ht tapers upon my
Christmas-tree, but the tree itself burns, gives light, and warms: the
bush burns, and is not consumed, which is an image of the presence of
the Holy Spirit, and its admonition to trust in the Most High in this
wilderness of life, in mourning and in woe. Oh! my dear friend, I have
been nigh unto death. What a solemn, quaking stride is the stride
into eternity! What a difference between ideas of death in the days
of health, and on the brink of the grave! And how shall I show myself
worthy of longer life? By learning better to die. And, mark, when I sit
here in solitude pursuing my thoughts, keeping some and driving
away others, then I can think, that in distant valleys, upon distant
mountains, there are living men who carry my thoughts within their
hearts; and for them I live, and they are near and dear to me, till one
day we shall meet where there is no more parting, no more
separation. Peasant and scholar, let us abide as we are. Give me your
hand--farewell!"

And once again, the soft and the hard hand were clasped together, and
Christopher really trembled as Gellert laid his hand upon his shoulder.
They shook hands, and therewith something touched the heart of each
more impressively, more completely, than ever words could touch it.
Christopher got downstairs without knowing how: below, he threw down
the extra logs of wood, which he had kept back, with a clatter from
the wagon, and then drove briskly from the city. Not till he arrived
at Lindenthal did he allow himself and his horses rest or food. He had
driven away empty: he had nothing on his wagon, nothing in his purse;
and yet who can tell what treasures he took home; and who can tell what
inextinguishable fire he left behind him yonder, by that lonely scholar!

Gellert, who usually dined at his brother's, today had dinner brought
into his own room, remained quite alone, and did not go out again: he
had experienced quite enough excitement, and society he had in his own
thoughts. Oh! to find that there are open, susceptible hearts, is a
blessing to him that writes in solitude, and is as wondrous to him as
though he dipped his pen in streams of sunshine, and as if all he wrote
were Light. The raindrop which falls from the cloud cannot tell upon
what plant it drops: there is a quickening power in it, but for what?
And a thought which finds expression from a human heart; an action,
nay, a whole life is like the raindrop falling from the cloud: the wh