On earth all is imperfect! is the old proverb
of the German. Aye, but if one should say to these Godforsaken, that
with them all is imperfect, only because they leave nothing pure
which they do not pollute, nothing holy which they do not defile with
their fumbling hands; that with them nothing prospers; because the
godlike nature which is the root of all prosperity, they do not
revere; that with them, truly, life is shallow and anxious and full
of discord, because they despise genius, which brings power and
nobleness into manly action, cheerfulness into endurance, and love
and brotherhood into towns and houses. Where a people honors genius
in its artists, there breathes like an atmosphere a universal soul,
to which the shy sensibility opens, which melts self-conceit, -- all
hearts become pious and great, and it adds fire to heroes. The home
of all men is with such a people, and there will the stranger gladly
abide. But where the divine nature and the artist is crushed, the
sweetness of life is gone, and every other planet is better than the
earth. Men deteriorate, folly increases, and a gross mind with it;
drunkenness comes with disaster; with the wantonness of the tongue
and with the anxiety for a livelihood, the blessing of every year
becomes a curse, and all the gods depart.
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