ren, and he found but
little congenial to his own turn of thinking. The remainder of the
citizens--even Buchmaier himself--were as much strangers to him as
before he had entered the village. He never went to the inn, nor ever
joined the knots of talkers assembled in front of some of the houses,
after dark. When school was over, he rambled alone through the woods
and fields, sketched the landscape, or took notes of his thoughts and
feelings. In the evening he read, or practised on his violin.

As we cannot produce copies of his drawings nor repeat his musical
performances, we must content ourselves with a copy of his reflections,
under the title given them by the author himself.

"WISDOM IN THE FIELDS.

"(Lying on the grass.) Every resuscitation is mingled with remnants of
decay which it displaced. Look at the pastures in spring, and you will
find many a day blade of last year's growth amid the fresh grass of the
present: its destiny is to wither away and serve as manure for future
crops. When fools perceive this, they say, 'There is no spring, and
there never will be: look at these wilted wisps.' Is it not the same
case with all intellectual growth? Is not the old schoolmaster a blade
of dry grass of this sort?

* * * * *

"To me all nature is but a symbol of the mind: it appears like a mere
mask, behind which the mind is hidden. These poor peasants! They live
in this free growth of nature with the same feelings as if they
inhabited a dead-house: in all the fields and woods they see nothing
but the profit, the number of sheaves, the sacks of potatoes, the cords
of wood: I alone inhale the spiritual essence that breathes from it
all. Let me turn my eyes from these human grubs who creep sightlessly
through all this splendor; let me elevate my thoughts above this paltry
traffic, and as the bee makes honey from the spiked thistle which the
ass merely swallows, so let me derive the sweet intellectual savor out
of all things. Assist me, thou Eternal Mind, and let me not be like
those who cleave to the sod until the sod rolls over their coffins! And
you, ye master-minds of my nation, whose works have followed me hither,
strengthen me, and let me sit at your feet continually.

* * * * *

"Every patch of ground has its history. Could any one unravel the
mutations which transferred it from hand to hand, and the fortunes and