"MORALS" are just now at a premium in the mart of literature. Tennyson asks, “What moral is there in a rose ?" Certainly none at all; and therefore roses, and all such things, are at a discount.

The following tale will turn out, upon examination, to be fraught with moral. Whether that moral be good, bad, or indifferent, we will not undertake to determine; nor is it necessary that we should do so, for the result at which we aim can be in no manner influenced by such determination. The European popularity of the Sues, Sands, and Balzacs is produced and satisfied by a moral it does not ask, what moral?

When roses were in fashion, a simple delineation of Colombe von Ilmenau, and a repetition of what she did and said, when Friedrich, the Student of Bonn, made love to her, would not have been without attraction in themselves. But nudity of sentiment is almost as much out of the question now as nudity of person; and we perceive even less prospect of the restoration of the first than of the last. The latter species of nudity boasts at least one sincere, powerful, and unflinching advocate

need we mention Madame Dudevant?-and this is more than we can conscientiously affirm of the nudity sentimental.

To one article, however, of the reigning fashion we do not subscribe; namely, the necessity of deducing our moral or morals from the immoralities of our heroine: and this for the simple reason that, from all that has been told us of her, she does not appear to have been guilty of any. But to that other article, which requires the moral or morals to be indistinguishably interwoven with the text of the story, and not tacked on to the end, like a tin kettle to the tail of a cat, we subscribe very heartily: Because, in the first place, it greatly facilitates the task of the author, who, in this case, has but to throw forth a few mystical hints as to the being of a profound moral,

leaving the moral itself to the care of that great general law, which provides "Sermons in stones, and good in every thing;" and, in the second place, it satisfies all classes of Readers: to the lover of the didactic the performance, with a little ingenuity upon his part, becomes didactic, while the admirers of the unmixedly amusing have only to be passive to be pleased.

We are lovers of the didactic, and have, from earliest youth, been attached to that system, by the practice of which Shakspere analysed "stones" and "everything" a great deal better than Berzelius or Faraday have ever done since.

One fine morning, last autumn, the writer was indulging his ruling inclination, as the steamer, in which he had embarked at Bonn, was labouring up past Nonnenwerth, by endeavouring to extract some consoling "sermon from his bitter disappointment on first witnessing the vastly overrated beauties of the Rhine. Having, at last, succeeded, and being thoroughly wearied by staring alternately at the Drachenfels, on one side, and Nonnenwerth, on the other, he drew forth a volume of Schiller, and listlessly applied himself to the page at which it chanced to open. It was at the poem called Das Lied von der Glocke.

Scarcely had he settled into a kind of lethargic semi-absorption in his subject, when he was aroused from it by the firm and even pressure of somebody's hand upon his shoulder. Looking up he beheld a young man, with long brown hair, handsome features, and very large dark-blue eyes, which were fixed upon him with an eager stare, apparently expressive of fervid admiration. It first occurred to narrator that this was a madman; but, on glancing round him, and perceiving no one likely to be his keeper, he at last remembered having seen the intruder embark, at the same time with himself, at Boun; and he therefore concluded that it was only a German student. The stranger spoke :

"You are reading Schiller?"

Friedrich was now in love; but what he expected to find the seal of his happiness he soon discovered to be the commencement of his real miseries. That very night there was to be a drink-meeting, at which he now determined to make a declaration of his equality with his companions. The glorious moment came; it was his turn to sing, or else to submit to the usual penalty, by drinking a prodigious vessel of beer, and paying for it. Hitherto he had always undergone this ordeal, because he had no mistress to sing of, but now, to the astonishment of all, instead of betaking himself to the beer, which had been prepared for him, he burst forth into a song of his own making, about Colombe von Ilmenau.

Scarcely had he concluded the last stanza with her name, before he found himself drenched and blinded, by the contents of a large cylindrical white jug of beer, which were dashed into his face by a young man, who, flushed and foaming with anger, proclaimed himself the brother of Colombe. Arrangements for a hostile meeting ensued.

