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THE NOVELIST.

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THE HEARTHSTONE.—­A GERMAN TRADITIONAL TALE.

(For the Mirror.)

Frantz did not at all like his new benefice; his parishioners were evidently idle, ill-disposed people, doing no credit to the ministry of the deceased incumbent; and looking with eyes any thing but respectful and affectionate upon their new pastor.  In short, he foresaw a host of troubles; although he had not taken possession of his living for more than two days.  Neither did he admire the lonely situation of his house, which, gloomy and old fashioned, needed (at least so thought the polished Frantz, just emerged from the puny restraints and unlimited licenses of college) nothing less than a total rebuilding to render it inhabitable.  His own sleeping apartment he liked less than all; but what could be done?  It was decidedly the only decent dormitory in the house—­had been that of the late pastor—­and there was no help for it—­could not but be his own.  The young minister was wretched—­lamented without ceasing the enjoyments of Leipzig—­missed the society of his fellow students, and actually began to meditate taking a wife.  But upon whom should his election fall?  He caused all his female acquaintances to pass in mental review before him; some were fair—­some wealthy—­some altogether angelic; but Frantz was not Grand Seignior, and he allowed himself to be puzzled in a matter where every sentiment of love and honour ought to have, without hesitation, determined his choice; for in his rainbow visions of bright beauty and ethereal perfection, appeared the lonely and lovely Adelinda.  Adelinda, the poor, the fond, the devoted, and, but for him, the innocent.  No; beautiful and loving as she was, connected with her were the brooding shadows of guilt, and the lurid clouds of fiery vengeance; and Frantz had rather not think of Adelinda.

On the morning of the third day of his residence at Steingart, he happened to awake very early; being summertime it was broad daylight, and a bright sun was endeavouring to beam upon his countenance through the small lozenges of almost opaque glass which filled the high, narrow, and many paned window.  Not feeling inclined to sleep, nor for the present to rise, Frantz laid for some time in deep reverie, with his eyes fixed, as some would have deemed, upon the door; and as others, more justly, would have thought upon vacancy.  As he gazed, however, he was suddenly conscious that the door slowly and sullenly swung open, and admitted three strangers; a man of tall and graceful figure, and of a comely but melancholy aspect, arrayed in a long, loose and dark morning gown; he led two young and lovely children, whose burnished golden hair, pale, clear, tranquil countenances and snow-white garments gave them the appearance of celestial intelligences.  Frantz, terrified and