the form of a lovely woman."

Henry's mother thanked them with a modest blush, for their distinguished praise bestowed on her fatherland, and for their good opinion of her countrywomen. Henry, full of thought, could not help listening attentively and with heart-felt pleasure to the description of the land, which he saw before him.

"Although you do not take up your father's trade," continued the merchants, "but rather, as we have been told, spend your time in the pursuit of knowledge, yet you need not become one of the clergy, or renounce the pleasantest enjoyments of this life. It is bad enough that all learning is in the hands of an order, so separated from worldly life, and that the rulers are counselled by such unsociable and really inexperienced men. In solitude, where they have no share in worldly affairs, their thoughts must take a useless turn, and cannot be applied to everyday concerns. In Swabia you can find both wise and experienced men among the laity, and you need only choose what branch of human knowledge you prefer; for you cannot want there good teachers and advisers."

After a while Henry, whose thoughts had been led by this conversation to the old court-preacher, said; "Although ignorant as I am of the real condition of the world, I do not exactly rebel against your opinion, as to the ability of the clergy to guide and judge of worldly affairs; yet I hope I may be permitted to put you in mind of our excellent court-preacher, who certainly is a pattern of a wise man, and whose instructions and counsels I can never forget."

"We revere with our whole hearts," replied the merchants, "that excellent man; but we can agree with your opinion, only so far as you speak of that wisdom, which concerns a life well pleasing to God. If you consider him as wise in worldly affairs, as he is experienced and learned in spiritual concerns, permit us to disagree with you. Yet we do not believe that the holy man deserves any less praise, because by the depth of his knowledge of the spiritual world, he is unable to gain insight into and an understanding of earthly things."

"But," said Henry, "is it not possible that that higher knowledge would fit you to guide impartially the reins of human affairs? May it not be possible that childlike and natural simplicity more safely travels the road through the labyrinth of human affairs, than that wild, wandering, and partially restrained wisdom, which considers its own interest, and which is blinded by the unspeakable variety and perplexity of present occurrences? I do not know, but it seems to me, that there are two ways, by which to arrive at a knowledge of the history of man; the one laborious and boundless, the way of experience; the other apparently but one leap, the way of internal reflection. The wanderer of the first must find out one thing from another by wearisome reckoning; the wanderer of the second perceives the nature of everything and occurrence directly by their very essence, views all things in their continually varying connexions, and can easily compare one with another, like figures on a slate. You will pardon me, that I address you, as it were, from my childish dreams; nothing could have emboldened me to speak but my confidence in your kindness, and the remembrance of my teacher, who for a long time has pointed the second way out to me as his own."

"We willingly grant you," said the kind merchants, "that we are not able to follow your train of thought; yet it pleases us that you so warmly remember your excellent teacher, and treasure up so well his lessons. It seems to us that you have a talent for poetry, you speak your fancies out so fluently, and you are so full of choice expressions and apt comparisons. You are also inclined to the wonderful,--the poet's element."

"I do not know whence it comes," said Henry; "I have heard poets spoken of before now; but have never yet seen one. I cannot even form an idea of their curious art; but yet have a great desire to hear about it. I feel that I wish to know many things, of which dark hints only are in my mind. I have often heard people speak of poems, but I have never yet seen one, and my teacher never had occasion to learn the art. Nor have I been able to comprehend everything that he has told me concerning it. Yet he always considered it a noble art, to which I would devote myself entirely, if I should become acquainted with it. In old times it was much more common than now, and every one had some knowledge of it, though in different degrees; moreover it was the sister of other arts now lost. He thought that divine favor had highly honored the minstrels, so that inspired by spiritual intercourse, they had been able to proclaim heavenly wisdom upon earth in entrancing tones."

The merchants then said; "We have in truth not troubled ourselves much with the secrets of the poets, though we have often listened with pleasure to their songs. Perhaps it is true that no man is a poet, unless he is born under a particular star, for there is something curious in this respect about this art. The other arts are very different from it, and much easier to comprehend. The secrets of painters and musicians can much more easily be imagined; and both can be learned with industry and patience. The sound lies already in the strings, and ability is all that is wanting, in order to move them, and stir up each into a delightful harmony. In painting, nature is the best instructress. She brings forth numberless beautiful and wonderful forms, gives to them color, light, and shade; and a practised hand, an exact eye, and a knowledge of the preparation and mixing of colors can imitate nature to the life. How natural for us then to comprehend the effect of these arts, and the pleasure derived from their productions. The song of the nightingale, the whistling of the wind, and the splendors of light, color, and form please us, because they strike our senses agreeably; and as our senses are fitted for this by nature, which also has the same effect, so must the artful imitation of nature please us also. Nature herself will also draw enjoyment from the power of art, and thence has she changed into man, and thus she now rejoices herself over her noble splendors, separates what is agreeable and lovely, and brings it forth by itself in such a way, that she can possess and enjoy it in all ways and at all times and places. In the art of poetry, on the contrary, there is nothing tangible to be met with. It creates nothing with tools and hands. The eye and the ear perceive it not; for the mere hearing of the words has no real influence in this secret art. It is all internal; and as other artists fill the external senses with agreeable emotions, so in like manner the poet fills the internal sanctuary of the mind with new, wonderful, and pleasing thoughts. He knows how to awaken at pleasure the secret powers within us, and by words gives us force to see into an unknown and glorious world. Ancient and future times, innumerable men, strange countries, and the most singular events rise up within us, as from deep hiding places, and tear us away from the known present. We hear strange words and know not their import. The language of the poet stirs, up a magic power; even ordinary words flow forth in charming melody, and intoxicate the fast-bound listener."

"You change every curiosity into ardent impatience," said Henry. "I cannot hear enough of these strange men. It seems to me all at once, as if I had heard them spoken of somewhere in my earliest youth; but I can remember nothing more about it. But what you have said to me is very clear and easy to comprehend, and you give me great pleasure by your beautiful descriptions."

"It is with pleasure," continued the merchants, "that we have looked back upon the many pleasant hours we have spent in Italy, France, and Swabia in the society of minstrels, and we are glad that you take so lively an interest in our discourse about