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ing all glory and honor to endure mere sufferance—that now their children may fall into frivolous trifling with all that is most sacred? You know the writings of our religion better than I, but I have more experience of the world. Let me not have it in vain. Believe me, you will find dust and ashes if you give yourself up to the allurements of the world. Remain in the quiet sanctuary of sacred learning, and rejoice that you can live there undisturbed, as you proclaimed this day yourself."

The father's voice was deeply moved. Who knows how much lay behind these hastily uttered words? Transplanted to a strange soil he had aged rapidly. It seemed as if sorrow still oppressed him, that the fair native land, with its proud pleasures, had vanished forever for him. Perhaps for that reason he clung all the more to heavenly joys, and strove to bind his son to such alone.

The father's existence was twofold. The rapturous sensations that had filled his soul when Baruch received rabbinical honors were a combination of religious exaltation and worldly pride. On that Sabbath he was another man than on the days of work. He had still to struggle against memories of the past, all the more since his wife had been torn from him; he strove continually, more than was apparently requisite, to live in the present, and external cares and sorrows oppressed him deeply. He was an exile; his own heart was never