terdingen coldly, "that you see the
height to which I have risen above you, the so-called 'masters'; or
rather how I, and I only, have landed, and feel at home, in that realm
towards which you are all striving on mistaken paths. You will not
blame me, then, for thinking you all somewhat tedious and
uninteresting, as well as what you call your 'singing' into the
bargain."

"'"Then," said Wolfframb, "you now altogether despise us, whom of old
you held in high esteem--you will have nothing more in common with us.
All friendship, all liking have passed away from your heart, because
you are a greater master than we. Even me you hold no longer worthy of
your regard, because I may not be able to soar as high in my songs as
do you. Ah, Heinrich, if I were to tell you what I felt when I heard
you sing!"

"'"Pray let me hear," said Heinrich with a scornful laugh, "perhaps it
may teach me something of value."

"'"Heinrich," said Wolfframb, in a very earnest and serious tone, "it
is true your song was couched in a very extraordinary 'manner,' quite
unlike anything we had ever heard before, and the ideas soared high,
even beyond the clouds. But something within me said that such a song
could never come out of the pure human soul, but must be produced by
supernatural agency--as necromancers manure the earth of home with
magical substances, and it brings forth the strange plants of foreign
lands. You have become a great master of song Heinrich, and are
occupied in lofty matters; but do you still understand the sweet
greeting of the evening wind when you wander through the deep forest
shadows? Does your heart still throb with gladness at the rustling of
the branches, and the voices of the mountain streams? Do the flowers
still look up at you with the eyes of innocent children? Does the
nightingale's complaining still make your heart well nigh faint with
pain? Ah, Heinrich, there were many things in your song which filled me
with a sense of unholy awe. I could not but think of the picture you
drew of the poor disembodied shades wandering on the banks of Acheron,
when the Landgrave once asked you the cause of your secret pain. I
could but fancy that you had bidden farewell to love, and that what you
have obtained in its place is but the useless hoard of the wanderer
lost in the wilderness. Even now I cannot help fearing--pardon me for
speaking so plainly--that you have bought your mastership with all that
joy in life which is only vo