_Mingling of the heavenly with the earthly._--The son of the gods has sold his birthright. He has received in exchange one, not merely the fairest, but the sweetest and holiest of earth's daughters. Yet is it not a fit exchange. His pinions droop powerless; he must no longer soar amid the golden stars. No matter, he thinks; "I will take her to some green and flowery isle; I will pay the penalty of Adam for the sake of the daughter of Eve; I will make the earth fruitful by the sweat of my brow. No longer my hands shall bear the coal to the lips of the inspired singer--no longer my voice modulate its tones to the accompaniment of spheral harmonies. My hands now lift the clod of the valley which dares cling to them with brotherly familiarity. And for my soiling, dreary task-work all the day, I receive--food. "But the smile with which she receives me at set of sun, is it not worth all that sun has seen me endure? Can angelic delights surpass those which I possess, when, facing the shore with her, watched by the quiet moon, we listen to the tide of the world surging up impatiently against the Eden it cannot conquer? Truly the joys of heaven were gregarious and low in comparison. This, this alone, is exquisite, because exclusive and peculiar." Ah, seraph! but the winter's frost must nip thy vine; a viper lurks beneath the flowers to sting the foot of thy child, and pale decay must steal over the cheek thou dost adore. In the realm of ideas all was imperishable. Be blest while thou canst. I love thee, fallen seraph, but thou shouldst not have sold thy birthright. "All for love and the world well lost." That sounds so true! But genius, when it sells itself, gives up, not only the world, but the universe. Yet does not love comprehend the universe? The universe is love. Why should I weary my eye with scanning the parts, when I can clasp the whole this moment to my beating heart? But if the intellect be repressed, the idea will never be brought out from the feeling. The amaranth wreath will in thy grasp be changed to one of roses, more fragrant indeed, but withering with a single sun! * * * * * _The Crisis with Goethe._--I have thought much whether Goethe did well in giving up Lili. That was the crisis in his existence. From that era dates his being as a "Weltweise;" the heroic element vanished irrecoverably from his character; he became an Epicurean and a Realist; plucking flowers and hammering stones instead of looking at the stars. How could he look through the blinds, and see her sitting alone in her beauty, yet give her up for so slight reasons? He was right as a genius, but wrong as a character. * * * * *