meets for the first time with that love which is more suited to a god than a human being, and his whole character is softened and sweetened in the rays of such a sun, like a fruit in autumn. Yes, he grows more divine and more beautiful, the great, old man—and yet, despite all this, it is old age and weariness which allow him thus to ripen, to grow silent and to rest in the luminous idolatry of a woman. Now it is all over with his former obdurate craving greater than himself for true disciples, true thinkers, that is, true opponents : that craving originated in the undiminished energy, the conscious pride of being able at any time himself to become an opponent, may, the mortal enemy of his own doctrine—now he wants resolute partisans, unwavering comrades, auxiliary troops, heralds, a pompous train. Now he is no longer able to bear the terrible isolation which is the fate of every intellect that is flying onward and ahead. Henceforth he surrounds himself with objects of reverence, of common interest, emotion, and love: he also wants the comfort of the religions and to worship in the community that which he honors; nay, he would even invent a religion for the sole purpose of having a community. So lives the wise old man, and in so living he quite imperceptibly drifts into such a miserable proximity to priestly, poetic extravagances, that one hardly recollects his prudent and severe youth, the former strict morality of his mind, his truly virile dread of fancies and reveries. When formerly he used
