the good Sylvester, and
when he looked again, the evening star arose in full glory above the
forest.

After some silence, Sylvester began; "You would probably like to be at
Eisenach among your friends. Your parents, the excellent countess, your
father's upright neighbors, and the old chaplain make a fair social
circle. Their conversation must have produced an early influence upon
you, particularly as you were the only child. I also imagine the
country to be very striking and agreeable."

"I learn for the first time," said Henry, "to esteem my native country
properly, since my absence, and the sight of many other lands. Every
plant, every tree, every hill and mountain has its own horizon, its
peculiar landscape, which belongs to it, and explains its whole
structure and nature. Only men and animals can visit all countries; all
countries are theirs. Thus together they form one great region, one
infinite horizon, whose influence upon men and animals is just as
visible, as that of a more narrow circuit upon the plant. Hence men who
have travelled, birds of passage, and beasts of prey, are distinguished
among other faculties, for a remarkable intelligence. Yet they
certainly possess more or less susceptibility to the influence of these
circles, and of their varied contents and arrangement. The attention
and composure necessary to contemplate properly the alternation and
connexion of things, and then to reflect upon and compare them, are in
fact wanting to most men. I myself often feel how my native land has
breathed upon my earliest thoughts imperishable colors, and how its
image has become a peculiar feature of my mind, which I am ever better
explaining to myself, the deeper I perceive that fate and mind are but
names of one idea."

"Upon me," said Sylvester, "living nature, the emotive outer-garment of
a landscape, has always produced a most powerful effect. Especially I
am never tired of examining most carefully the different natures of
plants. All productions of the earth are its primitive language; every
new leaf, every particular flower, is everywhere a mystery, which
presses outward; and since it cannot move itself at love and joy, nor
come to words, becomes a mute, quiet plant. When we find such a flower
in solitude, is it not as if everything about it were glorified, and as
if the little feathered songsters loved most to linger near it? One
could weep for joy, and separated from the world, plant hand and foot
in