alone stood with bright joyful eyes upon the market-place of the living city of the sun, full of brilliance and noise, and gazed, delighted, around him into all its countless streets; but his eternal mother rested veiled in immensity, and only by the warmth which went to his heart did he feel that he was lying upon hers.

For very overflow of thought and imagery and ecstasy of feeling, Jean Paul never achieved a balanced beauty of expression.

The ideal classic standard which Winckelmann and Lessing had laid down—­simple and plastic, calm because objective, crystal-clear in thought and expression—­and which Goethe and Schiller had sought to realize and imbue with modern ideas, was too strictly limited for the Romanticists.  Hyperion’s words expressed their taste more accurately:  ‘O, man is a god when he dreams, a beggar when he thinks!’ and they laid stress upon restless movement, fantastic, highly-coloured effects, a crass subjectivity, a reckless licence of the imagination.

Actual and visible things were disregarded; they did not accord with this claim for infinity and the nebulous, for exploring the secret depths of the soul.

It was perhaps a necessary reaction from Goethe’s classicism; but it passed like a bad dream, after tending, thanks to its heterogeneous elements, now to the mediaeval period, now to that of Storm and Stress, and now to Goethe, Herder, and Winckelmann.  It certainly contained germs of good, which have grown and flourished in our own day.

In keeping with its whole character, the Romantic feeling for Nature was subjective and fantastic to excess, mystically enthusiastic, often with a dreamy symbolism at once deep and naive; its inmost core was pantheistic, with a pantheism shading off imperceptibly into mysticism.

After Werther, there is perhaps no work of modern fiction in which Nature plays so artistic a part as in Holderlin’s Hyperion.

Embittered by life’s failure to realize his ideals, he cries:  ’But thou art still visible, sun in the sky!  Thou art still green, sacred earth!  The streams still rush to the sea, and shady trees rustle at noon.  The spring’s song of joy sings my mortal thoughts to sleep.  The abundance of the universe nourishes and satiates my famished being to intoxication.’

This mystical pantheism could not be more clearly expressed than here: 

O blessed Nature!  I know not how it happens when I lift my eyes to your beauty; but all the joy of the sky is in the tears which I shed before you—­a lover before the lady of his love.  When the soft waves of the air play round my breast, my whole being is speechless and listens.  Absorbed in the blue expanse, I often look up to the ether and down to the holy sea; and it seems as if a kindred spirit opened its arms to me, as if the pain of loneliness were lost in the divine life.  To be one with all that lives, in blessed self-forgetfulness to return to the All of Nature, that is the height of thought and bliss—­the sacred mountain height, the place of eternal rest, where noon loses its sultriness and thunder its voice, and the rough sea is like the waves in a field of wheat.

To such feeling as this the actualities are but fetters, hindering aspiration.