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the more ridiculous because, as appears from what has been said, the greatness of external events is in no proportion to the greatness of the creations thereby called forth. These events may be very trifling and invisible, and, in fact, generally are so, just as the external life of the poet is usually small and unnoted—I say small and unnoted, for I will not use harsher expressions. The poets show themselves to the world in the splendour of their works, and it is specially when one sees them from afar that the beholder is dazzled by the rays. Let us never look too closely into their ways. They are like the lovely lights which gleam so gloriously of summer evenings from grassy banks and foliage, that one might believe they were the stars of the earth, or diamonds and emeralds, or jewels rich and rare, which kings' children who had been playing in the garden had left hanging on the bushes and there forgotten; or glowing sun-drops lost amid the grass, and which now, revived by the cool night, awake and gleam with joy till the morning returns, and the red flaming star draws them up again unto himself. Ah, seek not by broad daylight the traces of those stars, jewels, and sun-drops! In their place you will find a poor miscoloured wormlet which crawls wretchedly along, whose look repels you, and whom you do not tread under foot out of sheer pity.