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comes into our poetry from the Celts.

{136} Take the following attempt to render the natural magic supposed to pervade Tieck’s poetry: –‘In diesen Dichtungen herrscht eine geheimnissvolle Innigkeit, ein sonderbares Einverstandniss mit der Natur, besonders mit der Pflanzen–und Steinreich. Der Leser fuhlt sich da wie in einem verzauberten Walde; er hort die unterirdischen Quellen melodisch rauschen; wildfremde Wunderblumen schauen ihn an mit ihren bunten schnsuchtigen Augen; unsichtbare Lippen kussen seine Wangen mit neckender Zartlichkeit; hohe Pilze, wie goldne Glocken, wachsen klingend empor am Fusse der Baume;’ and so on. Now that stroke of the hohe Pilze, the great funguses, would have been impossible to the tact and delicacy of a born lover of nature like the Celt, and could only have come from a German who has hineinstudirt himself into natural magic. It is a crying false note, which carries us at once out of the world of nature-magic and the breath of the woods, into the world of theatre-magic and the smell of gas and orange-peel.