of his Pegasus, casting the bridle upon
the neck of inspiration, he directly before them all pours forth
his full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. He has
never committed their canons, is ignorant of their conventions;
he has genius, that is all, and its daring; is a poet born, not
made; is at the moment, beside all the rest, uplifted by the divine
fire of his love--and his song is right as some natural object,
a crystal or a flower. Consummate as is the song, it has yet the
character perfectly of an improvisation--the ideal improvisation,
let us say--the gush, the rush, the profusion of lovely ornament,
the unrestraint,--but essentially orderly, the unrestraint, like
that of an army with banners, swarming, in only apparent confusion,
up a height, to assured victory. The urge, the climbing effect
of the song, are owing, it is plain enough, to Walther's being
really inside of it, to his having cast his whole self into it,
with his straining after a goal, his desperate necessity to win.
In this case, verily the style is the man. "Begin!"--runs the sense
of that perfect song, "Thus shouted Spring in the woods, till they
rang again! And as the sound died away in distant waves, in the
distance a sound was born, drawing nearer and nearer in a mighty
flood. It grows, it resounds, the woods re-echo with a multitude
of sweet voices. Loud and clear, it sweeps anear, to what a torrent
it is grown! Like clangour of bells rings the multiple voice of
Joy! The forest, how readily it responds to the call which has
wakened it anew to life, and entones the sweet canticle of Spring!"

The Marker's chalk is not idle; a number of workmanlike scratches
have been heard. Walther has stopped short, jarred by the sound.
He resumes after a moment: "In a thorny hedge, devoured by envy
and chagrin, Winter, in his armour of ill-will, cowers in hiding.
Amid the rustling of withered leaves, he sits spying with watchful
eye and ear for a chance to bring to grief the happy singing...."
The singer bounds to his feet. "None the less, 'Begin!' The cry
rang in my breast, when I was as yet wholly unaware of love! And
in my breast I felt a deep stirring, which woke me as if from a
dream. My heart filled the chamber of my bosom with its trembling
palpitations; mightily surged my blood, its stream swollen by new
emotions; stormily out of the warm night pressed the host of
sighs,--increasing, in the wild tumult of joy, to the innumerableness
of