The public favor is
unsteady; to-day it strews palm-branches, to-morrow it cries, 'Crucify
him!' But I regard that as a moment of development. You will permit
me to make use of an image to elucidate my idea. The botanist goes
wandering through field and wood, he collects flowers and plants; every
one of these had, while he gathered it, his entire interest, his whole
thought--but the impression which it made faded before that of its
successor: nor is it till after a longer time that he is able to enjoy
the whole of his treasures, and arrange them according to their worth
and their rareness. The public seizes alike upon flowers and herbs; we
hear its assiduous occupation with the object of the moment, but it is
not yet come into possession of the whole. At one time, that which was
sentimental was the foremost in favor, and that poet was called the
greatest who best knew how to touch this string; then it passed over
to the peppered style of writing, and nothing pleased but histories
of knights and robbers. Now people find pleasure in prosaic life, and
Schroeder and Iffland are the acknowledged idols. For us the strength
of the North opened heroes and gods, a new and significant scene. Then
tragedy stood uppermost with us. Latterly we have begun to feel
that this is not the flesh and blood of the present times. Then the
fluttering little bird, the vaudeville, came out to us from the dark
wood, and enticed us into our own chambers, where all is warm and
comfortable, where one has leave to laugh, and to laugh is now a
necessity for the Danes. One must not, like the crowd, inconsiderately
place that as foremost which swims upon the waters, but treasure the
good of every time, and arrange them side by side, as the botanist
arranges his plants. Every people must, under the poetical sunshine,
have their sentimental period, their berserker rage, their enjoyment of
domestic life, and their giddy flights beyond it; it must merge itself
in individuality before it can embrace the beauty of the whole. It is
unfortunate for the poet who believes himself to be the wheel of his
age; and yet he, with his whole crowd of admirers, is, as Menzel says,
only a single wheel in the great machine--a little link in the infinite
chain of beauty."

"You speak like a Plato!" said Sophie.

"If we could accord as well in music as we do in poetry," said Otto,
"then we should be entirely united in our estimation of the arts. I love
that music best whic