Alone in his study sat Gottfried the scholar. The shelves which lined the
apartment on every side groaned beneath the weight of bulky quartoes and
ponderous folios. The accumulated learning of many ages and countries,
flowing in diverse channels, had mingled into one stream, and, with its
fertilizing current, contributed to enrich the mind of Gottfried. And
these many volumes, couched in languages which to all but their owner
were a sealed book, which many years’ assiduous labor and midnight vigils
alone could unclose,—these were but the index of Gottfried’s attainments.
Never in the palmiest days of chivalry had knight been more constant
to his mistress than Gottfried to his books. Without these, life would
have been to him a blank, and the world a desert. What to him were the
companionship of friends, the charms of social intercourse? He recognized
no friends but his books; and with them alone he held intercourse. He
had cultivated his intellect to the neglect of his heart: beneath his
fostering care, the former had swelled into the proportions of a giant;
the latter, like an untilled garden, had been abandoned to the rank
growth of weeds, which had already overshadowed it, and checked the
growth of kind feelings and human affections.
But of this defect Gottfried was not conscious; or, at least, he would
not have acknowledged it to be such. With all his wisdom, he knew not the
meaning of virtue; for he was perpetually confounding it with learning;
so that with him the philosophy of life might be said to consist in
these few words: “To be learned is to be virtuous.” Thus it was, that,
in the pride of his attainments, he looked down upon other men as
immeasurably his inferiors, and was even half convinced that they were of
a different nature from himself.
He aspired to become in the world of intellect what Alexander was in the
physical world, and, like that monarch, sighed to think that there were
no more worlds to conquer,—no more victories to be gained.
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.
A woman with a babe in her arms, whose melancholy face and tattered garb
spoke sadly of unhappiness and destitution, stood in the path. He would
not have noticed her, had she not timidly touched the hem of his garment.
“Why do you disturb me?” he asked impatiently, as he looked up. “You have
interrupted the current of my thoughts. What would you have?”
“I hope, sir,” said the woman, in a low tone, “you will pardon the
interruption. I would not willingly intrude; but you see my situation. I
am left destitute, and without friends. For myself, I care not. Perhaps
it is well that I should die; but my child,—I would live for him.”
Gottfried listened with an unmoved countenance, and as one who but half
comprehended what he heard.
“If you are poor and in distress,” he said at length, “you can apply to
the proper authorities. I have matters of more importance to attend to.”
“Of more importance than the life of a fellow-creature?” interrupted a
rough-looking man, in a farmer’s dress, who had just stepped up. “Nay,
then, I have not. Come with me, my poor woman. I live in the cottage
yonder. It is but a poor place; but it will afford you food and shelter.”
“Such men,” mused Gottfried, “do not estimate the superiority of science
over the trivial objects upon which most waste their lives to little
purpose. But how should they? They pass their lives in a round of petty
duties and petty employments, above and beyond which they care not to
look.”
Such were the meditations of Gottfried. Ah! thou that canst see the mote
in thy brother’s eye, and dost not discern the beam that is in thine own!
Gottfried was approaching his study on his return from the walk, when
his meditations were disturbed by a cry which always makes the blood
course more quickly through the veins,—the fearful cry of “Fire!”
Voice after voice took up the cry till it swelled into a terrible and
confused clamor. Fire! Gottfried looked up, and, to his inexpressible
consternation, beheld the flames rapidly consuming his own dwelling. The
conviction flashed upon him, with the speed of lightning, that he had
left a candle burning which he had lighted for the purpose of sealing a
letter. Undoubtedly it had come in contact with the loose papers which
lay about it, and _this_ was the result.
“My books! my treatise!” exclaimed Gottfried with anguish, as he
contemplated the probability of their destruction. “They will all be
consumed!”
He hurried to the scene of disaster. The firemen were plying their utmost
efforts to bring the flames under. But the fire had already made such
headway that they struggled against hope.
Gottfried lent his aid with the energy of despair. Finally, unable to
conceal from himself that the building must be consumed, he rushed into
the crackling flames, in the hope of at least rescuing the manuscript of
which he had written that day the concluding paragraphs.
It was a mad effort, such as nothing but despair could prompt. The smoke
stifled him; the flames scorched and burned him. He was dragged out
by main force, having succeeded in passing but a few feet beyond the
threshold. Luckily he was in a state of insensibility, so that the last
scenes in the conflagration passed without his knowledge.
The weeks that succeeded were a blank to Gottfried, for he was plunged
in the delirium of a brain fever. When, at length, he awoke to
consciousness, it was in a small and poorly-furnished chamber. At the
bedside was seated a woman, coarsely but neatly attired.
“Where am I?” he inquired, bewildered. “What has happened to me?”
“You are at length better, thank Heaven,” said the woman, earnestly,
“since the delirium has left you.”
“Delirium!” said Gottfried, raising himself on his elbow in surprise.
“Oh, yes! I now recall the fearful calamity which has befallen me. My
books,—are they all gone? Is there not one left?”
“Yes, one was saved.”
“What is it? Bring it to me.”
From a shelf near by, the attendant took down a small volume which had
been scorched, but not otherwise injured, by the flames.
He opened it. It proved to be the New Testament in the original tongue.
Perhaps out of his whole library this was the book which he had least
studied. Now, however, that it was all that was left him, he passed
hours in its perusal. Gradually, as he read, a light broke in upon him;
and he began to perceive, at first by glimpses, but after a while with
all the clearness of light, that his life had been a mistake, and that
learning was not, as he had fancied, the great end of existence. He
perceived that in its attainment he had neglected what were of infinitely
more importance,—his duties to God and his fellow-men. With a feeling of
humiliation, he could not but confess that his life had been in vain.
One day, as he was rapidly approaching recovery, he turned to his nurse,
and said, abruptly,—
“Where have I met you before? Your face looks familiar.”
“On the day of the fire,” was the reply, “you met me and my little one.
We were destitute, and implored charity.”
“Which I denied. Yet you nurse me with all the devotedness of one who is
serving a benefactor. How is this?”
“I am only doing my duty. But it is not to me you are indebted: it is to
the good farmer whose hospitality we both alike share.”
“Is it possible?” said Gottfried, with humiliation. “It is, then, he over
whom I triumphed in fancied superiority. With all the learning which I
have gathered from books, I feel, that, in the true wisdom of life, I am
vastly inferior to you both.”
On his recovery, Gottfried again applied himself to his studies; but
henceforth he never sought to elevate mere worldly knowledge above “that
wisdom which passeth all understanding.”