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But whatever else he may be, Heine is one of the most remarkable men of this age: no echo, but a real voice, and therefore, like all genuine things in this world, worth studying; a surpassing lyric poet, who has uttered our feelings for us in delicious song; a humorist, who touches leaden folly with the magic wand of his fancy, and transmutes it into the fine gold of art—who sheds his sunny smile on human tears, and makes them a beauteous rainbow on the cloudy background of life; a wit, who holds in his mighty hand the most scorching lightnings of satire; an artist in prose literature, who has shown even more completely than Goethe the possibilities of German prose; and—in spite of all charges against him, true as well as false—a lover of freedom, who has spoken wise and brave words on behalf of his fellow-men.
He thinks that Machiavelli was in earnest, as none but an idealist can be, and he is the first to imagine him an idealist immersed in realities, who involuntarily transmutes the events under his eye into something like the visionary issues of reverie.
There are poetic natures in which the imagination immediately transmutes every new thing that strikes the eyes or the intelligence, into a romance, or rapidly embodies it in verse; and Pollux, like many of his calling, could never set his eyes on a fine human form and face, without instantly associating them with his art.
He may seem a little more venerable than he is; perhaps there may be about him a grandfatherly air that his years do not warrant; he may exact a "Sir" from us that is not given to others of his worldly standing; but there is nevertheless that in his bright and kindly eye there is that in his side-long glance which by a charm of Nature transmutes homage into familiar friendship, and respect into affection.
In 1688, Dauger, at Sainte-Marguerite, is again the source and center of myths; he is taken for a son of Oliver Cromwell, or for the Duc de Beufort. In June 1692, one of the Huguenot preachers at Saint-Marguerite writes on his shirt and pewter plate and throws them out of the window. Legend attributes these acts to the Man in the Iron Mask, and transmutes a pewter into a silver plate.
He imprisons in roaring cataracts exhaustless energy for the service of man: He stores away in the bowels of the earth beds of coal and rivers of oil; He studs the canyon's frowning walls with precious metals and priceless gems; He extends His magic wand, and the soil becomes rich with fertility; the early and the latter rains supply the needed moisture, and the sun, with its marvellous alchemy, transmutes base clay into golden grain.
It is full of quick energy, it transmutes all kinds of dead matter into its own ruddy likeness, sending up the fat of the sacrifices in wreathes of smoke that aspire heavenward; and changing all the gross, heavy, earthly dullness into flame, more akin to the heaven into which it rises.
The alchemy of Nature, superior to that of the Paracelsians, constantly transmutes the baser metals of failure into the later pure gold of higher success, if the mind of the worker be kept true, constant and untiring in the service, and he have that sublime courage that defies fate to its worst while he does his best. Doing Our Best at All Times
Take away the Receiver with the Spirit of Wine, stop it very close, for it is full of Spirits which it hath retained from the Oil, as you will hear afterwards: But in Balneum Mariæ you will find that blessed Oil of Antimony red as Bloud; take it out, wash the Lute off by gentle mollification, that nothing impure may fall into that curious red Oil, when you take the head off; reserve it carefully, that by no means it may receive prejudice, for you have a Celestial Oil, which in a dark night shines like a glowing Cole, and this is the reason, because its internal power and soul is cast forth externally, the hidden Soul being now revealed, shining through the pure Body as a Candle through a Lanthorn, even so at the last day, these our invisible internal Souls shall be revealed, and seen out of the Body, shining as the clear Sun: So keep each apart, as well the Spirit of wine full of power, and wonderful in curing humane Distempers, as also the blessed, red, noble, celestial Oil, which transmutes all the Diseases of the imperfect Metals into the perfection of Gold; and the power of the spiritual Wine extends very far being rightly used.
The emotions thus denied a natural outlet seek other channels of activity which have received the sanction of social approval. It is obvious that the rigid social regulations concerning sexual activities must enforce repression of the erotic impulses more frequently than any others. The love which is thus denied its biological expression transmutes itself into many forms.
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