"Something is going on," said the Doctor to his younger friend, "people are not in a pleasant mood. Nothing can be so little counted upon as the public. And what is it really? It is only a shadow, a spectre, as little tangible as the old ocean god Proteus, and, if one would hold it fast, it assumes all colours and shapes. The public of to-day is no longer that of yesterday; the crowd which is afterwards dispersed through the streets, is no longer the same which is assembled here. Schiller's epigram, 'When it is _in corpore_, a blockhead springs up,' refers more to the bench, it is true, but such a theatrical audience is a many-headed monster, and as stupid as an old grass grown dragon of the early ages. What has not this public already applauded? Göethe as much as Aubery's dog, Schiller not less than a fiddler, who plays upon one string; the greatest poet and the most miserable clown! Often the rheumatism of idiotcy possesses its joints, which are paralysed, and do not move before what is sublime; then again it is electrified by the most foolish joke, and the unwieldy mass moves hands and feet like a marionette! As the wind rushes through an empty furnace, so does so-called public opinion rush through these empty heads. Thus it sometimes causes a mighty disturbance! The crowd has a certain instinct when it is gathered together, and a species of common feeling; it is like a huge body revolving upon the same pivot; it tastes with one tongue and spits flames out of one jaw; it lets itself be moved by one turn-screw, like a colossal engine. And by what crooked screws has it not already been moved! Upon the whole it is rude, and if its hat be not knocked from its head, it does not doff it to genius! Oh, ye poor geniuses! In what difficulties ye find yourselves! Ye struggle for fame, and yet fame, in the first instance, can only come from this crowd which possesses no sense of immortality; and again it is the pillar of immortality--what sad means by which to gain it! Really, only the idiotic flatterers of the crowd ought to be famous, and often have been so in their lifetime. The fame of the best is a marvel, and I am tired of pondering upon it." "Well, everything beautiful, and art itself is a marvel," replied Schöner, "and even if many a genius has been shipwrecked, we rejoice for those who have gained the victory after a long conflict with the crowd's want of judgment and changeability." Behind them the two speakers heard a lively somewhat sharp girl's voice.