he in his turn is a debtor to his age,
and the lonely thinking and writing become the property of all; but the
effects are not seen in a moment; for higher than the most highly gifted
spirit of any single man is the spirit of a nation. With the pressure
which Gellert and the peasant exchanged commenced a mighty change in
universal life, which never more can cease to act.

"Permit me to enter your room?" said Christopher, and Gellert nodded
assent. He was so courteous that he motioned to the peasant to enter
first; however, Sauer went close after him: he thought it must be a
madman; he must protect his master; the man looked just as if he were
drunk. Gellert, with his amanuensis, Goedike, followed them.

Gellert, however, felt that the man must be actuated by pure motives: he
bade the others retire, and took Christopher alone into his study; and,
as he clasped his left with his own right hand, he asked: "Well, my good
friend, what is your business?"

"Eh? oh! nothing--I 've only brought you a load of wood there--a fair,
full load; however, I 'll give you the few logs which I have in my
wagon, as well."

"My good man, my servant Sauer looks after buying my wood."

"It is no question of buying. No, my dear sir, I give it to you."

"Give it to me? Why me particularly?"

"Oh! sir, you do not know at all what good you do, what good you have
done me; and my wife was right; why should there not be really pious
men in our day too? Surely the sun still shines as he shone thousands
of years ago; all is now the same as then; and the God of old is still
living."

"Certainly, certainly; I am glad to see you so pious."

"Ah! believe me, dear sir, I am not always so pious; and that I am so
disposed to-day is owing to you. We have no more confessionals now, but
I can confess to you: and you have taken a heavier load from my heart
than a wagon-load of wood. Oh! sir, I am not what I was. In my early
days I was a high-spirited, merry lad, and out in the field, and indoors
in the inn and the spinning-room, there was none who could sing
against me; but that is long past. What has a man on whose head the
grave-blossoms are growing," and he pointed to his gray head, "to do
with all that trash? And besides, the Seven Years' War has put a stop
to all our singing. But last night, in the midst of the fearful cold, I
sang a lay set expressly for me--all old tunes go to it: and it seemed
to me as though I saw a sign-post which pointed I kn