting the flies on the "In Paris! Oh, allow me to look at it; it ceiling. All at once he recollected that he must must have been very expensive?" "I don't recollect." "Yes, indeed- a Petersburg elegant-what whims he must have. At all events it must be confessed that you know how to dress." At this moment the apothecary's wife entered the room. She wore a plain white dress; two long ringlets hung down to her shoulders; and a black silk riband, fastened with a gold head, was bound round her temples. This somewhat too simple toilette threw the Baron once more off his centre. He made her a somewhat cold salutation, and began to talk of the weather. Meanwhile the dinner was served, and the guests took their seats. The cover was taken off the soup-tureen, and brought to light an old acquaintance-groats swimming in milk. The Baron gave Charlotte a look; she smiled and blushed. Some women can impart to the most trivial incidents in life some of the poetry of their own dispositions, especially when their hearts are concerned in the matter. Fuhrenheim understood at once the secret meaning of this homely dish; and overlooked, perhaps for the first time in his life, all the subsequent details of the dinner. The conversation was not very brilliant; towards the end, however, the apothecary got up from the table with an air of importance, went into the next room, and returned with a flask of champagne, the first that pay a visit to the postmaster; he, therefore, started up and took his leave, and the apothecary followed him to the door, and then remained in the shop to look after his business. Charlotte and Fuhrenheim were left alone together, and, it being late in autumn, it was already growing dark out of doors. Both remained silent, and in mute embarrassment. An unexpected timidity took possession of the heart of the reckless Lothario, and frustrated all his carefully devised plans. He mused and mused, and at length came to the conclusion that he was cutting a most ridiculous figure. At length he mustered up courage, and broke through the silence. "Will you not play something?" said he. "I play but seldom now." "Indeed! Do you remember how much we used to play together in former times?" "Oh, yes; I remember it well.” "Shall we begin? I am quite at your service." They sat down together at the piano, which the reader will recollect was placed at the window. A short discussion took place as to what they should play, and who should take the bass. Charlotte requested the Baron to do so, as in old times he had done. They here began to play, but both of them struck dreadfully false chords. | too, must be unhappy. No one here can appreSometimes he played too fast-sometimes she ciate you, no one can understand you; but I played too slow. This led to mutual apologies, know that you were born for sympathy, and and to begging each other's pardon. Meanwhile created to participate in all the joys and sorrows the room was getting quite dark. of love." "Confess the truth," whispered the Baron,"you are angry with me." "Why should I be angry with you? God forgives us all. I think I played the wrong note." "No," said the Baron, "pour out all your wrath on me; perhaps I may yet be able to justify my conduct to you." "Oh, I beg pardon; I believe I have got a bar a-bead." "It gives me great pain, your being angry with me." "What can you care for it? Turn over, if you please." "Oh, spare me." "Do I not tell the truth?" "Unhappy truth! Oh, how long did I hope for happiness. I caught a glimpse of it from afar, but, meteor-like, it vanished, and loneliness became my lot." "No," interrupted the Baron; "in vain does destiny combat against love. Had we been united, we should have been happy - your eyes tell me so. Who shall prevent our being happy ?" now "I do not hate you." "Can we not rise above the vulgar prejudices of every-day life? Can we not love one another, "Your sympathy is so valuable to me - I and find a compensation for our miseries in the need it so much - I am so unhappy." sweet delusion?" "You unhappy!" said Charlotte, with emotion. She stopped playing. "Yes, Charlotte-permit me still to address you by that dear name - I am truly unhappy. The world in which I live kills the heart-an icy blast pervades it, and my heart can find no peace. In the midst of the crowd, I feel alone -I cannot attach myself to any one, and I cannot believe that any one has sympathy with me." "But," said he, with more animation, "do you know what consoles me? Can you guess what those feelings are, that alone animate my breast in the icy atmosphere of the world? Can you tell this, Charlotte?" "And what would the world say?” "What need we to care about the world? Is not love a world in itself? How miserable is every thing earthly, when compared with it? How does it exalt the soul-what inspiration does not follow the passion of love!" At these words the Baron seized her hand it trembled violently. "And sacred duties," gasped she, with trembling voice. "These duties are but the fantasies of human calculation. Duty is an earthly conventionality, and heaven is open to us. You see it plainly enough, it was no blind chance—it was no blind chance that brought us together again; we were created for each other. Do you not feel this? The apothecary's wife was silent, but her But the force of my love enables me to anticipate bosom heaved. -- "Yes, Charlotte," continued the Baron, "it is the recollection of the times when we lived together it is the remembrance of you that constitutes my only happiness. How often, when tired of the heartless frivolity of the saloons, do I look back to that familiar, quiet corner, in which I lived, with you and for you. I then see before me your window, and the well-remembered shadow on the white curtain. Fancy usurps the place of reality, and, happy in my waking visions, my heart once more beats with love and bliss." "Ah," said the apothecary's wife, in a voice faint with emotion, "and what is my lot? Here every thing is strange to me, and joyless. I have not a single female friend. My father, too, is dead. Alas! too, I only live in the remembrance of the past, for the reality of the present weighs on me like a mountain of lead." "Poor Charlotte! my heart told me that you, that you must love me also." "And you do not deceive yourself," said the poor young woman, covering her pallid face and throbbing brow with her hand. An indescribable feeling of triumph filled Fuhrenheim's inmost soul. The room had now become quite dark. "Oh!" said he, "now I am ready to meet death for your sake- now happiness is within our reach. Repeat once more those precious words. Since when, and how did you come to love me?" "Oh, I will confess all I have not power to keep silence any longer," said she, speaking with great rapidity. "I always bore your image in my heart; I have never ceased to At this moment the door was thrown wide open, and a fat, barefooted peasant girl tramped into the room, bearing two brass candlesticks, in each of which was stuck a dimly-burning tallow candle. The apothecary's wife withdrew her |