It was day as he arrived before the gates of Leipzig. Here there met him
a funeral-procession; behind the bier the scholars of St. Thomas, in
long black cloaks, were chanting. Christopher stopped and raised his
hat. Whom were they burying? Supposing it were Gellert.--Yes, surely,
he thought, it is he: and how gladly, said he to himself, would you now
have done him a kindness--ay, even given him your wood! Yes, indeed you
would, and now he is dead, and you cannot give him any help!

As soon as the train had passed, Christopher asked who was being buried.
It was a simple burgher, it was not Gellert; and in the deep breath
which Christopher drew lay a double signification: on the one hand, was
joy that Gellert was not dead; on the other, a still small voice
whispered to him that he had now really promised to give him the wood:
ah! but whom had he promised?--himself: and it is easy to argue with
one's own conscience.

Superstition babbles of conjuring-spells, by which, without the
co-operation of the patient, the evil spirit can be summarily ejected.
It would be convenient if one had that power, but, in truth, it is not
so: it is long ere the evil desire and the evil habit are removed from
the soul into which they have nestled; and the will, for a long while
in bondage, must co-operate, if a releasing spell from without is to set
the prisoner free. One can only be guided, but himself must move his
feet.

As Christopher now looked about him, he found that he had stopped close
by an inn; he drove his load a little aside, went into the parlor, and
drank a glass of warmed beer. There was already a goodly company, and
not far from Christopher sat a husbandman with his son, a student here,