Here was a predicament for a lover to be placed in! Never in any romance or drama had he read of one more fraught with interest and fearful pathos. It was worthy to become the subject of a future NibelungenLied. Friedrich resolved that the incident should lose no lustre by unworthy circumstances. The meeting had been broken up by the quarrel, and the other members of it had departed to their several apartments; but Friedrich reflected that his narrow lodging, strewn with shattered beer-jugs and reeking with stale tobacco-fumes was not the place to ruminate on sorrow like his own. The stars and moon were shining in the sky, against which the gigantic summits of the Siebengebirge stood afar off, dark and dreadfully. Ah!

would that he were stationed upon one of them! All objects about him would then accord with the magnitude of his grief. His contemplations, and his subsequent resolves as to his future course of action, would be worthy of the lover of Colombe! And shall he, then, neglect to do any not absolutely inpracticable deed, which should procure him such advantages? He hurries to his apartment; attires himself with due precautions against the cold; slings a supply of beer in a large stone bottle hastily about his neck; pockets a bundle of tobacco, and a spacious pipe; casts his cloak across his shoulders; and darts forwards upon his journey towards the Seven-mountains. He rushes down the street sanctified by the dwelling therein of the divine Colombe; he briefly apostrophises the mansion, thrice blessed by her presence; he has crossed the silent sleeping Rhine; he is toiling up the bases of the Siebengebirge; he has attained the highest of their summits!

Here the German student paused, being apparently exhausted by the energy of his language, which betokened an entire sympathy with his hero. He filled the before-mentioned jug, which seemed to contain about an English quart, to the very brim, with beer. We declined it this time, assuring him that we feared to incur the disapprobation of a medical adviser, at whose injunctions we then visited the Rhine. Whereupon the student gave our hand another squeeze, because if we had accepted the proffered beverage there would not have been enough left for himself to last out the story. He then applied the vessel to his own lips; emptied it at one draught, which, instead of completing, appeared to cure, his exhaustion; and he continued thus:

"Ah! trembling stars, eternally trembling with eternal love! Ah! thou lovely moon, self-loving, that comest up to look upon thine own

beauty in the quiet Rhine! Ah! thou passion-tossed land-ocean of upheaved mountains! Ah! thou widowed tower of Nonnenwerth,

dreaming ever, there below, of those mighty, manful days to which thou wast wedded in thy youth! Ah! thou stern and aged Monarch, Drachenfels, ruin-crowned, thyself a ruin, yet an everlasting record, whilst thou hast a name, of memorable acts of ancient love! Ah! pleasant town of Bonn, with thy few lights, lovesignals haply, far away! Ah! beloved Universität, with thy hundreds of lovers, all asleep! Ah! thou heavenly, unutterable Colombe!"

Such were the words of Friedrich, as soon as he had sufficiently refreshed himself from his flagon to be capable of speaking for any time together without inconvenience. Such were his words as they stand recorded among his notes for a work to be entitled "Die Leiden des Jungen Friedrich" "Sorrows of Friedrich."

Having thus addressed the surrounding objects, he spread his cloak upon the surface of the mountain; seated himself thereon; ignited his pipe; placed the beer within reach ; and commenced his meditations concerning the events of the past day, and their probable consequences · especially the duel of the morrow. The troublesome and disfiguring wounds, which are constantly the result of university duels, notwithstanding the almost complete armour in which they are always foughten, occupied no portion of his thoughts. It was the relationship borne by his antagonist to the celestial Colombe

that alone troubled them. If he fought and vanquished it would, horrible reflection! bring her hatred upon him; should he himself be conquered, or refuse to fight, more horrible still! he should become the object of her pity or contempt.-A thought occurs to him! Where could have occurred a thought so noble, except upon a summit of the Siebengebirge! It is resolved!

Hereupon a celestial placidity gained possession of his countenance. He took a prolonged, steady, and determined imbibition of his beer; replenished his pipe; gave one final gaze at the several objects of his late apostrophe; enveloped himself in his ample cloak; and, as it was too late and he was too weary to return to Bonn that night, he smoked himself forthwith into a sound and dreamless sleep.

Here the Student made another pause; either for breath, or beer, or both; and we seized the opportunity of thanking him, for having enlivened the scenes just traversed, by an interest more immediately human than was to be gathered from the legends respectively attached to them;

legends from which the sort of aged novelty, that, like the freshlooking bloom of rust on old bronzes, adds so much to their value, has been totally worn away by too much handling. We were now past Nonnenwerth, and he began anew :

The rising sun saw Friedrich refreshed by his slumbers and exulting in the consciousness of an heroic purpose, stalking down the side of the mountain, toward Bonn, with as even and determined a pace as the steepness of the descent would permit of. He arrived before the dwelling of Colombe. Here his resolute will for a moment seemed to fail him. The numerous tears fell swiftly from his eyes, as he bade an eternal adieu to the green railings, to the bed of white lilies, to the door at which he

saw her disappear, and lastly to the garden and to the mansion in the aggregate. He then staggered on to his apartment; armed all the mortal parts of his person very carefully, according to the custom of university duellists; called for a supply of beer; ignited his final pipe; and thus apostrophised Colombe:

"Ah! thou celestial incarnation of my boyish dreams; thou worddefying meeting of all perfectness, whether earthly, or of heaven; thou beloved bearer of a soul as fully