der to enlighten other bodies. But eyen
the darkest bodies can, by water, fire, and air, be made clear and
brilliant."

"I understand you," dear master. "Men are crystals for our minds. They
are the transparent nature. Dear Matilda, I might call you a pure and
costly sapphire. You are clear and transparent as the heavens; you beam
with the mildest light. But tell me, dear master, whether I am right;
it seems to me that at the very point when one is most intimate with
nature, he can and would say the least concerning her."

"That depends upon your view of her," said Klingsohr. "Nature is one
thing for our enjoyment and our disposition, but another for our
intellect, the guiding faculty of our earthward powers. We must take
good care not to lose sight of one more than the other. There are many
who only know the one side, and think but little of the other. But we
can unite them both, and that too with profit. A great pity it is, that
so few think of being able to move freely and fitly in their inner
natures, and to insure for themselves, by a necessary separation, the
most effectual and natural use of their faculties. Usually the one
hinders the other; and thus a helpless sluggishness gradually arises,
so that, if such men should ever arise with united powers, a great
confusion and contention would ensue, and all things would be tossed
here and there in an ungainly manner. I cannot sufficiently impress
upon you, to endeavor with industry and care to be acquainted with your
own intellect and natural bias. Nothing is more indispensable to the
poet, than insight into the nature of every occupation, acquaintance
with the means by which every object may be attained, and the power of
fitly regulating the presence of the spirit according to time and
circumstances. Inspiration without intellect is useless and dangerous;
and the poet will be able to perform few wonders, when he is astonished
by wonders."

"But is not an implicit faith in man's dominion over destiny
indispensable to the poet?"

"Certainly indispensable, because he cannot represent fate to himself
in any other light, when he maturely reflects upon it. But how distant
is this calm certainty from that anxious doubt, which proceeds from the
blind fear of superstition! And thus also the steady, animating warmth
of a poetic mind is exactly the reverse of the wild heat of a sickly
heart; The one is poor, overwhelming, and transient; the other
perfectly distinguishes a