d seemed but diverse rays of the same star of love. Hence neither of
them thought that his own "manner" was the best, but held those of the
others in high esteem, and knew that his own "mode" would not sound so
beautiful but for the others; just as any note of a chord does not
acquire its full beauty, significance, and power until the others
belonging to it awake and come lovingly to greet it.

"'Whilst the songs of Walther of the Vogelweid (a lord of broad acres)
were noble and elegantly turned, yet full of exuberant gladness,
Reinhardt sung in curt and knightly phrases, employing words and forms
of force and might; whilst Heinrich Schreiber was learned and profound,
Johannes Bitterolff was full of glitter, and rich in ingenious similes
and quaint conceits. Heinrich of Ofterdingen's songs went straight to
the depths of the soul. Wasted and worn himself by pain and longing, he
knew how to stir the deepest sorrow in the hearts of men; but often
there rang through his music harsh accents coming from the torn and
wounded breast, where bitter scorn and sorrow had taken their abode,
stinging and gnawing like venomous insects. It was a mystery unknown to
all why Heinrich had fallen into this condition. Wolfframb of
Eschinbach was born in Switzerland, his songs, breathing of grace and
peaceful clearness, were like the pure blue skies of his beautiful
native land, his "manner" had in it the sounds of the cattle-bells, and
of herdsmen playing their reeden pipes; but yet the wild waterfalls
lifted their voices, and the thunder among the mountains. As he sang,
those who listened were borne floating along with him, on the
glittering wavelets of some beautiful stream, now gliding gently, now
battling with the storm-driven surges; anon, the storm over, and the
danger past, steering in gladness to the wished-for haven.
Notwithstanding his youth, Wolfframb of Eschinbach was the most
experienced of the masters assembled at the Landgrave's Court. He had
been wholly devoted to the singer's craft from his early childhood,
and, as soon as he had grown to be a lad, he had travelled in quest of
instruction through many countries, till he met with the great master
whose name was Friedebrand. This master taught him faithfully in his
art, and gave him many master poems in manuscript, which sent light
into his inner spirit, enabling him to see and distinguish all that was
formless and dim before. More especially at Siegebrunnen, in Scotland,
Mast