ndividuals. She is always building and always destroying, and her
workshop is not to be approached.

Nature lives in her children only, and the mother, where is she? She is
the sole artist,--out of the simplest materials the greatest diversity;
attaining, with no trace of effort, the finest perfection, the closest
precision, always softly veiled. Each of her works has an essence of its
own; every shape that she takes is in idea utterly isolated; and yet all
forms one.

She plays a drama; whether she sees it herself, we know not; and yet she
plays it for us, who stand but a little way off.

There is constant life in her, motion and development; and yet she
remains where she was. She is eternally changing, nor for a moment does
she stand still. Of rest she knows nothing, and to all stagnation she
has affixed her curse. She is steadfast; her step is measured, her
exceptions rare, her laws immutable.

She has thought, and she ponders unceasingly; not as a man, but as
Nature. The meaning of the whole she keeps to herself, and no one can
learn it of her.

Men are all in her, and she in all men. With all she plays a friendly
game, and rejoices the more a man wins from her. With many her game is
so secret, that she brings it to an end before they are aware of it.

Even what is most unnatural is Nature; even the coarsest Philistinism
has something of her genius. Who does not see her everywhere, sees her
nowhere aright.

She loves herself, and clings eternally to herself with eyes and hearts
innumerable. She has divided herself that she may be her own delight.
She is ever making new creatures spring up to delight in her, and
imparts herself insatiably.

She rejoices in illusion. If a man destroys this in himself and others,
she punishes him like the hardest tyrant. If he follows her in
confidence, she presses him to her heart as it were her child.

Her children are numberless. To no one of them is she altogether
niggardly; but she has her favourites, on whom she lavishes much, and
for whom she makes many a sacrifice. Over the great she has spread the
shield of her protection.

She spurts forth her creatures out of nothing, and tells them not whence
they come and whither they go. They have only to go their way: she knows
the path.

Her springs of action are few, but they never wear out: they are always
working, always manifold.

The drama she plays is always new, because she is always bringing new
spectators. Life