not two incompatible elements, destined to move on together without commingling.  Goethe himself confesses this.  In speaking of a contemporary writer he says:  “that having lived to create poems, he had also made his life a Poem.” (Er lebte dichtend, und dichtete lebend.) Goethe was himself too true a poet not to know that Poetry only is, because its eternal Reality throbs in the noble impulses of the human heart.

We have once before remarked that “genius imposes its own obligations.” [Footnote:  Upon Paganini, after his death.] If the examples of cold austerity and of rigid disinterestedness are sufficient to awaken the admiration of calm and reflective natures, whence shall more passionate and mobile organizations, to whom the dullness of mediocrity is insipid, who naturally seek honor or pleasure, and who are willing to purchase the object of their desires at any price—­form their models?  Such temperaments easily free themselves from the authority of their seniors.  They do not admit their competency to decide.  They accuse them of wishing to use the world only for the profit of their own dead passions, of striving to turn all to their own advantage, of pronouncing upon the effects of causes which they do not understand, of desiring to promulgate laws in spheres to which nature has denied them entrance.  They will not receive answers from their lips, but turn to others to resolve their doubts; they question those who have drunk deeply from the boiling springs of grief, bursting from the riven clefts in the steep cliffs upon the top of which alone the soul seeks rest and light.  They pass in silence by the still cold gravity of those who practice the good, without enthusiasm for the beautiful.  What leisure has ardent youth to interpret their gravity, to resolve their chill problems?  The throbbings of its impetuous heart are too rapid to allow it to investigate the hidden sufferings, the mystic combats, the solitary struggles, which may be detected even in the calm eye of the man who practices only the good.  Souls in continual agitation seldom interpret aright the calm simplicity of the just, or the heroic smiles of the stoic.  For them enthusiasm and emotion are necessities.  A bold image persuades them, a metaphor leads them, tears convince them, they prefer the conclusions of impulse, of intuition, to the fatigue of logical argument.  Thus they turn with an eager curiosity to the poets and artists who have moved them by their images, allured them by their metaphors, excited them by their enthusiasm.  They demand from them the explanation, the purpose of this enthusiasm, the secret of this beauty!