glance of the eye, notwithstanding their disguises and dark masks. I
seized the hand she held out to me, and replied: "When we address an
angel, we cannot say 'You.'"

And yet how singular, is the influence of the forms and habits of life!
How difficult it is to speak the language of nature even to the most
congenial souls! Our conversation halted, and both of us felt the
embarrassment of the moment. I broke the silence and spoke out my
thoughts: "Men become accustomed to live from youth up as it were in a
cage, and when they are once in the open air they dare not venture to
use their wings, fearing, if they fly, that they may stumble against
everything."

"Yes," replied she, "and that is very proper and cannot well be
otherwise. One often wishes that he could live like the birds which
fly in the woods, and meet upon the branches and sing together without
being presented to each other. But, my friend, even among the birds
there are owls and sparrows, and in life it is well that one can pass
them without knowing them. It is sometimes with life as with poetry.
As the real poet can express the Truest and most Beautiful, although
fettered by metrical form, so man should know how to preserve freedom
of thought and feeling notwithstanding the restraints of society."

I could not help recalling the words of Platen: "That which proves
itself everlasting under all circumstances, told in the fetters of
words, is the unfettered spirit."

"Yes," said she, with a cordial but sweetly playful smile; "but I have
a privilege which is at the same time my burden and loneliness. I
often pity the young men and maidens, for they cannot have a friendship