Gottfried had just written the concluding paragraph of a treatise upon some abstruse subject, which possessed an interest only for scholars like himself. His pen dropped wearily from his fingers, and he passed his hand across his eyes.
“Yes,” said he, musingly, and a smile lighted up his face, “at length it is finished, the labor of many years. But the reward is to come. My fame as a scholar, already great among men, will become greater still. Fame, bright goddess of my youthful dreams! how through weary years have I toiled for thee! How willingly have I resigned those objects on which other men set their affections! Wealth, pleasure, love,—I have sacrificed them all to this one engrossing pursuit. Who shall say that I have lived in vain?”
Gottfried had labored for many hours without rest. He took down his scholar’s cap and cloak from the wall against which they were suspended, and attired himself for a walk.
It was a beautiful day. The sun had passed the meridian, and was shining with softened splendor on fields decorated with the green carpet which Nature so bounteously provides. Here a group of cattle reposed in tranquil enjoyment beneath the spreading branches of trees, which afforded a grateful shelter from the sun’s heat. A little farther on, a tiny stream was seen rippling on its way. Beside it were childish figures playfully plucking the flowers that grew upon the banks, and tossing them into the water, where they were soon borne down the quick current. Children, however small, have an eye to the beautiful; and the little group sang and shouted in all the exuberance of their spirits. The smile of outward nature was reflected upon the faces of these little ones.
As Gottfried passed by, one of them, supposing that all must share in her feelings, plucked a flower, and, holding it up, exclaimed, “Is it not pretty?”
“What is pretty?” asked Gottfried, looking up.
The flower was held up in answer. “Poh! child: it is only a buttercup.”
The child drew back abashed, and Gottfried pursued his way. He regarded not the fair landscape which like a dream of beauty opened upon his steps. His mind was still at home among his books. Indeed, it rarely passed beyond those four dark walls wherein all that he cared for in life was enclosed. With the laws of Nature, so far as they had been ascertained by human wisdom, he was thoroughly conversant; but for Nature itself he cared little. He could tell you all that science has discovered of the mysterious courses of the heavenly bodies; but the finest evening that ever looked down with its thousand glittering eyes from the blue vault above vainly tempted him forth from his study. He would have regarded it as a mere weakness to yield to such an impulse. He at least was in no danger of yielding; for he never felt the impulse.
Gottfried passed on, plunged as before in deep thought, of which the treatise which he had just completed was the absorbing subject.